GUM OF MECAlS LIBERATION STRUGGLE - KORA

GUM OF MECAlS LIBERATION STRUGGLE 

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--A- -I 

1

NO ONE CAN STOP THE RAIN

NO ONE CAN 

STOP THE RAIN 

Glimpses of Afi.icaYs 

Liberation Struggle 

George M. Houser 

Foreword by Julius K. Nyerere 

The Pilgrim Press 

NEW YORK

w g h t 0 1989 by Thc P i Rtsr 

All rights rrser\*d 

No part of this publication may be rcj~roduced, stored In a teuievnl system, or transmined in 

any form or by any means, clcetmnic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or oheh (bricf quotations used in magazines or urnpaper reviews excepted), without the prior 

permission of the publisher. 

Printed in rhc United Statcs of America 

Photographs wat talrm by the author unless otherwise indicated. 

Arrwork is by James D i n . 

Map on p xxii is fnun H w of A m C m by E. Jefferson Murphy. Copyright 8 

I- by E. Jctiaaon Murphy. Reprinted by pmWw of HPrpa & Rmj Publishers3 IDC. 

Map on p ariii is from A m Nnm 29, no. I (January 1988). Used by permippion. 

Libmy of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data 

Houser, George M. 

No one am stop the rain: glimpses of Africa's liberation 

struggle / by George M. Houser. 

Foreword by Julius K. Nyenrr 

Includes inda. 

ISBN 0-8a98.gg5-0 

I. Africa-Politics and pvemyat-fsp" . 2. Narid libaption 

mavauats-Africp. a. Npti-Africa. 1. Title. 

The Pilgrim Rrsr, 132 West 31st Street, New York, N.Y. xooo~ 

88-19496 

CIP

Here in prison 

rage contained in my breast 

I patiently wait 

for the clouds to gather 

blown by the wind of history. 

No one 

can stop the rain. 

-Agostinha Neto, 

Luanda prison, 

Jury 1960

Contents 

Foreword @Julius K. Nyerere 

Preface 

Acknowledgmenu 

Parties, Movmem, ad Organkarim 

PART I THE GATHERING RAIN CLOUDS I 

I B~oming Involved in Africa 

Ear& Yetln 5 

Prison6 

The Fellowship of Reconn'liation 7 

2 Nonvioknt Fighters for Freedom 

Initial Cotttuczs zo 

Americans for Sarth Afncan Resirtame 12 

Beginning of the Defialice Campaign zq 

Z.K. Manhews and zhe United Nations r6 

Riou in Soufi Aftica r7 

Bmdening Campaign-Govmtnenr Reaction 

Afremrath rg 

3 Journey to Africa 

Lmrdmr 21 

Dakar, Senegal 23 

Liberia 24 

The Gold Coast 26 

Nigh 32 

The C- 35 

Gabon and hmbW 36 

The Belgian Congo 3~, . , 

Angola 4z . I 

South Afka 49 

PART 2 THE WINDS OF CHANGE 59 

q Bridging the American-African Gap 

A VocatioMIDU 63 

Gem Down w WoTte 64 

5 Nkrumah, Ghana, and Pan-Africanism,, - 

Gh~ianIdepen&ce 67 31 

The All African People's Conference 69 

6 Birth of an Angolan Movement . 

Mmruel Barn Necaca 76 

Holden Robetto 78

Contents 

7 Tom Mbya and the Kenya Emergency 

Early Lfe 81 

First U.S. Vsir 82 

Ream wA@a 83 

Second U.S. Visit 86 

Strained Relationr 89 

rostsmpt go 

8 Algeria and the National Liberation Front 

CmJiering Views 91 

R@re~etlZillkS of& Fm bf NeW Ywk 92 

The Algerian Backgrrnrnd 92 

The Algerian Cause at the UN $I# 

GrrnOWIng Sympathy fm the Akenkta Cause 94 

The Polk ofDe Gat& 97 

9 The Central African Federation: An Ill-Fated Farmership 

African Leaders on Tour in the United Stam 99 

BacRgrmmd YO Cmflict roo 

N h and Chiume 103 

Banda and Kaunda 105 

10 South Africa's "Colony" 

Scon and Ken'na at tk Unired Nai'ions rrI 

Other Pentimers at tlie United Nodims 112 

Nantibiun Polirieal Groupings 114 

11 From Treason to Massacre in South Africa 

Ttam Ttials r 17 

The Dec&ratim of C m i 

The Sharpdle Massacre rq 

Afiermath I27 

123 

PART 3 YEARS OF TURMOIL 133 

12 The Congo: An African Turning Point 

Lirmmba and rlte Path to Independence 136 

Itldepwrdence and Its A fmrh 139 

Downfall of Lumumba 141 

Reactiotr w Lmumbu's Murder 143 

The Katanga Problem 145 

TheStadgdle Crisis 147 

Mobutu in Pwua 148 

A TiPoint 148 

13 Angola: The Stormy Patb Toward Independence 

S m 

ofthe MPU 150 

Robem as Laah of rhe UPA 151 

Begi- of Anned S-& 152 

With the UPA Rebels 155 

The FNLA and GRAE 159 

Reach in the United States rsg 

The MPLP and Attempts Toward a United Front 160 

Heaay Days for the FNLA and GRAE 162

New Initiatives by the MPLA 164 

IiwtiTisf~tlutluFrmdGRAE 165 

The lhnathm of UNmA 168 

k Lib4Mo~ancrru 169 

A CIA C d a 

172 

Tiu Continuing Pmbh of Unity 173 

The Military Coup in Pomrgul attd the Afticrm R w 

14 Mozambique: A Dream the Size of Freedom 

Ed& ~~ 177 

otguniwtiun ofPoIiric4I Groups 180 

EmSyh~~nmrdDirsmtion 182 

BcgimDins of the IRrfot Libemrion 18q 

M a s M W p 187 

M*$Mtion I90 

EWingEflm 193 

PwriRg PhcipIes Into Pmctice 195 

A New Mood in South Africa 297 

15 Guinea-Bissau: "Our People Are Our Mountains" 

Antiicor Cabral 

Condidom in Pmnrrplrcte Guim 200 

COW and the PAIGC 202 

~ & ~ f o ~ h ? S r n C g204 g & 

Pa;iodofAdStruggle 206 

Tk tLsurminadon 213 

Pmhtt'im of an Independent State 215 

An Aaessmnrr of Amilcur Cabml 216 

16 Zimbabwe: The Making of a Nation 

BackgroundtoConpict 219 

Th? LiberdPhase 22s 

The Carniardonal P b 223 

The NatioMtist SNu 224 

ULM and Smtcrimrr a28 

Yems of Detartion arul Exile 229 

A Nm Chance 233 

The Byrd Amdnmt-U.S. Violation of Sanch 2% 

Aim NaribMIitt Dioistonr in Exik 235 1 

The NecoOfi~ 238 

D- 239 

17 The Struggle for Namibia 

Cm-M&h?&h 243 

E& Politics 246 

A Chge ofS~arrgy 248 

A Lung-Tm Cmffartah 251 

r8 South Africa: "No Easy Wdk to Freedom" 

Libcrarion Mooianenuin Exile 256 

Black CoMciountcrt 261 

RisRy Carlacu 263 

Black h e r and tkc ACOA 255 

Reacting lo US. Policy an Sowh Africa 267 

I75

Contents 

Economic Disengagemenl 269 

B~co~?& the Sfingb~h 273 

Other Actions Againrr Apartheid 276 

PART 4 THE FINAL CONFLICT 279 

19 Angola: After the Coup 

The Alw Agreement 282 

FNLA Strength 283 

ImprRtsionr of UNITA 28q 

Imp& of the MPLA 286 

Civil Wm 288 

AnrericanInwlm 290 

The CIA Again 292 

The Effm to Rebuild 293 

20 Mozambique: The FRELIMO Victory 

Problems and Assets 295 

Not a Simple Success Stmy 301 

Hope in spite olddm-ty 303 

Mozambique and the United States 307 

21 Western Sahara: Struggle in the Desert 

Back& to Conflict 309 

The! Suhruwi 311 

Across the Desert With POLISARIO 3 15 

A Second Trip 321 

Obsmiim on U.S. Policy 322 

The Struggle in the Mid-I@ 324 

22 Zimbabwe: Winning Independence 

Intemal Disumry 326 

The Snuggle lnternatimaIized 329 

The Road to Lancaster House 330 

The Miracle of Zimbabwe 337 

Prospects for the Furure 343 

23 South Africa and Namibia: The Final Conflict 

The Soweto UjmXng and Afrer 345 

Outride Reach 348 

From Protest to I mtion 351 

Tire Coruinuirig Struggle in Namibia 354 

South Ajiica's Inwmience in Namibia 357 

zq "You've Got to Take the Long View" 

Some Sobering Realities 360 

A Perspective 362 

Antidote m Cynicism 365 

Notes 

Index

I 

Foreword 

have known George Houser for a long time, and through him the 

American Cornmi- on Africa. We first met in the rgsos, when I 

went to the United Nations as a "Petitioner" seeking support for the 

independence smuggle of my country, which wss then the United Nations 

TflDSt Territory of Tvyika administered by the United Kingdom. 

On my first visit to the United Nations the U.S. government gave me a 

peculiar visa, wbicb was *of very short duration and limited me to a 

specified radius from the United Nations Headquarters! It was George 

Houser who induced me to people who supported the African anticolonial 

struggle. Through him I learned that not all American people 

acquiesced in deckions of the American government, which seemed to us 

to be backing up Tanganyika's government at that time-that is, the 

British colonial power. Indeed, through him and his colleagues in the 

ACOA, I was able to rnake contact with many sympathetic Americans, 

including politicians. I got a practical insight into American democracy at 

work and its openness. 

To George Housw and his colleagues I must in the 1950s have been just 

one among many African leaders from the different colonial territories of 

Africa. But each of us was received with friendship and respect- not 

unimportant matter, especially in those days when racial discrimination 

was a common expesience in the colonial countries. AU of us who came to 

the United Nations or the United States during our campaigning for 

independence received help and encouragement from the ACOA. 

As far as I know, the committee had no money to give us nationalist 

leaders, but that was not what we wanted, either for ourselves or our 

parties. What it gave us was a knowledge that we were not alone in the 

world, that on the contrary our demand for independencc bad sympathy 

and support in a very powedid country. W1th ACOA members and friends 

we could sometimes talk over political probfems arising; during the struggle 

and gain a new pmptive on them. And from them we could rely 

upon a continuing educational process within the United States itself-about 

colonialism, about Africa, and about the independence movement. 

They were a small group, without resources to break into the news media. 

But they went quietly forward, and they did gather political support for 

our CBUW. 

This work has continued. Since the 1950s I have met George Houser 

many times, usually in Africa. From my colleagues in other countriesthose 

who are now leaders of their nations and many others who played an 

honourable part in the independence struggIes+I know that George and

the committee have continued to be active and supportive, He has a 

fwinating story to tell. 

This story is one that should be told, because it is unfinished. Namibia 

is not yet free. South Africa is still suffering under the oppression of 

apartheid. The peoples of both countries are fighting for freedom with 

ever increased intensity despite South Africa's state terrorism and the 

constant threat or actuality of imprisonment, torture, and death. The netd 

for continued (and indeed intded) moral, political, and material sup 

port from friends in America and Europe as well as Africa has never been 

greater. 

There are now many other very active antiapartheid organizations in 

America and Europe, which are doing a very good job. But the foundations 

for their work were laid by those people who were active on these 

hes in the IHOS, I~~OS, and early I-people like George Houser. 

There is another reason why George's story should be told. The independent 

countries of Africa are now almost all in deep economic trouble; 

some stili have serious internal political problems that have resulted in 

violent conflict or dictatorships. An understanding of the political problems 

faced during the independence struggles, and of the personalities of 

those days, can help to make these current problems more comprehensible 

to people who get from their newspapers and television screens only stories 

of bad news from Africa, often laced with contempt for the leaders and 

peoples of our continent. 

It is a pleasure to me to have this opportunity to say thank you to 

George Houser and his colleagues in the American Committee for Africa. 

This is a book written by George, without any input from me or-as far as 

I know-from anyone else in Africa So it is an American story and an 

American view of some political events in Africa during the last few 

decades. But it is also the view as perceived by a human being who 

respects other human beings and believes that it is the duty of all of us to 

work-in our own way and our own context and within our own limitations-for 

the promotion of justice and human dignity and respect everywhere. 

It is a story written by someone who tried to carry out tbat dutyand 

none of us can do more. 

Most of Africa is now independent--politically There is very much that 

remains to be done, in very many spheres, to convert that political independence 

into the reality of fteedom and dignity for all Africa's people. As 

we in our pan of the world have learned to say-4 lrua conrinutr. The 

struggle continues. 

MWALIMU JULIUS K. NYERERE

I 

Preface 

have written this volume from the perspective of one who has spent 

more than 30 years of his life concerned with developments in Africa. I 

find, in retrospect, that my experience falls into four phases, each one 

corresponding roughly to a phase of recent African history. So I have 

divided my writing about Africa into four parts. 

The first, "The Gathering Rain Clouds," reflects Africa under colonial 

domination and my introduction to it. 

The second, *The Wmds of Change," deals with the relatively uncomplicated 

period of Africa's progress toward independence and with the 

growth of anticolonial movements. There was an aura of excitement and 

optimism during this phase and recognition that something special was 

being born, 

The third pan, "Ym of 'Ihrmoil," deals with the mumatic period that 

began in mid-1960 with the independence of the Congo. The major 

international powers became involved. Gued Mare was adopted as a 

necessity by those engaged in the liberation struggle. Division among 

African movements and leaders foretold conflicts destined to continue long 

after the colonial powers had left. 

The fourth part, "The Fircal Codict," begins with the military coup in 

Portugal in 1974, which overthrew the dictatorial regime established by 

S h . 

It opened the way for the independence of Portuguese colonies 

aed quickened the struggle for independence in Zimbabwe. Ccdict de- 

veloped in Western Sahara as Spain relinquished its conml. The super- 

powers were increasingly drawn into a contest on the African continent, 

focusing on Angola and South Africa. 

The fieal chapter, "You've Got to Take the Long View," forms a 

conclusion. 

It is not thet these four phases differ totally from one another; yet they 

show enough connast to provide a convenient fmework for looking at 

historical events, corresponding changes in U.S, policy, and the changing 

character of my own experiences. I hope that this approach may add to an 

understanding of events in Africa, as well as of the contact within which 

U.S. policy has developed and been carried out. 

Obviously this book does not pretend to be a history, nor docs it 

consistently trace developments in any given country, even within the time 

span of my own activity. Rather, as its subtitle suggests, it attempts to give 

glimpses into the struggle for independence in Africa based on my own - 

experiences and observations. 

GEORGE M. HOUSER

A 

Acknowledgments 

couple of years before I retired from the American Committee on 

Africa (ACOA), I had lunch with Dr. Howard Spragg, a Union 

Theological Seminary classmate, who was then executive vice president of 

the Board for Homeland Ministries of the United Church of Christ. We 

tdkd about our plans for the future. I said I would like to spend some 

time writing abaut my experiences with organizations and individuals in 

Afria's struggle for independence. Howard was very interested and suggested 

that I tx in touch with hirn when the time came. 

When I was ready, Howard gave me an essential boost with a grant for 

initial research. Subsequently came the arrangement with the Pilgrim 

Press, associated with the Board for Homeland Ministries, to publish my 

manuscript. I am deeply gratehl to Howard and the board for their 

assistance. 

I also want to express my gratitude to others who have helped me along 

the way. A grant from the Ford Foundation made it possibIe for me to 

spend several months pIodding through the mass of files of the ACOA and 

the Africa Fund to put them in minimal order for use in research. In early 

1982 the files were deposited with the Amistad Research Center in New 

Orleans, where they could receive professional attention. I am grateful to 

Dr. Clifton Johnson, director of Amistad, for W g all the facilities of 

the center available to me. 

Peter and Cora Miss helped enormously through the Fund for Tomorrow, 

which provided a grant to cover incidental travel and typing costs. I 

was also given a grant for research through Dr. George Shephcrd of the 

Graduate School of Iuternaaonal Studies of the University of Denver. 

I owe a debt of gratitude to my colleagues at the ACOA for giving freely 

of their time in discussion and checking facts and for permission to use the 

title of a pamphlet on Angola, which I co-authored in r 975, as the title for 

this book. 

I have had a happy relationship with the Pilgrim Press during the 

writing of this book. Discussions with Larry E. Kalp, editor-inchief, have 

been most helpful. Susan C. Winslow, the consultant with whom I 

worked, bas won my admiration for the meticulous care with which she 

has edited and tightened my manuscript without changing my me.. On the whole I was not able to do what I would have liked to-submit 

the manuscript to many of my friends and co-workers, authorities on 

African affairs, for suggwtions and corrections. A few friends did look at 

limited sections of the manuscript-Prof. John Marcum of the University 

of California, Santa Cnu; Rev. Larry Henderson, for more than 20 years a

missionary in Angola; Mrs. Janet Mondlane of Mozambique; Gil Fernandes, 

fkt ambassador of Guinea-Bissau to the United States; and 

Ambassador Mohammed Sahnoun of Algeria. I am grateful for their 

suggestions. 

In addition, I wish to thank my friend and neighbor James Dickerson, 

whose artistry was of great help in preparing symbolic line drawings and 

the cover. I know that he gave generously of his timt and talent because of 

his support for the liberation struggle in Africa. 

Two individuals have been most critical to this writing and to them I am 

especially indebted. The first is Karen Rothmyer, assistant professor at the 

Columbia University Schwl of Journalism. Far two years she was one of 

my co-workers at the ACOA and the Africa Fund. She more than anyone 

else gave me editorial advice. She read the manuscript in bits and pieces 

and finally the whole. Her knowledge of African affabs and her writing 

sMls were invaluabIe as she gave me sound advice on where my emphases 

should Lie. 

The other person is my wife, Jean. She not only typed the manuscript 

in its various phases, becoming something of an expert on the computer in 

the process, but gave essential advice on content, structure, and gfammar 

as well. She also kept me going when I occasionally wPeakeakepeped -in my 

resolve to finish the work. 

Finally I owe eternal thanks to my host of African friends, many of 

whose names appear in the pages of this book. I am especially indebted to 

Mwalimu Julius K. Nyerere, who honors me by his foreword to this book. 

I hope my many references to him in these pages properly reflect the fact 

that there is no African leader for whom I have more admiration.

CRUA 

FLN 

GPRA 

MTLD 

PPA 

PDA 

SARA 

UNITA 

UPA 

UPNA 

Parties, Movements, and 

Organizations 

AFRICAN COUNTRIES 

ALGERIA (1962)* 

National Liberation Army (Arm& de Liberation 

Nationale) 

Revolutionary Committee of Unity and Action (Cornit6 

Revolutio~e d'Unit6 et d'Action) 

National Liberation Front (Front de Liberation Nationale) 

Provisional Govement of rhe Algerian Republic 

(Gouverncrnent Provisoire de la Republique Algerien~e) 

Movunent for the Triumph of Du110cfatic Libutis 

(Mouvement pour le Triomphc des L i W 

Dem~~~tiques) 

Party of the Algerian People (Pad du Qeuple Alg&en) 

ANGOLA (1975) 

Zombo People's Alliance (Alliance des Resso~ts 

de 

Zombo) 

Emergency Relief to Angola (ACOA pmjm) 

National Fmnt for the Liberation of Angola (Frente 

Nacional de Liberta@o de Angoia) 

Revolutionary Government of Angola in Exile (Govho 

Revolucion4tio de Angola no Exilio) 

Armed Forces Movement (Moyhento das Forgas 

Armadas, in Portugal) 

Popular Movement for the Liberation of Angola 

(Movimento Popular de L ibgo de Angola) 

Democratic Party of Angola (Partido Demodtico dc 

Angola) 

Service for the Assistanee of Angolan Refugees (Servip de 

Assisthcia aos Refugiados de Angola) 

National Union for the Total Independence of Angola 

(Uniiio Nacional para a Independhcia Total de Angola) 

Union of the Peoples of Angola (Udo das Popula@cs de 

Angola) 

Union of the Peoples of Northern Angola (Udo das 

Popula@cs do Norte de Angola)

xviii Parties, move men^, and 0rgankatimt.s 

CPP 

MAP 

NPP 

UGCC 

CAMEROONS (1960; f-b FRENCH CAMEROONS) 

Union of the Peoples of the Camcroons (Union des 

Populations Camemmaises) 

GHANA (1957; fm& GOLD COAST) 

Convention People's Party 

Moslem AssDciation Parry 

Northern People's Party 

United Gold Caast Convention 

GUINEA-BISSAU (1974; f mb PORTUGUESE GUINEA) 

m o 

KAU 

LEGCO 

NPCP 

COREWO 

People's Revolutionary Armed Forccs (Forces Am& 

R~volutio~ du Peuple) 

African Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape 

Verde (Paddo Afho de IndependCncia de Guhk e 

Cab Veq 

KENYA (1963) 

African Elected Members' Organization 

Kenya African Union 

Lfqgis'lative Cound 

Nairobi Pmpk's Convention Parry 

MALAWI (1964; fm& NYASALAND) 

N-d African Congress 

MOZAMBIQUE (1975) 

Revolutionary Committee of Mozambique (&mite 

RdvolucionBjio de Mopmbique) 

FRELIMO Mozambique Liberation Front (Frcntc de LibertaHo 

Mopmbiquc) 

MANU Mozambique African National Union 

MNR or Mozambique National Resisten= (Reshhcia Nacional dc 

RENAMO Mopmbique) 

UDENAMO National Democratic Union of Mozambique (UGo . 

Demdtica Nacional de Moqmbique)

CANU 

DTA 

ONC 

OPO 

SWANLA 

SWANU 

SWAP0 

W A G 

AG 

NCNC 

NPC 

RDA 

ANC 

BPC 

NUSAS 

PAC 

SAIC 

SANROC 

SASA 

SASO 

SSRC 

UDF 

Parries, Movements, and Organlizatiimr . 

African National Union of Independent Mozambique 

(Uniiio Nacional Africana de M-bique Independate) 

NAMIBIA (called SOUTICWEST AFRICA before 1968) 

Caprivi African National Union 

Democratic TWalle Alliance 

Ovambo National Congress 

hbohd Peoplek Orgmhtion 

South Wst African Native Labor Assocktion 

South Wst African National Union 

South Ykt Africa People's Organization 

UN Tiansitional Assistan= Group 

NIGERIA (1960) 

Action Group 

National Council of Nigeria and the Camemans 

Northem People's Congress 

SENEGAL 

African Democratic M y (Rassemblement Dhocratique 

Afticain) 

SOUTH AFRICA (1910) 

African National Congress 

Black People$ Convention 

National Union of South African Students 

Pan Africanist Congress 

South African Indian Congress 

South African Non-Racial Olympic Committee 

South African S~dats' Assaciation 

South African Students' Organization 

Smto Students' Representative Coundl 

United Demmtic Front 

UNITED REPUBLIC OF TANZANIA (1961 ; 

fmly TANG-) 

TANU Tmganyika African National Union

Parties, Mmemmts, and Organkah 

WESTERN SAHARA (called SPANISH SAHARA before 1976) 

POLISARIO 

SADR 

Popular Front for the Liberation of Saguia el Hamra and 

Rio de Oro (Frente Popular para la Liberaci6n de Saguia 

el Hamra y Rio de Om) 

Saharan Arab Democratic Republic (La Rtpubliqm Arabe 

Sahraouie Dhoczatique) 

ZAIRE (1965; fm& BELGIAN CONGO, 

then DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO) 

ABAKO 

BALUBAKAT 

CONAKAT 

MNC 

Association for the Preservation of Culturc and Interests of 

he Bakongo (Association des Bakongo) 

Katanga Baluba Association 

Confederation of Bibal Association of Katanga 

(ConfMdtion des Associations Bibales du Ratanga) 

National Congolese Movement (Mouvemcnt Nationale 

Congolais) 

. 

ANC 

ANC 

FROLIZI 

NDP 

PCC 

PF 

SRANC 

UANC 

ZANLA 

ZANU 

ZAPU 

ZIPRA 

AAPC 

MTUF 

CONCP 

ZAMBIA (1964; fm& NORTHERN RHODESIA) 

Northem Rhodesia African National Congress 

United National Independence Party 

Zambia African National Congress 

ZIMBABWE (I 980; f ~ SOUTHERN h RHODESIA) 

African National Congress (see SRANC) 

African National Council (later the UANC, United African 

National Council) 

Front for the Liberation of Zimbabwe 

National Democratic Parry 

People's Ca~ecakcr Comcil 

Patriotic Front 

Southern Rhodesia African National Congress 

(see ANC) 

Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army 

Zimbabwe African National Union 

Zimbabwe African People's Union 

Zimbabwe People's Revolutionary Army 

ALL-AFRICAN BODIES 

All African Pcop1e's Conference 

All African Trade Union Federation 

Conft of Nahnalist Orgenizstions of Portuguese

Pa&, Mov~ts, and Ovankatiotts 

Colonis (Coafcrhua das Organiza- Nacioaalistas das 

Col6nias Pormguhs) 

OAU Oqanhtion of African Uniry 

PAFMECA Ban African Freedom Movement of Easr and Central 

Africa (her PAFMEaA with the addition of soutbam 

Africa) 

Southm African Development Coordination Confepence 

MSF 

ACOA 

AFGCIO 

AESAR 

AS A 

CIA 

COBLSA 

CORE 

FOR 

ILGWU 

NAACP 

AAPSO 

EEC 

1cm 

ICJ 

IOC 

NATO 

m 

UNITED STATES 

African American Students' Foundation 

American Committee on A fh 

American Federation of Labor-Congress of Industrial 

Organizations 

Americans for South African Resistance 

African Studies Association 

CeatraP Intelligence Agency 

Campaign to Oppose Bank Loaas to South Africa (ACOA 

pmi=> 

Co- of Racial Equality 

Fellowship of Reconciliation 

International Ladies' Garment Workers Union 

National Association for the Advancement of Colored 

People 

National Council of Christians and Jews 

United Auto Workers 

INTERNATIONAL BODIES 

AfmAsian Peoples' Solidarity Organization 

European Economic Community 

International Confederation of Free Trade Unions 

Inwmatioaal Court of Justlee (Wbrld Court) 

Int#national Olympic Committee 

North Atlantic Treav Organization 

Wbrld Meration of Trade Unions

Africa 1945

Africa 1987

THE GATHERING 

RAIN CLOUDS 

PART

t was still dark at 4:30 A.M. when I was awakened by someone softly 

I cafliag my name. "George, George, it's almost time to leave." It had 

been a short night. I had arrived only the evening before st the small 

Sahara town of Tindouf' in western Algeria as the guest of POLISARlO 

(Popular Fmt for the fiberation of Saguia el Hamra and Rio de Om, the 

m parts of Westem Sabra). In the low-lying reception center, my cornpanions 

and I were shielded from the whistling wind and blowing sand. 

Although it was cool outside, I was quite comfortable lying Mly clothed 

on blankets on the concrete flour. It was Sunday, November 4,1979. 

A quick splash of water on my face at a nearby well, a cursory brushing 

of teeth, and I was ready for the ride into Rbtern Sahara with the 

POLISARIO guerkllas. They had been involved in a desert war against 

&e mpyhg forces of Morocco in Western Sahara ever since Spain gave 

up coaml of the area in early 1976. Three weeks before I arrived, their 

forces had won an important battle and driven Moroccan forces out of 

Mahbes, until then the easternmost Saharan town still occupied by Morocco. 

Our objective was to visit Mbes. 

After hastily eating some bread aud drinking some highly mmed 

tea, 12 of us took our places in two Spanish Sanmaas for the three-hour 

trip The POLISARIO men carried rifles. The only other non-Sahafan 

was a Spanish journalist. Day was just breaking as we headed west, 

following only tracks in the sand. There were no roads. As we sped along 

at amazing speed, I could not hdp briefly wondering about a possible 

Moroccan attack. The eventag before I had signed a waiver of responsibility 

for the Algerian government in case of any sort of "accident." Five 

months earlier I had spent almost two weeks with POLISARIO and only 

seen Moroccan planes flying very high. So this time I felt like something of 

a veteran. 

By the h e we reached Mahbes, the sun was bright and warm. There 

had been no road signs for Mahbes. Our Sanrrvlns just went over the brink 

of a barren bill and there, all of a sudden, a few h u m yards distant was 

what had once been a desert town, marked by an abandoned water tower, 

low buildings, md a walled area that was formerly a Spanish dtary post, 

The place was absolutely deserted except for a few scrawny dogs. On 

the side of a building, written in Arabic, was the Moroccan slagan "For 

God, King, and Country." But the basic impression was of destruction. 

Tmcks were tyrnad over and burnt. Coke cases clearly marked "Chiabhca,'"ged 

helmets, spent bullets, and m p ammunition ~ boxes 

~ung, Jq poorly constructed bunkers were the Moroccan 

werq s m 

2

The Gathering Rain Clouds 

soldiers' personal effects-books, papers, and letters postmarked Mo- 

-0. 

After wandering around for a while, we piled into one of the vehicles 

and drove a few hundred yards to what must have been the center of the 

fighting on the perimeter of the town, Here there were trenches and, what 

I was not d y prepared for, bodies. Who knows how many had died in 

the battle for Mahbes? I counted perhaps 50 Moroccans lying as they had 

fden three weeks before, in various stages of decomposition from sun, 

wind, and sand. The POLISARIO dead had been buried, but the Momcans 

had fled in tanks in disarray. When I asked, I was told the Moroccan 

dead would be buried as a humanitarian act, but I do not know that they 

were. 

I bad been on African battle sites before, but this was the h t time I 

had actually seen the dead on the field. It was different from seeing 

refugees or wounded in hospitals. It was a shock to me, who had never 

shot anything more powerful than the BB gun my father gave me when I 

was IQ and who had gone to prison in 1940 protesting the peacetime 

conscription before U.S. involvement in World War 11. 

Later, as we were returning across the desert toward Algeria, I asked 

myself how I came to be at that spot on that day. Why wasn't I preaching a 

sermon on this Christian Sabbath somewhere in Colorado, where I was an 

ordained minister in the United Methodist Church, instead of being in the 

company of devout Muslims fighting for the independence of their country?

CHAPTER ONE 

Becoming Involved in Africa 

though I have been involved in African affairs since 1952, I was not 

A trained for that field either academically or professionally At that 

time, I was a Methodist minister attached to the Rocky Mountain Annual 

Conference and a member of the national staff of the Fellowship of 

Reconciliation (FOR), a religious pacifist organization. No one asked me 

to take on an African concern. No one paid me to become involved. I took 

up the cause because I was morally committed to the struggle of people for 

freedom. Since I have a religious approach to life, I look upon my concern 

with Africa as a matter of divine guidance and a valid extension of my vows 

as a Christian minister. 

During the 30 years of my activities related to Africa, the early 1950s to 

the rg80s, my focus has always been on the liberation struggle. In my 

many trips to Africa I have tried to experience the dynamics of that 

struggle by becoming acquainted with African liberation movements and 

their leaders and by going to places where things were happening. In the 

United States I have worked through organizational channels to try to 

influence the policy of the government toward Africa. 

My purpose in writing this book is not to relate an autobiography but to 

describe the struggle for independence. I approach it from a jmsonal 

perspective not because I think my actions have played a determining role 

but because a certain uniqueness of my experience as both an observer and 

a participant may illuminate the story of that struggle. 

How did I become involved in Africa? A word about my background 

may help the reader understand the step-by-step process, unwitting at 

fit, by which I became the head of an American organization devoted to 

African affairs. 

EARLY YEARS 

I come from a ministerial family. In their youth my parents were Meth- 

odist missionaries in the Philippines. My earliest childhood memories are 

of Manila and of Filipinos, who were constantly in our home. Although I 

was very young, I must have been influenced subliminally by the fact that 

some of my parents' closest friends were of another country and race. Our 

family never stayed long in one spot. After Ohio, where I was born, and 

the Philippines, we lived in New York State, California, and Colorado, in 

all of whi& my father pastored churches. 

VPhile a student at the College of the Pacific in Stockton, California


(now the University of the Pacific), I spent the year 1935-1936 as a 

scholarship exchange student at Lingnan University in Canton, China. My 

parents encouraged me in this enterprise, despite the extra expense not 

covered by the grant, because they realized that the year in China would 

expose me to new, wider influences. I know that association with a Chinese 

roommate, other Chinese students, and my fellow American exchange 

students was a high point in my life, Because of the China experience- 

visits to villages, contact with other religions, the observation of events in 

another country at a time when Chiang Kai Shek's control was being 

challenged by Mao Zedong's rising Communist movement and the Jap- 

anese were about to invade-I could no longer see the world in quite the 

same way. 

When I returned to the United States, my parents had moved to 

Denver, so I transferred to the University of Denver, where I graduated. 

During my college years I beaune actively involved in world affairs. As a 

member of the Student Christian Movement, I participated in activities for 

peace, racial justice, and economic equality. Through the National Council 

of Methodist Youth, I attended many national meetings, which not only 

deepened my religious commitment but gave me an outlet for action on 

political and social issues. 

Influenced by my parents, my experience in China, and my association 

with student Christian activities, I decided to enter the ministry. I was 

attracted to Union Theological Seminary in New York by outstanding 

professors such as Reinhold Niebuhr and Harry Ward, men who had 

achieved national reputations and combined Christian ethics with political 

action. That was what I wanted. 

I was a product of the 1930s. The Social Gospel, putting the Christian 

ethic into practice on the social scene, was the credo that moved me. I was 

a pacifist as well as a supporter of organized labor and all efforts to 

challenge racial discrimination and segregation. I joined the Young Peo- 

ple's Socialist League, alfiliated with the Socialist party, headed by Nor- 

man Thomas. As a seminarian I participated in my first picket line in 

support of A. Philip Randolph's Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. 

I moved out of the seminary dormitory on the upper West Side to a 

slum area on the lower East Side of New York. I specifically chose a part- 

time job at the Church of All Nations helping transform street gangs into 

clubs rather than accept a job as youth pastor in a suburban church. I felt 

that Living in an underprivileged community was one way of learning more 

about the struggle against poverty. In an old tenement on First Street 

where I lived with five other young men, I saw something of slum condi- 

tions-no heat in winter and bedbugs in summer. 

PRISON 

In the fall of 1940, more than a year before the United States entered 

World War 11, the government enacted the first peace-time conscription

Becoming In~olved in Awa 7 

law in U.S. history. Eight of us seminarians decided to disobey the law, 

which required every young American male to register, in spite of the fact 

that as theological students we would automatically be exempted from 

military service. We felt that the most effective resistance was registering 

"our refusal to comply in any way with the Selective Service and Training 

Act." We optimistically wrote to the Draft Board on October 16, 1940. 

"We do not expect to stem the war forces today; but we are helping to 

build the movement that will conquer in the future." 

Our act of civil disobedience was major headline news. Our group was 

besieged by the press and newsreel agencies, and ow action was played up 

in news shorts in movie theaters. We were applauded by friends and 

sympathizers and blasted by those who opposed us. And we were threat- 

ened by Selective Service officials not just with the legal five years prison 

and $ro,ooo penalties but w@ 20 years on a conspiracy charge. It was a 

sobering experience. 

Perhaps the most meaningid worship experience of my life took place 

in the chapel of the seminary on the eve of our sentencing, when the entire 

seminary community, in spite of great differences on the issue, was drawn 

together. James Russell Ld's great hymn "Once to Every Mau and 

Nation Comes the Moment to Decide" took on special significance on that 

occasion. 

On November 14 we were sentenced to a year and a day at the federal 

prison in Danbury, Connecticut. That was a year of learning for mo- 

about prison life, about our fellow inmates, about resistance activities in 

prison by striking to protest racial discrimination and poor food. We were 

thrown together with men of many backgrounds and races. The harsh 

reality of prison life, the ache of separation from the outside world and 

loved ones, still could not dampen a feeling of satisfaction in being able to 

help some of our inmate friends by writing letters for them, informal 

counseling, teaching classes, and participating in the sports activities. I 

always felt proud that I was number one ping pong player on the prison 

team. 

As our prison term drew toward the end, most of our group of eight 

wanted to return to Union Seminary. But because the seminary imposed 

certain conditions that we felt would limit our freedom of action, five of us 

chose to go to Chicago Theological Seminary. 

THE FELLOWSHIP OF RECONCILIATION 

I found it very -cult to take my academic work seriously that final year 

of seminary (1941-IW). The prison experience was too fresh in my 

memory. The United States was about to enter the war. I was recruited by 

A.J. Muste, head of the Fellowship of Reconciliation, to work in the 

Chicago area. Muste was a Presbyterian clergyman, a pacifist, a former 

Trotskyist, and a social and political radical. I greatly admired him. I 

always felt he was in the tradition of the Old Testament prophets.


I was to be on the staff of the FOR for 13 years. I had been ordained an 

elder in the Methodist Church in Colorado in 1943, and I assumed that 

after a temporary period of organizing in the area of peace and race 

relations, I would settle into a church somewhere. But this was not to be. I 

became deeply involved in the struggle against racism when, in 1942, we 

founded the first Committee of Racial Equality (CORE) in Chicago. A year 

later this became a national effort under the name of the Congress of Racial 

Equality and I became executive secretary. I was able to combine this work 

with my FOR work because one of my FOR responsibiiities was to adapt 

the nonviolent methods of Mohandas K. Gandhi, who influenced me 

greatly, to the struggle for racial justice. One of my two closest associates 

was James Farmer, who became the first president of CORE and later in 

the 1960s its executive director. The other was Bayard Rustin, who led a 

stimulating one-man crusade challenging Jim Crow nonviolently. 

Although I organized many projects for FOR, my main activity was 

challenging racism. After two years in Chicago and another two in 

Cleveland, I moved to FOR national headquarters in New York in 1946. 

CORE was the primary vehicle for action on racial issues. Our theme was 

nonviolent direct action in resisting segregation. We organized interracial 

housing establishments in segregated areas; sit-ins at discriminatory res- 

taurants; and interracial waiting lines at the box offices of theaters, roller 

rinks, and other public places, effectively blocking the entrances unless all 

were admitted. 

We organized the first "freedom ride" into the South in April 1947, 

which challenged Jim Crow laws in interstate travel following the 1946 

decision of the Supreme Court to revoke them. Rustin and I collaborated 

with others on a song that we would sing at public gatherings to the tune of 

the spiritual "No Hidin' Place Down Here." The first verse went 

You don't have to ride Jim Crow. 


On June the 3rd 

The High Corn said 

When you ride interstate 

Jim CrotK is dead, 


Our activities in CORE were a little in advance of the major civil rights 

campaign of the later 1950s and I*, when Martin Luther King and the 

Southern Christian Leadership Conference rose to prominence and CORE 

became a much larger national movement. But the tactics we inaugurated 

were the same as those popularized on a larger scale a few years later. 

During all these years I participated in innumerable picket Lines and 

protest poster walks. I was chased by threatening gangs of irate whites who 

opposed our actions against discrimination, and on a few occasions I was 

srrested and locked up. 

Although I was not serving the church directly, I felt committed to the 

Christian gospel of love. I made no easy assumption that I was ushering in

Becoming Involved in Africa 9 

the kingdom of God, but I felt I was attempting to fulfill the demand of 

discipleship My family-my wife, Jean, and the children, Martha, David, 

and later Steven and Tom-maintained an active relationship with our 

local church, and I preached on Sunday as occasion demanded. 

Until the end of the 1940s my knowledge and concern about Africa was 

miniscule. Yet in retrospect, it was as easy and natural for me to develop an 

active concern about South Africa as it had been to organize a committee 

to support India's struggle for freedom during the years I was in Chicago. 

All that was needed was an event, an issue, something to highlight the 

South African problem. This came with a civil disobedience campaign 

against the system of racism known as apartheid.

CHAPTER TWO 

Nonviolent Fighters for Freedom 

y introduction to the African liberation struggle began with the 

M "Campaign to Defy Unjust Laws," sponsored by the African National 

Congress of South Africa (ANC). The year was 1952. Word about 

plans for a forthcoming, massive, nonviolent Defiance Campaign in South 

Africa to resist the apartheid laws came to me from my friend and 

coworker Bill Sutherland. He was excited about the campaign, which he 

had learned about from a South African editor whom he had met in 

London. Sutherland and I were both pacifists and had worked together on 

numerous projects to combat segregation in the United States by nonviolent 

methods. His opinions meant a lot to me. 

Nevertheless, my first reaction to Sutherland's enthusiastic reports and 

urging us to active support was hesitant. A lot was going on right here at 

home. I felt overwhelmed with existing commitments and was not eager to 

take on new ones. Sutherland's persistence had its effect, however. Somewhat 

protestingly at first, I began to reach out for more information, and 

together he and I, along with Bayard Rustin, began to pIan a program. 

INITIAL CONTACTS 

As executive secretary of CORE, I began to correspond with leaders of the 

South African campaign-Walter M. Sisulu, the secretary general of the 

ANC, and Yusuf A. Cachalia, secretary general of the South African 

Indian Congress (SAIC). The Defiance Campaign was a coalition effort, 

primarily of Africans and Indians, with some participation from the 

Coloured community through the Franchise Action Council. Sisulu wrote 

me (March 26,1952), "Your letter of the 17th of March has been a source 

of great inspiration to me. I am very delighted to learn that yow organiza- 

tion [CORE] has taken such a great interest in the struggle for fundamen- 

tal human rights by my organization." 

Up to this time I had only rudimentary knowledge about South Africa. 

I had read Alan Paton's Cw the Beloved Counny. I was acquainted with 

Mohandas K. Gandhi's work in South Africa (1893-1914) and his experi- 

ments with nonviolent tactics in combatting discrimination against the 

Lndian minority there. I knew that the Indians, who had come in 1868 as 

indentured workers in the sugar cane fields, numbered only a few hundred 

thousand out of a population of less than 15 million. I learned that in 1952 

the Afrikaners were to celebrate the 300th anniversary of the coming of


their Dutch forebears to South Africa. The Union of South Afrim* was an 

amalgam of two Afrikaner republics (Tmsvaal and the Orange Free State) 

and two British colonies (Natal and the Cape of Good Hope, where the 

British arrived about 1820). It was created in 1910 as an aftermath of the 

Boer War, in which the British defeated the Afrikaners. The Coloured 

population, numbering about a Won, came from miscegenation despite 

the racism of the whites. Black Africans, about 70 petcent of the population, 

had been subjugated by the expanding white population much as the 

American Indians had been conquered by white settlers moving west 

across the United States. They did not have the vote. I quickly learned the 

importance of the election victory of the NationaI Party of the Afrikaners 

under D.E MaIan in 1948. They instituted their program of apartheid, 

meaning "aparthood" in Afrhans. 

Through correspondence with Sisulu and Cachalia and memoranda 

from their movement, I saw the plan for the campaign develop. The 

sponsoring organizations committed themselves to "declare war" on apartheid 

laws. They concenmtd on the pass laws, which restricted the free 

movement of Africans around the country, and the Group Areas Act, 

which established clearly designated areas where various racial groups 

could live. 

The ANC had written to Prime Minister Malan in January demanding 

the repeal of these laws by February 29, failing which, mass action would 

begin. Cachalia sent me copies of the correspondence. Malan threatened 

"to quell my disturbances" and made the statement, often quoted since, 

which reflects the essence of the white supremacist position: "It is selfcontradictory 

to claim as the inherent right of the Bantu, who differ in 

m y ways from Europeans, that they should be regarded as not different, 

espadally when it is borne in mind that these differences are permanent 

and not man-made."' 

The kickoff for the campaign was originally scheduled for April 6, 

1952, Van Riebeck Day, the 300th anniversary of the coming of the white 

man to South Africa. The European community planned large demonsmtions 

and celebrations. It was a natural time for black opposition demonstrations 

too. But the Joint Action Committee apparently did not feel quite 

ready for a full effort. Sisulu wrote to me (March 26, 1952) that "on the 

6th of April we shall only have meetings and demonstrations and a pledge 

shall be taken. Thereafter the Executive will 6x the date for the De6ance 

of Unjust Laws." He also said, "We need money for propaganda, to assist 

some of the needy fwes, those people who are going to court and 

imprisonment." 

Rk in New York were enthusiastic supporters of the plan to keep the 

campaign nonviolent. Sisulu had written mc (March 26) that he had just 

returned ponse of the 

*South Africa baame a rcpubIic in rg61~- j

12 The Gathering Rain Clouds 

people. have made emphasis on a nonviolent approach, having judged 

my people from the strike of 1950, they will certainly behave well." 

In the meantime I had begun a correspondence with Professor Z.K. 

Matthews, president of the Cape Province branch of the ANC and head of 

African studies at the only university-level school for Africans in South 

Africa, the University College of Fort Hare. 

Referring to the tactic of nonviolence in the campaign, he wrote me 

(March 13, rggz), ''Wt take great comfort from the fact that Gandhism 

was born on South African soil. Through these same means India was able 

to achieve a tremendous upsurge of consciousness of destiny among the 

people of India." 

At about this time I also began a correspondence with Manilal Gandhi, 

a son of Mohandas K. Gandhi, who was still editing the publication Indim 

Opinion, started by his father. My friend Donald Harrington, minister of 

the Community Church in New York, who had known 1Clanilal, wrote to 

me (February 25, 1952), "As you perhaps know, Manila1 Gandhi spent a 

good dad of time with us here at Community Church while he was in New 

York and we were deeply impressed with his immense spirituality and 

saintly qualities. He is very much like his father, more so than any of the 

other sons." 

Gandhi wrote me (March 10,1952) that he was a "bit doubtful to what 

extent our struggle is going to remain nonviolent, as those who hold the 

reins are far from believers in the principles of nonviolence. . . . That is 

why I have not aligned myself with their movement and am fighting my 

own battle." At that time he was 3 days into a 21-day fast, but he advised 

us that we "should certainly give [our] sympathy and moral support to the 

cause and watch how things go." 

AMERICANS FOR SOUTH AFRICAN RESISTANCE 

In New York we felt we bad enough information about the Dhce 

Campaign to make a decision on what to do. '4k decided to set up an ad 

hoc support group for the campaign and adopted the name Americans for 

South African Resistance (AFSAR). Donald Harrington and Charles Y. 

Trigg, minister of the Salem Methodist Church of Harlem, were chosen as 

cochakmen. I was secretary. The Executive Committee included Roger 

Baldwin, Norman Thomas, Bayard Rustin, A. Philip Randolph, and 

Conrad Lynn. Our task, as we conceived it, was to be a vehicle for 

infomution about the campaign and to raise funds. The National Action 

Committee in South Africa was calling for I million shillings (about 

$rjo,wo) by the end of March. 

Three questions about the ANC came up. First was the question of the 

bona fide militancy of the organhtion. My friend Bill Worthy, a black 

American journalist who had been active in antiwar and antisegregation 

causes, wmte from Copenhagen in April, questioning whether CORE 

money should go to the ANC. He had heard that it was opportunistic and

Nonviolent Fighters for Freedom I3 

compromising. For example, the ANC had supported the "fake" Native 

Representative Council, a body made up of Africans with govertunent 

approval but no power. 

What Worthy did not know and we discovered later was that the ANC's 

sponsorship of the Defiance Campaign represented a new militancy. The 

ANC had been organized in 1912 as the South Africa Native National 

Congress. Its program for years was purely reformist-petitioning the 

government for change, sending delegations to London and later to the 

United Nations, essentially working among the more educated Africans to 

induce some change from within. But in 1944 the ANC Youth League, 

committed to a more radical and militant program, was formed. In 1949 

the youth in effect took control of the organization with new leaders such 

as Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo, and Walter Sisulu. The Defiance 

Campaign was the first major effort of these new leaders. 

The mnd question related to nonviolence. Could the ANC maintain 

such a discipline among the mass of participants in a civil disobedience 

effort? Gandhi was skeptical. He advocated postponing the campaign on 

the grounds that the people were not prepared to act nonviolently. Wk 

realized that he was not really a leader of the campaign and had only 

limited influence on policy. 

G.M. Pitje, former president of the ANC Youth League, wrote me 

(April 14, 1952), &It is difiicult to see how a campaign of nonviolence can 

s u d in a country like ours. All white South Africans agree fundamen- 

tally on the discriminatory policies. . . . where they differ is in their 

methods of implementing such a policy." He pointed out that the present 

leadenhip of the ANC .was revolutionary. At their December 1951 ANC 

conference, W a l Gandhi spoke at length on nonviolence and "the 

reaction of the audience was unfavorable to hi." Our feeling in New 

York, however, was that the official policy of nonviolence would have an 

effect and that we should support the civil disobedience tactic as a practical 

measure that would at least minimize violence. 

The third question about the ANC was the influence of Communism. 

We were living in the midst of the Joseph McCarthy "red scare" in 1952. 

Although all our supporters were uaalterably opposed to McCarthyism, 

we were not interested in joining forces with the Communists in a united 

front. Although we were not well acquainted with the details of ANC 

organization, we did not easily accept the charge of Communist control 

made by admtes of radsm. % knew that the Suppression of Commu- 

nism Act in South Africa, adopted in 1950, had outlawed the Commuaist 

party there, but the main function of the law was to quell all opposition to 

the system of apartheid. W knew that in our own country the red label 

was sometimes put on our own activities in CORE simply because we 

actively opposed racism. 

Yet we were not unconcerned about reports of significant Communist 

leadership in the ANC. A longtime coworker in peace and race relations 

activities, Homer Jack, on renuning from South Africa in 1952, wrote me 

(September 12, 1952) "I am dismayed at the communist strength in the


campaign." He said of Dr. Yusuf Dadw, president of the South African 

Indian Congnss and knm openly to have been a member before the 

Communist pafiy was banned, We is a devoted man, albeit an unabashed 

Communist. . . . if I were in South Africa I would definitely participate in 

the campaign and work overtime to oust the commies from control." 

Others with whom we were in touch acknowledged the strong influence of 

Communist leadership but denied its domination in the ANC and the 

campaign. Among these were Manilal Gandhi; Arthur Bld, secretary of 

the South African Christian Cod, and Patrick Duncan, son of a fmer 

governor general and the first white man to be arrested in the campaign. 

Our group satisfied itself that the campaign had a good chance of being 

effective, nonviolent, and democratic, and we were anxious to support it. 

Our first public activity was a mass meeting on April 6 in solidarity with 

the ANC and the SAIC. Through mailings and mass disrribution of 

leaflets in the American idiom, we called on people to join us "to support 

the drive against Jim Crow in South Africa," "use Palm Sunday to help 

Africans get freedom," and "show the world we oppose Jim Crow abroad 

as well as at home." 

About 800 people attended our meeting at Abyssinia Baptist Church in 

Harlem, where Adam Clayton Powell was minister. Subsequently I wrote 

to Sisulu about it and sent our ht check (about $300) collected at the 

meeting to support the campaign. 

The Harlan meeting plus my correspondence with campaign leaders 

helped establish us as serious supporters of the effort. On June 18, only e 

few days before the Defiance Campaign was to begin, Sisulu asked me to 

assist "in publicizing our statements, bulletins, photographs and other 

propaganda material. . . . in this my you will at the same time save us a 

large amount of expenditure." We were honored to be accepted in this 

collaborative manner and eagerly took on the responsibility. 

BEGINNING OF THE DEFIANCE CAMPAIGN 

The Defiance Campaign began on June 26. A p up of 52 were arrested at 

the Boksburg Unative'i location (the then-current term for an urban Af- 

rican township) 20 miles from Johannesburg. They had broken the law by 

trying to enter the location without a pass. A second group were arrested 

in Johannesburg at I 1:3o P.M. for defying the curfew. The leader, Flag 

Boshielo of the ANC, said to the police, 4We are nonviolent fighters for 

freedom. We are going to defy regulations that have kept our fathers in 

bandage."' Bulletin No. t of the National Action Committee for the 

Defiance Campaign, which I received soon afterward, reported that volun- 

teers broke apartheid laws in six different centers in the Union. Nelson 

Mandela, who was volunteer-in-chief for the campaign, Sisulu, and 

Cachalia were all arrested on June 26. 

Those arrested at Boksburg were held in jd nearly four weeks until 

their nial. They all pled guilty and were given seven days in jail or a £I


he, which only one paid. Other leaders were given four to six months in 

jail under the Suppression of Communism Act. In sentencing them the 

magistrate said, "It is common knowledge that one of the aims of commu- 

nism is to break down race barriers and strive for equal rights for all 

sections of the people. . . . The Union of South Afria with its peculiar 

problems created by a population overwhelmingly noe-European is fertile 

ground for the diwmhtion of communist propaganda. This would 

endanger the survival of Europeans."3 It was this kind of mentality that 

made us discount the charge of Comunist Muence in the movement. 

Opposition to apadeid and the support of Communism were made 

synonymous. By this definition we were all Communists. 

Our sources of information about the campaign were several-bulletins 

from South Africa, continued correspondence, press reports in American 

papers, and, most impoffant, Professor Z.K. Matthews. He arrived in 

New York in late June 1952 to serve for a year as the Henry Luce Visiting 

Professor of World chrisdanity at Union Theological Seminary. 

We met frequently, and he shared the stream of information coming to 

him from South Afria, especially letters from his son Joe. Joe was a 

lawyer in Port bbeth, an active campaign center, and a leader of both 

the Youth League and the ANC. With this kind of inside information we 

began to issue bulletins about the campaign at least once a month. Our 

mailing list grew modestly but steadily. 

Joe Matthews wrote to his father (September 3, 1952) that in 

Grahamstown in Cape Province the people forced the City Council to close 

down the beer hall in the African location. "For days the people stood in 

front of the beer hall praying and singing the African National Anthem 

util the place was shut up. It was built at a cost off 8,000 and brought the 

Municipal Council a revenue of f240 a week. That is one of the good by- 

products of the campaign; it has dealt a death blow to hooliganism and 

drunkenness." 

This same letter reported that the biggest demonstration of the cam- 

paign took place on August 26 in Johannesburg against the arrest of 

leaders. The courts were jammed with 2,- people, and thousands more 

gathered in the open square outside at a rally that lasted until dark. At an 

unprecedented request by the prosecutor, the court adjourned for 15 

minutes to dow Dr. James Moroka (president of ANC and himself on 

trial) to address the people. Amid shouts of "Afrika," he stood on a chair 

and asked the people to leave the bujlrting quietly so that the case could 

continue. They left immediately in perfect silence. Subsequently Moroka 

and 19 others were found guilty under the Suppression of Communism 

Act and were sentenced to nine months in prison at compulsory labor, 

suspended for two years. By September 4,000 protestors had been ar- 

rested. 

A letter from Sisulu (September 16,1952) urged us to send money. "We 

need plenty of funds as you can see. Our budget is becoming bigger every 

month." We were severely limited in what we could do. We were cenainly 

not professional fund raisers. American interest in South Africa was


Wter Sisulu, secretary general of the ANC of 

South Africa, at his hwse in Orlando location, 

South Afl'h, 1954. 

growing but among a preny select group Nevertheless, some local and 

national church bodies put the issue on their agendas. Bostonians Allied 

for South African Resistance (BAFSAR) formally affdiated with us. They 

sponsored public meetings, dism%uted literature, mostly supplied by the 

AFSAR New York office, and raised some funds. 

AFSAR sent about $5,- to South Africa during the campaign, much 

of it through Matthews. VPe were excited about the support we received. 

Contributions came from all parts of the United States and from Canada 

and India. A woman in Arizona sent us her diamond ring, saying she could 

not conscientiously wear it knowing that it represented slave labor. We sold 

it and sent the proceeds to South Africa. A family in Ohio contributed 

$roo at Chrismtime and said it rg,remted funds they had saved for 

family gifts. Some semiearians sent funds saved by eating sacrificial meals, 

and a person who refused to pay federal tax for military purposes sat 

$100" 

Z.K. MATTHEWS AND THE UNITED NATIONS 

Spurred by the Defiance Campaign, in October 1952 India took the lead in 

calling on the UN General Assembly for an agenda item that for the first

Nmviolent Fighters for Freedom I7 

time would deal with the whoIe racial conflict in South Africa. Previously 

South African issues were concerned only with the treaunent of people of 

Indian and Pakistani origin and the question of South West Africa (now 

Namibia). A cross d o n of Asian countries supported India. The item 

was assigned to the Ad Hoc Political Committee. African and A- 

delegates wanted Z.K. Matthews to give expert testimony before it, an 

unusual procedure at that time. No one could have spoken with greater 

authority. 

AFSAR helped organize a letter-dting campaign to the UN and the 

U.S. Mission to the UN seeking approval for Matthews's appearance. 

Among the distinguished Americans who wrote on his behalf was Harry 

Emerson W ck, minister of the prestigious Riverside Church in Niew 

York. A reply from the U.S. Mission explained diplomatically that to allow 

petitioners to appear before the UN "would involve radical changes in the 

s m m and procedures dthc U.N."4 The function of the UN, Fosdick 

was told, was to reconcile judgments and policies of governments, not to 

function as fact-finding agencies. The United States made clear it would 

vote against Matthews's appearance. 

I d a visit about this time to Matthews's apartment at Union 

Seminary. As I entered, two men were leaving. After hey departed, 

Matthews explained, "They were from the U.S. State Department and 

came here to urge me not to insist on speaking at the UN. If I did, the 

United States would have to vote against me." The UN, dominated at that 

time by the United States, did not approve Matthews's request. 

RIOTS IN SOUTH AFRICA 

The Defiance Campaign faced a crisis in October and November 1952 

when riots broke out in the eastern Cape Province, especially in Port 

Elizabeth and East London. AFSAR had word from Manilal Gandhi and 

others that the riots were quite separate from the campaign, although the 

government tried to assxiate them. 

Matthews told me that the crisis arose in East London when armed 

police interfered with an open-air religious service in the African Imtion, 

for which permission had been given. The preacher was reading from the 

Bible about the oppression of the Israelites when two vehicles loaded with 

police drove up and ordered the crowd to disperse within five minutes. Yet 

in less than two minutes the police ordered a baton charge. Before the 

crowd could leave the square, shots were fired and a man was killed. The 

police then d&e through the streets of the location, firing at random. One 

man was killed while sitting in his kitchen reading a newspaper. The 

rioting started after this, h t with stone throwing and later with setting 

fire to buildings. Altogether 13 people were killed and at least 50 injured. 

Other riots took place in the New Brighton Location at Port Elizabeth, 

where I I Africans mrc killed and at least 27 injured; at the Denver Hostel 

in Johannesburg, where 3 Africans were killed and 5 hjwed; iand at No. z

The Gathering Rain Cloua3 

Location at Kimberley, where 13 Africans were kilied and at least 28 

injured. Although these were widely separated places, the incidents were 

triggered by police violence in each instance, and the Africans were killed 

by gunfire. Two Europeans were killed in East London, a Catholic nun 

and an insurance representative. Three Europeans were killed in New 

Brighton. 

As a result of the riots, the government cracked down on all organized 

protests. Quintin Whyte, head of the South African Institute of Race 

Relations, wrote to me (November 14,1952), 'While we must distinguish 

between the campaign and the riots, nevertheless the state of tension is 

very high. There has been a marked hardening against liberals in the 

country." The institute was a nonpolitical body that confined itself to 

carefully researched studies on the state of race relations in the country. It 

was generally liberal and opposed to apartheid, as its own interracial staff 

and constituency would indicate. But it was careful not to take action other 

than through its literature and reports. 

Whyte's letter was an important assessment of the campaign. He said 

that it was "training heroes and martyrs as well leaders for funue work." 

He spoke of the "remarkable self-control of the resisters" and summarized 

that the effect of the campaign was "to unite non-Europeans to give 

expression to African nationalism; to train for the future; to demonstrate 

the power of Africans; to make Europeans question themselves; to make 

the government more adamant; to make liberal Europeans more un- 

popular; and in the long run to gain concessions." 

BROADENING CAMPAIGN-GOVERNMENT REACTION 

The discipline of the volunteers in the Defiance Campaign began to win 

new adherents and to gain the sympathy of some skeptics about the 

practice of nonviolence. On December 8, international publicity was given 

to the arrest of Patrick Duncan and Manila1 Gandbi as part of a group that 

violated the law by entering the Germiston location near Johannesburg 

without passes. Duncan's arrest attracted special attention not only bemuse 

of his father's rank but also because he was on crutches as a result of 

a motor acadent. He was sentenced to ~oo days in jail or a $280 fine. 

Gandhi was given a go-day sentence or a $140 fine. Both chose to serve 

their sentences. 

Up to December 16, 1952, the total number arrested in the campaign 

was 8,057. In response to the growing impact of the campaign, the 

government passed the Public Safety Act and the Criminal Laws Amendment 

Act. Dr. R.T. Bokwe, brother-in-law of Matthews, wrote me on 

December 30 saying that no meetings of more than 10 people were allowed 

in African locations or in reserves (now rural homelands). Practically all 

African leaders, including himself, bad been served letters from the minister 

of justice forbidding them to attend gatherings. He could not even 

attend a church service.


A so-called Whipping Post Law was passed, under which anyone who 

received funds for any organized resistance to laws of the Union was 

punishable by five years' imprisonment, a Esoo fine, and 15 lashes with the 

cane. In early 1953 Blaxall wrote me (May g, 1953)~ "Actually I think at 

this time that Congress would find it extremely diEcult to get volunteers 

now that the punishment is almost certain to be flogging, which is no 

joke." He thought the ANC would tie low for the next six months to see 

what would happen in parliament. 

In light of these developments, we in New York were hesitant to send 

more funds. I wrote to Bokwe (April 24,1953), who had received a good 

portion of the several thousand dollars we had sent to South Africa, "We 

have not wanted to send any further money until we knew whether you or 

any others might be placed in jeopardy. Do you have any advice for us in 

this regard?" Previous letters from Bokwe had informed us that our 

donations had paid fines for some resisters who had become ill in jail and 

had heIped families whose breadwinners were temporarily out of circulation. 

The fact is that after the government passed this new legislation, the 

Defiance Campaign came to a halt, and the work of AFSAR had to change. 

Wi explained in our April 1953 bulletin that we had not sent any funds 

recently "because we are awaiting clarification of the Whipping Post Law." 

Bokwe wrote me (March 22, 1953)~ saying that he had received our last 

contribution and then added, "We have good reason to believe that mail is 

subjected to scrutiny. One is thus unable to write you as freely as one 

should have liked to." 

By this time I had developed a keen interest in South Africa. I had 

initiated a correspondence with Chief Albert J. Lutuli, who was elected 

president of the ANC in December 1952. He had been the elected chief of 

the Grourville Mission Resene for 17 years. When he was told by the 

South African government that he would have to choose betwcen his 

chicftancy and his work with the ANC, he unhesitatingly chose the ANC, 

and the government deposed him. The elders of Grouwille were so inceased 

at the government action that they never chose another chieL 

Lutuli was a dwout Chrisdan. He had toured the United States in 1949 

under the auspices of the United Church of Christ and bad been a member 

of the Exmtive Committee of the South African Chfistian Council. At 

the time of his deposdon, he wrote a statement that testikd to his om faith: "Laws and conditions that tend to debase human personality must 

be relentlessly opposed in the spirit of defiance shown by St. Peter when 

he said to the rulers of his day, 'Shall we obey God or man?' "5 

AFTERMATH 

Activities of AFSAR apparently attracted some attention in South African 

government circles. In a South African newspaper, Eric Louw, then minis-

The Gathering Rain Cloud 

ter of economic affairs, called attention to support that AJ?SAR was giving 

to the campaign and the relief of those arrested. 

On April 15, 1953, elections (for whites) were held in South Africa, the 

first since the Nationalists came to power in 1948. They strengthened theu 

hold on the government by increasing their majority in parliament. Apartheid 

was extended, and the Population Regismtion Act was passed, 

requiring all people in South Africa to register with the government by 

race. Plans were laid for ekting Sophiatown, an area of Johannesburg 

where Afriams could own land, and creating the area now called Soweto. 

Toward the end of the academic year 1952-1953, during which he had 

spoken all over the country, Z.K. Matthews ran into some difbdties. He 

had been told when he tried to testify at the UN that his job at Fon Hare 

was in jeopardy. He had planned to stay in New York until June and then 

sail to Sou& Africa, at about half the cost of flying. His problem was that 

his South African passport expired at the end of May, and the government 

adamantly refused to grant an extension. This meant that he had either to 

leave Union Seminary before the end of the term or undertake the expease 

of plane tickets. With the help of friends the extra money for the airfare 

was raised. 

Matthews had been apprehensive about the treatment he would receive 

when he returned home. He sent a cable on May 20 saying, "Arrived safely. 

Survived close police scrutiny. Some documents seized," He wrote me on 

July g, 1953, detailing his harrassment: "Any day now I am expecting to be 

raided the same way other leaders of the ANC have been. I understand the 

purpose of the raids is to find, if possible, evidence of treason or sedition or 

contravention of the Suppression of Communism Act. Altogether we are 

Living in a state of uncertainty about what is going to happen next." The 

government was Iaying the foundation for the infamous treason arrests of 

1956. 

Since the Defiance Campaign had come to an end, we in AFSAR had a 

series of meetings to decide whether we should disband, set up a more 

permanent o ~ t i odealing n with South Africa, or establish something 

even broader. R decided on the third course. Thus AFSAR was transformed 

into an organization that would relate to the whole anticolonial 

struggle in Africa. I, of course, was now most eager to visit South Africa as 

well as other parts of the continent. I wrote to Bill Sutherland, who was in 

London waiting to go to the Gold Coast, that the National Council of FOR 

had voted that I should cry to visit South Africa somctime in 1954. "I am 

exaemely skeptical that there is any chance of getting in, but I am going to 

give it a uy."

z 

Journey to Africa 

CHAPTER THREE 

K. Matthews frequently impressed on me the importance of aavel- 

ing to Africa, especially to South Africa. The last time I saw him in 

New York, he said, "I expect to see you at Fort Hare soon." But for me a 

trip was not that simple. The chief problem was whether I could get a visa 

from the South African government. They certainly could not have been 

happy about my association with Americans for South African Resistance. 

Also I had misgivings about laving my family for an extended time. I 

wasn't even sure what countries I would be visiting. By my departure date 

I had received a Portuguese visa to visit Angola, a British visa for the Gold 

Cogst (now Ghana) and Nigeria but not for their colonies in East and 

Central Africa, a Frencb visa for colonies in West and Equatorial Africa, 

and a Belgian visa for the Belgian Congo (now Zaire). That was it. I had 

decided that my best chance for a visa to South Africa would be to apply 

from some place in Africa, such as the Belgian Congo, where 1 was not 

known. 

I had letters of introduction from well-connected friends, a press card 

from NBC radio to enable me to get stories and taped interviews, and a 

press card from the Afro-American Newspaper chain. Armed with these 

documents, in May 1954 I boarded the Queen Mary for London, on the 

first leg of my journey to Africa, feeling heady with the romance of sailing 

into adventure in the unknow+ 

%-. 

My planned week in London expanded to three weeks, partly because of 

the futile wait for word on the British visas and partly because I wanted to 

take advantage of the presence in London of personalities and organiza- 

tions that could help orient me to the African scene. 

At this time I knew nothing about the designation "prohibited immi- 

pant," a phrase that was to become much more familiar over the years. 

This was my initiation. I had hoped to visit Uganda, Kenya, and Tan- 

ganyika in East Africa and Nyasaland and Northern and Southern Rho- 

desia, which together formed the Central African Federation, with British 

colonial tics, but this was not to be, I saw mres of people for help- 

members of Parliament, church missionary leaders, the U.S. ambassador 

to Britain, Wmthrop Aldrich, with whom my senator from New York, 

Jacob Javits, interceded on my behalf= Aldrich replied (June I, 1954), "It 

sums possible that Mr. Houser may have been refused visas because the


British affiliate of the organhtion he represents, the Fellowship of Reconciliation, 

has had certain connections with individuals in the territories in 

question regarded as agitators." 

Three Labour MPs, including Fenner Brockway, had identical letters 

from Oliver Lyttleton, the colonial secretary, saying Uune 1954)~ "the 

governors of Nyasaland, Northern Rhodesia, Kenya and Tanganyika have 

con6rmed that Mr. Houser bas been declared a prohibited immigrant. 

Their decisions were reached after very carefui consideration and I regret 

that I am unable to intervene in this case." Brockway had been particularly 

helpful. He was chairman of the Movement for Colonial Frecdom, an 

organhation I was to work closely with over the years. 

Finding out exactly why I was ddared a prohibited immigrant became 

a matter of guesswork, but weeks later at a sherry party at the home of the 

British governor of the Gold Coast, Sir Charles Arden-Clark, I was 

introduced by the governor to Michael Ensore of the Gold Coast Department 

of External Affairs. Ensore inquid, "Is your first name George?" 

When I affirmed it, he thought for a moment and said, "I have read about 

you some place." Then he continued, "Oh yes, I received a report from 

the British office in New York giving me your background in race relations 

work." This report was undoubtedly responsible for my prohibited status. 

The British authorities certainly did not want a visitor who had been active 

against racism in the United States in East Africa during the Mau Mau 

crisis. 

My London weeks were put to good advantage. I met the leaders of 

organizations I would be working with for years to come. John Hatch, the 

Africa expert of the Labour partyy took me to the home of Seretse Khama, 

, 'who later became the first president of Botswana. Khama was the chief of 

the Bamangwato tribe of colonial Bechuanaland, who had been deposed by 

the British Labour government in 1951 because he had married a white 

British woman. Khama felt that pressure from Prime Minister D.E Malan 

of South Africa was responsible. I had a fascinating evening with him and 

his attractive blond wife, Ruth. She kidded him about bis royal blood and 

he joined in. They had twn children. Khama laughingly told me about 

meting some American m y persoqn& wbp.E811@ l&nYs1ur Hjghnd 

and were constantly bowing. -. - . 

I was introduced to the Kenya situatibn extenshe hssion with two ail-Joe Murumbi, later vice president and foreign minister of 

Kenya, and Mbyiu Ro'ie, later minister of state in Kenya and an 

adviser to Kenyan president Jomo Kenyatta. Murumbi was trying without 

success to get a U.S. visa to undertake a speaking tour for the American 

Friends Service Committee. R had a fellow feeling because of our mutual 

visa problems. Koinange, a Kikuyu leader, was suspected of being tied in 

with the Mau Mau. He had OQ-d a network of 127 Kikuyu schools, 

which the colonial gove.mment banned. Kenyatta, of course, was already 

in detention for suspected leadership of the Mau Mau rebellion. 

One of my most important London contacts was George Padmore. 

Born in Trinidad, he had studied in the United States and moved to


London. He was closely identified with the world Pan-African movement 

and was probably the closest associate of Kwame Nknunah, the charis- 

matic nationalist leader in the Gold Coast. They had been secretaries of the 

Fifth Pan-African Conference, held in Manchester, England, in 1945. 

During several visits in his home, he gave me a framework for understand- 

ing the struggle against colonial domination in various parts of Africa- 

from the Gold Coast and Nigeria, where the struggle was very active, to 

the Belgian Congo and Angola, where virtually no stirrings were discerni- 

ble. Padmore gave me a letter of induction to Nkrumah. I also had a 

letter from Fenner Brockway. No two letters could have been more impor- 

tant for me in opening the door to Nknrmah a short time later when I 

visited his counuy. 

DAKAR, SENEGAL 

I was enthraIled by Dakar, my first glimpse of Africa. The city was the 

capital of French West Africa, a federation of eight territories: Senegal, 

Mauritania, French Sudan (now Mali), French Guinea, the Ivory Coast, 

Upper Volta (now Burkina Fasso), Niger, and Dahomey (now Benin). The 

population of the huge a m was, at the time, only about 17 million. French 

colonial policy was to integrate the area into France. The French tried to 

frenchify the individual African, both educationally and politically. Only 

French was used in the schools after African children learned the language. 

Africans were well integrated into the political structure. The 

1egisIative body, the Grand Council, had 40 members, 5 from each territory. 

It sent 20 representatives to the Assembly in Paris. Thirty-two of 

the council members were African. The president of the council was 

Caloured (of mixed blood). The mayor of Dakar was African. 

I was particularly interested in race relations and the African view of 

French colonial policy. The population of Dakar was about 300,000, of 

which 10 pant were French. I discovered that vidy all taxis were 

driven by Africans, practically all hotel personnel were African with the 

usual exception of a European manager, and the only out-andsut segregated 

place in Dakar was the Yachting Club, as I was told by a Frenchman. 

Yet there was very little mixing of the races on the streets or in stores or 

restaurants. Cultural, educational, and economic differences were responsible. 

Illiteracy among Afrians was high. A skilled Afrium worker was 

fid about $25 a month, comparcd to $zoo to $350 for a European. 

About half the population lived in the Medina section, which I visited 

with Simon Sambou, an African employee of a French firm. I was a h 

lutely amazed to see the conditions under which people could live. The 

small, dingy huts were made of all kinds of material-old WOO^, tin, and 

mud and sticks-with thatched roofs. Everyone went barefoot because the 

streets were of loose sand. Every few blocks there was a water faucet, 

which was humd on at certain times of day. There were few public toilets,


but there was an open drainage ditch, where much of the waste was only 

too obvious to eye and nose. 

Sambou also took me to the island of GoriSe, just a 13-minute launch 

ride from the mainland. Originally settled by the Portuguese, it had a fort, 

and it changed hands with each conquering European power-Dutch, 

English, and finally French. As with many other forts along the west coast 

of Africa during the slave trading era, slaves were imprisoned there before 

being shipped across the ocean. The dungeons I saw were a bitter re- 

minder of days gone by. 

In Dakar I felt no vivid stirring of an Afrir#n nationalism. Sambou 

thought of himself as a Frenchman and was in fact a atizen of France. I 

talked with the African mayor of Dakar, Lamine Gueye, a Sodalist, who 

was not unhappy with the idea of independence in a French union. I also 

met Boissicr Palun, president of the Grand Council of French Wkt Africa, 

who reficcted similar indeas. At Radio Dakar I met Doudou Gueye, who 

had been active in the Rassemblement Democratique Africain (RDA), 

which was strongly nationalist. At the height of its popularity the RDA 

had g out of 20 seats reserved for French Wkst Africa in the Paris 

Assembly and 7 out of 40 in the Dakar Grand Cound. But by 1954 it was 

in eclipse. Gueye had in fact served nine months in jail for his activities. 

I gathered that the African people really wanted independence but 

would not have objected to having it within the French Union. They 

wanted compIete economic equality. They wanted to see African officials 

in high positions. And they wanted these changes more rapidly than the 

French would grant them. The people thought of themselves as black 

Frenchmen to some extent. This lesson was drummed into them in school. 

Still there was an African nationalism not satisfied. They saw the dif- 

ference in economic standards and where the real power was. 

LIBERIA 

What a contrast Liberia was m Senegal! After leaving Dakar, I spent most 

of a week in and around the capital, Monrovia. Instead of having a French 

atmosphere, it was American. I had a momentarily embarrassing clrperience 

when I changed money in a bank. When I handed the teller U.S. 

m c y and asked for Libuian money, he gave me a blank stare and then 

very kindly informed me that it was the same currency. I felt my face turn 

d under my sunburn. 

The Constitution of tiberia is patterned after the U.S. Constimaon. 

English is the official language. The flag is similar to the American Bag 

except that it has I star and 11 stripes, which stand for the r r signers of 

their Declaration of Independence of 1847. The economy was dominated 

by two U.S. companies, Firestone Rubber and Republic,- The capital 

is named for the American President James Monroe. 

The settlers who came to Liberia were ex-slaves sponsored by the

American Colooization Society. When they arrived in 1821, they were met 

by suspicious md sometimes hostile natim, who resisted their efforts to 

establish themselves on the mainland. So the k t group of about 80 so- 

called Americo-Liberians (a term that was in disrepute) lid for a time on 

a snail piece of land in the Mesumdo River (now Pmvidence Island). In a 

sense these settlers carried on a conquest of Liberia except that they did 

not have the backing of a powerful nation. 

Liberia had two built-in problems. One was the relarionsbip between 

the indigenous people and the descendants of the Americau ex-slaves. In 

1954 the population of Liberia was estimated at between I and 2 million. 

The Liberians of American ancesny, who numbered about 40,000, domi- 

nated the country, holding virtually all the government jobs. Theoretically 

gooemment policy was to play down the differences and encourage a h - 

iiation. However, this involved tribal people coming out of the bush, 

receiving education, and becoming part of the modern mrld-a long, 

slow process, They resented their role as seeming second-class Liberians. 

The bloody coup of 1979, which unseated the America-Liberians from 

power, could be foreseen long before it happened. 

The other major problem was economic. The country was very poor. In 

1947 the government budget was $700,000. Seven years later, when I was 

there, it was about $12 million. There was very little capital for the 

government to tap In 1954 there was a hut tax of $1.00 a year in the 

villages and a small income tax. Agriculture was the basis of the economy, 

consisting mostly of fruit, cocoa, coffee, and rubber. The only way for the 

govemmmt to develop the country was through attracting outside capital. 

Liberia's poverty smck me from the moment of my glrival at Roberr's 

Field, 50 miles from Monrovia. There were no waiting taxis or buses. A 

visitor without tramponation would have been stuck. I. was met by David 

Howell, an Amerim executive of the YMCA. Wk drove to Mmvia over 

a dirt road marred with water-filled potholes because it was the rainy 

season. For almost half the distance we went through a forest of rubber 

trees owned by Firestone. 

Fitone came to Liberia in 1927 with a gg-year lease on I million 

acres. At that time it employed about 15,000 tree tappers at a basic wage of 

30 cents a day. The government received 25 percent of Firestone's profits. 

Liberian wages were very low, the minimum being 4 cents an hour. Even 

senators received only $4,800, and good government jobs paid about 

$3,500. 

There was only one political party, the True Whig party, dominated by 

the president, Wiliam ntbman, and the elite. Because the possibilities for 

making a living were so limited in Liberia and government jobs offered the 

greatest security, there was a tendency for the better-educated people and 

those with the greatest leadership potenrial to gravitate into civil service or 

politics. But once in the system there was the fear of losing the job. This 

led to conformity. One government official whom I interviewed asked a 

stenographer to take notes. I was told by others later that probably a 

transcript of our discussion was on its way to Pddcnt Tubman. Not all of


this hush-hush atmosphere was a result of a one-parry system. Part of it 

was due to the fact that Montovia is a relatively small community with only 

25,000 people. Gossip was free Peliti~opposition would almost amount 

to a palace revolution. 

I noted that the national budget bad grown and more funds were going 

into health and education. The government felt strong enough to bargain 

more effstively with Firestone. Optimistically I felt that one should see 

the stonny past of Liberia in order to appreciate where it is now, but 

dearly trouble lay ahead. 

THE GOLD COAST 

I arrived in Accra, capital of the British colony of tbe Gold Coast (now 

Ghana), on June 15. There could not have been a more oppomutc time to 

arrive in this most exciting country of black Africa. On that day elections 

took place to choose an All-African Assembly for the first time. The 

Assembly would have the responsibility of bringing independence to this 

colony, the first one south of the Sahara to achieve it. 

I was met at I:W A.M. by Bill Sutherland, who had been living in the 

Gold Coast for several months and had recently d e d Efua, later one of 

the outstanding women of the counuy. During my three-week visit, he was 

unusually helpful in taking me around and introducing me to many 

leaders of the Gold Coast revolution. 

ABOUT NKRUMAH 

I had keenly anticipated meeting Kwame Nkrumah, who had been de- 

scribed by John Gunther as "one of the most remarkable personalities in 

Africa. . . . as leader of the Gold Coast revolution he persoBifies the hopes 

of black nationalism everywhere on the contigent. . . . He has been called 

the 'African Nehru'."' Nkntmah was the great leader of one of the most 

united and exciting mass movements in the world at that time. 

Nkrumah had had his early schooling in the Gold Coast. He had spent 

ro years in the United States and had graduated from Lincoln University 

in Pennsylvania in 1939. In Itondon from 1945 to 1947, he attended the 

London School of Economies and, most importantly, played a, leading role 

in %%st Afrian politics and the Pan-African movememt. 

Nkrumah was recalled to the Gold Coast by the United Gold Coast 

Convention (UGCC), the most important political orgauization at that 

the, to assume the post of general wetary. Two years later he split with 

the UGCC and formed the Convention Peoples Party (CPP) because he felt 

that the UGCC was going too slowIy. Nkrumah coined the slogan "self- 

govcmment now" in contrast to the UGCC's "self-government in the 

shortest possible time." While he was imprisoned for political agitation, he 

was elected to the Britishdomhted National W bly in 1951. In a 

flurry of publicity, accompanied by mass adulation, he was released with

Jmmy to Africa 27 

his term still unfinished to become "leader of govmment business," as 

the CPP took the majority of elected seats in the Assembly. His title was 

soon changed to prime minister. Independence was still years away. The 

elections on the day I arrived took place almost three years before indepen- 

dence and represented a test of the popuIarity of Nknunah and the CPI? 

LECTIONS IN ACCRA 

was utterlv dynamic. Surherland had made 

-gem&ts for me to stay with Walter i d Maisie Birmingham near the 

University College of the Gold Coast, at Achimota, near Am. Walter, a 

British Quaker, was a professor of economics. More impomt to me, he 

was supsrPisor for two election polling stations in villages m to 30 miles 

outside Acaa. After only three hours of sleep, we headed off to see the 

voting process in a country that was p percent illirerate. 

I was enthralled by the long hes of people, some of whom had walked 

more than five miles to the polling station. One group of voters was 

delayed because the canoe in which they had to cross a river had sprung a 

leak and repairs had taken most of the day. What a colorful picture they 

made, men and women in brightly colored tunics and dresses typical of the 

Gold Coast, waiting patiently but with excited expectation. 

The voting procedure made maximum use of symbols rather than 

words. Each party bad a symbol: a red cockerel for the CPP, a blue 

elephant for the Ghana Congress party, a star and crescent for the MosIem 

Association party. Each voter was given a ballot to be placed in a ballot box 

Political party symbols 

in Gold Coast election 

I954


markedwith the par$ symbol of his choice. Of course, the area near Accra 

was strongly CPP oriented. 

That evening Sutherland and I went to the Polo Ground in Accra to 

watch the election returns. Perhaps zo,ooo people were gathered. Young 

people had formed long Lines of jubilant snake dancers, chanting 

"Nknrmah, Nknnah'' as they wove in and out of the crowd. A band was 

playing the unique swing music of the Gold Coast called "high life." On 

the strength of my NBC press d, 

we were able to get into the small area 

of the stands constructed for offidals and cameraxaen. The excited crowd 

sang, danced, and cheered from early evening until about 3:m A.M. At one 

end of the field, election results were put on a large temporary score board. 

The climax came in the early hours of the morning when Nkrumah 

appeared to make a brief statement. The finai results were not known for 

two days. 

The CPP won an overwhelming victory, with 71 out of 104 seats in the 

Assembly. Tbe next-highest number of seats, 16, was won by the d e d 

CPP rebels, previous party members who ran independently. Fcwer than a 

million cast votes, and in the popular vote the CPP won slightly Iess than 

55 percent of the ballots cast. This indicated a potential but not a well- 

organized opposition to Nk.umah and the CPP. But in the euphoria of the 

moment, this was not of gmt concern. The British governor, Sir Charles 

Arden-Clarke, called Nkrumah to organize a government. For the first 

time, all the government ministers were African and members of the CPP. 

I! 

M E E ~ G NKRUMAH 

On the morning of June 17 I learned that there was to be an Nkrumah 

press conference. With my press credentials I gained easy admission with 

the other 20-odd correspondents. Nkrumah entered the crowded room 

wearing brilliant kente cloth. Impressive in answering questions de- 

cisively, he presented a mildly socialist program and said he thought of the 

CPP as much like the Labour party in Britain. I asked the final question of 

the conference, which dealt with the Gold Coast's role on the international 

scene, particularly in light of the competition between the United States 

and the USSR. Nkrumah replied that the Gold Coast wodd pursue an 

independent line much like that of India under Jawaharlal Nehru. I saw 

him ask an aide who this fellow was. Afterward I introduced myself and 

gave him the letters of inuwIuction from Brochy and Padmore. After 

reading them, he greeted me warmly and enthusiastidly arranged an 

appointment. 

The CPP as an organization also impressed me. At its headquarters I 

met Tawiah Adarnafio, the acting secretary. He told me that it had 87 

sound trucks, for spreading its message around the country. It claimed 

I ,750,wo members. The party had a flag, a symbol, and special songs and 

used "Freedom" as its word of greeting. I went for a ride through the 

streets of Accra in one of the CPP sound trucks in the postelection 

jubilation. As we rolled by, it was exciting to see the great numbers of

people, including many children, who raised their arms in a salute and 

lustily yelled, 'Freedom," accenting the last syllable. 

A victory parade was organized through the heart of Accra. N k d 

and other party leaders stood in the back of jeeps. Nkrumah's jeep was 

pded by CPP youth on bicycles and followed by lorries with drum- 

ming and music. Thousands gathered at a small stadium, the Arena, for a 

victory rally. Each speaker began by shouting, "The CPP))I and the crowd 

responded, 'Ever great." The climax of the rally was an appearance by 

Nkrumah. 

I met with Nkrumah several times and was deeply impressed. In a 

newsletter I sent home I wrote, "There is no doubt that he is the leader of 

the movement, and its inspiration. He is a man of the masses. He is the 

kind of leader about whom myths and legends begin to be told. He has his 

bitter opponents around the country, but in the places whcre I circulated 

among the common people he was greatly admired. He went to jail for his 

commitment to freedom. He was the leader of the movement whieh 

hastened the day of self-government. He has the reputation of a man with 

simple tastes. He and other African ministers refused to move into the 

special ministerial homes the British had built for them on the grounds 

that they wanted to stay near the people. Also Nkrumah has the reputation 

of being accessible to the people. Anyone can go to his home and see him if 

he is there and is not occupied with a matter of pressing importance. He 

has a most engaging and disarming mile.'' 

The first time I met Nknunah alone was at his home. For half an hour 

in the midst of his hectic schedule he gave me his undivided attention. We 

talked briefly about nonviolence, then a special concern of mine. The CPP 

had risen to p er on the strength of a program of nonviolent "positive 

action," which Nkrumah said was critical to their success. We spent 

considerably more time talking about Pan-Africanism. Fenner Brockway 

had just proposed that Mvumah set up a Pan-African movement head- 

quarters in Accra. The Pan-Afriqtn impulse was strong in Nkrumah and 

he wanted to move ahead with this project as rapidly as possible. He 

indicated plans for a '%st African federation, beginning with Nigeria, 

Gaahii, Sierra Leone, and Liberia. The French-speaking areas would be 

brought in later. 

also talked about the attitude of the people of the Gold Coast toward 

Americans. This subject interested Nkrumah, of course, because of bis 

own 10 years in the United States. I had been surprised by the friendliaess 

of people toward Americans from the moment of my arrival in Accra. 

People on the smet, recognizing perhaps my American haircut or clothes, 

went out of their way to be helpful. They seemed quite unaware of racial 

disrrimination and segregation in the United States but were more hostile 

toatard the British, as a result of the colonial experience. They had a vague 

fmitiarity with the U.S. Constitution and, of course, with the American 

struggle for freedom from British colonialism. They had also had a gwd 

experience with both white and black American militam wrsonnel in West 

Africa during Warld War II.


I had a dramatic experience at a CPP rally in Kumasi, capital of the 

Ashanti region, some roo miles north of Accra. Sweral thousand people 

were gathered on a hillside on that Sunday afternoon, and speakers were 

using a CPP sound truck. I roamed the outskirts of the crowd, recording 

some of the proceedings and taking pictures. I spotted seven or eight small 

children wending their way past the crowd, balancing goods from a nearby 

market on their heads without using their hands. lkcinated, I ran over 

and asked if I could take a picture. They were happy to cooperate. As I 

was leaving them, two angry-looking young men approached and wanted 

to know why I was taking pictures of children who were not too weil 

dressed. Vbs I going back to the United Kingdom to show the British that 

the Gold Coast was not ready for independence? I quickly explained that I 

was not going to Britain, that I was American. Their attitude immediately 

changed completely= They smiled, shook my hand, and said, "That's 

merent. You people in America are in favor of independence for the Gold 

coast." 

Whether Americans d d such an expression of confidence and 

friendship is debatable. This attitude was in sharp contrast to those that 

developed later both in Ghana and elsewhere in Africa. But at this time, 

Nkmmah also expressed sympathetic feline toward the United States. 

There was no anti-American propgauda in evidence. 

On a second meeting with Nknunah at his home he was hurried. He 

had to go to a piano recital by a visiting British artist. So, on the spur of 

the moment, he asked me to go with him. My substantive discussion with 

him took plaw seated beside him in his newly acquired Cadillac en route to 

the recital and during the intermission at the concert. I rationalized the 

Cadillac as a necessity for one in Nkrumah's position but was disappointed 

to see what I felt would be an inevitable process of growing privilege for 

the leader of government. At the concert I was seated in the front row 

between Nknunah and K.A. Gbedemah, later finance minister of Ghana 

and the person credited with holding the CPP together while Muurnah 

was in jail. 

In snatches of conversation with Nkrumah, I asked his opinion of the 

Moral Rearmament movement, which was active in Africa at the time. He 

indicated complete distaste for the MRA. In fact he called the members 

fascists and said he did not want them in the Gold Coast. He pointed to 

their activity in South Africa and asked, "Have they done anything to get 

rid of apartheid?" We also discussed the Moslem Association party. He 

thought it should be banned. "There is no room for a party based on 

religion," he said. % don't want another Fakistan in West Africa." 

MEETING THE GOVERNOR-GENERAL 

I had a letter of introduction to Governor-General Sir Char1cs Arden- 

Clarke from Patrick Duncan of South Africa, who had described him as an 

enlightened colonial administrator. I spent perhaps 45 minutes with him at

J0um.y to Africa 31 

historic Christianborg Castle. He seemed unusually open iu discussing his 

relationship with Nknrmah, which was good, as Nkrtmah also said. The 

governor had certain mrve powers during this transition period, which 

would give him authority to take control, if, as he put it, "the government 

starts running off the tracks." But if he had m use them, he said, "the 

experiment will have failed." He felt that full independence should come 

by 1956. "This will keep the Gold Coast ahead of Nigeria and this is 

important fmm the point of view of keeping face in the Gold Coast." The 

goyemor was not concerned about the degree of socialism in Nkrumah's 

planning. He said cocoa was already under government control, as were 

roads. He did not discuss the role of the United Africa Company WAC), 

controlled mostly by British interests, which accounted for 60 percent of 

the exports and 40 percent of the imports of the country. He felt that if 

there was no hitch in the government, the relationship between an inde- 

pendent Ghana and Britain would be good, but he realized that the people 

resented imperialist Britain at present. One of Nkrumah's right-hand 

men, Koii Baako, whom I interviewed on tape, gave credit to the governor 

for playing an important mle in leaagprdd @b to,$e-,brink of 

independence . I 

TRAVELS IN THE GOLD COAST - 

As I traveled to other parts of the country (the Northern Territories, 

Ashanti, Trans-Volta, and Togo), I got some idea of the problems ahead. 

Economically the Gold Coast was dependent on one cropcocoa. Most 

people were subsistence farmers. Although the country had mineral re- 

sources of bauxite, industrial diamonds, manganese, and some gold, as 

well as rich resources of timber, about 60 percent of total exports were in 

cocoa. All the cocoa was sold to the government-contro11ed Cocaa Market- 

ing Board, which shipped it to London, where it was sold on the world 

market by the Cocoa Marketing Company, not to be confused with the 

Board. The world price at that time was Ejr 5 a ton; the fanner was paid 

only t I 35 a ton. The difference made for dissatisfaction in Ashanti, where 

most of the cocoa faws were. The country was too dependent on one 

export. 

I found from my discussions in Ashanti, the Northern Territories, and 

the Togo-Trans-Volta areas that there was spirited opposition to Nknrmah. 

The editor of the Ashnti-Piolteer in Kumasi looked upon him as some- 

thing of a dictator and likened him to Mussolini, who basked in the 

adoration of the people. In the town of Tolon in the Northern Territories I 

met one of the most prominent chiefs, the Tolon-Naa. He had won one of 

the 12 seats of the Northern People's party, having defeated the CPP by ro 

votes. He repmnted the traditionalists, whom Nkrumah wanted to 

consign to constitutional positions with no power. In Tram-Volta I met 

Antor, leader of the Togo Congress party, who won the only seat his party 

captured. He represented the Ewe tribal nationalists, who were more 

interested in ethnic unity than in Gold Coast national unity.

The Gathering Rain Clods 

Despite these tendencies toward disunity, my overwhelming impression 

of the Gold Coast was one of a dynamic, anticolonial area with an inspiring 

leader and a massive popular movement, which represented a hopeful sign 

for the future. 

NIGERIA 

The Nigeria of 1954 '(R~s politically very much alive but othenvise quite 

was large, with a population of 30 

different from the Gold Coast. N i 

million (about 120 million in the rg8os), which made it the most populous 

country in Africa. There rn no one dominant political movement or one 

univedy accepted political leader. The country was ethnically, polit- 

ically, and culturally divided into three distinct regio-the Wst, the 

East, and the North. I spent two and half weeks in the West and East but 

did not visit the North, the largest in area and population, until some years 

later. 

EXPLORING LAGOS AND IBADAN 

I did a lot of waking through the busy streets of Lagos, the capital and a 

major seaport. The home of the Anglican archbishop of West Africa, 

which fronted on the marina, served as a hostel, and I was fortunate to be 

able to stay there. W~th my tape recorder I often interviewed people on the 

street or picked up sidewalk music. Quite a group would gather when I 

stopped to talk to someone. As in the Gold Coast, people for the most part 

"liked Americans too much," as they put it. I was surprised once, when I 

asked, "Do you want self-government soon?" A fierce argument broke out 

in the crowd of onlookers. Practically everyone vociferously expressed the 

desire for independence now, and for the British to get out, except one 

from the North, who brawly said, "No, we do not want independence 

now. It will mean we in the North will be dominated by the South." That 

conveyed something of the emotion that underlay the issue of self-govem- 

ment among the common people of Nigeria. I was eager to find the reason 

for this difference in attitude. 

Nigeria was ruled by a British governor-general with a cabinet of 

Nigerians and Britons. He retained power in the areas of finance, police, 

foreign affairs, and defence. In all the country there were only about 

~o,ooo white., mostly British, and more than half of them were in Lagos 

in government, business, or professional jobs. Business was dominated by 

such companies as the West Africa Company, G.B. OIlivant, and Kings- 

way Department Store. There were a number of French companies too. 

The port was operated by European firms. The casual observer was more 

impressed, however, by African activity. Unlike Africans farther south on 

the west coast, the Africans of Nigeria were small entrepreneurs and 

waders. The streets of Lagos and Ibadan (capital of the West) were lined 

with shops of all kinds. Yomba women, dressed in traditional blue blouses


and maparound skirts and casually wound turbans sat along the streets in 

little stalls, seIling fhddights, key rings, cloth, cigarettes, and various 

kinds of food. In other parts of West Africa one comes across the Ham 

people of northern Nigeria canying their war-bony and ivory objects, 

crocodile skin bags-always ready to bargain. 

I was pleased that the Nigerians, at least those in pew bureaucratic 

positions, did not stand in awe of a white man. I learned quickly that being 

called "master" by some Nigerians meant no more than being called 

"mister." Getting my tape recorder out of the Lagos airport was a case in 

poiat. It took three trips to the airport (about 12 miles each way) and a 

dewsit off 15 to accomplish the deed. My white skin was irrelevant. 

YORUBA AND IBO--THE ACTION GROUP AND THE NCNC 

I was particularly fascinated by the very active political life. The Eastern 

and =tern regions both had major political movements. Although there 

was an attempt to rise above ethnic background, on the whole the Action 

Group, founded in 1951 and headed by Obafemi Awolowo, was dominant 

in the West, where the Yoruba people were the strongest. In the East, 

where the Ibo pmple were the overwhelming majority, the National Coun- 

cil of Nigeria and the Cameroons (NCNC), founded in 1944 and headed by 

Nnamdi Azikiwe, was the dominant political force. In the North, where 

the Hausa aud FuIani people were strongest, the major political party was 

the Northern People's Congress led by the Sardauna of Sokoto. 

Both the Action Group and the NCNC had adopted the slogan "Self- 

government by 1956." My impression after talking with many leaders was 

that they did not really expect independence in two years, but that they did 

expect to have the equivalent of what the Gold Coast had, a Nigerian 

prime minister. Nigeria, of course, became independent in 1960. The real 

problem seemed to be whether Nigeria could become "one nation indivisi- 

ble'bith a federal government when regionalism was so strong. 

My knowledge of Nigerian politics was gleaned from many inter- 

vi-in Lagos, Ibadan, and Enugu (capital of the East1 I met Awolm, 

leader of the Action Group, at his home in Ibadan. He welcomed me 

warmly and was quite informal, nonauthoritarian, polite, and quiet in our 

discussion. He emphatically desired a strong federal government. 

I flew from Lagos to Enugu in the same plane with Azikiwe, prime 

minister of the East, who was just returning from a trip overseas. He had 

studied at Lincoln Unidty and we had corresponded. Both "Zik," as he 

was called, and Awolowo were fiercely competitive, and each hoped to be 

the first prim minister of an independent Nigeria. 

At NCNC headquarters I had a long talk with Kolawole Balogun, who, 

although a Yoruba, was national secretary of the NCNC. He told me that 

the struggle in Nigeria had not had a direct-action phase, such as in India 

or the Gold Coast, but worked along political and constitutional lines. 

Ayorunde Rosiji, a lawyer and secretary of the Action Group, gave me 

some fdbg of anti-Ibo feeling among the Yoruba leaders. "The Ibo are


pushers," he said. He gave them credit for being good propagandists. My 

sense of Yoruba dislike of the Ibo was further reinforced when I visited 

Enugu. I was met at the airport by a magistrate, B.E Adesola. He was 

exceedingly helpful in introducing me to many people and in giving me a 

tour of the area, but he also let me know that he did not like the East. He 

was Yoruba and eager to get home to the W t. So many people generalized 

about the pemdty traits of the Ibo that it made an impression on me. 

The Ih are supposed to be blunt and tactless as well as aggressive. Most of 

the Westerners wanted to go back to the West. They saw the seat of 

Nigerian culture as being in the West. 

In Enugu I spent considerable time talking with Mazi Mbone Ojike, 

minister of works in the East and vice-president of the NCNC. He had 

studied at the University of Chicago and had written a couple of books on 

Africa, which were widely read in the United States. He tried to dispel any 

question in my mind about the universal appeal of and support for the 

NCNC in Nigeria. He pointed out that its founder was Herbert MacAulay, 

a Yomba, and that Zik, an Ibo, was his prot@. Each of the regions had 

two representatives on the National Executive Council of the NCNC. 

I gained the impression that the NCNC was more committed than the 

Action Group to developing a socialist government and economy; that it 

was committed to a strong federal government rather than swngthenhg 

the regions; and that at least in its printed and spoken record, it deem- 

phasized tribal divisions. 

The Action Group was very conscious of its base in the culturally 

developed Vkt. Yoruba areas of Nigeria were divided traditionally into 16 

kingdoms. Village chiefs owed allegiance to the 16 hereditary kings. In the 

Ibo East, no kingdoms existed. Chiefs simply ruled over their own f des 

or clans b limited geographical areas. 

Both these movements, united in their desire for self-government, 

regarded the North as less developed. There were no university graduates 

fmm the North in 1954, I was told. -tern-style education was almost 

unknown in that heavily Muslim area. Yet it was the largest area and was 

bound to be the dominaut political force in the future. 

Before the discovery of oil, more than a decade later, Nigeria was almost 

exclusively agricultural. Aside from the coal mines around Enugu in the 

East (which employed 7,000 workers) and a small cigarette factory in 

Ibadan in the West, the economy was based on cotton and palm products, 

peanuts, and cocoa. 

I had a particular interest in the role of Christian missions in Africa. I 

concluded that their main conmbution toward change in Nigeria was 

indirect, through schools and hospitals. This was the almost universal 

attitude I ran into among Nigerians. The Nigerian minister of the large 

Anglican church in Lagos told me that missions were responsible for 75 

percent of the schools in the West and go percent in the East. The North 

lagged behind educationally, he said, because Christian missions were 

restricted from operating in a predominantly Mudim area.

THE CAMEROONS 

After the dynamism of the Gold Coast and Nigeria, I felt a letdown in the 

Camcmns. This French area had been a German colony before World 

Rkr I and after the defeat of Germany had been put unda the League of 

Nations mandate system. After World W&r 11, it became a UN trust 

territory divided between a large French-governed area and smaller British 

one. In Doh, the largest city and chief seaport of the French Cam- 

eroons, where I spent only three days, French attitudes dominated. Af- 

ricans wore Western clothing. Of the 3.5 million population, about ro,ooo 

were French, the majority living in Doualra, which then had about rw,ooo 

people. 

I had a brief and insrmctive encounter with one anticolonial, nationalist 

movement, the Union of the Peoples of the Camemns (UPC). Its leader, 

Ruben Um Nyobe, went regularly to New York to petition the UN 

Trusteeship Council for a target date for independence. Although he was 

not then in Douala, I was able to meet on short notice members of the 

UPC Executive Committee. 

This group had a political sophistication I had not yet met on my 

journey. Not knowing me, its members were understandably suspicious. 

They asked me to submit a list of questions I wanted to discuss. I did so, 

asking about the country, gFvemrnent policy, and their activities for inde- 

pendence. They in turn msed a series of politically loaded questions for 

me as an Amerimn-what about McCarthyism, the Korean VGtar and U.S. 

participation in it, the Indo-China War (Dienbienphue fell about that 

time), and racism in the States? They reflected no easy, pro-American 

attitude such as I had encountered earlier. They had the suspicions of the 

Usited States that later became very common among liberation move- 

ments in Africa. The UPC's objective was independence from France, and 

they opposed anything, such as the U.S. alliance with Fme, that stood in 

the way. I agreed with their objective and tried from the first to explain the 

difference between U.S. government policy and actions of individual 

Americans. It wasn't - 

Meeting the UPC was a valuable learning experience for me. In contrast 

to leaders of the Gold Coast and Nigeria, who felt they were on the road m 

self-government and were cooperating with the British colonial govern- 

ment, the UPC was a minority movement at odds with the French govem- 

ment and destined to remain so. Even after independence it continued its 

struggle agaiust a government it thought was too friendly to France. Its 

futile guerrilla efforts led subsequently to the violent death of Nyobe. 

I wimessed a shocking incident on the streets of Douala. It was mg- 

gered by a minor accident involving a small truck driven by an African and 

a paseager car driven by a white man. I didn't know who caused the car's 

dented fender. The white man emerged from his car enraged and imme- 

diately started striking and then kicking the youthful African, who made


absolutely no response by word or gesture. This incident was in such stark 

contrast to the rebelliousness of the UPC leaders that I was taken aback. 

How could this happen? I asked mys& The Frenchman apparently 

thought hc could get m y with this physical artack with impunity. The 

African felt he was helpless. This incident somewhat prepared me for 

experiences lying ahead. 

GABON AND LAMBARENE 

I had decided in New York that if possible, I would take a side trip to visit 

Dr. Albert Schweitzer's hospital at Lambardn6 in Gabon, part of French 

Equatorial Africa (now divided into Chad, Gabon, Republic of the Congo, 

and Central African Republic). En mute I spent a few days in Port Gentil 

and Libreville, where I was struck by the climatic change. I had left 

Douala in a heavy downpour, for it was the rainy season in West Africa. Yet 

only a few hundred miles to the south just below the equator, there had 

been no rain for months. It was dry and relatively cool. In the mornings 

and evenings of August a sweater felt good, and a blanket was comfortable 

at night. 

Both cities were small and were dominated by a busy lumber industry. I 

visited a plywood factory in Port Gentil built with U.S. Marshall Aid funds 

after World War 11. Twelve Europeans and several hundred Africans were 

employed there. In the small hotel I talked at length to a Swedish-born 

lumber man from South Africa while I waited almost two days for the 

occasional plane flying across the vast tropical forests to Lamwe. As a 

stereotype of a racist South African, his opinions both fascinated and 

repelled me. He saw the African as a threat and was strongly opposed to 

any racial mixing. He believed that a strong alliance of Western Europe, 

the United States, and South Africa would be the salvation of the white 

man. Our arguments were heated but civil. I felt no political stirrings in 

Gabon to challenge the views held by this white businessman. 

I felt a certain awe of Dr. Schweiaer based on his reputation as a 

musician, theologian, and mdcal missionary. I had heard and read so 

much about him that I was eager to visit his hospital. Unfortunately I was 

not to meet le Grand Docteur himself because he was then in Europe. 

However, I developed new feelings about Schweiaer, even in his absence, 

because the force of his personality dominated the hospital. 

The hospital lies on the Oguwe River in a captivating tropical setting of 

tall trees and thick foliage, just what a jungle is supposed to be like. The 

town of Lambaren6 is two or three miles from the hospital grounds, and 

the only means of transportation was by canoe, paddled by several Af- 

ricans chanting in fascinating rhythm. When I aniwd at the hospital, I felt 

as though I were in a small village. There must have been a thousand or so 

people there, halF of whom were patients and the other half their families. 

There were about 250 in a separate leper village. Not all patients were

confined to bed, and their families were kept busy at various tasks essential 

to the life of the community. Family groups lived together in small rooms 

and prepared their awn food. 

The place was also something like a barnyard. An animal was cared for 

as diligently as a human being, it seemed. A two-wdc-old baby gorilla, 

whose mother had been shot, had just been brought in. A chimpanzee, a 

recent arrival, had been paralyzed but was recovering nicely. Other animals 

included wild pigs that came from the surrounding forest for feeding~, 

a pelican, some antelope, goats, sheep, guinea pigs, chickens, ducks, 

and geese. 

bad to the community was the medical care. A great deal of surgery 

was performed. People suffering from all kinds of tropical diseases came 

in. At almost any time of the day or night patients were brought in from 

river canoes on smtchers. The ailments were diagnosed and treatment 

I . 

given as quickly as possible. 

In spite of the valuable service the hospital rendered, I had serious 

mations based on my observations and discussions with quite a few of 

the staff, I fdt decidedly critical of the paternalistic staff attitude toward 

Africans. They were invariably called "natives" and were treated like 

irresponsible children. There was a separation of whites and blacks in just 

about everything. 

I also felt that the hospital was really a one-man show. It was clear that 

Schweitzer, a man of ked opinions, was in charge, and there was no 

apparent concept of partnership There were no staff meetings. The 

hces were solely Schweiaer's mpansibiility. I I &given an old-type sun 

helmet to wear even in the shade of those huge trees because, as it was 

explained to me, Eutopaw should be an example to Africans, it was 

healthy to be shidded from the sun, and Africans would learn from the 

European practice. 

My most serious criticism, howeverI was that there was no concept at all 

of helping to prepare the people for eventual freedom from colonialism. 

There was not even a serious effort to train Afrim nurses, let alone 

A f h supervisors. Thus I felt that despite the real importance of its 

medical care, the enterprise was irrelevant to the age of independence that 

lay just ahead. 

THE BELGIAN CONGO 

Shortly after my arrival in the Belgian Congo (now Zaire) I asked a Belgian 

colonial administrator if the Congo would be independent some day. He 

repiied in a completely unconcerned manner, 'ah yes, some day, perhaps 

in twenty-five to fifnt years." His nonchafance spoke clearly--the idea of 

Congo independence was not to be taken seriously, not in our lifetime. I 

saw no serious steps king taken by the Belgians to give Africans respon- 

sibility or to prepare them for an independent future. And them was no


obvious Afrim movement to challenge Belgian power. The scene was 

politically quiescent. 

BELGIAN COLONIALISM 

The Belgian Congo was one of the richest counoies in Africa in the ~ggm. 

Probably 80 percent of the people lived off the land. About 50 percent of 

the economy was agricultural, the chief products being rubber, cotton, 

palm products, cocoa, and coffee. About 50 percent was industrial, producing 

copper, industrial diamonds, tin, cobalt, and uranium. Belgium 

was, of course, the chief invester and trading partner. The United States 

was second, accounting for about 25 percent of the imports and 13 percent 

of the wrts. 

I was introduced to Belgian colonialism in Leopoldville (now 

Kinshasa), the capital. I also spent time in Kasai Province near 

Luluabourg (bow Kananga), and in ESizabethville (now Lubumbad~t. in the 

heart of mined-rich Hatanga Province. Leopldville was different from 

anything I had prewiously seen. 191l buildings and well-manid boulevards 

ad- the country's 4th. Large Amerian cars mre plentiful in the 

streets. The downtown shops, hotels, and restaurants were owned and 

operated mostly by Belgians, yet Europeans numbered only about 90,000 

out of a Congolese poptllation of some 12 million. 

My plane from Gabon had landed at Brazzaville, capital of French 

Equatorial Africa, on the north bank of the Congo River at one of its 

widest spots, the Stanley Pool. Gen. Charles de Gaulle had made it the 

center of bis Free French government during the Nazi occupation of 

France in World Wm II. I went by bus to the launch that crosses the river 

from Brazza to Leo (as the two cities are abbreviated)- I was surprised to 

find what amounted to segregation of passengers on the boat-whites in 

the bow and Africans in the stern. I was subsequently told that the signs 

designating separate areas had only recently been taken down, primarily 

because of French pressure on the Belgians, but that in practice segregation 

lingered on. The designations now were First and Second Class. 

I stayed at the Union Mission House. Accommodations were simple 

with two or three persons in a room and meals sewed family style. The 

cost was minimal. I was not entranced by the missionaries I met there. 

Maybe it was only I, but they seemed stuffy and had no parti& interest 

in the development of the country from the African viewpoint. They 

considered a!l Africans just servants and referred to them only as "natid 

aud uboys-'' 

The Union Mission House m conveniently located; I could walk 

downtown in about zo minutes. I was amazed at how empty the streets 

were after dark. Then I learned that there was a cudm No African could 

be in the European section of the city after 9:oo P.M. without a permit. 

The only Africans I saw were night watchmen outside buildings or homes, 

frequently with a small fire burning to keep warn. There was no music, no

Journey to Af~ca 39 

babble of voices. What a contrast with Accra and Lagos! And yet there 

were more than 300,ooo Africans in the city and only 17,000 Europam. 

I had LWO interviews with the press attache of the Belgian governor- 

general, named M. La Brique. We discussed Belgian colonial philosophy 

and policy and the differences with British and French policies. He said 

Belgain policy was somewhere becween the British and the French. The 

British, on the one hand, working on the assumption of eventual indepen- 

dence, maintained a kind of indirect rule. African leadership was accepted 

in middle and lower positions of gowmment. Chiefs were not replaced 

unless they were troublesome. The British, of course, maintained final 

control. The French, on the other hand, worked on the assumption of 

assimilation-make the African into a good Frenchman, integrate French 

Africa into France. 

The Belgian approach was more elitist. La Brique explained that the 

Belgians tried to achiew African assimilation into full partnership with the 

Belgians on a high plane. That is, as soon as an African achieved advanced 

education and lived economically and culturally on a European level, the 

Werences were wiped out. The Congolese became an mlJ, or "evolved 

one." He no longer had to observe the curfew, for example. Howwer he 

must carry a card identifying himself as an evoiu8. 

La Brique contrasted the Belgian system with the apartheid of South 

Africa. Radal segregation there is based on a racist legal structure, he 

explained. In the Congo the system was based on edumtional, cultural, 

and economic standards. For example, an African could stay at a down- 

town hotel if he was well behaved and had the funds. Firrthermore the 

Belgian government was trying to preserve the country for the Africans, he 

told me. White immigration was severely limited. No poor whites were 

allowed to come in. Any white settler must place on deposit with the 

government the equivalent of $1,000 each for himself, his wife, and any 

dependents over 21, Minors must have $500 on deposit. If the settler's 

enterprise did not work out, funds were thus available to send him back 

where he came from. La Brique seemed genuinely to feel that this kind of 

approach would eliminate any racial animosity. 

Governmentally the Belgians exercised direct control over the Congo. 

They had first arrived there in 1881 and for 28 years the territory was the 

private domain of King Leopald. It became a Belgian colony in 1909. The 

king of Belgium appointed the governor-general and the governors of the 

six Congo provinces. The Belgians believed they were gradually moving 

toward giving the people a mice in government by establishing a system of 

councils. When I was there the governor-general established an Advisory 

Council consisting of about 30 whites and s blacks. It had no power. It was 

hand-picked and supposedly represented various interests in the ter- 

ritory-business, agriculture, industry, religion. A system of city councils 

was also just beginning to function in the six major cities. White council 

members were chosen by white voters; the Africans were chosen by a show 

of hands at public meetings. This whole system was not being challenged 

by the African people,


How weal this Belgian approach seemed. In New York I had been 

given the name of Dr. John Karefa-Smart, who was working with the 

World Health Organization in Braaaville. At the first opportunity, I 

crossed the river to Brazza and met him. Born in Sierra Leone, he bad 

attended Otterbein College in Ohio and received an M.D. from McGii 

University in Mood. Years later, after his stint with WHO, he was 

foreign minister of independent Sierra Leone but was removed in a 

military coup 

I spent considerable time with Karefa-Smart, who had a great distaste 

for Lmpoldville. Invariably, he told me, there would be a racial incident. 

One took place about the time I was there. When he entered the Palace 

Hotel to visit an American, he was challenged because of his race and 

threatened with being bodily thrown out until others intervened. In Braz- 

zaville no such incident had ever occurred. 

When I was in Luluabourg, chief city of Kasai, with 50,000 Africans 

arid 2,300 Europeans, I went into the post office to buy a stamp I joined 

the line of 15 or to Congolese at the stamp window. Soon a European 

woman entered and went to the front of the he, where she received 

immediate service. Other Europeans did the same. It seemed to be the 

accepted practice. Curious eyes settled on me for not following suit. 

The brand new railroad station at Luluabourg had what in the United 

States would have been called a Jim Crow entrance and window labeled 

"indigknes," where the "natives" went. In Elizabethville, one evening I 

went to a large carnival with a young white American missionary. I was 

surprised to see no Africans there. When I asked why, I was told that pr: 

next evening was for Africans; they went on different nights. 

Whatever the rationale for Belgian policy may have been, the fact was 

that the Congo was not only a colony but also suffered under radst laws 

and customs. Some African police d e d side arms but no bullets. 

Africans could not mow muad without a pass on the theory that no 

African should be ailowed in an urban area unless he had a job. Evening 

meetings of Africans were prohibited without a special permit. As a 

missionary explained to me, this helped to keep down subversive ideas. 

VISITING MISSIONARIES 

I spent a little more than a week in Kasai Province, the breadbasket of the 

Congo. I stayed at the American Presbyterian Congo Mission at Mutoto, 

outside Luluabourg. It was run by Southern Presbyterians from the 

United States. The 16 missionary f des were most kind and generous to 

me. From them I learned a lot about rural mission work aad the country. I 

thought the missionaries a strange mmbination. They didn't seem to have 

much politid insight. They weren't too well acquainted with the African 

scene nor were they politically analytical. Yet they realized that changes 

were bound to take place. They had a paternalistic attitude toward the 

Africans, speaking of them usually as "natives." One of the women said

she doubted the mission would be there more rhan 10 or 15 years. They 

were trying to train the Congolese to take over. 

One of my most interesting experiences was "icincdng" with one of 

the younger missionaries, Bill Rhburn. In two or three days we probably 

traveled 200 miles. This was Benelulua country, where the language was 

Tschiluba, which -bum spoke well. The narroerr dirt mads were lined 

with villages built by the government so that they would be accessible. 

Each village had several hundred people Living in mud and stick huts 

thatched with palm leaves. Water had to be fetched from a spring or satam 

some distance away in receptacles balanced on the head. Each village had 

its chieE I was introduced to patriarchal and matriarchal family systems, 

the dowry system, the custom of determining age by some long-ago event 

rather than by the wW-5 gpuulsory-cmp systewotton and 

peanuts in this area. I - 

The Africans seemed to stan&.im awe of the Europeans, or perhaps of 

the missionaries, As we drove dong the road, people walking along the 

side would raise their hats as we approached. When we were engaged in a 

large village discussion, Bill would draw a line in the dirt as aa indication 

that Africans should stand outside that line, and they would do so. 

The mission operated schools, hospitals, and clinics. People sought 

advice on many subjects. In one village an angry dispute was in progress. 

Some boys had been playiug hookey from school. In order to put prrssure 

on the families to make ?heir childfen attend classes, a couple of the 

African teachers had taken chickens as "hostages," to be retumed if the 

children turned up in dass. In one case a teacher had eaten a "hostage." 

Washburn was asked to adjudicate. I watched as the discussion, in 

Tschiluba, went on at length, Fieally Wishburn ruled that the chickens 

should be renuned and the one that had been eaten should be paid for. 

There was no further wrangling. 

MY VISIT TO ELIZABETHVILLE AND MY 

SOUTH AFRICAN VISA 

I spent several days in Elizabethville. Segregation was a fact of life there as 

in Leopoldville and Luluabourg. The "native" city was a distance away 

from the European area, Schools were separate, the dmad station had 

windows for "iedigibes" and "Europkns," and there was a curfew. 

The city was the center for the Union Miniere du Haut Kamnga, a 

Belgian mining company. The company had about r 8,000 employees at an 

average wage of about $s a month plus food. A rather complete welfare 

system was designed to keep them happy. The workers and their families 

lived in neat, company-bdt and company-owned houses. The company 

operated a hospital for them and paid for their care. It also issued clothing. 

Yet when I tourcd a mine with a Belgian guide, who explained all these 

amenities, he referred to the Africans only as "niggers." 

All during my nip down the west coast of Africa I had given thought to 

my plan for visiting South Africa. By the time I reached the Cango I knew

4t The Gathering Rain Clouds 

what I was going to do. I had a round-trip air ticket from New York to 

Johannesburg. At a travd agency in Leo I asked to exchange my return air 

ticket for a boat ticket from Cape T m to Southampton, England. That 

was no problem. Then I went to the South African consulate to see if I 

could get a nansit visa from Johannesburg to Cape Town to catch my ship 

I hoped my anxiety did not show as I talked with the young vice-consul. 

He thought it could be arm@ and asked me to return in a couple of 

days. W~th great misgivings I returned at the appointed time, and he gave 

me my passport with the msit visa stamped in, saying that in a case like 

this he didn't wen have to contact Pretoria. I was exultant. 

ANGOLA 

I had my first contacts with Angolans while I was in Leopoldville. My 

friend Homer Jack had given me the post office box number of Manuel 

Barras Necaca. I had written Necaca from New York telling him when and 

where I would be in Leo and expressing the hope that we might meet, but 

I had no idea how to reach him. 

The day before my deparnue for Luanda, capital of Angola, on August 

g, I was eating my dessert at the evening meal at the Mission House when I 

heard a knock at the back dwr. In a moment a missionary m c to me to 

say that three "natives" were asking for me. He indicated that he knew 

them. They were from Angola and he suggested that it wasn't very 

important for me to talk with them. But I was delighted to see Necaca, a 

tall, impressive man, and his companions. One of them, who worked at 

the Portuguese consulate in Leo, gave me somewhat unsettling news. He 

had gleaned information from in-coming cables that the Portuguese had 

been following my movements in Africa. They were undecided whether to 

let me board the Sabcna plane for Luanda the next day because I was 

regarded as a propagandist who had mistakenly been given a visa to 

Angola in New York. My Angolan visitors hoped for the best for me and 

looked forward to t+g with me when I returned from Angola in two 

weeks. 

Necaca, who was of the Bakongo people, had learned English by 

working as a nurse with a British Baptist mission near Sito Salvador in 

northern Angola. Before he departed he inoodud me to the thiml 

Angolan, his nephew, who up to this time had not said a word. His name 

was Holden Roberto, and he was later to be the most important of them 

all. 

AN OPPRESSIVE ATMOSPHERE 

In Angola I learned what a police state is. I was met at the airport of 

Luanda, by American missionary friends, who to& me to the Methodist 

headquarters, Missio Evangelica. Here my orientation to Angola began. I

Joumy ro Africa 

felt quite comfortable with these missionaries, not just because we were 

Americans and Methodism but also because I could relate to theit attitudes 

toward Africa and Africans. They were in the process of nuning over 

leadership of the church to Angolans. They never spoke of "natives" but 

only of Africaus or Angolans. They were obviousfy not happy with Por- 

tuguese colonial policy, but, in spite of their cordiality, they were clearly 

concerned about my being there. I soon understood why. 

Weeks before my amval in Luanda, Portuguese officials had begun 

&g the missionaries. hen is Houser arriving? they wanted to how. 

"As soon as he arrives he must be brought to police headquarters to fill in 

papers and receive his guia rpermit to travel"] before he goes elsewhere in 

Angola." There was no mistaking that the authorities were apprehensive 

about my visit. That made the missionaries nervous because they felt their 

own work could be threatened by something I might do or say. So my &st 

briefing was on Portuguese pressures on the missionaries. 

I was told about a young missionary from South Dakota who had 

written his mother about the contract labor system in Angola. His mother 

thought his fixhating letter should be given wider circulation, and so 

excerpts appeared in his college newspaper. The town newspaper picked 

up the item, and from there it came to the attention of the Portuguese. In 

short order the young missionary was on his way home by demand of the 

Portuguese authorities. 

In another incident all church members who attended a reception for a 

visiting black American bishop (Matthew W. Clair) were detained for 

questioning after the biiop left the country because he had criticized the 

contract labor system at the reception. 

The missionaries had developed a policy for response to Portuguese 

pressures. They accommodated, maintaining a correct, if not cordial, 

relationship with the police and authorities. They did not make provoca- 

tive statements or write anything politically controversial in their letters or 

reports back home, and they were careful when on home lcave not to make 

public statements that could be used to damage the mission work. By 

inference, politely but clearly, they hoped I would adopt this poIicy also. 

That put a lot of pressure on me, for I wanted to do anything I could to 

expose the viciousness of Portuguese rule in AngoIa. 

After this briefing, 1 was taken to police headquarters. One of the 

missionaries acted as interpreter. I answered simple questions about my 

trip so far in Africa, what I thought about Luanda, how long I planned to 

stay, where I wanted to visit. I was given permission to visit Malange, 150 

miles inland, where there was a large Methodist station at Quwua, and to 

travel to Lobito, 300 mites to the south. Then my passport was taken, to 

be picked up the next day. 

When I returned for my passport, I was told the right o&id was not 

there to handle it. When I went back a second time, other excuses were 

given. It was clear that I would be traveling around Angola without a 

P=w'rt-

The GatMng Rain Clouds 

COLONIALISM PORTUGUESE STYLE 

1 spent a lot of time walking mund Luanda and was occasionally driven to 

the outskirts of the city. Luanda was beautiful. It is situated on a bay 

forming a well-protected harbor, beyond which lies the Atlantic Ocean. 

Because Angola is south of the equator, August is relatively cool. The city 

seemed more Portuguese than Afh. The buildings were quite tall, of 

Mediterranean-style architecture. 

Offidally Angola was an overseas province of Portugal. From the 

Portuguese point of view, it was not a colony but a part of Porngal. The 

governor-general was appointed from Lisbon, as were the governors of the 

five provinces. Unlike the French colonies, there were no elections and no 

legislature. The country was administered though the 5 provinces, 16 

councillor districts, 70 subareas headed by adminisuarors, and 290 administrative 

posts headed by chefw do posto. The population was 4.5 million, 

composed of about 2 percent white, 0.07 perceot mestico, and almost 98 

percent African. 

The population of Luanda was about I W , in ~ 1954. Most of the 

Africans lived in an outlying area called the rnztsqzm, meaning "sand." 

It was not unlike the Medina section of Dakar. The huts were made of 

odds and ends, and the "streets" were simply sand. I did not see any 

running water. I did see young boys wheeling bmls of water, purchased 

at a shop, through the sand toward their homes. There was no public 

sanitation. 

I was surprised that there seemed to be less obvious racism than in the 

Congo or even in the French colonial areas. I saw some black and white 

youngsters in the same schwls. They were even playing together. I saw 

some few Africans in restaurants eating with whites. On the train to 

Malange there were two or three blacks in a coach with whites. Africans 

went to the cinema. Thus, there seemed to be no legally enforced sew- tion policy. 

The Portuguese had a policy of integrating educated Angolans into 

Portuguese saciety. Those Africans who wore European clothing, spoke 

Portuguese, and outwardly were cuidy European could win the status 

of assimihbs, "assimilated ones." Perhaps I percent of the Africans were 

so designated, but this did not really mean the end of racism, nor did it 

lessen the bitterness of Afriw. 

One African pastor, who was an asshilodo, told me how his son had 

been arrested and held in jail for not having his ID card. The pastor went 

to the police to get his son out but was laughed at and told that his son was 

"only a black boy." The son was rather roughly interrogated for another 

day before being released. 

Although relationships between the races seemed freer in Luanda than 

in either French or Belgian areas, there was no welfare system such as the 

Belgians had nor any policy to protect Africans from an idux of pow 

Portuguese. The official policy of Portugal was to encourage immigration.

W~th Portugal the poorest country in Europe, it was inevitable that lowincome 

Portuguese would come to Angola, and they did, competing with 

Angolans for menial and low-paid jobs. Luanda was the only place I had 

visited where there were no African taxi drivers. They were all Portuguese. 

On my flight to Lobito I sat beside a man from Sweden. After many 

years in the Cameroons, he had come to Angola, where he had a large, 

successful fm. He told me how much he liked Angola, which he ded the last "unspoiled" part of Africa. He referred to Africans as "niggers" 

and said the African knew his place. Education only "spoils" the African, 

he said. He had a wife and four children and two mestico children, by 

mestico women, whom he also took care of. 

I gained renewed respect for what the missionaries were doing, particularly 

in education. They were in the business of "spoiling" Africans 

through their schools. In effect, the Protestant schools were all private, 

receiving no subsidy from the state. Since Portugal is a Catholic country, 

the Catholic schools were state schools completely subsidized by the 

government. There were 40 Methodist schools in the Luanda district with 

about 2 ,m pupils. There were only two high schools in all of Angola. The 

illiteracy rate was more than gj percent. Yet a study of Protestant churches 

in Lobito indicated that almost 75 percent of the members were literate. 

Obviously the mission education program was having an effect. 

4 d 

CONTRACT LABOR 

I I LI I&- 

One of my objectsves m Angola was to hd out about the so-called contract 

labor system. Although I had discussions with many people in Luanda 

about how the system worked, it became much clearer on my trip to the 

Quessua mission station, outside Malange. I traveled all day by diesel train 

to Malange. We rode through forested areas where much coffee, sisal, 

cotton, and tropical fruit were grown. Malange is 3,500 feet above sea level 

on the plateau on high rolling grassland that runs down the center of the 

continent. The climate is cool. 

I was met at the station by Ted Cooper of the Methodist mission. After I 

had settled in at his home, he said we must go without delay to the office of 

the district administrator, which for several weeks had been pressing him 

to let them know when I would arrive. We spent from 7:m to 9:30 P.M. in 

the office with Cooper translating. After routine questions about my 

observations on Angola, I was asked if I had any questions. I asked about 

contract labor. The administrator explained that Africans were lazy and 

didn't want to work. The contract labor system was designed to force them 

to do essential work. He carefully explained that only the unemployed 

were picked for such labor. They were paid a wage and provided with 

clothing, food, and a place to live. I did not argue, although his statements 

did not correspond with other facts I had been given.


Afterward, back at Cooper's house, my host said that the administrator 

was completely incorrect in saying that only unemployed were taken. 

Some of Cooper's own workers had been taken by the police at night and 

sent off for the labor force. 

The Quessw mission, where I stayed with an agriculturalist, Lloyd 

Schaad, had been founded in the late 19th century. It covered several 

sqm miles and included nine small villages. Of the 12 missionaries, only 

2 were ordained. They served as teachers in the schools, professors in the 

Bible school, agriculnuists, aud doctors and nurses. 

The villagers all experienced the contract labor system either directly or 

indirectly. From my observations and discussions I gleaned that any male 

over 16 was legally liable for this labor, and the authorities were not too 

mpulous about taking wen younger boys. The term of service could be 

as short as the months or extend to a year or so. The place of work could 

be either private or government sponsored, and it could be in the sugar 

cane fields, coffee plaatations, harbor, roads, mines-wherever labor was 

needed. Fquently labor was procured by night raids on villages. The 

police would go from hut to hut looking at identification papers, take the 

number of workers needed, put them in the local jail for the remainder of 

the night, and then ship them off to their workplace. The local the. do 

posto, a Portuguese, told Schaad that he had to produce a quota of 25 

workers a month. He in turn would tell the chief of a village how many he 

must produce. If more were needed to fill out the quota, night raids were 

made. Bribery was an endemic part of the system. A family with any 

money could often buy off the chief or the Portuguese chefe do posto to 

release their son, husband, or father from forced labor. 

Contract laborers repairing a road near Malange, Angola, 1954. 

-

Schaad said that frequently villagers working on the farms near 

Quessua would disappear. One moming a few days previously, four men 

working with him did not show up Suspecting that they might have been 

picked up during the night, he hurried to the police station. He discwered 

that two of the men had already been shipped out, but the other two were 

still being held. They were released when Schaad said that @ey were 

employed by him. 

One workcr at Quesflla with whom I talked had just returned from a 

year and a half at a sugar factory, most of it under the contract labor 

system. He received $I 5 at the end of his term, tax deducted. 

On a walk in the countryside Schaad and I came across some teenage 

boys on contract labor, pounding rocks with huge hammers. They had 

built their own grass huts near by. I carefully snapped picnues, taking 

seriously b d's warning that my camera might be coa-ed if anyone 

in authority saw me. F 1- - 

Not much fevther on we came to a dirt road where 20 peopleknen, 

women, and boys-were repairing potholes. They broke up large anthills 

close by, carried the earth in baskets to the holes, and filled them in. I was 

told that the village was responsible for giving one week a month to road 

repair. The work was being done at a leisurely pace. I could well under- 

stand why. It wasn't they who had cars to drive on the roads. 

On a Sunday I accompanied a carload of African and American pastors 

to several villages where services were held. We traveled perhaps a hun- 

dred miles on dusty roads and stopped in half a dozen villages. Dust from 

the wheels filled the car and burned my nostrils. It was so heavy that it 

made the Africans look almost white. 

In each village I asked about contract labor. Mpolo was typical, with a 

population of about 150, mostly young boys and girls, women, and older 

ma. One hundred attended the service, all but 15 of them women. All the 

men over 16 had been taken for contract labor or had gone to a city to 

avoid being picked up 

I returned to Luanda bridy before taking off for the beauriful port city of 

Lobito to the south. Here I stayed with the Rev. Larry Henderson, a 

United Church of Christ missionary, and his wife, Ki. Lobito then bad a 

population of about 25,aoo, zo percent of whom were white. The city lies 

on a natural harbar protected from the ocean by a long, narrow reach of 

land. Most of the Europeans Lived on this lovely strip between the ocean 

and the bay The Africans lived in a separate section, Then: were only two 

schools, one Catholic and one UCC, each of which had about zoo pupils. 

The rest of the children received no education, 

After the mandatory visit to the police and a call-back, we traveled to 

many places in the area, including Benguela about 20 miles south, which 

was a port and a center of the sugar cane industry. The big Caturnbela


sugar plantation had about 5,000 workers, many of them on contract labor. 

We met the pastor in Lobito, the Rev. Jesse Chipenda. In later years I met 

his two sons, Daniel, who was an important political figure in the Popular 

Movement for the Liberation of Angola (MPLA) and then a dissident, and 

Josi, who was on the executive staff of the World Council of Churches in 

Geneva. 

Chipenda's home was on a hill. To reach it on foot we went through the 

African section. There were no sanitary facilities and the stench was 

overpowering when the wind blew the wrong way. But the pastor's house 

had a commanding view of the city, looking out over the African section 

and the salt flats, where sea water is evaporated to obtain salt. 

There were about 500 members in Chipenda's church, but he told me 

that of the zoo that came from rural areas, only 50 had families with them. 

This was typical because so many men came to the urban area to avoid 

contract labor. 

We went to a mid-week meeting at the church. About a hundred people 

discussed rwo things in Portuguese-keeping homes clean and the evil of 

alcohol. I was asked to meet with 15 or 20 leaders, who asked about my 

trip and my impressions of Angola. Inevitably we got into a discussion of 

independence. I suggested the necessity of struggle for freedom. The 

response was that if Angola were to achieve independence, the Portuguese 

in Angola would have to lead the struggle and that would not put the 

Africans in any better position than they were then. The pastor suggested 

an analogy: Sometimes when an African catches a grasshopper he pulls off 

its wings so it can't fly away. "The African is like the grasshopper who has 

had his wings pulled off and doesn't know how to fly any more." 

The next day while I was walking around the residential area of Lobito, 

I was startled when a young African boy dashed suddenly from behind a 

bush, thrust some papers into my hands, and disappeared as quickly as he 

had come. I glanced at the three sheets, written in Portuguese, and put 

them in my pocket. After I left Angola I had the anonymous letter 

translated. The writer had been at the meeting the night before. His 

message was a frustrated cry for help: "We cannot win the struggle by 

ourselves. Help us." I felt rather impotent. 

My last day in Lobito I went with Henderson to a garage where his car 

was being repaired. When we returned home, he told me that we were 

being tailed by two plainsclothesmen, whom he recognized from having 

seen them before in uniform. One had been in the garage. One was 

stationed outside the house, his motocycle close by. To test the informa- 

tion, I went out for a walk. They followed me around. 

When I left by taxi the next day, I did not see the plainclothesmen at the 

house, but they were waiting at the airport. One of them boarded the plane 

to Luanda. Whether I was followed there I do not know, but I felt 

tremendously uneasy and rather dragged out by the whole Angola situa- 

tion. I was caught between the government on the one hand and the 

missionaries on the other with no movement to appeal to. I wondered what 

effect this would have on me over the long pull. I thought Angola was one

place in Africa I didn't want to work, not because it wouldn't be challenging, 

but because. I doubted if I could last. As it was, I was not sure what to 

say about the situation when I was in the United States. The missionaries 

wanted me to say as little as possible. 

My passport was returned to me at the last moment as I W e d tbt 

plane. 

SOUTH AFRICA 

It was about a five-hour fight fmm Elizabethville to Johannesburg. As we 

flew over Southern Rhodesia, I looked down on the farms with a haunting 

regret that I could not visit there on this mp However, my thoughts were 

essentially about arriving in South Africa, I was expectant and nemus. 

My apprehension deepened when immigration forms were passed around. 

One question was "Have you ever been convicted of a crime in any 

country? If so, give details." I debated with myself on how to handle this. 

My convictions in the United States involved nonregistrarion under the 

Selective Service Act and various arrests for opposing racial segregation. I 

surely could not give details on these and hope to get into the country. On 

the other hand, I didn't want to tell an outright lie. So I compromised. I 

left this space blank, hoping the immigration office would awr1.wk it. 

It was already dark when we landed in the early evening. As I walked up 

the ramp to the airport building, I spotted Arthur Blaxall, with his white 

hair and distinctive goatee, whom I recognized from photographs. He was 

the only person I had written to about coming to South Africa. Then I 

waited in line. The immigration officer was pleasant. He came to the space 

I had left blank, looked at me, and then without a word wrote no. Maybe 

my passport identifiation as a clergyman helped. As I went though 

customs I breathed a sigh of relief. Exhilarated, I passed the bafiier and 

met my host and his wife, Florence. I was in South Africa at last! 

We drove in the Blaxalls' car through part of Johannesburg and then 

some ao miles to Roodeport. It was a clear, cool spring evening. The 

elevation in Johannesburg is about 6,000 feet. Even in the semidarkness, 

things I had read about began to come to life. We passed African locations 

and mine compounds. I could see the slag heaps against the sky. 

Roodeport is one of the cities on the ridge that runs down the middle of 

Africa. The Afrikaners settled there after their great rrek from the Cape in 

the early 1800s because of the favorable climate and the spring water. In 

the morning I codd see the beauty of springtime more clearly-blossoms 

on the fruit trees, flowus and vines in bloom, the veld brown like Califor- 

nia in summer. 

My visa gave me only a few days in South Africa to be in transit from 

Johannesburg to Cape Town. Blaxall and I decided that I should go to 

govament headquartus in Pretoria, about jo mils from Johannesburg, 

and ask for an extension. I first made a reservation on a ship leaving Cape 

Town on September 24 (wbich would give me three weeks in South Africa)


and then drove to Pretoria where, without any difficulty, my visa was 

extended. 

I was struck by how similar Johannesburg seemed to American cities- 

bustling traffic, large buildings, many stores and businesses. It was strange 

after being in Africa for several months to see a city really lighted up at 

night, in contrast to most cities in Africa, which were rather dimly lit. The 

fact that blacks outnumbered whites almost five to one was not obvious 

because of the government policy of keeping Africans in clearly 'defined 

areas on the outskirts of the city. Inspite of their disproportionate num- 

bers, dark-skinned people seemed unobtrusive. The Africans were on the 

whole dressed in Western clothing, making them seem no more numerous 

than blacks in many parts of the United States. 

A CLIMATE OF PROTEST 

My visit to South Africa (the only one, as it has turned out) did not alter 

my basic analysis of the situation there. I had some familiarity with it as a 

result of our work in support of the Defiance Campaign. What the trip did 

was to make the individuals I had corresponded with or read about become 

real, and I myself had some experience with apartheid, learned the mean- 

ing of banning, and saw the police in action. 

Circumstances were clearly building to revolution. Two opposing forces 

were lined up-one side trying to preserve privilege, white dominance, 

black subservience, apartheid; the other side demanding equality, a decent 

standard of living, the advantages of education free from segregation. At 

this time the struggle was focused more on the necessity of political 

revolution than on a basic change in the economic order. South Africa was 

unique in that exploitation of the blacks was not by a conquering white 

colonial power from outside the country but by South African-born 

plhites. 

The pattern of segregation as I observed it, kept the black African "in 

his place" so effectively that the average white person just could not 

become well acquainted with an African without tremendous effort. The 

social pressure on a white person to accept the pattern was intense. The 

starus quo was very comfortable even if there was an underlying feeling of 

insecurity. I was in many European homes. Not one was without servants. 

Servants to do the cooking and housework were cheap. This arrangement 

left the whites free for other activities. When I visited on the servant's day 

off, the helpless floundering to prepare a meal was obvious and amusing. 

Seeing conditions fksthand modilied a couple of my preconceptions. I 

was not so appalled by bad housing conditions in the African locations as I 

had expected to be, perhaps because I had seen as bad or worse conditions 

in the Medina section of Dakar, the musseques of Luanda, and the citk of 

Leopoldville. Conditions were certainly deplorable in Moroka and Pim- 

ville near Johannesburg, Eastwood and Bantule near Pretoria, Cato Manor 

near Durban, and Windermere near Cape Town. Two or three families 

were living together in ramshackle huts constructed of old lumber and odd

Journey lo Africa 51 

pieces of tin and paying as much as $8.50 rent a month, about half a 

monthly wage. But in other locations (Orlando, Amidgwille, Langa) at 

least some of the houses, constructed under the municipal councils, were 

quite neat, though overcrowded and often without electricity or running 

water. 

I was impressed by public criticism of the government iu the press. A 

residue of liberahn led to the expression of diverse opinions in news- 

papers, to criticism of the govexnment by opposition white political par- 

ties, and to occasional demonsmtions by organizations such as the Torch 

Commando. In contrast to Angola and the Congo, there was fer- 

ment in South Africa; it was by no means politically dead. The mutual 

animosity of the Afdcaans- and English-speaking elements, which had 

a long history behind it, undoubtedly contributed to expression of 

opposition. A little of this rubbed off in relations with the black 

population. 

As I passed a gold mine in Johannesburg, my attention was focused on a 

relic of the Defiance Campaign. Printed in large red letters on a wall, very 

visible from the road, was a sign saying "Defy Unjust Laws." In contrast 

to this, at almost the same spot there was a road sign, so reminiscent of 

cattle and deer crossing signs on American highways, that read, "Drive 

slowly. Natives crossing ahead." 

There was something different about the behavior of Africans in South 

Africa compared with Africans I had seen in Angola and the Congo. One 

of the first Africans I met was wearing an African National Congress pin in 

his lapel. He said he wore it wherever he went as an indication of his 

rejection of apartheid. At a small nonpolitical gathering I met a quite 

ordinary African youth who told me he had been arrested twice during the 

Dhce Campaign.

The Gathag Rain Clouds 

I was fascinated by an incident in downtown Johannesburg. A white 

man driving a car around a corner swerved suddenly and caused an 

African to jump back. It didn't look Iike too narrow an escape for the 

African, and it seemed obviously unintentional on the part of the driver. 

When the car slowed down, the African went to the side of the car and 

shook his hger vigorously, admonishing the driver to watch where he was 

going. When I saw this-a black man telling a white man off-I knew I 

was in a different situation. 

An Indian Ieader in the Defiance Campaign told me of an unusual 

experience hc had had. He was anadred one night in an African location 

by a group of tough, bless youngsters called muis. While he was being 

roughed up, he had the presence of mind to raise his thumb in the dute of 

the Congress movement and shout "Afrika," in the manner popularized 

duriag the Defiance Campaign. Immediately the ruffians stopped, and he 

heard one of them say as they hurried away, "We made a mistake." 

IMPRESSIVE LEADERSHIP 

My awareness of political ferment was deepened by the leaders I met. I 

visited Chief Albert J. Lutuli in rhe town of Stanger, some miles from 

Durban in Natal Province. He was serving his second banning order at 

that time. The first had been imposed in 1952 for his support of the 

Defiance Campaign and was reimposed in 1954. Two laws were involvedthe 

Riotous Assemblies Act and the Criminal Laws Amendment Act. 

Under the ban he was confined to his immediate geographical area. He was 

permitted to preside over the ANC Executive Committee as long as it met 

in his area, but he could not participate in a public meeting. He was not 

restricted, as were others, under the Suppression of Communism Act, 

which prohibited the proscribed person from being in "gatherings," dehed 

as meetings of more than mo people. 

Lutuli was an imprtssive man. He had a deep, resonant voice, an 

~cetleat sense of humor, and unshakable convictions. He believed in 

smggle but wanted it to be nonviolent. I interviewed him on tape, later 

broadcast on NBC radio when I returned home. He said, "I have become a 

man who has embraced nonviolence. I don't see any other method we can 

employ. The right goal of any people is freedom. Our success depends on 

him s u e we can be in arousing and educating our people. R must 

imbue in them the spirit of nonviolence. I think thedo lies our hope." 

I illegaMy called on Wter S i u at his home in Orlando, an African 

lacation near Johannesburg. Any white person going into a location was 

required to have a special permit, which I did not seek. Blaxall drove me to 

Sisulu's small house and left me there to talk for several hours. Siulu t4ss 

under ban and was charged with violating it by having met with six people. 

He was prohibited for two years from being in a gathering and was barred 

indehitely from membership in the ANC, af whkh he had beensecretary 

general since 1949. 

We tallred about the history of the ANC going back to 1912 and about

Journey ro Africa 

Chief Mbat J. Lututi, president of the ANC, 

1954- 

resistance campaigns in South Africa, specifically the Defiance Campaign. 

He felt that the political consciousness of the masses had been raised by 

the 1952 &OH. He was looking forward to plans for the Congress of the 

People, to he held in 1955, and to the adoption of the Freedom Charter, on 

which work was already in progress. In summarizing his position in a 

taped interview with me he said, "The oppressed p plc of South Africa 

are determined as newr before. They are not prepared to budge an inch." 

Blaxall introduced me to Oliver Tambo, who struck me as a warm and 

gentle person. He was then a young attorney, who shared an office with 

Nelson Mmdela. Both of them were leaders in the ANC. After the death 

of Lutuli and the Life imprisonment of Mandda and Sisulu, Tambo was 

president of the ANC men while in de. 

I was eager to record some African music and was told about the 

dancing and singing on Sunday afternoons at the Crown Mines. This 

seemed to be a tourist attraction and was probably looked upon as good 

public relations by the mining company. Tambo offered to take me. 

Segregation was not observed in the arena, but I did not set other Africans 

in the audience. VZk were watching the beginning of the program when 

Tambo suddenly said to me, "I almost forgot. Thig is a gathering. I am 

under ban. I will wait for you outside." He left and in a few minutes I too 

left and joined him ourside. 

I met with Manila1 Gandhi at the Phoenix Settlement near Dutban, 

founded by bis father in 1904. The first dvil disobedience campaign 

against radal restrictions on Indians was planned there. About a thousand 

shad the life of the community before Gandhi left in 1914 to return to 

India. Manila1 returned m the settlement in 1916 as a young man to carry 

on some of his father's work, such as editing Indk Opinion. He was rather 

slow of speech, but was obviously deeply codtted. He felt that thc

54 The Gatherin? Rain Clouds 

Mr. and Mrs. ManiIal Gandhi at Ph& Settlement, Natal, South Africa, 1954. 

Defiance Campaign had a tmnendous effect because it made the govern- 

ment take notice of the injustices being perpetrated. Through the day and 

night I spent with Manilai, I felt a closeness to the mystique of the great 

Mahatma, for whom I had an unusual reverence. 

I was able to renew my relationship with Z.K. Marthews at his home in 

Alice in Cape Province. Marthews was looked upon as an elder statesman 

in the ANC. He gave solidity and mqeaability to the organization. He felt 

that a continuadon of the Defiance Campaign was not in the immediate 

o5g, and that the only real opposition to the Afrikaner Nationaiist 

government had to come from Afiicaus with the ANC as the spearhead. At 

that moment, he said, people were taking a deep breath waiting for the 

next step fo&. Although Matthews was not under ban when I saw him, 

he had not recovered his passport, which had been confiscated on his 

return from the United States. He expected his real problems would come 

at the University College, where he was on the government payroll. He was 

not wrong. 

Patrick Duncan drove from Maseru in Basutoland (now Lesotho) to 

spend the day with me at Matthews's home. Duncan had been a colonial 

civil servant in Basutoland. He dewloped a strong antipathy toward 

apartheid, became convinced of the Gandhian path of nonviolence, and 

resigned his position in Basutoland, thus setting the stage for his partidpa- 

tion in the Defiaace Campaign. He was making a meager living by farming 

and selling secondhand books, 

Duncan was a charming person with the manner and bearing befitting 

one of good family, but he had strong convictions, upon which he acted. 

--

Journey to Africa 55 

'He was also an individualist who could not really fit within anyone's 

organized movement for long. Although deeply opposed to apartheid, he 

belonged to no organization and felt he could make his best contribution 

by writing. 

POLICE STATE ATMOSPHERE 

In all my discussions the injustices of South African racism were clearly 

delineated. In 1954 the population was about 12 million (it more than 

doubled by the 1g8as). There were I million Coloureds and less than halfa 

million Asians, mostly Indians. Only the Europeans had real voting rights, 

although the Coloureds in Cape Province could vote for Europeans. Afrim, 

in a separate election, could vote for three Europeans to reprtsent 

them in the lower house of Parliament and four in the upper house. Basic 

to the idea of apartheid was the principle that Africans belong in a mbal 

setting in the specially designated rural reserve areas (today called Homelands), 

which occupied about 12.5 percent of the country. Even there 

Africans could not own land without special permit. In the Western Areas 

of Johannesburg a fm Africans owned land, but the government, under 

the Native Resettlement Act, was moving all Africans from these sections 

to set up the area now called Soweto (South West Townships). 

The pass laws controlled the movement of Africans around the country. 

The whites needed black labor. Therefore the "privilege," rather than the 

right, of an African to go to a city or to a European-owned farm depended 

on obtaining a pass. The philosophy behind the system was that the city is 

the white man's domain. No African migration to Cape Town, for example, 

had been permitted since 1949. 

I visited the court in the location of Langa near Cape Town to hear some 

of the cases. Practically all of them had to do with pass-law violations. The 

magistrate was not a judge but the commissioner of native affairs for the 

area. One woman being tried had been in the Cape Town area for five years 

with her husband and family without a pass. She was given a suspended 

sentence of 30 days hard labor on condition that she be out of the area in a 

month. Where was she to go? Back to the reserves, leaving her family? 

In the urban areas there was a curfew usually at g:oo P.M. Under the 

Reservation of Sepmte Amenities Act any public p h could rduse servia to 

a nonwhite person. Under the Group Areas Act whole communities 

could be moved from one place to another if the area had been designated 

for whites ody. 

These laws and many others completely encompassed the life of the 

African in a police state atmosphere. I had some experience of this myself. 

When Marthews saw me off on the night train to Port Elizabeth, he 

whispered, "There are two police following us." I asked him if they were 

following him or me. He responded, "They follow me everywhere." As I 

waved farewell I thought, "Well, they may have been following Z.K., but 

they are now following me." I had a sinking feeling as I realized I would be 

under m h c e during the remainder of my stay ia South Africa.

56 The Gathering Rain Clods 

When I arrived in Port Elizabeth there was not another person in the 

world, outside of Matthews, who knew where I was, or so I thought. I 

went to the hotel he had recommended. I had hardly set my bags down in 

my room before the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver and heard the 

telephone click down on the other end. "Aha," I thought. "Now the police 

know I am here." 

Later in the day I called Joe Matthews, the lawyer son of Z.K., who had 

sent us the reports during the D&ce Campaign. We agreed to meet that 

evening on the street outside the hotel. I spent the day wandering around 

the city. After dark I met Joe Marthews and Dr. J.L. Njongwe, his uncle 

and the geafllrer of the Cape ANC. They decided that the safest place to 

talk was in the car while driving. We headed out of town along the 

unlighted road bordering the Indian Ocean. We had driven about five 

miles when quite suddenly two crars converged on us; one stopped iu front 

of us and one behind. I was startled. The others seemed to take it in stride. 

A plaiaclothes policeman whom my companions knew thrust his head in 

an open window and said, "I strongly suspect you are guilty of violating 

the ban by being in a gathering." Both Marthws and Njongwe were under 

banning order. 

W were taken back to police headquarters. It was about I I :w P.M. 1 

was interrogated for about an hour and a half by a police lieutenant who 

had obviously been roused from bed. I was told that I was not under arrest 

but was asked all kinds of question+whom did I know in South Afrim, 

what organizations was I a member of, what was my purpose in South 

Africa? I gave only the obvious answers and gave no names other than 

Z.K. Matthews, whom I had, of course, met in New York. 

I was dismissed, had a short night's sleep, and left the next day for Cape 

Town, only three days before my ship was to sail. I spotted the plainclothes 

police, who I expected would be in the Cape Town Airport. Thcy were 

standing behind open newspapers, Hollywood style, keeping an eye on 

me. The same two were in the lobby of the Mt. Nelson Hotel, which I 

went to, again half hidden behind their newspapers. They followed me 

wherever I went. I took down the license number of their car, which 

turned up unhhgly wherever I happened to be. My main concern was 

for my tape recordings and notes. Somewhat amateurishly I tried to bide 

them in the hotel room because I felt it might be raided in my absence. 

Then I decided I should leave them some place else, where they would be 

safe. I wcnt to the office of the South African Instirute of Race Relations 

aud talked with the young woman in charge, who agreed to keep the 

material for me. 

I definitely felt under wraps bemuse of the police surveillance. As far as 

I could tell, there were rbree detectives, two white and one black, tailing 

me at various times. I gave them the slip on my second day in Cape Town 

because I was walking and they were riding. I cut through parks with no 

mads and for one day they did not know where I was. 

That was the day I contacted I.B. Tabata, the leader and socialist 

theoretician for the Unity Movement. We had corresponded in connection

with the Defiance Campaign, which he criticized as he did the ANC. I 

found him a stimulating thinker, although his movement was not destined 

to be a major political factor. 

Tabata introduced me to others of his movement and took me to the 

African location and to the Coloured areas of the city. 

While Tabata was driving me through Cape Town, I saw the unmarked 

police car that had been following me approach from the opposite direction. 

I ducked under the dashboard. Later in the day the woman at the 

South African Institute of Race Reladons called to tell me she had had a 

strange teIephone call. Someone had called her saying that he was a friend 

of mine. I had not shown up for a lunch date, and he wondered how to 

reach me. I bad, of course, made no such date. She answered that she 

didn't know anyone by my name. That evening when I was back in the 

hotel, the police were on hand again. 

For the rest of my time in Cape Town I acted like a tourist. What a 

beautiful city it is, looking out on the confluence of the Atlantic and rhe 

Indian oceans with spectacular Table Mountain and its shroud of clouds as 

a backdrop! I visited the university and the court in Langa; on a bus uip in 

to the country, I saw vineyards and fruit trees blossoming in the spring. 

I wrote to Catharine Raymond, my coworker at the FOR office in New 

York (September 23, 1954)~ "Don't believe anything you read in the Neev 

Ymk Times that indicates any softening of the apartheid policy. There is 

recognition that certain things are impractical, not because of the welfare 

of the African, but because of the white man's interests. This little piece of 

the Earth's surface is in for very stormy days. The only fundamental 

question here is the color question. It runs through everything. There 

must be a dozen items in any newspaper every day based on this issue. The 

situation is revolutionary. The tragedy is that even the liberal whites who 

can see this cannot extricate themselves enough from their comforts to do 

anything effective. This place will have a whole series of blow-ups for years 

to come." I could write almost the same things today, more than 30 years 

later. 

My last day in Cape Town I picked up my tapes and notes from the 

institute and stuffed them in the pockets of the raincoat I was canying. 

With some trepidation, I went through to board the ship To my jgrful 

surprise, my bags were not even opened, and yet only a few yards away the 

same police that had bee0 following me were still watching. I was graufd 

for the noninterference without understanding it. 

The next morning I went up on deck as the ship slowly dipped away 

fmm the dock. I looked d m and spotted the black policeman still on 

duty watching me. Rather impishly, I waved to him. He did not respond.

THE WINDS OF CHANGE 

&

I n the 1950s Africa was not a controversial continent. It was just not an 

issue. To most people, even those who were internationally aware, it 

was a vague area of the world that might have some potential but was not of 

concern. 

The more than 50 component countries of Africa were dominated by 

Western European powers-Britain, France, Belgium, Portugal, Spain, 

and Italy. Only Egypt, Liberia, Ethiopia, and Libya were independent- 

barely so. But strivings for self-determination were accelerated by the end 

of World War 11. Former colonies in Asia were largely independent by the 

end of the 1940s. The Bandung Conference in Indonesia in 1955 was 

newly independent Asia's announcement to the world that it intended to 

exercise its iduence on international affairs. Asian achievements were 

certainly going to speed up demands for independence and equality in 

Africa. 

Africa was not then an arena for a conflict between the superpowers. 

The United States had very little presence on the continent and was 

satisfied to work through its allies in Western Europe and their colonial 

governments. The Soviet Union had no presence at all because the colonial 

powers resisted any of its attempts to establish one. There were virtually 

no indigenous Communist parties in Africa, except for South Africa, 

which outlawed the party in 1950. 

The United Nations was essentially a Western club during the 1950s. 

When it was founded in 1946, there were only 54 members, including 14 

Afro-Asian states. An Afro-Asian group was formed at the UN in 1955, 

after the Bandung Conference. 

For the most part, African nationalist movements were just getting 

organized in the 1950s. Except for the war in Algeria and the Mau Mau 

rebellion in Kenya, the struggle proceeded nonviolently and constitu- 

tionally. In the more repressive colonies such as those under Portuguese 

domination, it proceeded virtually not at all. Pan-Africanism, as a con- 

tinentwide expression of nationalism, was born in its modern phase with 

the All African People's Conference in 1958. Eight independent states 

formed an African group in the UN. The people of the United States 

under Dwight D, Eisenhower were generally anticolonial but had little 

incentive to press for a vigorous government policy to implement their 

sentiments. Not until 1958 was a Bureau of African Affairs organized in 

the U.S. State Department. Virtually no organizations gave real time and 

attention to the struggle against colonialism and racism internationally, 

and there were only limited efforts within the black community.

The Winds of Change 6 I 

In remsjxct the 1950s seemed like an era of innocence, which nlllnued 

an optimistic hope that the struggle for independence would be simple and 

that its achievement would be a panacea. Catching the spirit of the era, 

Prime Minister Harold Macmillan of Britain said in a famous speech in 

Cape Tm in February 1960, sThe wind of change is blowing through 

rhis continent, and whether we like it or not, this growth of national 

consciousness is a political fact. We must accept it as a fact, and our 

national policies must take account of it." 

Tiwo overwhelming events signaled the end of that era and the beginning 

of another. One was the Sharpeville Massacre in South Africa, after which 

the main liberation movements were banned by the government and the 

method of smuggle began to move toward violence. The second was the 

independence of the Congo and the beginning of the involvement of the 

big powers in African affairs. As the era ended in 1960, 17 counmes 

became independent. 

In the United States, John E Kennedy defeated Richard M. Nixon in 

the presidential campaign of I*, "passing the torch to a new gene=- 

tion.'The UN General Assembly passed overwhelmingly Resolution No. 

1514, whose aim was to speed the end of coloniatim. The United States 

abstained, one of the last acts of the Eisenhower administration. A saving 

graw was a dramatic public act by Mrs. Zelma George, a black member of 

the U.S. delegation, who stood up in the General Assembly, signifying her 

opposition to her government's position. 

It was in this setting that the American Committee on Africa came into 

being.

CHAPTER FOUR 

Bridging the 

American-African Gap 

-r7b-Pnm A r- - q-ir 

1 - -uhandful 

of us gafIi'kedar6un"d a table for a breakht ;adon at Hotd 

A Tcn Park Avenue in May 1953. The single agenda item was how to 

launch a new Amerimn organization that would relate to the dynamic 

events unfolding in Africa. Agreement on a name was the easy part. %k 

chose the American Committee on Africa. How to raise a budget, find a 

sd, and develop a program was much more complex. 

We authorized a sumq of the organizational scene and later agreed with 

its conclusion that "there is no overall organization concerned with the 

whole continent of Africa" and thus there was a place for our committee. 

We drafted a prospectus for the infant organization proclaiming that 

"One of the world's continents is missing from America's conscience. . . . 

In America individuals and organizations are being compelled by the 

march of events to pay heed for the first time to a vast new portion of the 

world. . . . The ACOA is being organized to help bridge this gap __ L. . 

kgtmen 

Africans and Americans." 

We filed a certificate of incorporation in September, hoping for an 

eventual tax-exempt status. Our planning group was cransformed into a 

Executive Committee, which included Norman Thomas, the Socialist 

leader; Roger Baldwin, for years director of the American Civil Liberties 

Union; A. J. Muste, the pacifist ieader; George Carpenter, Africa secretary 

of the National Council of Churches; Rayford Logan of Howard University; 

Conrad Lynn, a civil rights lawyer; Donald Hatrington, minister of 

the Community Church; James Farmer, a founder and later director of 

CORE; Peter Weiss, a lawyer and director of the International Dwelop 

ment Placement Assodation; and Walter Ofitt of the national smfT of the 

National Association for the Advancement of Coloted-People p-AACP'. 

A VOCATIONAL DECISION 

The question was, how after this largely academic process, could an 

o-tion be brought into reality? No one seemed to be available to 

raise the funds to hire a staff to breathe life into the structure. Harrington 

was the chairman and I was the secretary, but we each had other comrnit- 

rnenrs. The idea that I would take on a full-time responsibiity in the field 

of African affairs had never entered my mind. Furthermore, I was just 

preparing for a long trip to Africa and could not think bevond that. 

T 

4 1'

64 The Winds of Change 

We were saved from a stalemate by the return of George Shepherd (later 

a professor at the University of Denver) from a two-year stint in Uganda as 

an adviser to the Federation of Uganda African Earmers. There he had 

been outspoken on beM of African independence and had visited Jomo 

Gnyatta in Kenya about the h e of the Mau Mau rising. His plans to 

return to Uganda were sabotaged when the State Department withdrew 

his passport. No amount of protest changed the policy; the era of Mc- 

Carthyism was having its effect. 

Shepherd was eager to continue to work in African affairs. Fortunately, 

a research grant allowed him to give some time to the ACOA. He gathered 

a group of volunteers. Free office space on East 35th Street was given by 

the Community Church of New York. The committee's publication Africa 

Today was launched in mimeographed form, edited by Keith h e , who 

had lived in the Gold Coast. 

Just after I left for Africa in April 1954, the ACOA's first public 

conference was held in New York on the theme "Is Colonialism Dying in 

Africa?" Professor Rayford Logan of Howard University, an outstanding 

scholar on Africa, was the principal speaker. The Christian Science Moniwr 

(May 10, 1954) commented, "Not until the American Committee on 

Africa was formed have American liberals had an outlet for expming 

their views on African policies of the State Deparrment." 

From April to October 1954 I traveled in Africa, as related in pan I. 

Returning to New York, I was excited by my experiences and wanted to 

continue my African involvement. However, I was committed to a long, 

nationwide speaking tour for FOR, which had sponsored my uip. The 

thought that I might work full-time in African Affairs through the ACOA 

first suvclc me when I was riding the train across Idaho to speak in Seattle. 

Although my commitment to nonviolence was still firm, I felt the need for 

a change from FOR and therefore decided to leave its staff* 

Of several interesting possibilities, none was so challenging as working 

with the ACOA. I talked extensively with Shepherd and Peter W&s, both 

of whom encouraged me, and with others on the Executive Committee. 

Although no one felt absolutely confident about funds, they thought it was 

important to give it a uy. I 6nally decided to do so. I wrote to Roger 

Baldwin, my one close adviser who thought the committee could not make 

a go of it (August 2, 1955): considered various other possibilities which 

were open to me, and I decided in fidl knowledge of the risks involved that 

I would take this chance, at least far a short time." 

The ACOA embarked on its full-time program with a staff of two. 

Lydia Zemba left Doubleday to join me. Six months later Catharine 

Raymond, my long-time coworker at FOR and CORE, joined me and 

helped to hold the organization together for 10 years. 

GETTING DOWN TO WORK 

Shortly after my duties began, I had an urgent letter (March 23, 1955) 

from Father Trevor Huddleston, an Anglican priest in Johannesburg. "We

Bridgtng the A-can-African Gap 65 

are in need of roughly f 3,000 to keep our school open until the end of next 

year." The hckground to this appeal was the enactment in 1953 of one of 

the most far-reaching pieces of apartheid legislation, the Bantu Education 

Act. Under this law the government took control of education and man- 

dated a curriculum designed to fit its racial theories about the innate 

differences between the races. Henrik Vemrd, then minister of native 

affairs and later prime minister, said in defense of the act that "There is no 

place for the African in the European community above the levd of certain 

forms of labor." Heretofore the government had subsidized private 

schools, mostly under church or mission auspices, but now any such 

hcial assistance was dependent on the acceptance of the government- 

endorsed curriculum with its apartheid assumptions. Many church groups 

spoke out against the act, but they also recognized that without financial 

support from government circles, they would not be able to operate for 

long. 

The most highly p ublid case of refusal to accept government aid 

under the Bantu Education Act was St. Peter's School in Johannesburg, 

which was sponsored by the parish of Huddleston, a staunch opponent of 

the government's racial policies. 

I had been immensely impressed by the tall, slender, graying Hud- 

dleston when I met him in South Mrica in September 1954. He had 

identified himself with the struggle of the Africans, and no white person 

was more accepted or respected among Afriws than he. He was 41 in 

1954 and had been in South Africa for I I years. Later, when he left South 

Africa, the Nao York Times (May 14,1955) commented, "Huddleston was 

literally driven from South Africa because he publicly condemned at every 

opportunity the Nationalist Pany policy of apartheid as immoral and un- 

Christian." 

When Huddleston visited New York in Mardh 1956, the ACOA ar- 

ranged a public meeting for him. His opening words to the large audience 

were: "I am a completely prejudiced person. Although I am a South 

African citizen and have a South African passport, at present, and do very 

greatly and deeply love South Mrica-I do not love the government of 

South Africa or its policies, or the general racial attitude of white South 

Africa today. In the eyes of the government that constitutes mason. And 

so you have before you a traitor to his country. I am sorry, but there it is." 

Although the ACOA was just starting and had no financial resources to 

call upon, we felt it imperative to respond to Huddleston's appeal. So we 

launched the Project Fund primarily to support St. Peter's School and 

others that rejected government control of education and consequently 

were faced with closure. Our first brochure was to facilitate a fund-raising 

drive. 

The response was good. The Christian Cmtury (July 20,1955) ran a lead 

editorial with the headline "Raise Fund for Free African Schools." "It is 

good news to learn that the American Codnee on Africa has started a 

modest fmd." The magazine urged contributions to the Project Fund, 

and other magazines and organizations supported the appeal. By mid-year 

1956 the fund had raised almost $~o,ooo, most of which was sent directly


to South Africa. Huddleston wrote to me (December 22, 1955), "I can't 

tell you how tremendously moved and grateful we are for this magnificent 

giit." 

Inevitably I spent a considerable amount of time in the halls of the UN. 

Here I met many outstanding African leaders. Among the most memor- 

able was Julius Nyerere, with whom I would have contact over many 

years. A teacher, he was president of the newly formed Tanganyika African 

National Union (TANU) and later was for more than 20 years president of 

the United Republic of Tanzania. He came to New York as a petitioner 

from what was then the Trust Territory of Tanganyika. What an unforget- 

table personality he was-slight of build, a high forehead, small black 

toothbrush moustache, quiet-spoken but with an easy laugh and a de- 

lightful sense of humor. The U.S. government, following the advice of the 

British, restricted his movements to within a few blocks of the UN. 

Nyerere, characteristically, made light of it. He looked young, more like a 

graduate student than a teacher and certainly not like a man soon to be cast 

in the role of father of his country. On later visits we arranged meetings 

where Nyerere spoke, reflecting a strong anticolonial bias, yet without 

rancor, and always with a pragmatic message. 

I also met Sylvanus Olympio, later the first president of the Republic of 

Togo. He came as a petitioner from the Trust Territory of French To- 

goland. Suave, always impeccably dressed, he spoke perfect French and 

English. Later his leadership of an independent Togo was cut short by a 

coup in which he tragically lost his life. He was the first of many African 

leaders I knew who died in acts of violence. 

Among the issues debated at the UN in which we were involved were 

the racial situation in South Africa, the Algerian question, and the status 

of South West Africa. 

For several years the ACOA published the Africa-U.N. Bulletin, 

periodically reporting on UN issues and commenting on U.S. policy. It 

was edited by Elizabeth Landis, a lawyer and a vice-president of the 

ACOA, who became an expert on Namibia. 

At the end of one year we took stock. Our mailing list had expanded 

significantly. We had raised enough funds to sustain a two-person staff. 

Our program expanded satisfactorily as we built our Project Fund into a 

going concern. We had organized a series of meetings featuring speakers 

such as Father Huddleston and the South African authors Peter Abrahams 

and Alan Paton. We held a reception for Dr. Nnarndi Azikiwe, premier of 

the Eastern Region of Nigeria, and organized a series of four public 

meetings on "Africa and the Arts" and a series of five on "Forces Making 

for Social Change in Africa," which attracted about 2,000 people. We 

published the magazine Africa Today and inaugurated a literature service 

that came to have more than 50 titles.

Nknunah, Ghana, and 

Pan-Africanism 

CHAPTER FIVE 

ne person and one country more than any other symbolized the 

0 "winds of change" period in Africa. The person was Kwame 

Nkrumah, the country Ghana. Ghana achieved independence essentially 

without violence and with the understanding and good will of Britain. 

Nhah received almost universal acclaim. A.M. Rosenthal of the New 

YmR Timw wrote of him: "He has a way of making people who nevcr 

believed ie their importance seem worthy of respect in their own eyes. He 

has made himself the symbol of Ghanaian independenm."I 

GHANAIAN INDEPENDENCE 

March 6, 1957, was Independence Day. Bill Sutherland, who was still 

living in Ghana, wrote me a month before that it looked as if the event 

would go off peacefully. This had not been assured because Nknunah had 

opposition. Although in the last elections before independence, the Con- 

vention Peoples Party (CPP) had taken almost three fourths of the seats in 

Parliament, the opposition National Liberation Movement had won 12 

seats to the CPP's 8 in Ashanti. On the eve of independence, however, the 

king of the Ashanti had said to Nkrumah, "Let's be friends." 

The independence celebration was dramatic, culminating in the lower- 

ing of the Union Jack at midnight and the raising of the new €lag of Ghana. 

Vice Presidtnt Richard M. Nixon, who headed the official U.S. delega- 

tion, reported to President Dwight D. Eisenhower: "The continent of 

Africa is emerging as one of the great forces in the mrld t-. . . . There 

is no area in the world today in which the pmtige of the U.S. . . . is more 

uniformly high than in [Ghana]. . . . It can uuly be said that the welcome 

mat is out for inwstment of foreign private capital in Africa."P He noted 

that Communist leaders considered Africa as important now as they had 

China 25 years before, but that "communist domination in the states of the 

area [West Africa] is not a present danger." 

Among individual guests Nkrumah invited to the independence cele- 

bration were prominent Afro-Americans, including Martin Luther King, 

Ralphe Bunche, A. Philip Randolph, and Congressman Adam Clayton 

Powell. Homer Jack was the ACOA's representative. We had set up a Gold 

Coast Celebration Committee, co-chaired by Eleanor Roosevelt and Chan- 

ging Tobias. More than to the invitation to sign a 

r--- ,r=-r 

p.'' . - - '7 - 

- m 

67

The Winds of Change 

greeting from the American people, which was presented to Nkrumah by 

Jack. 

In New York the ACOA chose Ghana's independence as the occasion for 

organizing their first large public gathering. Town Hall was filled to 

overflowing. At least 50 percent of the close to 2,000 people were black. In 

a taped message Nkrumah stressed that "Our attainment of freedom may 

be considered a unique achievement because there has been a relative 

absence of violence, because we have chosen to effect our revolution 

through parliamentary channels." The crowd responded with tremendous 

enthusiasm when the new flag of Ghana was presented by the official 

representative of Ghana. 

Under Nkrumah, Ghana became the mecca for African nationalists 

from all over the continent. Nkrumah nurtured this role for his country 

with himself as the leader. The first conference of African independent 

states was held in Accra in April 1958. It proclaimed "the right of the 

African people to independence and self-determination and to take appro- 

priate steps to hasten the realization of this right." Only eight months later 

the first All African People's Conference (AAPC) representing liberation 

movements from all over the continent, met in Accra. 

Nkrumah was ambitious. His goal was the establishment of some form 

of West African federation, and he undoubtedly saw himself at its head. 

He talked of a Ghana-Guinea union shortly after Guinea's overnight inde- 

pendence in September 1958. He attempted to form a joint union with 

Mali and asked nine African states to establish a joint army. George 

Padmore became the adviser to the prime minister on African affairs until 

his death in 1959, and Nkrumah then set up a Bureau of African Affairs to 

advise the government on dealing with the nationalist movements in 

Africa. The Kwame Nkrumah Institute was set up in 1960 as a political 

training ground for the representatives of liberation movements, both in 

the theory of Pan-African socialism and in positive action. 

In July 1958 Nkrumah made his hst trip back to the United States in 

more than 10 years. He had a session with President Eisenhower, ad- 

dressed the Washington Press Club, and was introduced by Vice President 

Nixon to the Senate while garbed in the colorful kente cloth traditionally 

worn by Ashanti chiefs. He even shook hands with dyed-in-the-wool 

segregationists such as Senators Russell Long and Allen Ellender. He was 

a guest on NBC's "Meet the Press," led a parade through Harlem, and 

spoke at a street-corner rally ar 125th Street arranged by Hope Stevens, 

vice president of the ACOA. 

From the ACOA's perspective, a most important part of Nkrumah's 

visit was a dinner in his honor that we sponsored at the Waldorf Astoria 

Hotel. The NAACP and the Urban League accepted our invitation to co- 

sponsor the event, and the Grand Ballroom was filled to capacity. 

Nkrumah's speech was a major statement of policy. He reiterated one of 

his principal themes: "The independence of Ghana itself cannot be re- 

garded as complete so long as large parts of Africa remain under colonial

Nkrumah, Ghnu, and Pan-Africanism 69 

rule and so long as the people of our continent are separated by artificial 

hsnj~f~posed 

by the colonial powers." 

THE ALL AFRICAN PEOPLE'S CONFERENCE 

The euphoria of optimism that characterized the struggle for indepcn- 

dence in the 1950s was reflected more perhaps in the All African People's 

Conference held in Accra in December 1958 than in any other event of the 

decade. Inspired by Nkrumah and Padmore, it took place a little more 

than a year after the independence of Ghana. It was an exhilarating 

prospect, and I was determined to be there. Through my contacts with 

Padmore and Nkrumah, ACOA representatives were given fraternaldele- 

gate status. In addition to myself the delegates included my long-time 

colleague Homer Jaek; Frank Montero, an ACOA board member, who was 

with the National Urban League; Wiliam X. Scheinman, also a board 

member, and John Marcum, a plidcal scientist at Lincoln University. 

When we arrived in Accra, excitement was building. Ghana had pre- 

pared well. At the front of the Community Center hall was a huge map of 

Africa and the words, "People of Africa, unite. We have nothing to lox 

but our chains. We have a continent to regain. We have freedom and 

human dignity to a&." The road leading to the building was lined with 

Ghanaians holding posters aloft with such slogans as "Hands Off Africa," 

"Africa Must Bc Free," "Down With Imperialism and Colonialism," and 

Tk prefer independence with danger to servitude in uanquility," a favor- 

ite Nkrumah saying. 

There were some 300 delegates representing 65 organizations and par- 

ties. Among the delegates were many who later became prominent leaders 

in their own countries and in Africa at large. Of the nine independent 

African countries, only Sudan was absent because of a recent coup Repre-

The Winds of Changp 

ACOA delegatian with Kwame Nkrumah, prime minister of Ghana, at the AAPC 

in Accra, Ghana, December 1958. Left to right, John Marcum, Homer Jack, 

George Houser, Nkmmh, Frank Montero, Wiliam Scheinman. 

sentation came from the parties rather than the governments since the 

AAPC was nongovernmental. 

Patrice Lumumba, then an unknown representing the recently formed 

National Congolese Movement, headed a Congo delegation. I was waiting 

at Nknunah's headquarters when someone asked if the photographer was 

present. Apparently he was not, but I had my camera on my shoulder and 

offered to take the picture that Nkrumah wanted with himself a d 

Lumumba. This was how I b t met Lumumba and took the first pho- 

tograph of him and Nkrumah together. 

Among other leaders present were Kenneth Kaunda, Joshua Nkomo, 

and Hastings K. Banda from the Rhodesias and Nyasaland. The South 

African government would not permit either the ANC or the SAIC repre- 

sentatives to leave the country. The South African delegation, therefore, 

consisted of Patrick Duncan and Jordan Ngubane of the Liberal party; 

Michael Scott from Britain, representing Chief Hosea Kutako of South 

West Africa; an American, Mary Louise Hooper, because she had worked 

closely with Chief Albert Lunali; Alfred Hutchison, a ueason-trid defend- 

ant who had escaped the country; and Ezekiel Mphahlele, a teacher who 

later became a prominent writer. Strong delegations came from the Na- 

tional Liberation Front (FLN) in Algeria, Egypt, Kenya, Nigeria, and of

Nkmmah, Ghana, and Pan-Africanism 71 

course Ghana. From French Africa, Togo, the Cammns, and Senegal 

were the best represented. Holden Roberto, who participated under the 

name Rui htura, represented Angola. 

The Soviet Union, through its chapter of the Afro-Asian Peoples' 

Solidarity Organization (AMSO), had eight observers. The specialist was 

Professor 1.1. Potekhin, deputy director of the Academy of Science of the 

USSR. This was my fkst of several meetings with this fascinating man, 

who had been studying Africa for 30 years. He told me of the ~ culti~ 

Soviets confronted in trying to visit Africa. 5 could undersmd this from 

my own prohibited-immigrant experiences. He pointed out that Soviet 

intcrzst in Africa was very new but very much alive and that the Soviet 

Afro-Asian Council was among the most active in AAPSO. At no point in 

the meetings did the Soviet delegation attempt to gain the limelight. 

Obsmcrs from the People's Republic of China kept a low profile except 

for one issue. Among the flags flying in front of the Community Center 

was that of Nationalist China. The Chinese protested, and by the next day, 

the hg had been removed. 

Messages from many world leaders came to the confefence. It was ol 

sign of ineptness, some of us felt, that there was no offid greeting from 

the United States. Charles Diggs, a first-term black congressman who was 

at the conference as au observer, and a few others were greatly disturbed. 

Mostly as a result of Diggs's intervention, a personal but uninspired 

message finally came from Vice President Nixon on the Last day: "I have 

been following with great interest the proceedings of the All African 

Patrick hnm (left) and 

Alfred Hutchinson (rightk 

South African delegates to the 

AAPC ia Accra, Ghana, 

December 1958.


People's Conference now taking place in Accra. I take pleasure in extending 

my personal best wishes for its successful conclusion." Most Americans 

at the conference were relieved that such a lukewarm greeting was 

not even red to the assemblage. 

There were 25 or so representatives of American nongovernmental 

organizations at the AAPC. In addition to the ACOA they included the 

American Federation of Labor-Congress of Industrial Organizations 

(AFLCIO), African-Americau ~nsdtute, American Smiety of African 

Culture, Harlem-based United African Nationalkt Movement, American 

Friends Mce Committee, Assoched Negro Pm, and African academic 

spedalisrs. 

Nkrumah was the guiding light of the conference. He made the opening 

speech and was greeted with overwhelming applause when he said, "Africa 

is not an extension of Europe." He had picked Tom Mboya, the young 

leader of the Kenya Federation of Labor, as cogference chairman, Mboya 

did not know he had been so honored until he arrived at the airport from 

London. He soon became a dominating figure. Kennett Love feported for 

the New Ymk Ti (December 9,1958) that Mboya put aside his prepared 

address and "made a speech during which one could have heard a pin drop 

in he pauses between the bursts of cheering and clapping." 

We of the ACOA knew Mboya better than most because he had traveled 

and spoken under our auspices in the United States for two months in 

1956. He was a clever and captivating speaker. At one point he said, 

"Whereas 72 years ago the scramble for Africa started, from Accra we 

announce that those same powers must be told in a clear, h and definite 

voice, Scram from Africa."3 

There were two emotional high points of the conference. One was the 

mendous response to the statement of the FLN, which was then deeply 

immersed in its war for independence from France. The other was the 

demonstration for the release of Jomo Kenyatta, who had been imprisoned 

since 1953. While Gikonyo Kiano was speaking for Kenya and the Pan- 

African Freedom Movement of East and Central Africa (PAFMECA), 

Kenyan delegates and others in the hall raised placards and shouted, "Free 

Jomo Kenyatta," "Hands off Kenya." It seemed like an American political 

convention. 

In these early days of Pan-Africanism, competition for leadership was 

just taking shape. In Accra the most obvious rivals were Egypt and Ghana, 

personified respectively by Gamal Abdel Nasser and Nkrumah. Nasset did 

not attend the AAPC, but there was a strong delegation from the Egyp 

tian-dominated AAPSO. 

AAPSO had been set up about a year before the AAPC at a conference 

held in Cairo. The Cairo Council of AAPSO sent 13 delegates to Accra. 

One of the leaders told me that they were apprehensive about the compcti- 

tive relationship with Accra. In fact he said they had brought a large 

supply of literamre to the conference, which they were not even distribut-

Nkrumah, Ghana, and Pan-Afhcanism 73 

ing for fear that it would be misunderstood as a move toward exerring 

undue influence. 

Nkrumah was reportedly unhappy that invitations had been sent to 

AAPSO. One of his phrases that lent itself to great speculation was, "Do 

not let us forget that colonialism and imperialism may come to us in a 

Werent guise, not necessady from Europe." Th& ._, usually inter- 

preted as a reference to Nasser's designs. -r- 

One of the motives of Nkrumah and Padmore in mtlating the con- 

ference in Accra was to establish a rallying point for nationalist form 

south of the Sahara free from the influence of the great powers. This was a 

theme of Padmore's book Pan Ajbkanim or Conmtunirm (1956). The 

underlying theme of the Accra conference was dehitely international 

neutrality. Mboya put it sucdntiy: "We are not inclined to the East or the 

West. . . . Africa must be friendly but always maintaining and safegmd- 

ing her independence." 

An underlying policy question at the conference dealt with meth- 

odology. The call to the conference had stated that the struggle for free- 

dom in Africa would be conducted along noriviolent lines. Nkrumah 

enunciated this prinaple in his opening speech. The Algerian delegates 

felt this was a slightly veiled criticism of their war for independence and 

attacked the nonviolence principle. The leader said, "Nonviolence is out 

of date." 

At this moment in history, with the exception of the FLN in Algeria 

and the Mau Mau in Kenya, virtually all the movements, even in South 

Africa, were working dong nonviolent lines or within a constitutional 

framework estabIished by the colonial powers. Mboya formulated a state- 

ment, which was accepted by the conference: "We believe in nonviolence 

and positive action, but the attitude and approach of the colonialists will 

determine the tactics we use." 

While the conference was in session, Ghana's parliament approved the 

Ghana-Guinea Union. It was announced that Ghana was making available 

to Guinea $28 million in credits. A joint commission was set up to study 

economic, mmmunications, and constitutional questions. Whether this 

move was more tban an Nkmmah gesture was not clear. Guinea was 

French-speaking and in the franc zone, whereas Ghana was English- 

speaking and in the British Commonwealth. Nevertheless, the announce- 

ment during the conference disturbed the Nigerians. Since the combincd 

population of Ghana and Guinea was only about 7 million while Nigeria 

had more than 35 million, the Nigerian delegation expressed some exas- 

peration at Ghana's pretensions to leadersbip. 

Movements from East and Central Africa were already established as a 

regional pressure group befare the AAPC was held. PAFMECA* was 

organized at a conference held in Mwanza, Tanganyika, in September 

*In 1962 it W e 

PAFMECSA, as southern Africa was- lo 

-.


1958. Its constitution and resolutions committed it to nonviolence, to Pan- 

Africankm, to establishing a headquarters in Dares Salaam, aad to setting 

up a Freedom Fund and accepting all people as citizens, regasdless of their 

place of origin. PAFMECA maintained a united front at Accra and con- 

tinued to exist as a separate entiq after the AAPC had finished its work. 

In spite of competitive relationships, the AAPC struck a strong note of 

unity in its recommendations. It specifically endod the broad objective 

of creating an African commonwealth. It denounced the imperialist 

powers for creating artificial bomdaries to divide the peoples of Africa. 

The independent states were called upon to "form a legion of volunteers 

who would be ready to protect the freedom of the African peoples." In his 

closing address, Nkrumah said that the conference had "laid the founda- 

tions for the African community. From here we shall go forth with 

renewed strength and determination to join all our forces, having created a 

climate for unity between the independent states and those of us in Afsica 

who still have freedom to attain." A permanent secretariat was established 

in Accra to implement decisions of the AAPC. 

The South African delegation was pleased that the conference called for 

an international boycott of South African goods. Chief Lutuli in South 

Africa commented, "It heartened us to see that a boycott made sense to 

liberatory forces outside our own country . . . in Africa small Ghana 

shines." 

A little more than a year later, in January 1960, the second AAPC was 

held in 'Ibnis. Again an ACOA delegation was giwn fraternal-delegate 

status. Peter Weiss, Professor John Mursa of Vassar College, and I were the 

ob!mvers. 

The aanosphese in Tunisia was different from that in Accra. This was 

the Arab, Muslim world. M i a had been independent almost four years. 

A major focus of the conference was the war for independence raging in 

Algeria just next door. While we were meeting in Ttnis, sevrral other 

conferences were in session that affected Afsica-a round table discussion 

in Brussels on Congo independence, constitutional discussions on Kenya 

in London, a conferenq cdkhli in Paris, and an economic planning 

conference in Taagiers. 

Two issues made the ~un's codesence memorable. One was the Algerian 

war for independence. Ahmed Boumendjel, leader of the FLN 

delegation, received a rousing sesponse when he called for volunteess from 

African countries for the FLN struggle. He invited freedom fighters to 

come not only to support the FLN but to learn techniques for fighting 

their own battles. Unlike Accra, in M s nonviolence was just not an 

issue. President Habib Bourguiba of Tbnisia set a moderate tone in his 

opening speech: "Many methods of struggle are as respectable as the 

other. The man speaking to you has used them d. Personally I am always 

inclined to use paci6c means . . . which has not prevented me from 

picking up arms." The rone of the conference was much more openly 

critical of the United States thaa had been true in Am, primarily bemuse 

of American support of France in Algeria.

Nkrumah, Ghana, mrd Pan-Africanism 75 

The wildest demonstration took place following the announcement of 

the Brussels agreement that the Congo would become independent on 

June 30. The shouting and applause were genuine and spontaneous. The 

hct that Belgium would give up its rich colony was seen as a signal that all 

Afrim would soon Ix free. Among the warnings against neocolonialism 

was Bourguiba's statement that "Colonialism often appears in new and 

more subtle forms." He red5rmed the nonaligned position of Accra in his 

statement, "We are willing to accept aid from wherever it comes, providing 

it does not attack our independence. . . . We have adopted nonalignment 

because we want to preserve our freedom of choice and enlarge our circle 

of friends." 

Another high point of the conference was a mass rally of more than 

2w,m ntnisians with participation by the AAPC to protest Fmch 

atomic tests in the Sahara, then a sore point in the relations between 

France and Africa. 

Neither Nkrumah nor Mboya attended this conference. Mboya was at 

the Kenya discussions in London. Nevertheless, there was a snuggle 

berween them, symbolized by a difference on international trade union 

alignments. Mboya and the Kenya Federation of Labor were afiiliated with 

the Rtern-oriented International Confederation of Free Trade Unions, 

wbilc Nktumah was backing a newly formed AU African Trade Union 

Federation, with which the Ghana Trade Union Congress was fited. 

This caused a falling out between these two African leaders that never 

healed. 

I had the feeling after the W s conference that the AAPC had done its 

job. Initiative was h d y passing to the independent states, and the 

nongovernmental liberation movements would have to find another vehicle 

for their work. 

I ended my mp to Africa in February in Ghana, where I had a long 

meeting with Nknunah. He enthusiastically exprrssed the hope that the 

next AAPC could be held ia the Congo. He talked about the Volta River 

project and the need for funds. He said that if the West and the World 

Bank did not respond to appeals, he would turn to the East, meaning the 

Soviet Union. He claimed at that time that he did not want to get involved 

with the East but was strongly neutralist and therefore supported the 

AAPC.

CHAPTER SIX 

Birth of an Angolan Movement 

ow innocently some political organizations have their beginnings. So 

A ' 1 it was with an Angolan movement that evolved into the Union of the 

Peoples of Angola (UPA). I saw and felt, in an unusual way, the evolution 

of this movement from an unsophisticated, tribally based organization to 

one that attracted international attention. Later I was in touch with other 

Angolan movements, but my meeting with Manuel Barros Necaca ia 

LeopoIdville in 1954 was my first contact with one that was haping to 

cbdlenge Portuguese power through organized channels. 

MANUEL BARROS NECACA 

When I fmt met Necaca, his incipient movement seemed to have no name. 

Some time in 1957 they adopted the name Union of the Peoples of 

Northern Angola (UPNA). My meetings with Necaca were fleeting, but ia 

between them we carried on a substantive correspondence. In his early 

letters, the movement seemed to be anti-Portuguese but ethnocentric 

rather than nationalist. Between 1956 and 1958, Necaca tried to explain to 

me again and again that his movement was not of Angola but represented 

the Ancient Kingdom of the Kongo, a portion of northern Angola with 

headquarters at Siio Salvador. The people were Bakongo, the same ethnic 

and linguistic group that was dominant in the western Belgian Congo and 

the southernmost part of Fmch Equatorial Africa. This was simply one 

example of the division of Africa by European powers, which had indis- 

criminately severed tribal groups. 

Necaca's argument was legalistic. UIt was not legal the fact of calling the 

Ancient Kingdom of the Kongo as Angola because we are not from 

Angola, but from the Kongo Kingdom territory," he wrote February 5, 

1957. He explained to me that in 1884 the king of the Kongo, Dom Pedro 

V, was deceived into signing an agreement that acknowledged the king of 

Portugal as his liege lord. He quoted Dom Pedro: "My brother, the Ring 

of Portugal, sent me this chair and I sent him a letter thanking him for his 

gift and that is the only letter I ever signed my mark to or ordered to be 

sent." This deception was the legal basis for Portugal's seizing control of 

the Kongo Kingdom, which was then integrated into Pormguese Angola. 

The rejection of this act provided the basis for the psition Nmca and his 

group were taking. 

Necaca was particularly ager for facts about his country to be brought 

to the attention of the UN. He wrote about forced labor on the coffee

Birth of an Angolan Movement 77 

plantations of northern Angola. In June 1957 he sent me a copy of a sixpage 

petition directed to the secretary general of the UN. It came from Srio 

Salvador do Congo, in Angola, rather than from LeopoldviUe, and detailed 

grievances of the people. In a note he explained that "as a security 

measure, we bave not published the names of the petitioners." 

Shortly after this (November 23,1957) Necaca wrote saying they would 

like to send a delegation to the UN and wanted me to ask the delegations of 

Ghana, Liberia, and India to give assistance. "If you arrange with one of 

the governments and agreement is reached," he wrote, "please inform 

them that we shall delegate two members of our Union to meet them at any 

place they choose reasonable for an interview (home town or New York)." 

I wrote back candidly about the problems they faced (January 25, 

1958). One was their political aim of reconstituting the Ancient Kingdom 

of the Kongo. This could probably not be done, I said, and violated the 

slew sense of nationaIism in Africa. A second was a lack of organization 

md activity in Angola. I expressed my opinion that international attention 

tended to be attracted to an area where something was happening thar 

made it impossible to overlook the problem. "I mention thm things to 

you not to discourage you, but rather to express my own deep concern for 

what you are trying to do." 

A transformation began to take place in UPNA. Necaca wrote (February 

9, 1958), UIt is of course very difficult to think of a restoration of the 

Ancient Kingdom of the Kongo since Africa is not yet independent. The 

support of several nations at the U.N. seems to be impossible at the 

moment. For the time being, the thing which matters the most to us is the 

changing of the conditions now prevailing in Angola. The question of the 

restoration of the Ancient Kingdom of the Kongo will be considered later 

on when better circumstances will allow it." He also indicated that he and 

his group were beginning to make antact with leaders in Luanda. 

I informed UPNA about the All African People's Conference. Necaca 

wrote me that his coIIeagues wanted to participate. However, they wanted 

to send someone who could stay longer, would have mobsty, and wodd 

not suffer under Bdgian restraints. He wrote his. first letter to George 

Padmore May 10,1958, giving me as a reference. 1"1 

Necaca sent me Padmare's almost immediate + mi(~ay 14,1958). 

"I am delighted to know that you are associated with hlr. George Houser of 

the ACOA. Mr. Houser is well known to us and is being a helpful 

colleague. We in this part of Africa get wry little inforasation about whar is 

happening in either the Belgian Congo or Portuguese territories. . . . We 

sball look f o d to a dose collaboration between us." Padmore tben 

invited UPNA to attend the AAPC and said he would "take the liberty of 

including the name of your organhation in the list of sponsors." 

Necaca replied to Padmore (June 20, 1958) that they would send 

someone and then added, "For security's sake, please do not mention the 

name of our organization in the agenda that you are going to draft. No 

publicity should be made about our participation." 

ZnitbiIly Necaca had planned to attend the AAPC himself. But sub* 

'

The W id of Chunge 

quently it became clear that he could not do so. He had five children and 

could not take the risks of the long and dangerous trip to Accra without 

travel documents or of bcing long away from Leopoldville. Furthermore, 

because of his responsible job with the Nogueira Company, a hmguese 

h, his presence would be missed, and investigations of his whereabouts 

could lead to undesirable results. 

HOLDEN ROBERTO 

UPNA had assurances from Padmore that a delegate would be welcomed, 

and taken care of and could stay on after the conference to give informa- 

tion about Angofa and the Congo. Necaca's nephew, Holden Roberto, was 

chosen for the assignment. Born in 1923, Roberto was the son of Necaca's 

older sister and was nine years younger than his uncle. He was named after 

the British Baptist missionary Roben Holden Carson Graham, who bap 

tised him. His father, Garcia Roberto, had worked at the Baptist mission 

in SrTo Sdvador. 

I had met Holden Roberto briefly in Leopoldville. He spoke excellent 

French and good Portuguese and was rapidly improving his English. He 

struck me as an intense and serious person, not given to small talk or easy 

humor, He was of medium height and wore glasses, which gave him a 

scholarly look. Later he almost always wore dark glasses. I was told his 

eyes were very sensitive to light even in darkened rooms. Some said he 

wanted to convey a sense of mystery. He was ambitious. In his earlier days 

he was ager to learn and twk advice, but he ceased doing that as rime 

Went on. 

As he was growing up, Roberto was a protdgd of his uncle. Although 

born in SSo Salvador, Angola, he was taken to Leopoldville at the age of 

two and educated in the Britisb Baptist school. He returned to SSo 

Salvador for two more years of schwling in r 940 with Necaca's help Back 

in the Belgian Congo, he worked as an accountant for the colonial govern- 

ment and became acquainted with Patrice Lumumba in Stanleyville. He 

was drawn into political activity by Necaca, who also got him a job with 

the Nogueira Company. Although married, Roberto had no respon- 

sibilities that would stand in the way of an extended absence. Further- 

more, he held no prominent position in the European world that would 

make his disappearance muse suspiaon or lead to investigation. 

Roberto left on his nearly three-month journey to Accra in August. 

Later he recounted his sometimes harrowing travel experience to me. The 

only documents he &cd were a vaccination certificate and a permit to 

cross the Congo River to Brazaville. Once in the French Congo, he went 

to the port of hint Noh, where friends helped him to board a coastal 

steamer for Douala in the Cameroons. There he was permitted ashore on a 

fabricated excuse of a need to visit a (nonexistent) ailing sister. He nar- 

rowly escaped detection by French military patrols near the Mer of the 

British Cameroons. Once across the border, he walked, hitchhiked, and

Birth of an Angolan M- 79 

b u d to Lagos, whue he waited for Padmore to return to Accra from a 

trip abroad before receiving his permission to enter Ghana. He traveled 

from Lagos m Accra by ship 

On October to, 1958, he wrote fmm Accra. "Dear Mr. Houser, I beg to 

inform you that I am sent by Udo das Popula@es do Norte de Angola 

[UPNA] fed by Mssrs. Eduardo J. Pinock and Manuel Barros Necaca, to 

attend the Conference of all African Peoples and to continue to United 

States as you know yourd. I think you member when we met at Union 

Mission House in Leopoldville. . . . I gave you at that time my name and 

my address." He asked me to write to PadmOre on his behalf, and 

indicated he felt it very important to come to the UN as soon as possible. 

He sign& the letter "HaldaneJ%bertorto, one of the names he used at this 

time. 

Roberto kept a low profile in Accra. He wrote an dona1 article for 

the Ghana under the name of Rui Ventura. His name did not appear 

on any list or aay document of the AAPC. He wrote a paper, distributed at 

the conference, entitled "The Angola Drama." In it he spoke of the 

political independence of Angola as the choice of the more than 4 million 

Angolans. This document was written in the name of the Union of the 

People of Angola (UPA), "Northern" having been eliminated from the 

name. He did refer to UPNA but as having exceeded the limits of its 

constitution, thus leading to the formation of UPA in 1958. 

Roberto also wrote a speech, which, to p m his anonymig was read 

for him by Tom Mboya of Kenya, chairman of the conference. It began: 

"For the hrst time a voice from Angola is heard today. This means that the 

iron cumin around Angola is burst open." 

Roberto remained in Accra for almost a year. He wrote articles for the 

press and corresponded with African leaders. In a long letter to Nknrmah 

Umuary 13,1959) he outlined the Angolan situation. He presented a long 

report to an African conference in Monrovia, Liberia, as "the itinererant 

Secretary-General of the UPA." He wrote me particularly about helping to 

arrange a trip to the UN in New York. On November 24, 1958 hc mte 

me that he expected to receive financial aid from his organization in 

Leopoldville. "I cannot say how long I shall be in the U.S. because I do not 

think there is any point in my returning to the Belgian Congo or Angola as 

long as conditions remain as they are. I think I can set.ve my country's 

cause better abroad than by keeping within the clutches of the colonialists." 

I wrote to Padmore suggesting that perhaps Roberto could be attached 

to the Ghana delegation to the UN, which would be taking minimum risk. 

The ACOA agreed to provide official sponsorship, ifnecded, for obtaining 

a U.S. visa and guaranteeing that he would not become a public charge. 

Robem finally came to the UN attached to the delegation of Guinea, 

not Ghana, in the fall of rqgg. His travel document had the name Jose 

Gilmore. He worked anonymously as much as possible. No publicity was 

given to his presence. He used our office virtually as his headquarters. We 

introduced him not only to key UN secretariat personnel but to many

The Winds of Chunge 

African delegates. Subsequently Homer Jack took him to mhington to 

meet people in Congress and the State Department, as, of course, we did 

for many petitioners to the UN. 

In our office we mimagraphed UPA's statement, which Roberto wrote, 

and circulated it at the General Assembly. It asked simply that the General 

Assembly demand that Portugal make annual reports to the UN on 

conditions in Angola under Artide 73E of Chapter r I of the charter. "Our 

goal," the statement read, "is of course the selfdetermination of the 

people of Angola." Roberto left New York in Januaryy 1960. 

Roberto's activities abroad d ed considerable international attention to 

Angola. UPA's stature increased in the Congo too. On November 7,1959 

an article in Presence Congolais d ed the UPA "a vast Angolan political 

movement." Also, to the despair of Portuguese authorities, it continued, 

"The UPA has managed to cover the whole of Angola from the north to the 

south with tracts, placards, posters, calling for immediate independence." 

The next time I saw Roberto was at the second M C in Tunis in 

February 1960. He was elected to the Executive Committee and his 

movement began to receive considerable support. During an intermission 

at the conference he beckoned me to sit beside him, opened his briefcase, 

and invited mc to look. It was filled with paper money-French francs. He 

told me it had just been given to him by the Algerians. However much the 

gift amounted to, it looked impressive. 

Following the conference, I went to Leopofdville and spent considerable 

time with Necaca. Congo independence having been formally agreed 

to in Brussels in January, restraints on political activity were somewhat 

relaxed, UPA had an oEce with its name over the entrance in large letters. 

Still headed by Necaca, it now had 17 offices around the lower Congo and 

three vehicles. Roberto was a member of the council, not the leader. 

Discussions were taking place at this time for a united front between 

UPA and two other Angolan movements, the MPLA, @ally strong in 

Luaada, the capital, and the Zombo People's AUiance (ALIAZO), which 

had its main following among a subgroup of the Bakongo, who originated 

near Maqueh do Zombo in northern Angola. Necaca felt UPA was growing 

inside Angola but was not yet able to issue membership cards because 

of the risk to the members. It had more than a hundred organizers around 

the countryy a clear indication of its growth. 

In the light of repressive Portuguese policy in Angola, it was shocking 

for Wdent IZknhower to visit Porngal in May of that year and say to 

Salazar thst the United States and Portugal "have worked together without 

a single differenw af opinion." The Portuguese leader expressed gratitude 

that the president comprehended "Portugal's civilizing mission in Africa."

CHAPTER SEVEN 

Tom Mboya and 

the Kenya Emergency 

n August 1956, the day before his 26th birthday, Tom Mboya passed 

I customs and walked into the lobby of Idldd (now Kennedy) International 

Airport in New York. Keith Irvine and I of the ACOA were 

waiting to greet him. We had invited him to come on a two-month 

speaking tour. The wide, thin-lipped smile on his very black, round, 

almost moonlike face immediately made a fine impression. Although of 

only average height, Mboya carried himself with such assurance that he 

attracted attention almost everywhere. He said simply with outgoing 

frienrlliness, "Hello, it's good to be here." 

I had first heard of Mboya in a letter from Michael Scott of the Africa 

Bureau in London. Mboya, at Ruskin College, Oxford, in 19561957 on 

leave from his duties as general secretary of the Kenya Federation of 

Labor, had told Scott that he would like to visit the United States, 

particularly to make contact with the trade union movement. The ACOA 

was approached about sponsoring his visit. 

It was diEcuit to give a quick response. Mboya was unknown in the 

United States. His visit would have come in August and September, 

notoriously a poor time for speaking tours, and we had no funds to cover 

the cost. Nevertheless, we decided to take a chance in the hope of interesting 

some of the major American unions in this young African labor leader. 

From August 14 to October 6, as I traveled with Mboya and had him in my 

home, my admiration for his outstanding abilities in&. 

EARLY LIFE 

Mboya told me about his early years.* He was born August 15,1930, on a 

sisal plantation in Kenya's wbite highlands, north of Nairobi, where his 

father worked as a laborer and later as an overseer. His family was of the 

Luo uibe, the second largest in Kenya after the Kikuyu. The Luo an- 

cestral homeland is on Rusinga Island in Lake Victoria, in western Kenya. 

Mboya's education began in a Catholic mission school, where lacking 

books and slates, the chiidren leareed to write by tracing letters in the 

sand. In rge he went to a Catholic boarding school and subsequently to a 

Catholic high school, where he received his certificate in 1947. 

*A more dye account is in his own book Freedom and Afm (I&& See also a biography 

by Dwid Goldmmnh, Tm Mbqya, the Man Keaya Wbwd lo Fiugt~ 

(tw).


Mboya trained as a sanitary inspector at the Royal Sanitary Institute 

Medical Training School in Nairobi. Elected president of the student 

council, he began to leam organizational skills. He qualified in 1950 and 

worked on the staff of the Nairobi City Council. After being elected 

president of the African Staff Askxiation, fie transformed it into a trade 

union. In 1953 he founded the Kenya Local Government Workers Union, 

registered it as a trade union, and was elected national general secretary 

without pay. Showing its displeasure, the Nairobi City Council dismissed 

him from his job. The governgent workers' union then affiliated with the 

newly formed Kenya Federation of Labor, and Mboya was chosen general 

=tary. 

The emergency against the Mau Mau was declared by the Kenya 

colonial govmment in 1952. Mboya joined the Kenya Africa Union, of 

which Jomo Kenyatta was general secretary, in 1953, not long before it was 

banned, and became director of its Information Service. During the years 

of the emergency, no political o~tions were permitted. Lacking a 

direct political instrument, the Kenya Federation of Labor increasingly 

became a center for complaints by the people, and Mboya gradually rose to 

political prominence. In 1954 his horizons broadened as he traveled to 

Geneva, Brussels, and London. In Brussels he impressed leaders of the 

International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFI'U) and established 

a lifelong relationship. Later in the year he visited India and 

Pakistan. 

Mboya's leadership in settling a strike of dock workers in Mombasa in 

1955 catapulted him into a position of first-rate importance in Kenya. Not 

only did the strikers win a 33.3 percent wage increase, but major violence 

was avoided by his skillful negotiations. 

FIRST U.S. VISIT 

When Mboya arrived in New York in August 1956, his star was just rising. 

He was not yet W y established, nor was he the controvenial figure he 

later besame. The qualities that led to his rapid rise were very nxognizable. 

He was young, dynamic, and unusually articulate. His brilliance as a 

speaker seemed all the more remarkable because of his limited formal 

education. A disciplined person, he could work long hours without seeming 

to tire. He had the unusual quality of following through o e - 

tionally, and he kept up a remarkable correspondence. I have scores of 

letters from him, both on organizational details and substantive analysis of 

events. Adding to his attractivenesg was the fact that he aunc from a 

country engaged in a struggle, both colonial and mcial, that captured 

international attention. 

The ACOA held a public meeting for Mboya in New York at which the 

Herald Tn'bune gave him gwd coverage. He pointed out that in Kenya the 

Legislative Council (LEGCO) had 14 white elected members representing

Tom Mboya and the Kenya Emergency 

4 5 , European ~ Kenyans and 6 got~rnment-appointed (not elected) Africans 

representing 6 million Africans. The best land in the highlands 

north of Nairobi was owned by Europeans. In Operation Anvil in 1954 

aimed at stamping out subversion, 35,000 workers were arrested in Nairobi 

in one day. He pointed to the loss of thousands of lives, the eqmditure 

of millions of pounds, and the 40,000 Africans in detention. In his 

speeches he constantly demanded more effective representation for Africans 

in the Legislative Council. He did not yet ask for maiority rule. 

Mboya's summer and early fall speaking tour was heavily geared to 

meetings with trade unions. Union leaders were very receptive. The 

ACOA's work to establish cannections with the unions was beneficial to us 

too. Meetings were arranged with such leaders as George Mcany, president 

of the AEL-CIO; Walter Reuther, president of the United Auto Wbrkers 

(UAW); A. Philip Randolph, president of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car 

Porters; David Dubii of the International Ladies' Garment Workers' 

Union (ILGWU); Philip Mmy of the United Steelworkers; Sidney 

Hillman of the AmaIpmated Clothing Workers; and Ralph Helsteiu of the 

United Packinghouse Rrkers. The tour took him to New York, Boston, 

Pittsburgh, Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, Los Angel-, Atlanta, and Washington. 

In addition, he spent about 10 days in Canada. 

As always, Mboya had a clear idea of what he wanted to achieve through 

the trip Fit, he wanted to interpret events in Kenya to the American 

people. He did this not only through numerous meetings but by a host of 

radio and television appearances. Second, he wanted union support not 

only for scholarships to help train Kenyan labor leaders but also for funds 

to build a union headquarters in Kenya. Third, he wanted to lay the 

foundation for a scholarship program to bring Kenyan students to U.S. 

universities. He realized all these objectives. 

On December 20, 1956, soon after he renulled home, he excitedly 

wrote me about the decision of the AFLCIO to grant the Kenya Federation 

of Labor $35,000 towards the erection of a trade union center. 

"Thus," he wrote, "at least one important aspect of my uip has been 

fuIfilled. . . . For this the ACOA must take some credit since but for your 

initiative to me it would never have been achieved." 

Most helpful at the beginning of Mboya's scholarship program was 

William X. Schehmm, president of a small company that manufactured 

airplane parts. He generously contributed to causes he believed in, and he 

Meved in Tom Mboya. He himself paid the plane fare for a number of 

Kenyan students to come to the United Smtes for study and then set up a 

foundation to help finance travel for about 50 students in the next two 

years. 

RETURN TO AFRICA 

On his renun to Nairobi after more than a year away, Mboya was greeted 

by a throng of exuberant followers, the press, and 40 police. His baggage


was ransacked for "seditious literature.'He wrote in his Freedom and 

Aftn; "I felt at that moment I was fully back in the Kenya I remembered." 

The Kenyan political situation underwent a change in 1957. For the 

first time, on a small scale to be sure, Africans were to participate in 

electoral politics. As a prohibited immigrant, I was not able to visit Kenya 

but followed mnts through correspondence with Mboya and through the 

press. Under the so-called LyttIeton Constitution, 8 Africans were to be 

elected to the Legislative Council along with 14 Europeans, 6 Asians, and 

2 Arabs, each group by a separate roll of voters, i-e., Africans voting only 

for Africans and so on. 

Mboya was urged by his trade union colleagues to be a candidate. On 

December 13,1956, he wrote to me that he was I of 37 candidates for the 

eight seats. There were only 126,000 registered African voters. The elec- 

don date was March 1957. Mboya had three opponents in his constituency, 

Nairobi. His slogan was "Democratic equality for all peoples regardless of 

race or color." When he told me he needed funds for his campaign, we 

raised about $2,000 from individuals and some unions. After three months 

of spirited campaigning, Mhya won, but not overwhelmingly. 

The eight Africans elected took their seats in LEGCO on March 26. 

They were now in a position within the government to exert pressure 

toward majority rule, leading inevitably (more than six years later) to 

independence. 

Mboya played a key role in the next few years. He wrote me (November 

20, 1957), "We [the elected members] have already met on our own and 

decided to form ourselves into a political party." It was called the African 

Elected Members Organization (AEMO). In spite of competition among 

the African leaders, they maintained a united front on most main points. 

Their first decision, Mboya wrote, was to reject the Lyttleton Constitu- 

tion. "Thus none of us wilI accept a ministerial or parliamentary under- 

secretaryship This is aimed at bringing the government to a definite 

standstill until they negotiate a better constitution with us." The elected 

members accepted positions in the legislature, where they could voice 

positions, but not in the administration, where they would have had to 

exercise responsibility for carrying out decisions under the colonial gov- 

ernment. They refused two ministerial posts and demanded 15 more seats 

in Parliament, which would bave given them a single wte majority in 

LEGCO. 

The AEMO decided to send two delegates, Mboya and Ronald Nda, 

to London to campaign against the Lyttleton Constitution and for an 

increase in African representarion. Since I happened to be London in July 

1957 at this same time, returning from my uip to Africa, I met with 

Mboya and Ngala. They made an impact on the British public through 

their press conferences, public meetings, and sessions with members of 

Parliament. 

The position of the AEMO was effective enough that several liberal 

European and Asian members of the Kenyan LEGCO resigned, and the

Tom Mboya and the Kenya Ewgemy 

Lyttleton Constitution was abandoned. In its place the Lennox-Boyd Plan 

came into effect, named for its author, the new colonial secretary. Under 

this plan, African representation in LEGCO was increased by 6. In 

addition, there were to be 12 "specially selected" members-4 Europeans, 

4 Asians, and 4 Africans-chosen by LEGCO itself. The 8 African mem- 

bers were prepared to accept the 6 new elected African members but not 

the 4 to be chosen by LEO, for that body was still dominated by 

Europeans and thus the 4 "specially selected" members would be be- 

holden to the Europeans. Nevertheless, 8 Africans offered themselves for 

these 4 seats. All but one of the African-elected members (who was absent 

at the time) adopted a strong public statement condemning these potential 

candidates as "stooges, Quislings and black Europeans," who by their 

action were identifying "themselves with those who seek the perpetual 

domination and suppression of the African people and consequently must 

be treated as traitors to the African cause." The signers, in addition to 

Mboya, included Daniel arap Moi, now president of Kenya; Ronald 

Ngala; and Oginga Odinga, later vice president and a leading Luo politi- 

cian. 

The Kenyan government was quick to react to this flouting of the 

Lennox-Boyd Plan. The African legislators were faced with two serious 

charges. One was conspiracy to violate the election law by putting undue 

pressure on the African candidates. The second was criminal libel for 

publishing defamatory material against the candidates. During this period 

in the spring of 1958 Mboya wrote me many letters. On April 12 he wrote 

that two days previously, "Police visited my office armed with a search 

warrant. . . . They took away my office typewriter as an exhibit." On 

April 16, "If conviction is secured it does not only mean several years in 

jail andlor heavy fines, but probably being debarred from LEGCO and 

voting for at least five years." His supporters planned to bring in an 

outstanding defense lawyer from Britain, who was expected to cost at least 

Eg,ooo. "I mot refrain from approaching ACOA and other friends for 

help since on our own we are completely helpless." 

The ACOA responded by converting our Defense Fund geared to cases 

in South Africa to a more general Africa Defense and Aid Fund. Our 

concern was for the struggle against racism and colonialism in all of Africa, 

and we were beginning to receive urgent appeals for assistance from 

several countries. Wk immediately sent $2,000 in reply to Mboya's appeal. 

The case was finally decided in July 1958. The first charge of conspiracy 

was dropped, but the defendants were found guiity on the second charge 

and fined $200 each, which they paid. 

Mboya was invited to the first anniversary of Ghana's independence as 

Nkrumah's personal guest. The two men established a mutually satisfying 

relationship at that time. Mboya wrote to me after his return to Kenya on 

ApriI I, 1958, "All the talk about dictatorship, tribal conflict, etc. is 

nonsense. The Nkrumah government is conscious of its responsibilities 

and also its place as the first experiment which must not fail." Referring to


the competing relationship of Nkrumah and Gamal Abdel Nasser, he said, 

"I can tell you that Nasser has no chance with Africa south of the Sahara. 

Nkrumah is well established and all of us look to Ghana rather than 

Egypt." The influence of Nkrumah on Mboya was apparent. He estab- 

lished the Nairobi Peoples Convention Party, patterned after the Con- 

vention Peoples Party of Ghana, and became its president. 

In 1958 and 1959 Mboya's prestige was at its height. In July he was 

elected chairman of the ICFTU Eastern, Central, and Southern African 

Region. In October he was invited to Ethiopia as a guest of Emperor Haile 

Selassie. In November he went to London to make public the sworn 

affidavit of Rossen Macharia, declaring that he had given false evidence at 

the uial of Jomo Kenyatta in 1953 that Kenyatta was the leader of the Mau 

Mau. When he arrived in Accra in early December for the AAPC, he was 

informed at the airport that he had been chosen chairman. "This was my 

biggest moment," he wrote me (November 13,1959). 

SECOND U.S. VISIT 

It was at this time that the ACOA invited Mboya to make another speaking 

tour in the United States to coincide with our observance of the first Africa 

Freedom Day, April 15, a date established by the nine independent 

African states. No time could have been more propitious. Euphoria for 

freedom in Africa was at its zenith. Mboya's personal popularity was at an 

all-time high. Only Nkrumah's reputation or Kenyatta's could have 

eclipsed it. Mboya was young, had a strong trade union base in his own 

country and internationally as well, and had the prestige of having chaired 

the AAPC. Life magazine (February 2, 1959) said, "Tom Mboya is not 

only the outstanding political personality in Kenya but [is] among the most 

important in all Africa." 

Up until the last moment the ACOA could not be sure Mboya would be 

able to keep his commitment to the U.S. tour. The Kenyan political 

situation was tense. On March 6, 1959, European police raided his home 

at 4:w A.M. with a search warrant to look for "proscribed and subversive 

literature and documents concerning terrorist activities." At the time 

Julius Nyerere was a guest in his very small home. Later in the day his 

office at the Nairobi Peoples Convention Party and the headquarters of the 

party newspaper, Uhuru, were also raided. The editor and the party 

secretary were convicted under the emergency regulations. In New York 

we were fearful right up until departure time that Mboya would also be 

detained, making useless our preparatory work. I wrote on March 12, "In 

case you should be detained . . . I want to let you know that there will be 

quite a big protest here. We will be able to turn the meeting in Carnegie 

Hall, where we will have several thousand people gathered on April 15, 

into some kind of protest rally. I hope this will not be necessary." For- 

tunately it was not. 

Mboya arrived in New York on April 8. I wrote an article in Africa

Tm Mboya and the Kqa Emqpc~ 

Tom Mboya, president of the 

Kenya Federation of Labor, on 

a speaking tour in the United 

States, 1959. 

Tody (May-June 1959) about rhis visit. "Thirty-five days and about roo 

speeches later he returned home. He had criss-crossed the U.S. giving as 

mauy as six addresses a day from New York City to San Francisco, from 

Boston to Miami Beach." Almost every one of Mboya's meetings was 

packed beyond expectations. Twenty-seven hundred people paid to hear 

him speak at Carnegie Hall in New York, and hundreds were med away. 

One thousand r n turned ~ away at Rackham Auditorium in Detroit. On a 

warrn Friday afternoon at the University of Michigan, 800 students delayed 

their weekend to heat him. At Northwestern University, the auditorium 

was changed at the last minute when students turned up at a 

hall that could hold only zoo. 

Mboya also addressed presitigious and Muential gmups from the 

Senate Foreign Relations Committee Subcommittee on Africa and various 

aty Councils on Foreign Relations to the conventions of the ILGWU and 

Americans for Democratic Action. He met privately with national leaders, 

including John E Kennedy, Hubert Humphrey, Adlai Stevenson, Martin 

Luther King, Jr., and Roy WWs and with union leaders. David Rockefeller 

arranged a dinner ia his honor. The demand to meet Mboya came 

from atmost every quarter of the American public. 

I accompanied him on much of his schedule. Particularly interesting 

was his 11:oo A.M. meeting with Vice President Ricbard Nixon. Bill 

Scheinman and I thought the discussion would last about half an hour,

The Windc of Change 

leaving time for his speech at Howard University at noon. During our farreaching 

but not innovative conversation, we lost track of time. At 1z:oo I 

interrupted to tell Nixon we were late and had no ready transportation to 

Howard University. Quickly Nion assessed the situation and said, "That's 

all right. I am late for appointment roo. I'll drive you to Howard." And so 

we were driven in the vice president's waiting black limousine to the 

universiry, where throngs of students, faculty, and some community people, 

almost all black, were waiting. In preparation for the election aunpaign 

the next year, a picture of Nixon accompanying the young African 

leader appeared in many journals. Nixon may wry well have hd the 

potential black vote in mind as he deposited Mboya at the university. 

Mboya made a hit around the country. I was constantly amazed at the 

way he held his audiences and never had a note in front of him. His 

phrasing was good, such as 'Tk prefer ta govern or misgovern ourselves" 

or "The %tern world must match the intmationalism of Comb 

with the internationalism of democracy." Asked at the University of Michigan 

what he thought of the future of South Africa, he replid with 

meaning and humor, "Black." 

Probably the most concrete result of Mboya's 1959 tour was the escablishment 

of the airlift of Kenyan and East African students to U.S. colleges 

and universities. On every campus where he spoke, he talked with the 

president or other officials about scholarships for African students. By the 

end of the tow he had promises of more than 40 scholarships. If any of the 

university administrators thought that talk about scholarships was idle 

chatter, they did not know Mboya. Immediately upon his return to Kenya 

he set machinery in motion to receive applications, screen them, and raise 

funds. In the United States Bill Scheinman had already set up the African 

American Students Foundation (MSF) with Frank Montero and myself 

as vice presidents, to provide transportation for the students. 

The fund appeal-initially to raise kg,ooo to charter a flight to bring 

81 Kenyan students to the United States-was led by Jackie Robinson, 

Harry Belafoate, and Sidney Poitier, and it had amazing results. On 

September g, 61 men and 20 women arrived at Idlewild Airport and were 

met by a contingent led by Robinson, who himself had conmbuted 

%q,ooo. He wrote: "I have had few more rewarding experiences in my 

entire life." He said of the students, "As they talked in the same quiet, 

calm, self-assured my with which Tom Mboya made such a hit on his 

recent tour here, I couldn't help but feel that here undoubtedly was a 

whole group of potential Tom Mhyas, Kwame Nknunahs and Nnamdi 

Azikiwes."' 

The next year, 1960, three planes were chartered to bring 222 students 

from East and Central Afrioi. This was an election year. Mboya had met 

and i m p d both Nixon and Kennedy. The AASF needed $roo,wo to 

finance the airlift, and it was decided to approach both candidates. Robinson, 

a Republican, asked Nixon to seek a grant through the State Department. 

Nixon did but was initially turned down. Then Mboya came from 

Kenya and went to Hyamkport, with Scheinman and Montero, to request 

a grant from the Kennedy Foundation.

Tom Mboya and the Kenya Emergency 89 

Nixon, hearing of the request to Kennedy, put muscle into his approach 

to the State Department, which agreed to a grant of $roo,ooo. In the 

meantime, the Kennedy Foundation also appropriated $~w,ooo. The 

AASF was ovemhelmed-$zoo,ooo! What could politid competition not 

lead to? But the two grants were not to be. Time magazine (August 29, 

1960) ran a story on the behind-the-scenes machinations. Hugh Scott, the 

majority leader in the Senate, had announced the grant to the upper house, 

but when he learned that the Kennedy Foundation had come through, he 

furiously denounced the Kennedys for trying to take the project away 

from the government. Kennedy in the Senate denounced Scott for the 

"most unfair, distorted and malignant attack I have heard in 14 years in 

politics." Of course the grant from the State Department never came 

through. 

STRAINED RELATIONS 

The path of a political leader is complicated, and so it was for Mboya. For 

example, not long after the All African People's Conference, Mboya's 

relations with Nkrumah became strained over trade unionism. The neu- 

trality of the AAPC between the Communist and non-Communist worlds 

applied to trade unions as well. Consequently many Pan-Africanists, 

including Nkrumah and the Ghana Trade Union Congress, supported a 

neutralist All African Trade Union Federation (AATUF), thus avoiding 

making a choice between the non-Communist ICFlV and the World 

Federation of Trade Unions based in Eastern Europe. Mboya was the 

ICFTU representative in East and Central Africa. Because he refused to 

shift his loyalty, his relations with Nkrumah cooled markedly. 

As Mboya rose to great prominence in Kenya, he became controversial. 

The right-wing white politicians looked upon him as an extreme na- 

tionalist because of his leadership in efforts to increase African representa- 

tion in LEGCO, his union base, and his efforts to limit the power of the 

white minority. But the attitude of his political peers was mixed. He had a 

mass following in Nairobi even among the Kikuyu, but other political 

leaders, including elected Africans in LEGCO, viewed him with attitudes 

ranging from respect to dislike. John Marcum, an American specialist on 

Africa, wrote to me (May 12, 19591, just after Mboya's uiumphal U.S. 

tour, "Quite frankly and confidentially I find that Mboya has antagonized 

many of the moderare nationalists, largely because of his go-it-alone tend- 

encies. By issuing statements in the name of the elected represenratives 

without consulting them, he seems to have seriously impaired his claims to 

speak for Kenya nationalists. I am not attempting to belittle his signifi- 

cance but I do think caution should be exercised in appraising his domestic 

strength.'* 

Mboya was indeed a complex personality. He was politically ambitious, 

competitive, and arrogant toward some. He was resented for his tendency 

to seek the iimelight. Yet his colleagues needed his skill as a negotiator, 

debater, and drafter of statements. He never tried to cornpen w m - 

L" 8


Tom Mboya (left) Jomo Kenyam (center), later prime minister of Kenya, and 

Joseph Murumbi, at Kenyam's home, on Self-government Day, I June 1963. 

yatta, however. He recognized that when Kenyatta was released from 

detention, he would be the leader. Mboya told me in November 1960 in 

Lagos, Nigeria, at the inauguration of Nnamdi Azikiwe as head of state, 

that he would like to be foreign minister some day, since Kenyatta was sure 

to be prime minister. But all this lay far ahead. 

POSTSCRIPT 

I was quite unprepared for the shocking news that reached me late on 

Saturday, July 5, 1g69, that Tom Mboya had been assassinated. Early in the 

afternoon as Mboya emerged from a pharmacy in downtown Nairobi, a 

lone gunman 6red two bullets, one of which entered his heart. The riddle 

of who instigated Mboya's murder has never been satisfactorily settled. 

That it was not just a private vendetta of the man who pulled the trigger is 

dear, although he was later executed for the crime. Most believe that it was 

a political murder involving prominent Kenyan politicians. 

Thus ended the life of one of the most brilliant and capable African 

leaders to emerge from the liberation struggle. Who knows what role 

Mboya might have played in the development of Kenya and indeed in the 

wider African scene, had he lived? I ptxsonally fell as if @th Tom's death1 

had lost a member of my family.

CHAPTER EIGHT 

Algeria and the 

National Liberation Front 

he Algerian revolution was the major anticolonial contlict of the 

T 1950s. Indeed, it was a war in which the army of the FLN used 

guerrilla tactics against a French army that was 16 times its size during the 

height of the fighting. The methodology of the struggle and the contrasting 

sizes of the contending forces made the Algerian conflict unique. 

Not only this, but the struggle was internationalized through the UN 

debates and by lhnkh and Moroccan support for the FLN, espedally 

after their independence in 1956. Further, the Algcxian issue bec-ame 

important in U.S. foreign policy, especially toward the Fmch. 

CONFLICTING VIEWS 

IniWy the ACOA was not as intimately involved in North Africa as it was 

south of the Sahara. When I first visited Libya and 'I\misia in late 1958, 

the Algerian liberation struggle was in full swing and I had some acquaint- 

ance with the FLN through work at the UN and contacts made at the 

AAPC in Accra. 

Part of my initial hesitancy about the FLN came out of my paciht 

background. It was one tbiag to support movements using nonviolent 

methds; it was another to support a movement engaged in a violent 

mIution. I fully supported the right of Algerians to independence from 

French domination. Yet the conflict was violent. There was no mowment 

ia Algeria advocating nonviolent resistance. There was no Gandhi or 

Lutuli giving a nonviolent message; the FLN represented the oniy effec- 

tive opposition to French rule. 

Another part of my dilemma was the fact that I represented the ACOA, 

which was not pacifist and supported the FLN. Of course, I could remain 

aloof from the Algerian struggle, but then, could I be relevant to any 

smggle for freedom that was not clearly nonviolent? For the first time, I 

found myself facing a conflict situation in which nonviolence was not a 

practical alternative. 

Not prepared to accept a position of irrelevancy in this smggle against 

colonialism, I worked my way through this inner conflict. I accepted the 

justice of the FLN cause. I recognized that the ACOA's function was to 

interpret that cause to the American people and attempt to Muence U.S. 

policy, not to condone violence or give military aid. Thus, somewhat


uneasily, I found it possible to rationalize my support for the Algerian 

revolution. 

REPESENTATIVES OF THE FLN IN NEW YORK 

Through Moroccan and Tunisian friends the ACOA met the FLN repre 

sentative, M'Hammed Yadd, when he came to New York in 1956 to lobby 

at the UN for the Algerian cause. He and Abdelkader Chanderli, who 

joined him later, were talented, mature diplomats, who were an effective 

ream. Yazid was French educated and bad attended university in Paris. He 

became secretary general of the Association of Muslim students in France. 

A convinced Algerian nationalist, he joined the FLN shortly after its 

formation in 1954. As part of the FLN's external mission, he attended the 

Bandung Conference in 1955, where he was insmental in gaining 

international recognition for the Algerian cause. Subsequently he became 

a minister in the first Provisional Government of the Algerian Revolution 

(GPRA) when it was in 1958 at a critical stage in the fighting 

with Fmw. 

Chanderli had fought with the Free French forces during World War I1 

and worked with UNESCO in Uruguay. When the revolution started in 

1954, he went to the external mission of the FLN in Cairo, which assigned 

him to join Yazid in New York. Through Yazid and Chanderli at the FLN 

office the ACOA was able to keep in touch with events in Algeria. 

Both men were responsible for making the Algerian issue a major one at 

the UN. They constantly moved around the country, speaking before 

student, church, and labor audiences, participating in radio and TV 

programs, and seeking ways to meet members of Congress. The ACOA 

facilitated their contacts in many ways. Unlike liberation movements south 

of the Sahara, they operated without as severe fmancial limitations and 

never once approached us for funds. They also had support from the Arab 

world. Already experienced men, they put out their own public relations 

material and maintained eff~rive press contacts. Further, they had allies at 

the UN, particularly the group of countries that had organized the 

Bandung Conference. 

THE ALGERIAN BACKGROUND 

As I did my homework on Algeria, my sympathy for the objectives of the 

revolution deepened. I l e d about the Berbers, who occupied the land 

as far back as recorded history, and the Carthaghiam, Romans, and 

Arabs, who conquered the area in turn. Today the Berbers and Arabs, 

virtually all Mush, are h a iridistinguishable. The Berber language is 

spaken in a few isolated areas, but Arabic is the official language. French is 

spaken among the well educated.

Algeria and the National Liberation Front 

The French invaded the region in 1830 and dominated it until indepen- 

dence. The French settlers, or colons, in the 1950s numbered about I 

million, close to 10 percent of the population. Official French policy was to 

integrate Algeria into the French republic. In fact, however, the coh, 

who greatly influenced French policy in Algeria, as the white minority did 

British policy in Southern Rhodesia, discriminated economically and po- 

litically against the mass of the people. Two percent of the population 

(mostly c oh) controlled one third of the farm land. Forty-three percent 

of the population (Arab Algerians) eked out an existence on the worst 

land. Although the Algerians could vote, there were separate voter rolls. 

The French elected one deputy for every 80,000 French voters, while the 

Algerians had one deputy for every 700,000 Algerians. The code of 1881 

denied Arab Algerians trial by jury and excluded them from many civil 

administrative posts. Eighty percent of the civil servants were Europeans. 

Resistance to French occupation began in the 183os, led by the re- 

nowned AbdeI Kader, who was not subdued until 1847. He wrote with 

some disdain to the French king, Charles X, "Have you seen the wave 

made when a gull brushes the sea with its wing? This is the image of your 

passing over Africa." The green and white standard of Abdel Kader 

became the banner of the FLN and ultimately the flag of Algeria. 

Modern Algerian nationalism began in the 1920s and 1930s under the 

leadership of Ahmed Messali Hadj and Ferhat Abbas. When Messali 

Hadj's nationalist organization, the Star of North Africa, was banned in 

1937, it immediately reformed as the Party of the Algerian People (PPA). 

Abbas promoted a Manifesto of the Algerian People in 1943, signed by 56 

nationalists, calling for agrarian reform, equality between the Arabic and 

French languages, the establishment of civil liberties, and the release of 

political prisoners. Subsequently this group became a moderate nationalist 

organization. 

The codct between Algerian nationalists and France was exacerbated 

in 1945 when troops were called in to quell a demonstration in Setif, which 

began as a celebration of the Allied victory in Europe but was transformed 

into a rally for independence and equality. Thousands of Muslims and 103 

Europeans were killed in the rioting. Abbas and 4,000 others were ar- 

rested. 

A succession of ever more-mititant organizations formed, such as the 

Movement for the Triumph of Democratic Liberties (MTLD) and the 

Revolutionary Committee of Unity and Action (CRUA). Within these 

organizations young leaders arose, such as Ahmed Ben Bella and Hocine 

Ait Ahmed, who were prepared for armed insurrection if political methods 

proved fruitless. They were two of the "historic nine" leaders, who, 

despite their differences and later in-fighting, are still honored as the 

fathers of the Algerian revolution. 

Planning for an armed revolt began in earnest. It was decided to call for 

an uprising on November I, 1954. The Algerian people were appealed to 

dissolve other organhtions and join in the National Liberation Front. 

The FLN was nonideological. It accepted Communists only if they


renounced their association with the Communist party. Labor unions, 

women's groups, students, and professional associations joined the FLN. 

Its position was stated in August 1956: "Ours is a national struggle to 

destroy an archaic colonial regim+it is not a religious war. It represents a 

march to the historical path of human pro-it is not a return to 

feudalism. Lastly, it is a struggle for the rebirth of the Algerian state in the 

form of a democratic republic." 

By August 1956 the FLN had established itself as the leader of the 

Algerian revolution. By 1957, its fighting force, called the Army of Na- 

tional Libcratian (ALN), was a well-disciplined fighting unit approaching 

40,000. The fighting inside Algeria was borne by 6,- or so guenillas. 

The rest were stationed in T e and Morocco, where they infdtrated 

Algeria to replace fighting units there. Traditional guerrilla hit-and-run 

tactics were used. Attacks were made on colon farms, police posts, army 

patrols, and transportation and communication facilities; then the attackers 

would melt into the population. 

A confrontation between the French and the FXN took place in the socalled 

Battle of Algien h early 1957. The FLN ded a general strike to 

coincide with the debate on Algeria at the UN. Almost roo percent of the 

Algeriau personnel struck in the railways and in the postal and telegraph 

services in Algiers. The French military responded by assaulting FLN 

positions in the casbah. In redhtion, FLN terrorists bombed restaurants 

and parks. The French destroyed suspected FLN strongholds and arrested 

and tortured suspects. It was a dismal period of the war, which left 

the FLN infrastructure in Algiers severely damaged. 

THE ALGERIAN CAUSE AT THE UN 

The Algerian issue came up for the first time at the UN General Assembly 

in 1955, included on the agenda by the narrow vote of 28 to 27. The 

French delegation strenuously objected and walked out. The issue was 

postponed for a year, by which time Yazid had arrived. 

On October 6, 1956, Yazid and a colleague, H&e Ait Ahmd, who 

had come from Cairo, paid me what diplomats call a "courtesy call" to get 

acquainted. Like most of the other "historic nine," Hocine was fairly 

young, about 35, when I met him. He had already been playing a leading 

role for ro years. He had founded the Special Organization within the 

MTLD that had planned the armed struggle and the organbation of the 

FLN. His responsibility ms the overall work at the UN. 

Six days after this hrst meeting, startling news came over the wires. 

Five top Algerian leaders were on a plane that was hijacked by a French 

pilot, who landed in Algiers, where the French authorities arrested them. 

The five had been guests of the sultan of Morocco. They had been in a 

Moroccan plane with a French crew flying well out over the Mediterranean 

to avoid Algerian territory when the pilot received an order from the 

French military authorities to land in Algiers, which he obeyed. The five

Algeria and the National Liberation Front 95 

leaders spent the rest of the war in French prisons. Hocine was one of the 

five, as was Ahmed Ben Bella, who became the fist president of Algeria. 

The ACOA sent a letter to President Eisenhower asking the United 

States to protest the arrest. U.S. policy was clearly stated in the reply by 

the director of the Office of Western European Affairs, "I must point out 

that the Algerian nationalist leaders are French citizens and that there is 

accordingly no legal basis for any U.S. government intervention with the 

French authorities on their behalf."' The United States backed the French 

position that Algeria was an integral part of France and accordingly had 

opposed placing the Algerian item on the UN agenda on the grounds that 

it was a domestic issue. 

Yazid and Chanderli engineered a vigorous campaign at the UN. In 

1957 two strong resolutions called for the right of Algerian self-determina- 

tion and for negotiations between Algeria and France. The United States 

opposed both. Very few prominent American voices were raised in crit- 

icism of French policy in Algeria and of U.S. support for it. One exception 

was John E Kennedy, then chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations 

Subcommittee on Africa. On July 2, 1957, he called on the administration 

to stop supporting France's Algerian war and to start working for Algerian 

independence. Secretary of State John Foster Dulles commented that if 

the senator wanted to tilt against colonialism, he ought to concentrate on 

the Communist variety rather than the French. 

Kennedy's speech, as reported in the press, was a topic of conversation 

with many African nationalists with whom I talked during my travels at 

that time. On my return, 1 wrote Kennedy (August 14, r957), "I thought 

you'd be interested to know that the many Africans with whom I talked 

were overjoyed at the fact that finally an important public official in the 

U.S. was speaking out on this question." The ACOA did what it could to 

publicize the speech. In Africa it was never forgotten, for it took political 

courage to make such a speech in the light of the U.S. alliance with 

France. 

GROWING SYMPATHY FOR THE ALGERIAN CAUSE 

The French bombing of Sakiet-Sidi-Yousef, a Tunisian village near the 

Algerian border, on February 8, 1958, raised a wave of sympathy for the 

Algerian cause. The raid was in reprisal for Tunisia's giving sanctuary to 

FLN troops. A surprise attack was launched by 25 French bombers and 

fighter planes on a traditional market day. An estimated 8,000 civilians 

were clustered in open areas without any protection. At least 68 Tunisians, 

all civilians, including 28 women and children, were killed, and go others 

were severely wounded. Seventeen of the planes were U.S. built. The 

reaction to this French indiscriminate bombing was almost universally 

condemnatory. 

The Algerian War aroused mass opposition in France to the govern- 

ment's policy, not dissimilar to the outcry in the United States against the


Vietnam War many years later. French authorities admitted that approximately 

600 Algerians were killed every week. The t o m of prisoners was 

common practice. 

The French newspaper Le Mona2 (March 26,1957) carried a letter from 

a French professor, Rent5 Capitant, to the minister of national education, 

resigning his post teaching law at the University of Paris in reaction to the 

suicide of a student from the University of Algiers who had been imprisoned 

and tortured. This student, Ali Boumendjel, was not an anonymous 

person to me because he wss the brother of Abed Boumendjel, 

who had led the FLN delegations to the AAPC in Accra and lbnis. Ali 

bad jumped to his death from a prison in Algiers rather than submit to 

further torture. 

In March 1958, after meetings with concerned organhational representatives 

in New York, the ACOA decided to write an open letter to the 

French people. Norman Thomas was helpful in formulating a b t draft. 

"DO not, we beg you, straightway dismiss this as an unasked, unwarranted 

interference in your dkks. We, the signers of this letter, are only too 

conscious of our own country's failings. We are writing because our nation 

and yom have Lived together through so many of the crises of man's 

struggle for freedom and peace, and are now so closely united by the will 

to preserve them." The letter indicated to how great an extent the Algerian 

war involved the United States, as, for example, France's use of American 

planes to bomb the 'Hmisian village. The letter urged France to begin 

negotiating with the recognized representative of the Algerian people. We 

had a good list of signers, including Thomas, Roger Baldwin, Eleanor 

Rooseveit, and Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. 

After all our careful work, however, the letter was never sent or publicized. 

We had second thoughts on the timing. Reinhold Niebuhr wrote 

me (April 23, 19~8)~ "I agree with every word in the letter, but I don't 

agree with the advisability of publishing it in Fmce or here." A long 

letter from a French friend, Mrs. Anne Marie Stokes, who had done 

volunteer work with the ACOA and was sympathetic to the FLN, was even 

more decisive. She spoke of the depth of feeling in France on the Algerian 

crisis, the way it was sphrting the country, and the bravery of some French 

people who were speaking out against the war. She said (April r958), 

"Only by sticking out your own &, by risking something from your 

own country, will you persuade them. Are you ready for that? . . . Have 

you ever thought what it means at this present time not to kill or torture; it 

means perhaps to become a martyr. This is a lot to ask of people." 

At this particular juncture a number of professors in France were 

speaking out bravely and jeopardizing their own positions by opposing the 

war. On January 12, 1958, a group of 150 high-ranking professors met in 

Paris in response to the kidnapping by paratroopers in Algeria and subsequent 

torture and death of a colfeague, Maurice Audin. A leader of this 

"university revolt" was Laurent Schwara, professor of mathematics at the 

Sorbome. He referred to the Algerian coact as "a slow rotting process

Algeria and the National Liberation Front 

. . . and as this rotting is in itself comfortable, one settles into it and it 

led to deeadtnce, Irk time to smp this pmms of decadence. The Audin 

affair will havti- one mcunent of the awakening of public opinion fad with the datqgefs of .thedisappearance of dcmoemcy in France. W can, 

alas, doubtless not save Audin, but in a sense we am be saved by him."+ 

This meeting of pmfirs was followed by' at lcagt three other conferenceg, 

ending with their cafl for negotiations and eventual Algwian 

independence. "If Fmce refuses this solution, . . . Atgcria will mner or 

lam be mrn from her . . . [and France d] beme a dimhished, 

morose, wouaded and ineffective nation."3 

The U.S. govment continued to support France, its North Atlantic 

Treaty Orga&atioo (NATO) ally, and never seriously prorested the use of 

U.S. and NKKl military equipment or the uk af F& NATO f~rcm in 

Algeria* We watched while an army insurrection took place in Algiers on 

,Mrly 13,1958~ and a military administration was set up headed by General 

Raoul Salan under the slogan uAlg&ie franghe." The requiting polltical 

crisis brought Charles de Gaulle to power in Fran'cc on Jp 

I and a return 

to civilian rule in Algeria. De GauUe mmmitted himself m a F d 

Algeria, and the. military insurrection ended. 

THE POLICY OF DE GAULLE 

De Gaulle ushered in the Fifth French Republic. The FLN countered by 

setting up the GPRA, headquartered in Ws, with Ferhat Abbas as 

president. As fighting continued, and opposition inside France from So-

The Winds of Chunge 

cialist, labor, and church groups, led by Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de 

Beauvoir, mounted, De Gaulle's policy shifted. He said, "I deem it neces- 

sary that murse to selfdetemhtion be here and now ig the: 

name of Fmce." 

De Gade offered Al@ a choice among integration, autonomy dth 

the French community, or independence. The problem was that it was not 

clear what "self-determination" meant. He declared that the Sahara oil 

would remain in French hands and that the free choice of the Algerian 

people must be endorsed by the Fmch. Nevertheless, the GPRA declared 

itself ready to enter into pourparlers with France to discuss the conditions 

and guarantees for the application of self-detemhtion. Tht five men 

chasm to take part included Ahmed ben Bella and H&e Ait Ahmed, 

both of whom were in prison. However, France took no step for a cease 

fire, and the war continued unabated. The two sides agreed on only one 

point-self-determinaaon. 

In 1959 the ACOA published two public statements on Algeria, which 

received some attention. One, signed by 16 members of Congress, was the 

first such statement by U.S. legislators. The second, "A Call for Peace in 

Algeria," was signed by 46 promiaent Americans and r e14 as debate 

on Algeria began in the UN. Both statements spoke with hope for the 

future in the light of the agreement of De Gaulle and the FLN on the 

principle of self-determination. 

In Algeria, however, the cob and the ultras (extreme rightists) re- 

volted. They accused De Gaulle of betraying them, crying, "De Gaulle to 

the gallows." The January I* attempt at an armed insurrection was 

short-lived as the m y came to De Gaulle's support. By June 1960 De 

Gaulle was speaking of an Algerian Algeria. "To pretend that the Algerians 

are French or want to become such is a frighdul joke." On the anniversary 

of the beginning of the war, November I, De Gaulle spoke to the French 

people about the plan he was following. "This course leads not to an 

Algeria governed by metropolitan France, but to an Algerian Algeria. This 

means an emancipated Algeria, an Algeria in which the Algerians them- 

selves will decide their destiny."4 

Independence was still more than a year and a half away. In New York 

Chanderli was in charge of the office, for Y&d, as a minister in the GPRA, 

was needed in Tunis and elsewhere. We helped Chanderli arrange meetings 

with the first three senators he met, Frank Church of Idaho, Frank Moss 

of Utah, and Gale McGec of Wyoming, who, in I@, had jointly made a 

trip to Africa. At our Africa Freedom Day observance in April 1960, the 

Algerian flag was presented publicly for the first time in New York. 

Chanderli wrote to me after one of the meetings we had amged for him 

(June 22,1g61), "Thanks to your constant desire to develop better under- 

standing of the Algeriau situation, I was able to explain the latest develop 

ments to a very fine audience."

CHAPTER NINE 

The Central African Federation: 

An Ill-fated Partnership 

n 1921, after a trip to Africa, Wmston Churchill, then colonial secretary 

I in the British cabinet, wrote: "It will be an ill day for the native races 

when their fortunes are removed from the Imperial and august administration 

of the Crown and abandoned to the fierce self-interest of a small 

population of white settlers."' The British Crown may not have been as 

beneficent as Churchill suggested, but he was certainly correct in pointing 

to the danger of allowing white settlers to formulate and execute policy in 

the multiracial colonial areas of British East, Central, and Southern Africa. 

The formation of the Central African Federation in 1953 represented 

one of the major attempts of white settlers to maintain and extend their 

domination in that part of Africa. The federation consisted of Northern 

Rhodesia (now Zambia), Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), and 

Nyasaland (now Malawi). It lasted only 10 years. 

Most important among my early contacts with men who were later 

leaders in this part of Africa were Kenneth Kaunda (now president of 

Zambia), Hastings K. Banda (president of Malawi), Joshua Nkomo (a 

major nationalist figure in Zimbabwe), and Kanyama (Jliume (the first 

foreign minister of Malawi). We met initially in Africa but became better 

acquainted when each of them came to the United States on speaking 

tours, which I arranged and promoted through the ACOA. 

AFRICAN LEADERS ON TOUR IN THE UNITED 

STATES 

The year 1959 was crucial for the Central African Federation, then only six 

years old. On the whole, the white minority of the three territories favored 

it, while the African populations were militantly opposed. The African 

political orgaujzations were engaged in two strugglwo oppose the hated 

federation and to win independence and majority rule for thcir separate 

countries. Their protest campaign reached a climax between February 26 

and March I I, when the colonial authorities banned the three territorial 

congresses, rounded up suspects, and jailed their leaders. 

Nkomo, president of the African National Congress in Southern Rho- 

desia (SRANC) was outside the country at the time. He decided that 

rather than return and be arrested he would travel widely to try to win


supporr for his people's struggle. Chime, a major leader of the Nyasaland 

African Congress WAC) and one of five Africans elected to the Nyasaland 

Legkhtive Council, was renuning to Africa from Britain. He too decided 

not to go home. Nkomo and Chiume joined forces in their international 

campaigning and both went to the United States. 

Banda and Kaunda, who were at home when the government cracked 

dawn, were both arrested and imprisoned, Banda for host 13 months 

and Kaunda for 10. Directly after Kaunda's release in January 1960 and 

Banda's in April, I cabled each man, inviting him to speak at the ACOA's 

second observance of Africa Freedom Day and to make an extended 

speaking tour. We were overjoyed when both men accepted. Thus these 

four outstanding leaders from the same area of Africa were in the United 

States within a few months of one another. Although their messages were 

similar, their individual styla differed greatly. 

BACKGROUND TO CONFLICT 

After my own lengthy discussions with these four African leaders, I 

realized that the struggle for independence in Southern Rhodesia was 

likely to be more protracted than those in Nyasaland and Northern 

Rhodesia mainly because the white population was larger in proportion to 

the black population in Southern Rhodesia (5 percent) than in Northern 

Rhodesia (2 percent) and Nyasaland (I percent). There was also a technical 

difference in political status: the northern two territories were British 

protectorates and Southern Rhodesia was a so-called self-governing colony. 

The principle of British "guidance" and "guardianship" was paternalistically 

supposed to operate in the protectorates, whereas white domination, 

virtually unresuicted by British influence, prevailed in the south. 

The principle of "the paramountcy of native interest," enunciated in the 

Devonshire Declaration of 1923, applied in the north but not in Southern 

Rhodesia. The constirution of Southern Rhodesia, adopted in 1923, put 

effective power into the hands of the white settlers. Britain retained the 

legal right to intemne in protection of African rights but chose not to use 

this power. 

The patterns of discrimination in the three territories were not unlike 

Jim Crow practices in the U.S. South before the civil rights struggle of the 

~gh-separate entrances and seating arrangements in shops and public 

places. Even most church= were -gated. Only a handful of Africans 

had the franchise. To be on the regular roll of voters, Africans had to meet 

high standards of income, property ownership, and education, which 

eliminated them from any signif~cant political power. In Southern Rhodesia 

they were controlled even more extensively through legislation that 

allocated one third of the best land to Europeans, limited trade uaions and 

the right to strike, abolished communal land ownership, and restricted the 

number of cattle on the land.

The Central African Federatiun 

The federation was a means of extending the power of the white 

minority and, from an African perspective, was a barrier to realization of 

majority rule. The federation was dominated by Southern Rhodesia. The 

white minority in the protectorates knew their position would be strengthened 

against both British interference and African pressure by the political, 

economic, and military power that Southern Rhodesian Europeans 

represented. Sir Roy Welensky, then the prime minister of Southern 

Rhodesia, undoubtedly spoke for most whites when he made his notorious 

"Red Indian" speech in 1952 threatening Africans: "I say to the Africans 

. . . if they do not come with us, they will meet the same fate which came 

to Red Indians in the U.S.A.: they di~appeared."~ 

African nationalist organizations arose in protest against white control. 

The Nyasaland African Congress was formed in 1944, although it was ten 

years before it became a dynamic instrument for change. The Northern 

Rhodesia Africa. National Congress (YRANC) was organized in 1948 out 

of a federation of African welfare societies. It liise became a militant 

instrument of protest after Harry Nkumbula became president in 1952 

and Kenneth Raunda secretary general a couple of years later. The 

SRANC was not organized as an effective national insmunent until 1957. 

Acts of civil disobedience, nonviolent for the most part, were increasingly 

encouraged by the various congresses. In Southern Rhodesia 

young militants deeply offended white government officials by entering 

office buildings by the main entrances rather than those designated for 

Africans, refusing to doff their hats or stand at attention when Europeans 

entered the room, and encouraging boycotts of discriminatory facilities. In 

Northern Rhodesia the NRANC initiated a boycott of butcher shops 

because of their particularly insulting treatment of African patrons. Such 

actions were reformist rather than revolutionary, demanding an equal 

place for Africans within the system. But the tone of the protests took on a 

political implication. Nkomo said: "What we are asking for immediately is 

therefore direct participation in the territorial legislature and Government. 

And we ask not as suppliants but as people who know that their rights 

cannot indefinitely be withheld from them."3 

The language of the protests against the federation became strong and 

determined. Banda in a speech in 1958 said: "To hell with Federation. . . . 

They can send me to prison. They can kill me. I will never give up my 

fight for freedom."4 At the annual meeting of the NRANC, all delegates 

took the pledge, "I promise to Almighty God that because the proposed 

federal plan is a wicked plan, I shall continue to fight against it." Kaunda 

later commented, "The only good thing about federation was the unity it 

brought amongst us."s 

The white protagonists of the federation popularized the word partnership 

to define the desired relationship between black and white. A kind 

of limited interracialism came into vogue, particularly in Southern Rhodesia, 

exemplified by the Capricorn Africa Society, which wanted to 

abolish all rad di ' ' tion, and the Interracial Association, consisting 

of a few genuinely liberal whites and a handful of elite blacks. But on the


whole, these efforts were short-lived and looked upon skeptically and wen 

cynically by Africans. The phrase "tea-time partnership" was coined. On 

the whole, Cecil Rhodcs's phrase "equal rights for all civilized men" was 

the accepted principle for whites. Roy Welensky said, "We will give the 

African equality when he has shown himself fit for it."6 Godfrey Huggins 

(later Lord Malvem), the first prime minister of the federation, said of 

parmenhip, "It is the same that exists between the rider and his horse. 

They don't eat or sleep together but there is a working understanding 

between them."' 

Any hope that partnership in the federation might have worked was 

dashed by the declaration of a state of emergency, the banning of the 

congresses, and the arrest of the leaders in early 1959. From the perspective 

of the federation government, the crisis was triggered by the report of 

the Nyasaiand government that they had unmved a sensational plot. 

According to a fiend of mine on the scene, the plot called for "concerted 

violence and disruption leading up to the massacre of 8,000 whites in the 

protectorate myasaland], plus loyal African~."~ 

The signal was to have 

been the beating of a drum located near Banda's home. Chiume was 

supposed to have been one of the architects of this gruesome plot. When 

he heard of it, he remarked, "How could I have master-minded such a plot 

after a long absence from home and from several thousand miles away?" 

Welensky (who bad become prime minister of the federation) sent federal 

troops from Southern Rhodesia into Nyasaland. The prime minister of 

Southern Rhodesia, Sir Edgar Whitehead, arrested the ANC leadership, 

outlawed the organization, declared a curfew, banned meetings of more 

than three people, and forbade the distribution of literature so that there 

could be no diversionary action while the troops stationed in Southern 

Rhodesia were in Nyasaland. 

I wrote a letter of protest to Wensky. His two-page response (April 15, 

1959) clearly outlined his views. He said Europeans were responsible "for 

all the real development that is taking place. . . . Although we are quite 

content to share fully the political and economic life of this country with 

the Africans as they progress, we as Europeans have no intention of beiug 

swamped, massacred or pushed out." He spoke of African nationalists as 

"Congress thugs" and then said "pressure from the outside which attempts 

to insure that solution on the lines of Ghana is imposed on this country can 

do nothing except cause bloodshed." 

When the emergency was ended, Nkomo, Chiume, Kaunda, and 

Banda, touring the United States, had already laid the groundwork for a 

new round of action. In Southern Rhodesia the National Democratic Party 

(NDP) was set up in place of the banned SRANC. In a few months time, 

Nkomo became president. 

In Nyasaland, even before Banda was released from prison, the Malawi 

Congress party had been set up, and he was chosen, uncontested, as 

president. The founding conference of the new United National Indepen- 

dence Party of Northern Rhodesia (UNIP) was held shortly before Ka- 

unda's arrival in the United States, and he was elected president.

The Cmal Afrtcan Federation 

NKOMO AND CHIUME 

I had met both Nkomo and Chiume at the AAPC in Accra in 1958. Nkomo 

was not easily forgotten partly because of his huge size. Hc was tall and 

heavy, even at 4, yet he &ed his wight with great case. He walked with 

a rhythmic sway, almost like a glide. He had a kind of mischievous smile 

and soft laugh that gave him an apparance of good humor and jollity, 

although he could be very stem. 

Nkomo was the son of a peasant who later became an wangelist and 

teacher. He was born in Matabeleland (the southwestern portion of Southern 

Rhodesia where the Ndebele people predominate) on June 7,1917. He 

was 19 before he completed his elementary education at a government 

school. Thereafter he worked for five years in odd jobs such as those of 

carpenter and lorry driver before earning enough money to continue his 

secondary education and postgraduate studies in South Africa. In 1947 he 

returned to Southern Rhodesia and became the organizing secretary of the 

Rhodesian African Railway Workers Union. In the meantime he continued 

his studies by correspondence with the University of South Africa and 

finally won his B. A. degree in 1951. His dway union became one of the 

most powerful African organizations in the country and by 1952 had u 

branches. From that base he went on to become a prominent African 

politid leader. 

Chiume, in contrast to Nkomo, was small, slim, wiry, and intense. He 

sack me as quieter than Nkomo, but he was more fiery and easily gave 

vent to his feelings. He was born on the shores of beautiful Lake Nyasa on 

November 24, 1929. When he was eight, he moved to Tanganyika to live 

with his uncle after his mother's death, He had his basic education in 

Tanganyika, partly in a government school in Dar es Salaam. After a twoyear 

course at Makerere University in Uganda, he received a diploma in 

education. While at Makerere he became active in politics, joined the 

NAC, and became president of the student political society. He taught for 

a year in a mission school. In 1956, back in his home country, he was 

elected to the Legislative Council from the Northern Province and was 

reoogaized as one of the outstanding nationalist leaders. 

At a joint press conference in New York, Nkomo and Chiume talked 

about the imposition of a federation dominated by 300,000 Europeans on 7 

million Africans: They spoke of the report of the Devlin Commission, set 

up by the British government, that Nyasaland was police state and that the 

NAC had been suppressed although it was a genuine movement of the 

people. They referred to the suppression of ihe SRANC because of its 

stand against federation, to the mass detention of SRANC members, and 

to the enactment of the Prevwtive Detention Act. They called for an end 

to federation, the lifting of the ban on the congresses, and the release of 

political prisoners. They announced that one of their aims while in New 

York was to campaign for the question of Central Africa to be put on the 

agenda of the UN General Assembly, an aim that was easily realized. 

Nkomo's and Chiume's tour took them to all parts of the United States,

104 Tlrs Winds of Change 

Joshua Nkomo (left), president 

of the ANC of Southern 

Rhodesia, and Kanyama 

Chiume (right), a leader of the 

Nyasaland African Congress, on 

a speaking tour in the United 

Stares, 1959. 

where they spoke to college audiences, trade union~sts, and church groups 

and met with legislators and officials in Washington and with delegates at 

the UN. Sometimes they traveled and spoke together, at other times 

separately. 

Nkomo gave an impressive, statesmanlike speech and charmed those he 

met privately. A professor at the University of the State of New York at 

New Paltz, after reporting that Nkomo "had made a tremendous impression 

on everyone hereY7'9 told me about his being in a snack bar with some 

students when he let drop the fact that he loved apples. A couple of the 

girls immediately dashed out to one of the orchards near the campus, 

raided the trees, and brought back a sackful of apples. Then the iuke box 

came on with a rock-and-roll record, which Nkomo remarked he liked 

very much. This seemed to be a signal for other students to go to a nearby 

record shop to buy it for him. My professor friend wrote, "You should 

have seen the big smile when they presented Nkomo with the record and 

the apples in the auditorium before he spoke next."'" 

Chiume spoke dramatically and with a wit that he himself seemed to 

enjoy. His first child was named Kwacha Michael (after Michael Scott) 

Chiume. "Kwacha," meaning "dawn," had become a rallying cry of the 

congress movement in Nyasaland, like "Freedom" in Ghana and "Uhuru" 

in Kenya. The publication of the NAC had also been called Kwacha. With 

the banning of the NAC, the public use of the word was likewise forbidden. 

In his underplayed humorous way, Chiume reported to American 

audiences that his son was named Kwacha so that he would have a legal 

excuse for using the banned word. If authorities questioned him, he would 

say, "I am just calling my son." 

Nkomo had an extracurricular experience of American racial discrimi-

The Central African Federation 105 

nation right on the ACOA's doorstep. Needing a haircut, he entered a shop 

on the ground floor of our office building, only to be told that he could not . 

be med. Wk were surpd. We immediately protested to CORE and the 

New York State Commission Against Discmtion. A few days later the 

barbershop was tested again and service was given. This incident was 

reported in the Wahingm Post (November 5, 1960) because Nkomo 

menuoned it in a speech at Howard University, in what he called 

"pinpricks" of racial incidents in the United States. Ref* to his and 

Chime's speaking tour, Nkomo said, 'We are here to encourage Amer- 

icans to make changes fast." 

BANDA AND KAUNDA 

In a way it was a problem for the ACOA to have two outstanding African 

leaders such as Banda and Kaunda under our auspices at the same time. 

Nkomo and Chiume traveled together as colleagues, and it was clear thar 

Nkomo was the senior both in years and rank. But the relationship 

bemm Bands and Kaunda was an unknown quantity. Although I had 

met them previously, they did not know each other well. Their first re81 

get-acquainted meeting was in my office. They had both just been released 

from prison and were presidents of their respective organizations. How 

well would they hit it o£? Who would get top billiug? 

Our concern was short-lived. Banda behaved like a prima donna. 

Kaunda did not. Furthermore, Banda was in the country for only one 

week, Kaunda a month. They appeared on the same program only twice, 

at a pms conference in our office and on the stage at Town Hall for the 

Africa Freedom Day celebration. On those occasions Kaunda never at- 

tempted to upstage Banda. The traditional African respect for age mpt 

have contributed to the ease of relationship, as the younger man always 

expected the older man to be first. 

Banda was about 20 years older than Kaunda, being in his mid-50s in 

I*. He was short and somewhat stocky. He was serious and not given to 

cracking jokes or laughing easily but was a fiery speaker with a straighefor- 

ward message: UDown with the Federation." He called himself the "ex- 

tremist of extremists" on this issue and lived up to this description. He was 

quiet in personal conversation but on the public platform became emo- 

tional and shouted vigorously like an orating preacher. In one of his 

speeches in Africa he exhorted the crowd, "Go to your prisons in your 

millions singing hallelujah, kwacha, ufdu. . . . We must fill the prisons. 

This is the only way to get freedom. To hell with Federation!"" He 

couldn't ask a New York audience to take the same sort of action, but his 

language was stimulating and aroused people with his emotional appeal. 

Banda was born in Nyasaland in 1903. He was only r3 when he left his 

home on foot and purportedly walked all the way to Johannesburg, the 

better part of a thousand miles, where he worked in a gold mine. He saved 

his money and bought passage to the United States, where he lived for 12 

years. He obtained a degree from the University of Chicago and an M.D.


from Meharry Medical College in Nashville. (One of the things he told me 

he wanted to do in the United States was to visit Chicago and call on the 

landady of the house where he had lived. This he did in 1960.) After 

leaving the United States in 1938, he took an advanced degree at the 

University of Edinburgh and then set up a medical practice just outside 

London with a large clientele, mostly white, by 1952. A year later he 

retuned to Africa, to Kumasi in the Gold Coast. I first met him there in 

1954. He developed a good relationship with Kwame Nkrumah, whom he 

had known in London. 

Although Baada was in voluntary exile for more than 40 years, he kept 

in touch with events. In London he had known George Padmore and the 

future African leaders around him. He had published a pamphlet against 

the Central African Federation in 1949. He returned to Africa to be closer 

to events unfolding in the 1g5as. He was invited back to Nyasaland in 1958 

by the young leaders of the NAC there, who felt he would provide mature 

leadership in the crucial period of their struggle. He returned on July 6, 

the date on which six years later Malawi became independent. 

Time magazine (July 21, 1958) described his return. "As he got off the 

plane, he uttered the one word 'Kwacha.' The crowd roared in response 

and Banda was draped in a ceremonial leopard skin and carried on their 

shoulders to a car to the beat of tomtoms. He drove off escorted by red 

robed young freedom fighters on motor cycles." Banda became the idol- 

ized leader of the people. He was called affectionately by his African name, 

Kamuzu (meaning "Little Root"), or the Great Kamuzu. The title of 

Ngwazi was later bestowed on him, meaning "the greatest of the great." 

I had a cordial relationship with Banda as a result of our two meetings 

and occasional correspondence even before he came for Africa Freedom 

Day. In a letter from London (June 25,1958), just before his return home, 

he said that he would like to visit the United States and would accept an 

invitation to make a tour under our auspices. His letter sobered me, for he 

certainly suppressed any innate sense of modesty he might have had. "At 

present I alone can speak with authority from and for the Nyasaland 

African Congress." He wrote me again from Nyasaland (July 24, 1958), 

"The welcome I am receiving from my people has to be seen to be 

believed. Even I, myself, did not reaiize to what extent I am held in esteem 

by my people here . . . literally it is within my per now to set Nyasaland 

on fire or at peace. The people will do almost auyhing I say." This 

undoubtedly was true. 

The campaign under Banda's leadership did shake the empire. He was 

arrested on March 3,1959, and detained not in Nyasaland but in Southern 

Rhodesian jails. When Be was released, he was flown back home for talks 

with the Nyasaland governor, Sir Robert Armitage, and the British colonial 

secretary, Iain MacLeod, opening up the next stage in Nyasaland's 

progress toward independence. Immediately after this Banda came to New 

York. 

Kaunda was a vivid contrast to Banda. He was about six feet tall and 

very dark with penetrating brown eyes. He combed his hair straight up,

The Cennal African Federation 107 

giving the impression of its being windblown. He was rather retiring, 

resewed, and polite and was a good listener. He was not always easy to 

understand, and at times I had to listen carefully to decipher his words, 

which seemed to trip over one another. I discovered later that in his youth 

he had had to wrestle with a stammer. By slowing down his speech and 

concentrating on enunciating clearly, he had improved his speech enormously. 

I always felt a quiet strength in Kaunda. His leadership qualiry 

sprang from his personal discipline and conviction, not from any h- 

boyance. Modesty and a kind of shyness marked the man at Ieast in his 

younger days, and yet he was very personable. It was easy to begin to d 

him "Kenneth" almost immediately. Banda, by contrast, did not encourage 

familiarity and was called "Dr. Banda" even by his close colleagues. 

h d a was born in ~gzq in the Northern Province of Northern Rhodesia. 

His father was a teacher and headmaster of a school at Lubwa and 

later an ordained minister and evangelist in the Church of the Livingstonia 

Mission of Nyasaland. Although his father died when Kenneth was only 

eight, the boy was greatly influenced by him. Religious observance, 

prayers, and hymn singing were an important part of their family life. 

Although he is not a church member, religion has continued to be an 

important part of his personal discipline. 

Kaunda went to primary school and teacher's miaing school at home 

but had two years of secondary school in Lusaka. He taught for four years 

in Lubwa, traveled in Taaganyika and Southern Rhodesia, and taught at 

Mufulira on the copper belt, where he became active in the NRANC. He 

returned home to the Northern Province in 1949, intending to farm, but 

he was increasingly drawn into politics. In 1952 he was chosen organizing 

secretary of the NWC in his province and in 1953 secretary general of 

" . 

+g - I C I 

Kenneth Kaunda, president of 

UNIP* on a qmdchg tour in 

the United States, April IW. 

ACOA jibs.

108 Th Winds of Change 

the national organization, necessitating a move to the capital, Lusaka. 

Wbrking closely with Nkumbula, president of the NRANC, he became a 

national figure. 

In 1953 a campaign of nonviolent positive action was initiated by the 

NRANC, especially on the copperbelt. NRANC members invaded shops 

and post offices, ignoring the posted segregation notices. When some of 

the leaders were arrested, the NRANC responded with boycotts, which 

led to the ending of many petty apartheid practices. Katuida and Nkumbula 

suffered their fist jail experiences in 1955 for possessing banned 

literature. 

At the invitation of the Labour party, Kaunda spent several months in 

England in 1957, campaigning both for constitutional changes in Northem 

Rhodesia and against the federation. I first met him at the Africa 

Bureau in London, although we had been corresponding for three years. 

He was invited to India in 1958, where his admiration for Gandhi was 

deepened and his belief in nonviolent action was strengthened. 

During 1957 and 1958, Kaunda and other NRANC leaders were increasingly 

disillusioned with Nkumbula as his commitment became 

blunted by too much drink. On October 24,1958, just two months before 

the AAPC, to which both Nkumbula and Kaunda came, the movement 

split, and the Zambia African National Congress (ZANC), under Kaunda's 

leadership, was set up It lasted only five months before it was 

banned, although Nkumbula's NRANC was not. Kaunda was imprisoned 

and the stage was set for the next phase in the struggle for independence. 

Several things stand out about Kaunda. First is his personal discipline. 

At the time of the boycott of the butcher shops, he became a vegetarian. 

He does not eat meat to this day. Second is his private religious practices. 

He is a praying man and has told me prayer strengthens him in his task. 

Third is his belief in nonviolence, influenced both by his religious convictions 

and by his admiration for Gandhi. His convictions have been tested 

and modified by his years as president. He is a mao without bitterness. 

After his imprisonment he commented, "A man who gathers honey expects 

to be stung. I am therefore not embittered. I have come out with a 

clear con~cience."*~ Finally there is his hesitancy to assume leadership. 

His associates had to push him to agree to break with Nkumbula. One of 

his white associates commented, "How can a man with as gentle a nature 

. . . continue to ride the tiger of African politid""3 

The second Africa Freedom Day, for which Banda and Kaunda came to 

the United States, was a great success, with at least 1,500 filling Town 

Hall. The honorary co-chairpersons were Eleanor Roosevelt, Martin 

Luther King, George Meany, A. Philip Randolph, WaIter Reuther, Jackie 

Robinson, and Harry Belafonte. 

Both Kaunda and Banda made spirited speeches. Kaunda started his 

with what he called the "freedom shout," explaining that tbis was how 

political meetings began in Northern Rhodesia. The leader shouts, "Free- 

dom Africa," and the crowd responds, "Now, now, now!" A few days later

The Central Afican Federation 

Kaunda led the crowd in this same shout at a street-corner rally at Seventh 

Avenue and 125th Street in Harlem. 

Banda's schedule took him to Wbshington and Chicago in addition to 

giving infeIviews and making radio and TV appearances in New York. 

Kaunda spoke widely in all sections of the country. In a press conference 

in New York he reafhned his dedication to nonviolence, in spite of 

reports of violence in Northern Rhodesia. "No cisnunstances can be so 

trying as to justify violence. . . . Nonviolence is a dynamic and not a 

dormant force as you all knaw."'4 It seemed to me that his experiences in 

political leadership were sure to temper these oonvictions.* 

*A book by Kaondo, 2% Riddle of ViPinru (~g&), dealt with the theme of nomioh~c from 

a p~LidcPl and a thcoI~ pqspctive: Although retaining great rrspc~t for nonviolma, be 

hPd chqd his position owuq to lus gomcnral ~nsib'ities and the pressure of 

cvma, pnrticulnrfy the conflict in Southern Rhodesia. Hc bclicvcd Britain s h 4 have used 

f m against the mow t d a udated ddaxation of independence by the white minority 

in 1965. The viokna would him kul much less than that of the gnarilla suugglt, he 

thought. He a h said, 9 ended up supporting armed stmgglc in Zimbabm because I no 

looga believe that m~yrhg is preferable to the use of form."

CHAPTER TEN 

South Africa's "Colony" 

y first knowledge about the former German colony called South 

M %t Africa came principally from an En*. I had a long 

talk with Michael Scott, an Anglican priest, when he came to New York in 

1947 to present a petition to the newly established United Nations on 

behalf of the Herero people of South West Africa. He described his 

participation in the nonviolent campaigns against apartheid in South 

Africa and his imprisonment the year before. He had been called upon to 

help the people of South Wt Africa (now Namibia)* by the old Herero 

chief, Hosea Kurako, who needed a voice at the UN. 

From Smtt I learned some essentials about South West Africa. The 

land is rich in mineral resources--diamonds, copper, uranium-but much 

of the area is desert. In fact, the name Namibia derives from the Namib 

desert, which stretches the length of the country along the Atlantic coast 

to some 50 to 70 miles inland. The word means "shield'hr "enclosure" in 

the Nama language. This inhospitable expanse helps explain why the 

European invasion of the territory (it became a German colony in 1894) 

came late. 

In 1947 the area had roughly a million people, with perhaps ro percent 

being European-mainly Afrikaner, German, and British. The rest of the 

population was (and is) made up of four major mbal groups, of which the 

Herero are one. In their war against imperial Germany in rgo4,60,000 had 

been killed, leaving a population of 15,mo. 

Germany lost South West Africa, as it did all its African colonies, after 

its defat in World War I. Administration of the area was assigned to South 

Africa, under the League of Nations mandate system. When the UN was 

set up after World Wir 11, all the former mandated territories were placed 

under the UN trusteeship system, with the exception of South West 

Africa. South Africa refused to accept this decision and continued to 

administer the area as a mandate, in effect as a colony. Thus the international 

controversy over the stam of the country began. Jan Christiau 

Smuts, as prime minister of South Africa, tried to incorporate South %!kt 

Africa into the Union of South Africa, but that was not allowed by the 

UN. The Chief's Council of the Herero decided to send a delegation to the 

UN to present their grievances, but South Africa forbade them to leave the 

caunuy, so they asked Michael Scott to makc the journey on their behalf. 

%e UN offidly adopted Namibia as thecountry's name on June 12,1968 (Rtsolution No. 

2372). South Africa still like. to cling to South West Africa but aunpromisea by calliDg the 

counuy South %t AfridNamibia. Black nationalists from the area dd thunselvts 

Namibians e m before 1968.

South Africa's "Colony" 

SCOTT AND KERINA AT THE UNITED NATIONS 

Scott was not permitted to make a verbal statement to the UN for two 

years, however, because up until 1949 no nongovernmental representative 

had been allowed to speak on behalf of a subject people. His presentation, 

even more dramatic as coming from someone white and English, and the 

succeeding debate led to the passage of two resolutions. One asked South 

Africa to make annual reports to the UN on conditions in the country. The 

second referred the question of the legal status of South West Africa to the 

International Court of Justice (ICJ) for an advisory opinion. 

I never met a more dedicated person than Michael Scott. Our paths 

were to cross frequently over the years-at the UN, where he went almost 

every autumn for the debate on South West Africa, in London, and in 

Africa. I11 health had caused him to go to South Africa in the early 1940s. 

There he established the Campaign for Right and Justice. He was im- 

prisoned in Durban for joining the nonviolent civil disobedience campaign 

against the Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Representation Act. He stood 

up against angry white farmers in the Transvaal when he exposed the 

horrible conditions of African contract labor. It was the publicity about 

this sort of action that led Africans to invite him to represent Chief Kutako 

at the UN. The South African government expelled him in 1950. Shortly 

thereafter he founded the Africa Bureau in London in order to pursue his 

campaign for justice, especially in South West Africa. 

Scott was unforgettable. He seemed almost ascetic in his personal 

discipline. He never spent much time thinking about where he would stay 

or what he would eat or wear. His clothes were unpressed, whether he 

wore his clerical garb or a business suit. He was the kind of person who 

attracted sympathetic support because he was so completely immersed in 

his cause that he was unmindful of mundane distractions. Yet he needed 

someone of a practical mind to take care of the essentials of daily living. 

Luckily, there were a host of such devoted friends wherever he went. 

Scott was not, however, otherworldly. His concern was for the welfare of 

people. He was not usually inspiring to listen to because he seemed shy 

and was very soft spoken. His speeches at the UN were frequently too long 

and rambling and at times boring, although they were filled with impor- 

tant facts. Their strength came from the integrity and single-minded 

commitment of the speaker and the known fact that he had put his own life 

on the line for the people for whom he spoke. How ridiculous it seemed to 

those who knew him that the U.S. government placed restrictions on him 

in New York. During most of the more than 30 years that he came to the 

UN he was not permitted to travel north of Columbus Circle or south of 

21st Street, a distance of perhaps two miles. The reason was that he 

refused to answer questions put by U.S. immigration officials about organ- 

izations he was connected with. Instead, he referred them to his auto- 

biography, A Time to Speak (1958), in which he described his political and 

religious philosophv and dealt extensively with his differences with Marx- 

ism.


In the mid-1950s a Namibian petitioner joined Scott at the UN. He was 

Mburumba Kerina, born in Tsumeb, the first of his countrymen to go to 

the United States to study. He arrived in 1953, attended Lincoln Univer- 

sity on scholarship, and graduated in 1957. When I met him he was called 

Eric Getzen according to his passport, which was valid only in South 

Africa and the United States. He explained at the UN that he had had to 

change his name to G em and his Herero identification to that of Cape 

Mulatto, in order to obtain the document. 

Kerina was an ambitious young man. As the only Namibian around the 

UN for about six years, he attracted attention. But at first he had no 

organizational status. In early 1955 he wrote to the UN asking to be heard 

as a petitioner, but he was not approved for more than a year. In December 

1956 he and Scott made oral presentations to the Fourth Committee of the 

General Assembly, which dealt with agenda items related to colonialism. 

The UN was still in its infancy as far as Africa was concerned, and it 

was not clear how petitioners should be handled. Scott was interrupted five 

times by the chairman on the ground that he had gone beyond his subject, 

and he was ruled out of order. The portion of his testimony that mentioned 

the treason trial, then in progress in South Africa, was ordered omitted 

from the record. This kind of interference was later abandoned. 

It was only at the UN that any attention was paid to South West Africa. 

Very little protest occurred in the territory itself, The UN concern was 

essentially legalistic. In 1957 the UN created a Good Offices Committee on 

South West Africa "to discuss with the government of South Afrim a basis 

for an agreement which would continue to accord to the territory . . . an 

international status." What could be more dull or less threatening to South 

Africa in its continued exercise of authority and extension of apartheid to 

the area? 

Three emordinary events led to interesting discussions at the UN. 

One event involved the ACOA office. On September 24,1958, I received a 

letter and a package from Cape Town. I opened the package first. It 

mystified me because it contained a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's 

Eeasure Island. On nuning the pages, I quickly discovered that a tape was 

embedded in the center of the book. Its presence was explained by the 

letter from a person with a familiar name, Herman Toiw Ja Toivo, 

president of the Ovamboland National Congress, a new organhaon of 

Namibians working in Cape Town. Toivo had written, "I have posted a 

book to you which I would like you to please do me a favor and hand it 

over to Mr. Kerina." Music filled most of the tape, but in the middle was a 

ten-minute message from Toivo to the Fourth Committee calling on the 

UN to displace South Africa and set up its own administration in South 

West Africa.

South Af~car's "Colony" 

After long debate at the UN, it was decided that the tape could be used 

only in an infonnal gathering of the Fourth Codttu. It said nothing 

ementially new, but it introduced Toivo, one of the most renowned Namibian 

nationalists, and set a precedent about hearing tapd material. 

A second extraordinary event was the arrival in New York in early 1959 

of Jariretundu Rozonguizi. I bad heard from a friend in South Africa that 

Kazo, as he was called, was a student "of more than average ability" at 

Fort Hare University College. His scholarship had been withdrawn, it was 

suspected, bemuse he had written letters of protest to the UN on behalf of 

a Namibian student organization that he headed. He had been the subject 

of periodic inquiries by the Special Branch of the police, and he and 

Kerina, whose friend he was, were "marked men as far as the adnainistration 

of South Wet Africa was concerned." 

After graduation in 1956, bzo had worked with Toivo in Cape Tm, 

been politically active in Wmdhoek, and was added to the Chief's Council 

as a youth member. When Scott urged Kutako to send someone fresh from 

the territory to the UN debates, the chief designated Kozonguizi. He left 

South West Africa without Seeking permission and made his way via 

Bechuanaland (Botswana), Northern Rhodesia, and Tanganyika, to New 

York, arriving in February 1959. The ACOA organized a schedule for 

Kozo. I accompanied him on a two-day trip to Whshington to meet 

congressmen, labor leaders, and Stare Department offidals. Kozo did a 

creditable job of interpreting the South West African situation. 

A third unusual went contributing to UN discussions was a presentation 

by AUard Lowenstein and colleagues of their trip to South West 

Africa. Lowenstein, a former leader in the U.S. National Student Association 

and later a member of Congress, had a fertile mind and active nature 

that attracted others to his cause. He became intensely interested in 

Africa, met Kerina and Scott, and at Scott's urging gradually developed a 

plan for a journey to South Africa and South West Africa in order to gather 

upto-date information. He was joined by two other young men, Sherman 

Bull and Emory Bundy. His fascinating book Brufal Mandate (1962) 

detailed his surreptitious meetings with Namibian leaders such as Chief 

Kutako often in the dead of night in areas that he had no permission to 

visit. The climax was his successful engineering of the escape of Johannes 

Beukes, a Coloured Namibian whom the South African authorities were 

seeking, across the border from South Africa to Bechuanaland by hiding 

him in the rear of a small blkswagen. 

The four men-Lowastein, Bull, Bundy, and Beuku~old their story 

at the UN. Nevertheless, despite their testimony, that of Kozonguizi, 

Scott, and Kerina, and updated information on the abuses wrought by 

South Africa's policy of apartheid in South West Africa, the UN did not 

challenge South Africa's control. 

These days in the late 1950s were heady for the young Namibians at the 

UN. Both Rerina and Rozonguizi were politically ambitious. W~thout 

making any serious analysis of the facts, many optimistically assumed that 

the problem of Namibian independence could be solved peacefully by


negotiation or by the International Court. Events in New York were 

headlined in South Wat Africa and the two young Namibian petitioners 

were acclaimed. Kerina sent me a clipping from the Windhoek Advertiser 

(November 16, 1959) headed, "Getzen as premier UNO lobby talk." A 

key sentence went on: "The name of South West African-born Mburumba 

Kerina, as the veteran of the petitioners has been mentioned as a likely 

candidate for premiership" How ridiculously premature this was. But a 

young ma could not help being iduenced by the promise of political 

rewards. In a wry nice way, Kutako wrote to Kerina May 10, 1960 

(sending a copy to me), telling him to curb his actions designed to build up 

his own image and reminding him that Michael Scon was still regarded as 

chief spokesman. 

The fact was, of course, that independence was a long way off. The UN 

did not have the will or the power to chalIenge South Africa's unshaken 

insistence on control, and the struggle by Namibian nationalists would 

have to grow immeasurably before a fundamental change in the status of 

the territory could be realized. 

NAMIBIAN POLITICAL GROUPINGS 

During the 1950s and early I*, political organizations, although dread- 

fdy weak, were taking form witbin the country to challenge South Africa. 

The oldest political groupings were essentially traditional and ethnic. The 

Namas, Dams, and Hereros each had tribal organizations, but that of 

the Hereros was the most prominent. The H em Chiefs Council, com- 

posed of two dozen elected members, antedated the coming of the Ger- 

mans to their homeland. Hosea Kutako was an officer in the Herero 

military when the Herero revolted in IM. He was wounded and taken 

prisoner in the bloodiest battle of the war. Upon his release he taught 

school, but with his official recognition as the traditional leader of the 

Herero in rgq, he gave full attention to his new responsibility. 

Another political grouping was built around the students, the intellec- 

tual elite. It was also basically Herero and centered in Wmdhoek. 

Kozonguizi had been president of the South West African Student Body, 

an organization formed in June 1952 at a conference at Windhoek of about 

35 students. He had expfaiaed to me that the Student Body pew out of the 

impatience of the younger generation with the discussions at the UN. 

They were greatly influenced by the wave of nationalism sweeping South 

Africa under the leadership of the ANC and especialIy by the Ddauce 

Campaign. They hoped to launch an organization to break down tribal 

barriers and infuse a national consciousness, When the students graduated 

from secondary school, the Student Body folded and pas succeeded in 

1955 by the broader South f it Africa Progressive Association. 

The methods of the students were different from those of the Herero 

traditionalists and inevitably resulted in tension. The Chiefs Council, 

although committed to self-government, hoped for intervention by the

South Africds "Colony" 1x5 

UN, and their tactics consisted of petitions, deputations, and conferences. 

The students wanted a national organization and used more militant 

methods. 

A third political grouping, ultimately the most effective, began in Cape 

Town among the Ovambos, the largest tribal group in South West Africa. 

They were (and are) almost half the population. They came from Ovam- 

boland in the north, an area that had not been occupied by the Germans. 

The Ovambos had been introduced into occupied South k t Africa prid 

y as workers in mines, hctories, and European-owned farms, frequently 

dted by the South Wst African Native Labor Asmiation (SWANLA). 

Fifry to 75 percent of the black employees of South West Africa were 

migratory workers, overwhelmingly Ovambos. They also worked in South 

Africa, some on contract and others finding jobs on their own. 

Herman Toivo Ja Toivo was central to the organiziiog effort of Ovambos 

in Cape Town. He and his friend Jacob Kuhangua were recruited in 1951 

by SWANLA to work in the mines in Johannesburg. Finding working and 

living conditions at the mines impossible, after only a week, they deserted 

their jobs. Eventually they made their way to Cape Town, where they 

found work and lived in an African township. 

Soon Toivo and Kuhangua became the center of a discussion group that 

led to the formation of the Ovamboland People's Organization (OPO) in 

1958 with a ~0n~titution based on Nkrumah's CPP in Ghana. Toivo was 

expelled from South Africa shortly afterward as punishment for having 

sent me the taped message for the UN. Accompanied by Kozonguizi, he 

made stops dong his journey home to Ovamboland to meet Nama leaders 

and won their agreement to establish a new national organization to 

represent the country as a whole. He also met with Clement Kapuuo, 

deputy chief of the Herero, and seemingly won his support. At the mining 

center of Tsumeb he was arrested for entering the mining compound 

without a permit. He spent Christmas 1958 in jail and was then placed 

under house arrest in his home village. In the meantime, the OPO was 

established in Windhoek and by April 1959 was functioning with Sam 

Nujoma as president. 

In September 1959 a new organization, the South West African National 

Union (SWANU), was formed at a conference of 2,000 in Widhoek. 

For some, SWANU was meant to be the national front representing 

all groups. Kozonguizi, then in New York, was elected president. The 

treasurer was affiliated with OPO, and Nujoma and other Ovambos were 

on the Executive Committee. The Namas and Darnaras were also represented. 

Despite this breadth, however, SWANU essentially represented 

the Herero student elite. 

By the end of 1959, three main political bodies were active in South 

West Africa: the traditionalist Herero Chief's Council; OPO, consisting 

principally of Ovambo contract laborers in Windhoek; and SWANU, 

aspiring to represent the whole country. Each was anticolonialist. There 

was some overlapping but each had its separate identity. 

December 10, 1959, was a turning point in the struggle for liberation.


In Wmdhoek, police and African nationalists clashed, leaving 13 Africans 

dead and 44 wounded. I was informed almost immediately by Jane Keriaa, 

the American wife of Mbununba Rerina, that according to a message from 

South Vkt Africa, "The situation is critical. We are in a state of great 

fear." The dash had not been unexpected. The petitioners, particularly 

Kozonguizi, had wacned the UN that such a canfrontation would take 

place. 

Under apartheid law, ail "native" locations had to be at least 500 yards 

from any European-inhabited area, separated by a permanent buffer zone. 

The s ded Old Location at Windhoek violated this law because the 

European area had expanded. The authorities decided that all 16,000 

inhabitants of the Old Location must therefore move to a new place called 

Katatura (meaning "W have no place of our own" in Hem) some three 

and a half miles from W~ndhoek. The people, who of course had not been 

consulted, were opposed to the move as being farther from their work, 

more expensive to rent, and unattractive. They protested by petitions, 

marches, and finally boycotts of all government-sponsored facilities. Pro- 

tests culminated in a nonviolent demonstration on December 10, when 

sevd thousand people gathered. Police ordered them to disburse. When 

that did not happen quickly enough, they began to shoot, resulting in 

deaths and injuries. 

OPO, SWANU, and the Chi& Council had worked effectively to- 

gether to oppose the forced removal. Perhaps this was the moment of their 

greatest unity. Whether it could have been strengthened after the De- 

cember 10 demonstration is speculative. The authorities, however, acted to 

make this impossible. Some leaders were arrested immediately, others 

were deported, and more than a hundred were sent to their home areas. 

Nujoma, president of OPO, was banished to Ovamboland, Kuhangua also 

was placed under house arrest in the north. Restricted in their freedom to 

organize, many leaders fled the counrry. Many went to New York and the 

UN, where Nujoma and Kuhangua arrived in I*. Others obtained 

scholmhips for study in Britain or Scandinavia and continued their 

political activities from d e. 

Meanwhile, OPO was converted from a tribal base to a national base. 

Renamed the South Vkt Africa People's Organization (SWAPO), it was 

open to all Namibians. By June I@, SWAP0 was officially established 

with Nujoma as president. The former OPO representatives on the 

SWANU executive canminge xesigned, and the swo organizations went 

their separate ways.

CHAPTER ELEVEN 

From Treason to Massacre in 

- South Africa 

I 1 

n December 10, 1956, Frieda Matthd,We of Z.K. Matthcws, 

0 wrote to me, "You have heard the news. My husband and son Uoe] 

are both in gaol and likely to be there for some time. No bail has been 

allowed as yet. The charge is of course a fantastic one I think-high 

treason. Just because they have tried to fight for our rights." 

TREASON TRIALS 

Indeed I Iurd heard the news. Just five days before, South Africa had again 

been front-page news, the first time since the Defiance Campaign. One 

hundred Wty-six leaders of the struggle against apartheid had becn ar- 

rested in the early morning hours of December 5. They were charged with 

high treason, which was defined as disturbing, impairing, or endangering 

"the existence or s dty of the [government] by committing hostile acts 

. . . and [conspiring] to overthrow the existing government by use of 

extraparliamentary, unconstitutional, illegal, and violents means."' If 

found guilty, the accused could be given the death penalty. The case was to 

be a major issue in South Africa for some years. 

It was fortuitous that Mary Louise Hooper, an American friend who 

later worked with the ACOA, happened to be in South Africa at the time 

and could see at close hand what was happening. While on a group tour of 

South Africa in 1956, she had met Chief Albert Lutuli and other leadm of 

the ANC and had become deeply committed to the antiapartheid cause. 

She decided to return to South Africa and was working with Lutuli when 

the arrests took place. She wrote detailed letters and seat press clippings 

frequently, cautiously using the name S.H. Noriis or S.H.N. and never 

mentioning Lutuli by name but only as her "boss." She was rightly 

suspicious as to whether all her letters came through; indeed some did not. 

In her first lcttcr (December 23,1956) she wrote, "My boss was taken too 

at 4:30 A.M. on the first day of the arrests. Most of the people were takw 

on those first simultaneous raids before dawn all over the Union. Just like 

Nazi tactics--the heavy knock on the door in the wee hours, the secret 

spiriting away by military planes before anyone knew where they were 

being taken." 

I1 

THE CONGRESS OF THE PEOPLE 

I he arrests wek not unexpected. Five months earlier Lutuli had written, 

'We are awaiting a dramrrtic arrest of leaders of our liberatory movement."


For well over a year the government had been laying the groundwork. In 

September and October 1955 the police had raided almost one thousand 

homes and offices in search of evidence of sedition. These raids came on 

the heels of an historic conference called the "Congress of the People," 

which met to draw up a "Freedom Charter." This charter is still the basic 

program of the ANC. It opens: "We the people of South Africa, declare for 

all our country and the world to know: that South Africa belongs to all 

who live in it, black and white, and that no government can justly claim 

authority unless it is based on the will of all the people." 

Z.K. Matthews has been credited as a principal architect of the Free- 

dom Charter. The year he was in New York, he had discussed with me his 

idea for a document that could be adopted by a large representative 

gathering. Shortly after he returned to South Africa, he said at a large 

meeting in the Cape Province (August 3, 19531, "I wonder if the time has 

not come for convening a national congress to draw up a democratic 

constitution for the future." The idea caught on. The ANC and the other 

groups that formed the so-called Congress Alliance (the Congress of 

Democrats, the Coloured People's Organization, and the Indian Con- 

gress), which had sponsored the Defiance Campaign, needed some new 

initiative when the Defiance Campaign was called off. 

A vast amount of local work was done in preparation for the gathering. 

Since no hall was avaiiable, a friendly Indian merchant at Kliptown, about 

12 miles mt of Johannesburg, offered his extensive yard. A platform was 

constructed and heavy planks were used for seats. A camp kitchen was set 

up, and a low fence was built with only one entrance, where credentials of 

delegates could be checked. 

Arthur Blaxall attended the gathering on Saturday, June 25, and wrote 

me about it in detail. He reported (July 13,1955) that the 2,858 delegates 

to the Congress of the People included 2,196 Africans, 320 Indians, 230 

Coloureds, and I 12 whites. The main business was the reading, discyp 

sion, and adoption of the Freedom Charter. 

On Sunday afternoon, 25 police stormed the place, carrying sea& 

warrants to look for treasonable material. They announced that papers 

would be examined and names and addresses taken. uThe great sea of 

people rose," he wrote, "and raised their right fists with upstretched 

thumbs," in the Congress salute. This went on for a fill 10 minutes until 

the chairman quieted the crowd and the police went about their business. 

It took four hours. "It speaks volumes for the controlled spirit of the vast 

crowd," Blaxall wrote (June 27, rg55), "that there were no incidents and 

only a few arrests were made for secondary offenses such as irregular 

passes. . . . I was frankly surprised at the success [of the event] both with 

regard to size and general arrangements . . . June 25-26 will rank high in 

the annals of the struggle to establish a nation in which all discrimination, 

hatred and injustice will vanish away." 

Blaxall was invited to attend a meeting in Durban on what steps to take 

next. He was concerned that a program to achieve the revolutionary 

program the Freedom Charter called for would lead to chaos and blood- 

shed. He wrote me (July 15, 1g55), "I realize more than ever that I am

From Treason to Massacre in South A ha 119 

treading on very thin ice by attending such meetings, but do feel that the 

position has become so critical that some of us must be ready to let the ice 

break-under us, even if we are drowned in the process." 

THE TRIALS 

ThFbeason arrests were the government's retaliation against the leaders of 

the Congress of the People and its Freedom Charter. Panick Duncan 

wrote to me (December 21, 1956), "What the arrested seem to have h 

common is attendance at the IUiptown Congress of the People. The Public 

Prosecutor opened his address and all that has come through to me yet is a 

statement that the Con- of the People and the Freedom Charter were 

an attempt to set up an alternative government for the Union." Before bail 

was set, the accused, segregated by race, were held in a prison called the 

Fort in Johannesburg. Among the Africans, Lutuli led a brief ceremony. 

He said, "If there are any present who are sorry to be in the Fort and 

regret chat their membership in the Congress has brought them to this 

pass, let them drop out of the ~ircle."~ No one did. After a prayer, 

everyone sang the African national anthem, "Nkosi Sikela iAfda" ("God 

Bless Africa"). 

Bail was arranged, but the accused had to stay in Johannesburg for the 

extensive preliminary hearings. In early January 1957, Matthews began 

writing me details from Johannesburg. Because no regular courtroom was 

large enough to hold the vast number of people involved, an old building 

called the Dril Hall was taken over. At h t before bail was arranged, the 

defendants were kept in a zoolike enclosure of mesh wire. As the hearings 

opened, thousands of people stood outside with signs reading "We stand 

behind our leaders." They sang hymns and Congress songs and gave the 

thumbs-up salute again and again. Matthews wrote (June 1957) "The 

a c d in this trial sit together as a mixed lyoup without regard to race. I 

suppose the intention is to show that this is a group beyond redemption as 

far as South African mores are concemd, but we see it as a picture of the 

South Africa of tomorrow." 

According to Matthews, the accused were a mixed group ranging from 

conservative rribal Africans to ultra-left whites. They included three derics, 

five ~OC~OB, seven lawyers, two teachers, swen journalists, two students, 

and mmy trade unionists. Most of them were members of organizations 

that sponsored the Congress of the People. The prctsecution was 

determined "to prove that these organizations are all communist or commuaim-Muenced." 

Nevertheless, Matthews pointed out, some of the 

leading Communists in the cnunuy, such as Dr. Yusuf Dadoo, were not 

detained. 

Those arrested were heroes to a large section of the people. Poems were 

written about them. 

Here are the leaders 

Here they are 

Look upon them, people


Look upon them 

On their faces you will see 

The look of our South Africa to be. 

The whole exercise of the treason trials lasted for more than four years. 

It was a mammoth failure for the South African government but very 

costly for the defense. The legal gyrations of the prosecution made it quite 

apparent that the government was not well prepared. The preliminary 

examination lasted about 13 montbs and considered more chau 25,m 

documents. 

On January 30,1958,65 defendants, including Chief Lutuli and Oliver 

Tambo, were released. The other 91 were charged with high treason for 

preparing to ovenhrow the state by violent, revolutionary methods and 

establish a so-called People's Democracy. A subsidiary charge was that the 

defendants were guilty of being Communists. 

The first uial of the 91 began August I, 1958. This phase ended in 

October with the government dividing the remaining defendants into two 

groups of 30 hard-core suspected Communists and 61 others to be uied 

separately, a further indication of the government's legat confusion. Mat- 

thews wrote me that the new indictment against the 91 put greater empha- 

sis on the advocacy of Communism, although there were no speciftc 

charges under the Suppression of Communism Act, which d&es a 

Communist as one who "aims at the encouragement of feelings of hostility 

beween the Europeans and non-European races" or "who aims at bring- 

ing about any political, industd, social or economic change . . . by the 

promotion of disturbance or disorder or by the threat of such acts." To add 

to the confusion about the gowmment's position, the indictment against 

the 61 was quashed on April to, 1959, that against the final 30 in March 

1961. The process leading to this conclusion was long, tortuous, and 

expensive. 

DEFENSE FUNDS 

Alan Paton wrote early in 1957 from South Africa to say that a T m n 

Trial Defence Fund had ken organized to help raise the large sums that 

wen necessary to defend the accused. The initial goal was E~oo,ooo. 

Arthur B W 

(Dewmber 13, 1956) wrote that if the government inter- 

fered, "some of us are quite determined that if we are not allowed to do 

this constitutionally then we will really develop underground orgmh- 

tion." 

The ACOA decided to set up its own South Africa Defense Fund in the 

United States to support the effort as best it could. The Very Rcv. James 

Pike, dean of the Episcopal Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York, 

and John Gunther, the author, became co-chairmen with a distinguished 

group of sponsors. Martin Luther Ring was a strong supporter of the 

campaign for funds and signed one of our early appeal letters. 

In England a similar orgaukation was set up. Fenner Brockway, Labour 

MP and leader of the Movement for Colonial Freedom, wrote (January I,

I ' - '' 

From T~ason to Massacre in South AfriEa 121 

1957)~ "In Association with Christian Action we were able to start a fund 

for legal defence and the next day cabled £roo." Certainly the most 

successful effort for raising funds was that headed by Canon L. John 

Collins of St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Through his organization, 

Christian Action, much more was raised than in the United States. The 

liberal British public was much closer to the South African scene than 

Americans were. 

The ACOA connibuted about $75,000 to the legal defense over the 

years. At first we were fearful that it might be dillicult to transmit funds to 

South Africa because of government interference. But at this point we 

found no problem and dealt directly with Anglican Bishop Ambrose 

Reeves in South Africa, chairman of the Treason Trial Defence Fund. 

Reeves came to the United States on a speaking tour in June 1957. The 

ACOA held a luncheon for him in New York and gave him our initial check 

of $5,000. After this, for the duration of the trial, we sent him checks 

ranging from $I ,000 to $~,ocQ. The South African government deported 

Reeves back to Britain in September 1960. He continued his active sup 

port for the antiapartheid cause from there. 

In September 1958 Dr. Ellen HeUmann, a leader in the South Africa 

Institute of Race Relations and an active supporter of the Defence Fund, 

wrote me that the Treason Trial Defence Fund was planning an art and 

antiques auction to raise money and wondered if I would approach Eleanor 

Roosevelt to contribute some personal item. Mrs. Roosevelt was very 

sympathetic. She contributed an autographed copy of her latest book, On 

My Own, which was auctioned off for a generous amount. 

Not surprisingly, Mary Louise Hooper was served with an early deportation 

order. According to Blaxall, she was taken into custody on March 

10, 1957, by order of the minister of the interior, ostensibly because she 

had associated herself with the ANC and this was "not for the true welfare 

of the native African people." She was given 30 days to clear up her affairs. 

Blaxall told me (March I I, 1957) he was not surprised. "In her enthusiasm 

to be helpful she was often alone in her car with three or four Africans; as 

you know, in an atmosphere like ours, anything touching on close relationships 

is the last thing." The ANC gave Hooper a letter of commendation 

signed by Luruli and Tambo in gratitude for her identification with 

their cause. She slipped across the border to Southern Rhodesia before her 

30 days were up. She wrote from Salisbury (May 22,19571, LLJ~st a hurried 

line to let you know that I am out of the Union, for good, I fear. I thought 

it best not to wait to be dqmrted." Although the ACOA missed her reports 

from the spot, we gained organizationally. At home she immediately 

started work as West Coast representative of the ACOA's South #&ip 

Defense Fund and made a tremendous contribution to the cause. 

GRISWOLD AS AN OBSERVER 

With the exception of the funds we raised for legal defense for treason 

trials, our most important project was arranging for Erwin Griswold, then


dean of the Harvard Law School, to go to South Africa as an expert legal 

observer at the trial. No one was more respected than Griswold, and we 

agreed to raise the funds. 

Griswold was eager to have material that would acquaint him with the 

situation in South Africa. After digesting the information I sent, he wrote 

(July 2, 1958), "These [books] have made it clearer to me than it was 

before that this is a delicate and dS~cult matter. I will uy very hard to be 

discreet and to avoid any problems in South Africa. However such problems 

may arise and I will have to decide myself what to do about 

them. . . . I have no thought of being a many or a cause cahbre. If for 

any reason things should get to that pass, I will simply pick up and 

depart." 

Because the whole matter was delicate and sensitive, the ACOA had 

agreed that we would not publicize the fact that we made the arrangements 

for him to go. Had that been known, he might never have been able to 

enter South Africa. Rk also agreed that he would allow us to arrange a 

press conference and other events in New York for him on his return. 

We kept our bargain. Griswold wrote to me (August 19,1958) just after 

he left South Africa saying, "I am sorry that I have been so distant from 

you this summer but I think it was better. I found that there was considerable 

hostility to ACOA and I think that many doors were opened to me 

which would not have been opened if I had come as a representative of the 

American Committee." Nevertheless, in his valuable and extensive private 

notes, he said that "financial provision for my trip has been made by and 

through the American Committee on Africa," and he referred to my 

putting him in touch with helpful people in South Africa. 

Griswold's arrival in South Africa was prominently noted under the 

Sunday Express headline (July 27, 1958), "Head of Harvard Law School 

Comes to South Africa." He reported to us that he "received every facility 

and courtesy from the South African officials, including members of the 

government and the counsel on both sides of the case." He dispelled any 

doubts about the fairness of the rrial. "The world need have no concern 

about formal adequacies of the trial . . . or about adequate procedure and 

fat. hearing. It may well be concerned that there should be such a trial at 

d."3 He reported that after two and a half weeks . . of argument on both 

sides, all indictments for Communism were dmud, leaving only the 

charge of high treason. "This is a vague charge since it arises from Roman- 

Dutch common law without statutory definition. Counsel for thc Crown 

has stated that any effort to coerce the government even by nonpolitical or 

nonviolent means would be high treason. Nonwhites in South Africa have 

no political power and therefore are in a dilemma."4 

Griswold was genuinely mitical of the trial. "It is hard to escape the 

thought," he stated, "that quite apart from the legalities involved, everything 

about [the trial] is a little absurd. Of course it is deadly serious and 

tragic for the accused."5 Ninety-one persons were being tried on a single 

indictment, but there was no single group act alleged. In effect the accused 

were charged with opposiug government policy but had not engaged in

From Treasm to Massacre in South Africa 123 

any joint act. "This is a very different kind of conspiracy than the ordinary 

one, to do a specific criminal act. . . . It is hard to escape the feeling that 

everyone (almost) on the Crown side feels that they have a bear by the tail 

and want to find some way to get rid of it without losing face."6 

The ACOA organized a two-day program for Griswold in New York on 

September 30 and October I. It included a press conference, radio pro- 

grams, an informal meeting with the ACOA, and a joint luncheon with the 

Sidney Hillman Foundation, which had contributed $2,500 toward the 

project. I was puzzled that at this luncheon, Griswold thanked the founda- 

tion for its aid but never mentioned the ACOA. Conuibutors to the ACOA 

for the project wondered what had happened to their funds. I felt boxed in 

because we had agreed not to publicize our sponsorship The only con- 

clusion was that Grimold was trying to keep his skirts clean. But it was SO 

unnecessary because we had never publicly claimed sponsorship 

It was another three years before the government dropped the case. As a 

result, the government looked "absurd," as Grimold put it, but the 

prestige of the ANC was enormously enhanced. Anthony Sampson wrote 

of the trial, "The greatest single upshot of the treason hearings was the 

emergence, both in black and white minds of the name Congress as a real 

force of black power."' The formation of defense funds in Britain, the 

United States, and elsewhere signaled the kind of international support to 

come as the struggle in South Africa intensified. Luruii wrote, "I do not 

hesitate to say that out of the mingling of the government's opponents of 

all races . . . a new sense of solidarity and a new sense of direction were 

born.''* 

It was very pleasant to receive a letter from Ellen Hellmann (March 29, 

1961): 

I always write to you when things go wrong and when in urgent muble, and so 

I feel I must write to you on this very happy day. Today the trrason aial ended with 

the acquittal of all the accused. But I do m t you to knaw that as I sat in court in 

Preioria today and heard the judgment and experienced gladness that hasn't fame 

my way hut in South kfrlm in many years, I thought of you and your colleagues 

aud supportus in the Comxniftee and felt deeply thaukhl for what you have done 

to zssist us. Today I am rather giving myself over to this ram feeling of gladness. 

THE DECLARATION OF CONSCIENCE CAMPAIGN 

rl' - 

I, . 

The ACOA irolised the ire of the South African government not only 

because of our efforts to defend the accused in the wason uials but also 

because in 1957 we initiated "The Declaration of Conscience Campaign." 

The idea was simple. We wrote a hard-hitting deckmation, which stated 

that "Freedom and human dignity are in grave jeopardy in the Union of 

South Africa today. The government of that nation continues to extend 

relentlessly its racist policy of apartheid into the economic, educational, 

religious and other areas of life." The declaration called on South Africa to


"honor its moral and legal obligations as a signatory to the United Nations 

Charter by honoring the Declaration of Human Rights." 

Our declaration was designed to be international in its appeal. It called 

on people the world over to protest against South Africa's racism on 

Human Rights Day, December 10,1957. Mrs. Roosevelt was the iuternational 

chair. Dean James Pike was the U.S. national chair and Martin 

Luther King, the national vice-&&. The d&tion was signed by 123 

world leaders, including Berrrand Russell, Pablo Cds, Arnold Toynbee, 

Trygvie Lie, Bruno Walter, Martin Niemoeller, Martin Buber, Erich 

From, Julius Nyerere, A h Paton, Ambrose Rewes, John Gunther, 

Wter Reuther, and Albert Lutuli. 

The cam& generafed a lot of public attention. There were hundreds 

of meetings and many statements in the United States and elsewhere on 

December 10. The gowmment of South Africa became so i n d by the 

Declaration of Conscience that rhe minister of exmd affairs, Eric Louw, 

attacked the ACOA on a national radio program (December 12, 1g57), 

bxanding us as "leftists." He said, "This organhation has a deciddy 

pinkish tinge. A number of its leading members are known to be a d - 

ated with left-wing organizations." He specifically stated that Mrs. Roosevelt 

was "not a stranger in American left-wing circles." He even cded me 

a "known leftist" and warned, 'This campaign directed against the European 

population of our country cannot but result in conditions of Bantu 

unrest and racial tension. This is what the Comtnunists are aiming at. Do 

the ultra-liberals and leftists in the U.S. and elsewhere realize that they are 

playing into the hands of those who for their own purposes would destroy 

European civilization in South Africa?" 

Our supporters got front-page publicity too. Bishop Reeves's reply to 

Louw was carried by the Rmrd Daily Mail (December 14, 1957). He 

commented that the ACOA's spomorship included 4 U.S. senators, 16 

members of the House, 2 university presidents, national religious Icaders, 

and I I authors and scholars. The paper editorialized that "Louw's speech 

shows that he was addressing hims$f not as a Minister of External Affairs 

to overseas opinion, but as a party politician to South African voters." 

Chief Lutuli said, "By branding the sponsors of the Declaration of Conscience 

as ultra-liberalistic and smearing them as Communist, the Minister 

of External Affairs did not absolve South Africa from charges made by 

leading individuals and statesmen throughout the world." 

THE SHARPEVILLE MASSACRE 

March 21,1960, is a date to be remembered in South African history. This 

was the day of the Sharpwille Mawacre, a turning point in the nature of 

the struggle for freedom. I had never heard of Sharpeville, an I I-year-old 

African township for the white municipality of keeniging, about 30 

miles south of Johannesburg. Early in the morning of the fateful day, a

From Treason to Massacre in South Africa 125 

crowd of 5,000 to 7,000 (some estimates are much greater) gathered to 

march in a peaceful demonstration to the municipal office and central 

police station of the township They were responding to a call from Robert 

Sobukwe, president of the Pan Africanist Congress (PAC), to protest the 

hated pass system requiring Africans to carry identification papers. Each 

y& hundreds of thousands of Africans were arrested for violating the pass 

laws. Sobukwe called on the people to ulaunch our positive, decisive action 

against the pass laws" but to "observe absolute nonviolentx." 

On the whole the vnse was disappointing. Perhaps there were I 50 

volunteers in Johannesburg. A few were arrested, including Sobukwc, 

wh& they presented themselves at the police station of the Orlando 

township near Johannesburg, having destroyed their passts. No demonsnations 

took place in such major centers as Durban, Port Elizabeth, and 

East London. Mass demomtrations occurred only in Cape Tm, Sharpde, 

and a nearby Evaton township. In Langa, a Cape Town Africau 

tOFqlShip, 10,000 gathered, and when the police opened 6red to break up 

the mwd, 2 Africans were killed and 49 injured. But if it had not been for 

the ildlingJ at Sharpoille, the incidents of the day might have passed 

relatively unnoticed. 

Humphrey Qler, editor of D m magazine, was an eyewitness to the 

Shafpeville demonstration. The ACOA carried his account in the May 

issue of our publication Africa Tbday. Some 300 police reinforcements were 

callad to conml the demonstrators. Five Saracen armored vehicles were 

on hand. The demonstrators seemed to be in a good mood. Suddenly, 

seePhingly without a clear order, the police fired into the crowd. Tyler 

mke: "We heard the chatter of a machine gun, then another, then 

ano*er. There were hundreds of women [running], some of them laughing.' 

They must haw thought the police were fig blanks. . . . Hundreds 

of kids were runnhg too. One little boy had an old black coat, which he 

held up behind his head, thinking perhaps that it might save him from the 

bullets." The police commented later that the crowd had "ferocious weapons," 

Tyler noted, "I saw no weapons, although I looked very cadully, 

and.afkrwads studied very carefully the photographs of the death scene. 

While I was there I saw only shoes, hats and a few bicycles left among the 

bodies."9 Sixty-nine were killed, including 31 women and 19 children. 

This was the event that aroused such a tremendous reaction within South 

Africa and internatiody and dted the liberation struggle beyond all 

&tations. 

The events of March 21 were precipitated by the Pan Africanist Congress. 

The PAC was a recent splitsff from the ANC. The trouble had bcen 

brewing for some time. In the mid-1950s a sigdimt caucus was organized 

within the ANC called the Africanists. Essentially they believed that 

the leadership in the liberation struggle must be securely in African hands. 

They opposed the ANCS alliance with the South African Indian Congress, 

the Coloured People's Organhation, and the white Congress of Democrats. 

They objected to decisions based on joint meetings of the leaders of


these groups. It did not make sense to them that these groups had an equal 

voice with the Africans of the ANC in making strategy decisions when 

Africans were the vast majority. 

The Africinists were also opposed to the Congress of the People, which 

was the result of joint planning. They could not endorse the preamble to 

the Freedom Charter, which stated "that South Africa belongs to all who 

live in it, black and white." It was an African country, they argued, which 

had been taken away from them. They believed that only after majority 

rule was established could all, regardless of race, become atizens as 

individuals. They did not believe in special laws or rules for minority 

groups. 

The Africanists were activists. Leaders came from the Youth League of 

the ANC, whose 1949 Program of Action laid the foundations for the 

Defiance Campaign of 1952 and became the dominant strategy for the 

ANC. My ANC contacts had been with Chief Lutuli, Wter Sisulu, Z.K. 

Matthews, and Oliver Tambo, all of whom were committed to the Free- 

dom Charter and the joint cooperation with all sympathetic forces in the 

liberation struggle. Sobukwe was a new personality to me. He had not 

been in the iimelight before he was unanimously chosen president of the 

newly founded PAC in April 1959. He had previously been a behind-the- 

scenes theoretician. Yet he had been national secretary of the Youth 

League in 1949 and a student leader at Fort Hare University College. 

Sobukwe had been dismissed from his first teaching post because he 

spoke publicly in support of the Defiance Campaign. Subsequently he was 

a lecturer at the University of Witwatersrand. He associated himself with 

those in the ANC who did not identify with the Freedom Charter and the 

Congress of the People. In his artides and occasional public speeches, his 

convictions won him a significant following. 

Not beiag allowed into South Africa, I never met Sobukwe. The anti- 

pass demonstrations of March 21 constituted the first major action planned 

by the PAC. The ANC was disturbed by the PAC action. Their own anti- 

pass campaign was planned to begin about lo days later, but the aftermath 

of Sharpeville engulfed both groups, and new approaches had to be 

dwised. 

Repercussions set in almost immediately. A report from Patrick Dun- 

can in Cape Town dexribed two large demonstrations led by Philip 

Kgosana, regional secretary of the PAC, on March 25 and 30. "The two 

great demonstrations in Cape Town were not riots. They were peaceful acts 

of purest nonviolence, up to the highest levels obtained by Gandhi's 

satyagraha."'* The vast throng of 30,000 surged into Cape Town on March 

30 to request the release of certain of their mated leaders. In Cape Town 

almost all the 60,000 workers went on stnke. Kgosana, at the head of the 

marchers, had negotiated with the police. Duncan wrote, "They had 

agreed to take him to the Minister of Justice for an interview if he on his 

side wodd send home the huge crowd he had brought. He did this aMi 

returned for the interview later that afternoon. Instead of the interview, he 

was arrested."I1


Chief Lutuli called for a national day of mourning. Hundreds of thou- 

sands of people stayed away from work in answer to this call. Luruli 

bumed his pass publicly in Pretoria, as did many others. 

Within 48 hours the U.S. Department of State surprisingly condemed 

the police violence at SharpevilIe. The UN Security Council called an 

emergency meeting on April I and deplored "the recent.disturbances in 

the Union of South Africa" and "the policies and actions of the govern- 

ment of South Africa which haw given rise to the present situation." The 

United Statts voted for the resolution. Henry Cabot Lodge, the U.S. 

ambassador, stated, "The source of the confiict from which the recent 

tragic events have flowed is the policy of apartheid f olld by the govern- 

ment of the Union of South Africa." Only France and Britain abstained in 

an otherwise unanimous vote. 

South Africa was shaken by the intensity of national and international 

reaction. On Narch 30 a state of emergency was declared. Meetings were 

banaed. About 2,- demonstrators were arrested, inciuding loo whites, 

and held without trial. The value of shares on the Johannesburg stock 

exchange plunged by more than f 5oo,ooo fmm the level of January I. The 

government panicked momentarily and lifted the pass laws. For a brief 

moment it seemed as if the anti-pass campaign had won a momentous 

victory, but in a few days the pass laws were restored. On April 8 the ANC 

and the PAC were declared "unlawful organizations" and "a serious threat 

to the safety of the public." The ANC decided that Oliver Tmbo should 

leave the country to organize international support. 

In New York, the ACOA announced that our Africa Defense and Aid 

Fund would send funds to the families of the victims of Sha~peville. As a 

result of the second Africa Freedom Day observance at Town Hall, we sent 

a check for $ro,m. 

AFTERMATH 

The Sharpwille Massacre was a watershed in South African affairs. As 

Bishop Reeves later wrote, "Until SharpevilIe, violence for the most part 

had been used by those who were committed to the maintenance of the 

white minoriw The fact is that [after Sharpeville] for the first time both 

sides . . . are now committed to violence: the white minority to preserve 

the stam quo; the nonwhite majority to change."Iz 

The banning of the ANC and the PAC led to a large-scale exodus of 

imdcrs from South Africa, perhaps 300 or 400, just as had happened in 

South West Africa after the police violence of December 10,1959. Under- 

ground political work in exile began. Soon offices of banned o ~ t i o n s 

sprang up in Ghana, Algeria, Egypt, and Britain. 

The overwhelming reaction to Sharpeville may seem surprising. After 

all, the loss of life there was slight compared with the casualties in Algeria, 

for instance, but international opposition to bald racism in South Africa 

was deep. There was very little sympathy for the violent tactics of the


white minority, especially in the light of the largely nonviolent actions by 

the African majority. The Sharpeville Massacre stirred the conscience of 

most of the world in an unprecedented way. 

The AAPC in 1958 had called for a boycott of South African goods but 

with meager results. But Sharpeville turned the effort into a mighty 

propaganda vehicle. Trade unions in Jamaica, Nigeria, Ghana, Tan- 

ganyika, Norway, West Germany, Cyprus, and Malaysia not oniy backed 

the boycott but called for a refusal to unload ships carrying South African 

goods. Even George Meany, president of the AFL-CIO, asked for a halt to 

the U.S. purchase of gold to demonstrate disapproval of "inhuman and 

callous" racial policies. 

The ACOA placed an ad in the New York Times (May 31, I 960) signed 

by hundreds of people announcing, "We will not purchase South African 

goods until such time as the South African government abandons her 

racist policies." The practical problem we faced was that there were very 

few South African consumer goods coming into the country. It was hard to 

mount a serious campaign aimed only at South African rock lobster tails. 

There is no doubt that the 1960 Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to Chief 

Lutuli as an aftermath of SharpeviUe, although he was not able to go to 

Oslo until 1961 because of travel restrictions by the South African govern- 

ment. 

The Sharpeville Massacre did more than any other event to spawn 

antiapartheid organizations in many countries around the world. Of par- 

ticular importance was the British Antiapartheid Movement with which 

the ACOA cooperated from that point on. Other movements sprang up in 

Sweden, Denmark, Norway, France, Belgium, Finland, and elsewhere. 

Fund-raising efforts to support the victims of apartheid and to oppose 

South African racism increased dramatically after Sharpeville. Canon 

L. John Collins of St. Paul's Cathedral in London set up a Defence and 

Aid Fund associated with Christian Action, which over the years supplied 

legal defense and welfare aid to the tune of millions of pounds. 

The ACOA put particular effort into organizing a coalition of groups for 

an ongoing campaign against apartheid. On April 21, a South Africa 

Emergency Committee was constituted representing about 30 groups. The 

lead story in theJohannesburg Star (April 24,1961) was headlined "Strong 

Action Against Union" and subtitled, "U.S. groups will increase pres- 

sure." The story opened: "A powerful group of organizations in the U.S. is 

planning strong action to compel South Africa to change its apartheid 

policies. They are being led by the American Committee on Africa with 

active cooperation of the American Federation of Labor." 

The focus of our action was a South Africa Emergency Conference, 

chaired by Jackie Robinson, held at the end of May. About 300 attended. 

We announced a comprehensive boycott of South Africa, recommending 

that unions refuse to unload ships from South Africa; that performers, 

athletes, and tourists not visit South Africa; that South Africa be excluded 

from the Rome Olympics, and that U.S. firms operating in South Africa 

abstain from apartheid practices. A scholarly memorandum by Professor

From Treasun to Massacre in South A ha 129 

Thomas Howt of New York University, "The Concept of Sanctions and 

Their General Application and Use," was prepared. Many of the programs 

enacted in later years were first outlined at this conference. 

Oliver Tambo was to have been the principal s&r. Evading South 

African border control, he had crossed to Bechuanaland. South Africa 

tried to have him extradited, but he chartered a private plane and flew to 

Nairobi. From there he went to Ghana and finally to London. I cabled him 

in care of the Africa Bureau, "Congratulations on escape. Can you come 

here soon to help campaign against apartheid?" He quickly agreed to 

spend four weeks with us, beginning with our May conference. 

There could have been no better person than Tambo to undertake such 

a speaking schedule. Fresh from South Africa, he was deputy president of 

the ANC and had worked closely with Chief Luu. From a peasant family 

in Pondoland, he had studied at a local mission school and then at St. 

Peter's school in Johaunesburg. He won a scholarship to Fort Hare, where 

he participated in protest activities that led to his expulsion. After teaching 

science at St. Peter's, he studied law and then opened a law office with 

Nelson Mandela. All this time he was active in the ANC, played a leading 

role in the Defiance C$mpaign and Congress of the People, and was one of 

the accused in the mason trial of I 957. 

From my associations with lbmbo, I understood why Blaxall and 

others considered him outstanding (see chapter 3). He had a gentleness 

and sensitivity that was winning. His friendliness seemed in no way 

artificial. He was a good listener. He was the first African man I met who 

very namraUy held my hand briefly as we were waking together. In 

Western society this just is not done, but it is common in Africa as an 

expression of friendship and compatibility. Tambo was one of the ANC 

leaders about whom the PAC dissidents spoke fespecbully. To them he was 

a nationalist. They seemed to trust his word. Further, along with his 

commitment to the liberation cause, he maintained a Christian perspec- 

tive. Father Trevor Huddleston, who had known him well at St. Peters and 

later on in the ANC, once said of him, "It would be hard to find a more 

devoted churchman than Oliver Tambo." Mainly I think of him in terms 

of his lifelong commitment to the liberation cause through the ANC--in 

exile since I*. 

The ACOA was rather surprised to learn that the U.S. government was 

giving Tambo problems with his visa. I called Washington and was at first 

told &t he was "ineligible" for entry for undisclosed reasons. We fever- 

ishly organized protsts to Christian Herter, then secretary of state, and 

6naUy in June the government decision was reversed. But it was too late. 

Tambo had missed our conference. Fortunately we were able to reschedule 

some speaking dates. 

Another aspect of the aftermath of SharpeviIle was a more rigid at- 

mosphere in South Africa. I was made aware of it through Alan Paton and 

a friend in South Africa. In 1955 I learned that Paton was returning briefly 

to the States (I had missed his visit in 1954) and wrote to him suggesting 

that we met. We did, and his subsequent leners gave information and


brought issues to our attention. In 1958 he urged the ACOA to look into 

the question of international o ~ t i o nthat s allowed affltiates to practice 

segregation. He mentioned the Lions' Club, which had a branch in Cape 

Town that observed the color bar. In early 1960, before Sharpeville, he 

wrote (March 9) "I do not think the present consumer boycott will have 

any material effect, but it certainiy has increased the number of people 

who know about apartheid." 

After Sharpeville, I mte to Pamn very carefully, never using letterhead 

and sending letters through his tmted agent and friend in New York. I 

had long hoped that he would be able to speak under ACOA auspices to 

raise funds for victims of apartheid. He agreed to do this in the fall of 

1960, not unmindful of the risks involved when he returned home. He 

wrote (March 9) "I think that I may freely say that the days of free 

movement overseas are hished. Hmver, we won't give up hope." 

We Lined up engagements for Paton in Chicago, Boston, and Toronto. 

He also spoke before rhe Greater Atlanta chapter of the Georgia Council on 

Human Relations. A story appeared in the Atlanta Col~ttitrtcion (October 

14, 1960) saying that Paton had outlined a middle solution to the South 

Africa racial problem that might avoid a bloody conflict: countries op- 

posed to apartheid might adopt such sanctions as refusing to buy from 

South Africa or fly over its territory or unload South African ships in 

world ports. 

When Paton returned to South Africa in December, his passport was 

withdrawn. Louw said he was "aiding and comforting the enemies of 

South Africa in the U. S." I had a guilty feeling for the part I had played in 

setting up Paton's engagements, but I knew he was not surprised. All I 

could do was to send my regrets and tell him, "You did a great deal of good 

for the cause while you were here." 

The post-Sharpeville atmosphere was especially discouraging and 

alarming to libends in South Africa. A letter from a South African friend 

(August 17, 1960) reflected this. Violaine Junod was a scholar and a 

professor who was associated with Paton politically and a member of the 

Liberal party. I had known her well when she was teacbg and doing 

research in the United States in the late 1950s. After she returned to South 

Africa, our correspondence was limited because of the feeling that letters 

were sometimes scrutinized by government authoritia. Her August Ietter 

came from Southern Rhodesia, where she was attending an academic 

conference. She felt she could write freely because she sent the letter with 

a friend traveling to the United States. Describing the fate of all those who 

had been arrested after Sfiarpeville, she said, "In fact . . . thousands have 

been arrested who strictly do not fall in the category of being 'udy 

elements in urban areas,' but more likely are members of [certaig] organi- 

zations. As far as we tau make out, they must have had lists of all ANC 

membership and they have vied to rope in aU of them. But what is terrible 

is that these people just disappear and are not heard ~f by family." She


concluded: "The sum total builds up to a pretty ugly picture, that we are 

fast moving to the finali7ntion of a police state is no exaggeration." She told 

me that I should write her addressed to an assumed name at a box number 

in Durban. Such was the repressive atmosphere in South Africa after 

Shaipeville. 

I

YEARS OF TURMOIL 

PART

A 

himultuous period begins with the independence of the Belgian 

Congo (now Zaire) in 1g60 and ends with the military coup in 

Portugal in 1974. The great hope for a new day in Africa as the Congo 

became independent was dashed by the d t y of a politically disunited 

and tribally segmented countfy, the fruit of Belgium's unenlightened 

colonial policy. The struggle for contra1 in the Congo led to the first 

African conflict among the world's superpowers, as the United States and 

the Soviet Union vied for dominance. The United Nations was powerless 

to conuol the situation. The conflict led to the death of UN Secretary 

General Dag Hammarskiold and the martyrdom of Patrice Lumumba, the 

Congo's first premier. The age of innocence in Africa's struggle against 

colonialism had ended. 

The violence in the Congo was matched by the beginning of serious 

guerrilla warfare, focused particularly in the Portuguese areas of Angola, 

Mozambique, and Guinea-Bissau and in Rhodesia, South Africa, and 

South West Africa (now Namibia). The various liberation movements went 

through their own numoil fueled by competition, both ideological and 

political, among organizations and leaders. 

This was also the period when many African counmes achieved independence. 

These new states, although lacking economic and politid 

stability at home, b w to exert themselves internationally and at the UN. 

The Organization of African Unity (OAU) was formed to help draw the 

countries together on basic programs, such as support for rhe efforts to 

win majority rule and independence in southern Africa. Afriea began to 

occupy a more important place in U.S. policy but was still only a low-key 

topic.

CHAPTER TWELVE 

The Congo: 

An African Turning Point 

n late November r960 I was on the ferry plying its way am= the wide 

I Congo River fmm Brazzaville to Leopoldville (now Kinshasa). It was 

my fourth visit to the Congo, but this Eime it was bound to be different; 

the Congo had been independent for almost five months. Many things 

seemed unchanged: the ferry still made half-hourly trips; on the 

Lcopoldville side there was very little red tape with customs or immigration 

(the immigration forms were the same as under Belgian rule); the 

paved roads were filled with bicycle and automobile traEEc; relatively high 

buildings dorted the skyline; the factory sirens, heard throughout the city, 

sounded off at 6:30,645, and 7x0 in the morning; and the Hausa traders 

were still selling ebony and ivory in the public square. 

But some things had changed. It had been impossible to arrange for a 

visa for the Congo in New York, wen though I had a pIasant chat with 

Cyrille Adoula, head of the delegation to the UN and later prime minister, 

who even wrote a letter on my behalf to the president. In the midst of the 

Congo controversy, no visas could be granted overseas. So, as I left the 

ferry, my passport wes simply stamped by an official with no questions. 

Police control was not very tight, as I was shortly to find out. As I 

walked toward waiting taxis, I was immediately besieged by several drivers. 

This was not unusual, but it was odd for first one and then another 

driver to grab my bag, struggle to keep it, and put it in his car, only to have 

it pded out again by a competitor. I thought my bag would surety be torn 

to pieces. When it was M y secured in one of the taxis, another driver 

began exchanging blows with the successful driver, but then, thinking of a 

better straregy, he drove his car across the road, cutting off the taxi in 

which I was now seated. Never during ail this frantic activity did the 

policeman standing close by intervene. I hally found my own solution. 

Taking my bag in band, I walked for a block until one of the taxis caught 

up with me and took me to my destination. 

It was different, too, seeing mps on the city streets-UN uoops from 

Malaysia, Tunisia, arid Morocco came into view immediately. Jeeploads of 

Congolese troops sped along the roads. It was not unusual to be stopped by 

Congolese troops at gunpoint. Searching the car and looking at papers did 

not take long, but sometimes those stopped were personally searched and 

held for half an hour or so. It was always a little unnerving to undergo this 

procedure while a gua was pointed somewhat casually at your person. The 

atmosphere of the capital was defkitely unsertied. What had happened to

136 Years of Turntoil 

change things in what the Belgians, and many others, had looked upon as a 

model cdony? 

LUMUMBA AND THE PATH TO INDEPENDENCE 

I had, of course, been closely folIowing events in the Congo well before 

independence on June 30. Confounded by my own experiences in the 

Congo, I wondered how the Belgians thought they could hold back the 

urgent call for independence in their colony in a continent aflame with 

nationalism. 

WARNINGS OF UNREST 

I had seen unmistakable warnings. In 1956 a group of Congolese put out 

Cm* Amine, a manifesto that mildly demanded independence in 

30 years. Shonly thereafter, a countedesto was issued by the Association 

for rhe Protection of Culture and Interests of the Bakango (ABAKO), 

centered in hpoldville among the Bakongo people, with which Joseph 

Kasavubu was associated. It said Conscience Ajiicaine did not go far 

enough. "Our patience bas passed the boundaries. Since the hour has 

come, we must be granted this very day the emancipation which would be 

delayed still another thirty years." A Belgian official told me in 1957 that 

these statements did not have to be taken seriously because these groups 

did not represent the people. 

The political organizations that began to appear in the Congo were 

essentially regionally and mially based, like ABAKO. In mineral-rich 

Katanga Province, the Confederation of Katanga Tribal Associations 

(CONAKAT) was formed in 1958 with Moise Tshombe as its leader. The 

one party with a narional, not just regional, fdmbg was the National Congolese 

Movement (MNC). Inspired by the speech Charles de Gaulle made 

across rhe river in Brazzaville in 1958, offering French colonies independence 

either in association with France or separately, the MNC petitioned 

the Belgian government to set a date for independence. Patrice Lumumba, 

one of the sigaen of this petition, was chosen leader of the MNC soon 

thereafterer His political career lasted less than three years. Yet in that short 

time, he became not only the major political @ue in the Congo but an 

African leader known and remabed throughout much of the world. 

Lumumba's base in the Congo was Stanleyviile (now Kim&), on the 

Congo River, several hundred miles northeast of Leopoldville. Never 

formally educated beyond primary school, he worked many years as a 

postal clerk. In 1957 he had served six months of a two-year prison term , 

on a questionable charge of embezzlement. Around Stanleyville, he held 

leading positions in as many as seven organizations. After his rel- from 

prison, he moved to Leopoldville and did public relations for a brewery. 

From his new base he became active in political affairs, 

I first met Lumumba at the AAPC in Accra in 1958. Then 33, he

The Congo: An African Turning Point I 37 

attracted a great deal of attention, for he was tall, slim, and well dressed 

and spoke fluent French as well as Swahili. This linguistic abiiity was a 

factor in his developing a good relationship with Tom Mboya, who spoke 

no French, while Lumumba spoke no English. 

Lumumba was friendly. Our ACOA group talked with him several 

times in Accra and were impressed with his commitment. The other two 

Congolese delegates did not draw the same kind of personal attention, 

although all were noteworthy because their country was large, rich, and 

the epitome of colonialism. Lumumba was chosen as the Congo repre- 

sentative on the conference Steering Committee. All these factors encour- 

aged Kwame Nkrumah to establish a warm relationship with him. 

Renuning to Leopoldville, the Congo delegation reported on the con- 

ference to an excited throng of some 7,m. The AAPC resolutions at 

Accra were integrated into the MNC program. 

RIOTS IN LEOPOLDVILLE 

Only a few days later, riots broke out in Leopoldville when the Belgians 

banned a meeting of ABARO. There were heavy casualties-49 Africans 

killed, 330 Africans and qo Europeans injured. ABAKO was then banned 

and its leaders, including Kasavubu, arrested. To stave off further violent 

reaction the Belgian goment issued a declaration committing it to 

leading the colony toward independence "gradually and progressively." 

In early January 1959 in the Belgian Senate, Maurice van Hemelrijck, 

minister of the Belgian Congo, announced the process that would go into 

effect "to lead the Cmngolese people to a point where they will be capable 

of self-administration. . . . Universal suffrage will be established." The 

plan called for the election of municipal and territorial councils in 1959, 

but no date was set for independence. "Belgium will hand over these 

responsibilities as the new Congolese institutions gradually prove they are 

capable of maintaining order," the minister said. 

I wrote to Lumumba on January 20 after the riots to express concern 

and to get his assessment of the situation. After nearly eight months, he 

wrote a long letter (August 6, 1959) detailing the turmoil following the 

January uprising. His response was late because he had been tramling 

abroad and then in the Congo. He appealed for aid, indicating great 

financial n&no job but a wife and four children. He hoped to come ro 

the United States to plead his cause. 

The process toward independence quickened. The Belgian settlers were 

incensed by what they consided pro-African statements by Van Hd- 

rijck. While visiting the Congo, he was peIted with tomatoes by whites. 

ABAKO was critical of the slow government approach and advocated a 

boycott of the municipal and provincial elections. In November Lumumba 

was arrested in Stanleyville and given a six-months sentence for inciting 

the people. King Baudouin visited the Congo to assess the situation and 

apparently was disturbed by what he saw. The Belgian government M y 

called for a mund table in Brussels to work out a plan for the future.

CONFERENCE IN BRUSSELS 

The Brussels meeting began January 20, 1960, and lasted a month. 

Lumumba was released from prison to attend. Fifty official delegates 

represented 15 political parties and 6 tribal chiefs. In an optimistic eupho- 

ria, the conference agreed on a date for independence, resolving that "As of 

June 30 next, the Congo . . . shall become an independent state whose 

inhabitants shall, under conditions to be enacted by law, have the same 

nationaliry and shall be free to move about and establish themselves within 

the confines of the said state." Provisions were made for eIections with 

universal adult suffrage to choose a parliament before the date of indepen- 

dence. 

The speeches on the final day of the conference were joyful and enthusi- 

astic, yet some of them hinted at problems to come, such as viewing the 

country's provinces as separate political units. Tshombe, president of 

CONAKAT, indicated his satisfaction "that an end has been put to the 

excessive centralization under which the Congo was laboring and . . . has 

resulted in the acknowledgement of the former provinces as political 

entities, with all corresponding powers."' Lumumba, me to his Pan- 

African convictions, noted in his ha1 statement that their African broth- 

ers in Kenya, Nyasaland, South Africa, and Angola "are still fighting for 

their accession to auto no my."^ He called for the eradication of all racial 

discrimination. 

Two beneficial results came from the Brussels conference. As reported 

by Thomas Kanza, a Congolese observer whom I knew and who later 

became a government official, "It had made possible the first meeting in 

the flesh of various politicians from all over the country, each of whom was 

looked upon as a god by his own party, region, or tribe. It also made each 

of them aware of the difliculty, if not the impossibility, of anyone's hoping 

ta wield total power in so enormous and variegated a country as the Congo. 

Not one of them possessed a truly national popularity"3 

When I traveled to the Congo in February 1960, it seemed amazing that 

independence was only four months away. A Belgian official told me that 

the government was doing everything possible to reassure the Congolese of 

Belgian intentions, but the people still doubted. Business interests were 

unsure of their future. Katanga, source of about 60 percent of the Congo's 

income, was Ieast anxious to break ties with Belgium. 

Signs of disunity were rampant. No political party had a massive 

national following. The May elections revealed the dominance of tribal 

rather than national loyalties. The MNC won 35 out of 137 seats in the 

lower house of Parliament, just over 25 percent, although well below the 

69 votes needed for a majority. Nine parties won 7 to 14 seats each. 

Twenty-four seats were won by wen smaller groupings. Lumumba was 

chosen as prime minister with 74 votes. Kasavubu was elected president 

three days later.

The Congo: An Afican Turning Point I39 

INDEPENDENCE AND ITS AFTERMATH 

Independence came on June 30, as scheduled. The foundations had been 

abysmally laid by the Belgians, who were no longer prepared to deal with 

the political crises caused by upsurging nationalism, although they intendad 

to maintain economic control. The Congo was fabulously rich but 

had only one trained African doctor, lawyer, army officer, and senior avil 

servant. Only 17 Congolese had even been to university, and most of these 

had not completed their studies. 

The first discordant note was smck at the independence ceremony. 

Although an intensely committed nationalist, Lumumba was not an expo 

rienced diplomat. With the king of Belgium seated dose to him, he spoke 

of the struggle for independence bringing "to an end the humiliating 

slavery imposed on us by force. Such was our lot for eighty years with the 

colonialist regime; our wounds are still too f d and painful for us to be 

able to forget them at will."4 This reminder of the colonial past was 

considered insulting to the king and the Belgian people. Belgian fears 

about Lumumba were reinforced. 

The newly chosen, i n e ~ c e Congolese d offidals were dependent 

on their Belgian advisers at the outset. Kanza reported on the magicomic 

aspects of the first meeting of the Council of Ministers. "All of us were 

happy . . . at being ministers. It was playacting. . . . we, the colonized, 

now had titles and dignity; but we had no power at all over any of the 

insauments we needed to carry out the functions expected of us. . . . We 

discussed the allocation of ministerial cars, the choosing and allotting of 

ministerial residences. . . . In short, we talked endlessly, laughed our- 

selves silly, and concluded by generally agreeing that the Belgian colo- 

nizers were to blame for all our uoubles."5 

MILITARY REVOLT 

There was no postindependence honeymaon in the \ango. ~hSg6hmmt 

was in no position to handle crises. It was bareIy equipped to handle 

the basic cask of o~~tion. The trouble began with the revolt of the 

Congolese mops just six days after independence. They locked up their 

Belgian officcrs and demanded promotions, pay increases, and the dismissal 

of the Belgian commander. Whites were attacked. Panic resulted. 

Within a few weeks only about 2 0 , of ~ the some ~oo,ooo Belgians 

remained in the country. Belgium quickly sent in troops. They bombed 

the port of Matadi, killing many Congolese. To complicate matters further, 

Katanga declared independence from the Congo on July I I, unprotested 

by Belgium. Not only was the Congo breaking up, but it looked as if 

Belgium were intent upon recapturing yhat it had presumably just given 

UP 

In dqpration Lumumba and Kasavubu demanded elflelgian troops 

,-F *wvy,-, k

leave the country and appealed to the United Nations for military aid "to 

protect the national territory of the Congo against the present external 

aggression which is a threat to international peace." They also sent a 

message to Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev, urging him to follow the 

situation since the Congo might need Soviet help to stem the aggression. 

On July 14 the UN Security Council asked Belgium to withdraw its 

troops and authorized Hammarskjold to provide military and technical 

assistance "until the national security forces may be able, in the opinion of 

the government, to meet fully their tasks." W~thin days the UN had 

dispatched an international force, which grew to mote than 20,m troops 

and 200 technical advisers. Troops from Ethiopia, Ghana, Morocco, 

Wsia, Guinea, Malaysb, Sweden, and Irehd were flown in at various 

stages in U.S. transport planes. The Soviets fwried in food and some 

Ghanaian troops. 

Representing Lumumba's gooemment at the UN was Thomas Kanza, 

then only 26. Son of a distinguished poiitid figure, in 1952 he had been 

the first Congolese to attend a university in Belgium. Then he had worked 

for the European Economic Community (EEC) in Brussels. He was ex- 

ceedingly personable and handled himself well among seasoned diplomats 

at the UN during a mubled period. In the Security Council he called for 

evacuation of Belgiau troops, UN refusal to recognize Katanga, and UN 

technical assistance. The council's resolution encompassed all these 

points. 

The problems did not go away, however. Belgian troops remained in 

Katanga, which continued its separatist course. The United States was 

openly worried about Soviet involvement. Lumumba was seen by the 

American ambassador, Clare Timberlake, as undependable, unstable, and 

very possibly another Fidel Castro, in short, someone who would have to 

go* 

Lumumba arrived in New York on July 24. He received a lot of 

publicity-speeches at the UN, press conferences, an enthusiastic street- 

comer meeting in Harlem, a meeting with Secretary of State Christian 

Herter in Wshington. This meeting did not change the administration's 

opinion of him as messianic and irrational. Lumumba and Wammarskjold 

dearly had differing conceptions of the task of the UN. Lumumba felt that 

he should bave UN backing, particularly on the Katanga issue, while the 

secretary general, as an international civil servant, faced the necessity of 

balancing the contending powers in the UN. 

Lumumba had not forgotten me. At his huge UN press conference, he 

saw me and Associate ACOA Director Homer Jack standing at the edge of 

the crowd and came over to greet us warmly. When Peter Weiss, Jack, a d 

I called on him later at his hotel, we assured him of the ACOA's support. 

W~th us he seemed affable, open, and sensible. Undersmdably, he spoke 

excitedly about the immensity of his task. At the same time, he was selfconfident 

and optimistic that the UN would support him and the rebellion 

in Katanga would end. Whether he was whistling in the dark, I could not 

tell.

The Congo: An African Turning Point 

Back in the Congo, events were unfolding that led eventually to 

Lumumba's death. Since the UN was not supporting his efforts to prevent 

the secession not only of Katanga but also of the agriculturally important 

province of Kasai, he appealed directly to the Soviet Union. Khrushchev 

sent limited military aid-tmdzs, arms, planes, and advisers. In August, 

the Congolme mops opened an ill-fated attack on Kasai. 

KASAVUBU VERSUS LUMUMBA 

Division among the Congolese became inmountable. On September j, 

President Kasavubu, over the radio, dismissed Lumurnba as prime minis- 

ter. Incensed, Lumumba promptly proclaimed by radio Kasavubu's re 

moval from the presidency. Parliament negated both actions by a vote of 60 

to 19. In effect, there were two governments, one under the president and 

the other under the prime minister, neither of which was able to function. 

To make matters worst, Kasavubu was backed by the Vkem powers and 

Lumumba by the Soviet Union and the more radical African states. Thus 

the situation of near d y was compounded by the threat of a super- 

power confrontation. 

The impasse was broken when the 29-year-old Col. Joseph Mobutu, a 

former prot6gd of Lumumba, who was second in command of the army, 

took over. On natiod radio he announced that the Congolese army had 

acted to neutralize the two rival governments and both houses of Parlia- 

ment until Deeember 31, 1960. 

Lumumba now found himself under virtual house arrest. He was 

protected by African UN troops while a thousand Congolese troops sur- 

rounded the area to prevent his escape. Mobutu expelled the Soviet and 

Czech embassies, appointed a rather impotent prime minister, aud put the 

executive functions of government into the hands of a College of Commis- 

sioners composed of young, educated, but governmentally untrained Can- 

gole5e. 

The UN debated the Congo issue. Third World countries were ua- 

usually well represented. Krushchev, head of the Soviet delegation, put 

forth his troika proposal, calling for three secretary generals of the UN, to 

represent the R t, the Sacialist bloc, and the neutral countries. This 

proposal reflected Soviet opposition to the perceived kcern bk of 

Hmmamkjold. A diplomatic battle over representation in the UN took 

place between a Lumumba delegation headed by Kanza and a Kasavubu 

delegation headed by Justin Bomboko. Kasavubu won by a vote of 53 to 24 

with 19 abstentions. 

DOWNFALL OF LUMUMBA 

This was the situation when I arrived at Leopoldville. During the next 

week I tried to see as many of the leading figures in the struggle as 

possible. I talked with ambassadors; with top UN officials such as Gen.

142 Yems of Turmoil 

Indar Rikye, head of the UN forces, and Sture Linner, head of UN civilian 

operations; with proponents and opponents of Lumumba and Kasavubu; 

with Congolese church leaders; and with reporters. The one thing tbat 

emerged from all these talks was that there was no easy solution to the 

perplexing tragic crisis. There was agreement that a power vacuum existed 

but none as to which aspirant should 6ll it. 

First, the Congolese themselves were hopelessly divided-Lumumba 

against Kasavubu; a Lumumba faction of the MNC based in StauleyviUe 

against a faction in Kasai led by Isaac KaIonji; Jason Sendwe's Balubakat 

parry in northern Hatanga at odds with Tshombe's CONARAT. 

Second, the African states that might have been a stabilizing influence 

were divided between those supporting Lumumba (Ghana, Guinea, 

United Arab Republic, and Morocco) and those supporting Kasavubu 

(mostly the newly indqxndent former French colonies, preeminently the 

government of Abbe Youlou, in CMgo Brazzaville). 

Third, the United Nations, trying to hold the country together and 

keep out the cold war, was powerless to act in the face of its conflicting 

members. 

Fourth, the United States and the Soviet Union, each with its own 

interests in the wealth and strategic location of the Congo, backed opp- 

ing forces. U.S. policy, strongly anti-Communist, was bent on preventing a 

Soviet base in the heart of Africa. I felt that to cry to understand the 

conflict in terms of ideology was a mistake. Essentially the Congo leaders 

were making international alliances to advance their own cause. They 

thought, perhaps unrealistidy, that at the right moment they could 

control their own destiny despite outside influences. 

I had an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. Like other opponents of 

colonialism, I had anticipated the independence of the Congo with such 

enthusiasm that the reality was hard to bear. It was like being a potential 

Olympic medalist and breaking a leg just before the start of the race. 

ATTACK ON THE GHANAIAN EMBASSY 

I soon tasted the seriousness; of the conflict. On the evening of November 

21 I heard explosive sounds like fire crackers, unmistakably gunfire, going 

off a few blocks from where I was staying. It was a short-lived battle at the 

Ghanaian embassy between attacking Congolese and defending UN 

troops. Mobutu was intent on expelling the Ghnnclian ambassador to 

punish him for supporting Lumumba. Ghanaian troops helped transport 

Lumumba around LeopoldviUe when he daringly left his house m speak to 

the people. The U.S. ambassador grudgingly commented, "The sad fact is 

that there is not anybody down there d y outside Lumumba who has got 

the kind of energy and drive and ixnaginaaon which would let him be 

Prime Minister, in fact, not just in name."6 In the fracas six Mians and 

six Congolese were killed, including Joseph Nkololo, Mobutu's second in 

command. 

The next morning I spent an hour in the Ghanaian embassy. The troops

The Congo: An African Turning Point I43 

had all gone. The empty embassy and the house across the way were 

pockmarked, and cars on the street were riddled with bullet holes. The fox 

holes dug by the Congolese still looked freshly made. In the embassy a 

pool of blood marked where a Tunisian had fallen, and some blood-soaked 

bandages were lying on the floor. Not even police were in evidence. The 

ambassador had fled or had been expelled. 

I called on the Tunisian ambassador, whom I had known well at the 

UN. He was understandably very upset and seemed to blame Ghana and 

the UN for not seeing that the ambassador left the country before fighting 

erupted. The atmosphere in the city was tense. The ferry to Brazzaville 

was closed. I found out that the U.S. embassy had tried to reach all 

Americans in the city to urge them to stay off the streets. 

I spent a lot of time with Kanza, who had an apartment in the same 

building with UN headquarters. Although he felt he was a marked man 

because of his ties with Lumurnba, he was safe there. The only way he 

could keep in touch with Lumumba, under house arrest, was by tele- 

phone. He feared that with the seating of the Kasavubu delegation in New 

York, Lumumba would try to escape to Stanleyville, where he would 

receive Soviet support. He strongly advised Lumumba against this. Once 

while I was there, he called Lumumba, with whom I also talked. He 

seemed to be calm and unrealistically optimistic. This conversation, as 

things turned out, was actually a farewell. 

THE FATE OF LUMUMBA 

Shortly after Kanza's call, Lumumba did escape. As predicted, he headed 

for Stanleyville. Only a few days later, his capture in Kasai was reported. 

His own courage and self-confidence had betrayed him. He could have 

made good his escape, but he waited at a ferry crossing for his wife and 

children, who had been delayed. His pursuers caught up with him and 

arrested him and two companions, Maurice Mpolo and Joseph Okito. The 

three were held at an army camp at Thysville for about six weeks, then on 

January 17 flown to Katanga and turned over to Tshombe's police. Ac- 

cording to eye witnesses, they were horribly beaten on the five-hour plane 

trip. Most authorities believe they were killed that same night. 

However, the story put out by Tshombe's spokesman on February 13 

was that they escaped and were captured by villagers in Katanga and 

killed. Their bodies were secretly disposed of, presumably at the direction 

of local officials. I wrote to Kanza, who was back in New York represent- 

ing the now rebel regime in Stanleyville, expressing my shock and deep 

sense of shame. 

REACTION TO LUMUMBA'S MURDER 

The emotional reaction to Lumumba's murder was swift. I was in the 

S d t y Council chamber at the UN on February rg, two days after the

144 Years of Turmoil 

news. Adlai Stevenson was scheduled to speak in the Congo debate. He 

had hardly opened his mouth when bedlam erupted in the visitors' gallery. 

I had heard that a coalition of Lumumba's supporters from black na- 

tionalist organizations in Harlem were planning a protest, and I knew 

quite a few of those who stood up and shouted in support of Lumumba 

against Hammarskjold and the United States. I still remember Stevenson's 

startled face. It took some moments for the unarmed UN guards to eject 

the demonstxators. I did not see any real violence, although later reports 

said that a score of people were injured. Afterwards an excited organizer of 

the demonstration enthusiastica,lly proclaimed to me, "We have now ex- 

panded into midtown." 

I attended the third, and last, AAPC in March in Cairo. It was a month 

after Lumumba's murder, and the Congo issue was dominant. The neu- 

tralist theme of the previous conferences was gone. The tone was anti- 

West. Kanyama Chiume, only recently returned from his U.S. tour, said to 

me, "The Congo crisis has done terrible damage to the United States, the 

UN, and Hammarskjold." Slogans around the conference hall said, 

"Unify Congo as one country," "Death to Lumumba's murderers." Pic- 

tures of Lumumba hung on the walls. A message from G. Mennen Wil- 

liams, the new assistant secretary for African Affairs, was not even circu- 

lated. The conference dected a reality in African politics--the Congo 

crisis was a turning point. Something new was happening and Lumumba's 

death helped to trigger it. 

A dynamic and forceful personality, Lumumba aroused tremendous 

loyalty among his friends and followers and the bitterest hatred and fear 

among his enemies. Indeed the U.S. government was involved, through 

the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), in a plot to poison him, as revealed 

by a Senate investigatory committee in 1975. But his Congolese enemies 

murdered him first. 

Although his name is associated with the chaos that enveloped the 

Congo after independence, he will be remembered by most Africans first 

and foremost as a committed nationalist and Pan-Africanist who was 

martyred for trying to unify his country. He tried to rise about the grievous 

divisions of ethnic and regional interests. With Nkrumah he shared an 

idealistic vision of a great union of African states. In Ghana on his way 

back to the Congo following his UN visit, he and Nkrumah had signed a 

secret agreement calling for the establishment of such an African union 

under a federal government with a common currency, defense, foreign 

policy, and economic planning and the capital in Leopoldville. At that 

time such a dream was unrealizable, but it was testimony to a commitment 

that Nkrurnah and Lumumba both shared. 

African city streets are named after Lumumba, and schools and organi- 

zations bear his name. Even some of those involved in his arrest and death, 

such as Mobutu, later president of Zaire, hypocritically invoke his name as 

a great national hero when seeking applause , -- atpublic gatherinp.

The Congo: An AfricaqTping Point 

With Lumurnba gone, Mobutu and Kasavubu ensconced in the central 

government, the Soviet Union expelled, and the United States the domi- 

nant international force in the Congo, a new phase in the Congo problem 

began. Under the new Kennedy administration, U.S. tactics changed. 

Stevenson at the UN, Chester Bowles as under secretary of state, and 

Williams as assistant secretary of state for Africa set a different tone. The 

emphasis was on winning African support, not simply opposing Commu- 

nism. W h s , traveling in Africa, made his much publicized "Africa for 

the Africans" statement in Nairobi, which incensed the white settlers and 

later led one to assault him physically in Lusaka. When the peasant revolt 

broke out in Angola in March, Stevenson supported a UN resolution that 

criticized Portuguese policy in Angola. The administration was open to a 

coalition government in the Congo, even including Antoine Gienga, 

based in Stanleyville, who inherited Lumumba's mantle. In March 

Gizenga became deputy prime minister, but in name only. 

Relative stability in Leopoldville made it possible to focus attention on 

the secession of Katanga. The Tshombe regime was protected by about 

5- Belgian troops and several hundred soldiers of fortune from South 

Africa, Britain, Rhodesia, and France, who were sympathetic to BeIgian 

and white settler interests. Although Hammarskjold had preferred to 

settle the secession issue by negotiations, they did not lead to a solution 

either. Tshombe signed agreements in Leopoldville, only to renege when 

he returned to his stronghold in Elizabethville (now Lubumbashi). 

In September 1961 UN troops and Katanga forces clashed for several 

days. Harnmarskjold was en route to a meeting with Tshombe when his 

plane crashed under suspicious circumstances near Ndola in Northern 

Rhodesia. Everyone on board was killed. Shocked, I felt the loss in a 

personal way. Although I had only met Hammarskjold, I had known well 

one of the men with him, Heinreich Weischoff, head of the Trusteeship 

Division. I was happy, however, with the choice of U Thant, formerly 

Burma's ambassador to the UN, as the new secretary general. He was very 

active in the anticolonial cause, and we were on friendly terms. Shortly 

after he took office in November, the Security Council called for the "use 

of force if necessary" in Katanga, to arrest, detain, or deport the mercen- 

aries and for all secessionist activities to cease. 

UN military action to end the secession began in December. The 

United States supplied planes to transport reinforcements from 

Leopoldville. Tshombe capitulated momentarily by accepting a formula 

that ended secession and absorbed his military force into the national 

army, but, as with previous agreements, he did not honor the terms. 

In the meantime, the right wing was organized in the United States to 

oppose the UN action. Senator Thomas Dodd said that the United States 

had never been committed "to a more preposterous and less defensible

Years of Turmoil 

policy" Groups such as the American Friends of Katanga sprang up. They 

put out Little stickers saying, "Stop UN Colonialism'' and "Hands Off 

Kafanga.'"e American Committee to Aid Katanga Freedom Fighters 

was organized 90 mobilize manimum public support for the Katangan 

fight for self-determination against U.N. military a@on . . . and U.S. 

support of this operation."7 

The ACOA took the lead in countering the Katanga lobby. Our material 

pointed out that Tshombe's party did not have legitimate conml in 

Kamga. It won only 25 out of 60 seats with 33.4 percent of the vote and 

had eliminated the opposition Balubakat party, which hd won 49.4 percent, 

by jailing its leaders. 

During the debate on Katanga, I had an unqmxed visit from Dodd's 

executive assistaut, who bad seen the various ACOA statements. 

exchanged ideas and information in a civilized, if not altogether friendly 

way. Our perceptions of the nisis were quite different. He saw it in terms 

of a fight against international Communism with Tshombe as the knight 

on a white horse. I saw the campaign of the so-called fdom fighters as 

"an attempt to wreck the UN and to defeat an enlightened America0 

policy backing the UN," as an ACOA statement put it. 

The facts were that the Soviets did not support UN action, and neither 

Prime Minister Adoula nor President Kasavubu had appealed to the Soviet 

Union for help against Katanga. Our statement pointed out that 

Tshombe's secret police were ruthlessly suppressing opposition and that 

the "freedom fighters" were not essentially Katanganese but white settlers 

and soldiers of fortune. "The real support for Tshombe comes from the 

European investors whose holdings produce more than $ ~~o,~,ooo an- 

nually." Senator Hubert Humphrey responded, "The points you make are 

very good. I have noticed the spate of advertisements by the so-called 

Katanga Freedom Fighters. You are providing a much-needed corrective. 

More power to 

A few days after meeting Dodd's assistant, I sent a communication to 

Dodd and other senators and congressmen including a statement from U 

Thant that with the end of Katanga sewssion, there would be a general 

amnesty aud no reprisals against any supporters of Tshombe. By renun 

mail my cowring letter to Dodd came back to me wirh an angry note 

scribbled on it by Dodd's assistant. "I am returning this letter to you 

because I ftel there can be no discourse between people who do not share 

the same mod values. You are a man of blood and dishonesty-+ strong 

statement-but after my con~tion with you in New York you should at 

least be m e of the untntthfihess of certain of the assertions contained 

in your statement on Katanga,"g Then he threatened to discuss the matter 

with members of the ACOA National Committee, hinting that I might be 

out of a job. I philosophized that people wil do stmnge things when 

emotionally aroused. I was annoyed more by his failure to pass my letter 

on to Dodd than by what he wrote to me. 

The Katanga issue was settled when the UN installed officials to take

The Congo: An African Turning Point I47 

control of the provincial administration. On January IS, 1963, Tshombe 

finally capitulated. After two and a half years, secession was finally ended. 

THE STANLEYVILLE CRISIS 

Trouble h the Congo, however, was by no means over. The ddenge to 

Congo unity now came from Stanleyville, which so far had not been 

securely integrated into the centmi government. Christophe Gbenye, for- 

merly Lumumba's minister of the interior, who had s uded him as head 

of the MNC, headed a government in Orientale Province, where 

Scanleyville was, which proclaimed itself a People's Republic in August 

1964. To make matters worse, the UN forces, short of funds, had left the 

Congo in June. Prime Minister Adoula, no longer exercising real power, 

resigned in July, and almost unbelievably Kasavubu appointed Tshombe, 

symbol of secession, as prime minister. This move was certainly a formula 

for disaster. Plans for a military attack against Stanleyville were put in 

motion. Desperately trying to protect itself from invasion by Congolese 

forces and several hundred mercenaries from Katanga, the Stanleyville 

rebel regime seized some 1,600 foreign hostages, including American 

missionaries, the U.S. consul, and several CIA officials. The regime had 

some Chinese Communist support, which brought the cold war into the 

picture again. While negotiations on the release of the hostages were in 

progress in Nairobi between Kanza, representing the Stanleyville regime, 

and William Attwood, U.S. ambassador to Kenya, what was touted as a 

"rescue and humanitarian mission" took place. U.S. planes dropped doo 

paratroopers into the city. After brief fighting, the rebel forces fled. They 

massacred 30 hostages on the spot and murdered perhaps 50 more over the 

next few days. 

What a uagedy this whole episode was! The ACOA deplored the tactic 

of holding hostages as blackmail but also was critical of the U.S. involve- 

ment in the "rescue mission." Would there have been a greater loss of Life 

if the negotiations in Nairobi had been allowed to continue? Would there 

have been a chance of saving lives? We wrote to Dean Rusk, secretary of 

state, "It's right for the U.S. to want to see a stable central government in 

the Congo. But is it the American responsibility to become involved 

further in the intend polltics of a country in the heart of Africa when at 

least a large number of African states interpret U.S. involvement as 

interference for essentially cold war objectives?" 

This was to be the last major diplomatic effort for Kauza. He wrote me 

(July 12,1966) that he had resigned from the revolutionary movement in 

the Congo and hoped to be out of politics for good. His plans called for a 

career of writing and teaching and he asked for any help I could give him. 

My last contact with him was an invitation to lecture in a course he was 

giving at Hward in the zg70s.

Yean of Turmoil 

MOBUTU IN POWER 

In October 1965, Kasavubu dismissed Tshombe as prime minister, and 

then in a bloodless coup, Mobutu deposed Kasavubu and named himself 

president for a five-year term, a past he has held ever since. All political 

parties were banned in April 1967. 

Mobutu instituted an "authenticity" program. The name of the country 

was changed to Zaire (meaning "river"). Leopoldville was renamed 

Kinshasa; Sdeyville, Rinsangani; Ekabethville, Lubumbashi. In 1972 

he changed his own name to Mobunt Sese Seko and made it a crime for a 

Zairian baby to be given a %tern name. The date of Christmas was 

changed ternpoiwily to June zq. Further to establish himself as an African 

nationalist, he nationalized small and large businesses but with little 

advance planning. When inexperienced Zairians replaced Europeans in 

foreign-backed enterprises, disaster resulted. Europeans left and bankruptcy 

mounted. As the cost of 03 and grain imports rose and the price for 

exported copper fell drastically, Zaire became a major economic calamity, 

deep in debt. The International Monetary Fund sent in specialists to run 

the central bank and esrablish a system by which foreign banks could 

receive payments on their loans made to keep Zaire doat. 

Combined with this economic disorder was massive corruption as officials 

diverted funds from government revenues into personal accounts in 

foreign banks. Mobutu himself was (and is) reputed to be one of the 

richest men in the world. Nevertheless, he retained a strong anti-Cornmunist 

image and was regarded by successive U.S. administrations as one of 

the West's k t friends in Africa. Zaire has been one of the most-favored 

African recipients of U.S. aid over the years. 

A TURNING POINT 

The Congo's independence symboW the beginning of a new period in 

Africa. Although only I of 17 comma to become independent in 1960, 

developments there had unmatched significance. Anticipation for its success 

had been so high that the sudden letdown was all the more mumatic. 

The conflict over the Congo in the UN, the murder of its first prime 

minister, and the death of the secretary general while trying to negotiate a 

peaceful scttlanent all combined to mark Congo independence as unique. 

The Cow crisis &ded the need for a more realistic view of the 

revolutionary changes taking place in Africa. The romance of the anticolonial 

struggle was challenged. No longer could Africa be viewed simplisticalty. 

Independence was risky to achieve and by itself would not solve 

the problems of ethnic conflict, economic deveIopment, and the need for 

an educated and experienced leadership. From this point on, the struggle 

against colo~~m and white domination in southern Africa would be

The Congo: An A ficun Turning Point 

more violent. Competition between the big "powers in Africa would be- 

come more frequent. Disillusionment in the West was more than matched 

by the deep suspicion of African nationalists that the end of political 

colonialism would nor mean the end of economic dominance by foreign 

powers and that their snuggle would have little help from the West.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Angola: The Stormy Path 

Toward Independence 

n my two trips to Africa in 1960 I had seen only limited evidence that 

0 an outbreak of violence in Angola would soon shatter that "kingdom 

of silence." Up to this time my contacts had been almost exclusively with 

the UPA, primarily through Barros Necaca and Holden Roberto. I knew 

only dimly of the MPLA, based in Luanda. It had to operate clandestinely 

because Portugal permitted only one political party to exist, Dictator 

Antonio de Oliveira Salazar's National Union. 

START OF THE MPLA 

The MPLA, a merger of several smaller groups, had been organized 

secretly in Luanda in December 1956, in contrast to the UPA, which had 

been organized externally. The key figures of the original nucleus were 

among the better-educated, middle-class, urban-based population. By 

1959 it was clear that it would be difficult for the underground organiza- 

tion to maintain and extend itself effectively inside Angola, a police state. 

The secret police had stepped up their activity as a result of Portuguese 

apprehension about the massive riots of January 1959 in the neighboring 

Congo. Large-scale arrests in March and July 1959 led to a secret trial in 

1960 of 57 persons accused of "attempts against the external security of the 

state and the unity of the nation." Among those jailed was the first 

president of the MPLA, Ilidio Machado. 

Under these conditions, the MPLA decided in early 1960 to set up 

external headquarters in Conakry, in newly independent Guinea. Guinea 

was far from Angola, but its African nationalist atmosphere with socialist 

tendencies was friendly to the MPLA. Mario de Andrade, who was outside 

the country, was chosen president and Viriato da Cruz, secretary general. 

De Andrade came from the Dembos forest area of Angola, just east of 

Luanda. He entered the University of Lisbon in 1948, and six years later 

went to the Sorbonne in Paris, where he was during the founding of the 

MPLA. He wrote extensively, even publishing an anthology of poetry. 

During these years Da Cruz was also in Paris. In Angola he had been the 

editor of Mensagem ("Message"), which published poetry and other liter- 

ature to contrast Portuguese and African culture. It was banned by the 

government after its second issue, and Da Cruz fled the country. Lucio 

Lara, a third political exile, formed part of this political nucleus in Paris.

Angola: The Stmy Path Toward Independence 151 

The name of Agostinho Neto was thrust into prominence by another 

round of arrests in Angola in June 1960. He and 51 others were taken into 

custody. Neto, a doctor, was no stranger to prison. He was born in the 

village of Bengo near Luanda in 1922. The son of a Methodist pastor, he 

grew up in the church. After schooling in Luanda, he worked for Ralph 

Dodge, an American Methodist missionary in Angola, and then spent 

three years in public health services in Luanda. He went to Portugal in 

1947 on a Methodist scholarship and completed medical school. Because 

of his activity in the anti-Salazar youth movement, he was sentenced to 

more than two years in jail in 1955. Nevertheless, he was awarded his 

medical degree in 1958, married Eugenia, a Portuguese woman of unusual 

talent, and retuned to Angola to practice. 

After Neto's June 8 arrest, for the first four days and nights in prison he 

was tortured by not being allowed to sleep. A week later, some thousand of 

his neighbors of Bengo and adjacent Icolo demonstrated at the district 

government office in nearby Catete to protest his confinement. Soldiers 

attacked the protestors, killing 30 and injuring more than 200. The next 

day the two villages were burned. Censorship kept this incident out of the 

prtxs. 

With its leaders arrested or in exile, the MPLA busied itself with 

international activity. Representatives traveled to various parts of Africa, 

to London, and to China to win international support. At the AAPC in 

Tunis, the MPLA tried to establish an understanding with the UPA, 

pressuring a reluctant Roberto to sign a declaration calling for joint action 

in Angola. This agreement was never implemented. 

Just two weeks before Congo independence, the MPLA appealed to 

Portugal to dl a conference to discuss self-determination, release of 

political prisoners, and withdrawal of Portuguese forces from Angola. 

Portugal responded unofficially by declaring that self-determination for its 

overseas territories was not a matter for discussion. 

ROBERTO AS LEADER OF THE UPA 

After Congo independence, Roberto returned to Leopoldville and gave 

himself full time to leadership of the UPA, although he had no organizational 

title. The UPA continued to expand. Political broadcasts were 

beamed to Angola by permission of Patrice Lumumba. Before long, 

Roberto's relations with Joseph Kasawbu soured, however, because Kasavubu, 

as a Bakongo nationalist, acted through his tribal organization, 

ABAKO, which wanted to reconstitute the Pan-Bakongo traditional kingdom, 

and the UPA rejected the idea. This constituted an open break with 

Kasavubu. Hearing that Kasavubu was going to have him arrested, in 

September Roberto hurriedly left the Congo for Ghana. 

In Accra, Roberto discovered that his relations with Kwame Nkrurnah 

hadcooled_c~wl-m 

withbcbg 

L,. - toa cl~se t~ the 

- , . - - . 

' _ 

-- - 

-

152 Years of Tunnoil 

United States and with resisting a united front with the MPLA. Roberto 

had replied that he was a nationalist. He told me many years later that he 

had, in fact, feared a formal tie with the MPLA because the UPA did not 

then have trained leaders to hold their own, although still later he had no 

such fears. At any rate, he was stranded in Accra without funds until 

Nkrumah sent him £2w, which enabled him to make his second trip to 

the UN. 

When Roberto returned to the Congo in January 1g61, he adamantly 

opposed the front that the UPA under Necaca had formed with the 

MPLA. Controversy was vigorous, but Roberto prevailed. A majority 

from the Steering Committee, including Necaca, resigned in protest, and 

Roberto became the leader, although he was not elected president for 

another two months. Necam remained in the UPA but with no policy- 

making responsibility. 

BEGINNING OF ARMED STRUGGLE 

The reality of the struggle for freedom in Angola was suddenly thrust 

upon the international scene in 1961. The Portuguese had always been able 

to keep events in their African colonies out of the headlines. This changed 

with a series of strangely linked events. 

A HIGHJACKED SHIP AND A PRISON RAID 

A Portuguese luxury liner, the Santa Maria, was highjacked off the coast 

of South America on January 22 by Capt. Henrique Galvb, formerly a 

deputy in the Portuguese National Assembly and chief inspector of ovcr- 

seas territories. A staunch opponent of Salazar, he had written a report 

highly critical of contract-labor abuses in Angola. As a dissident he was 

sentenced in I 958 to 16 years in prison. The next year he managed to 

mape and was given asylem in Argentina and Venezuela, where he 

worked to overthrow Salazar's government. 

GalMo announced that he would sail the Santa Maria to Luanda. 

Although he abandoned her 11 days later in Brazil, the publicity given to 

this daring act drew many international news reporters to Luanda to await 

his arrival. I made contact with MvSo in Siio Paulo, Brazil, through an 

organization of Portuguese democrats in the United States. The ACOA 

invited him to speak at our Africa Freedom Day meeting in April 1961. He 

accepted, only to be refused a U.S. visa because Portugal claimed he was 

wanted for "fraudulent bankruptcy." As Mvao later said to me, how 

could he have been guilty of such a charge when he was in prison at the 

time? III fact, the United States did not want to offend Portugal because of 

the agreement for a U.S. air base on the Azores Islands. It was two years 

before GaMo auld give testimony at the UN. 

Another went tied in with the Santa Maria incident was a predawn raid

Angola: The Stormy Path Toward Independence 153 

on February 4 by several hundred Africans on the main prison of Luanda 

to free political prisoners. Militants of the MPLA planned the attack. It 

was their opening salvo in the suuggle for independence, and February 4 

is now celebrated as Angola's national day. In the attack at least 7 police 

and some 40 Africans were killed. The next day, European avilians, after 

leaving funeral services for the police, rioted and attacked African bystan- 

ders indisc ' ' ately. The rioting spread to African sections of Luanda, 

and hundreds were killed. This incident, like other earlier ones, would 

have gone virtually unnoticed had not world reporters been on hand to 

cover the Sanra Maria incident. They 6led stories filled with gruesome 

detaii. 

A PEASANT REVOLT 

A Little more than a month later, a third event shattered any Portuguese 

hope for a return to colonial peace and tranquiliry-a peasant uprising in 

northern Angola. Apparently it was planned to coincide with a meeting of 

the UN Security Council to debate the Angolan siruation after the Febru- 

ary prison attack and the subsequent massacre. Roberto, who had a md 

in New York several days before the UN debate, had warned me with 

words to the effect of, "VPatch March 15. Something important will 

happen that day." Wondering if he was referring to UN action, I asked 

what he meant. "Just wait," he replied. 

When I was in northern Angola a few months later, I hard that the 

peasant rebellion had begun on the Primavera plantation owned by a 

Portuguese named Reis. On March 15, several hundred contract laborers 

confronted Reis, demanding payment for several months' back wages. He 

had refused and in attempting to scatter them, had shot into their midst, 

killing one. This triggered a counterattack in which Reis was killed, then 

other Portuguese, including members of his family. But the uprising was 

not canfined to Primavera. A Reuters dispatch from Lisbon on March 17 

named Nova Caipemha, Nambuangogo, and Quitexe as localities of great- 

est violence. An estimated 200 white men, women, and children wexe 

killed on the first few days of the revolt. A British Baptist missionary in 

northem Angola told me later of those days: "It was a chilling demonstra- 

tion of what the release of long pent-up feelings can do." 

Although the UPA had been identified with the uprising, its prepara- 

tion was indeed minimal. An early military chief of the UPA, who had 

deserted from the Portuguese Army because he had hmrd that the UPA 

was well anned and ready for battle, told me he was deeply disillusioned 

when he reached Leopoldville to discover the dismal preparation-only 7 

guns, for example, and I I men who were being rrained at the lhish 

embassy. 

In view of the limited preparation, the revolt had a surprising shon- 

term success. For virtually the entire six months after March 15, the rebel 

forces moved rapidly at will, even though their tactics were not well

planned. The Portuguese were forced out of 33 fortitied posts and hung on 

to only g in a corner of the Uige district. A pro-Portuguese South African 

journalist, A. J. Venter, reported that within a month, rm administrative 

posts in three dismcts were eliminated and more than 1500 Europeans had 

been killed. 

Coffee plantations were particularly hard hit by the war. Dozens of 

planters were ruined by the destruction of their crops. The mass of people 

in the north did not become militants, but hundreds of thousands became 

refugees, and many walked long distances to reach the Congo. 

Portugucsc reprisals began soon. A Methodist missionary friend, Mal- 

colm McVcigh, who was working then in the Kimbundu-speaking area of 

Angola, talked with me of his experience. He was holding religious 

meetings in villages where the people were not even aware of the uprising 

when the local Portuguese official warned him to leave immediately be- 

muse the area was going to be bombed. "The majority of those people who 

escaped the bombings," he told me, "were either taken prisoner or 

Wed." 

Believing unaccountably tbat htestant missionaries were among the 

principal fomenters of the mlt, the Portugulese reacted against the 

churches. One American missionary reported that out of 165 Methodist 

pastors and teachers in the Luanda and Dembos areas, 135 were missing, 

dad, or in prison by early 1962. Four American Methodist missionaries 

were jailed for three months and then deported to the United States, 

charged with running a school for terrorists and storing arms. 

How does one assess this peasant revolt? On the one hand, it certainly 

took the struggle for independence from Luanda to the rural north. It 

inescapably focused world attention on Portuguese colonialism and no 

doubt quickened the process of revolution in Guinea-Bissau and Mozam- 

bique. If it did not attract mass support outside of the north, it did attract 

leaders from all sections of the country. On the other hand, the uprising 

was poorly planned. V dy no advance explanation was given to those 

who would be primarily affected. There was no clear vision about the kind 

of country that should result from the revolt. Had there been a clearer 

purpose, perhaps some of the initial indiscriminate slaughter codd haw 

been avoided. Had there been some forethought, UPA forces might have 

known what to do with the vast area of the north that they controlled for 

several months. As it was, when the Portuguese did not flee or move to 

negotiate, UPA was at a loss as to the next move. 

GROWTH OF UPA 

Neverthdcss, the March 15 revolt spurred the growth of UPA. The mass 

base of the movement remained among the Bakongo, but anti-Portuguese 

dissidents were attracted from other areas of the country, as well. The top 

military chiefs, the vice president, the leader of a UPAdominated trade 

union, and the medical officer who headed the Assistance Service for 

Angolan Refugees (SARA) all came from central or southern Angola.

Angola: The Stormy Path Toward Independence 

In late 1961 Jonas Savimbi joined. He came from Chilesso in the Bie 

district and had a religious background, since his father had combined 

railroad work with work for Protestant missionaries. Savimbi not only 

brought in new leadership from the south but also a much-nded intellec- 

tual image to a heavily peasant-oriented UPA. He soon became secretary 

general. He accompanied Roberto to the Conference of Nonaligned Coun- 

tries in Yugoslavia in 1961 and to the UN General Assembly that fall. 

When I met him at the UN he was not bearded and rather quietly followed 

Roberto. 

In the meantime, UPA sent more than 20 men to Algerian FLN bases 

in Tunisia for military training. Most became officers for the newly orga- 

nized UPA army and trained other men for guerrilla warfare. 

While Roberto was at the UN, I talked with him about going into northern 

Angola with the UPA rebels. He was supportive and I made a plan. John 

Marcum, an African spedalist at Lincoln University, a black school near 

Philadelphia, who had been part of the ACOA delegation to the AAPC in 

Accra, wanted to go too. Knowledgeable, soft spoken, fluent in French, 

and easy to get along with, he seemed an ideal companion. We left at the 

earliest opportunity, right after Christmas. 

CROSSING THE BORDER 

On the heavily clouded night of January 4, 1962, we drove out of 

Leopoldville, intending to cross into Angola in the dark. La the car with us 

was Jod Manuel Peterson, a UPA official with responsibilities for organiz- 

ing refugees, and Field Commander Joio Batista. Born in southern An- 

gola, Batista had been drafted into the Portuguese army while he was still 

in school. Promoted to corporal and sent to northern Angola, he leamed 

about UPA from Congolese soldiers at the border. He decided to desert 

and after several attempts, crossed into the Congo and got in touch with 

UPA. He was one of the handful of Angolans who received further military 

training under 'hnisian direction in Leopoldville. He participated in the 

first action against the Portuguese in mid-March 1961 and by July was 

dtsignated commander. 

A few miles out of Leopoldville, the tropical rain smck. Our wind- 

shield wipers did not work and the car slowed to a crawl. Fortunately the 

rain had let up when we turned off onto a dirt road that led to the border. 

There we met, as planned, a UPA rmck with eight soldias in the back, 

sitting in the midst of a variety of weapons. Car and truck proceeded 

together in the dark on the rough road. When the car broke down at 3:m 

A.M., all of US piled into the truck. Near the border, the heavily loaded 

mck broke through an old bridge and had to be abandoned with a small

J&o Batism, UPA commander, reading the Bible at a camp in Angola, 1962. 

guard. We walked the last few miles through a small village of refugees, up 

a hill, past a line of eucalyptus trees marking the border, and into Angola. 

The sun was fairly high by that time, but there apparently were no officials 

on either side of the line, for we were not intercepted. 

Despite a night of travel without sleep, I felt amazingly keyed up The 

morning air was fresh and cool and the landscape was beautifid-rolling 

hills and valleys, forests of tall trees, grass higher than Iowa corn, and 

abundant water in the many sueams. It was bard to realize that there was a 

war going on. 

Only a few hundred yards across the border we came upon an im- 

pressive pile of weapons from Tunisia and Algeria, which had been 

brought in eaxlier for distribution to young nationalists who had marched 

many days from farther south. After a brief rest we started hiking south. 

Thc young men shouldered astoundingly heavy loads of rifles, machine 

guns, ammunition, and land mines. 

Some five hours hike brought us wearily to our destination, an almost 

empty village, whose inhabitants had fled north to join the growing throng 

of refugees in the Congo. Here we stayed for a couple of nights in a hut 

while the arms were distributed and the guerrillas scattered to their 

various bases. Marcum and I watched, talking with the few who could 

speak French, and most importantly acted like medical technicians, which 

we were not. Wk did bring in 250 pounds of medicines.

Angola: The Stmmy Path Toward Independence 

A VILLAGE TOUR 

During our 114ay trek through high grass and deep forest, we visited 12 

villages. Sometimes we were 5, sometimes 20, but always accompanied by 

Peterson. The narrow paths wound up and down hill, across streams 

bridged usually by a single log or by several logs bound together by jungle 

vines, suspended high above the water. The lush grass, 15 or more feet 

high, had s hp edges that scratched our arms. The footing was precarious 

there and difficult in the forest because of roots across the path and the 

constant dampness beneath the impenetrable shade. 

We were greeted with genuine warmth by the hundreds of people we 

met on the paths, many of them refugees moving north toward the Congo. 

Auy such chance meant a kind of reception line as we shook hands 

and spoke words of greeting. An old woman and small chiid stopped in 

front of Marcum and me, danced around us, and knelt and offered a 

prayer. Villagers shared their grass-and-mud huts and their food with us. 

Occasionally we had chicken, wild buffalo, wild pig, fish, and eel caught in 

one of the rivers. Usually, however, our diet consisted of luscious fruits 

such as bananas, mangos, pineapple, and papaya, along with generous 

supplies of manioc (the staple) and peanuts. We had to drink water from 

the streams. The simple water pursers we carried must have done some 

good, for we did not suffer any serious digestive consequences. 

We saw something of the effects of the war. Food and scant medical 

supplies were stored outside each village in case of a bombing, of which 

Angolan refugees fl& to & Congo, 1962.

there was always danger. We wimessed an attack on two villages just after 

we had left them. The small planes dove, dropping their incendiary bombs 

and rockets, then flew off. We could hear the concussion of the bombs and 

saw the fires that erupted. A little later someone from the villages reported 

that no one was injured because the people had scartered. I was given 

fragments of a bomb as a memento. On another occasion, while walking 

through a forest, we heard a plane diving near us, but no explosions. It was 

dropping leaflets. Soon we were given one, written in Portuguese and 

Kikongo, calling on the people to return to Portuguese protection. As the 

leaflet was read aloud, the people Iaughed derisively or growled in anger. 

We saw burnt abandoned villages. At one, the walls of a gutted Catholic 

chapel bore the words, "Angola, Kimpwanza ['Independence']. Amen." I 

took a picture of a napalm bomb casing clearly marked, "Property of the 

U.S. Air Force." 

A strange combmation of ordinary village pursuits and military prac- 

tices grew out of the exigenaes of war. When we approached a village, we 

quite suddenly would come upon senuies, who had been standing out of 

sight. Our UPA travel documents, a mimeographed sheet, would be 

examined, perhaps signed, and then returned to us. A gate would swing 

open on the path and we would enter the village area. Frequently a 

military drill would be put on for our benefit. Almost invariably Marcum 

and I would be asked to give medical treatment. It was a pitiful sight as a 

line formed and we did what we could for raw, open sores on arms or legs. 

The people may have felt something important was being accomplished. 

We felt inadequate. 

Our primary destination was the UPA field headquarters called Fuesse, 

near Sio Salvador. It was hidden from the air, deep in the forest. The 

young men on duty at the gate examined our papets very offidally, but 

when they tried to examhe Batista's pockets, he angrily protested. It was 

obvious that the authority of the field commander, coming as he did from 

the Cuanhama area far to the south, was very limited in this Bakongo 

region. Afrer much arguing, the problem was not happily resolved, and 

Batista re- to make his usual speech to the militants after their dress 

parade. A few days later Batista continued south toward a headqumclg 

near Bembe. V& last saw him with a few UPA mps disappearing down 

the path into the forest. Shortly theder, we concluded our exciting, 

informative trip with the UPA forces and returned to New York. 

Although I had not been able to talk directly to Batista because of the 

Ianguage barrier, he had impressed me--by his courage and bis personal 

discipline in difiicult circumstances. Therefore, it was sad to hear of his 

death Irsss than a month afterwards. According to the official report, issued 

a year later, he had been killed in a battle with the Portuguese near Bembe. 

But quite another version came out. Marcos Kassanga, military chief of 

staff, had been selected to succeed Batista. Instead he held a press con- 

ference, at which he resigned and announced that Batista had been killed 

by the UPA Bakongos. I do not know what the truth may be. This was the 

first of many defections. Nevertheless, I sensed that the UPA had some-

Angola: The Stormy Path Toward Independence I59 

thing going. It was not just a lot of talk, Yet its organization and leadership 

were obviously hited. What lay ahead was unclear. 

THE FNLA AND GRAE 

On the whole, 1962 was a pretty good year for UPA. Toward the end of 

March the National Front for the Liberation of Angola (FNLA) was 

formed when UPA and the Democratic Party of Angola (PDA) joined.* 

On April 3 they formed the Revolutionary Government of Angola in Exile 

(GRAE). UPA headquarters in Leopoldville became GRAE headquarters. 

Holden Roberto was chairman of the Executive Committee of the FNLA 

and president of GRAE. Emrnanuel Kunzika of the PDA became first vice 

president. From this point on UPA was hardly ever mentioned. The terms 

FNLA or GRAE were used somewhat interchangeably depending on 

whether the movement or the government in exile was meant. 

In mid-August GRAE opened up a military camp at Kinkuzu some 70 

miles west of Thysville in the Congo, which had been a Congo army base. 

Cyrille Adoula, prime minister of the Congo, and Roberto had a good 

relationship, since they had known each other for years and had formerly 

played on the same soccer team. When I visited this base, in the company 

of nationalist leaders from other parts of Africa,* there were about I ,500 

men there for training. Jonas Savimbi, foreign minister of GRAE, headed 

the delegation. 

When we arrived, the men, including 200 deserters from the Por- 

tuguese Army, who were directed by officers trained in Algeria, were 

assembled quickly for drill. All were in uniform, most in sneakers. Only 

10 percent were armed because those who had already gone into Angola 

had taken most of the arms with them. It was obvious that the military 

potential of GRAE was growing. The drill concluded with a skillful speech 

in Portuguese by Savimbi. 

REACTION IN THE UNITED STATES 

When fighting broke out in Angola in 1961, the United States was faced 

with a dilemma that was never satisfactorily resolved-how to remain 

neutral in Portugal's African wars while maintaining a military alliance 

with Portugal that involved an American Air Force base in the Azores. The 

resulting stance was in effect unfriendly to the liberation struggle. In 

attempting to balance policy, U.S. Ambassador to the UN Adlai Stevenson 

supported the UN resolution criticizing Portugal's violent response to the 

'The PDA, formerly ALIAZO, had broadened its name to be rid of tribal connotations. 

*Sam Nuioma, president of SWAPO; Ndabaningi Sithole from Southern Rhodesia, of the 

Zimbabwe African Peoples Union (ZAPU); and Paulo Gumane, president of a dissident 

Mozambique oqanhtion, the Mozambique Revolutionary Committee (COREMO).

Angola prison attack, and the United States prohibited Portugal's use of 

NATO military equipment outside the North Atlantic zone, but to little 

effect since this could not be monitored. Portugal countered by refusing to 

renew the agreement for the U.S. base in the Azores, although it did not 

interfere with continued U.S. use. 

Arthur Schlesinger, formerly a member of the ACOA's National Com- 

mittee, wrote: 

The problem led to continued wrangling in W&hgton--the Bureau of European 

Affairs w. the B~ueau of African Mairs, the Mission to the U.N. vs. the Pen- 

tagon. . . . This left us no choice but of moderating policy on Portuguae qucs- 

tions in the UN-never enough for the nationalists in Africa and always too much 

for the Pcntagon and Dr. Salazar-2 

We in the ACOA were concerned not only with government policy but 

also with a Pormguese-sponsored right-wing campaign against us in the 

United States. In 1961 the PortuguaeAmerican Committee on Foreign 

Affairs suddenly appeared. It was headquartered in Boston and chaired by 

a Portuguese-born Boston lawyer, Marrin T Comacho. It was financed by 

40 overseas Portuguese companies. Comacho released a seven-page public 

statement attacking the ACOA and demanding a congressional investiga- 

tion of it for "supporting communist goals" and for its financing of and 

connections with the "terrorist" movement in Angola. He called on promi- 

nent people on our National Committee to resign. None did. Comacho's 

committee also published a pamphlet, Communists and Angola, devoted 

almost exclusiveIy to attacking the ACOA. Because we were not called 

communist but only described as "backing communist goals" it was d81- 

cult to take legal action. 

Others picked up the attack. Fulton Lewis, Jr., a right-wing columnist, 

wrote that the ACOA's main target was Portugal and that our program 

"would probably deprive this country of a loyal and dedicated ally."3 

Senator John Tower of Twras said in the Senate that the ACOA seemed to 

be the agent of a foreign power, leading Comacho to ask the Depamnent of 

Justice to force the ACOA to register as a foreign agent. At a conference 

with a government lawyer sent from Washington, we presented evidence 

that the ACOA received absolutely no financial backing from any gowm- 

mcnt or any other foreign source. The case was dropped. I felt it was 

poetic justice when, a little later, Comacho was called to testify at Senate 

hearings on the Foreign Agent Registration Act. When it was established 

that his Pormguese-American Committee was bced by Portuguese 

companies, he had to register as a foreign agent. 

THE MPLA AND ATTEMPTS TOWARD 

A UNITED FRONT 

By early April 1961 the MPLA was confronted with a sobering set of 

circumstances. Fighting had broken our in Luanda and the north, and the

Angola: The Stmmy Path Toward Independence 

coffee-based economy of northern Angola was in dismay. For the moment 

the Fortuguese were in retreat and the world was aware. Yet the MPLA 

lacked an accessible strong base in the north, and its wrtemalheadqumm 

was thousands of mils away in Conakry. 1 

The MPLA made numerous attempts directly or through a third party 

to involve the FNLA in a united front. At the third AAPC in Cairo, I 

talked with Mario de Andrade, president of the MPLA, who stressed the 

necessity for a united front. My awareness of the issue was also sharpened 

by my correspondence with Bishop Ralph Dodge, who had spent many 

years in Angola. He wrote to me (May 23,1961) summmhg the maay 

MPJA attempts to bring Roberto into a united front and emphasized his 

fear that open conflict would begin between the two movements, thus 

dissipating energy that should be directed against the Salazar regime. 

Agostinho Neto was under house arrest in Lisbon at tbis time. Many 

who were close to the Angola situation felt that his release was important to 

the future of the struggle. The ACOA joined the international campaign to 

press the Portuguese, unsuccessfully, for his release. With the help of the 

anti-Salazar underground, however, he escaped. 

Neto made his way to MPLA headquarters, now in Leopoldville by 

government permission, and tried to bring the MPLA and the FNLA 

together. An official meeting of the groups was heId on August g, 1962, 

but no agreement was reached. The suspicions on each side were too 

formidable. The subsequent letters between Roberto and Neto were undiplomatic, 

and Roberto refused Neto's proposal for another meeting. Not 

only did Roberto fear the MPLAYs sophisticated leaders hi^ but his movement 

was in fact stronger; he felt that he had more to lose than to gain. 

The MPLA certainly had a level of sophistication that UPA could not 

match. The neatness and orderliness of the MF'LA medical office and 

clinic in Lcopoldville were in sharp contrast to the bedlam around the 

comparable service of UPA. There were eight doctors, compared to one 

for UPA, well-kept resords, and a well-stocked supply room. 

In early 1962, John Marcum and I went twice to the M.PLA office. In 

our discussions its Executive Committee indeed stressed the necessity for 

joint action militarily but not politically with UPA (the FNLA was set up 

twu months later). It felt UPA had no program and no idealogy and was 

tribalist and racist. (UPA seemed prejudiced against mulattos, who were 

numerous in MF'LA leadership) Furthermore, MPLA leaders were enraged 

by the UPA murder of 16 MPLA comrades who had been captured 

in Angola while trying to take munition to their militants in the 

Nambuangango area. 

In December 1962 the MPLA held its first national conference. Neto 

was chosen president and Mario deAndrade became head of external 

affairs. Viiato da Cruz, former secretary general, who had led dissidents 

out of the MPLA some months earlier, was officially ousted. The conference 

enunciated a fundamental principle of '^the priority of the interior 

over the exterior," meaning that it must find a base for operation within 

Angola.

Yean of Turmoil 

HEADY DAYS FOR THE FNLA AND GRAE 

My main contact with the liberation struggle in Angola continued to be 

primarily with the FNLA and GRAE. I did not try to shun the MPLA; its 

work was just less apparent to me. The ACOA's most substantial project in 

Angola was medical, Emergency Relief to Angola (ERA). We launched it 

shortly after Marcum and I returned from northern Angola. We cooper- 

ated particularly with the FNLA medical and refugee program (SARA) 

and its director, Dr. Jod Liahuca. 

IAN GILCHRIST AND SARA 

When we began looking for a permanent doctor for the program, the ideal 

person came along. Ian Gilchrist was a young Canadian doctor who had 

been raised in Angola in a medical missionary family and had been trained 

in Canada. He had never lost his strong attachment to the Ovimbundu 

people with whom he had grown up 

At that time, Giichrist had a wife and two children and was working in a 

hospital in Sierra Leone. VPe worried about Portuguese reprisals against 

his parents in Angola if he was working with the FNLA, but he was 

committed: "My family are ready. We are agreed that the time is long past 

for positive action and we are ready for the consequences."4 In addition to 

having medical skills, Gilchrist knew Angola and could speak some Por- 

tuguese, Umbundu, and French. He also knew Liahuca, who was enthusi- 

astic about his coming. It took months to get Roberto's approval. Gilchrist 

finally went to Leopoldville in January 1963 with no set salary. We took out 

an insurance policy and opened a small savings account for him in New 

York. His family joined him later. 

When I met the Gilchrists in mid-1963, I was immediately attracted. 

Ian was slight, with reddish blonde hair and beard and a ready smile but 

an intense manner. Joyce was blond and quiet but gave the impression of 

great inner strength. They lived under almost impossible circumstances in 

the SARA clinic, which was in the regular FNLA compound. There were 

five or six buildings, once private houses, only a IS-minute walk from the 

center of the city. The grounds were congested with people, mostly 

refugees. Hundreds were settled there at any given time, as though it were 

a village. People cooked food over open fires and slept on the ground. 

Sanitation was woefblly inadequate. The Gilchrists occupied one room of 

the clinic separated from the surgical room by a curtain. The two children 

could watch an operation simply by lying on their stomachs and peering 

under the curtain. 

SARA tried to help the refugees through the Leopoldville clinic and 

also to send medical staff to the border villages filled with displaced 

Angolans. Through ERA the ACOA supplied a volkswagen van converted 

into an ambulance. Gichrist's special assignment was to spend time at the 

border. He vividly described in a report in early 1963 what it was like to go 

into a village. "Here you see the lines of rehgees, one line of women and

Angola: The Stop2 Path Toward Independence 

Dr. Ian Gilchrist and family 

and friend in LeopoldviUe, 

Congo, 1963- 

children and one line of men. We worked away here during the whole day. 

The clinics start early in the morning as soon as it is light and then work 

through until it is dark or until supplies are exhausted." 

Travel to the border had many hazards. He wrote (March 10, r963), 

"We managed to get stuck three times, first in wet sand, then in mud, and 

W y between some deep ruts. The last time was $30 A.M. so we BU went 

to sleep where we sat until the sun came up an hour or so later, then we 

dug out and continued on." Months later he wrote (October 13, 1963), 

"All the way down from Mukumbi to Kizamba we were followed by a 

variety of spies from the adjacent Portuguese posts [just across the 

border). . . . The Pomguese spread the word that I was not really a 

doctor but a mulatto deserter." His experiences were made real to me 

when I crawled with him to the border, camping out at night, cooking 

food over an open fire, and holding clinics. 

RECOGNITION BY THE OAU 

Nineteen sixty-three was the peak year for the FNLA. Adoula, still the 

Congo's prime minister, sent assistance, which came also from Algeria and 

'lirnisia. Roberto was indisputably in command. The PDA was only a 

junior partner both in the FNLA and GRAE. The MPLA was offering 

Little competition. Tom Mboya wrote me from Nairobi (January 28,1963)

that the MPLA was refused affiliation with PAFMECA at their recent 

conference. "The conference felt that it must encourage the two groups 

[MPLA and GRAE] to come together rather than recognize them as 

separate. It is obvious from our observations that Holden Roberto com- 

mands most popular support, more than the MPLA." 

At the end of May, at a conference of the heads of African independent 

states in Addis Ababa, which I attended as an official observer, the Organi- 

zation of African Unity (OAU) was born. What a thrilling moment it was 

to see most of the African leaders seated at a horse shoe-shaped table with 

Emperor Haile Selassie in the chair. Virtually all the heroes of the freedom 

struggle were there-Kwame Nkrumah, Ahmed Ben Bella, Habib Bour- 

guiba, Julius Nyerere, Skkou TourGalong with the leaders of the libera- 

tion movements. It was clear that the OAU would supplant the AAPC. 

One of the principal decisions of the OAU was to establish a nine- 

member Coordinating Committee for the liberation movements. Each of 

the OAU member states was to be financially assessed in order to buiid up 

a special fund to aid the struggle. An important early task was to establish 

a Reconciliation Commission to the Congo in order to study the strengths 

and relations of the FNLA and the MPLA. 

In October the commission recommended that support and recognition 

should be given to the FNLA and GRAE. Three key north African 

countries-Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco-had already recognized 

GRAE. Roberto was particularly ecstatic about Algeria, a country he said 

that "has always stood by the side of the Angola people from the dawn of 

its rev~lution.'~ 

For the moment it looked as if Roberto's refusal to cooperate with the 

MPLA had paid off. Adoula's government officially recognized GRAE on 

June 29, I 963, over the opposition of Kasavubu . 

At the same time the MPLA suffered harassment from the Congo 

government. In June its office was raided by police. Arms and explosives 

were seized and the MPLA was later fined. In September Neto and Lara 

were arrested for having false papers, although they had travel documents 

from African states. The MPLA clinic was closed in October and the office 

itself in November, The MPLA moved across the river to Brazzaville, 

where a friendly government had just gained control. 

NEW INITIATIVES BY THE MPLA 

At its new base in Brazzaville, the MPLA held a conference to try to find a 

new, more promising direction to establish its credibility as a formidable 

leader of the Angolan liberation struggle. To that end it decided to open a 

new fighting front in the Portuguese enclave of Cabinda, a densely forested 

coastal area that borders both Congo-Leopoldville and Congo-Brazzaville, 

Using a few hundred guerrillas, the MPLA scored some early successes. 

Perhaps 5,wo Portuguese troops were sent to the area to counteract the 

MPLA forces.

Angoh: The Stmy Path Toward Independence 165 

Later, the MPLA claimed to control about so percent of the territory 

A. J. Venter said it occupied more than go percent.5 After 1967, however, 

the Cabinda campaign lost its earlier impetus although sporadic attacks 

continued. 

Even more important than the Cabinda campaign was the opening up of 

the struggle in Mexico and Cuando Cubango districts in eastern Angola, 

bordering on newly independent Zambia. The MPLA opened an office in 

Lusaka, which became its principal international headquarters. The eastem 

front, or Third Region (the first being the north, the second Cabinda), 

is a vast flat plateau, close to 4,000 feet in elevation, with many rivers, 

forming the drainage for the Zambezi River. In the cool season the 

temperature can read f d g after sundown. There were only about 

380- people in a few scattered villages, who cultivated rice, manioc, 

sorghum, and millet and fished in the rivers. The Portuguese called the 

area "the land at the end of the earthn and had done vidy nothing to 

develop it. There were a few rudimentary roads and almost no schools, 

hospitals, or projects for economic development. Tmps held some Portuguese 

outposts occupied otherwise only by pioneer traders and government 

officials. 

The eastern front was an all-important entering wedge for the MPLA. 

It opened the way into the headand of Angola through the districts of 

Malange and Bi6 and thence west even to the Atlantic. The egternal office 

of the MPLA would continue to serve as liaison with Lusaka, Brazzaville, 

and Dar es Salaam, but the most important work would be done inside the 

country. By August 1968 the MPLA felt confident enough about its hold 

on the region to convene its first regional conference in Moxico. 

The Portuguese at first saw the eastern front as only a distraction from 

the area of conflict in the Dembos Mountains and the north, but by 

mid-1970 the MPLA reportedly had from 3,000 to 5,wo fighting units on 

the eastern front and about another thousand units in the Dembos area.6 

They used guerrilla tactics-ambushing Portuguese patrols and posts, 

mining the roads, and trying to protect the villagers who fled to the forest. 

The overall objective was to make the region secure enough so that it could 

be the springboard for incursions into the heartland of Angola. 

HARD TIMES FOR THE FNLA AND GRAE 

The optimistic feeling of unity and success did not last long at FNLA 

headquarters. Any revolutionary situation is bound to have strains and 

stresses as factions compete for power. The FNLA was no exception. 

PROBLEMS WITH ROBERTO 

Some problems arose because of the way Roberto worked. I had an 

intimation of this at the OAU conference in Addis Ababa in May 1*3.


Jonas Savimbi, who was there with Roberto, looked troubled and sent a 

note saying he would like to talk with me. Later at a long session, he told 

me things were not going well. Roberto kept everything in his own hands. 

He seemed to trust only a few people, usually Bakongos. For months on 

end he would not write to Savimbi, who was studying in Swiaerland. 

Roberto, complained Savimbi, did not know how to delegate work to 

others. He had no theoretical or long-range plan and no sense of a grand 

strategy. Every decision was his own and no one else knew about it. AU of 

this was causing deep dissatisfaction. Then Savimbi urged me to "speak to 

the president and tell him there will be problems if some changes are not 

made." He was wrong if he thought I could auence the way Roberto 

worked. Although I could talk frankly with him, my influence certainly 

did not attend to changing his personal behavior. Roberto did not like 

political criticism from the outside (or inside either). 

A fimher indication of Roberto's inability to share responsibility ap- 

peared on his and Kunzika's trip to the UN. They were both to speak at a 

particular session. Roberto was to let Kunzika know the time, but he did 

not do so. Kunzika was elsewhere at the appointed hour, and Roberto 

alone appeared. Kundka was terribly angry and frustrated by this and 

spoke to me bitterly about it. A trip all the way to New York, only to miss 

the whole purpose of it! 

An inevitable result of Roberto's attempt to maintain almost absolute 

control was that he lost the codidence and support of potentially helpful 

allies, particularly those who came from other parts of Angola. I saw some 

of the deterioration. In July 1964 when I was brieily in Leopoldville, Dr. 

JosL Liahuca talked to me with surprising frankness. For some time his 

relations with Roberto had been souring. He said he felt like a prisoner, 

that he would like to leave but didn't know where to go. He felt that 

Roberto was not pressing the struggle in the south, had alienated the 

southerners, and was incapable of unifying the country. Indeed, the next, 

night, Liabuca did leave. On my return to New York a letter from 

Gilchrist told me Uuly 26,1964), "Liahuca is gone. He escaped across the 

river with his family. The same night Holden arrived back unexpectedly 

[from Cairo], but too late to stop him." 

In a resignation statement from Brazzaville Uuly 25, 1964), Liahuca 

denounced the tribalistic maneuvers of Roberto, "who was using all meth- 

ods to surround himself with members of his family in the GRAE at the 

same time that he is alienating hundreds of Angolan military men and 

civilians of other ethnic origins." 

At about this same time, after a year's build up, Savimbi resigned 

publicly from FNLA and GRAE at the OAU gathering in Cairo. I had 

suspected trouble when Gilchrist wrote (February 10,1964), "Discontent 

is rampant in the ranks. . . . The split between Holden and Savimbi 

appears widening." 

Relations went from bad to worse when the FNLA began discussions 

with Viriato da Cruz, a Mantist with good Chinese connections, about his 

joining the front after his faction had been ousted from the MPLA. John

Angola: The Stormy Path Toward Independme 167 

Marcum wrote me from Leopoldville (April 4, 1964) that "Jonas is out- 

raged by the entrance of Viriato da Cruz!" Savimbi cabled me from 

Lausanne (April 24,1964), "Important see you before going Leopoldville. 

Learned Viriato joined the front. My group disagreed. If impossible [for 

you to] come, please call." Just a few days before he took off for Cairo he 

wrote (June I 8, 1964), "Holden is more afraid of us than of any Cornmu- 

nist. . . . This is unbelievable!" I was not surprised, therefore, at Sav- 

imbi's announcement in Cairo. 

DIFFICULTIES FOR GILCHRIST 

My main concern during this period was for the welfare of Ian Gilchrist 

and his family. His situation was increasingly precarious. Although ini- 

tially an enthusiastic supporter of Roberto, he had slowly been drawn into 

sympathy with the southern Angolans and the critics of Roberto. I think 

he tried desperately to remain even-handed in his judgments, but being so 

close to the situation on a day-to-day basis, it was very dimcult. His real 

commitment was to the overall liberation struggle, not to one particular 

person or movement. 

Political concerns constantly interrupted medical concerns as the pos- 

sibility of significant defection increased. Gilchrist wrote (August 5, 1964) 

that almost all the Ovimbundu officers were taken prisoner at the base 

[Kinkuzu], including the commander, Kalundungo. There were then only 

two Ovimbundu connected in any way with the GRAE. 

The medical work seemed to go downhill after Liahuca's departure. 

There was no competent, well-trained Angolan to replace him. Further- 

more the VW ambulance and a Land Rover that had been contributed for 

SARA use were more frequently commandeered by GRAE, making medi- 

cal uips to the border impossible. 

The pressure of work was as great as ever. There were an estimated 

400,000 Angolan refugees in the Congo, arriving at the rate of 5,000 a 

month. Gilchrist's mood was not helped by a raid for recruits at the GRAE 

compound by Congolese soldiers and Angolan security guards. He was 

asked to pick out any too sick to be so conscripted. He chose about 8 out of 

so-one with a critically ill wife, a man with a fractured arm, a child of 

about 10, an old man with gray hair. "For this the Congolese soldiers 

pointed their rifles at me and promised to have me locked up. . . . Several 

other sick persons were taken away. You can't imagine how troubled I 

am."7 In addition, he wanted to finish a course in tropical medicine at 

Louvanium University in Leopoldville, which ran until June, so he cut his 

schedule at SARA to consulting only two days a week. 

Barely had he finished the course when Alexander Taty, minister of 

defense in the GRAE cabinet, and Andre Kassinda attempted an armed 

coup on June 21. It failed, but during the fighting in the GRAE com- 

pound, Gilchrist was told by a nurse that the police riding in the SARA 

ambulance had begun to pick up persons who had been suspected of 

opposition to GRAE. A nurse's brother was among them. When Gilchrist

I 68 Years of Turmoil 

protested, he was held two hours at GRAE headquarters unul Roberto 

arrived. Roberto accused him of interfering in political affairs and de- 

manded that he surrender the keys to the SARA vehicles. Then he was 

unceremoniously expelled from the compound. 

It was clearly essential for Gilchrist's safety that he leave the country 

immediately. Without baggage he took the first available plane. En route to 

Canada he stopped in New York and we spent hours at my house reviewing 

all that had happened. His family left safely a few days later. 

POLITICAL CHANGES 

Roberto's problems during this period were compounded by political 

changes in the Congo. Moise Tshornbe, who had always been sympathetic 

to the Portuguese, succeeded Adoula (see chapter 12) as prime minister. 

Furthermore, material assistance to the FNLA from African states vir- 

tually dried up. This exacerbated problems at the Kinkuzu military base, 

where funds were lacking for adequate food or arms for the 2,000 men in 

training there. Low morale and hot dissension resulted in several at- 

tempted mutinies. 

Early in 1964 Roberto had announced that he planned to seek help from 

Communist countries, particularly China, which he proposed to visit. 

During this period the FNLA accepted the da Cruz faction of the MPLA 

for membership. But Roberto never went to China, and the small da Cruz 

faction was never effectively integrated into the front. 

Roberto's prospects improved when Joseph Mobutu, with whom he had 

excellent relations, replaced Tshombe in October 1965. He once told me 

that he and Mobutu were more than friends, indeed, "like brothers." The 

opening of the eastern front by the MPLA spurred the OAU again to 

attempt a reconciliation between the MPLA and the FNLA. An agree- 

ment on paper was reached in Cairo in late 1966 calling for an end to 

hostile propaganda, a release of prisoners, and a willingness to explore 

ways of cooperation, but there was never a follow-up. Finally the OAU 

officially recognized both the MPLA and the FNLA but not GRAE. 

Venter commented, "The OAU has chosen wisely. Portuguese military 

authorities in Angola admit that the MPLA threat is the most serious they 

have encountered since the start of he war."8 

THE FORMATION OF UNITA 

After Savimbi resigned from the FNLA, he went to Brazzaville, where he 

met with but did not join the MPLA. He explained his objection in a letter 

to North American church contacts that the MPLA was Moscow-oriented 

and dominated by the Kimbundu while GRAE was Western-supported 

and predominantly Bakongo. What was needed, he felt, was a third 

movement based inside the country and representative of the majority. 

Savimbi completed his studies at the University of Lausanne and then

Angola: The Stomy Path Toward Independence 

moved to Lusaka, where he made contact with exiled Ovimbundu and 

Chohe compatriots from eastern and southern Angola. They decided to 

form a new political organization, the National Union for the Total Inde- 

pendence of Angola (UNITA). The organizing conference was held in 

Moxico in March I 966. 

Savimbi traveled widely to win support for the new party. He went 

to Egypt, Tanzania, and Algeria. He also went to East Germany, 

Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and the Soviet Union, but these countries were 

supporting the MPLA and were not prepared to take on a new movement. 

In North Korea and China he met both Mao Zedong and Zhou Enlai, who 

offered scholarships for military training. On his return to Angola in late 

1966 he was elected president of UNITA. 

UNITA's first serious military action, on Christmas Day, 1966, was an 

attack on the eastern town of Teixeira de Sousa, including the Benguela 

railroad. Disrupting the railroad was a sensitive undertaking because 

Zambia, which was dependent on the railroad for exporting its minerd 

produce, as was Zaire, had warned the Angolan movements not to attaclf 

it. Savimbi immediately sent messengers telling UNITA commanders not 

to sabotage the railroad, but it took them a month to get through on foot: 

and the line was severed again before the orders arrived. Savimbi was id 

Baghdad in June 1967 when he heard by radio that the railroad had been 

blown up yet again. Hastily he returned to Zambia for discussions but was 

arrested and deported to Tanzania. He said in an interview, "Since I was 

deported from Zambia, I think this was the dark day of UNITA." 

Savimbi decided to return to Angola and work from within. From 

mid-1968 into the rq7os, communications from him were addressed "Free 

Land of Angola." UNITA claimed to be working from Moxico, Cuando 

Cubango, and Lunda in the east to Bie, Malange, Huambo, and Cunene in 

the center and south. The constant theme of all their publications and 

speeches was that the organization was entirely inside Angola. This was 

mostly making a virtue of necessity; the movement was never recognized 

by the OAU. It did, however, have representatives in London, Geneva, and 

Cairo and unofiicially in Lusaka. 

THREE LIBERATION MOVEMENTS 

All three movements separately yet somewhat effectively carried on their 

struggle against Portuguese colonialism.* An indication of their effec- 

tiveness was the increase in Portuguese military activity and expenditures 

*Many journalists and political supporters of one movement or anorher uaveled to Angola's 

maquis and testified to a wide range of guerrilla activities. Among them were Pierre Pascal 

Rossi (Switzerland), Don Barnen and Roy Harvey (USA) in 1968, Stwe Valentine and 

Michael Manhment (Britain) h 1969, Fritz Sitte (Austria) in 1969 and 1971, Davidwn 

(Britain), Jean J ~C~UK DuPont and Philip Latelier (France) 1970, Leon Dash (USAX 

Bernard Riven @&in), I 973.

170 Yean of Turmoil 

to combat the insurgency. In the late 1960s and earty 1970s Portugal was 

spending almost 50 percent of its national budget on the wars in Africa 

(including Mozambique and Guinea-Bissau), about $300,000 a day. There 

were about 160,000 Portuguese troops in Africa, almost half of them in 

Angola. Proportionally PortugaI had three times as many troops in Africa 

as the United States had in Viemam.9 

Using classical counterinsurgency tactics, the Portuguese defended 

their militarized bases. Patrols into the countryside engaged guerrilla 

forces. Viges suspected of supporting guerrilla operations were burned 

to the ground or 0th- destroyed. PIanes and helicopters shot and 

bombed, and crops were destroyed with herbicides. 

The heart af the Portuguese protective security system in the war zones 

was the establishment of fortified viliages, or aldemnentos (literally "new 

villages"). Under this program, dispersed groups of Africans were 

gathered together in larger viUages along the roads patrolled by the Por- 

tuguese miliuuy. All the gardens and livestock were kept within a reason- 

able distance, and each family built its own hut within the village com- 

pound, where it had to sleep every night. Each village had its own militia 

and was required to repon any strangers in the area. By November 1968, it 

was estimated that 70 percent of the Africans in the Lunda and Moxico 

districts were living in these new villages. The program did not, however, 

stop the incursion of Angolan nationalists. Furthermore, it did great 

damage to the economy since it uprooted the people from the fields they 

had tilled for many years and made it hard for fishermen to reach their 

fishing places and still return to the villages by night. 

By the start of the 13th year of war in 1974, there was no end in sight. 

Neither the Portuguese nor the liberation movements were winning. The 

weapons of the three liberation movements were improving. There were 

more than 20,000 in their forces-estimated at 10,ooo for the FNLA, 

7,000 for the MPLA, and 4,000 for UNITA.'O By 1973, all but four of the 

districts had seen military action. 

In 1968 Roberto testSd before the UN Decolonization Committee that 

GRAE controlled one fifth of the country. The MPLA claimed to be 

fighting in lo of the I 5 districts of Angola and to have some control in a 

tbird of tbe country. UNITA's claims were more modest. A Zambian 

journaiist spoke of UNI'rA as the "Cinderella movement'' of Angola in 

that it was so limited in supplies and equipment. 

With varying degrees of success, each movement established schools 

and medical programs either inside Angola or in area just beyond the 

border. 

THE FNLA PROGRAMS 

I was most familiar with FNLA facilities in Zaire because I saw them at 

close hand. The SARA medical clinic was always congested as long as 

headquarters was at the FNLA compound in Kinshasa. In 1968, however,

Angola: The Stormy Path Toward Independence 171 

a tremendous improwmerit was made when GRAE purchased zo acres of 

land some 25 miles outside Kinshasa. I visited there several times. About 

700 people were living there in rg70, but they had in-& to 2,000 thee 

years later. A village had been built around the original d&g, which 

had been converted into a hospitaI. In 1973 there were two doctors and 28 

beds, which were usually filled with wounded from the front, expectant 

mothers, or postsurgical patients. The nurses bad been trained in rCmisia, 

India, or Israel. 

The nonmedical people built village-style huts and grew manioc and 

peanuts. A generator supplied electricity. A transmitter, which operated 

only at night, kept the establishment in touch with headquarters in 

Kinshasa and the military camps. The FNLA's preferred position in Zaire 

was obviously of great benefit. 

Education was a major problem as floods of refugees came to Zaire. 

Mauy children were able to attend Zairian schools, but there was a 

language problem because the lingua franm in Zaire was French and in 

Angola, Portuguese. In 1964 GRAE gave up the Portuguese system and 

adjusted to that of Zaire, including creating a school system through the 

eighth grade. The education program was organized by Emmanuel 

Kunzika. It gave him some leeway for his own ideas, free from Robmops 

constant control. 

THE MPLA PROGRAMS 

The MPLA carried on its external medical program from Congo-Bra- 

zzaville and Zambia. In Dolisie, near the Cabinda border, there was a 

hospital with only 12 beds. Another was being built at Sikongo in western 

Zambia. There was also a network of local clinics and dispensaries. 

The MPLA had 40 primary schools in its semiliberated anas with more 

than 3,000 pupils in 1971. There were secondary schools at Dolisie and in 

the Sikongo-Kassamba area. The MPLA was much more ideological in its 

education program than the other movements. It emphasized a several- 

months course of study in Centers for Revolutionary Instruction (CIR) 

etablished in eastern Angola soon after the front was opened in 1966. 

The MPLA called itself socialist, but it had no party documents outlin- 

ing a socialist or Marxist program. In a speech over Tanzanian radio Neto 

defined it as essentially ending exploitation: 'We don't intend to dm 

either Angolans or foreigners to exploit others in our country."II 

UNITA'S PROGRAMS 

UNITA's medical program was quite limited. It had no doctors, one 

medical assinant at the base hospital, and only about 20 nurses, who had 

been rrained either by the Portuguese or missionaries. There were five 

rudimentary hospitals in three districts. They had very little medicine and

performed amputations without anesthetic. According to UNITA statistics, 

25 ,om persons were treated in the six years from 1966 to 1972. 

In UNITA areas there were xo boarding schools with up to 150 students 

in each. As with the other movements, the schools inside Angola (UNITA 

had none outside) were protected from air attack by forests. They had 

virtually no books. Adult literacy classes made use of old hymnals and 

Bibles. Boards painted black were used as blackboards. A 1972 UNITA 

publication reported that there were 12,m children and adults in various 

primary schools. 

A CIA CONNECTION3 

A persistant and vatious rumor during my years of African work was 

that the ACOA and I had ken a conduit for U.S, government funds 

through the CIA to Holden Roberto. I probably should have shrugged off 

the rumor as an occupational hazard. It disturbed me, however, because 

some of our supposed friends and organizational allies picked it up The 

Nmor began in Leopoldville, where in the troubled environment in the 

early 1960s rumors we.re rife. I was frequently in and out of the city, and 

since I always spent some time with Roberto or at FNLA headquarters, it 

was easy for false impressions to arise. In 1962 a Congo paper, Courrier 

d"Afn'que (February 5, r 9621, reported that the ACOA was giving the UPA 

substantial material and financial support from the U.S. government, on 

condition that the UPA not ally itself with the MPLA, "which American 

circles accuse of being pro-communist." This information was prefaced by 

the phrase "if one believes numerous bits of gossip in circulation." To my 

great chagrin, the rumor tended to become fact in the minds of some. It 

was repeated in enough places so that over a period of time it could be 

fcmmoted from diverse sources. The Portuguese government, in an offid 

1973 publication entided Pmnrguese Africa, even gave us credit for creating 

GRAE. "The first of these three [GRAE] was created by the American 

Committee an Africa to forestall the second [MPLA] which is inspired and 

aided by communist powers." 

ParhMy disturbing was a 1g6g pamphlet published by the Angola 

Committee of Holland entitled Pimugal ond NATO, which reported: "A 

stop was put to the use of public funds by the Am- Committee on 

Africa for work in Angola. An agent of the Portuguese secret police had 

discovered that Roberto Holden's Angola independence movement, 

GRAE, was supported with money from the American taxpayers via this 

committee." I corresponded with Dr. E.J. Bosgra, one of the authors of 

their pamphlet, and subsequently met him at a conference on the Struggle 

Against Portuguese Colonialism in Rome in June 1970. He thought the 

information was reliable because it came from a Social Democratic soum 

in %t Germany. Nevertheless, the sentences were deleted from later 

reprints of the pamphlet. 

I was not surprised that the MPLA picked up the rumor. After all, it

Angola: The Stormy Path Toward Independence I73 

helped its cause politically to have "proof+" that the FNLA was a tool of the 

CIA. My long association with Roberto plus the spread of this rumor made 

the MPLA regard me and the ACOA with suspicion. To counter it, in May 

1969 when I was in Dar es Salaam I went to the MPLA office to talk with 

Neto and a key lieutenant, Daniel Chipenda. I told them that originally I 

had supported Roberto's movement as the only viable approach to ?he 

Angolan struggle. I said the ACOA supported the struggle, was not 

committed to any orgauization, and c d y was no conduit for the CIA. 

Whatever the long-range effect of this statement, at least it broke the ice. 

In a memorandum for limited distribution I wrote: "How could I fool my 

close associates" if I had been an instrument of the CIA? "I would have to 

k either a very successful Jekyll-Hyde character or an amazbgly adroit 

Scarlet Pimpernel. . . . I wouldn't have lasted a moment [as director of the 

ACOA] if I was suspected of this kind of double dealing." 

The question of which Angolan movement the ACOA should assist had 

been no problem in the early days. The UPA-FNLA-GRAE were uncon- 

tested in their superiority. By and large we followed the OAU policy- 

supporting those movements it recognized and aided. UNITA was never 

recognized. But the MPLA gradually gained in strength after 1966, com- 

plications plagued GRAE, and many of my colleagues became dissatisfied 

with the FNLA. I myself had come to the conclusion that Roberto could 

not lead the country to independence. I admired his courage; up to 1974 

he drove round Kinshasa in his own car without a bodyguard despite his 

many enemies. As late as 1973 he had driven me to his home, several miles 

from headquarters, with no security, although his office and house were 

guarded. Yet he was not a charismatic leader or a man of the people. He 

did not visit his troops or the villages inside Angola. He worked through 

his aides, whom he could dominate, but suspected potential leaders who 

could challenge him. He could not unify varied ethnic and racial groups. 

In spring 1969, at a special policy meeting, the ACOA agreed to 

recognize the "primacy of the MPLA." We would not cease all contact 

with the FNLA or UNITA, but we recognized the MPLA as having the 

initiative and the greatest potential for leadership of an independent 

Angola, 

THE CONTINUING PROBLEM OF UNITY 

The liberation struggle was plagued by disunity among movements and 

within them. 

The OAU constantly emphasized h e theme of unity among libemtion 

movements in Angola. In 1971 another attempt at unity was made. The 

OAU set up a Commission of Conciliation, which was to report at its 

annual conference in Rabat, Morocco, June 1972. Attending this con- 

ference, I learned that Neto and Roberto were then meeting in B-ville. 

As I continued my journey south, I hoped to see them in Brazzaville, but 

they had already left for Rabat to give concrete evidence of the steps

Ears of Tumoil 

toward unity. I was later told that (with some embarrassment) they even 

embraced in front of the conference. 

DISUNITY AMONG MOVEMENTS 

The formal agreement of miry, the "Angolan Liberation Movements Re- 

Conciliation Agreement," was signed six months later in Kinshasa. It 

established a Supreme Coundl for the Liberation of Angola and two 

subordinate councils, one military and one political, with equal representation 

on tach. Each side agreed to the "establishment of a climate of peace 

and fraternity. - ,. , the immediate -tion of all acts of hostility and of ail 

attacks by radio, press and television." 

Each side made some attempt to be faiW to the ament. An 

MPLA representative was suspended for distributing a Idet attacking 

the FNLA at a conference in Oslo in April 1973. At the July Pan-African 

Youth Festival in Tunis, the two movements d e d together in the 

parade. In Kinshasa at about that rime I noted that the terminology of a 

government in exile, including the name GRAE, was not in evidence and 

the FNLA called its functional units departments instead of ministries. 

Yet by 1974, there was still no real substance to the agreement. None of 

the three councils had met. After I talked with Roberto in mid-1973 in 

Kinshasa, my impression was that the agreement could not work. The 

suspicions were too great. Neither side wanted to divulge its military 

strength or areas of control. Neto told me in Lusaka in October 1974 that 

the agreement with Roberto was dead. 

DISUNITY WITHIN MOVEMENTS. 

In the meantime, each movement had its own problem of internal unity. 

An attempted insurrection at the FNLA military base at Kinkuzu threatened 

Roberto's leadership Twenty--two of the 33 military leaders signed a 

letter to Roberto complaining that the base was too small and food and 

clothing inadequate and threatening to take further steps if something was 

not done. 

Roberto met with the leaders at the base. The problems were not 

resolved, but provision for future meetings was agreed upon. An eyewita 

m told me what happened as Roberto was leaving. Thc officer who had 

instigated the complaint refused to open the gate and then o d d some 

soldiers to shoot Roberto. Showiug great courage, Roberto got out of his 

car and confronted the soldiers, who ran away, one of them even giving 

Roberto his gun. The gate was opened and Roberto left. 

Subsequently fighting broke out between officers and troops loyal to 

Roberto and those who chose to rebel. Mobutu sent an armored battalion 

and a parachute battalion from Zaire to rake over the base. They prevailed, 

with considerable loss of life among the Angolans, and the camp was 

med back to the FNLA in a public ceremony.

Angola: The Sromty Path Toward Independence 175 

This episode had extensive repercussions. Thirteen officers were tried, 

found guilty, and shot. At the political level, the GRAE minister of defense 

was demoted. Kumb and other PDA leaders were expelled for suspected 

complicity. Organization was tightened. The PDA was in effect liquidated. 

The MPLA was also threatened by splits in its ranks, espechUy In I974 

after the coup in Portugal, just when the tbree rival movements needed 

their full strength. Neto's leadership was challenged by two factions. One, 

the Revolt of the East, was led by his long-time lieutenant, Chipenda, who 

had played an important role when the MPLA's eastern front was opened. 

It had a following of about 3,000 guerrillas, largely from the Chokwe of the 

east. The other, the Active Revolt, was based in Brapaville, led by Mario 

de Andrade and later his brother, Father Jaoquim Pinto de Andrade, who 

had been released after r4 years in a Portuguese prison. 

Srrenuous efforts were made by the OAU Conciliation &&on to 

heal this three-way breach, but a congress in Lusaka in early August fell 

apart when the Neto and deAndrade delegations separately walked out. 

An attempted mndlhtion failed and Chipenda opened up an office in 

Kinshasa in a cooperation with the FNLA. 

When I was in Africa in late October 1974, I saw both Neto and 

Chipenda. In Dar es Salaam Neto was more open and friendly than I had 

ever seen him. Behind locked doors we discussed Chipenda, who had been 

with us at our prwious conference. According to Neto the split bad 

occurred because of a power struggIeChipenda wanted to be president. 

Neto afi[irmed that all agreements with the FNLA or Chipendays faction of 

the MPLA were dead. Yet he hoped for some kind of joint discussions 

with the new Portuguese government in Lisbon, 

In Kinshasa in his new office Chipeeda talked In much more detail 

about his differences with Neto, about the cleavages between the people of 

tbe east and those from the Kimbundu region, about Neto's delay in 

calliag an MPLA congress, about his unavailability (on account of travel) 

for discussion of avcial strategy, and about his making critical decisions 

unilaterally. Chipenda had good relations with Mobutu, who was giving 

him naterial support. He was optimistic that he, Roberto, and Savimbi 

would be able to agree on a basis for negotiating with the Portuguese that 

would leave Neto out in the cold. This seemed to me an unjustified 

conclusion, given Neto's strength in Luanda and his support from both 

Communists and Socialists in Lisbon and from the Soviet Union. 

THE MILITARY COUP IN PORTUGAL AND THE 

AFRICAN RESPONSE 

On April 24,1974, I lunched in New York with an old friend, Ruth First. 

She was a white South African who had been writing on South African 

issues from exile in London. She was known as a brilliant and active 

opponent of apartheid. I knew she had been a leader in the banned South 

African Communist pary. I shared the high respect in which she was

generally held- We discussed at length Portugal and its African wars. In 

spite of liberation advances in Angola, Guinea-Bissau, and Mozambique, 

no military victory was in sight. We agreed that the struggle was to be 

protracted.* 

What poor prophets we were. The very next day came the astounding 

news of the military revolt in Portugal overthrowing the regime of Mar- 

cello Caetano. The signs of decay in the regime, however, had been 

obvious. There was serious opposition in Portugal to the African wars, not 

unlike the widespread opposition among Americans to the Vietnam War. 

Military casualties had already reached 40,m dead and wounded. Some 

~oo,ooo draft resisters had fled the country. Sabotage by antiwar groups 

was on the increase. In addition, faced with a deteriorating economy and 

the highest idation in Europe, more than I .5 million Portuguese had left 

the country to find jobs ehvhere. 

In February 1974, Genera! Antonio de Spinola, a military hero and 

governor of Guinea-Bissau, published a book, Pomgal and rhe Fum, 

which took the forthright position that Portugal could not win a military 

victory in Africa. The book reinforced opposition to the African wars. 

Thus the coup, when it came, was virtually bloodless. The overthrown 

leaders were ded to Madeira and then to Brazil. The new military 

government set about negotiating an end to Portuguese expeditions in 

Africa. 

For the Africans, the coup meant the beghhg of the end of fighting 

against a European force. It also meant a critical point had been reached 

for the movements struggling for power in revolutionary African coun- 

uies. In Angola with three antending movements, the situation was 

particularly serious. 

In November9 I spent some time at the FNLA office in Kinshasa. The 

atmosphere was now wry tight. A high wall guarded by soldim m- 

rounded the premises. This the I had difficulty gaining admittance. A 

soldier through a peephole in the solid gate asked me for identitication. 

With the language barrier and a dosed gate, this was not easy. Finally an 

old friend came along and vouched for me. Roberto was very much 

preoccupied. He greeted me bridy and asked me to return two hours 

her. I never saw him again. He went to the airport to see off the 

xzpresenmtives to his newly opened headquarters in Luanda, where the 

FNLA had moved more than a hundred of its people. 

The MPLA and UNITA opened offices in Luanda too, but the FNLA 

appeared to be in a strong position with a large military establishment, 

Chinese military instructors, financial and logistical backing from 

Mobutu, half a million Angolan refugees in Zaire to call upon, and access 

to the long border with Zaire. The ha1 stage in the power struggle was 

about to begin. 

+Eight years later, in 1982, Ruth First wps nagiEally killed by a paral bomb sent fmm Sou& 

Africa &at exploded in her faculty o& at Eduardo Mondlanc University in Mozambique.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Mozambique: 

A Dream the Size of Freedom 

How can we tell you the size 

of our dream? 

During centuries 

we waited 

that a Messiah might free 

US.. . 

Until we understood. 

Today 

our Rcvolution 

is a great floww 

to which each day 

ncw petals are added. 

Thc petals are the land 

reconquered, 

the people freed, 

the fields cultivated, 

schools and hospitals. 

Our Dream bas the size 

of Freedom. 

-FRELIMO 

EDUARDO MONDLANE 

o struggle for freedom from colonial domination had more idealism, 

N optimism, and hope for a radical change in the way of life than that 

in Mozambique. The 1969 greeting card from the Front for the Liberation 

of Mozambique (FRELIMO), which opens this chapter, caught this spirit. 

I was one of many in Africa and around the world who looked to Mozambique 

with particular hope and faith. Although many Mozambicans contributed 

to the special glow of their country's struggle, none did so more 

than the first president of FRELIMO, Eduardo Chivambo Mondlane. 

Mondlane was 32 when I met him in September 1951. We were at a 

conference site along Lake Erie near Oberlin College, where Mondlane 

had just come to 6nish his studies. He was very dark, quite tall, with 

rhinning hair. Outgoing, exuberant, with a booming voice, he had a

Years of Tunnoil 

presence no one could miss. Over the next few years I heard about him 

from time to time as a most unusual and talented African who was bound 

to have a leadership position some day. I developed a friendship with him 

in the late 1950s, while he was a researcher at the UN, where I also spent 

much time. Yet I never fully appreciated his remarkable life until I visited 

his home in Mozambique years later in 1975. By then his country was 

newly independent, and he had been dead, by assassination, six years. So 

my visit was Med with birter-sweet memories of this man who played such 

an essential role in the Mozambican struggle. 

Mondlane was born in Gaza Province in southern Mozambique about 

10 miles from Manjacaze, the provincial capital. I was driven by 

FRELIMO friends to his home area, Nwajdahane, starting out in a 

Mmcedes and then changing to a Land Rover, for reasons that soon 

became clear. When we turned off the main highway for the Mondlane 

place, the road became what looked like a cawpath in the bush. It was slow 

going, but I had a chance to see the countryside from which Mondlane had 

emerged. We drove past homesteads consisting of collections of round 

huts, each with a cultivated area for small-scale farming. Usually a few 

farm animals and chickens were in evidence. Occasionally there would be 

a well from which women or children were drawing water in buckets let 

down by a tong rope. The area was flat, dusty, and sandy. When we finally 

arrived, it was just another homestead with three huts, two for sleeping 

and one for cooking. 

The only unusual structure in the compound was the half-constructed 

shell of a fairly large rectangular building for his family, for which 

Mondlane had provided h ds on a visit in 1961. Since the secret police 

hd stopped the construction, it was still standing unhished and unusa- 

ble. In the pitiful garden area, some maize was struggling to grow through 

the dusty soil. I saw a few chickens and ducks but no cattle. There were 

perhaps a dozen to 15 people around, mostly children and older women. 

The senior person was Paulina Mondlane, Eduardo's niece. Her youngest 

child, who looked about 9 or 10, was also named Eduardo Chivambo 

Mondlaae. He was neatly dressed, having just returned from his twice- 

daily 10-mile walk to school in Man jacaze. 

Fity yards from the Iiving area was a small, fenced-in graveyard. Posts 

marked the gra-ne for Eduardo's father and close by one for his 

mother, his father's third wife. Other relatives were all buried in this plot, 

each p t indicating the relationship to Eduardo Mondlane, "the h t 

president of FRELIMO." 

Now that I could see the humble circumstances of his origin, I was all 

the more amazed at the rise of such an unusual person. Until he was 10, he 

herded cattle, sheep, and goats. Then he went to government and mission 

schools, receiving his primary school certificate, the highest degree then 

available to an African in Mozambique, in Lourenco Marques (now 

Maputo). W~th missionary aid he took a course in farming, which he 

subsequently taught in Gaza. At 24, again through church sponsorship, he 

won a scholarship to a secondary school in South Africa. Then he studied

Mmambique: A Dream the Ske of Freedom I79 

at the Jan Hofmeyer School for Social Work in Johannesburg. He entered 

W~twatersrand University in 1948, when the National Party came to power 

and instituted apartbeid. One of the few nonwhite students, he became an 

obvious target because of his popularity and outspoken leadership He was 

expelled from the country in 1949. 

Back in Mozambique, Mondlane's troubles continued as he helped 

organize the National Union of Mozambican Students. Since the government 

was suspicious of this organization, he was picked up by the authorities 

for questioning that lasted three days and nights and thereafter 

was put under su-ce. To avoid this and to advance his education, he 

decided to study at the University of Lisbon. The Pomguese government 

was agreeable because they wanted him out of Mmbique. During his 

year in Portugal he met fume leaders from other Pormguese colonies, 

such as Agastinho Neto, Amilcar Cabral, and Mario de APldrade. But 

harassment by the secret police-regular monthly ransacking of his room 

and constant sudance-made him decide to transfer to the United 

States. He received a schoIarship from the Phelps Stokes Fund to attend 

Oberlin College. After graduating in 1953, he studied at Northwestern 

University and Hanard, and in 1960 took a Ph.D. at Northwestern, where 

he worked under the noted anthropologist and Afri&t Melville J. 

Herskovits. By this time he was doing research for the Tiusteeship Division 

of the UN. 

From our first lengthy talks at the UN, it was clear to me that Mondlaae 

never lost his obsession with returning home to take part in the liberation 

mggle. In a sense, he was marking time in the United States waiting for 

the right moment to return to Africa. Yet he conscientiously undertook the 

tasks before him and followed the rules for an international civil servant. 

He did a lot of speaking, some of which the ACOA arranged. UnfailiagSy 

he would tell me first to clear his engagements with his depamnent hmd. 

Mondlane was fortunate in his marriage. He met Janet Rae Johnson 

when he was a workshop leader at a 1951 summer Christian youth amference. 

She was an idealistic high school participant with an ambition to 

be a missionary in Africa. Thus a relationship began that lasted until his 

death. Her white, middle-class family in Inkpolis was strongly op posed to an interracial marriage. It took many years of determined effort 

by both Eduardo and Janet to reach a reconciliation with them. Their 

success is itselfa comment on their character. They were d e d in 1956. 

Over the years I came to know Janet and to admire her gmt commitment 

and strength. She became not only a partner to Eduardo but a comrade in 

the liberation struggle. 

The year 1961 was critid for Mondlane. His chance to refurn to Africa 

came when he was sent with a UN team to supervise a plebiscite in the 

Cameroons. Afterward he extended his time in Africa to visit Mozambique 

with Janet, who had preceded him. A Lourencp Marques newspaper 

reported his return, and he also wrote a report, not for publication, of this 

trip Hundreds of people came to see him singly or in small groups, to 

discuss many issues. Every time he appeared in the sueem or after church,

he attracted large crowds. Afi-i- accosted him to ask advice on how to 

Iave the country to join nationalists organizing against the Portuguese. He 

answered eadully, knowing that some such requests were government 

inspired. Some of his former schoolmates were in prison. The secret palice 

spied on him to find out who was visiting him, especially at night. 

Mondlane returned to New York from this momentous experience 

exuberant about the possibilities of launching a successful campaign in 

Africa and playing a special role in it. The Portuguese, aware of his 

potential as a nationalist leader, kept an eye on him at the UN. I recall 

stopping at his office one day just as two men were leaving. With a quiet 

laugh Mondlane explained that they had just offered him a teaching post in 

Portugal. "I told them I was not ready to change positions yet. They keep 

an eye on me all the time. I haw been offered many jobs. I just keep them 

guessing, but main& cordiality, They don't want me back in Mozam- 

bique." 

In the summer of 1961 Mondlane became a lecturer in anthropology at 

Syracuse University to free himsell from the strictures of being an interna- 

tional civil servant. He could now more easily keep in touch with newly 

forming groups in East Africa. 

ORGANIZATION OF POLITICAL GROUPS 

Through Eduardo Mondlane and other friends and contacts and visits to 

Dar es Salaam, I began to learn about the new anticolonial groups being 

organized in Mozambique. 

One group was formed by some northern Mozambicans who had taken 

jobs in Tanganyika. They were Makondes, who lived on both sides of the 

Mozambican-Tangan* border and were skilled wood carvers. In Tim- 

ganyika they organized the Mozambique African National Union 

(MANU) in 1960. Their president, Matthew Mmole, and their secretary 

general, L. Mallinga Millings, wrote me occasionally until I finally met 

them in Dar es Salaam in 1962. They hoped the ACOA could finance and 

sponsor the visit of a delegation to the UN, where they could present their 

grievances. They claimed that MANU had some 2,000 members drawn 

from the 60,000 Mozambicans working on the plantations and in the port 

cities of British East Africa. Although they were interesting to meet, I felt 

their base was much too narrow to lead the struggle for independence. 

UDENAMO 

I had told a black American friend, Joe Ridgeway, a merchant seaman with 

an intense interest in Africa, of my contacts with MANU. In the fall of 

1961, when his ship stopped in Dar es Salaam, he dropped by its office.

Mozambique: A Dream the Size of Freedom 

181 

He did not think much of Mrnole, Millings, or MANU, but he was 

impressed by Jaime Rivaz Sigauke, who ran an office for the Democratic 

National Union of Mozambique (UDENAMO), a newly formed na- 

tionalist movement of Mozambicans from farther south. 

UDENAMO had been organized in Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia. Its 

president, Adelino Gwambe, had originally been sent by the Portuguese 

secret police to Salisbury to spy on his fellow Mozambicans. But once 

there, he shifted his loyalty and joined them. The secretary was Uria 

Sirnango, a Protestant missionary from Beira who worked among Mozam- 

bicans in Southern Rhodesia. He helped to organize the Mozambican 

Burial Society, an outwardly cultural and self-help organization that served 

as a convenient front for political activity. Simango, whom I came to know 

in Dar es Salaam, told me they had 5,000 to 6,000 members who paid for 

burial insurance. About 250 formed the political underground, which met 

weekly. He had met Mondlane in 1961 in Mozambique and had fled to Dar 

es Salaam in 1962 to escape arrest when his underground activities were 

discovered by the Portuguese. 

UNAMI 

J.B.C. Chagonga, a former member of the Mozambique medical depart- 

ment, wrote me from Dar es Salaam about a third group. During his 30 

years' service his duties had taken him to the major towns around the 

country, where he had been disturbed by bad conditions. As he developed 

anticolonialist ideas, he felt unsafe in Mozambique and left the country. In 

Nyasaland he met Dr. Kamuzu Banda, who had introduced him to me in a 

letter, and established the African National Union of Independent Mo- 

zambique (UNAMI). Its constituency was essentially Mozambicans from 

Tete Province, his own home area, which bordered Nyasaland. Still feeling 

unsafe, he fled to Tanganyika. He wrote me hoping we could supply a 

ticket for him to come to the UN. 

I discussed my correspondence and contacts with the three organiza- 

tions with Mondlane. He felt they were complementary-one representing 

peasants of northern Mozambique working mainly in Tanganyika, one 

representing urban elements from central and southern Mozambique, and 

the third representing Tete people, many of them in Nyasaland. This 

approach was typical of Mondlane. Neither overly critical nor a joiner, he 

tried to work with all elements and merge them into a working whole. 

FRELIMO 

FRELIMO, one of the few successful efforts to form a front of competing 

nationalist groups, was organized at a conference in Dar es Salaam June 

25, 1962. Mondlane, in New York, was kept informed of the preliminary 

meeting. He passed on his inner excitement to me. He was invited to the 

June conference, where he was elected president with 95 percent of the

Years of Turnoil 

vote. Back in New York he informed me with his characteristic enthusiasm 

that the first Congress of FRELIMO would be held without delay. 

The Congress was held in late September in Dar es Salaam. Eighty 

delegates were chosen from organized elements sympathetic to 

FRELIMO's cause, and there were more than 5w observers. FRELIMO's 

purpose was "to promote the efficient organization of the struggle of the 

Mozambican people for national liberation." Plans were made to set up an 

underground organization inside Mozambique and seek the cooperation of 

trade unions, students, youth, and women's organizations in the struggle. 

A Central Committee was chosen. The way was paved for the next phase of 

the struggle. 

EARLY PROTEST AND DISSENSION 

FRELIMO's aim was to overthrow the four-centwy-old exploitive system 

of Portuguese control. In our many talks, Mondlane had given me some 

insight into the injustices that motivated the Mozambican struggle. I Early 

Portuguese enterprises had inaugurated a commerical system of barter, 

mostly in gold and ivory from a few centers along the I ,7oo-mile coast, 

which developed into a grab for land. A major center was the island of 

Mozambique, from which the country took its name. Settlers seized great 

tracts particularly along the Zambesi River. From this practice sprang the 

pmzo, or plantation system, in which the lord of the estate controlled the 

labor of all those on his land. Slave labor, contract labor, and a compulsory 

crop-raising system derived from the praso. Some 10,000 to 25,000 slaves 

were exported annually, the trade continuing even after slavery was out- 

lawed in 1836. Mondlane emphasized that the principal legacy of Por- 

tuguese colonialism in Mozambique was labor exploitation, just as it was 

in Angola. 

Mondlane was particularly aroused against Portugal's pretense that it 

was constructing a nonracial society. Theoretically any nonwhite could

Mozambique: A Dream the Size of Freedom 183 

become an mimilado ("assimilated person") by patterning his life after the 

Pomguese, but only about I percent of Mozambican Africans achiwed 

this status. The most the assirnilado system did was to create a few 

Wh~n~rary whites." 

Mondlane also talked with me about the long tradition of anticolonial 

protest in Mozambique; the sporadic revolts in the 19th and early 20th 

centuries; and the variety of organizations that were formed, especially 

among the educated elite, to give voice to dissatisfactions. We talked about 

the important role of the urban labor force, such as swikhg the docks in 

Loufcn~o Marques in 1947, again in 1956 when 49 snikers were killed, 

and in 1963 in Beira and NacaIa. Protests took place in small towns too, 

strengthening the spirit of revolt, notably in Mueda on June 16, I*, 

when 600 people were mowed down by gun fire for daring to protest to the 

Pormguese administrator against conditions. 

External factors also contributed to the successful organization of 

FRELIMO: the large number of Mozambicans living in bordering countries, 

the phenomenal growth of Pan-Africanism in the 1950s~ and Tanganyika's 

imminent independence with Nyerere strongly supporting a 

unified Mozambican movement. 

ERELIMO early decided to set up an education program. Janet 

Mondlane told me that on Eduardo's 1961 visit to Mozambique so many 

people had asked them for scholarships or other aid that they knew some 

kind of program would have to be established. Mondlane approached the 

Ford Foundation in New York and received $~oo,ooo. With this money 

the Mozambique Institute was set up in 1963 as an extension of 

FRELIMO but with its own separate budget and board of trustees. It built 

a secondary school in Dar es Salaam attended by Mozambican refugees. 

Gradually its work was coordinated with the various departments of 

FRELIMO--education, health, information, and foreign affairs. Other 

organizations and individuals could contribute directly to these programs 

without endorsing all FRELIMO's political and military projects. 

The Ford grant became a bone of contention within the Ford Foundation. 

The Portuguese foreign minister artacked the foundation for allegedly 

bdng FRELIMO. This was enough to cancel any plans for 

further foundation contributions. According to the New Ymk Timw (December 

21, rg64), "The Ford Foundation is reported to have assured the 

government of Premier Salazar that it would be consulted before any 

future grants were given to African areas of particular interest in PormgaI." 

FRELIMO's direct military preparations began in January 1963, when 

50 Mozambicaus went to AIgeria for training.* Two more groups of 70 

each followed. Samora Machel, the h t president of Mozambique, was 

The hat Mozambicans to d v c military mining went bcforc FRELIMO was formed. 

Unda the aegis of UDENAMO, Gmbe had arranged with Kwamc Nkmmah for m few 

Mozambicans to train in Ghana in early 1962.

part of the third group. When the men returned from Algeria in 1963- 

1964, they received further training at the first FRELIMO military camp 

in Tanganyika, at Bagamoyo, an historically important village set with 

palms on the Indian Ocean about 40 miles north of Dar es Salaam. They 

also helped train others. In little more than a year, some of these soldiers 

began infiltrating into Mozambique to establish bases and stock pile arms 

and ammunition. Bagamoyo, which I visited many times, later became the 

site of the Mozambique Institute's secondary school. 

In its early years, FRELIMO found it hard going. There were strains 

and stresses as previously separated organizations were drawn together in a 

united front. When Mondlane, immediately after FRELIMO's formation, 

returned to Syracuse University to finish his teaching assignment, pmb- 

lems arose. To enhance his own position, Leo Milas, FRELIMO's pub- 

licity secretary, who had been left in charge of certain aspects of the work, 

contrived not only to expel David hlabunda, secretary general, and Paulo 

Gumane, his deputy, but to have them deponed from Tanganyika. His 

weapon was a letter naming them as Portuguese agents, a letter, which, it 

was later discovered, he had not "found" but had himself forged. 

Later Mondlane personally investigated Milas's background and dis- 

covered that he was an Afro-American from Wornia masquerading as a 

Mozambican. But the damage had been done. Gumane and Mabunda 

proceeded to Cairo, where they reconstituted UDENAMO. Mondlane 

returned to Africa from Syracuse in 1963, went to Cairo to appeal to the 

dissidents to return, but failed. FRELIMO did not suffer unduiy, how- 

ever, since Cairo was far removed from Mozambique and potential 

UDENAMO supporters in East Africa. Later Gumane became president 

of a potential rival orgagization, the Mozambique Revolutionary Commit- 

tee (COREMO), with headquarters in Lusaka. 

BEGINNING OF THE WAR FOR LIBERATION 

In mid-October 1964, on a plane from Cairo to Nairobi, to my great 

pleasure, I met Eduardo Mondlane. We sat together and talked all the way. 

I remember three things about our conversation. One, an incidental item, 

was that on his visit to East Germany, he had been given several hundred 

cameras for FRELIMO's use. When he asked me whether the ACOA 

would be able to contribute a Land Rover to the Mozambique Institute, I 

said yes and added jokingly, "In exchange, can you save one of the cameras 

for us?" It was agreed, with a laugh. 

A second point referred to his own personal security. Three young men 

guarded the house where he and his family lived. Matter-of-factly he said, 

"There is always the possibility of assassination." He felt safest traveling in 

Eastern Europe because it woula &. n)Qn difficult for the Portuguese to 

hire someone to kill him there. 

The third point was the most pressimg-FRELIMO had begun the

Mozambique: A Dream the Siee of Freedom 185 

armed struggle. I had seen only brief news items about it. He filled me in. 

It was only the beginning, he explained. It would be a protracted smuggle, 

but with his usual optimism, he added, "We will be victorious." He and 

others were convinced of the inevitability of armed struggle. Janet bad 

written me (February 26,1964): "Somewhere at the back of my head I had 

hoped that [mr] wouldn't be necessary, but Portugal doesn't learn a stitch 

of a lesson from her other colonies [the Angolan and Guinea-Bissau armed 

struggles were already in progress], so wars in other territories don't help 

to get independence peacefully for Mozambique." 

The outbreak of hostilities had been set for September 25, Mondlane 

told me. There were only about 250 trained men, atthough the military 

force grew rapidly-z,m by 1965, 8,000 by 1967, and 12,000 by 1974, 

with twice that many in village militias. At first, action was concentrated in 

the northern provinces of Cab Delgado and Niassa. 

The Portuguese, unlike in Angola, were not endirely unprepared. They 

evacuated the people from the Ruvuma River area on the Thnzanian 

border, constructed air strips in the far north, and set up aldeamenros. 

Thousands of Mozambicans s med into southern Tanzania as the Por- 

tuguese burned villages in the war zone in reprisal. 

A series of articles in the conservative Evening Standard of London in 

1965 by Lord Kilbracken attested to the seriousness and effectiveness of 

FRELIMO's campaign. Following a Portuguese-sponsored trip into the 

war zone of Niassa, he wrote, "The scale of fighting in this bitter, unsung 

war has steadily increased since the first minor incidents just a year 

ago. . . . In 3,000 terrorized square miles the Portuguese, both civil and 

military, are now confined to five small isolated garrisons." He had visited 

all five garrisons. He wrote of FRELIMO that they "are a tough and 

elusive enemy. They generally operate in very small units, often of only 

half a dozen men. . . . They are at home in the jungle and bush, where 

they live off the country, striking silently by night, withdrawing swMy 

into the dense cover if the Portuguese reply in strength." 

The war was expensive for the Portuguese. They had between 60,000 

and 7 0 , mops ~ in Mozambique. hliIitary expenditures were $195 million 

in 1963 and shot up to $217 million ia 1968. Casualty figures were not 

reliable. Official Portuguese figures estimated losses in killed and wounded 

at approximately 4,000 in the first three years of the war. FRELIMO set 

the figure at more like 9,000. 

By the end of 1965 FRELIMO controlled virtually all of Cab Delgado 

end si&cant portions of Niassa, although its strategy was a holding 

action to allow time for additional troops to be trained. It confined itself to 

laying mines and setting ambushes. No great supply lines were necessary 

because the troops grew their own food and were supported by the local 

people. 

The principal Portuguese response was aerial warfare. Civilians were 

the main victims, but crops, villages, schools, and clinics were bombed. 

This increased the flow of refugees north across the Ru~lma River, where 

the Tanzanian government and FRELIMO refugee services helped them.

Years of Tunnoil 

In March 1968 FRELIMO decided to extend the war to Tete Province, 

farther south, bordering Malawi and Zambia. Tete, one of the richest 

provinces of Mozambique, had untapped mineral resources, abundant 

cattle, and important agricultural potential. It was looked upon as strategically 

important because it was the site of the large hydroelectric project 

at Cabom Bassa on the Zarnbezi River. Work began on the dam in I 969. It 

was to be a concrete wall 510 feet high and I ,om feet a m , whicb would 

form a I ,6msquare-mile resermir stretching all the way to the Zambian 

border in order to irrigate 3 million acres and provide electric power for 

South Africa. The project was funded by a consortium headed by South 

African entrepreneur Harry Oppenheimer. I visited it in 1975 when it was 

nearing completion. FRELIMO, however during the liberation war, bad 

looked upon the dam as a threat. The overall Pormguese plan was to use 

the dam to encourage large-sale European immigration into the Zambezi 

Valley. FRELIMO did not plan a frontal attack on the dam, which would 

have been suicidal, but its ambushes and landmining were effective 

enough to delay construction. Samora Machel told me, "We'll eat away at 

the project, making it more expensive and taking longer to construct." 

FRELIMO's problem was to establish a base from which to enter Tete. 

Mozambique is such a long, narrow country that it was not easy, with 

T d a as a base, to contemplate opening up a front in the central and 

southern provinces. To have men portaging military supplies on their 

heads for a thousand miles or so was almost impossible. South Africa and 

Rhodesia on the south and west were hardly sympathetic to FRELIMO. 

Theoretically, Malawi should have offered aid and sanctuary, but Banda 

did not. On a visit to the United States he told me he did not trust 

Mondlane, then still employed at the UN, because he understood 

Mondlane was talking with Portuguese officials, meaning that he was a 

possible sellout. Then Banda asked me to keep an eye on Mondlane and let 

him know if I noted anything suspicious. 

I discussed Banda's surprising half-accusation with Mondlane, who in 

turn brought up Banda's ambition to reestablish a Greater Malawi. To that 

end he would have had to make a deal with the Portuguese who would cede 

to landlocked Malawi a portion of Mozambique in order to give Malawi a 

corridor to the Indian Ocean. When I reported to Banda, quite truthfully, 

that Mondlane's only talks with the Portuguese related to their efforts to 

induce him to pursue his vocation in Portugal, Banda let the matter dmn 

as far as I hew. 

I had another indication of Banda's policy toward FRELIMO beginning 

with my arrival by air as a guest at Malawi's independence celebration 

in July 1964. Almost simultaneously another aircraft brought an offid 

delegation of Portuguese guests, who were greeted on behalf of the swnto-be-independent 

Malawi government by my old friend Kanyama 

Chiume, the foreign minister designate. Embarrassed, he explained, in 

answer to my whispered question, that the Porn- were g.llcstspf he government. 

Not long after, Banda sent Chiume on a trip to some African capitals to


feel out such leaders as Julius Nyerere in Tanzania and Ahrned Ben Bella 

in Algeria on the idea of a Greater Malawi and the corridor to the sea. 

Later, after Chiume and other Malawi leaders had broken with Banda and 

fled the country, Chiume with his irrepressible humor described this 

strsnge trip "Could you imagine me talking seriously with thw African 

nationalist leaders, who had struggled against European domination so 

vigorously, about making a deal with Porrugal?" He never brought up the 

subject in his discussions with them. Then he reported to Banda that the 

idea was not acceptable to African leaders.* 

MONDLANE'S LEADERSHIP 

During the early days of FRELIMO's conflict with Portugal, Eduardo 

Mondlane's leadership was critical. Not only was he personally am- 

mitted, but he was a highly disciplined individual. In one of his many 

letters to Janet, which she occasionally shared with me, Eduardo described 

his early morning reghen. He rose at 6:45, ran to the beach for a swim, 

and then did some pushups and other exercises before taking another 

swim and shower. After a walk and breakf'ast, he was ready for the day's 

work. He maintained this kind of discipline even when traveling abroad. 

Mondlane generally reflected an enthusiastic and positive attitude that 

affected those around him. He was ecstatic about the fomtive OAU 

conference in Addis Ababa in 1963, which he described in another letter to 

Janet. The Ethiopian emperor's opening address was "superb"; Balm's 

[of Nigeria] the "most conservative"; Nkrumah's "the most forward- 

looking . . . most udkely to be accepted by most statesmen present"; 

Nyerere's "the most pragmatic." He was enthusiastic about the many 

countries pledging I percent of their budgets to support the f rd~rn 

fighters. 

In yet another letter he described a trip to southern Tanzania, wherehe 

asked a responsive stadium crowd of a thousand Mozambicans to demon- 

strate their support by giving a shilling each. They collected 590 shillings 

on the spot, a tidy amount from displaced peasants and workers. "The 

people are really eager," he wrote. 

At this time, Mondlane's personal ideology was nationalist and prag- 

matic with a socialist bias. He wrote to me about a nip to N m York he 

planned for October 1963, asking the ACOA to help amage some dates. 

In tbis letter (September 10, 1963) he gave vent to some of his negative 

feelings toward Holden Robeno, whom he nevertheless wanted to meet in 

New York, a "confmntation" he called it. 

I heard that [Roberto] bas asked UDENAMO people to accompany him in 

order to help him prove that FRELIMO was a C ommd set-up Far your 

information, I'd like to state that FRELIMO is a pmly Africanist party. It carries 

*Qliumc discusses Bands's policy toward Porngal in hi Kwacha: An Aluobhgmplv (1~75)-

Eduardo Mondlane, president of FRELIMO, speaking to the people inside 

Mozambique, 1968. 

ACOA files. 

no brief for either Western capitalists or Eastern communists. W, of come, 

bclicvc in socialism, but one type only typical to Africa, as exemplified by a 

number of Africau states, e.g., Guinea, Tanganyika, Ghana, etc. I believe that all 

African smtcs will end up following some form of socialisre or other. 

I did arrange for the two to meet, but Roberto, after reluctantly agreeing, 

failed to show up 

The relations of various African liberation movements toward one 

another were affected by international alignments. This was no doubt a 

factor in the Mondlane-Roberto problem. FRELIMO and the FNLA 

were never organizationally aligned; the MPLA was FRELIMO's counter- 

part in Angola. When, in 1963, Cyril Adoula, as Congo prime minister, 

hoped to establish a Liberation Center in Leopoldville, UDENAMO and 

later COREMO were included rather than FRELIMO. Thest alignments 

were a eonstant subject for discussion. In one conversation (May 1967), 

Mondlane explained alignments in terms of the Swiet-Chincse cold war. 

One group of movements leaned toward the Soviet Union, which sent 

them significant military support. Another group tended towards China. 

The Western governments were not much of a factor because no official 

help came from them, although many Western organizations sent private 

aid. The tendency t o d alignments was cded at a conference in

Mozambique: A Dream the Ske of Freedom 189 

Khartoum in 1968 sponsored by Soviet-aligned interidonill organiza- 

tions. The liberation movements invited were the so-called authentic six- 

the ANC in South Africa, Zimbabwe African People's Union (ZAPU), 

South Wkst Africa People's Organhation (SWAPO), African Party for the 

Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde (PAIGC), MPLA, and 

FRELIMO. Excluded as not "authentic" were the PAC of South Africa, 

Zimbabwe African National Union (ZANU), FNLA, COREMO, and 

other smaller movements from Namibia and Guinea-Bissau. 

Mondlane attended the Khartoum conference of nectssity. Most of the 

military hardwe for FRELIMO came from Soviet-aligned countries. 

Nevertheless, he, more than any other liberation leader, did not cut 

himself off from any governments and organizations, East or West, that 

were willing to help. I heard a conversation between Robem and Gumane 

in Kinshasa in which they credited Simango with having the Chinese 

connections and Marcelin0 dos Santos as having the Soviet connections. 

They claimed that Mondlane was a figurehead. He laughed at this when we 

talked about it. He had enemies, of course, but he had friends in the right 

plam all m r the world. The OAU recognized only FRELIMO, never 

COREMO. Both Nyerere and Kaunda told me that they supported 

ERELIMO. COREMO had an office in Lusaka but was never atlowed to 

open one in Dar es Salaam. 

Although the United States was looked upon as an ally of Portugal, 

Mondlane maintained friendly relations with Americans, such as Attorney 

General Robert Kennedy. As an academician, Mondlane was sought after 

in university circles. His ro years in the United States had made him seem 

almost American. He was an avid sports fan, for example, and was always 

eager to know professional football scores. 

I knew something of Mondlane's approach to the American scene. In 

1967 the ACOA had agreed to try to raise funds to support the opening of a 

FRELIMO office in New York. Just about this time the expod about the 

CIA using private American organizations as conduits hit the U.S. press. It 

did not affect the ACOA because we were never named, but I wrote to 

Mondlane asking if he felt the exposure should affect the timing of 

opening the FRELIMO office. He replied (April 10,1967): 

If each time therc is a scandal in any of the countries which support us, we 

stampeded out, the Portuguese government would conveniently m e to create 

such commotion. . . . I believe the CIA scandal was an American tragedy, not 

ours. . . . It will not help anyone for Amuicans to warn anybody away from 

accepting any and all help from the U.S. for fear that they may be labeled as agents. 

Both the FRELIMO military effort and the Mozambique Institute cost 

millions of dollars a year. Aid came from many souras. In the fund-raising 

effort one could see the practical value of Mondlane's cultivation of all 

sides on the inmtional scene. Virtually aU military aid, including not 

only weapons and m e n t s but also clothing, medicine, and food, came 

from socialist countries. Western European countries and North American 

humanitarian and religious organizations contributed educational and

medical supplies. Both the People's Republic of Chh and the USSR gave 

material support. About 20 percent of FRELIMO's needs were met 

through the OAU and Tmmnh, Egypt, Algeria, and Zambia. FRELIMO 

had offices in Dar es Salaam, Lusaka, Algiers, and Caim and overseas in 

MOSCOW, Stockholm, and New York. 

The ACOA was instrumental in opening the New York office and 

maintained a dose connection with its head, Sharfudine Khan. Wk coordinated 

fund raising for this office among church agencies, trade unions, and 

individuals and, as promised, raised funds for a Land Rover. We shipped it 

to my friend Rashidi Kawawa, the second vice president of Tanzania, and 

thus avoided paying duty. Monhe reported (January 26, 1966)~ "me 

Land Rover] is already in service and tomorrow morning is going to start 

on its first long safwi between Dar es Salaam and the southeastern part of 

Tanzania to pick up a number of refugees who are sick." On my next trip 

to Dar es Salaam in 1967, as I prepared to board the plane, Simango, who 

was seeing me off, thrust a camera into my hands. It was one of the East 

German camem that Mondlane had told me about on that plane ride three 

years earlier* I had forgotten about our joking agreement, but he had 

remembered. 

MONDLANE'S ASSASSINATION 

FRELLMO had to face internal conflicts and tensions that might have 

doomed a less solidly based organization.One such test came in March 

1968, when some students at the Mozambique Institute's secondary school 

at Kurasini in Dar es Salaam rebelIed against FRELIMQ's expectation 

that they would serve FRELIMO and Mozambique when called to do so. 

The dissension was fanned by Father Mateus Gwenjere, a Mozambican 

priest, who convinced some of the students that their education bad 

prepared them for higher duties. Violence erupted and the school was 

closed for two and a half years before reopening in Bagamoyo. 

Another test came when Lazaro Kavandame, an important leader in the 

cooperative FRELIMO People's Stores in Cabo Delgado, was discovered 

to be transferring some of the clothing earmarked for these stom, In 

which manufactured goods were bartered for farmers' produce, to his own 

stores, where sales benefitted only him. Following a decision of 

FRELIMOk Executive Committee, Mondlane wrote a letter expelling 

him from the movement. Subsequently Kavandame called upon the 

Makonde people to end their struggle against Pormgal, and he himself 

defected to the Portuguese. The Portuguese played this up as evidence of a 

major split in FRELIMO, which was far from true. 

Such signs of internal dissension were nothing compared to the crisis of 

Mondlane's assassination in Dar es Salaam on February 3,1969. I received 

the shamring news by telephone. Mondlane had been alone about r r:2o 

A.M. opening his mail, as he sometimes did, at the home of a friend. A


bomb placed in a package containing a book exploded, killing him imme- 

diately. Police investigation revealed that Porruguese secret police who had 

infiltrated FRELIMO had carried the package from Loureqo Marques to 

Tanzania and delivered it to the post office. There it was put in 

FRELIMO's private bag and taken to its office, where Mondlane picked it 

up on that fateful Monday morning. 

Janet Mondlane, who was on a fund-raising mission m Europe, hurried 

back to Tanzania. Eduardo was buried with all the honor ordinarily paid a 

head of state. Later, on the anniversary of his death, FRELIMO made a 

simple statement: "The enemy hoped they could disorganize the liberation 

movement [by the assassinati~n] and halt the struggle . . . but they 

failed." 

A few weeks later Janet wrote me a moving letter (March I I, 1969). 

In a most fundamental way life has changed for me since I saw you in New York. 

There are so many rhings I could say about myself since that catastrophic day when 

Eduanlo was killed. But I can't say them now because I don't know how to say 

them. Somewhere inside, what must be said is waiting. I haven't quite found that 

part of me that has been lost in order to put it together. So many things haw been 

1 II . 

Eduardo and Janet Mondlane and daughter in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, 

mid-~gk

said over aud over again in all parts of the world. He seemed to belong to so many 

others that have had the strength to describe what he was. I have bene6tted from 

their ability to speak out what I could not. Perhaps some day in the future I shall 

spd too, but then it will perhaps be only for myself 

A leadership crisis ensued. A collective Council of the Presidency, 

formed of three lead-Machel, Simango, and Dos Santos--was shortlived. 

Simango, the vice president, had assumed that he would automatically 

become president, but he lacked the leadership potential to pull 

together the elements that Mondlane had molded into a working whole. In 

November 1969 he issued a 13-page document, "Gloomy Situation in 

FRELIMO," outlining serious grievances against other leaders in the 

movement and airing internal disputes. For some reason he was particularly 

virulent in attacks on Janet Mondlane. In response to my quwtions, 

she wrote (December 10,1969): 

There is certainly nothing sarct about events surrounding [Shmgds] case. He 

h i d made very sure of that, for head of breathing a word to the Council of 

the Presidency of his complaints, or rhe Executive Commirtce, or to any other 

organ of FRELJMO for that matter* he literally distributed a libelous 13 page 

pamphlet thoughout the world. I mysclf was included in his accusations saying, 

among other things, that I and nine other people planned the murder of Nungu [a 

FRELIMO leader] and made plans for the assashtion of others. . . . Stmango's 

big problem was that he did not succeed Mondlane in the Presidency and he just 

couldn't get over that hurdle. 

At a meeting of the OAU Liberation Committee, Simango accused 

FRELIMO leaders of being imperialist agents. Consequently he was 

expelled from the party. Later he was ordered out of Tanzania and became 

secretary for international affairs for COREMO. 

In May 1970 FRELIMO's Central Committee elected Machel president 

and Dos Santos, vice president. A month later I met Machel and from that 

and two lengthy subsequent meetings derived my impressions of him. 

Dark and heavily bearded, he seemed much taller than his five feet ninc 

inches because he held himself so erect. He was impressive. Everything 

about him seemed dynamic--his ideas, his easy laughter and many ges- 

tures, his erect and rapid waking pace. He did not like to talk about 

W. When I asked about his personal background, he responded, 

"That is not important. What is important is the movement!" "Wk haw no 

Che's in FRELIMO," he said, referring to the Cuban Leader Che 

Guevara. "Wk don't believe in mnality cult." 

Like Mondlane, Samora Machel came from Gaza Province in southern 

Mozambique. He was born in 1933 in a peasant family. He had four years 

in a Catholic mission schwl and further training as a medical assistant. He 

was working in a hospital in Louren~o Marques in 1961, when he met 

Mondlane and became an early recruit to FRELIMO. 

Machel had the reputation of being pragmatic. He was always on the 

move, especially in the liberated areas inside Mozambique. "My headquar- 

ters is in my pocket," he said. He greatly admired Mondlane, Nyerere,

Mmambique: A Dremn the S k of Freedom 

Samora Machcl (left), president of FRELIMO, and Joaquim Chissano (rightX 

FREL.LM0 leader, ie Dar cs Salaam, Tgslzania, 1972. 

and Kaunda and appreciated a direct style. He said, 'Whcn I want to see 

someone, I don't want a bureaucracy to staad in my way to protect me." 

EXPANDING EFFORTS 

Under Machel's leadership the work of FRELIMO continued to expand. 

On my various visits I marueled at the growth of the Mozambique h ti- 

tute, still headed by Janet Mondlane. It had headquarters in Dar es 

Salaam, a secondary schmf io Bagamoyo, a women's and children's center 

in Tunduru in southern Taezania, and a hospital at Mtwara, also in the 

south. 

The main objective was never lost sight of-preparing to go back to an 

independent Mozambique. At Bagamoyo, as I saw on my 1970 visit, they 

vied to approximate conditions in the bush inside Mozambique-a well 

with a pump instead of ruuning water, no electricity, petral lamps, outside 

privies, prefabricated dormitories, cooking done over an open fire-to

make it easier to transport rhe school to Mozambique at the appropriate 

time. The students raised same of their own fd. A year later they had 

more than 200 students with another hundred waiting to come. About 20 

buildings were either constructed or in the ptocess. 

In Mnvara I had a good view of FRELIMO's new Amaim Boavida 

hospital, aamcd after the MPLA doctor killed in Angola in 1968, to which 

the ACOA Africa Fund had contributed an initial $25,000. A Bulgarian 

surgeon and his wife, a general practitioner, were in cbarge. There was a 

staff of 37 and 70 beds. Thirty-five nurses in traiuing were preparing to go 

back to serve FRELIMO clinics in Niassa, Cabo Delgado, and Tete. Most 

of the serious cases, both civilian and military, came from inside Mozambique. 

The primary school in hduru began in 1966 with 25 children from 

Niassa, who were either orphaned or lost after Portuguese bombings. As 

Janet Mondlane explaiaed it, one of the liberation fighters, disturbed by 

the plight of the children, began with others to "collect" them, walking 

across the Taazanian border to Tunduru, carrying some children whiie 

athers followed on foot. By 1973 there were about 1,200 children in 

primary and preschool programs. Eight hundred women were in the 

center also, mothers of the children or wives of men at the fighting front. 

The women were learning to read. The center grew rapidly, especiaily with 

generous aid from Sweden. Eight buildings m constructed in 1973 

alone. 

Meanwhile FRELIMO faced its greatest military challenge between 

May and September 1970. The Pormguese launched a major offensive 

against FRELIMO snongholds. A new commander, Gen. Kauh Oliveira 

de Mga, led some go,ooo Portuguese uoops. Large-scale aerial bombardments 

and helicopter attacks followed by infantry occupation were the 

tactics. FRELIMO, receiving advance intelligence reports, relocated its 

bases and supplies. Although the offensive was not a military succ3ess for 

Portugal, crops were destroyed and fwd shortages resulted. A year later 

Portugal still had 20,- troops in Tete, but FRELIMO was also still 

there. 

One result of this campaign was to drive FRELIMO's military efforts 

farther south into Manic8 and Sofala provinces. According to the Johnnesk 

Stm, uEven their most ardent detractors now grudgingly admit 

that FRELIMO's military attacks on Mozambique are making formidable 

suides."f In two y m the struggle had advanced from the extreme north 

into the center of the country. In 1973 FRELIMO acquired the new SAM 

7 missiles, increasing its attacks on aircraft. The rail line from Salisbury, 

Rhodesia, m Beira, a major seaport, was vulnerable to sabotage, affmg 

exports and imports for the white minority government. Furthermore, 

increased cooperation between ZANU form and FRELLMO created an 

obvious challenge to the white minority in both Mozambique and Rhodesia. 

The Portuguese responded by expanding their system of aldeamenros.

Mosambique: A Dream the Size of Freedam I95 

By 1973 an estimated million people were living in h ost goo such vilk@t~ 

in the northem provinces with another 200 or more being constructed in 

Mania and Sofala. 

I was in Dar es Salaan in July 1973, when news flashed around the 

world of a massacre of huncimds of peasants in the village of Wrriyamu in 

Tete Province on December 16, 1972. Spanish missionaries near the spot 

werc finally able to publicize the tragedy. Although FRELIMO leaders 

were disturbed, they apue not surprised. As Jorge Rebelo, secretary for 

information, told me, % have been releasing information about such 

mass attacks on defenseless civilians for a long time. No one listened. We 

are grateful that the world is listening to the missionaries." 

In October 1975, after Mozambican independence, I arranged to visit 

Wrriyamu. It was bath a moving and an eerie experience- As we drove 

along a dirt road, we passed a few isolated huts but no villages. Wiriyamu 

was a wide open, uninhabited clearing. Practically no sguct~res mdned 

standing. It had been a new village where people had been compelled to 

move by the Portuguese, but it was not a regular aldeamenw. No troops 

had been stationed there. 

I was given a graphic description of what had happened. Suspecting 

that the villagers were hclping FRELIMO guerrillas, agents of the secret 

police came to the village to announce a meeting. A company of Por- 

tuguese troops surrounded the village. All the people were lined ug+ 

children, old people, men, and women in four separate lines. Then the 

mops suddenly began firing. The idea was to kill everyone. Some 400 

died. The only villagers to escape were the badly wounded who feigned 

death and a few who were doing laundry at the riwr nearby. Then all the 

huts were bmed and with them a few old and sick people who could not 

have attended the "meeting." All that remained were scorched hut posts, 

scattered pots and pans, and a small thatched-roofed structure with open 

sides in which a chest filled with skulls and bones sat on a pile of rocks. 

Right next to this srructllre was a large mound of earth, perhaps 20 feet by 

xo and 4 feet high, with a cross on ton containing the remains of the 

people of WIriyamu. 

PUTTING PRINCIPLES INTO PRACTICE 

I was attracted to FRELIMO because it was an effective movement with 

unusual Ieadus interest4 not only in indepdmcc but also in crating a 

positive experience for tbe peopIc in place of an exploitative one. Eduardo 

Mondlane made the point that uLiberation is to us not simply a matter of 

expelling the Portuguese; it means reorganizing the life of the country and 

setting it on the road to sound national development." FRELIMO made 

valiant efforts to put its prinaples into practice. By 1973 thwe were more 

than a million Mozambicans living in liberated areas, almost 20 percent of 

the population. In both the b'berated areas and in Tanzania, one could get a


pretty good idea of FRELIMO's dedication. I was impressed by its services 

in d e at Bagmoyo and Mtwara and inside Mozambique, where 

thousands were being taught to read and write and thousands were being 

vaccinated against disease. 

I was also impressed by FRELIMO's egalitarianism. Titles for oWs were eschewed. Everyone was "comrade," or known simply as a resparsawl, 

that is, one who had mqonsibility for a particular task. I was 

impressed too by FRELIMO's mmmirment to the nonuibal, nonracial 

principle. Mozambique has 42 tn'bes. Yet I never came across tsibal 

tensions between leaders, although they may have misted. FRELIMO 

tried to combat any such tendencies. Several leaders in addition to 

Mondlane married across racial lines. Mozambicans of Asian background 

were integrated into the orguhtioa. 

A prime obiective of FRELIMO was to change the role of women, It 

had made a brave beginning by forming a Women's Detachment in 1967 

with mponsibility for the movement of food to the fighting front, for 

sucial services such as caring for orphans, for medical assistance, and for 

literacy campaigns. The Oqpbation of Mozambican Rmen ms set up 

in 1972, and the first women's conference was held in 1973. 

FRELIMO made no attempt to idedlize the war. The leaders made no 

assumption that liberation could be achieved everywhere only by armed 

struggle, Methods used must be adapted to the concrete situation. The 

distinction between military and civilian was looked upon as functional. 

Most of the FRELIMO guerrillas were themselves peasants. 

Since Mozambique is basically an agricultural counuy, a foremost 

problem was to organize the use of the land in liberated areas. By 1973 

FRELIMO was carrying on a Limited international trade in Mozambican 

farm produc~ashews, castor seeds, peanuts, tobacco, sesame. I discussed 

this extensively with Joaquim Chissano, who was responsible for 

FRELIMO's commerce and other activities in Tanzania. People's Stores 

were organized deep inside Mozambique and on the Tanzanian border. 

There farmers brought their crops to trade for hoes, hatchets, salt, 

matches, clothes, and blankets made available through FRELIMO's international 

outreach. 

I was impressed by the breadth of FRELIMO's international contacts, a 

legacy of Mondane's work. According to Chissano, it had d e n t relations 

with both China and the Soviet Union and with Scandinavia. 

uMondlane's policy is really paying off at this time." he said. Yet relations 

with the U.S. government, beyond polite personal embassy contact, were 

almost nonexistent. Chissano told me that when a U.S. embassy 

spokesman in Dar es Salaam asked how Chissano would respond to a 

dinner invitation, Chissano said he would turn it down, explaining, "Because 

you are my enemy. Not you personally but your government." 

U.S. support of Portugal in NATO made a good relationship with 

liberation movements in Portuguese colonies impossible. Against the 

background of wats in Africa, U.S. aid to Portugal could be seen by the

Mo~ambique: A Dream the Size of Freedom I97 

moments only as an act of enmity. Portugal had r50~ooo soldiers in 

Africa and spent close to 50 percent of its budget on the war. In 1971 the 

United States sold to Portugal 707 and 747 akraft to be used for troop 

transport in Africa and five Bell helicopters for use in Mozambique and 

gave $2.5 million in direct military assistance. To cap it, in kcember the 

United States and Portugal signed a five-year agreement that the United 

States would continue to use the air and naval base in the Azores and 

would give Porngal more tean $400 million in loans and grants in am- 

nomic aid. 

I was one of those who testif5ed before the Senate Foreign Relatio~s 

Committee opposing this decision. I was also one of a handful of people 

who, at his request, advised Charles Diggs, chair of the House Subcom- 

mittee on Africa, to resign from the U.S. delegation to the UN in protest, 

wbishhe did. 

A NEW MOOD IN SOUTHERN AFRICA 

The army coup in Portugal in April 1974 radically changed the situation. 

When I was in Africa a few months later, a transitional government had 

been set up ia Lourenp Marques. I had hoped to visit Mozambique. 

However, both Rebelo, the transitional minister of information, and Mariano 

Matsinhe, minister of labor, whom I saw in Zambia, suggested that I 

wait until after independence in June. "It is still a transitional government," 

they explained. "We are telling our friends we can organize a better 

program to see the country after independence." So I somewhat reluctantly 

postponed my trip 

In Dar es Salaam there was much excitement at FRELIMO headquarters. 

Chissano had just been installed as interim prime minister in 

Lourenp Marques. Bii decisions were beiig made. When should Machel 

return to Lourenso Marques? What should be done about the Bagatnoyo 

and %dm schools, the hospital in Mtwara? 

At the Mozambique Institute and later at the Mondlane home, I had a 

long talk with Machel, with Janet Mondlane and a FRELIMO aide 

interpreting. Although Machel spoke and understood some English, he 

was more comfortable in Portuguese. We munched Mozambique cashews 

as we talked. He was happy about reports from Mozambique, particularly 

about the depomnent of the FRELIMO troops in L o m Marques. ~ 

"We trained them well," he said. 'We had hundreds of Portuguese soldiers 

imprisoned. Not one was executed." They mpacted the rank of Portuguese 

officers. "Even if our own troops were in rags, we always saw that 

captured officers were neat and clean." There was not a reported case of 

mistrated civilians or women raped. 

According to Machel, there were four categories of Portuguese in 

Mozambique. One consisted of the reactionaries and fascists who feared 

what would happen when FRELIMO took over. A second were those who

had committed crimes and feared punishment. A third were either fearful 

or hopeful, depending on what they heard from others. A founh, notably 

the Pormguese officers, were FRELIMO sympathizers. 

I gained further perspective from Tony Avirgan, a journalist friend in 

Tmwia, who had just returned from Lourenp Marques. He reported 

that Europeans were obviously apprehensive about what would happen 

when FRELIMO mops came in. After all, they had been fed a steady 

stream of propaganda about terrorists and they expected thousands of 

whites to be killed. This fear was in part dispelled by Chissano's quiet, 

forceful, intelligent handling of his first press confaence. 

Avirgan and the people with whom he talked were i m p d by the 

way the FRELIMO soldiers handled themselves. They lined the streets in 

strategic m. Although not fraternizing with the people, they would put 

their guns aside and talk openly with anyone who asked them questions. 

Avirgan emphasized particularly the soldiers' restraint in areas of 

Lourenp Marques notorious for wild night life. Because Samora had 

initially spoken vigorously against prostitution, it was expected that sol- 

diers would close bars and brothels on "Sin Street." Instead they quietly 

and persistently presented the FRELIMO position but took no other 

action. Fears eased and hope was implanted of a peaceful transition into 

independence. 

The coup in Portugal and the forthcoming independence of Mo~un- 

bique ushered in a triumphal mood of expectancy in Africa. Even Soutb 

Africa was hopeful as Prime Minister John Vorster and President Kenneth 

Kaunda talked of a detente. There was no one with whom I talked who did 

not dect a great optimism. A leader in the ANC said to me, "This is the 

most hopeful time we have ever bad in South Africa."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

Guinea-Bissau: 

"Our Peonle Are Our Mountains" 

The guenilla manuals once told us hat without mountains you cannot make 

guerrilla war. But in my country there are no mountains, only the people. 

-&nilcar Cabral 

n July 1983 I spent an hour in Dar es Salaam mmhkhg with Tanza- 

I nian President Julius Nyerere, my friend of more rhan 25 years. I had 

just retired from the ACOA, and he had mounced his plan not to seek 

reeIection in two years timc. After he had commented on some of the 

African leaders we both had known, who had all died, he said pensively of 

Adcar Cabral, "He may have been the greatest leader of all in Africa." 

Nyerere had been more impressed by hi than by any other individual. 

He told me he had given Cabral a copy of a book Nyem bad written and 

had inscribed in it, "Win the war. Stay alive. Africa needs you." 

Tmgidy and ironically Cabral was assassinated the year before the 

cause for which he gave his life was realized. I received the devastating 

news by telephone on a Sunday afternoon from Janet Hwper, a colleague 

at the ACOA, who had heard a radio report that Cabral had been shot late 

the night before (January 20, 1973) at his headquarters in Conakry. After 

an awful moment, questions immediately crowded my mind: Why? Who 

dld it? What did it mean for the future of the struggle in Portuguese 

Guinea?" 

AMILCAR CABRAL 

Amilcar 

- 

CabraI had been the inspired genius of the liberation movement in 

Portuguese Guinea, the African Party for the Independence of Guinea and 

Chpe Verde (PAIGC). I had first met him in January r$o at the second 

AAPC in Tunis. He kept a very low profile, even using a pseudonym, Abel 

Djassi, so tbat the Portuguese would not know he was there. I met him 

again in Cairo at the third AAPC. This time he wrote his real name in my 

notebook and the box number of the new extend PAIGC headquarters in 

Cabral was only a passing figure to me then. He was of moderate 

height with a round face, rather light skin, and a hairline beard ntnning 

from his sideburns to his chin. His glasses gave him the look of the 

*Portugucsc Guinea offidally rook the namc Guinea-Bissau in 1974.

intellectual that he was. He certainly did not fit my mental image of a 

revolutionary leader. Over the years, particularly from 1969, as I had 

in- contact with Cabral, my admiration for him grew. His great 

organizing ability, clarity of purpose, clear analysis, superb tactical sense, 

and innovative ideas made him a leader almost without peer in the African 

liberation struggle. 

The PAIGC was probably the most successful and advanced of all the 

freedom organizations in Africa in the 1960s and early 197~s. Cabral's 

death was bound to have an enormous effect. Yet the foundation of the 

movement was so secure that rather than faltering, the struggle actually 

qUi~ktXled 1973. 

A few weeks after the assassination I had a letter (February 1973) from 

Gd Fernandes, PAIGC representative in the United States and later the 

first ambassador from Guinea-Bissau to the United States and the UN. 

Now that I om muster enough courage after that temble tragedy, I have decided to 

drop you a line and kt you hoar where things are. FiRt of all I should let you 

how that thc struggle CO~MUCS. A bunch of Portuguese agents will n m be able 

to stop tht great work initiated by Mcar. They will not prwent us from 

becoming free. It was a terrible setback, but . . . in fact the srmggle has picked up 

since. 

In Conakry, just five months after Cabral's murder, I asked many 

people what they thought the effixt of his death would be. While express- 

ing grief and a profound sense of lass, they echoed Fernandes: "His death 

has heightened our resolve. We miss his counsel, but our decisions were 

collective ones. We will carry on as before." 

CONDITIONS IN PORTUGUESE GUINEA 

Portuguese Guinea, the third of Portugal's major African colonies, seems 

an W e l y place to have given rise to such an outstanding leader. It is a 

small country in the bulge of West Africa with a population estimated at 

less than a million in the 1960s. Sandwiched betwen Senegal and the 

Republic of Guinea (both former French colonies), it was off the beaten 

mck and mcult to reach. Yet it was a focal point for the liberation 

struggle. Under the leadership of Cabral, the PMGC was the most effec- 

tive anticolonial movement. 

The word Guinea is from the Arabic and means "the land of black 

men." The bulge of West Africa was once known simply as the Guinea 

coast. During the colonial period the countries named Guinea were dis- 

tinguished by the adjectives French and Portuguese. Later the names of 

the capital cities, Bissau and Conakry, were added to "Guinea" to dis- 

tinguish them. 

My knowledge of Angola and Mozambique helped me greatly to under- 

stand Portuguese Guinea. But the country is dinerent. It is much smaller 

in both area and population. It is hot and humid with no mountains, and

Guinea-Bissau: "Our People Are Our Mowdm" 201 

the economy is based on subsistence agriculture. Most of the people live iu 

small villages. There is little in the way of exploitable natural resources, 

although bauxite. and phosphate are present. Consequently, unlike the 

other Portuguese territories, it did not attract European settles; there 

were never more than 3,000 Portuguese in residence. 

Although the land was too inhospitable for large-scale Portuguese settlement, 

Portugal fought for a foothold there against British and French 

cnuoachrnent. Finally, in 1886 Portugal's control over the area was recognized 

in Europe. But the indigenous people resisted, and it took six 

military campaigns, the latest ending in 191 5, to pacify the area. 

Forced labor was not a principal grievance of the people in Portuguese 

Guinea, as it was in Angola and Mozambique, because it affected only a 

small part of the population. In a country where the infrastructure was 

- 

so 

underdeveloped, tabor was not recntited for private use, as it was in the 

larger colonies, but mainly for construction work on roads and bridges. 

Impetus for revolution grew out of the combination of political and 

nomic domination on the one hand and Pormgal's callous policy of ignoring 

development needs on the other. Cabral put it this way: 

W arc not only underdevtloped, but not developed at all. The situation in my 

counay, before the struggle, was that agriculture was the main basis of our 

economy. About 60 percent of the eqmrtation in the country wac peanuts. We 

didn't have any kiad of indusay. Only fourteen persons had passed the university 

until rgdo . . . 99.7 percent . . . were illiterate. Wk bad only two hospitals . . 

only 3m beds for the sick people. The mortality for children in some regions was 

about & pwccnt. You can nalize what kid of situation wc had affer .,morr 

than 500 yean of Portllgucsc presence in our country.x 

The ro Cape Verde Wands, some 300 miles off the coast of Senegal, are 

historidy tied to the mainland. When I visited them in 1975, I was 

struck by the dreadful irony of drought conditions on land surrounded by 

the sparMing blue waters of the Atlantic. Cape Verde is the same latitude 

as the Sahel and in some areas is covered by deep sand, which has been 

blown across the ocean from the Sahara, far to the east. Like the mainland 

deserts, it is chronically affected by drought. 

When Portuguese navigators discovered the islands, they were uninhabited. 

The first settlers were Portuguese, and the islands served as a 

point of deparnue for slaves sent to the new world. Porhlgal administered 

the islands and the mainland together until 1874. Today some 200,000 

people live on the islands with more than &at number of Cape Verdeans 

scattered eisewhere in the world. Largely of mixed blood, they are descendants 

of Porruguese settlers and Africans brought in as workers or slaves. 

A Portuguese culture developed on the islands, and during the colonial 

period aU the people were considered Portuguese citizens. On the mainland, 

by contrast, only 2 percent of the people were "uM' by Por- 

*French Guina became the Rtpublic of Guinea in 1958. Portuguese Guinea bccamc rbe 

independent state of Guinea-Bissau in 1974.

tuguese definition in 1950. The lingua fraaca of both Guinea-Bissau and 

Cape Verde is Creole, a cross bemeen the Portuguese and African lan- 

guages. Many Cape Verdeans live in Guinea-Bissau. Having had greater 

access to education, large numbers of them were in the Portuguese civil 

service. Many of them have played a significant role in the PAIGC. 

CABRAL AND THE PAIGC 

Although no successful organization can be attributed to the work of only 

one person, the PAIGC had the indelible stamp of Amilcar CabraI's ideas 

and ways of working. Without him, it undoubtedly would have been 

organized, but it would have been different. Cabral was born in September 

~ gin q Bafata, Portuguese Guinea. When he was nine, his parents separated 

and he was sent to Cape Verde to live for a time with his father's 

fdy. He went to primary school in Praia, the capital, on SHo Tiago and 

to secondary school on S5o Vicente. An outstanding student, he went to 

Lisbon on scholarship to study agronomy. After five years he received an 

engineering degree. Although he associated with students from other 

Portuguese colonies who later became leaders, such as Agastinho Neto of 

Angola, he was not then active in politics. 

After retunkg to Portuguese Guinea, Cabral, one of four university 

graduates in the country, took a job as a government agricultural engineer. 

His principal duty, to prepare the way for an agricultural census, gave him 

the opportunity to travel from one end of the country to the other from 

1952 to 1954. Not only did he do his job well, but he made good use of his 

travels to acquaint himself with the country, to meet the people, and to 

develop his ideas for a political party. In Bissau, where he was headquartered, 

he begaa to meet quietly with others, initially Cape Erdeans who 

shared his conviction that political organization was necessary to challenge 

Portuguese domination. At that time, Cabral explained later, "We didn't 

think about independence. We hoped in that moment to change, to have 

civil rights, to be men, not treated like animals in general. . . . We wanted 

at that moment . . . to p~ss from the situation of being second-class 

Portuguese to being Portuguese like Portuguese. We dved as answer 

only repression, imprisonment, torture. "2 

Among those with whom Cabral formed a close association was 

Aristedes Pereira, a ad servant in the post ofice, who, after Cabral's 

death, succeeded him as secretary general of the PAIGC and subsequently 

became the first president of an independent Cape Verde. Another close 

associate was Amilcar's half brother, Luis Cabxal, a bookper in a 

private firm. A third associate was Fernando Fortes, also a civil servant in 

the post office with Pereira. According to Pereira, the group met for the 

first time during the Portuguese election campaign of 1954, drawn together 

by their support for the opposition candidate to Antonio de Oliveira 

Salazar. 

Since Cabral was traveling around the country a great deal at this time,

Guinea-Bissau: "Our People Are Our Mountains" 203 

his meetings with others were fleeting. As Fortes explained to me, they 

had to be exceedingly careful, for the secret police were very watM. 

They met clandestinely with Cabral in different places, sometima even in 

Luis Cabral's car, usually only two or three at a time. They organized a 

sports club to be used partly as a frcmt for politid discussion, but the 

government banned it. The authorities became suspicious of Cabral. He 

was warned by the governor, who respected his work, that he was in 

danger of being arrested and should leave the country. 

Cabral went to Lisbon in 1955, where he took a job with an Angolan 

company based in Portugal. This work necessitated frequent and extensive 

trips to Angola. He spent enough time there to be on hand when the 

MPLA was organized in late 1956. 

Over the next three yeam, Cabral made only an occasional trip to 

Portuguese Guinea. On one visit, in September 1956, he and five trusted 

friends o r g d the PAIGC. They agreed on their objectives-independence 

for Guinea and Cape Verde, democratization and emancipation of 

the African people, and rapid economic progress. The work of organidng 

was done catefully and quietly, principally in urban areas among dockworkers, 

truckers, and other workers. 

Each of the six original PAIGC members had reqmnsiiities and his 

wvn circle of contacts. In this way the party expanded slowly through 

small secret meetings. Those who organized the dockworkers were most 

active. There was some precedence for small strikes, chiefly over low pay. 

Cooks in Portuguese homes had struck once. Sailors had gone on strike. 

The Pidjiguiti dock strike of early August 1959, which, according to 

Perk, was planned by the infant PAIGC, proved to be a turning point in 

the liberation struggle. Fifty dock workers were killed and more than a 

hundred wounded in the so-called Pidjiguiti Massacre. 

I stood on the Pidjiguiti dock 16 years after the police onslaught against 

the striking dockworkers and visualized what had happened. A striking 

worker, Josd Gomes, who was still employed there in 1975, recounted how 

the snike began in the last days of July as a demand for higher pay. Wages 

amounted to a few dollars a month. Pay day was August 3. About too 

dwkworkers struck, and 60 armed police were called in to quell the 

disturbance. About 3:w P.M. the police opened fire. Since the exit from 

the dock was blocked, many escaping workers jumped into the water and 

were drowned. Those who were not killed were arrested, Gomes among 

them. He told me that the next day he and others were forced to return to 

the dock from jail to wash off the blood. He spent five months in prison. 

Nothing appeared in the Bissau press about Pidjiguiti. The Lisbon 

press referred to the incident as a minor police action-nothing about 

killed and wounded. But for the PAIGC it was a major event. Cabral heard 

about the massacre in Angola and returned to Bissau in September. 'helve 

PAIGC members met September 19 and decided on an entirely new 

approach to the struggle in line with Cabral's analysis. From then on it was 

agreed that the peasants, rather than the city worh, should be the 

principal force in the struggle for national liberation. Party oqprhtional

work in the urban areas would continue, but very secretly, avoiding public 

demonstrations. A training program would begin to prepare the greatest 

possible number of people for political leadership. 

A decision was made to transfer the secretariat of the PAIGC to Conakry, 

capital of the Republic of Guinea. From there it could carry out a 

training program and keep in touch with the independent African states 

and African nationalkt o~tions. In effect, the decisions made in 

September 1959 laid the groundwork for an eventual med conflict with 

Portugal-an ambitious undertaking for an organization that may have had 

no more than go members. 

LAYING THE FOUNDATION FOR THE STRUGGLE 

By January I*, Cabral had decided to give all of his time and energy to 

the struggle. He left Lisbon to take up his headquarters in Conakry. The 

president of the RepubIic of Guinea, S&ou Tow& gave bim a job as an 

agronomist, and a house, which kame the headquarters of the PAIGC 

and his home up to the time of his assassination. A cluster of other 

buildings, mostly prefabricated, were built around Cabral's small house to 

make up the external headquarters of the PAIGC until independence. 

Other PATGC leaders gravitated toward Conakry to join Cabral during 

this period. Without giving notice, Pereira quietly left his job in Bissau in 

May 1960 and via Cape Verde and Lisbon joined C&d a- - iq 

January 1961. - 

For two years Cabral carried on an intensive edudon cam~a;& &ed 

. s- 

. .-- C$M-iQ 

at winning the support of the peasants. This was not my. Although 

peasants were virtually the whole population of the country, they had very 

little contact with the Portuguese. 

The people were touched by colonialism principally through a 10 

pcrcent head tax and in some areas an enforced growk~g of certain crops 

such as peanuts. There was no direct competition between Africans and 

Portuguese for land since the Portuguese were less than I peroent of the 

population, located mostly in urban administrative positions. Thus the 

people did not necessarily assodate their economic plight with Portuguese 

exploitation. 

Another difficulty, Cabral explained, was ibat the Portuguese used 

traditional chiefs as agents of authority where they could. Two principal 

tribes, the Balante and the Fula, had quite different . . traditions. The 

Balante, with no chiefs, were not drawn into admuusmatbe posts by the 

Portuguese. But the Fula chiefs became part of the administrative system. 

Consequently, at the outset of the struggle, the PAIGC had greater success 

among the Balante and met more resistance from the Fula. 

The PAIGC also had to wig support from people in urban areas. 

Among what Cabral called the petite bourgeoisie were officials in the 

Portuguese adminisfration, others with nationalist sympathies in varied

Guinea-Bissau: "Our People Are Our Minuhdp 205 

occupations, and wage earners. On the whole, those work@ within the 

administration were not open to the aims of the PAIGC. Prinapal support 

came from the other rwo groups. 

The task of the party was to bring together the various elements in the 

society to win independence. Cabral was convinced that the first step 

should be a careful political campaign of education and persuasion among 

the mass of the people. He opened a political school in Conakry in 1960 

with about 50 trainees. They lived together for rwo or three months befo~ 

renuning to Portuguese Guinea to organize. Then another group came. 

Cabral handled most of the study and lecture program himself. Over a 

two-year period, 800 to I ,ooo cadres were trained in the school. 

I did not see Cabd at work, but from my discussions with others mu 

my readmg I know that he handled this instruction with care and sensitivity, 

He was dealing with many recruits who could not read or write, 

which made teaching basic literacy a priority. His wife, hlaria Helena 

Rodrigues, whom he met in Portugual, observed: "He was very gifted. He 

started teaching these young people and he absolutely transformed them. 

He knew haw to listen to them and explain things to them in a kind, 

thoughtful and m v e way."3 

Leaders of the PAIGC were not anxious for armed codct. In 1960 and 

1961 they made several appeals to the Portuguese for discussions, release 

of political prisoners, and some steps toward decolonization. Portugal 

never responded. 

On the second anniversary of the Pidjiguiti Massacre (August 3,19611, 

PAIGC leaders decided the time had come for direct action. It would take 

the form of sabotage. In June 1973, seated on a crude bench in a thick 

growth of tall trees at the southern headquarters of the PAIGC forces, I 

discussed this period with Joio Bernardo Vieira (nicknamed Nino), the 

commander of the PAIGC forces and later the second president of independent 

Guinea-Bissau. He came from Bissau and had been an electrician. 

Shortly after the Pidjiguiti strike he went to Conakry, where he met Cabral 

and participated in the PAIGC training program. When the sabotage 

cam* began, he was a leader in the south. They cut telephone wires, 

destroyed small bridges, and cut dmn trees to block roads. For a brief 

period they virtually halted communication from Bissau to the outside 

world. 

The Portuguese reacted to this PAIGC initiative by widespread represion. 

The secret poIice rounded up suspects, attacked the underground 

headquarters of the party, and seized party material. Among those arrested 

was Raphael Barbosa, a governmeet worker who was chairman of the 

parry's Central Committee. He spent several years in prison and later 

publicly renounced his party association as a result of Portuguese pressure. 

During this period, Cabral gave some attention to international contacts. 

He mte me in early 1962 asking about sending a delegation to the 

UN and seeking the aid of the ACOA. When he finally arrived in New 

York in December 1962, he made a long, impressive statement to the UN, 

clearly p-tiag the exploitive nature of Portuguese rule in Guinea.

joao Bemado Vjcira (Nino, center& aommaadm afthePAIGC fams hide 

Gh-Biosau, and Vasco CaM (rSghtk PhIGC leader, 1973~ 

PERIOD OF ARMED STRUGGLE 

PAlGC volunteers had received military training in China, Algeria, 

Tunisia, and Momco. The fighting began early in I 963 in the southern 

part of the country and spread to the north by midyear. In that same 

conversation of June 1973, Vieira told me that he was in charge of a 

guerrilla group at Quattiore in the south. Although they had only seven 

pistols and some old hunting rifles and explosives, they laid ambushes 

against the Portuguese. The action was effective, he pointed out, simply 

because the Portuguese were not expecting it. 

The pattern for the conflict was quickly established as the guerrillas 

took control of large rural areas. The Portuguese administrative posts were 

in the towns or in fortified settlements. Ambushes made the few roads 

almost unusable. 

PAIGC VICTORIES 

The first crucial battle in January 1964 was for control of the island of 

Como, an important PAIGC base just off the southwestern coast. Vieira 

led the defensive forces of some 300 men, pitted against about 3- 

Portuguese troops, including reinforcements from Angola. The battle

Guinea-Bissau: "Our People Are Our Mountuin.s" 207 

raged for 75 days with the Portuguese suffering tremendous losses. The 

PAIGC were not dislodged. The battle was not only a military but a 

psychological defeat for the Portuguese. 

The overall struggle had made such rapid progress and had attracted so 

much countrywide support that reorganization was a necessity, The first 

congress of the PAIGC was called. For a full week about loo delegates met 

to decide about program and policies, even while the battle for Como was 

in progress. 

A major decision was to establish a re& army called the Pqle's 

Revolutionary Armed Forces (FARP) in addition to the local semi- 

autonomous guenilla units. The national army counteracted tendencies 

toward regionalism and tribalism, which the movement decried. There- 

after, the military force of the PAIGC consisted of both the uniformed 

regular asmy and the guerrilla units, who formed a militia with the task 

simply of defending their own villages. 

PAIGC military effectiveness grew considerably over the years. An 

initial few hundred guedlas increased to 8,000 soldiers by 1972 with 

another 10,000 in the village militia. At first they d ved military training 

mostly in the Republic of Guinea with Soviet, later Algerian, instructors. 

But soon all training was inside Portuguese Guinea. In 1963 the Por- 

tuguese had 80 garrisons in the country. By 1971 they were reduced to 35, 

and the PAIGC controlled thnc fourths of the counny. 

The Portuguese military strategy was built around complete air su- 

premacy. Suspected PAIGC strongholds were bombed regularly. This was 

the greatest threat to the Guinean villages, as I saw when I accompanied a 

snall PAIGC contingent into southern Portuguese Guinea in June 1973. 

WE stopped at a PAIGC school, which had just moved near the border of 

the Republic of Guinea to escape the bombings. It was now carefully 

located under tall trees so that it could not be seen from the air. Trenches 

were dug on the grounds in case of air attack. Only two days before I 

arrived, bombs had been dropped close by: two teachers shawed me their 

fragments. The children sang a song, 'We have the land. The Portuguese 

have only the sky." 

Portuguese ground forces went on missions from their garrisons by day 

and returned before dark. As the war went on, they became increasingly 

isolated. Portuguese patrols could hardly venture forth without facing 

devastating attack. They had to be supplied by air because the roads were 

controlled by the PAIGC. 

TRIP TO GUILEGE 

One of the objectives of my trip in June 1973 was to go to Guilege, the site 

of an important garrison of 160 about 20 miles from the Republic of 

Guinea border, where the PAIGC had won a five-day battle only a few days 

earlier. It had a rudimentary air strip for small planes, its only means of 

receiving supplies. '8% set out in late afternoon to mhbk the risk of an

208 Yean of Turntoil 

air attack. Once across the border we could still drive because the PAIGC 

controlled the road. Our small caravan-a jeep, a Land Rover, and two 

armored uubfound the "road" almost impassable. It reminded me of 

a mountain streambed filled with water, rocks, and boulders because of the 

heavy rains (June was the rainy season). The going was rough and slow, at 

times like riding a bucking bronco. At one point the jeep and a truck were 

stuck in the mud. It took careful work for the other truck to tow them out. 

The I 5 or 20 miles we covered took more than two hours, and my muscles 

ached for days aftemads. 

It was after seven in the evening when we left our vehicles and wallred 

the last mile to Guilege, almost too late for taking pictures. When the rain 

and hurricauelike winds struck for 15 minutes, we had no protection. % 

just stood there and took it. Although I had light rain gear in my shoulder 

bag, no one else had anything. Laughingly I solved this personal dilemma 

by getting soaked rather than produce a raincoat that would somehow have 

made me seem a privilged character. As a result, I caught a raging cold. 

Guilege mered about 20 anes cut right out of a thickly fomted area. 

Now it was almost completely leveled with only two or three small huts 

still standing, Cement bunkers were exposed like open basements. As I 

scrambled about in the ruins, taking pictures, I was warned to watch out 

for land mines. Naively I had not expected anything Like this. The barbed 

wire fencing still surrounded the plot where the base once stood. Although 

many of the floodlights pointing outward to brighten the surrounding 

forest (in order to lessen the likelihood of surprise night attacks) were still 

in place, the generator had been taken intact by the PAIGC. They had also 

seized a six-months supply of food and a large quantity of military equip- 

ment. One wrecked five-seater plane was still on the mway. The only sign 

of life was a frightened puppy, which was immediately adopted and named 

"Guilege." Portuguese books lay in the mud, their pages soaked and 

flapping in the wind, and letters and other personal items lay scattered 

about. Barely 10 miles away we could hear the guns of another battle in 

progress for the garrison at Gadamael. It had been going for three weeks 

but was expected to end soon in victory for the PAIGC. The destruction 

and muffled sound of battle were grim reminders that a war was going on. 

PAIGC PROGRAMS 

Much too late the Portuguese tried to win the support of the people by 

proposing some reforms and offering M s . The "Better Guineayy pm 

gram was instituted in 1968, when Gen. Antonio Spinola became govcrnor. 

Ethnically based congtesses of the Balante and Fula were supported 

by the Portuguese. Some schools were built, trips to Portugal were offeted, 

and scholarships were granted. Spinola even hinted at some kind of 

self-government, eventually with a uPormguese Africa basically governed 

by Portuguese Africans." 

Perhaps the Portuguese hoped that these reforms would compete with 

PAIGC programs aimed at meeting the needs of the people. The effective

Guinea-Bissau: "Our People Are Our M M ' 209 

control of the countryside by the PAIGC had brought the agricultural 

economy of the Portuguec almost to a standstill. The export of peanuts, 

the principal product, was radically curtailed. Viigers were cut off from 

the money economy of the Portuguese. It was under these circumstances 

tbat the PAIGC established People's Shops. It encouraged farmers to g ~ow 

crops beyond the needs of their own family and especially to increase rice 

pduction. Then through the shops, the PAIGC began buying agricultural 

products from the peasants and in turn sold consumer goods such 

as clothing, shoes, and salt. This trading was all done by barter. 

In 1973 I visited one of the 32 such shops scattered muud the couany. 

About go villagers came to trade every day. The shop consisted of half a 

dozen African vilhge-style structures made of slender tree rmnks with 

thatched roofs situated in a heavily forested area for protection from 

bombing. The buildings were warehouses for storing rice, kola nuts, bees 

wax, honey, animel skins, and palm products. They also held mde itans 

such as blankets, soap, sugar, salt, and cigarettes. 

The rarponu~.rrel for the shop told me that a peasant who brought in 

thee kilos of rice, for example, could receive in exchange one pair of 

musers. One kilo of rice was worth a pair of women's shoes or a kilo of 

sugar; two kilos of cola nuts equaled one blanket, and so on. The peasant 

would receive more in goods for his produce than he would have received 

in the Portuguese money economy. The manufactured goods were gifts 

from friendly countries, notably in Scandinavia and Eastem Europe, and 

private organizations in the West. 

The PAIGC also emphasized a broad educational program. The Portuguese 

provided only I I government schools with t,wo children. In 

addition there were 45 mission schools. Education expanded dramatidy 

in PAIGC areas. On visits ia 1970 and 1973 I spent much time with 

Domiegos Brito, director of the Friendship Institute, which sponsored the 

education program. A short, energetic man with graying hair, he had been 

a bookkeeper with a Portuguese firm in Bissau. He joined the party in 

1963. For a time he worked with children in the liberated areas until the 

Friendship Institute was started in 1965. By 1973, according to Bnto's 

careful records, there were 164 schools, 258 ta3CheI'S, and 14,531 students. 

In addition, q20 students had studied in Europe, and 35 had university 

degrees. 

I was greatly impressed by the way the schools functioned under the 

adverse conditions of jungle warfare. On my way to Guilege, I spent time 

at one of the five boarding schools, or inamurn. This, serving the southern 

part of the couutry, was named after Areolina Lopes da Cruz, a young hem 

of the movement who had been killed several years earlier. The term 

boarding school should not conjure up an image of a do01 for the 

privileged. This school looked like a small African village-a large circle of 

thatched huts, which served as classrooms or dormitories. There were 82 

students and 7 teachers. The school course covered four years. The best 

srudents went on to the Pilot School in Conakry for a Wtb year. I was 

deeply impd by the nearness and organization of the school. Each bed

aro Ym oflirtmoil 

Students in a PAIGC school in Guinea-B'i standing near a bomb casing used 

as a gong, during the liberation struggle, 1973. 

in the crowded huts was carefully made up Old ammunition boxes were 

used as small closets. The outside metal casing of a bomb hanging in the 

"couttyard" served as a gong for calling meetings or warning of approach- 

ing aircraft. At a moving farewell ceremony, the students presented me 

with a bracelet and a facsimile of a traditional wooden stirring spoon 

bearing the message in English "PAIGC needs peace." 

In Conakry I visited the Pilot School with its 120 studen-80 boys anu 

40 girls. Fifty of the students were chosen every year for further study in 

Europe. One of the eight teachers was the son of a Portuguese army officer 

in Angola. He was one of the thousands of Portuguese who rebelled 

against the colonial wars and in his case found a way of serving and being 

accepted. 

The organization of student life was handled by the students themselves 

with a teacher as an adviser. I asked a teacher if there were any discipline 

problems, "No," she replied. "The students know how formnate they are 

to be here. Also there is a bond between them and the teachers because of 

the liberation struggle." The dormitory moms had from 4 to 12 double- 

decker bunks. In each room one person was responsible for seeing that 

everyone did his or her work. Every Friday evening the student body met 

to discuss any problems that had developed during the week. The place 

was so neat and so smoothly run that I asked if it had been specially 

prepared for a visitor. I was told they had not beea forrwatnsd of my 

coming. This was just the way it was.

Guinea-Bissau: "Our People Are Our Mountains" 

PAIGC workers on an inoculation campaign in Guinea-Bissau, 1975. 

The other principal program of the PAIGC concerned health. There 

were seven regional hospitals in the liberated areas of Portuguese Guinea, 

each with a doctor, and 12 other medical centers. The main hospital, 

SoIidarity Hospital, was at Bok6 over the border in the Republic of 

Guinea, where it was relatively safe from bombiug. I spent several hours 

there. The director, Dr. Manuel Boal, was an Angolan who had studied in 

Lisbon and worked with the Angolan MPLA medical program in 

LeopoldviIle. There was an international 5vor to the medical staff. The 

head surgeon was Yugoslavian, as were four medical technicians. Two 

Cuban doctors, a French woman doctor, and a trained nurse fmm Mgeria 

made up the team. 

Solidarity Hospitd had been constructed in 1969 out of prefabricated 

material donated by the Republic of Guinea. Its wards could accommodate 

120 beds. Just a few weeks before my arrival, strong winds had torn the 

rwf off a section, leaving 10 beds open to the elements. As if to make this 

real to me, a 20-minute rain and wind storm struck while I was there. I 

could feel the walls quiver. The staff watched with apprehension. but the 

building held together. 

ORGANIZING A STATE 

Portuguese Guinea was comparable at this h e to "an independent stare 

part of whose national territory is occupied by foreign military foxes," 

Cabd wrote in early 1973. Why therefore should the PAIGC not adopt a 

-

constitution and elect a national assembly and proclaim its state? Perhaps 

the most inventive and unique strategy Cabral devised was the initiative of 

holding an election for a representative People's National Assembly wen 

while Portuguese mops occupied limited areas of the country. He was not 

interested in a government in exile or in declaring independence. He 

wanted to pmlaim a reality that h d y existed. These elections were a 

witness to Cabral's tactical genius. 

For eight months, from January to August 1972, mensive educational 

work about the forthcoming election was done, as debates and discussions 

wcrr held at party and public diesin the liberated areas. The plan called 

for the People's National Assembly to have IM members-80 (not necessarily 

party members) to be elected by the people and 40 to be chosen by 

the party. Anyone could vote who was 15 or older and who had registered 

during the eight-month prepatarory period. 

In dty the most important part of the process was the preparation 

period, when the village people nominated their 80 representatives. Competition 

for these seats was hot and heavy. More than 80,000 people voted 

for the slate of candidates, who were approved by about 97 percent. The 

groundwork for the state was laid. 

CABRAL, THE ACOA, AND THE UN 

Following Cabral's mission to the United Nations in 1962, I had not been 

in direct contact with him for several years. The limited time and funds of 

the ACOA were directed elsewhere. I was encouraged to reestablish a 

direct relationship with the PAIGC, partly as a result of the quickening 

liberation struggle, but also by a conversation in London with the histo- 

rian Basil Davidson, who had written of his own expedition with Cabral 

into the liberated areas of the country. Davidson told me that Cabral 

wanted to d dop a closer rdauonship with groups in Western countries. I 

wrote to Cabral (May 13, I*) telling him we would like to give what help 

we could to the PAIGC educational and health programs. He replied with 

infomation about the Friendship Institute and the Solidarity Hospital. 

Since then the ACOA developed a continuing program of financial and 

material assistance to the PAIGC. 

By 1972 the PAIGC felt secure enough in its control of the southern 

pan of the country to invite a UN delegation to visit. Repmentativcs from 

Uruguay, Tunisia, and Sweden spent a week with the PAIGC forces in 

April. The Portuguese, of course, knew of the visit and uied to harass it by 

the most intensive bombi ever experienced in the area. Pormguese 

troops were dispatched to the south to try to stop the mission. Cabral 

reported, "The Portuguese dropped napalm and fragmentation bombs, 

landed special troops along rivers which they assumed the U.N. visitors 

would use, and attacked large villages, killing 25 civilians."4 They were 

not successful, 

Cabral made two more visits to the United States-in February 1970 

and October 1972, just after the election for the National Assembly. The

Guinea-Bissau: "Our People Are Our M~ins" 213 

PAIGC representative, Gil Fernandes, and I m e d for Cabral to give 

testimony to the House Subcommittee on Africa and to be heard at the 

UN. A personal high point for him was receiving an honorary degree from 

Lincoln University in 1972. 

I became better acquainted with Cabd during these visits, gaining 

some insight into his character and per~onali~ It was agreed that for 

security reasons there would be no advance notice of his coming. Fernandes 

would meet him at the airport and escort him to the Commodore 

Hotel, where I had reserved a room. But a mixup occurred. Cabral's plane 

arrived early and Fernandes was not there. So Cabral went to the hotel 

alone and called my office. I dashed to the hatel and spent the next hour 

and a half talking to my guest. Since there was no word from Femandes, I 

became concerned and told Cabral that I was going to call the police. He 

caImly responded, "Don't be concerned. He will be here, I know my 

people.'' We waited some more. Then on a sudden inspiration, I waked 

down the hall to a room reserwd for Fernandes. I knocked, and to my 

relief and surprise, he opened the door. He was agitated when I told him 

Cabral had already arrived. Since he had missed Cabral's plane and could 

not reach me at the office, he had waited in his mom. Hurriedly we went to 

Cabd's room, where he embraced Fernandes as if nothing had happened. 

THE ASSASSINATION 

After the eldon for the People's National Assembly, it remained for the 

PAIGC's Supreme Councii to make arrangements for the Assembly to 

meet and proclaim the existence of the state, Then came a shattering 

blow-Amilcar Cabral was assassinated. Several months later in June, at 

PAIGC headquarters in Conakry I was given the essential facts by 

Aristedes Pereira. 

Pereira was working Iate in his office on Sanuday evening January m, 

1973, when Cabral, accompanied by his wife, returned from a Polish 

diplomatic reception. As he drove into the PAIGC compound, a cas 

blocked the way. He was accosted by Inocencio Kani, who had been 

relieved of his responsibilities for the PAIGC motor launches in 1971 for 

selling a motor for pefsonal gain. Kani accompanied by two others, 

ordered Cabral to follow him. 

Guns were drawn. Cabral tried to talk things over, but when Rani cried 

to tie his arms, Cabd told Kani it could not be done, especially by him. 

Shots rang and Cabral fell to the ground dead. Apparently the objective 

had not been to kill him but to turn him over m the Portuguese, but this 

plan went awry as Cabral misted capture. 

Pereira himself was shot at, but the bullet only grazed his head and he 

fainted. The attackers then tied him securely and took him to a small 

PAIGC launch anchored dose by. Now the top PAIGC official, he was to 

be turned over to the Portuguese. The boat headed toward Bissau. Pereira 

felt he owed his life and certainly his freedom to the fact that launches of


the Republic of Guinea intercepted the PAIGC boat shortly before it 

entered Guinea-Bissau mtm. He was freed, and his captors were re- 

turned to Conakry, where they were put in the hands of the PAIGC. 

Pereira had suffered serious injuries during his swaal hours of captivity. 

Not only had he been beaten, but the rope tying his arms made severe 

wounds. For months thereafter he needed hospitalization and medical 

care. When I saw him he was still weak and the rope scars were quite 

visible. Luis Cabrat came from Dakar to Conakry to handle urgent party 

affairs. 

Other PAIGC leaders were also taken captive on the night of January 

20. Jose Araujo, in charge of information, had been at a meeting with 

visiting leaders of Frelimo. He told me he had taken Joaquim Chissano of 

FRELIMO back to his hotel after the meeting and then decided to go by 

the office before returning home. When he approached the PAIGC office 

at about I 1:3o, he saw a large cmwd gathered. He got out of his car to ask 

what was going on and was told there was serious trouble and he should 

not go in. Araujo then drove home, intending to get his gun and return. 

He and five other party leaders lived communally with their f des at a 

place near headquarters where too late he discovered that the plotters had 

stationed armed men. He was taken prisoner and at gun point with fellow 

leaders who had already been captured, he was raken to what had been the 

PAIGC prison and locked up They were told they would be shot in the 

morning but were released a few hours later when mops of the Republic 

of Guinea intervened. 

The circumstances leading to the assassination reveal a lot about 

Cabral's unusual character and the nature of his leadership According to 

Pereira, the two key men in the plot, early party members who had spent 

years in prison, came from Bissau in November 1971. They said they had 

escaped from Bissau and were welcomed as old comrades. 

It was not discovered until March 1972 that a plot to overthrow PAIGC 

leadership was in preparation. The two recent arrivals from Bissau were 

placed under house arrest. The party set up a commission of inquiry to 

discover the extent of Portuguese Mtration within its ranks. Cabral had 

wanted to play down the revelarion of subversion; he thought it would be 

possible to win back the dissidents. They had once been loyal comrades, 

he reasoned, and could be again. As Fernandes later wrote to me, "Cabral 

was killed because one of his biggest weaknesses was that he trusted people 

very much. One of the brains of the operation was an agent sent by the 

Pormguese. Our security d ces discovered the plot and recommended 

that he should be shot. Cabral personally intervened on his behalf. . . . 

The whole tragedy . . . was perpetrated by people Amilcar himself de- 

cided to rehabilitate." 

There were several motivations for the attempted soup: (I) the plotters 

were promised well-paying positions by the Pomguese in Bissau; (2) 

Guinea-Bissau could haw a kind of independence, undu new leadershi& 

sepamte from Cape Verde, within a Portuguese commonwealth; (3) Cape 

Verde leadership would be eliminated from the party.

Guinea-Bissau: "Out- People Are Our Morcntains" 2 15 

The house arrest of the two recent arrivals from Bissau did not stop the 

plot, which had 9 or ro ring leaders. Forty-five were arrested for corn- 

plicity, of whom g were executed. 

From the Portuguese perspective, the attempted coup was a desperate 

&on to stem the PAIGC when it was in the position of growing strength 

and to save Pormgal's colonial structure when it was in a precarious 

position, not only in Portuguese Guinea but in Angola and Mozambique as 

well. The plot utterly failed to weaken the PAIGC, as my trip to Guilege, 

five months after Cabral's death, testithi. 

PROCLAMATION OF AN INDEPENDENT STATE 

The death of Cabral briefly delayed the proclamation of the State of 

Guinea-Bissau. When I returned to New York in July 1973, a long cable 

from the PAIGC Executive Committee, announcing the results of the 

second party congress, was awaiting me. It had selected Aristedes Pereira 

as secretary general to succeed Cabral and chosen a permanent secretariat, 

consisting of Pereira, Luis Cabral, Jdo Bernardo Vieira (Nino), and 

Francisco Mendes (Chico). The National Assembly was to meet on Sep 

tember 21-23. 

The People's National Assembly proclaimed "the scIfdetermination of 

our pple and the de facto existence of an efficiently functioning State 

smcm." The proclamation made clear that the State of Guinea-Bissau 

was confined to the mainlnnd and the immediate offshore islands, such as 

the Bissagos. A claim of statehood was not made for Cape W e but only 

for "the compIete tiberation of the people of Guinea-Blssasu and Cape 

Verde and the forging of a union between the two territories." The 

prodmation ended with an appeal to all independent states to give de jure 

recognition and announced the determination of the new state to scck 

participation in the United Nations. Luis Cabral was chosen as president 

of the Council of State, to exercise authority between meetings of the 

Assembly. A Couucil of Commissioners was set up like a cabiuet with 

functional responsibilities. Vieira was commissioner of the armed forces. 

Guinea-Bissau was a one-party state with the general secretary of the party 

having no position in the government. 

Within a few weeks after the proclamation, some 70 countries recognized 

the new state, including 38 African countries, all those in the 

Chinese and Soviet camps, many Asian and Middle Eastern countries, and 

wry few Latin American mutries. No %tern country twlc this diplomatic 

step. 

In New York we organized a committee to campaign for the recognition 

of Guinea-Bissau, since every U.S. adminisvation had been careful not to 

embarrass the Lisbon government. For example, the U.S. ambassador to 

the Republic of Guinea in rgp told me that in the months since his arrival 

he had bad no contact with the PAIGC, indeed considered it unwise "for 

obvious reasons," and had not met Cabral.

Five months after the proclamation, the coup took place in Portugal. 

Unlike Angola and Mozambique, everything was in place for the indepen- 

dence of Guinea-Bissau. It had the People's National Assembly and the 

Council of State and Council of Commissioners, and the PAIGC was in 

control of most of the country. The morale of the Portuguese fom was so 

low that they welcomed the end of the war without the urging of Lisbon. 

Fraternizing among the troops of both sides began spontaneously, The 

PAIGC commander for the Bafara region, who had had the first contact 

with the Pormguese military after the coup, told me how a cease fire was 

quickly agreed upon and on condition that none of the Portuguese troops 

would leave their camps or tramport munitions. By September, Portugal 

had agreed to recognize Guinea-Bissau's independen=, which was de- 

clared September 24. 

AN ASSESSMENT OF AMILCAR CABRAL 

A little more than two years after Cabral's assassination and about six 

months after independence, I arrived in Bissau for the first time, ammpanied 

by my friend and colleague Ray Gould. Flying in fmm Dakar, an 

open map on my la& I had a good view of the city as we approached the 

small airport. I saw no other planes but noted a few concrete pill boxes, 

which had been part of the Portuguese defense system. Signs along the 

edge of the landing area warned of possible unexploded land mines. We 

were met by the chief of protocol and taken to a small hotel. 

Reporters assigned to Bissau had usually given the impression that it 

was a dreary, lazy, hot, and humid town, which a visitor would want to 

leave as soon as possible. Perhaps I was so excited about actually being in a 

place I had read so much about that I created my own reality, but I had a 

different reaction. I was imp& by the cleanliness of the city, the people 

on the street who looked at me with curiosity but without a hint of 

hostility, and by the lack of tension in the air. Only about zoo Portuguese 

still r d e d of the some 3,000 who had been there before independence, 

but they were beginning to return and were quite visible. The city seemed 

sleepy only during the siesta from 12:30 to 3:m. In the evening a gentle, 

refreshing breeze blew from the water, at least at that time of year. 

There were few political graffiti on the walls. Some shop windows 

displayed PAM% ldets. Most prominent were pictures of Cabral with 

the caption (in Portuguese): "Eternal glory to the martyr of national 

liberation." 

One evening Gauld and I were taken to dinner by a group of men who 

had been in the struggle from the early days. As we sat around the table in 

the Pidjiguiti Hotel, formerly a naval barracks, we talked about Cabral. 

All these men had known him well. I was especially struck by the aEfection, 

almost veneration, in which they held him. I had felt this myself 

when I talked with him personally, especially in 1972, and when 1 h d 

him talking with small groups. He spoke firmly, defmitely, and quietly. He

Ouinea-Bissau: "Our Pmle Are Our Mountains" 2 I 7 

took his listeners along with him. I could understand how both Pereira and 

Fbrtes, of the origbal six who launched the PAIGC in 1956, could say that 

Cabral was the key to their organization. Julio Semedo, whom I met in 

New York when Guinea-Bissau was setting up its h t official office there, 

said to me, "I will never meet another person as great as Cabral." 

Our hosts agreed that Cabral was even more brilliant as a tactician than 

as a political and social theorist. We discussed both aspects of the man, for 

it was the combination that made him unique. They reiterated that it was 

his analysis that led the PAIGC to see the peasant as the basis of their 

revolution. He saw the importance of the traiaing period in Conakry 

before beginning the armed smggle. He was not only a man of ideas, they 

felt, but he had the genious to put these ideas into practice. He was not a 

dogmatic ideologist but a pragmatist. I recalled that at the U.S. House 

SuMtte on Africa in 1970, when Congressman Brad Morse asked 

him about the ideology of the movement, Cabral replied, "Our ideology is 

nationalism, to get our independence absolutely . . . but to moperate with 

all other peoples in order to realize the development of our country."s 

Our PAIGC hosts felt that Cabral had been concerned not just with 

distant objectives. The schools, hospitals, and People's Shops were monuments 

to his pragmatism. The objective of the revolution was not only to 

win freedom but also to achieve a better way of life for the people. He was 

innovative, and his thing was good. He knew when to change tactics after 

the Pidjiguiti massacre. He knew when it was time to ddop the army

218 Years of Tuntulil 

from local guerrilla movements into a united, mobile, national force. He 

hew when it was possible, ewn in rhe midst of struggle, for the PAIGC to 

organize elections. Cabral, like Eduardo Mondlane, was also pqmatic in 

bis efforts to obtain aid from abroad. Although most military aid came 

from Eastern Europe, humanitarian projects received wide support from 

agencies in Western Europe, especially Scandinavia, Britain, and the 

United States. 

Cabral combbed his pragmatism with a most unusual human- 

itarianism. He listened to people. Those who went through the course of 

training with him in Conakry believed that he was genuinely interested in 

them. He opposed the use of terrorist methods that would endanger the 

lives of innocent people. He believed optimistically in the possibility of 

rehabilitating the defectors from rhe party who later killed him. He 

frowned on the use of the death penalty. He always made clear that the 

struggle was not against the Portuguese people but the policy of the 

Portuguese government. Twice in 1968 the PAIGC nuncd Portuguese 

prisoners over to the Senegalese Red Cross to be returned to Pormgal. 

Over our meal that evening, I asked our hosts whether at times they 

wondered what Cabral would have said about a particular problem they 

faced. They replied that they knew his ideas, which were in his writings 

and speeches. They had no Cabral nuw, but collectively they were uying to 

plan their way along the Iincs he wouId have wanted. Then one said. "He 

so affected every facet of the life of the organization that we still feel his 

presence. It is as if he is sitting in our meetings, strangely enough." Then 

he quickly added, "But it is not a religion."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

-" J.rmv,5,nmy-- -7 

I"; 

zimba6'We: ?-. 

The Making of a Nation 

.Y. - -a!. "' 

- 

uring the celebration of Zambia's* independence in October 1964, I 

D had an experience that reinforced my prejudices against the government 

of Southern Rhodesia. An extracunhh highlight for the guests 

was a trip to Victoria Falls. I looked forward with pleasure to the one-day 

expedition to the site on the Zambezi River, which formed a nanval 

boundary between Zambia and Southern Rhodesia. 

We arrived at the Livingstone airport in midmorning and proceeded by 

bus to the falls. Although it was the low-water season, the spray from the 

falls rose high above the river, and the water plunged over the huge drop 

with a deafening roar. On the boat ride above the cataracts leading to the 

falls, we saw hippos, crocodiles, monkeys, and other animals. The afternoon 

plan was for the guests to cross the bridge spanning the great chasm 

formed by the river to see the falls from the Rhodesian side. 

On the boat ride I had already had the fust intimation of diff~culty. A 

voice on the public address system asked the persons whose names were 

called to see the officer in charge when the boat docked. Three names were 

cded, mine among them. When I introduced myself to the proper British 

official, he seemed embarrassed but explained that I would not be included 

with the guests going to the Rhodesian side. The Rhodesian government 

bad given the Zambian officials the prohibited names for Southern Rhodesia, 

and of course, I was on the list. 

With apologies the official informed me that I would be taken instead to 

a small game park near Livingstone, along with a Soviet and an East 

German guest. They both spoke good English and joined in uproarious 

but sympathetic laughter that an American and two Communists should 

be brought together by a prohibited status in Rhodesia. Although the 

game park was not very interesting, our conversaaon and good humor 

were stimulating. Later I discovered that one of the buses with guests had 

turned back at the Rhodesian border in protest when the officials tried to 

set apart African and Empan guests. Thus I gained yet another indication 

of white racist practices imposed on southern Africa. 

BACKFQUND TO CONFLICT 

Although I had newr been permitted in Southern Rhodesia, I felt I 

understood the basis of the problems. I concluded that Southern Rhodesia 

*ZBmbi was fo-ly Northan Rhodesia.

Years of Timil 

was a schizophrenic society--a single country with two separate peoples, 

each with its own history, each looking upon the country as theirs. The 

former name of the country, Rhodesia, reflected the European incursion 

into a territory in search of agreeable climate, good land, and a chance of 

achieving great wealth through the discovery of minerals. The country was 

named for Cecil Rhodes, a Briton who went to South Africa at the age of 

17 in 1870 and made a fortune in diamonds. Then with dreams of building 

a railroad from the Cape to Cairo and extending the British Empire, in 

1888 he expanded his interests into the country of the Uashona and the 

Ndebele, which the British called Zambesia. 

The presentday name of the country, Zimbabwe, rdects the African 

history of the area. The name is Shona; it comes from stone ruins near the 

town of Masvingo (formerly Fort Victoria) and means "house of stones." 

Although there has been much specuIation about who built these massive 

stone structures and when, it is nm generalIy assumed that they were 

built by Africans to their own design at least as early as the I rth century. 

When I first visited what is now called Great Zimbabwe in 1980, I was 

awestruck by this evidence of engineering achievement. 

The basis of codict between the Europeans and the Africans was laid 

when the whites took land by guile and conquest from the blacks who 

were there, constructed an affluent society, and designed their laws and 

constitution to maintain what they taken. The Shona and the Ndebele 

struggled to stave off the European invasion, and having lost, fought to 

win back the land and resources taken from them in order to construct a 

way of life of their own choosing. 

The British foothold began with e concession for exclusive mining 

rights, granted in 1888 by Lobengula, king of the Ndebeie. A year later 

the British Crown authorized Rhodes to set up the British South Africa 

Company, which was for the next 25 years the effective government for 

Europeans in Rhodesia. The first Rhodesians were a couple of hundred 

young recruits (called the Pioneer Column) selected by Rhodes, who 

marched to Fort Salisbury, later the capital, and raised the Union Jack on 

September 12, 18go. The Europeans celebrated this date as Occupation 

Day. 

The agreement for mineral exploration became an excuse for an inva- 

sion of the country by white settlers. The Shona and the Ndebele resisted 

the foreign incursion in two wars, 1893 and 189b1897, but were defeated, 

and Lobengula himself lost his life in flight. Spears and arrows were no 

match for fxanns. The country was taken over by European settlers, 

resistance was virtually wiped out, and violent protest did not reappear for 

more than 70 years. 

Although never more than 5 percent of the total population, the Euro- 

pean settlers grew from 1,500 in 1892 to about t80,ooo in the 1970s. The 

laws and constitution were designed to protect their interests and keep the 

African majority subservient Gradually power shifted from the British 

South Africa Company directly to the settlers. By referendum in 1922 

approximately 60 percent of the sertlen voted to establish a government

Zimbabwe: The Making of a Nation 22 I 

separate from the company, while 40 percent voted to join the newly 

formed Union of South Africa. Thus Rhodesia became a "self governing 

colony" with loose ties to Britain. 

The fundamental issues between the Europeans and the Africans in- 

volved land, labor, and political rights. One third of the land was in the 

hands of 1/20 of the population. The cities were controlled by whites. 

Africans were restricted as to the number of cattle they could have on their 

limited acreage, while no such restrictions applied to Europeans. African 

laborers generally received only 1/10 of the pay of their European counter- 

parts, and their rights of collective bargaining and saiking were severely 

restricted. The right to vote was not absolutely denied to Africans, but the 

educational, property, and financial qualifications were set so high that 

only an insignificant minority could ever hope to cast a ballot. For exam- 

ple, the 1969 constitution was adopted with fewer than 7,000 Africans 

q&ed to vote out of more than 5 million. Furthermore, effective 

African political action was hampered by restrictive laws, and police could 

ban protest organizations, prohibit meetings, and arrest leaders at any 

critical time. 

Very early I was convinced that fundamental change would come pri- 

marily through African action. Weak as the African nationalists in Rho- 

desia were during much of this period, they alone could force a confronta- 

tion with the whi&m@rity. They adopted the slogan, "We are our own 

liberators." - 

THE LIBERAL PHASE 

Africm organktions had appealed to the white government for small 

reforms after World War 11, but the struggle really took shape in 1955, 

when the Southern Rhcuie African National Youth League was orga- 

nized. It was founded and led by young men who were impatient for 

change and openly skeptical about the pseudo-liberalism in vogue and the 

slogan of racial partnership proclaimed by the leaders of the Cenaal 

Afrimn Federation. 

I learned a great deal about the Youth League through contacts with 

two of its principal leaders, James Chikerema and George Nyandoro. After 

schooling in Rhodesia and Basutoland (now Lesotho), Chikerema entered 

Cape Town University, where he was head of the local Youth League of the 

ANC. He was forced to return suddenly to Rhodesia to escape mest for 

his political activities. He brought with him the South African Youth 

League constitution, which became a guideline for the Youth League that 

he helped set up in Salisbury. 

Nyandoro, vice president of the Youth League, had been educated at an 

Anglican school and had been active in politics from the age of 17. An 

exuberant man, he almost always gave the impression of bubbling over 

with excitement. 

The Youth League in its I 8 months of existence, ushered in a new style


of African political activity. Its program was reminiscent of the nonviolent 

civil rights movement in the United States. I was fascinated by the incidents 

of civil disobedience Chikerema and Nyandoro described to me, 

such as using the toilets in the native commissioner's office, encoumging 

the preparation of the African home brew called "chukuba," and encouraging 

Africans to cultivate a potato crop on private land, all in defiance of 

regulations. The league's greatest humph was a bus boycott to protest a 

fare increase for Africans traveling to work in Salisbury from Harare 

African township. For three days the buses were virtually empty. 

The league's most sigdcant contribution, however, was that it inspired 

the formation of the first truly countrywide nationalist organization, the 

Southern Rhodesia African National Congress (SRANC). The new body, 

which was intended to attract a more mature following than the Youth 

League, was launched on a sigdicant date, September 12,1957, the 67th 

anniversary of Occupation Day. The SRANC was a protest organization, 

not a revolutionary one, which aimed to work within the existing society. 

At that he, the ideas of multiracialism and partnership were still acceptable 

to many Africans. Ultimate African independence and majority rule 

were more implied than demanded. 

It was not easy to h d the right president for the new organization. 

Chikerema and his other Youth League colleagues agreed that a student, 

such as Chikerema himself, could not bring the proper prestige to the 

SRANC. An older and better-established person was needed. Various 

people tumed down the offer of the post, some fearing that their jobs 

might be jeopardized. Joshua Nkomo was ready to take the risk. He 

represented a moderate African leadership that could not be dismissed out 

of hand by the more established blacks. He had already gained some 

prominence, not only through his work with the railway union, but as an 

African representative in the London discussions about the establishment 

of the Central African Federation, which he opposed. 

The SRANC's main following came from the workers and the peasantry--on 

the bottom m g of the social and economic ladder. The educated 

elite-teachers, business men, professionals-were not attracted. They 

still believed in the idea of the federation and in mulriracialism, not the 

sort of struggle the SRANC proposed. 

Nonrad in its approach, the SRANC included about a hundred 

European members. It particularly contested racial laws and practices that 

closed certain facilities to Africans. Their members demanded service in 

hotels and restaurants and on trains. Although they were almost always 

refused, their action showed up the false pretensions of partnership of 

white Rhodesians. 

The SRANC was Pan-African in outlook. It had a close working 

relationship with the corresponding ANCs in Northern Rhodesia and 

Nyasaland, especially in condemning the Central African Federation. 

During the period of the Youth League and the founding of the 

SRANC, Garfield Todd was prime minister (1953-1958). He was about as

Zimbabwe: The Making of a Nation 223 

liberal as a white in government could afford to be and still hold an elective 

post. A New Zealander, he had come to Southern Rhodesia in 1934 as a 

missionary. It was years later, after he had been badly defeated because the 

whim considered him too friendly to blacks, that I came to know him. 

Todd's fall from power marked a turning point in the struggle between 

whim and blacks in Rhodesia. Sir Edgar Whitehead, to the right of Todd 

politically, became prime minister. In a little more than six months the 

SRANC was banned (February 26, 1959) under the Unlawful Organiza- 

tions Act, because the government feared its mass demonstrations and 

growing support would hten law and order. Nkomo was out of the 

country at this time. Other major leaders were arrested and imprisoned, 

including Chikerema and Nyandoro, who spent nearly four years behind 

bars. 

THE CONSTITUTIONAL PHASE 

In January 1960 a new nationalist organization was sel up, the National 

Democratic Party (NDP), which lasted for almost two years, until De- 

cember 9, 1961. This was an important period of change elsewhere in 

Africa-the Sbarpeville Massacre, Macmillan's "wind of cbange" speech, 

the UN resolutioa calhg for decolonization, the beginning of armed 

revolt in Angola, the independence of so many countries. The Cend 

African Federation was breaking up. Kenneth Kaunda and Kamuzu 

Banda, arrested in 1959, were released. Independence for Northern Rho- 

desia and Nyasaland was not far away. 

No such changes, however, were envisioned by the white minority in 

Southern Rhodesia. The NDP was less interested in Africans winning 

equality of mment in public places than in majority rule. Nkorno put it 

dramaridy: "We don't want to swim in your swimming pools. We want to 

swim with you in Parliament."1 

The focus and style of the NDP were instmental in attracting as 

leaders many well-educated Africans-Robert Mugabe, Ndabaeingi Sit- 

hole, Herbert Chitepo. Those in prison had a hand in its formation. 

Nyandoro told me that he, Chikerema, and several others had drafted a 

constirution, which was smuggled page by page out of prison through 

visitors, bribed prison guards, and even in the rectums of released pris- 

oners. Nkomo assumed the presidency when he returned from voluntary 

exile. 

The government had to cake the NDP seriously because of its mass 

support. It raided party headquarters in the African township of High- 

field, near Salisbury, tansacked the homes of three NDP leaders, and 

arrested them. This action triggered a spontaneous strike and a mass 

march of an estimated 40,000 to the prime minister's office. Four thousand 

spent the night in protest outside the police station where the leaders were 

being held, and 12 Africans were killed.

a4 Yens of Turmoil 

In this time of tension, the British initiated talks on a new constitution 

for Southern Rhodesia. The NDP demanded universal adult franchise and 

a bill of rights that would protect Africans from discriminatory legislation. 

What finally emerged was a compromise, in which the bill of rights was 

accepted by the British and 15 seats in a parliament of 50 would be 

reserved for Africans. This was far from the NDP's demand for majority 

rule. 

When Nkomo and I met at the AAPC in Cairo, he said he had 

reluctantly accepted the compromise as the best terms that could be 

obtained at that time. The temptation to be remgnhd as leader of 15 

African members in Parliament (for the NDP could undoubtedly have 

won all the seats) must have been great. Later he reported to an NDF 

meeting that "we were able to move the mountain . . . an inch by getting 

the dedaration of human rights . . . enshrined in the Constitution." But 

bitter connoversy emerged in the party as the issue was debated. The 

NDP put the contitutional prop& to an unofficial public referendum in 

which only 471 out of some 370,000 voted favorably. Leopold Takawira, 

NDP director for external and international affairs, sent me the results of 

the referendum, proclaiming, UOur people rejected it." 

In contrast, in an official referendum sponsored by the white minority 

government and boycotted by the NDP, the proposals were accepted by 

almost 42,m out of more than 63,000 voting. Nkomo later opposed the 

compromise. He sent me a copy of the NDP resolution categorically 

rejecting the new constitution, which he called a "white man to white man 

agreement [which] shall be resisted by the majority of the people." His 

vacillation cost him the confidence of some influential NDP leaders. 

By rejecting the constitution, the NDP put itself outside the legal 

political framework. Confrontation was sure to follow. Nkomo wrote to me 

in November 1961 that the government was stepping up arrests. More 

than 500 were in prisons and hundreds awaited trial. He asked if we could 

send funds for legal defense. 

NDP rallies in the African townships increased, with hugh crowds 

attending, even in the presence of troops. The Salisbury and Bulawayo city 

councils h d all open-air NDP meetings. And then the orgauhtion as 

a whole was banned on December g. 

THE NATIONALIST SPLIT 

The NDP leadership had prepared for its banning. ZAPU picked up 

where the NDP ended, Dewmber 9, 1961, with almost all the same 

leadership and continued mass support. Nkomo assumed the presidency 

as soon as he returned from attending T b ' s independence celebration 

in Dar es Salaam. He came to New York with a ZAPU delegation to the 

UN in 1962. Returning to Salisbury, he was greeted by about 20,ooo 

followers, according to the New Ymk Times. 

ZAPU, like the NDP, was committed to universal suffrage, Pan-M-


ri&, liquidation of colonialism, respect for human rights, and oooperation 

with all like-minded international bodies. But it was on a collision 

course with the white government, which reacted to ZAPU's mass rallies 

as it had to the NDI? Security laws were tightened. Frequendy meetings 

were broken up by police and the speakers arrested. Gradually disiiusioned 

Afriam accepted the necessity of violent response to such interference. 

ZAPU sent some men abroad for military Algeria, 

Ghana, Czechoslovakia, and China. I saw a widely circulated announcement 

by a "General Chedu" that a Zimbabwe Liberation Army had bcen 

formed. There was no General Chedu. The name, which means "ours" in 

Shona, was chosen by a group of militant nationalists conviuced that 

violence was nmssaq. 

ZAPU leaders knew it was only a matter of time until ZAPU would be 

banned. They phed not to organize a new group but to go underground. 

When the ban fell in September 1962, some ~,h leaders were 

rounded up and detained three months. Nkomo, again out of the counay, 

delayed his renun in order to talk with Julius Nyerere in Dar es Salaam 

about next steps. As Nwre recounted the meeting to me, Nkomo 

wanted to set up a government-in-exile in Dar, but Nyerere did not believe 

in the &cacy of gowxnments-in-exile. Although he agreed to have a 

ZAPU office in Dar, he strongly urged Nkomo to return to Rhodesia. 

Nkomo did so and was arrested and given the same three months detention 

as the other leaders, but his delayed return mused some bitter 

criticism by some of his collesgues. 

A wave of violence spread throughout the country after the banning of 

ZAPU. Schools and other government buildings were burned, and forests 

of the British South Africa Company were set afue. In reaction, the white 

minority became more conservative. In the December 1962 elections they 

turned to the right-wiog Dominion Party, which took 70 percent of the 

seats in Parliament. Winston Field, a prominent farmer, became prime 

lnbistcf. 

The next few months were confusing and frustrating for African nationalists. 

The white minority were tallring about an independence that 

would put them indehitely in power at the expense of the African 

majority. One thing was clear; the banning of ZAPU meant that there was 

no legal way to continue the srmggle for majority rule. The options werc 

few--either quicken underground activity inside Rhodesia or work from a 

freer base outside. Either way$ violence was bound to increase. ZAPU 

leaders could not agree on a common strategy, and tension mounted. 

Much to my disappointment, a major issue that divided the leadership 

revolved around Nkomo. He had been the uncontested leader for many 

years, unrivaIed at home and widely known abroad because of his extensive 

mvels. ApparentIy he wanted to launch a Zimbabwe government ia 

exile, if; as was expected, the white minority made a unilatual declaration 

I 

of independence (UDI) without British approval. The way was paved for 

such a move with the dissolution of the Central African Federation in June 

1963.

Years of ~nnotl 

The government-inde idea was not to be implemented. Within 

ZAPU, Sithole and Mugabc, among others, opposed it, but it couldn't 

work for another overwhelming reason. The logical location for it was Dar 

es S a b but Nyerere was unalterably opposed. He told me that in his 

foUow-up discussions with Nkomo he stedy reempM that Nkomo's 

place was inside Rhodesia, and he would be declared a prohibited immigrant 

in Tanzania if he did not leave. Nyerere also voiced his regret that he 

might have unwittingly pJayed a part in the split within ZAPU by this 

strong admonition. Nkomo returned to Rhodesia and convinced WLPU 

leaders to meet in Dar es Salaem even though some, including Mugabe, 

would have to jump bail to anend. 

At this meeting it was agreed that an office (not a government) should 

be set up Apparently Nkomo's critics in ZAPU had not at this time 

decided to form a new organization, although they felt Nkomo had been 

too vacillating and was uying to solve their struggle through international 

diplomacy rather than direct codiontation. I had no hint of an imminent 

split when I had long talks with Sithole, a dissident leader. 

The ways parted in July 1963. After the Dar meeting, Nkomo went 

back to Rhodesia, where some correspondence fell into his hands that 

dearly identified opposition to his leadership. He called a press conference 

suspending Sithole (national chairman), Takawira (secretary for external 

affairs), Mugabe (publicity secretary), and Moton Mdianga (secretary 

general). These four in nun, in Dar, deposed Nkomo as president and 

elected Sithole in his place. Three other ZAPU leaders, including Jason 

Moyo, walked out, dkociating themselves from the dissidents. 

I had a letter from Eddison Zvobga (July 20,1963), who had studied in 

the United States and enthusiastically supported the revolt against 

Nkomo. "Nkomo is doomed. That is what things are boiling down to. The 

revolt against Joshua has now spread beyond bounds. . . . I predict that in 

another month the game will be all over. . . . Sithole is likely to lead as 

things stand. His popularity is spreading like wiId fm by the hour." In his 

enthusiasm Zvobgo was underestimating Nkomo. 

ZANU was organized in early August 1963 after Sithole returned from 

Dar. Its policy statement had little to distinguish it from ZAPU. Pan- 

Africauist, nonracial, committed to universai suffrage, vaguely socialistic, 

it called for nationalization of major industries but allowed for private 

enterprise. Thus the split did not seem to be primarily ideological. 

Nkomo called a large, representative gathering at Cold Comfort Farm 

near Salisbury to settle the leadership question. Although a thousand were 

expected, at least 5,om came. They hailed Nkomo as "the only national 

leader and life president" of the movement and called on Britain to 

transfer power to the majority. They urged the people to engage in active 

resistance to colonialism. Since ZAPU was banned, a new body, the 

People's Caretaker Council (PCC), was set up to rival ZAW, as yet too 

new to be illegal. The PCC was organized in cells in every 40th housc in 

the African townships, the cell leaders to be in close touch with Nkomo. 

ZANU held its inaugural congress May 21 to 23, 1964, attended by

Zimbabwe: The Making of a Natiun 227 

more than 1200 delegates. They endorsed the constitution and piicy 

statement and elected officers. Sithole just managed to win the presidency 

from Mugabe, who was elected secretary general; Takawira was vice 

president; Zvobgo, vice secretary general; Chitepo, national chairman. 

Sithole, born in Rhodesia in 1920, was educated in Methodist schools 

and ordained. He did graduate work at Andover-Newton Theologid 

Seminary in Massachusetts and on his return was made principal of a 

government primary school. Active in the NDP, he had to give up his 

teaching post when he was elected secretary general in I*. He was 

chosen national chairman of ZAPU. I saw him frequently in the United 

States and Africa. 

Sithole was regarded as a hard-hitting natiomht. He was arrested when 

he returned to Salisbury from Dar es SaIaam in late 1962 for a letter he had 

written urging a boycott of the December elections. When he finishd a 

year at hard labor in May 1965, he was given a five-year restriction order. 

According to his book, Afiican Nationalism, there were 51 charges against 

him between July 34 1963, and June 22,1964. 

The bitter split in the nationalist ranks broke into occasional violence. 

Nevertheless, the struggle against the white government irltendied. Railways 

and electrical installations were sabotaged. A bomb was exploded at a 

sports gathering attended by the prime minister. A train was derailed near 

Bulawayo . 

The leaders of both ZAPU and ZANU were arrested. Nkomo was put 

under long-term resniction in a remote area without a specific charge on 

Apd 16, 1964, shortly after Ian Smith replaced Wwton Field as prime 

minister. By the end of 1964, almost 2,000 Africans were in detention, and 

ZANU and the PCC, as well as ZAPU were declared illegal. 

I was dismayed by the split in ZAPU. We supporters of the liberation 

smuggle had to decide how we should relate to the new creation, ZANU. 

Although I knew Nkomo best, I also knew and respected mauy ZANU 

leaders. Without a clear ideological or tactical distinction, there was no 

objective basis for supporting one group rather than the other. The OAU 

recogaized both. President Kaunda tended to favor ZAPU, but both 

groups had offices in Lusaka and in Dar es Salaam and used Zambian 

facilities for beaming radio broadcasts to Rhodesia. 

Wk decided to maintain contact with both ZAPU and ZANU. I met 

Mugabe several times when he came to the UN in October 1963 on behalf 

of ZANU, and wrote to Zvobgo that he had made a good presentation. I 

did not, however, accept W s charges that Nkomo was out of the 

country each rime a group was banned because he feared arrest. He had 

stood up against the white minority government too often to make me 

believe that, and his travels were necessary to his work. Stylistically he was 

a politician more than an activist seeking confrontation. 

I had many discwsions with leaders in both groups about whether 

tribal difllerenoes affected the split. Although it is tembly di£licult for an 

outsider to assess, I tended to discount such influence, Certaiuly among 

the mass of people, Nkomo remained the most popular. At rallies, he far

228 Years of Turnoil 

outdrew Shona leaders even in the most heavily Shona areas. About 80 

percent of the counuy is Shona-speaking. The rest speak Ndebele. But the 

Shona have disdnct subgroups such as the Karanga, Mania, Korekore, 

and Zenw. To complicate the matter still further, Nkomo was identified 

as Kalanga, a group that derives ethnically from the Shona but speaks 

Ndebeie. The only safe generalization was that ZANU had its main 

following among the Shona but had some Ndebele leaders. ZAPU had a 

Ndebele base but a significant Shona following and some Shona leaders. I 

conciuded that to translate tribe into political bias was an ovmhnplifia- 

tion but could not be completely ignored, We foreign supporters of the 

struggle had to adjust to the fact that there were two viable movements 

sfttr the split in 1963. 

UDI AND SANCTIONS 

The three letters UDI (Unilateral Declaration of Independence) became a 

code phrase eliciting differing reactions. To the British it stood for an 

embarrassing rebellion by a white minority in a colony. To most white 

Rhode!sians it conjured up visions of determinedly going it alone to preserve 

"CJlristian" white aviljzation against threats within aad without 

their country To most Africans whom I met it was a matter of indifference. 

Whether white-dominated Rhodesia was a d-governiog colony 

or an "independent" country made little difference to their way of life 

They mted majority rule. 

UDI finally became a d t y in November 1965 with Prime Mhkte 

Ian Smith as its architect. Unlike most white Rhodesians, who were post- 

World Wr II immigrants and in 1969 had been in the country less than 20 

years, Smith was born in Rhodesia, in 1919. He went to university in 

South Africa and then became a successful farmer. A hard-liner of the 

Rhodesian Front, he epitomized the white minority and prophcsicd that 

white rule in Rhodesia would last a thousand years. His political rise was 

probably inevitable as the situation became critical and the British insisted 

on maintaking some limited role in order to protect the black majority. As 

deputy prime minister, he had been told in London by Commonwealth 

Secretary Duncan Sandys that Rhodesia could not be granted indcpendence 

like Zambia and Malawi bemuse the Rhodesian "franchise is incomparably 

mote restrictive than that of any other British territory to which 

independence has hitherto been granted."z 

Neither the British Prime Miuister, Harold Whn, nor Ian Smith 

seriously believed that the UDI issue would be protracted or that many 

years of avil war would folow. The African nationah were not then a 

power to contend with. Guerrilla warfare was yet to come. Wdson uds- tidy proclaimed that the rebellion would be ended "in months if not 

weeks" as a result of the limited economic sanctions that the British asked 

the UN to adopt. 

Most Africans I talked with were bitter because Wilson would not use

Zimbabwe: The Making of a Nariott 

force to quell the white mlt. If it had been non-Europeans revolting 

against whites, there would have been little hesitation about sending 

mps. British troops had gone to Cyprus, Singapore, and Kenya when 

trouble arose. James Chikerema expressed African opinion when he told 

me, "If Britain really wanted to take over their colony, which they always 

say is still their colony, they could have done so." Africans felt that the 

racist argument that white Rhodesians were "kith and kin" dictated the 

British response. 

Limited sanctions against the wayward colony were imposed, as the 

British boycotted tobacco and sugar, which accounted for about three 

fourths of Rhodesia's exports. Agreeing to a British request, the UN called 

for voluntary compliance with sanctions prohibiting the import of Rhadesian 

asbestos, iron ore, chrome, copper, meat, tobacco, and sugar and 

forbidding the export to Rhodesia of arms, military equipment, and oil. In 

1968 these sanctions, implanented in the United Smtes by executive 

ordet, were made mandatory and were extended to include investment, 

trade, and ray,gdtion of passports. 

Although the sanctions had some effect, they certainly did not come 

close to bringing down the government. 'Rade to Rhodesia went through 

its neighbors, South Africa, which owned many Rhodesian h, and 

Mozambique. Oil sanctions, which might have led to an economic collapse 

in Rhodesia, were ineffective because of refineries and dew in those 

counrris. 

Since thc Rhodesian rebellion was obviously not going to end quickly, 

the British had a continuing responsibility. They felt they could not 

extricate themselves until there was an agreement moving in the direction 

of majority rule. Highly publicized discussions took place between Wilson 

and Smith on board the British destroyer Tiger in the Mdtemmean in 

1966 and on the Fearh in 1968. Neither meeting was sudd. The 

British announced "five principles," insisting on progress toward majority 

rule and an end to racial discrimination if they were to withdraw. Smith 

rejected these conditions as infringing on *Rhodesian sovereignty." In- 

stead, the Rhodesian government adopted a new constitution in 19% 

setting forth the principle that at some future date, when Africans 

qmliiied ro vote in suf6cient numbers (by virtue of higher monetary, 

property, and educational status), they would compose haLf the members 

of Parliament. After new negotiations in 1971 under a Conservative gov- 

ernment, a slight amendment allowed for an ultimate 10-seat African 

majority in Parliament. How long would this take? Smith reported to his 

fellow whites that it would take so long that "no European need harbor any 

anxiety about the security of his future in Rhodesia."3 

YEARS OF DETENTION AND EXILE 

While the British were ltrying to forestall UDI, Africans in Rhodesia were 

victims of government mdrdowns, especially in the decade 1964 to 1974.

230 Years of %moil 

Frequent declarations of a state of emergency gave police and army the 

power to arrest people without warrant for such infractions as taking 

unauthorized photographs or making controversial statements. Not only 

were political organizations banned, but at least 10 publications were 

closed down, and political meetings were disallowed. Virtually all black 

leaders were placed in phn or detention camps. Some were able to 

escape and pursue their politid work outside the country. 

One of the best known of the nine detention camps was 

Gonakudzingwa, where Nkomo was sent in 1964. Jane Ngwenya, a top 

ZAPU leader, who was there for about six and a half years, gave me a 

graphic description. I had met her in 1961 at the AAPC in Cairo, and we 

renewed our friendship after her release in 1970. In 1964 Gonakudzingwa 

had more than goo inmates. In the southeast, about 400 miles by road 

from Salisbury, it was flat, semidesert country that was very hot in 

daytime. Populated by many wild animals, the area was a game pre- 

serve.Near the convergence of Rhodesia, South Africa, and Mozambique, 

at one time it had served as an mpe route for South African criminals. 

The camp inmates lived in banach made of corngated metal sheets and 

cooked their meals from raw food provided weekly. 

At first, there was relatively little discipline or supervision. On week- 

ends hundreds of ZAPU supporters made a pilgrimage by car to visit their 

leaders. The inmates had about four miles in which to move around. No 

one ever escaped, Ngwenya told me. Nkomo would address the visitors. 

For a time the detainees even published The Aftica Home News, a bulletin 

reporting on the famp Nkomo was given the title "Chibwechitedzc," 

meaning *the Unconquerable" in Ndebele. Literally it meant a large 

mund boulder so smooth that no one could climb on it. On May 28,1965, 

howwer, when a state of emergency was declared, trwps stopped visitors 

from coming to hear Nkomo. 

I was surprised by an arly postcard from Nkomo (May I*): "Just to 

say hello to you all. I am restricted at the above address. . . , We are 

adjusting ourselves well and becoming friendly to Lions and elephants." 

Once he wrote saying he had heard me on the Voice of America radio 

braodcast after I had testiEied to a congressional committee. His notes were 

usually innocuous because of censorship, for example thanking me for 

attending his daughter's wedding in New York and congratulating me on 

my daughter's wedding, ending with, "We are keeping very much fit and 

always looking on the bright side of things" (February 5,1972). 

One letter smuggled out had more feeling (December 19, 1969): "The 

people in control of our country are bigoted racialists. There can be no 

compromise with them." 

Among ZANU leaders, I probably had most contact with Eddison 

Zvobgo, whom I had known when he was the NDP-ZAPU representative 

in the United States while attending Wts University. He was imprisoned 

in Salisbury for abour a year. He wrote to me (July 1965): 

At long last I have been released from Salisbury Prison. I gained my "freedom" 

on Saturday, 10th of July, but I was picked up at the prison front gate and stnred

Zimbabwe: The Making of a Nation 

with a new five year restriction order. I was imm&tdy hustled to the car and 

driven to this camp [Sikombela Restriction Am near Que Quc]. You must havc 

heard that our whole group . . . werc moved last month to this area. The rcsmc- 

tion area is about 15 mile long by 10 miles wide. There is a huge forest all over 

here and no ptople live anywhere near hcre. It is a new cxpaience. I hope we will 

be able to survive the isolation. . . . [He reported that rhe top ZANU leaders were 

thercAithoIc, Mugabe, Takawira.] It's a nice team in tan- ex&. 

Zvobgo, like many other detainees, made good use of his time in 

confinement. He earned degrees by correspondence from the University of 

South Africa and the University of London. The ACOA sent him and 

others books and tuition, usually through the Rev. Jack Grant, a missionary 

and head of Christiao Care, an organization that helped detainees and 

their fdes. Grant wrote in his newsletter (November my 19711, 

Ed&n was excited, if not confused by his sudden release after seven and a half 

years of detention. He was deposited on a friend's doorstep in High6tld without a 

penny in his pocket. Within 3 hours he was informed by the superintendent of the 

township that he could not stay at that place. , . . He could not join his wife and 

childrrn in England as he is restrid to Highfield and environs. He broke down 

when I emptied my purse and gave him the few pounds I had in it. 

There were sad episodes. Leopold Takawira, vice president of ZANU, 

died in Salisbury prison in June 1970. Because of his diabetic condition he 

asked the authorities for hospital care as early as 1967~ but this was denitd. 

&though he was in a coma for three days, the prison authorities would not 

respond to the urgent appeals of his comrades, and the prison doctor 

reported that he died of "natural causes." 

The Rhodesian government also took action against its white critics and 

opponents. In Decemk 1970 Guy Clutton-Brock, a white member of the 

banned SRANC, was deprived of his citizenship and deported. Shortly 

thereafter Cold Comfort Farm, the interracial cooperative he helped 

found, was dosed down and his African associate, Didymus Mutasa, was 

arrested and imprisoned. 

Another white casualty was Jack Hal-, former editor of the liberal 

Cml Ajihn Examinn, whom I had known several yeas. His letter to 

me of October 4,1963 (in answer to my query about my daughter Martha's 

plan to study in Nigeria) began, uAbout your daughter . . ." and went no 

further. Wixks later when I received it, it went on, "sony but on the day I 

smed this letter . . . two polite gentlemen arrived to hand me a notice 

declaring mt a prohibited immigrant. No reasons, no legal ddenge 

possible but just get out." 

One of the most prominent whites to be imprisoned and then banned 

was Garfield Todd, whom I met at various times over many years. A 

former missionary and prime minister and a convincing and polished 

speaker, who was too liberal to have a significant European following 

during the Ian Smith years, he seemed a most unlikely candidate for 

arrest. Yet he and his daughter Judith, who was wry outspoken against the 

goveriunent, were picked up in 1972 as security risks under the Law and

Order Maintenance Act. They were held in prison for 10 weeks, Judy in 

Mamndellas and M d d in Gatmma. 

Todd gave me a fascinating account of his ordeal. As the only white 

prisoner, he was kept in isolation from the Africans. He was allowed half 

an hour a day alone in the yard as his only exercise. Then quite suddenly 

he and Judy were released. For four years, he was confined to within 80 

paces of his house, while Judy was able to leave the country. He was 

released only when he was invited by Nkomo to be an adviser to the ZAPU 

delegation at negotiations in Geneva in 1976. 

During this whole restrictive period, the ACOA responded to requests 

of both ZAPU and ZANU--expenses for the ZAPU representative in New 

York; funds for books and magwines; stationery and a photostat machine 

and typewriter for their offices; helping with arrangements and expenses 

for a North American tour for the ZANU secretary for e xtd af&, 

funds for correspondence courses for political detainees, as noted earlier. I 

was in fairly regular cantact with ZAPU and ZANU offices in Lusaka and 

Dar es Salaam both by letter and visits. 

ZAPU and ZANU, working underground, became consciously com- 

mitted to armed struggle. At first, not all leaders thought sending na- 

tiomlists abroad for military mining was wise, Later, hesitancy disap 

peared, and ZANU recruits were sent to China, Cuba, and Ghana; ZAPU 

remits to the Soviet Union, Bulgaria, North Korea, and Cuba. These 

trained men then infiltrated back into Rhodesia and became the nudeus 

for later g uda activity. 

The first relatively Lugescale military action was a series of encounters 

from August 1967 to July 1968. Later in 1967 Oliver Tambo of the ANC 

and James Chikerema of ZAPU held a joint press conference to announce 

the formation of an ANC-ZAPU military alliance. Hundreds of na- 

tionalists clashed with Rhodesian forces. The ANC, of corn, wanted 

access to South Africa through Rhodesia. The military action was serious 

enough that, for the first time, South African troops joined Rhodesians, 

with Prime Minister Vorster ptoclaiming, "Wk are god friends [with 

Rhodesia] and good friends know what their duty is when the neighbor's 

house is on ke." 

This combined military action was not a success. Npdoro, with 

whom I talked in Lusaka, called it a "disaster" but said they had learned a 

great deal from it and would not make the same mistakes a&. Thcy 

should not have sent milirary units into the country in uniforms and 

carrying arms because that hdped to identify them. They should not have 

hidden in caves and forests because when discovered, they were already 

isalated and easily attacked. They had violated the cardinal rule of guer- 

rilla warfare. They had not quietly infiltrated and mingled with the people 

as ordinary villagers ulike fish in the water." Nor had they prepared the 

way for their military effort by an educational effort among the people. 

For ZANU the war had officially begun earlier, April 28,1966, when 21 

ZANU guerrillas clashed with Rhodesian troops supported by helicopters 

in the banle of Sinoh. Seven died. 'T%e date is rememkred as Chimuraga

Zimbabwe: The Making of a N ah 233 

Day. "Chimurenga" is a Shona word, which stands for the wars of resist- 

ance of the 18gos. 

A NEW CHANCE 

The British hoped that their 1971 agreement with Ian Smith, allowing for 

an eventual 10-seat African majority in Parliament, would end the strife in 

Rhodesia. But this agreement had to meet the "test of acceptability" one of 

the "five principles" put forth by Harold Wdson years before. Lord 

Pearce, a distinguished British peer, was chosen to lead a commission to 

Rhodesia to assess opinion, black and white, toward the proposed settle- 

ment. From January XI, 1972, to March 11, the Peame Co-on 

received more than 45,000 letters and memoranda and about 2,000 peri- 

tions. It traveled throughout the counuy in cities and rural areas, where it 

held 50 meetings attended by to,m people, explaining the proposed 

settlement.4 

I learned a great deal about what happened from Michael Mawema, a 

naao&t leader and a major objector to the proposals, when he came to 

the United States. "Overnight," he explained, "the Zimbabwe political 

scene was transformed." The African National Council had been organ- 

ized to mobh opposition to the proposals and purposely given the 

same initials as the old Southern Rhodesian African National Con- 

gress. New leaders had to be found for it because virtually all the old 

leaders were detained or exiled. But the detained leaders were consulted. 

They approved as candidate for president Abel Muzorewa, the Methodist 

bishop for Rhodesia, who had close ties to American Methodists. Not 

previously politically active, he was a distinguished public Sgure and 

acceptable to almost everyone. 

In spite of the protection offered by the Pearce Commission, the new 

ANC found the going difficult. Mawema explained to the UN, 'The 

Council operated under very trying and difficult circumstances. The state 

of emergency was still in force; public meetings remained banned despite 

und-gs that normal political activities would be permitted during 

the test of acceptability." The ANC was a single-issue organization in- 

tended to Iast only so long as the test of acceptability was in progress. 

We went flat out for victory," Mawema told the UN. The ANC 

distributed millions of leaflets, stickers, and pieces of literature. But the 

government tried to frustrate its organizing efforts, rejecting all mo ANC 

applications for meetings in tribal trust lands. Some meetings were 

stopped by police violence, as in Umtali, where a meeting scheduled with 

the Pearce Commission was canceled at the last moment by the authorities. 

The crowd refused to disperse. Dogs and tear gas were used to control 

them, and finally machine guns were fired. Fifteen Afrim were killed. 

After the commission had done its work, the Rhodesian government itself 

reported that in those two months, 1,736 people had becn arrested, of

whom 923 had been released and 689 convicted, with the cases of the 

remainder pending. 

The Pearce Commission finally reported succinctly: "We are satisfied 

. . . that the proposals are acceptable to the great majority of Europeans. 

We are equally satisfied . . . that the majority of Africans rejected the 

&nsequently, the Anglo-- 

down. 

I met Bishop Muzorewa for the 6rst h e in 

We had a reception for him. When I asked him about ZAPU and ZANU, 

he replied that they hardly existed anymore, that everything was now 

being done through the ANC. I wondered if that was an accurate statement. 

THE BYRD AMENDMENT-U.S. VIOLATION OF 

SANCTIONS 

Although the rebellion led by Ian Smith received considerable attention in 

the United States, the government gave African issues low priority and 

tried not to become involved. Further, the Richard Nixon administration, 

guided by Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, assumed that any change in 

southern Africa would not be through African action. According to National 

Security Study Memorandum No. 39, the white govements in 

South Africa, Rhodesia, and the Portuguese territories were the effective 

agents to deal with because they were there to stay. Ultimately the United 

States supported sanctions against Rhodesia because the British requested 

it. In early 1970 the United States closed its consulate in Salisbury. 

Ian Smith had his staunch U.S. supporters. Shortly after UDI, I began 

to receive communications from right-wing groups. The National Coordinating 

Committee of the Friends of Rhodesian Independence wrote (February 

22,1966), "Rhodesia is the key to the West's precarious position in 

the Afro-Asian world. If Rhodesia falls, South Africa and Portuguese 

Africa will inevitably folhlike darrainnes 

- , Laving the entire continent in 

anti-Western hands." 

The Friends of Rhodesia, another organhation, sponsored all-expensepaid 

tours to Rhodesia for influential Americans, who found, not surprisingly, 

that "Rhodesia is a model nation for peace and stability and for 

harmony and understanding between the races." The bulletin of the 

American-Southern Africa Council reported that "Sanctions are designed 

to lead to the destruction of the only firm bastions of auticommunism and 

Western civilization on the African continent."s They were undertaking to 

have a million letters sent to the White House by the end of the year to 

show that Rhodesia had massive U.S. support. 

Smith's sympathizers adopted a clever legislative strategy. In cooperation 

with conservative Democratic Senator Harry E Byrd, an amendment 

to the Military Procurement Bill was adopted in October 1971, which 

stipulated that the President could not prohibit the importation into the 

United States of any strategic material so long as it was not prohibited


from a Communist counuy, Chrome, for example, could be imported 

from Rhodesia because it was also camiag from the Soviet Union. The 

State Deparment had actually lobbied against this Byrd Amendment, 

recognizing the damage it would do to U.S. prestige ar the UN and in 

Africa. Union Carbide and the Foote Mineral Company, the largest 

chrome producers in Rhodesia, lobbied hard for the measure. Nixon 

hilly signed the bill with the amendment on January 24,1972. Swentytwo 

strategic items were thus eliminated from the materials prohibited by 

sanctions, in spire of the fact that the United States had a stockpile of 2.2 

million tons of chrome in excess of foreseeable needs. Other strategic 

materials that could be imported included nickel, copper, asbestos, manganese, 

and f b m e . The New Yd Times (January 26, 1972) editorialized: 

"The Nixon administration has now taken an action which puts 

the U.S. in violation of the U.N. Charter and gives moral support to the 

Rhodesian minority government." The timing of Nixon's signing of the 

bill was blatantly provocative for it was simultaneous with the work of the 

Pearce Commission. 

The Byrd Amendment became a major political issue before it was 

finally repealed in December 1973. During these two years of sanctions 

breaking, US, imports came to $413.3 million. The ACOA, among other 

groups, worked hard for its repeal. Our Washington office, established in 

1967, was expanded and became jointly sponsored by the Methodists, 

Episcopaiiaus, Presbyterians, and the United Church of Christ and Jatu 

by other denominations and labor unions. It was formally renamed the 

%hington Office on Africa. Edgar (Ted) Lockwood, an Episcopal clcrgyman, 

a iawyer, and member of ACOA's Executive Board, was executive 

director. He and Chiistine Root, delaying her studies at Oberlin, served as 

an effective team. 

In New York the ACOA concentrated on community action. Henry 

Lieberg would sometimes spend all night in the office sending cables to 

ships suspected of lcarryiag Rhodesian cargo in order to ascertain their 

port destination. We then called organizations that were prepared to 

protest. The ACOA tracked eight such ships and reported the arrival of 

another four to the International Longshoremen's Asmiation (ILA), the 

UN Sanctions Committee, the chairman of the House Subcommittee on 

Africa, and others. Three ships were diverted as a result of btened 

demonstrations, The ILA refused to unload Rhodesian cargo. Major 

demonstrations o c c d in New York, Philadelphia, and ports in Louisiana 

and Maryland. Although these efforts did not stop the cargo from 

being off-loaded ultimately, they did call public mention to U.S. disregard 

of UN sanctions and added impetus to efforts to repeal the Byrd Amendment. 

NEW NATIONALIST DIVISIONS IN EXILE 

m e the African National Council was winning a trehendous victory 

inside Rhodesia by forestahg the imposition of the Anglo-Rhodsian

Caom Nyradoro aad Joson Mayo, leaders of ZAPt, cS UPtI o h in 

Lusaka, Zambia, 1978. 

proposals, a new set of problems plagued the nationalist mavmt in 

de. This was a painful piad for exiled ZAPU and ZANU and their 

supporters abroad. Their main task was to publicize the muse and bdd 

up dtary strength. Thc bickering, intrigue, and infighdDg among the 

leaders, parricularly in ZAPU, almost negated their &om for a time. 

Although one could argue rhac this was jut part of ths frustration of 

political exile, it did not make the situation any less damaging. 

A new split among ZAPU leaders came to a head in eatly rpiro. Nkomoa 

confined to Gonakudzingwa, could not be consulted. Extdleadership 

was in the hands of the five stalwarts in Lusaka. Chikerema was acting 

chairman, working closely with Nyandom, nationat secretary. Jason 

Mop, trtasarer; George Silundika, publicity officer; and Edward Nhw, 

deputy national secretary, were not in Ckema3s confidence ad in. 

mashgl~t drew together in opposition to him. I did not realize the eateat 

d thr: tongion until I &wd a copy d a nmmradum IPdmpry 25, 

rwu) from Mayo, 'Obsmatians on Our Struggle" pointing to the lack of 

discipline in the military as weJl as in the political organiaicm. It protested 

vigorously agaiDst Chkmmat unilateral decisi~n, which hby~ 

learned about only through the daily press, to allow a British telm+shn 

team to produce a program at ZAFU's military camp in Zamb'm. Thjs act 

had also angad the Zambian gommnent because it had always claimed 

that no liberation movanmt had a training camp ae its soil. 

Wbekslatrtinastieglngrep1~~rema~hisau~astge 

&&tor of Nkomo's mantle. He wrote in a memomdum:


Our Zimbabwe society here abroad has become a hotbed of tribal intrigue, 

nepotism and corruption. I have Itfc this drift for too long in the interest of 

revolutionary danocracy. . . . I am the leader of this oxgarhtion-a Ieader among 

equals-but my authoriry and mandate is above that of all my colleagues. [Then 

Chkmm announced drastic steps:] I haw therefore dissolved the whole military 

command. . . . I am taking direct control of foreign &airs . . . and of all extmm! 

accounts of party funds. 

By this action he was attempting to wrest their powers from Silundika and 

Moyo. They replied immediately in a memo declaring Chikcrema's acrion 

"null and wid.'' 

This split led to violence at Zimbabwe House, a ZAPU hostel in 

Lusaka. The Zambian police intervened and the goveminent threatened, 

"If we close all ZAPU's offices in Zambia, it will be ZAF'U's fault, not 

ours." Kaunda told me soan after that he had called the five ZAPU leaders 

to the state house and sternly told them that they must came to some 

agreement or close down their operations. 

The leaders made an &on and came to an awkward working ammmodation. 

On several visits to the ZAPU office in 1970, I never saw 

Chbrema there. He worked privately elsewhere. But I met the other four 

leaders. Their relationship was polite but stdned. They never conuadicred 

one another publicly, but privately Moyo, Silundika, and Ndlovu 

criticized Chikerema. Apparently the split had aibal overtones-Zezmu 

(Chikerema and Nyandoro) versus Kalanga. Nevertheless, they said,% 

must make a go of it." Since they hadn't even been speaking to one 

another previously, perhaps this was progress. 

This uneasy relationship did not last long. In late 1970 Chikerema 

began unity discussions with Nathan Shamuyarira, a ZANU leader, and a 

little later with Herbert Chitepo, who headed the external office of ZANU. 

The fact that Chikerema proceeded with the discussions without cansultiug 

his ZAPU comrades exacerbated their bad relationship The OAU 

cut off all but military assistance to ZAPU, and that was to go indirectly 

through the Zambian government. ZANU on its side called a conference, 

which voted not to continue unity talks and put Shamuyarka off the 

Supreme Council. 

A new organization did emerge from these talks, in October 1971, the 

Front for the Liberation of Zimbabwe (FROLIZI). It daimed to repmt 

a united ZAPU-ZANU, which it considered "dead and buried." Thc 

reality was far dinerent. The OAU never recognized FROLIZI, and 

President Nyaere rebed to allow it to open an office in Tanzania. Its 

existence, however, helped clarify the leadership question in ZAPU. 

Chikefema and Nyandoro were expelIed "with dishonor." After a few 

months, Chikerema took over as president of FROLIZI with Nyandoro in 

charge of foreign affairs. Subsequently, Shamuyarira left the organhion. 

He toId me that it soon became clear ro him that it had no potential as a 

real united front. Nevertheless, as a result of all this maneuvering, there 

were now four nationalist organizations either in Rhodesia or in 4- 

ZAPU, ZANU, the ANC, and FROLIZI.

THE NEW OFFENSIVE 

Vbrd of a greatly intensified aimed struggle filtered out of Rhodesia in 

December 1972. The new offensive, the beginning of the ha1 phase of the 

struggle bemeen African nationalists and Rhodesians, was the work of the 

Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army (ZANLA), the military 

wing of ZANU. In preparation, ZANLA militants had crossed into Rhodesia 

without arms or uniforms and lived as ordinary villagers for at least 

six months. The ZANU publication Zimbabwe N m (November 1972) 

commented even before the offensive began, "ZANLA fighters are now 

moving among the masses like fish in the water." The Johawburg Stur 

(February 10,1975) pointed out that "The newcomers infiltrated across an 

unmarked border with Mozambique in an extremely rugged area of bush 

and escarpment. They traveled via Mozambique with the help of the 

FRELIMO guerrillas attacking there." 

A new factor in the offensive was the cooperation between ZANU and 

FRELIMO, indicating the pragmatic approach of the Mozambique move- 

ment. Their longtime ally, ZAPU, was based in Zambia and was entering 

Rhodesia from the west and northwest. ZANU, howevers made inroads 

into Rhodesia on the east and northeast, bordering Mozambique. Since 

Rhodesia and Mozambique share a very long border, the cooperation 

between the two movements was especially important. They began coordi- 

nated attacks on the railway and road links from Umtali, in eastern 

Rhodesia to Beira, the second major Mozambique port. 

The ZANLA attacks smed on December 21, near the town of Cente- 

nary. Objectives were the Altena Fann and the Whistldeld Farm, which 

was a command post for the Rhodesian army. A truckload of 35 Rhodesian 

soldiers was blown up by antitank mines, two other troop trucks were 

destroyed, and a locomotive engine was exploded. The statistical infoma- 

tion emanating from each side at the end of a year differed greatly, but the 

guerrillas were operating with increased effectiveness. The Lmuim Daily 

Telegraph (April 13, 1973) observed, "Mr. [Ian] Smith has now accepted 

that the present guerrilla offensive is the most serious security thrw the 

country has faced." 

The military campaign changed the way of life of the whites, especially 

in the northeast. Women were mustered for field reservist duties and 

mined in the use of firearms, first aid, and wdio operation. Men had both 

farm and pawl duty. Either social life was limited to daylight hours, or 

dinner guests spent the night. Road signs warned of the danger of navel 

after 3:m F.M. Most farmers laid warning trip mines and alanns. House 

windows were covered with mesh to stop grenades, and walls and windm 

Were sandbagged. 

The Rhodesian government created a "no-go" area of 200 miles along 

the Mozambique border and herded Africans into "protected villages," 

like the Portuguese akmems. For the h t time, reserve units of ma of 

38 or more were called up An exodus of whites kgan. Tourism in 1973

Zimbabwe: The Making of a Narion 239 

was the lowest on record. The government announced the "Settler '74" 

campaign to increase white immigration. In January full-page adwrtisement 

in the Rhodesian Hemld asked readers to give names and addresses of 

people who might want to move to Rhodesia. 

In the meantime, in 1973 Ian Smith and Muzorewa of the African 

National Council met several times to consider the possibility of a negotiated 

solution. Muzorewa asked for parity in Parliament (not one man, one 

vote), a British veto on any djscridnatory amendments to the constitution, 

an integrated school system, and amnesty for guerrillas outside the 

couc~try. Smith rejected these proposals as "totally and absolutely unaccep 

table." The other nationalist movements felt that the time for negotiation 

was past. They were committed only to the principle of majority rule. 

DETENTE 

In October 1974 at the celebration of the 10th anniversary of Zambia's 

independence in Lusaka, I sat beside Henry Namadziripi, treasurer of 

ZANU, whom I had known for several years. As a veteran of the na- 

tionalist struggle, he knew the inside of many a R hodh prison. He 

remarked that change would come soon, not without further bitter strug- 

gle, but "now we are assured of victory." ZANU's offensive in the north 

and east was expanding, ZAPU forces were infiltrating into the west, and 

even FROLIZI was involved in limited action. 

I also talked with Jane Ngwenya of ZAPU. While returning from 

Botswana a short time before, she noted that the trains from Rhodesia 

heading south through Botswana to South Afrim were loaded with white 

Rhodesians; on northbound trains vktually no Europeans were evident. 

The white exodus was on. The Rhodesian government was taking desper- 

ate measures. I learned that Nkomo had just been moved from the 

Gonakudzingwa detention camp near the Mozambique border to Salis- 

bury prison, lest FRELIMO forces attack across the border to free the 

veteran leader. The camp was in fact soon closed down. Ngwcnya told me 

hm, in her presence, Ethan Dube, a ZAPU leader with her in Botswana, 

had been clubbed unconscious while in a private home and then driven by 

two Europeans into Rhodesia, where he disappeared. Edson Sithole, a 

ZANU leader, was kidnapped outside a hotel in downtown Salisbury and 

never seen again. The ZANU office at the Liberation Center in Lusaka 

was bombed in the middle of the night shortly before the 10th anniversary 

Celebration. 

When I went to the Liberation Center, although I had often been there 

and knew the Zambian in charge, I could not go beyond the reception 

roam. Only a few designated members of each movement were allowed 

inside the compound. Armed police were on hand to enforce the regula- 

tion. 

hide Rhodesia there was a feeling that uansition to majority rule was 

not far away, and even those Africans in government pay were ready to

Years of Turnoil 

defy the government. Ian Smith called an indaba (a conference of chiefs 

and leaders) to discuss problems between the government and the Af- 

ricans. OnIy about 20 of the 150 invited (more or less beholden to him: 

showed up 

Early in the morning of my departure from Lusaka I had an unexpected 

invitation to meet with President Kaunda privately. He had been so busy 

meeting guests for the celebration that this was quite special. As I entered 

the hall of the president's house, previously the British governor's man- 

sion, I sidestepped the leopard rug, feeling as though I would be treading 

on something alive. I was seated in a waiting room and offered fruit juice. 

Soon the president arrived, dressed in a near safari-type suit with a 

kerchief around his neck. Kk went into a private lounge where he seemed 

to give me his undivided attention. Although his hair was graying and he 

was heavier than on his first U.S. visit 14 years earlier, he looked good. The 

strain of his responsibilities did not seem to be taking a toll. It was then 

8:00 A.M. and at 830 1 was due at the airport, a 30-minute driw away. 

This was an important time to see Kaunda. Three days earlier he had 

given a speech at the University of Zambia in response to one by Prime 

M.inister Vorster. Actually the two speeches, in both content and timing, 

had been carefully orchestrated to inaugurate a brief period of detente. 

Vorster had said that South Africa would not interfere with Mozambique 

(on the verge of independence), wanted to normalize relations with black 

African states, and would offer economic aid if requested. Kaunda called 

Vorster's speech &the voice of reason for which Africa and the world have 

waited for years. " Speaking of Rhodesia, he said, 

a military victory for the Smith regime is impossible, but a black victory inevita- 

ble. . . . Mr. Smith must now opt for a political solution. . . . wc therefore 

reah our pledge to call upon the liberation movements to desist from armed 

struggles if Mr. Smith accepts negotiations with the . . . lcrjcimatc and autbtntic 

leaders of the African people. . . . [Speaking directly to South Africa, hc said] The 

timc has come for the South Afiican government to makt a choice . . . tither the 

mad to peace, progress and development or the escalation of conflict in southan 

Africa. 

He called on South Africa to disengage from Rhodesia and ended with the 

hop that South Africa would support "peaceful change." 

Kaunda told me that he expected a further response from Vorster soon. 

He expected South Africa to put pmmre on Smith because with Mozam- 

bique and Angola independent, Smith would have to come to terms with a 

new reality ia southern Africa. Kaunda hoped to be able to invite Nkomo 

and Sithole, both incarcerated in Rhodesia, to come to Zambia soon to 

discuss unity in their country. 

When I remembered to check my watch, it was 8:45. Kaunda had 

someone call the airport and hold the plane. As I left, he gave me his 

picture inscribed, "George. Always remember, keep smiling as you serve 

your fellow man. God's blessings, Kenneth." Then I was driven to the 

airport, where I was the last passenger to board the plane.

Zimbabwe: The Making of a Nation 

Soon after my return to New York, the starding news came out that the 

Rhodesian government had released Nkomo and Sitholc for meetings in 

Lusaka, which turned out to be a real summit meeting on Rhodesia. It was 

anended by the presidents of Tanzania, Botswana, and Zambia, who 

were joined by Nkomo, Sithole, Muzorewa, and Cbiktrema. The resulting 

Lusaka Agreement stated that the movanents "hereby agree to 

unite in the African National Council." The separate organizations were to 

dissolve, join the ANC for an interim four months, and then participate in 

a congress to draft a new constitution and elect new leadership The 

purpose of this unity was to prepare for "any conference for the tmnsfer of 

power to the majority [in Rhodesia] that might be called." At the same 

time it was recognized that the armed struggle would wndnue until total 

liberation was won. 

Hope for a detente seemed justified when Ian Smith announced the 

releasc of African leaders to engage in normal legal activity. "This will I 

believe create the right atmosphere for the holding of the constitutional 

conference," he said. It was soon obvious, however, that things would not 

run smoothly. The Smith government made clear that it was not ready to 

hand over power to the majority. Also, there were leadership problems 

among the nationalists. In New York a little later, Nkomo made disparaging 

remarks to me about Muzorewa. The bishop now had political ambitions 

and wanted more permanant power in the ANC, which was not about 

to go out of business. This did not sit well with Nkomo, who felt 

responsible for Muzorewa's original designation as ANC chairman. 

Even more serious was the leadership problem in ZANU. Although 

Sithole still held the tide of president, he had lost his power while in 

prison. Zvobgo explained to me that Sithole and the other imprisoned 

leaders communicated with one another daily when they were together 

from early morning till 4:m P.M. in an enclosed bull pen. In such circumsmces, 

he said, "You naturally get to know the strengths and weaknesses 

of your comrades quite well." Sithole's gradual loss of his aellmatd 

coniidence and respect culminated in his attempt to make a deal with the 

government in order to avoid six more years in prison for promoting a plot 

(smuggled out in letters) to assassinate Ian Smith. He told the authorities 

he muld convince his fellow ZANU leaders to renounce violence if his 

sentence were commuted. He stated in court, "I wish publicly to didte myself in word, thought, and deed from any subversive activities . . . and 

from any form of violence." Yet he privately told his comrades that once 

reld they could carry on as before. The ZANU leaders felt this twofaced 

position could not be explained to their members and they flatly 

refused toaccept it. 

Whw Sithole, the ZANU president, was called to the Lusaka meeting 

in December 1974, the ZANU executive in Salisbury prison sent Mugabe 

to represent them instead. Mugabe, whom I had known at the UN during 

the NDP years, was a quietly impressive man, not given to dramatics. 

Over the years I was impressed by his disciplined strength and dedication 

to principle. Born in 1924 in a small village northwest of Salisbury, he had

242 Ears of Tunnoil 

I 1 

3fl 

had a religious upbringing in a Jesuit mission. He told me th'5 most 

important iafluences on his life were the year he spent at Fort Hare 

u&versity College in South Africa in 1950 i d his contact with the Youth 

League of the ANC of South Africa just before the Defiance Campaign. 

He was strongly iduenced by Gandhian nonviolence and by Kwame 

Nkrumah while he (Mugabe) taught in Ghana just after its independence. 

When he remad to Rhodesia, he began his career as a nationalist leader 

in the just organized NDR A measure of bis discipline is that during the 

nearly 11 years he spent in prison and detention, he earned three university 

degrees by correspondence, which the ACOA helped finomce. 

When Mugabe appeared at Lusaka instead of Sithole, the four presidents 

were nonplussed. They had known nothing of the rUpNre in 

ZANU. When talking to me in 1983, Nyerere d e d with a smile that he 

bad been very rough on Mugabe. "Who is Mugabe? We don't how 

Mugabe. % know Sithole. He is the person who was elected president of 

ZANU." So Mugabe was sent back to the Rhodesian prison, and Sithole 

came, accompanied, at the insistence of the imprisoned ZANU leaders, by 

one of their members, Maurice Nyagumbo, to keep an eye on him.

_CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

- ,> 

' 7 

The Struggle for Namibia 

he sun had not yet risen when a group of five of us headed for the 

T airport in Lusaka, Zambia, on December 6,1967.1: was nervous, as I 

am sure my companions were. It wasn't just that we were embarking on a 

risky project but on one that, after nine months of work, was W y 

coming to pass. For this was the day we were flying into South West Africa 

(now Namibia) in two small chartered planes without South African visas 

and therefore in defiance of South Africa's de facto control of the area. We 

had put so much time, effort, and money into the project that we couldn't 

take the effpedition lightly. 

CONFRONTATION-A MILE HIGH 

The project had started casually, almost as an intriguing intellectual exer- 

cise, back in February. I was lunching with my old friend Lyle Tatum. Wk 

had both been pacifists in World War 11. He had then worked for the 

American Friends Service Committee in Africa and was now executive 

secretary of Farmers and World Affairs. We talked of South West Africa. 

The area had been through a frustrating six years, 1+1g66, during 

which the UN had waited for the International Court of Justice (ICJ) to 

decide on South Africa's legal right to continue its League of Nations 

mandate to administer the former German territory. By ae eight to seven 

vote, the court ruled that it could give no verdict becaw the plainti!%, 

Ethiopia and Liberia, had no legal standing to bring the case. In effect 

there was no decision at all. So in October 1966, the UN Gend Assembly 

took action and passed Resolution 2145, declaring that because South 

Africa had failed to ensure the moral and material well being of the 

indigenous inhabitants of South West Africa, "the Mandate . . . is there- 

fore terminated . . . and henceforth South West Africa comes under the 

direct responsibility of the U.N." 

Spurred by this development, Tatum and I began to speculate on what 

could be done to implement the UN resolution. During brainstorming 

sessions over the ensuing months, we developed a plan of action. In the 

meantime the UN passed Resoiution 2248 to establish the UN Coun- 

cil for South %t Africa to administer the area. The problem, of course, 

was that South Africa xehed to recognize the UN resolutions. 

As our weekly planning sessions went on, we were joined by two men 

with broad African experienceWter Martin from London, director of 

the Quaker Mission to the UN, and Jim Bristol, from Philaddphia, 

working with the American Friends Service Cornminee. 

243

Yems of Turmoil 

Increasingly I saw a parallel between our present desire to implement 

the UN resolution and my feeling 20 years earlier that the U.S. Supreme 

Court decision in the Irene Morgan case to outlaw segregation in interstate 

travel needed to be tested. A group of us, black and white, had done so in 

1947 by taking freedom rides in the south. That project helped to high- 

light the continuing disregard in southern states for Supreme Court deci- 

sions about segregation in travel. 

Although there was certainly a practical difference between U.S. Su- 

preme Court decisions and UN resolutions, still we felt the need to 

develop a viable plan to challenge South Africa's continued defiance of the 

UN. We the Ad Hoc Committee for the Development of an 

Independent South West Africa and recruited some volunteer specialists to 

attempt to fly into the country to develop projects in farming, nuuition, 

health, and cooperatives. We raised funds to cover expenses estimated at 

$20,000. We discussed the project with the UN Council, received the 

support of SWAPO, sought and d ved essential cooperation from Presi- 

dent Kenneth Kaunda of Zambia, who assigned Vernon Mwaanga, later 

Zambian ambassador to the UN and foreign minister, to give us every 

assistance on the African end. 

In addition to Lyle Tatum and me, our team that December morning 

consisted of John L.S. Holloman, M.D., former president of the National 

Medical Association and the Medical Committee for Human Rights and 

later New York City commissioner of health and hospitals; Professor 

Flemmie P. Kituell, a nuaition specialist at Howard University; and 

Samuel E Ashelman, economic consultant with the International Cooper- 

ative Development Association. Jim Bristol, who had been involved in the 

detailed planning, suffered a heart attack, which made his participation 

impossible. Walter Martin, who had done a lot of advance work, did not 

join us because it was less complicated to make the group all American in 

case of later legal action. Joining the five of us were three journalists for the 

London Times and two Zambian papers. Thus, including the pilots, there 

were ro on two planes. No advance public notice had been given of our 

planned Bight. We told Robert God, U.S. ambassador to Zambia, the day 

before we left Lusaka and told the newspapers that evening. 

The two planes, Piper-Anecs, took off shortly after a cloudy dawn. I sat 

next to the pilot in the lead plane. I had never flown on such a small plane 

before. The cabin was quite intimate, almost like riding in the front seat of 

a car. It was difficult at first to talk to the American pilot, David Bobman, 

buse he did not know anything about our project. If he had known, 

undoubtedly the planes would not have been available. The other pilot was 

a white Rhodesian. 

The pilots first realized that they were involved in an unusual project 

after we had refueled at Liviagstone, about an hour and a half flight from 

Lusaka, and had taken a turn around the spectacular Victoria Falls lying 

just bdow us. Then as we started the three-hour aght across the desolate 

expanse of Botswana, our plane was radioed by South African police. A


voice with a heavy Afrikaans accent said: "We know what your mission is. 

You will not be allowed to land in Windhoek. What is your intention?" 

The puzzled pilot turned to me and asked what this was all about, 

Wk had prepared a brief written statement explaining that we had no 

visas, did not recognize South African administration in South West 

Africa, and planned to land there to identify projects to help in the 

transition to independence. Grim-faced, the pilot said, "This is a &tty 

position." He told the South African police that we would fly on. Thus we 

passed the 6rst crisis. No further word came over the radio for some time. 

The pilot med to me and commented, "You can probably get the visa 

problem straightened out at the Wmdhoek airport." I said nothing, realizing 

that the real confrontation was yet to come. 

The flight itself was pleasant-scattered clouds, no rain, not very 

bumpy. We flew at an altitude of 4,000 to 5,000 feet. Below was the p t 

d d e emptiness of Botswana. When the pilot announced that we had 

crossed into South Vkt Africa, the radio came to life again. An Afrikaans 

voice asked for the namw of all passengers. The pilot complied. Then the 

voice said: "Listen carefully and note this important message. You will not 

be a l l d to land at Strijdom Airport [at Windhoek] or any other airport 

in South Wbt Africa ualtss all documents of crew and passengers meet all 

local legal requirements. We know the reason for your mission and should 

you land a ' t -&is ins~~s;ri~~~, you shall have ta bear tpe consequences~~ 

- c. - L 

Without s Grd thi pilot turned the craft around and radioed he o&er 

plane, whlch was always out of sight, to do likewise. We argued with the 

pilot that our contract was to land us at Wmdhoek. He asked, "Have you 

got fio,ooo to pay for the plane?" Then he added, "I am not going to jail 

for this." 

I had a sinkiug feeling. Then we all realized that we had a different 

crisis. The fuel needle was almost on empty. The pilot's request to land for 

fuel was denied. "Find Ghanzi or Maun," we were told, They were just 

spots in the dm. We could not see Ghanzi. The pilot said we could not 

make Livingstone. I perspired profusely as we looked for Maun. 

The plane jerked and the left motor went dead. This was frightening. 

Not knowing the plane had an emergency tank, I peered frantically for a 

place to land. As the pilot turned on the emergency tank, the right motor 

stopped, and the propeller went limp The second emmcy tank came 

on. We could go a little farther. Finally a faint signal appeared in the 

navigation equipment. The other plane (now in front of us) radioed, 'We 

sec it. Look for body of water on the right." We landed and refueled at the 

Maun airstrip Our group went through an agonizing discussion. Should 

we, according to our backup plan, be dropped at a town near the Caprivi 

Strip and try to enter South West Africa by Land Rover? We decided 

against it. Tbe planes took off again, and in three hours we arrived back in 

Lusaka after dark, hungry and dead tired, to face reporters. 

I had never felt more let down. We had worked so hard, and then it was

all over in one day without a satisfactory ending. We had wanted a 

confrontation on the ground. Instead, as Tam pointed out, "We had our 

confrontation a mile high." 

The inadent received a lot of publicity. Headlines ie the South Africa~ 

and South West AfAfrican press read: "Intruders Test South Africa Control 

of South West Africa," "Ydcees Tm Back Wlthout Landing," "Americans 

Sent Back." The London TM, New Ymk Tim, and Washington 

Post all had storks. Prime Minister John Vorster was quoted in Die 

Tr-k, a leading Afrikaans paper (December 7, 1967)~ "Mr. George 

Houser . . . was well known for his interference in South African affairs, 

and his action was arrogant and provocative. . . . The whole move was 

merely an attempt to revive the South West Africa debate in the U.N. . . . 

Nobody wil be allowed in South Africa or South West Africa without 

proper documents and Houser will definitely, with or without documents, 

not be permitted." 

There was a sad sequel to this experience. A year later on the main 

street in Lusaka I ran into David Bobman, the pilot. He greeted me as an 

old friend and we stopped for coffee. He told me that of all his experiences 

in flying charters "ours took the cake." Then he said he wodd like to try 

again. I was elated to feel that we had a new ally, and we agreed to keep in 

touch. A week later in New York I saw in the Times of Zambia (December 

16, 1967) a front-page story of the crash of a chartered flight caught in a 

stom near Lusaka. The plane had "suddenly plunged into the bush and 

exploded eight miles from the International airport. The five occupants, 

including the pilot, David Bobman, were all killed." I felt as if I had lost a 

friend. 1 didn't have the heart to plan another expedition at h t time. 

EXILE POLITICS 

Our attempted "fly-in" was one of many events that signaled that a new 

active period had begun after the UN termination of South Africa's 

mandate. The preceding six years had been a period of waiting on the part 

of African nationalists while South Africa went ahead with plans to extend 

apartheid to South West Africa. In 1964 the South African government 

produced the Odendaal Plan, which formally recommended imposing the 

"homehds" policy of South Africa on South West Africa. The theory was 

that the area, like South Africa, was made up of many "nations" (ethnic 

units), all of which should have the right of self-government-a perfect 

divide-ad-rule device, dishonestly and cynically using the language of 

self-government. About 40 percent of the territory would be partitioned 

into self-gowmhg homelands and more than 50 percent, including the 

indusniakd and mineral-rich areas, would rrmain permanently under 

white control. 

During these six confusing years, many black nationalists had fled the 

country after the violence of December 10, rgjg, in the Old Location at 

Windhoek. Some gravitated to New York, where, after making presenta-

The Struggle for Namibia 247 

tions to the UN, they were not sure of their next moves. Quasi-refugees, 

they were cut off from events back home and had to scrounge for financial 

backing both politically and personally. One could not make a profession 

out of telling one's story again and again to the UN. 

In this realm of exile politics it took some time to organize internationally, 

particularly for South West Africans, who had had little experience 

outside their country. I saw something of their travail. Sam Nujoma 

arrived in New York following his escape from banishment to Ovamboland. 

Here I met him. Then he went to Cairo to the third AAPC and 

thence to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, to establish the first SWAPO office in 

exile. Jacob Kuhangua arrived in New York next with his harrowing tale of 

arrest and deportation to Ovamboland, and then his escape across Africa. 

He was national secretary of SWAPO and began his own travels through 

Africa and Europe on its behalt 

New York was not the only gathering point. Dar es Salaam drew 

political refugees like a magnet. In January 1962 I spent hours talking with 

some to SWAPO refugees there. Only one had a job. Julius Nyerere told 

me that TANU was spending about oo a month to help them and 

couldn't keep it up 

Kuhangua told me there %& 7 o SWAP0 refugees, some at a 

camp and others in a SWAPO-run house. They needed food and clothing. 

When the Tanzanian government had to drop its 21 shdbg-per-person- 

per-day subsidy for refugees, the Christian Council of T m 

refugee 

program and other private bodies picked it up. 

In Accra, Ghana, I met Peter Mueshihange, later SWAPO secretary for 

foreign affairs. He had worked in Cape Town in the 1950s and helped 

found the OPO. Arrested in the demonstrations in Cape Town at the time 

of the Sharpeville Massacre in 1960, he had served three months in jail and 

was then deported to South West Africa. From there he exaped and 

eventually obtained a UN scholarship to a government school in Ghana. 

My path frequently crossed that of Sam Nujoma. He took me to a 

refugee center near Lusaka. All 57 new arrivals were crowded into a 

dwelIing for 20. Some bunks, hardly wide enough for one person, held 

two. After several days they were to move on to Bar es Salaam, where a 

few might mSve scholarships and others would just have to sunrive. 

In Kinshasa, Zaire, I met Andreas Shipanga, later SWAPO information 

and publicity secretary. After eight months exile he felt destitute and 

discouraged but also responsible for a half dozen or so South West Africans 

who depended on him. He had made an odyssey from Ovamboland 

by bicycle across to Angola in the early 1950s~ then on through Rhodesia 

to the Johannesburg mines and finally to Cape Town during the founding 

days of QPO. He had tried to escape from South West Africa through 

Botswana in 1963, was kidnapped by South African police, but was 

eventually released to the Botswana authorities. He ended up in Kinshasa 

with a number of SWAPO members to pave the way for training at the 

UPA military camp at Kinkuzu in the Congo. I talked with one of his 

discouraged comrades who had been at Kinkuzu for nine months. All the


trainees wanted to move on to Da. es Salaam. They had no money, could 

not speak French, and felt isolated. 

During these six years, exiled leaders worked constantly either to 

establish a united front of various nationalist organizations or to ensure the 

preeminence of one group over another. But no political party was pre- 

pared to dissolve. As in other countries, the existence of separate and 

competing movements was a continuing problem for the ACOA and other 

supporters. Whom should they primarily relate to? Which movement was 

most effective? It wasn't always easy to tell. We maintained neutrality by 

responding to legitimate requests from any group as best we could, and we 

also helped individuals. 

Frequentty it was Wcdt to differentiate between personal and organi- 

zational appeals. The Rev. Markus Kwper was a case in point. He had 

suffered physical abuse from the South African government when he 

opposed South Africa's conwl. He was removed from his congregation 

and with all his family was cast into an isolated desert place miles from his 

home area. We sent funds through Chief Kutako to help sustain him until 

he escaped. He came to New York and spent 16 years at odd jobs and as a 

perpetual petitioner at the UN. Not until the mid-1970s was he able to 

return home. 

Jacob Kuhangua sufiered a severe personal tragedy. He was a vibrant 

person, committed to SWAPO and ambitious to lead. I was shocked to 

learn that in Dar es Salaam he had been stabbed in a fit of anger by his 

SWAPO roommate the last day of 1965. His spine was severed, so that he 

was paralyzed from the waist down. His leadership in SWAPO was over. 

Although painfully confined to a wheelchair in New York, he earned a 

degree from Long Island University. He finally returned home in the late 

1970s but needed constant hospital care. 

A CHANGE OF STRATEGY 

Changed circumstances in Africa influenced new strategies in the South 

West African independence struggle in the mid-I-. Most important 

was the realization that neither the ICJ nor the United Nations could effect 

fundamental change. Events inside the country would determine the 

future. 

Of spccial importance to SWAPO was the opening up of a military base 

in the Congo by the UPA. In 1962 Kuhangua had, on behalf of SWAPO, 

signed aa agreement with Holden Roberto calling for military collabora- 

tion. This action signaled their rather idealistic desire "to form a federa- 

tion of the independent states of Angola, Bechuanaland [Botswana] and 

South %st Africa, governed by a central government which would e m- 

tually become pan of the federal states of Africa." That same year at a . 

unpublicized conference in Mbeya, Tanzania, SWAPO had decided to 

form a liberation army and to prepare its people for armed struggle. When


I visited the Kinkuzu base in June 1963, Sam Nujoma was one of the 

liberation leaders there. 

The development in 1963 of the Caprivi African National Union 

(CANU) was important to SWAPO. The Caprivi Strip* is a panhandle 

abut 80 miles wide by 300 miles long running east of Namibia to Zambia 

between Botswana on the south and Angola in the north. Heavy forests 

and many rivers, particularly in the eastern part, make it good guerrilla 

country. CANU merged with SWMO in I 94, making Caprivi an enter- 

ing wedge into South k t Africa. 

SWAPO had been quietly moving young men out of the country for 

some time. SmalI groups of two to five made their way to SWAPO 

headquarters in Francistown, Botswana, and then to Tanzania for orienta- 

tion before being sent elsewhere for study or training. The South Afrian 

government was aware of SWAPO's preparations. The venerable SWAPO 

leader Herman Toivo Ja-Toiw (he later dropped "Herman" for "And- 

imba"), imprisoned for 18 years, whom I met at the UN, told me that 

supposedly trusted SWAPO comrades gave away the position of a SWAPO 

training camp in the bush and the method of supplying it. Thus South 

African authorities knew when the first SWAPO militants infiltrated back 

into their country in September 1965. 

The armed struggle actually began August 26, 1966, hardly a month 

after the ICJ's nondecision, when the South African police attacked the 

SWAPO camp Taken by surprise, at least two SWNO soldiers were killed 

and eight captured, along with a quantity of arms. 

The codct continued on a low Iwel, which, nevertheless, South Africa 

had to take seriously. It more than doubled the police force in South West 

Afiica. The press reported increasingly frequent incidents: an attack on a 

Banru adminitration office and residence in Oshikango in September 

1966, an attack on two tribal headmen in the pay of South Africa in 

November, a skirmish with 10 guerrillas who escaped to the Caprivi Strip 

in March 1967, the death of the SWAPO leader Tobias Heinieko at a 

crossing of the Zambezi River in May. 

The Caprivi Strip became the focus for armed clashes. The South 

African journalist A. J. Venter reported, "African terrorists based in Zam- 

bia have invaded the South African-controlled Caprivi Strlp . . . They 

attacked a post near South Africa's big airforce base at Katima Mulilo. 

Another attack was made near the South Africa administrative center of 

Ruatu some miles to the west."' The London Times (May 25, 1971) 

*Tbc Germans had gained cwml of the Caprivi Strip, mcd after the Guman impd chaador, Count Leo de Caprivi, in 1893 to have mess to the Zambd River, rha 

wnsidaed potc~tidy navigable. They also hod to Link South Wst Africa to their colony 

of T-yikn and thus have a corridor acms Africa, an ambition fnutrartd by CEdl 

Rbodcs5 northward thrust. Rhmkiaw occupied the strip until 1914, . . 

when the British took 

over rvlmlnlmPtirm of SO* PRa Aftica until South Afrim obtaintd thc of N* 

mnnctaa.


reported two South African policemen killed and seven injured when a 

Land Rover struck a powerful land mine in the Caprivi. 

In response to this violence, South Africa's forces in Namibia were 

expanded to 40,000 by 1970. SWAPO alleged that the South African police 

and army waged a campaign of retaliation against villagen. Water re- 

sources were poisoned in villages suspected of aiding guerrillas, and forests 

were burned in order to facilitate spotting SWAPO militants. The refugee 

problem in adjacent countries, espedally Zambia, grew rapidly It was 

reported that t,m had crossed into Zambia and Borswana during one 

threeday period in 1968. Two camps were organized in Zambia to help 

deal with the Mu. 

South Africa regarded the Namibian resistance as just part of a wider 

Communist conspiracy and took suingent legal measures to try to stamp it 

out. A rash of arrests were made. They were brought dwr to me when 

Hidipo Harnutenya, now a major SWAPO leader, who was then a student 

at Lincoln University, wrote me that his father along with many others, 

was being held in prison in Pretoria under terrible conditions. 

The most renowned person arrested was Toivo Ja-Toivo. He had not, at 

first, favored the use of violence. Nevertheless, as SWAPO representative 

in Ovamboland, he had felt it his duty to assist the SWAPO militants in 

the bush. His own livelihood came from a small store he operated out of 

his house. His part in the struggle was betrayed by his supposed comrades. 

Only after these multiple arrests did the South African Parliament enact 

laws to legitimize what had been done. In June 1967 it passed the Ter- 

rorism Act as an amendment to the Suppression of Communism Act and 

made it retroactive to 1962. It was made applicable to South West Africa. 

"Terrorism" was defined as an act committed anywhere with the intent to 

endanger law and order in South Africa or South West Africa. The accused 

could be arrested without warrant and held in solitary confinement indefi- 

nitely for interrogation without access to lawyers or family. A uial under 

this act was by judge alone, without a jury, and the accused had the onus of 

proving innocence beyond a reasonable doubt. Penaltics ranged from five 

years imprisonment to execution. Thirty-seven black South Wst Africans 

were arrested and held in solitary codhement for at least 200 days waiting 

for the Terrorism Act to be passed so that they could be formally charged. 

I shuddered to hear how the prisoners were tortured while supposedly 

being interrogated. The gruesome de-lectric shock treatment, hang- 

ing by the arms with only the toes touching the floor, beatin- 

described by one of the accused, John Ya-Orto, a school ttacher and 

secretary of SWAPO in his Ba#lejimc Namibia (1982). One prisoner died. 

The episode became real to us at the ACOA when Joel Carlson, lawyer 

for the accused, arrived in New York. One of the few South African 

lawyers who was prepared to defend opponents of the government, he 

suffered the consequences, as he described in his book No Neunal Ground 

(1973). The threats against his family, the anonymous calls, the bullets 

fired into his office, and the bomb threats finally made him decide to leave 

South Africa. In 1967, however, his task was to save the lives of the 37


accused. He decided, after talking with them, that it was essential to 

sensitize the international community to what South Africa was doing in 

South West Africa. 

In New York Carlson worked Like a man tormented. He was greatly 

helped by Jennifer Davis, who was doing research at the ACOA; Mike 

Davis, formerly a lawyer in South Africa; and the attorney Peter Weiss, 

then president of the ACOA. In two frantic weeks of meetings in NEW 

York and Washington with organizations and Muential Americans, both 

in and out of govement, Carlson was responsible for activating many 

people to help save the accused from the death penalty. He also went to 

London and Geneva. The UN adopted a resolution (with only South 

Africa and Pormgal opposed) demanding that South Africa call off the 

trial. 

After this international exposure, some of the worst abuses surrounding 

the trial ended. Police dogs at the entrance to the court house in Pretoria 

disappeared. Disthgukhed international observers were on hand, such as 

Richard Falk, a Princeton professor representing the International Com- 

mission of Jurists, and Arthur Larsen from the World Lutheran Federa- 

tion. 

On January 26,1968,19 of the accused were given life imprisonment, 9 

(including Toivo) received 20-year sentences, and t had 5-year terms. 

Others received suspended 5-year sentences. Only t were acquitted. 

A LONG-TERM CONFRONTATION 

The struggle for Namibia's independence has proceeded on two levelsoutside 

the country and inside. External action has quickened in response 

to urgent internal developments. The beginning of the armed struggle and 

the terrorism trial sparked the UN Security Council in March 1969 to 

endorse the Assembly's resolution ending South Africa's mandate and 

calling for its immediate withdrawal. In June 1971 in reconsidering its 

case, the ICJ finally declared South Africa's occupation of Namibia illegal. 

The international community was unwilling, hoyer* to back up these 

decisions with power. 

The two significant nationalist movements operating outside the corntry 

were SWAPO and SWANU. Along with practically every other African 

natio&t movement, SWAPO is nonnibalist in principle. Still, it has 

been strengthened by a h traditional base among the Ovambos, who are 

almost half the population. SWAPO has had surprisingly stable leadership, 

given the strains of exile politics. Sam Nujoma has been president from 

the beginning. Few major leaders have left. Those who have (such as 

Mburumba Kerina and Shipanga) have not been able to organize successful 

competing movements or cause a schism. 

SWAPO's political program is straightforward: "to establish a free 

democratic government in Namibia founded upon the will and participation 

of all the people of our country." It accepts both public and privately

Ears of Tunnoil 

owned industry. Forced contract labor will be abolished, and the land of 

absentee owners will be con6scated. Until the mid-1970s SWAPO followed 

a neutralist policy internationally. It was one of the few liberation groups 

that occasionally consulted with U.S. embassies in Dar es Salaam or 

Lusaka. Although aligned with other groups then acceptable to the Soviet 

Union, it also worked with Holden Roberto's FNLA and Jonas Savimbi's 

UNITA, a position that later changed. 

In the fall of 1971, SWAPO had five key leaders at the UN for almost 

three months. Nujoma set a precedent by being the first representative of 

an African liberation movement to be heard by the Security Council. In 

1972 SWAPO sponsored a full-time representative at the UN, Theo Ben- 

Gurirab. By then SWAPO was in a strong enough position to organize an 

international conference on Namibia in Brussels. I was among the more 

than 400 attendees and reported to the ACOA: "It is very doubtful that any 

other Namibian organization could have successfully put together such a 

conference. Therefore it helped to establish SWAPO as the one Namibian 

nationalist organbation with sigdicant international following." It was 

the only such movement recognhd by the OAU. 

SWANU never achieved the standing of SWAPO. Its dominant figure at 

the outset was Jariretundu Kozanguizi, whom I met in New York in 1959. 

He always spoke his mind in our long conversations, yet he had a puzzling 

naivetb. For example, on a mp to China in I*, he gave an address over 

Peking radio (August 19, 1960, monitored in Wbslhgton) that was not 

designed to win official Amerim favor. "The sooner I am back [in Africa] 

the better for all of us who are urging the struggle against the common 

enemy-World Tmperialicm headed by the United States of America." 

He was interviewed by Hsinhua, the Chinese news agency, and quoted as 

saying that "U.S. and British i m m and the colonialism of the Union 

of South Africa which they supported were the main enemies of the 

current national independence movement in South Vkst Africa." He 

d e d feathers at the UN by saying that "the UN seems to be a tool of the 

U.S. and the other Western big powers."

The Struggle fw Namibia 253 

I wasn't personally upset by Komnguizi's speech. I figured he was 

responding to the atmosphere in China, but for one who was planning to 

be back in New York at the UN, his language was unrestrained and 

undiplomatic. When some mctions to his remarks reached him, he mte me (October 6, !g60), "I see that there seems to be some panic over there 

over statements I am alleged to have made in Peking. . . . could you please 

write to me about the general atmosphere there and if possible send me the 

circulated statements?" He asked me to give him "a hand in arranging 

some forum or avenue through which I can put f o d my case. . . . I 

don't intend to be apologetic at all but I shall have to put facts straight." 

Whatever else he accomplished, Kozonguizi was not providing 

SWANU with stable leademhip In 1966 he resigned as president and in 

1g6g as a member when a SWANU publication (Windhoek Reoiew) asked 

in a headline, "Kozonguizi a South Africa Spy?" I discounted this charge, 

for my own experiences with him belied his playing a double role. Yet this 

sort of thing sapped the strength of SWANU. He dropped out of politics 

while finishing his law srudies in London. In 1971 when he announced he 

would again become politically active, he had no base. He developed a 

good relationship with SWAPO, however, and told me in London that 

SWAPO was the only external movement with any credibility. Yet he never 

joined. 

Many of us who supported Narm'b'i independence began to concentrate 

our efforts in another area-the exploitation of Namibia's natural 

resources by foreign corporations. The country is potentially one of the 

richest in Africa with great mineral reserves, lucrative fishing resources, 

and a promising agricultural potential. 

Foreign corporations controUed most of these ~e~)urdarnonds 

through the South Africandominated Consolidated Diamond Mines; uranium 

through the British Rio Tinto Zinc; copper, lead, and zinc at 

Tsumeb Mines, through the American corporadons of Newmont Mining 

and American Metal Climax. Both in the United States and Britain, the 

ACOA and other private organbations called for corporations to sever their 

relations with Namibia if it meant working through South Africa. 

The UN Council for Namibia took its own action. Realizing that 

Namibia's supply of minerals was not inexhaustible, the council adopted 

Decree No. I as a protective measure. The initiative came from Scsn 

MacBride, appointed UN commissioner for Namibia in 1974, who instituted 

a whole set of measures to curb South Africa and activate the UN. 

The decree disallowed the exploration for, or exportation of, auy resource 

from Namibia without the permission of the council. Any ship or other 

conveyance carrying such resource was subject to seizure, and any entity 

or corporation conmdg the decree could be liable for damages by a 

future independent Namibia. The problem, of course, was implementation. 

No country was immediately prepared to seize such a ship. 

In keeping with the concern about investments, the Richard Nixon 

administration took limited action. Charles W. Yost, ambassador to the 

UN, announced (May 20, 1970) that henceforth the United States would

actively discourage American investment in Namibia as long as South 

Africa continued its rule in de6ance of the UN. The Export-Import Bank 

would no longer provide credit guarantees for trade with South Africa. At 

this time U.S. economic relations with Namibia amounted to about $11 

million in investments and about $45 million chiefiy in mineral exploration 

ventures. 

South Africa tried to ignore all outside efforts to curb its control of 

Namibia. Defying the decision of the ICJ, Prime Minister Vorster announced 

that South Africa would not only continue its administration but 

implement its policy of "selfdetermhation for all population groups," its 

apartheid ~anmstan program. 

At a special session in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, in early 1972, the UN 

Security Council instructed Smtary General Kurt Waldheim to work 

with all parties involved to enable the people of Namibia to move on to 

independence. His subsequent three-day visit to South Africa and 

Namibia did not lead to anything substantial. 

In the meantime, quite unexpectedly, contract workers in Namibia 

went on strike. There had been strikes before, but they had been shon and 

local. Namibian sympaihizers assumed this new strike would fit the same 

pattern, but it was different. The strike spread rapidly. Almost 6,000 

struck in Wmdhoek, including garbage collectors, porters, and hotel and 

airport workers. Nearly 2,m contract laborers in Walvis Bay joined in. 

About 4,- employees in the Tsumeb Mine stopped working. Other 

mine workers in Namibia joined the action; the number rose to 25,000 in 

some 20 centers. 

To some extent the suike was spontaneous, but a great deal of planning 

and hard work went into it as well. Job Otto said in Battfefiun~ Namibia 

that SWAP0 had spent nine months organizing the effort. The strike was 

essentially a protest by Ovambo workers against the contract labor system. 

It may have been triggered by the remark of Jannie de Wet, native 

commissioner for Ovomboland, that "the Ovambos are quite happy with 

the contract labor sy~tem."~ This angered the workers, who participated 

in contract labor not from choice but for lack of an alternative. 

South Africa tried to break the strike. Suspected leaders were arrested. 

Strike breakers were brought in, and strikers were threatened with being 

returned to Ovamboland. This policy had the unintentional result of 

causing thousands of contract workers to rerurn north voluntarily, and 

Ovamboland became a tense area. Protest meetings were forbidden by the 

Bantustan legislative council. Colin Winter, the Anglican bishop of 

Namibia, after a visit to Ovamboland, said the area "looked like occupied 

territory, . . . it was obvious that the stdke was to be broken at all costs by 

smashing down resistance of the people."3 Atrocities were committed by 

the young South African recruits suddenly placed in the charged atmosphere 

of Ovamboland. On "Bloody Sunday," January 30, as people 

were leaving an Anglican church in Epinga, they were artadd by an 

armed pawl of South African-recruits. Six parishioners were killed and

The Snuggle for Namibia 

others wounded. For his report on this tragedy, Wmter was forbidden to 

enter Ovmhland again and a year later was deported from Namibia. 

The ACOA held an open-air press conference outside the headquarters 

of the Newmont Mining Corporation in New York, calling for an end to 

cooperation with South Africa's illegal administration of Namibia. I recall 

the dramatic gesture of Joel Carlson, who said, "I take off my hat to the 

striking workers of Namibia," as he stood bareheaded in a chilling Febru- 

ary wind. 

In spite of international protests and resistance inside the country, 

South Africa continued to apply its Bantustan policy of separate develop 

ment to Nariia. A "two-track" policy was put into effkct, one interna- 

tional and the other internal. On the one hand, South Africa did not reject 

meetings with the UN secretary general or his special representative. Pro 

forma discussions took place from time to the. On the other hand, no 

change in domestic in policy resulted. In 1972 South Africa declared 

Ovamboland a self-governing region. Elections were announced for Au- 

gust 193. SWAP0 called for a boycott, which was overwhtlmingly suc- 

cessful. Only 2.5 percent of eligible voters cast ballots, thus clearly label- 

ing the elections a f m. 

After the coup in Portugal in 1974, the protection that South Africa had 

always had from the Salazar-Caetano government was in jeopardy at the 

Angola-Namibia border. This danger increased South Africa's determjna- 

tion to apply apartheid in Namibia. Plans were laid for establishing a 

coalition gwemment under white domination with Africans participating 

only as representatives of ethnically separated "nations." For African 

natio&ts, however, the Portuguese coup was a sign of hope. Angolan 

independence would signal new opportunities to change Namibia's depen- 

dence on South Africa.

South Africa: 

"No Easy Walk to Freedom" 

he 14 years from the Shpeville Massacre to the 1974 coup in 

T Portugal were diflicult ones for Africans and their sympathizers in 

South Africa. Nelson Maudela, volunteer-in-chief of the Dhce Campaign, 

prophetically forecast the tribulations to come in a speech for the 

ANC right after the campaign. &You can see that there is no easy walk to 

freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of 

the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountain tops of 

our desires." The language sounds surprisingly like that of Martin Luther 

King. 

I probably felt closer to South Africa than to any other area of Africa 

pady because my long concern with U.S. racism was quite transferable to 

South Africa and partly because my own country has been more economically 

and strategically involved there than in any other pan of the continent. 

Moreover, the struggle in South Africa is certainly the most enduring 

problem on the continent and the most threatening to world peace. 

After the Sharpeville Massacre, those who wanted basic change had to 

adopt a new realism. The idealistic hope that the white minority government 

would disintegrate had to be discarded. The apartheid state did not 

wither away but gained in strength. It overwhelmed its opposition and 

banned the organizations and individuals dedicated to its overthrow. The 

opposition adjusted itseL€ to a protracted struggle, and with leaders outlawed, 

the liberation movements had no concrete successes. 

LIBERATION MOVEMENTS IN EXILE 

A long period of underground and exile politics began for both the ANC 

and rhe PAC. Oliver Tambo was sent abroad to head the external organization 

of the ANC. Peter Molotsi aad Nana Mahomo did the same for the 

PAC. Robert Sobukwe, head of the PAC, was in prison after SharpeviUe, 

as was Potlako Leballo, who was later the contro~ external chief of 

the PAC. But the person who attracted the most attention and indeed 

became almost a legendary figure was Nelson Mandela. 

MANDELA AND OTHER ANC LEADERS 

Mandela was under ban or in prison during virtually all the years I 

traversed Africa, so I never met him. He came from the Transkei and was

South Aftica: "No Em Walk to Freedom" 257 

the eldest son of a Tabu chid At Fort Hare University CoIlege he met 

Oliver Tambo in the midst of a student strike, Later, in Johannesburg, he 

met Wter Sisulu, who urged him to study law. Mandela got his B.A. 

degree by correspondence and his law degree from the University of 

Witwatersrand. He, Sisulu, and Tambo were founders of the Youth 

hgue of the ANC in 1944. 

After Sharpeville and the Treason Trial, where he was one of the 

a d , 

Mandela played a leading part in the banned ANC. He went 

underground after organking a less-than-successful three-day "stay-at- 

home" strike. He moved around skillfully under cover, often in disguise, 

issued press statements from telephone booths, and even appeared on a 

BBC television interview from a secret rendezvous. He helped organize the 

military wing of the ANC, Umkonto we Sizwe ("Spear of the Nation"), 

geared to sabotage as a resistance tactic. "Sabotage did not involve loss of 

life and it offered the best hope for future race relations," he later ex- 

plained. For several months Mandela traveled outside South Africa visit- 

ing African heads of state. His exploits during this period added to his 

mystique and won him the nickname "the Black Pimpernel." 

Shortly after his return he was betrayed and arrested, August 5, 1962, 

while masquerading as a chauffeur. He was sentenced to five years in 

prison. Tambo cabled me (August ro,1962), UArrest of Nelson Mandela 

powerful underground leader in South Africa has increased our traveling 

and related expenses beyond our means." He asked for the ACOA's 

assistance. 

Sisuiu as arrested early the next year and convicted on the charge of 

furthering the aims of the banned ANC. He received a six-year sentence. 

While this decision was being appealed and he was out on bail, he went 

underground. 

Although more than 3,300 people were detained in 1963, major interna- 

tional attention was riveted on the Rivonia case. In July the police raided 

the underground headquarters of Umkonto we Sizwe at a farm in Rivonia 

outside Johannesburg and arrested Sisulu and other leaders. They dis- 

covered 250 documents, many on how to manufacture explosives. Six of 

the accused were African, including Mandela, who was recalled from 

prison to stand uial again, rwo were white, and one was Indian. They were 

accused of planning 192 specific acts of sabotage, such as derailing trains, 

bombii government offices, and setting fire to schools. Eight of the 

accused were given life imprisonment instead of a death sentence. 

THE PAC IN EXILE 

The PAC had a mcult rime pulling itself together right after Sharpeville. 

It suffered from the fact &at two of its top leaders were imprisoned, while 

others were sent abroad. LebaIlo was released after serving a two-year 

sentence and set up headquarters in Maseru, capital of Basutoland (now 

Lesotho). Sobukwe completed his three-year term but was kept in prison 

indefmitely under a specially enacted "Sobukwe ciause" of the General

Laws Amendment Act. He was held at Robben Island until 1969, when he 

released and then put under ban. He was never again in a position to exert 

political leadership He died in 1978. 

Outside South Africa in 1960 the PAC and the ANC established a short- 

lived united front. The leaders worked in teams of two, one from each 

group But before they could arrange for travel to the United States or for a 

conference on South Africa, the front collapsed. A letter from Wumzi 

Make of the PAC informed me of its demise. "I feel there is no cause for 

alarm or disappointment. I have no doubt that it served its purpose and 

whatever the future holds, we will be able to learn a lot from the mistakes 

which led to its dissolution. The struggle in South Africa is such that the 

need for another grouping will make itself felt sooner rather than latet"' 

But no ANC-PAC front was to be tried again. Mutual bad feeling 

persisted. At the first OAU conference in Addis Ababa, I talked with 

exiled leaders of both groups. Mahomo, Molotsi, and Make belittled the 

ANC by saying that it had a small following inside South Africa and was 

mostly making a lot of noise outside. Joe Matthews, however, who was also 

there, said, "Time will tell which movement is the stronger. Where is the 

PAC? They make claims, but they don't produce anything." 

The underground PAC, like the ANC, gave up an allegiauce to non- 

violence. Going even f!urther, it rejected sabotage as ineffective and perpe- 

trated sporadic and not too well planned acts of violence in the western 

Cape. In November 1962 PAC elements attacked a police station in h l , 

in which two whites and five Africans were killed. Leballo, in Maseru, 

announced plans for widespread action. A new underground guerrilla 

group ded Poqo became tenuously identified with the PAC. Basuto 

police, under pressure from South Africa, raided PAC headquarters in 

Maseru and confiscated thousands of documents and a mailing a d d d 

to PAC and Poqo sympathizers. This action led to a mass arrest of the 

addressees. Parliament passed the General Laws Amendment Act of 1963, 

permitting the state to hold any person in solitary confinement for go days 

without charge. 

After the raids at Rivonia and Maseru, effective underground activity 

by the movements inside South Africa was greatly currailed. Stability was 

dihlicult to maintain. It was impossible to hold annual conferences. The 

external leadership, frustrated by lack of contact with its internal constitu- 

ency, tumed to infighting. The ANC generally kept its internal differences 

quiet, but PAC problems received considerable public attention. Some- 

times rifts went so far that some leaders refused to work with one another 

and weo expelled one another at separate meetings. 

I wimessed some of these djfliculties in 1964. Leballo expeUed both 

Mahomo in London and Molotsi in Dar es Salaam from the organization. 

This affected loyalties of others. In Leopoldville five PAC men Lived in one 

house, three in the Mahomo faction and two in the Leballo faction, all 

scrounging for sustenance. Both factions appealed to me for aid. One man 

told me privately that any aid to him should not go through the leader of 

the Leballo faction, for if it did, he would never receive it. In London

South Afrka: "No Easy Walk to Freedinn" 259 

Mahomo told me that he would never work with Leballo again huse 

Leballo was only after power. 

My old friend Patrick Duncan, the first white member of the PAC, who 

was working under Leballo attached to the Algiers office of the PAC, wrote 

me that Mabomo and Molotsi were in the United States to raise funds 

ostensibly for the PAC, but in fact they had been removed from their PAC 

offices. Leballo added a handwritten postscript: "They do not represent 

the Pan Africanist Congress of South Africa, having been divested of all 

authority in the movement. They represent nobody but themsel~es."~ 

I found Duncan's new position puzzling. In the PAC he certainly would 

have to sacrifice some of his characteristic independence. I knew he 

gradually developed Bis PAC orientation out of sympathy for the PACsponsored 

anti-pass demo~lstrations that precipitated the Sharpdie massacre. 

Further, as a principled anti-Communist, he was critid of the ANC 

because its leaders included former members of the banned Communist 

Party of South Africa. But the PAC itself developed strong ties witb China. 

A picture of Mao Zedong was prominent in its Dar es Salaam office. Its 

hniu Nms was clearly China oriented. It claimed that the Chinese did 

not interfere with inner PAC workings but that the Soviets did in the 

ANC. 

I was personally fond of Pat Duncan. We had gone together to the 

memorable march on Washington in the summer of 1963. He was not well, 

and he died in London in 1967. I have always been grateful rhat I was able 

to attend bis memorial service July 9. A large number of exiled South 

Africans in Londo11-induding whites and blacks, liberals, Marxists, and 

ANC and PAC membwere present in an act of solidarity. Duncan was 

honored for his convictions and courage, even by those who disagreed with 

Bim. 

The PAC leadership felt that the ACOA and I were oriented more 

toward the ANC than to the PAC. We did tilt that way, although we tried to 

be neutral. The open multiracia4ism of the ANC; our long relationship; 

our afbnative response to the Freedom Charter; my personal relationship 

with Oliver Tambo, Z.K. Matthews, and others were all contributing 

factors. Besides, the internal dBculties in the PAC and the erratic leadership 

of LRballo made it almost impossible to back it wholtheartedly. 

THE ANC IN EXILE 

The ANC, like the PAC, had difficulties in exile, but it was a much more 

disciplined organization. Internal differences were dealt with primarily 

with its own councils. Unlike the PAC, there was very little open 

controversy. Of cowse, rumors circulated. One was that Oliver Tambo, 

although w ted as a nationalist without foreign all&ce, was not 

redly in charge in spite of his title of acting president. I never questioned 

his leadership in the ANC. I saw him enough times under various circum- 

stances to feel that he was no one's captive. I viewed him as a consenslls

leader respected by all and better able than others to keep antagonists from 

splitting apart. 

In 1967 I visited Tamb at ANC headquarters in Morogoro, Tanzania, a 

town about 120 miles by road west of Dar es Salaam in picturesque low 

mountains, where the cooler, drier climate was a relief to his asthma. 

While he and I talked, other top leaders, such as Moses Kotane and J.B. 

Marks, both former members of the South African Communist party, were 

in and out, deferentially following his firm yet gentle orders. Tambo and I 

discussed ANC strategy, which was geared to the overthrow of the South 

African government. Although he gave no hint of it, this was only a few 

months before the joint ANC-ZAPU Witnkie expedition into Rhodesia, 

which must have been on his mind. Only in retrospect could I see what he 

meant when he said he was spending most of his time supervising the 

training program. 

In 1973 I spent considerable time with Tambo in Lusaka, where the 

main ANC office was then. Again I saw him in the company of other senior 

leaders, such as Duma Nokwe and Tom Nkobi. It was clear to me that 

Tmbo was in command. He did not act as if someone was looking over his 

shoulder. 

During these years, it was impossible to know what was happening 

undergmund inside South Africa. Developments outside were easier to 

follow. In Dar es Salaam, a center for the southern African liberation 

movements prior to Zambia independence, the ANC had a very active 

office. They were obviously getting more assistance than most of the 

movements because they had a few cars at their disposal. Also political 

refugees were coming through Dar enroute for study or military training, 

frequently in eastern Europe. On a visit to Dar in 1964 I went with an 

ANC representative to a house where 20 or so of these young men were 

temporarily staying. In a spirited discussion with them they took the 

offensive, reflecting a strong anti-American bias, not knowing much about 

me. Could I prow that I wasn't a U.S. government agent? Did I realize 

that the United States, by backing the Henrik Verwoerd government, was 

in a war against all of Africa? The most I could convey was that not all 

Ameriwns agreed with their government's policy. 

During this period, Chief Lutuli was killed in July 1967 when a train 

struck him near his house in Groutvjlle, Natal. Shortly thereafter, Dr. 

W.Z. Conco, a stalwart of the ANC, wrote me (July 1967)~ "The violent 

death of Chief Lutuli was the most shocking news of the year. The 

majoriry of Africans, . . . regarded Lutuli as the unbending, unyielding, 

staunch personification of a me leader of their struggle." Lutuli's funeral 

was an occasion for long-suppressed emotions agaiust the government to 

come into the open. Thousands displayed ANC flags and sang freedom 

songs; some took the microphone to deliver political attacks. 

Operating externally, the ANC took on some projects for public relations. 

One was the esmbbent of the Lutuli Memorial Foundation, 

which had plaus for a tombstone, education and scholarship programs, a 

counseling service, a research program, and self-help projects. I thought it

South Aftica: "No Easy Walk to Freedmn" 261 

was too ambitious and that the technical business of operating a foundation 

r m d y was not the role of a liberation movement. Happily the 

foundation did erect a tombstone, placed in July 1972 at a celebration 

attended by 3,000 people. 

Z.K. AND JOE MATTHEWS 

My old friend Z.K. Matthews died in Washington in 1968. He had 

resigned his teaching post at Fort Hare when the government took mnml 

of the University Coilege. He had written me (November 30,1959), 4 feel 

that I cannot subscribe to the principles and the basis on which the college 

will be run in the future." It was a courageous act, for he was jobless, and 

he lost his pension. He opened a law office in Alice, then worked for the 

Brld Council of Churches in Geneva, and finally became the h t ambas- 

sador to the United States and the UN for Botswana, his ancestral home. 

Joe Matthews came to the United States for the funeral. Afterward he 

wrote to me from London (July 12, 1968). "My motbu has been par- 

ticularly comforted by the absolutely overwhelmingly kind things that 

have been said and done since the old man passed away. . . . I will never 

forget the gesture of the President of the U.S. Uohnson] in making a plane 

available to take the body and the family home." 

Joe Matthcws was a fascinating conversationalist with a stimulating 

breadth of ideas. I felt a special association with him, gmwing out of our 

experience of being interrogated by the police in Port Elizabeth in 1954. 

When I passed through London in 1967, we must have talked for five 

horn about South Africa. He discussed the necessity of a two-nack policy 

(my term, not his) for the ANC. In addition to a campaign of sabotage and 

pnyamtion for an armed struggle, he said the ANC needed to nurture 

projects for community self-development inside South Africa. He was 

concerned that the ANC in exile was losing contact with the people. Most 

of them were not prepared to take up arms and be slaughtered, but they 

could participate in projects for self-betterment. He asked me to send him 

material on some of the projects sponsored by the Urban League in U.S. 

black communities. He told me that the ANC was not reedy to adopt this 

policy yet, but he wanted to work on it. He feared that the ANC would 

lose its leaddp position and that a political vacuum would form. 

BLACK CONSCIOUSNESS 

The absence of above-ground liberation organizations in South Africa did 

creatc a vacuum. Under these circumstances in the late 1g6m the black 

consciousness movement arose, which at the beginning was a tendency, a 

mind-set among young Africans. fl, white liberals, who felt rejected by it, 

it smacked of black racism, as Africans emphasized that they must go it 

alone. 

The movement arose in the liberal, multiracial student organhition,

Yems of Turmoil 

the National Union of South African Students (NUSAS). After the ban- 

ning of the ANC and the PAC, African students, who had no political 

party available, turned toward NUSAS in larger numbers.* Student or- 

ganizations were not parties and membership was open to Africans. This 

had the effect of making NUSAS a more militant o otion, but its 

leadership was essentially white. Functioning in a deeply segregated sct 

ciety, the organization had to make compromises. For example, at a 1967 

conference at Rhoda University, NUSAS had to accept segregated hous- 

ing. This compromise helped to trigger a separatist move among African 

students. 

The person who gave voice and inspiration to this new mood was Stwe 

Biko, a most extraordinary young man. He came on the scene quite 

suddenly when elected president of the all-black South African Students' 

Organization (SASO), which split off from NUSAS in 1968. Its philow- 

phy was black consciousness, and Biko was its most eloquent spokesman. 

Although I never met him, I was impressed by the clarity of his writing 

and what I learned about his spirit and leadership 

Biko, born in 1946, came from King William's Town in the Cape. He 

attended a Catholic secondary school in Natal and then the University of 

Natal Medical School, where he was elected to the Students' Representa- 

tive Council. This opened the way for wider involvement in NUSAS. In 

this environment his ideas of black consciousness took shape. "The phi- 

losophy of Black Consciousness . . . expresses group pride and the deter- 

mination by the Blacks to rise and attain the envisaged self."3 

That Biko was no black racist is evident from the glowing accounts 

given by South African whites who became his friends. Donald Woods, a 

newspaper editor in East London, called Biko, 13 years his junior, "the 

greatest man I ever met. . . . He was simply not a hater of people, . . . [In 

spite of harassment and frustration by his bannings and detention,] he 

remained the most modest and most moderate and tolerant of men."4 

SASO became a new rallying point for African students. In 1972 they 

founded another oqgmhtion, the Black People's Convention (BPC), for 

the students needed a body through which to act after their student days 

were over. Through SASO and the BPC a whole new generation of black 

leadership was thrust up At first the government was tolerant of the black 

consciousness movement, mistakenly seeing it as not contradictory to 

apartheid. It did not immediately recognize the movement as a new 

expression of nationalism. Its perception changed as SASO and the BPC 

condemned the bantustans, engaged in actions opposing white domina- 

tion, and supported the Liberation struggle in other parts of Africa. In 

m1y 1973 the major leaders of the BPC, including Biko, were banned. 

The black consciousness movement had an impact on the South African 

liberation organizations in exiie. PAC leaders saw in it an extension of their 

own nationalist philosophy. ANC leaders looked on it with great interest 

*Em the Liberal Party dkdvcd in 1968 rathu rhan amanpw to ciuq on after the 

gowmmcnt forbade multiracial polirical parries.

South Africa: "No Easy Wk ia Freedom" 263 

and tried to follow it as closely as possible. Neither organization could 

claim credit for the rise of the movement. I know that after the formation 

of the BPC in 1972, black consciousness was a lively topic whenever I met 

South African political leaders in exile. 

I found my discussions with Alfred Kgokong interesting and provocative. 

For years, in Dares Salaam he edited the ANC newsletter Spotlight on 

South Africa. Until 1972 he always seemed like a loyal ANC leader, but 

obviously the frustrations were getting to him. He was living on $6 or $7 a 

month and hoping he could place articles in magazines for au honorarium. 

I uied unsuccessfully to place some in American publications, but they 

were not geared to American readers. 

One of Kgokong's articles argued that the movements in exile were of 

limited effect, cut off as they were from events inside the counuy. He 

implied criticism of the ANC by saying that external movements gave the 

impression that political activity inside South Africa could be guided from 

abroad. He was thoroughly in sympathy with the objective of the BPC "to 

liberare the black people from psychological and physiml oppression" and 

to unite and solidify the blacks. 

It was uuusual for an ANC leader to talk frankly about problems within 

the o ~ t i o n and , Kgokong did so very carefully. Yet it was clear that 

he was unhappy with decisions made at an ANC conference at Morogoro 

in 1969, notably that membership in the ANC should be opened to all 

three groups in the Congress Alliance-Indians, Coloureds, and whites-each 

of which had previously had a life of its own. Further, the National 

Executive Committee was reduced from 23 to lo, necasary, according to 

the conference report, create the . . . framework for a more vigorous 

prosecution of the armed struggle." Kgokong, however, was disturbed by 

the fact that this reorganization involved dropping such nationalists as 

himsdf, Tennyson Makiwane, and Robert Resha. He stated the same 

concerns voiced earlier by Joe Matthewwthe ANC needed to be related to 

the day-today problems inside the country and should not be building a 

strategy wholly around the armed struggle. Part of the appeal of the black 

consciousness movement was that it had developed community health and 

education projects in which the average black person could participate. 

RISKY CONTACTS 

The repressive atmosphere in South Africa was such that activists outside 

had to be very careful in communication with opponents of apartheid 

inside. The mo following experiences vividly illustrate this. 

One experience grew out of my long association with Arthur Blaxall. 

Religiously opposed to apartheid, he was inevitably in touch with anti- 

apartheid movements, although he was not a member of any. As the 

secretary of tbe South African Christian Council, he had frequently been 

asked to aid those accused of vialatirig apartheid laws or their families. He 

was among those arrested in 1963 for aiding unlawful organizations under

the Suppression of Communism Act. He was also charged with possession 

of unlawful literature, including a pamphlet I co-authored, The Soutir 

African Crisis and U.S. Policy. He wrote me a note the day after his arrest 

(April 18, 1963) saying, "I am profoundly sorry to tell you that your 

pamphlet has been taken away by the Special Branch of the police during a 

search of my house and office yesterday. . . . I do hope this stupidity on 

my part will not embarrass you." I could not figure out why he blamed 

himself for the police action. If anything, it was my stupidity in sending it 

to him that helped put him in the spot he was in. In his seventies, Blaxall 

was found guilty and sentenced to six months in prison. He served only 

one homile day, however, and then was released with six months on parole 

and 22 months suspended sentence. He described the whole shocking 

experience in his book Suspended Smmce (1965). 

Arthur and Florence Blaxall soon thereafter moved to London. When I 

saw him there in 1964 he told me tbat the whole experience with the police 

had shaken up Florence even more than him. He dida't want to talk in her 

presence about details on South Africa because it was too hard on her. His 

only "crime" had been to nansmit funds to opponents of apartheid for 

legal defense and welfare as a measure of reconciliation. The Last time I 

saw him he was 80. How ironic, I felt, that a maa of such good will should 

have been caught up by the police. 

My second experience of risky contacts grew out of my correspondence 

with John Clarke in 1965. An Australian who had emigrated to South 

Africa, he was a copywriter for an advertising h in Johannesburg. He 

got in touch with me through a mutual friend because he wanted to 

correspond with an American involved with Africa. Clarke apparently had 

a lot to get off his mind. He wrote eight- or nine-page letters, singlespaced, 

dealing usually with South African propaganda. He said that 

South Africa's milimy buildup was enhanced by the use of U.S. Piper Cub 

planes (not covered by the military embargo) and that South Africa's claim 

tbat the white man arrived before the Bantu was false. I found the letters 

interesting and often helpful. 

He exercised some caution. He asked that my letters to him not go on 

ACOA letterhead. He gave me an alternative address and usually wrote 

under the name of Slocombe. He had no pemnal contact with any of the 

"movement" people; he was just an individual who hated apanheid, was 

frustrated in his job, and probably found an ourlet through these letters. 

Our correspondence lasted less than a year. I wrote short notes of acknowledgment 

and carefully said a li& bit about the ACOA's work. When he 

W y asked why I didn't write longer replies, I said tbat I f e d he might 

get in some difficulty. His response was: "Don't mrry about me. The 

most rhe authorities can do to me is deport me to Australia." So I wrote a 

more substantive letter to him, asking if there was any way of getting 

information about the use of convict or forced labor on farms in South 

Africa. We wanted this information as a handle to prohibit U.S. import of 

some goods, which are excluded if produced by forced labor. 

After a long silence, a letter came from Australia (May 12, 1966). He

South Aftica: "No Easy Walk to Freedom" 265 

had indeed been deported. "Actually I am pretty sure that the Afrikaner 

nationalist director of the ad agency I was working for started going 

through my desk and then reported me to the security police. The poiice 

then began intercepting my mail." He was arrested on March 21, 1,966, 

and served with a deportadon order "for which no reason was 1pvu1. 

[They] parked me for two weeks in the central palim station cells in 

Johesburg, and then put me on a plane for Ausnalia." The press 

vUied him as "being one of South Africa's 'leading communists' and 

similar slanderous lies . . . anyway I tbink I'm well out of it. It really is a 

pleasure to breathe the air of a free and decent country again and to be 

away from the petty batreds and gross self interests of the South African 

scene." 

I felt terribly guilty about Clarke's deportation. It was good of him to 

write to me (April 6, 1966) that *no blame attaches to you for my 

deportation, so please don't worry about that side of it. . . . I am neither 

bitter nor angry about this, as that's the way the cookie crumbles, and one 

must accept these things." John and his wife, Lucille, later moved to the 

London area. We maintain our friendship by letters and visits.* Lucille 

died in 1987. 

BLACK POWER AND THE ACOA 

During the U.S. civil rights struggle in the xg60s, I had to face an inner 

conflict about my work. Again and again I was told that my task lay at 

home rather than in a struggle thousands of miles away, yet I felt that in a 

universal sense they were the same struggle. Although my schedule pre- 

cluded my participating in the many critical campaigns on the home front, 

somehow I never felt fully detached from the domestic struggle because I 

was involved in the international one. Further, through the work of the 

ACOA I was in clase touch with many figures in the civil rights movement. 

One such person was A. Philip Randolph, a union leader aad the orig- 

inator of the first march on Washington in the Rooswelt era, whom I had 

worked with since the mid-1940s. Because of both his reputation and his 

deep convictions, he was always a tower of strength. He became co- 

chairman of the ACOA with Donald Harrington in I@I. 

The ACOA was interracial. Our board happened to be almost equally 

divided between black and white. Hope Stevens, a lawyer and president of 

the Uptown Chamber of Commerce in Harlem, was vice president.f 

*He has writ- a couple of boDkS on South African propaganda undu the pca name of John 

Laurau*: i% Scrdr of Dimm (19681 and Race, Pkowgandn and Souihqfricrr (1979). 

mcmk includcd Jim Farmcr of CORE; Earrell Jones of thc State G o d o n 

Against Dkimimtion; David Joncs, dcputy commissioner in the Ncw York Dcpmmcnt of 

Correction; Percy Sunon, president of the New York NAACP; Robcrt Bmwne, aonomist at 

FakIeigh Dickinsan Univusitp; Bayard Rustin, orgmizcr of the 1963 march on Kkshingtoa; 

civil -IS lam Canrad Lynn, Robert Van Licrop, lawyer and 6lm nab.

266 Yems of Turmoil 

Martin Luther King, jr., was on our National Committee and co-chaired 

with Chief Lutuli the 1962 campaign '!An Appeal for Action Against 

Apartheid." He was the principal speaker at a Human Rights Day Rally 

that we sponsored December 10, 1965. In his address, one of the few he 

devoted to the South Afrimn situation, he blasted the U.S. policy of 

muted and peripheral denunciation of South African racial practices. We pat them 

on the wrist in permitting racially mixed receptions in our embassy but we give 

them massive support through American investments in motor and rubber indus- 

mes and by extending millions in loans through our most distinguished banks and 

financial insdtutions. 

He called for a massive international nonviolent boycott movement. "The 

time has come for an international alliance of peoples of all nations against , ,.. 

racism. " 

Believing that pressure from the black community could have great 

iduence on U.S. policy toward Africa, the ACOA proposed to leaders of 

civil rights groups that an organization be set up in which they could join 

forces to press the government on African issues. We called a meeting, at 

which I presented a plan for this coalition. The result was the formation of 

the American Negro Leadership Conference on Africa (ANLCA) in 

mid-1962. Theodore (Ted) Brown, long on the staff of the Brotherhood of 

Sleeping Car Porters, was hired as executive director. 

A prestigious body, the ANLCA had a "call committee" of the big six of 

the civil rights movement.* It held a number of influential conferences in 

the 1960s. Eventually 28 national organizations were sponsors, and many 

members of Congress were involved. It never lived up to its potenrial, 

however, because as an elite group, it was never able to establish an 

independent base in the black community. Thus it could not raise a budget 

for its own program but had to depend on its constiment groups, who were 

overwhelmed by their own programs. Gradually the effort died out. 

The U.S. counterpart to the black consciousness movement in South 

Africa was the black power movement. Several experiences dramatically 

brought it to my attention. One was at a symposium on southern Africa at 

Cornell in 1969. When the university president was explaining to an 

audience of 800 why Cornell had voted not to sell its stocks in banks 

loaning money to South Africa, two black students jumped onto the stage, 

collared him, and yanked him from the podium. The audience was 

stunned. The audacious students, who belonged to the Cornell Afro- 

American Society, were later disciplined by the university. 

On another occasion I saw black power manifested at the stormy 1969 

meeting of the African Studies Association (ASA) in Montreal. Thirty of 

the 55 seminars were canceled, as blacks, revolting against a seeming 

domination by white scholars, disrupted and stayed away from sessions. 

Roy Wilkins of the NAACP; Whimcy Young of the National Urban League; Martin Luther 

King, Jr; A. Philip Randolph; James h 

Council of Negro Women. 

e r of CORE; and Dorothy Height of the National

South Africa: "No Easy Walk to Freedom" 267 

Distinguished African visitors, such as Robert Gardiner, director of the 

UN Economic Commission for Africa, and Gabriel d'Arboussier, Sene- 

galese ambassador to the UN, supported the revolt. The result was re- 

forms in the ASA and the formation of a new group of black scholars, the 

African Heritage Studies Association. 

Within the ACOA, black power made itself felt. A strong nucleus of 

black staff and board members felt deep ties with the black consciousness 

movement. They must have discussed among themselves the desirability 

of black leadership in the ACOA. I myself thought it would have been a 

real advantage for the ACOA to have a black executive, and I seriously 

considered resigning. But I didn't, and the ACOA, unlike many groups 

affected by the black revolt, maintained itself as an interracial organiza- 

tion. 

Quite unconnected with the pressures of black power was the choice of 

William Booth, a lawyer and leader in the black community, a former New 

York City commissioner for human rights, and a district court judge, to 

succeed Peter Weiss as president of the ACOA in 1972. He was deeply 

affected by his attendance, on behalf of the Episcopal Church, at a trial of 

antiracist Anglican leaders in South Africa. His leadership of the ACOA 

was a source of great strength. 

REACTING TO U.S. POLICY ON SOUTH AFRICA 

In the period from Sharpeville to the coup in Portugal, a series of concrete 

issues in U.S. relations with South Africa arose. Among them were polit- 

ical asylum for dissident South Africans in the United States; permission 

for South African Airways to begin regular flights to the United States; 

and setting up U.S. satellite-tracking stations in segregated South African 

facilities. Other issues were discrimination against black American naval 

personnel on shore leave in South African ports and, of central impor- 

tance, growing U.S. economic ties to South Africa. 

It was not easy for the ACOA to work on these issues effectively. 

American interest in Airica was not great. Activists were concentrating on 

the civil rights struggle and the war in Vietnam. Furthermore, an unwar- 

ranted feeling of optimism about progress in South Africa pervaded the 

consciousness of many people, despite Sharpeville. The perception was 

that rhmgs were rapidly changing in Africa; with the birth of so many 

independent states, the white-dominated governments of Rhodesia, the 

Portuguese colonies, and South Africa would have to recognize the signs of 

the times. Only later in the 1g6os, as oppression increased in South Airica 

and guerrilla fighting expanded elsewhere, was the new reality of a long 

drawn-out struggle recognized. 

Congressional involvement was not great. The Senate Subcommittee on 

Africa was almost moribund. The House Subcommittee was more active, 

but friendly members of Congress told me that they could not win many 

votes for speeches on South Africa or Rhodesia.

Ears of Tamil 

The various administrations also refIected a low level of activity on 

Africa. Common threads ran through their policies: (I) African issues had 

a low priority; (2) peaceful change, rather than confrontation, was emphasized; 

(3) South Africa must be kept open for investment and trade; (4) 

policy was geared toward the reality of white domination with little contact 

with liberation movements; 0) the strategic importance of South Africa 

was emphasized as the United States reacted to Soviet moves. 

There were, nevertheless, some differences resulting in part from 

changes in circumstances and in paa from differing perceptions of herica's 

role. During the Eisenhower years, initiative was almost nonexistent. 

The United States even opposed the formtion of the UN Commission on 

the Racial Situation in South Africa, on the gro~lnds that the UN was not 

competent to deal with the internal affairs of a member, and refused to 

accept the word condemn in a UN resolution on apartheid. 

Nevertheless, changes in Africa began to intluence U.S. policies. A 

Bureau of African Affairs was formed in 1958; the State Deparrmcnt 

sponsored U.S. tours for SCkou Tour6 of French Guinea and Julius 

Nyerere of Tmganyika. Yet the government continued to look to its 

European allies for leadership in Africa. It supported the French in 

opposing the abandonment of nuclear tests in the Sahara, supported the 

British in opposing setting a target date for Tangan* independence, 

and abstained in a UN vote to urge negotiations to end the war in Algeria. 

The Kennedy administration brought liberals to Washington-Chester 

Bowles as under secretary of state, the historian Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., 

and Michigan Governor G. Mennen Williams. Wrlliams was assistant 

secretary for Africa with the liberal Wayne Frederick as second in command. 

The United States inaugurated a scholarship program for students from 

southern Africa partly to try to match a Soviet one that outdrew the United 

States nine srudents to one. At the UN the United States spoke more 

forcWy. Francis Plimpton said, "The United States abhors apartheid." 

The United States voted for the release of political prisoners in South 

Africa and an end to political trials. Mai Stevenson, ambassador to the 

UN, made a hard-hitting speech on August 2,1963, saying that all efforts 

to urge South Africa to change had "yielded no tangible results." Instead 

there had been "calculated retrogression." Then he announced that the 

United States expected "to bring to an end the sale of all military equip 

ment to the government of South Africa by the end of this calendar year." 

Only existiag eontracts would be honored. At the same time he decried 

overall sanctions as "bad law and bad policy." 

One of the innovations of W m and Fredericks in the Africa Bureau 

was to establish an Advisory Council made up of about 20 academics and 

to specialists from labor, business, the church, the black community, and 

other civic groups. My invitation to join this coud said they wanted to 

draw on "expert knowledge of persons outside the U.S. government who, 

like yourself, are active in the field of African affairs." The only condition 

of acceptance was that "the information and opinions brought out in these


meetings would not be disclosed to persons outside the government." The 

ACOA board agreed that I should accept. 

The council met spasmodically. Its main value to me was the contacts I 

made at the six meetings I attended in four years. I don't believe I ever 

received any inside information that would have been worth divulging to 

those outside the government, and it is doubtful that our discussions were 

very helpful to policymakers. 

The ACOA kept in touch with Senator Hubert Humphrey, an early 

member of our National Committee, who was always ready to meet 

African leaders whom we sponsored. We invited him to speak at our Africa 

Freedom Day observance in New kbrk April 17, 1961.* He seemed 

excited about the program and said he would introduce a resolution in the 

Senate designating April 15 as Africa Freedom Day. He asked us to draft a 

statement he might use, which we did. 

The date of our meeting by chance coincided with the Bay of Pigs attack 

on Cuba. When Humphrey spoke of the United States standing for 

freedom, many people interrupted with loud boos. He didn't seem to 

understand why. He appropriately resigned from our National Committee 

when he became vice president under Lyndon Johnson. 

Under Richard Nixon, even as demands by the independent African 

states became more urgent, the United States no longer abstained from 

voting on colonial issues at the UN but voted negatively. In 1972, for 

example, it voted against seven out of eight key resolutions on colonial 

issues and abstained on the other. 

Secretary of State Henry Kissinger's National Security Study Memo- 

randum 39 was the guide to U.S. policy. It voiced the "tar baby option" 

based on the premise that "the whites are here [in southern Africa] to stay 

and the only way that constructive change can come about is through 

them." Kissinger was a globalist. In his perception, southern Africa did 

not play an important part in the global competition between the United 

States and the Soviet Union. 

In Kissinger's first UN speech he didn't even mention Africa. At a 

luncheon at the U.S. Mission to the UN in September 1974, I heard him 

half apologize to African ambassadors for his lack of involvement in Africa 

and jokingly say he would take a trip there sometime. The "joke" did not 

sit well with the ambassadors. The next two years forced him to become 

serious about Africa. 

ECONOMIC DISENGAGEMENT 

The ACOA's task in the 1960s was to raise the consciousness of Americans 

about Africa, specifically South Africa. One major thrust was to advocate 

*Outstanding speakers and performers for this program included the Africans Oliver Tambo, 

Kenneth Kaunda, Joshua Nkomo, Tom Mboya, and Holden Roberto, all visiting the UN, 

and the Americans James Baldwin and Humphrey. James Farmer was master of ceremonies. 

Performers included Miriam Makeba, Dizzie Gillespie's Quintet, Herbie Mann's Afro Jazz 

Scxter, the D i u Dancers, and the Billy Taylor Trio. That program was a sellout.


economic disengagement with South Africa. That put us in opposition to 

U.S. policy, which was neither to encourage nor discourage investment 

and trade with South Africa. This neutral-sounding attitude actually 

resulted in encouraging business contact, for potential profits were high. 

h the early r g6as the Department of Commerce put the average rate of 

profit for the approximately qo American h s then investing about $600 

million in South Africa at 17.1 percent. U.S. trade and investment would 

continue to increme. 

The ACOA played an active part in the growing public controversy over 

U.S. economic relations with South Africa. I appeared before House and 

Senate committees many times. We published many studies developing 

our position. The January I* issue of Africa Today was devoted to a 

"Special Report on Involvement in the South Africa Economy," which 

expressed the hope that "by economic disengagement the U.S., in cooperation 

with other nations, can play a role in bringing down the apartheid 

republic so that a hoped-for non-racial society may be created in its stead." 

The New Ywk Times (April 18, 1971) carried a written debate between 

Ulric Hayncs, who had been on the National Security Council staff, and 

me. In my contribution, "Investment Dollars Bolster Apartheid," I developed 

the thesis that as American investment has grown, apartheid has 

worsened; that apartheid laws make fundamental change in the position of 

Africans impossible; and that through investment the United States is 

helping South Africa build a self-sufticient economy. 

In the I-, long before pressures for divestiture were felt, business 

interests either kept silent on their activities in South Africa or defended 

the system. When Congressman Barrett O'Hara of Illinois, as chairman of 

the House Subcommittee on Africa, made every effort short of issuing 

subpoenas to persuade business representatives to appear in hearings, 

none agreed to do so. 

THE BANK CAMPAIGN 

Perbaps the ACOA's most important campaign was against U.S. bank 

loaas to Sou& Africa. In coalition with the Universiry Christian Movement 

we organized the Committee of Conscience Against Apartheid 

headed by A. Philip Randolph, with more than 120 prominent sponsors. 

One aspect of the c a m e was to urge individuals and or~tions to 

withdraw funds from Chase Manhattan and First National City Bank (now 

Citibank) by Human Rights Day, December 10, 1966. By that date we 

knew of $u million that had been withdrawn. 

Another aspect of the campaign was to direct pressure on a consortium 

of ten banks involved in a $40 million laan to South Africa.* Pressure on 

*In addition to Chase and Finn Nauonal City, the othcr bade were Beak of AmcricP, 

Maoufacmrm Hanovcr 'ltust, Morgan Guamty Trust Co., Irving Trust Co., Continental 

Winoh National Bank and ltusr Co., and Fm National Bank (Chicago).

South Afim: "No Easy Walk to Freedom" 

these banks had grown year by year as their loans became the symbol of 

direct U.S. support for a brutal, racist police state. Many churches debated 

the issue and some withdrew accounts. Students pressured their colleges 

to end their relationships with offending banks. 

We were taken by surprise when on November 21,1969, the Associated 

Press reported an announcement by the South African foreign minister 

that the consortium loan would end "because of the Republic's strong gold 

and foreign exchange position." The banks had to face public relations 

problems as a result of the activities we helped generate. They must have 

reasoned that the highly visible loan was more bother than it was worth, 

especially since South Africa had not drawn on the loan fund recently. 

The bank campaign was an opening wedge for a much broader cconomic 

challenge, particularly by some churches. The maior denominations 

had si@~~nt investments in corporations doing business in South 

Africa. The question was how to use their investments as leverage to 

influence corporate policy. From this concern grew the Interfaith Center 

on Corporate Responsibility (ICCR). 

THE POLAROID EXPERIMENT 

Differences in strategy toward change in South Africa were highlighted by 

the Polaroid Corporation. In late 1970 a group of black workers at the 

company's headquarters in Cambridge, Massachusetts, protested the company's 

involvement in South Africa, especially because Polaroid furnished 

materials for preparing the identification passes Africans must carry, 

which are basic to the apartheid system. They called for a boycott of 

Polaroid products. 'il 

Polaroid directors responded by taking out edpens8e full-page ads in 

seven influential daily newspapers and 20 black weeklies.* They announced 

a "Polaroid experiment," which was to stay in business in South 

Africa in order to be a catalyst for change. They promised that their 

equipment would not be used for the hated pass system. They would, 

however, uain black employets for important positions, commit a portion 

of their profits for black education, generally raise black wages, and make 

a grant to bring some blacks to the United States in an exchange program. 

We and otber critics of the Polaroid experiment pointed out its ineffectiveness 

and maintained that it would provide a rationale to businesses to 

stay in South Africa under the comfortable but false assumption b t they 

could help end racism while making a tidy profit. We campaigned against 

Polaroid at stockholder meetings and directly to their president, Edwin H. 

Land. 

Tbe Polaroid effort ended rather suddenly in 1977 when it was discovered 

that their equipment was still being used in the pass system. 

tl.

Indres Naidoo, a South African r e14 in 1973 after 10 years imprison- 

ment for sabotage, worked for three years with Polaroid's Johannesburg 

distributor, Frank and Hirsch. He had incontrovertible evidence (a sales 

receipt) that Polaroid film was delivered to the Bantu Reference Bureau, 

responsible for Africans' passes, despite the distributor's agreement not to 

sell to the government. He sent the evidence to my ACOA colleague Paul 

Irish, whom he bad met at Mozambique's independence celebration in 

1975. Irish informed Polaroid officials, who immediately checked facts 

and then terminated the relations hi^ adding, "We do not plan to establish 

another one." The Boston Gbbe headlines of November 22, 1977, an- 

nounced '''Polaroid Halts Its South Africa Shipments." 

OPPOSITION TO CHARLES W. ENGELHARD 

The single most powerful American businessman involved in South Africa 

was Charles W. Engelhard. He was chairman of the Rand Mines group, 

which employed about ~oo,ooa people and produced chrome, coal, ce- 

ment, uranium, and about 17 percent of South Africa's gold. He was a 

director of the Chamber of Mines and also of two organizations recruiting 

black miners. He had helped engineer the $30 million credit that helped 

buoy up the faltering South African economy after Sharpwille. He was 

also American chairman of the South Africa Foundation, set up by a few 

industrialists in 1960 to counteract South Africa's bad international image. 

He had the reputation, however, of being a liberal and was a heavy 

contributor to the Democratic Party. President Lyndon Johnson called 

him "a humanitarian of the first order" and appointed him head of the 

U.S. delegation to Zambia's independence celebration in Lusaka in 1964. 

The ACOA had already drawn attention to Engelhard's South African 

role in a special issue of Africa Today (March 1964) titled "Partners in 

Apartheid." We were astounded that such a man should head a delegation 

to an African country that was backing UN moves for sanctions against 

South Africa. From an African perspective, it was insulting. Engelhard 

was greeted by a picket line at the airport. His picture appeared in the 

Zambian press with comment on his role in South Africa. I was introduced 

to him at a garden party outside the State House. He knew my name, for 

he had seen the ACOA study. Surprisingly friendly, he said our informa- 

tion was accurate and added, "You even Listed some directorships I had 

forgotten about." Then he said that we must get together back home and 

asked me to write him. 

We never managed to meet back home, although we exchanged notes. 

Early in 1g66 I was notified that the New Jersey region of the National 

Conference of Christians and Jews (NCCJ) was giving Engelhard, who was 

a generous contributor, their annual Brotherhood Award. The ACOA 

protested vigorously and mounted a campaign to persuade the NCCJ to 

reconsider, although we realized there was little likelihood of a change of 

mind. Hundreds of protests bombarded the NCCJ office in N mk. On 

the day of the dinner, 500 chanting demonstrators from the NAACP,

South Aftica: "No Easy Walk to Freedom" 273 

CORE, United Auto Workers, Drug and Hospital Workers, church people, 

and students formed a sofid barrier at the entrance of the Robert Treat 

Hotel in Newark. Red-faced and flustered, surrounded by police, Engelhard 

p r d through the picketers. The dinner went on and the award 

was given. 

BOYCOTTING THE SPRINGBOKS* 

Another area for the ACOA to stress in focusing American attention on 

South Africa was racism in sports. South Afria is a counuy bristling with 

competitive sports fever. Therefore, it was a blow to white South Africa 

when its team was excluded fmm the 1964 Olympic Games in Tokyo. It 

was impossible to view this action from other than a political perspective, 

for the exclusion was directly related to the government's apartheid policy. 

South Africa's sports policy had become internationalized in the late 

rgsos, when the nonracial South Africa Spons Association (SASA) organized 

a campaign to remove the color bar in sports. The internationally 

recognized sports body, the South African Olympic Games Assodation 

(SAOGA), was all white. At the Rome meeting of the International Olympic 

Committee (IOC) in 1960, SASA submitted a detailed report on racial 

discrimination practiced by SAOGA. A SASA representative could not 

attend because he was denied a passport. Nevertheless, the IOC took note 

of the complaint and warned that if the policy of racial discrimination did 

not change, SAOGA would be suspended. In the meantime, the South 

Africa Non-Racial Olympic Committee (SANROC) devoted exclusively to 

the question of South Africa's participation in the Olympics, was established 

under Dennis Brutus's leadership. 

Dennis Brutus was born in Rhodesia in 1924 of Afrilcaner and black 

African parents and therefore was designated "Colo~red'~ in South African 

parlance. He was educated in South Africa and taught there for 14 y m , 

winning an international reputation as a writer and poet. For his antiapartheid 

activity, particularly in SANROC, he was bmed from the 

chssmrn in 1961; his writings were banned the next year. In 1963 he was 

arrested for contravening his ban by trying to meet a visiting IOC official. 

While on bail he tried to escape to attend an IOC meeting in Baden-Baden, 

Germany, to represent the SANROC cause against South Africa's partiapation 

in the 1g6q Olympics. While traveling through Mozambique on 

his Rhodesian passport, he was mted and handed over to the South 

African police. 

Then he disappeared. He later explained, "No one knew I was back in 

South Africa. The police could have done anything to me-no one would 

have known." So he desperately tried to jump from the police car in which 

YThC springbok is a gazelle, MUVE to South Africa. It was the name of a South African rugby 

team and has bacom~ the symbol and the nickname of white South African teams in 

intcrnationd spow,

he was being driven. He was shot in the back. Formnately he recovered. 

He served 18 months in prison. The charge was "Mering the aims of 

Comm-," although the judge said he saw no connection between 

C o m k and trying to attend a sports meeting. He was released in 

1965, with 12 new bans placed agaiast him, including house detention. 

Unable to support his wife and seven children, Brutus left for London 

on an exit permit (which makes it illegal for him to return to South Africa) 

to work with the International Defence and Aid Fund. That was where we 

first met. I had already heard about him from an antiapartheid South 

African rabbi, Dr. Andre Ungar, who described Brutus glowingly as Ua 

most brilliant young writer who hopes to get the support of the intemational 

sports authorities to break racial disc-tion in that field in his 

country." In one of our many talks Brutus spoke ofthe anguish of his eight 

months in solitary confinement, which had made him deeply religious and 

guilt-ridden. He told me that he even tried to commit suicide by cutting 

his wrists with rocks.* 

W~th SANROC playing an important role, the IOC did suspend South 

Africa fmm the 1964 games. The South African government began a 

campaign to have its suspension lifted so that a team could participate in 

the 1968 games in Mexico City. Prime Minister John Vorster outlined a 

new sports policy, which would allow a multiracial team to represent South 

Africa in international events, but its members would be chosen in racially 

segregated trials. Inside South Africa there would be no mixed sporting 

events, a decision on which them could be "no compromise, negotiations, 

or abandonment of principles." At fvst the IOC accepted this new policy 

and decided South Africa could compete in Mexico City. 

This reven;al of the IOC position, which did not alter apartheid sports 

practices inside South Africa, met spirited opposition. The Supreme 

Council for Sport in Africa (representing the independent African countries 

in international sports) threatened a boycon of the Mexico City 

games. Den& Brutus, in London, worked through SANROC to encourage 

such a boycott. 

The ACOA organized a boycott campaign in cooperation with 

SANROC. Jackie Robinson, the &st black major league pmfessioaal 

baseball player, took the lead. At an ACOA press conference, February 8, 

1968, he called for the continued suspension of South Afna because 

"racial discrimiaation is a violation of the Olympic des." 

?kto months later, the ACOA circulated a statement among athletes and 

induced an impressive number to agree to support a boycott of the 1968 

games if South Africa was participating. These men, a who's who in 

sports, included Jackie Robinson, Jim Bouton, Reuben Amaro, Arthur 

Ashe, Wilt Chamberlaia, Lee Evans, John Carlos, Calvin Hill, Jim 

*Many years ker Dc& Bmnu Englifb at Northwe~~cfll 

Unidty and sub 

quently at the University of Pimbufgb. k rg83 he won a cclcbrattd care for poliriwl asylum 

in the United Smte against deportdon to Zmhabm.

South Africa: "No Euiy Walk to Freedom" 275 

McMillan, Oscar Robertson, Maury Wffls, and Lenny Wilkens. Similar 

efforts took place in other countries. 

Faced with the very real threat of a massive boycott, the IOC reconsidered 

and suspended South Africa again. Brutus urged me to accompany 

him and Chris de Broglio, a white SANROC leader and former South 

African national weight-lifting champion also exiled, to Mexico City to 

counteract lobbying efforts for reinstatement by South African sports 

repmentativts. I could not leave home base at the time but arranged for 

Jim Bouton, pitcher for the New York Yankees, and Steve Makone, an 

outstanding black South African soccer player studying in the United 

States, to go as our representatives. We wanted not only to keep South 

Africa out of the Olympics but to extend the boycott to international 

sports federations, such as wrestling and table tennis. 

Bouton reported on their efforts. "Probably our most significant impact 

was simply our presence which had the effect of making every delegate 

aware that their days of operating in secrecy are over." The most astonishing 

obstacle they faced was "the direct opposition of the U.S. Olympic 

Committee officials to our presence in Mexico City." When he cornered 

Douglas Roby, chairman of the U.S. Olympic Committee, in a hotel lobby, 

Roby made the h d e remark, "The Russians pay your transportation 

down here? You working with the commies?" The press chief of the 

committee, Bob Paul, blurted out to Bouton, "You're the most un-herican 

man in this room." Bouton was accused of trying to disrupt the 

Olympics and corrupt the athletes. Nevertheless, the exclusion of South 

African teams from the Olympics continues to this day. 

We pressed our sports boycott in other ways. In a public relations effort, 

the South African golf champion Gary Player invited Lee Elder, a black 

American professional golfer, to join him in an exhibition match in South 

Africa. We urged Elder not to go on the grounds that by doing so he would 

be "supporting the South African government's plans to relieve international 

pressure against apartheid by allowing nonwhite athletes to pamcipate 

with whites in special events that they choose to dehe as 'international.' 

" Despite pressure from the black community, Elder went to South 

Africa. Y m later he said he would not go again. 

We joined with Black Concern, a group led by the writer Louise 

Meriwether and the historian John Henrik Clarke, in opposing a Muham- 

mad Ali &ht to be staged in South Africa in 1972. The fight was canceled 

after considerable outcry in the black community. 

Better known was the case involving the black tennis player Arthur 

Ashe, whom I had met in the late 1960s. He had supported the proposed 

boycott of the Mexico City Olympics. When his application for a visa to 

South Africa in 1969 to take part in the South Africa Tennis Open was 

turned down, we arranged for him to appear in hearings before both the 

UN Special Committee A&st Apartheid and the House Subcommittee 

on Africa. 

Enough pressure was applied to South Africa through government and 

other channels that a couple of years her, a successful application for a


visa for Ashe seemed probable. He asked several people, including me, 

whether he should go. I strongly advised him not to because it would add 

falsely to the "liberal" image of South Africa. Nevertheless, he went. His 

conditions, such as not playing before segregated audiences, were met, but 

he reported in his book Of/ the Court (1981) that the "whites" and 

"nonwhites" signs did not come down. They just weren't enforced for his 

matches. Today Ashe backs thc sports boycott. 

Closely asdated with the sports boycott was the campaign, organkd 

by my colleague Mary Louise Hooper, to oppose apartheid in cultural 

contacts with South Africa. In 1965 the ACOA initiated the Declaration of 

American Artists Against Apartheid entitled "WE Say 'No' to Apartheid." 

The signers of the declaration pledged themselves to refuse any encouragement 

of, or indeed any ''jxzmnal or professional association with, the 

present Republic of South Africa: this until the day when all its peopl* 

black and whiteahall equally enjoy the educational and cultural advantages 

of this rich and lovely land." 

Frederick O'Neal, praident of Actors Equity, hated a paw to launch 

the declaration. The actor Hemy Fonda read the pledge and announced 

the names of all 65 signers, who made up a scar-studded list-Tallulah 

Bankhead, Harry Belafonte, Leonard Bernstein, Victor Borge, Carol 

Burnert, Diahann Carroll, Sammy Davis, Jr., Ossie Davis, Ruby Dee, 

Julie Harris, Van Heilk, Lena Home, Langston Hughes, Johnny Mathis, 

Burgess Meredith, Arthur Miller, Sidney Poitier, Paul Robeson, Nina 

Simone, Ed Sullivan, and Eli Wdlach. Although some later fell by the 

wayside, on the whole, the artists' boycott stood up 

OTHER ACTIONS AGAINST APARTHEID 

The ACOA campaigned in 1964 to have deportation proceedings dropped 

against five black South Africans who had come to New York to play in the 

Broadway musical SPOI~IIM. After a short run,the musical closed and the 

five asked for political asylum on the ground that they would face physical 

persecution if they returned to South Africa. It was a mixed victory. The 

Immigration and Naturalhation Senrice (INS) dropped the deportation 

order but refused to recognize the principle that a political refugee from 

South Africa faced "physical pxsecution" if forced to return home. 

We also worked hard to keep South African Airways from initiating 

fights into New York's Kennedy International Airport. In 1947, before the 

Afher Nationalists came to power, the United States and South Africa 

had signed a Bilateral Air 'Emsport Agreement permitting flights between 

the two countries. Pan American soon initiated flights but South Africa 

did not until 1968, when President Johnson authorized South African 

Airways to begin Bights. The company quickly began a campaign with a 

full-page ad in the New Ymk ZYm headlined "South African Airways 

invites 139 distinguished Americans to be among the first to fly the last 

ocean."


The ACOA organized an ad in reply signed by 139 black Americans, 

who responded, "We know the welcome of South African Airways is not 

meant for us. The tourism which pu promote is racist. Racism is not 

welcome here." The signers were among the most distinguished of Amerian 

blacks.* 

A bid was introduced in Congress, and hearings were held by the 

Subcommittee on Africa. Nevertheless, the first SM Bight arrived at 

Kennedy on the cold, snowy night of February 23, 1969. About 200 

shivering protestors were at the airport with picket signs, although because 

of the size of the airport, we never knew where or when the plane actually 

came in. 

Interracial issues arose regarding personnel at the the U.S. satellitetracking 

stations in South Africa. An agreement between the two govemments 

was signed in September 1960. South Africa claimed that the 

United States had accepted racial restrictions at the stations in that agreement, 

which the Americans denied. The United States did refuse to abide 

by apartheid restrictions le principle but avoided the issue in practice by 

not having black personnel on hand. The stations were finally moved. 

The issue of U.S. black perso~el in South Africa arose again in May 

1965, when the aircraft carrier Independence was due to land at Cape Town. 

The issue was resolved by having it bypass that port. In 1967, however, the 

scheduled landing of the aircraft carrier Franklin D. Roosevell, carrying 

400 black servicemen, became a political issue. Donald Fraser of Minnmta 

took leadership in the House. He wrote me as follows (February 6, 

1967): 

Last week I was in Germany when your letter arrived on the visit of the U.S. 

aircraft &er Franklin D. Roosmelt to South Africa. Homer my staff reached 

me by phone and then were able to organize a protest in the House. The letter to 

the President signed by 38 Congressmen is enclosed. . . . In addition there were 

some other more stnior members who indicate that they will privately protest. . . . 

Thanks for bringing the whole matter to my attention. 

This and other incidents led to a government decision to cancel operational 

port calls in South Africa rather than accept the racial conditions imposed 

by South Africa. 

At the end of 1965, the United Nations established a Trust Fund for 

South Africa to raise funds from member states to aid the victims of 

apartheid and their families. It was to be an international, governmental 

fund. Three months later, on the sixth anniversary of the Sharpwille 

Massacre, the ACOA held a commemorative public meeting at a church in 

Harlem, ar which both E.S. Reddy, the secretary of the Special Committee 

iAgainst Apartheid, and I stressed the importance of this fund. A collection 

was taken as a token of our support. 

"Among thk sigacrs were Muhammed Ali, Ralph Abetamthy, Roy Campanella, Hany Bela- 

fontc, Count Basit, Anhu Aahc, Julian Bond, A. Philip Randolph, Nina Smone, and many 

members of Congress.


A day or so later, a young man who had attended this meeting called and 

asked to meet with me. Deeply impressed by our Harlem gathering, and as 

a protest against GM involvement in South Africa, he wanted to turn over 

to our Africa Fund hundreds of shares of General Motors stock he had 

inherited. The Africa Fund would then make a significant contribution to 

the UN Trust Fund. A few months later, the Rev. Edler Hawkins, a trustee 

of our Africa Fund, and I presented a check for $5o,ooo to the UN 

Fund. 

Although the United States had voted for the UN Trust Fund (only 

South Africa had voted against it), it was not until two and half years later 

that it made a contribution, only $25,m.

THE FINAL CONFLICT 

PART

T he owdmw of the government in Lisbon by the Armed Forces 

Movement (MA) on April 25,1974, had far-reaching effects on the 

African liberation struggles. The new government was committed to inde- 

pendence for its African colonies. The way was paved for almost immedi- 

ate independence for Guinea-Bissau. In Mozambique the testing time had 

come for FRELIMO to set up a government that would realize its 

egalitarian principles for the whole country. In Angola the skirmishes for 

ascendance among the three nationalist movements would now become a 

determined struggle for dominance. Their ideological and ethnic dif- 

ferences would take on international propdons as the big powers aligned 

themselves with the movements they felt would strengthen their om 

global positions. 

The coup also affected Rhodesia. The long eastern frontier bordered on 

a nowindependent Mozambique, a situation that smagthened the black 

nationalists and was regarded as a threat by the white minoriry. FWthu- 

more, the milimy victory in Portugal and the consequent independence of 

all Portugal's colonies made Spain the last Western European country with I 

a dependent in Africa, Spanish Sahara, and therefore subject to 

challenge. I 

Most important, the change in Portugal quickened immeasurably the 

struggles of the black majority against the entrenched white minority for 

control in Namibia and South Africa, suuggles that were certain to be the 

ha1 liberation contests on the comimq,

CHAPTER NINETEEN 

Angola: After the Coup 

W ith mixed feelings I boarded a plane in Lisbon, bound for Luanda, 

shortly after midnight on March IS, 1975. My excitement was 

slightly dampened by a sense of foreboding. This was my fvst trip to 

Angola's capital in 21 years. My hiking expedition I 3 years earlier was still 

a fresh memory, but that had been quite different. The hition war had 

just started then and it was a clandestine trip to rural Angola. Now I was 

journeying to the capital after the war against Portugal and at a time when 

a nansitional government was supposedly lading the way to peace, sta- 

bility, and independence. As the plane flew south, I wondered if the Alvor 

Agreement, recognkhg an uneasy alliance among the three liberation 

movements forming the transitional government, could hold until inde- 

pendence, November I I. I knew how tenuous their cooperation was. Thus 

my sense of foreboding. 

The plane landed in Luanda about 9:00 A.M., by coincidence on the 

National Day of the FNLA. I was quickly settled at the Hotel Continental 

near the center of a large city of about 6w,ooo. No one knew I was 

coming, for my visa had been granted only a few days earlier in Guinea- 

Bissau. Although very tired after the all-night £light, I excitedly spent my 

first few hours in Luanda trying to find my bearings. 

I waked to the nearby promontory on which perched the 17th-century 

fort of Siio Miguel. There the Portuguese had defeated the Dutch in 1648. 

A plaque srill commemorated the arrival of the Portuguese explorer Diogo 

Go in 1483. The fort commands a view of the city's high buildings, which 

border the beautiful crescent bay, and the sea beyond. On this hot, sunny 

March Saturday, streams of cars drove bumper to bumper toward the 

nearby miles of idyllic beaches. 

My first impression was that Luanda was still dominated by Europeans. 

The streets were full of pedestrians, black and white. Most shops we still 

owned by Portuguese. The heavy traBc, almost exdusivey wirPor- 

tuguese drivers, was regulated by few lights. Of the some 300,000 Por- 

tuguese who had lived in Angola, about 50,000 had left since the coup in 

Portugal. The rest were staying to see what would happen. I felt little 

tension as I walked about the downtown area. 

Things were different, though, as evidenced by political graffiti on the 

walls, fences, and benches and the posters plastered on other open spa-, 

espdly those advertising the FNLA and UNITA. Everywhere I turned 

I was greeted by a picture of Holden Roberto in his dark glasses or bearded 

Jonas Savimbi with the UNITA symbol of the rooster and the rising sun 

behind him over the words "~wacha UNITA." Less often did I see

The Final Conflict 

Agostinho Neto's picture and posters of the MPLA. People were obviously 

exercising their long-denied freedom of expression. 

Another difference was the presence of mops on the streets and in the 

backs of military trucks. Some wore armbands to distinguish them from 

regular Portuguese forces. They were part of the new integrated army 

drawn from the liberation movements and the Portuguese. Perhaps the 

troops were more in evidence than usual because this was FNLA Day, and 

incidents could happen. (Each of the movements, now nansformed into a 

political party, had designated its national day.) FNLA activities w m 

confined to the mwsqus, where most of the people lived, and no incidents 

disturbed the peace. The U.S. consul general, Tom Killoran, with whom I 

talked, took this as a hopeful sign that the three-party coalition might 

actually work. 

THE ALVOR AGREEMENT 

In the 10 days at the end of my African journey, my primary task was to 

make contact with each of the movements so that I could assess the 

prospects for an orderly tramition to independence. Virtually everyone 

was caught unprepared by the coup in Portugal. Neto, for example, was on 

a trip to Canada. The transfers of power in Guinea-Bissau and Mozambique 

were frtirly simple, since no movements could compete with the 

PAIGC and ERELIMO. In Angola it was more complicated because each 

of the three movements dominated specific areas. 

Within two months after the April coup, UNITA had signed a cease-fire 

with the Portuguese. The MPLA and the FNLA did not do so until 

October. Then each movement quickly set up offices in Luanda and other 

centers, where for the first time they could operate omy. 

The beginning was hopdd. Chired by President Jomo Kenyatta of 

Kenya, and supported by the OAU, Neto, Roberto, and Savimbi met in 

January 1975 in Mombasa, Kenya, and agreed to cooperate in Angola's 

reconstruction. A few days later at Alvor in southern Portugal, they agreed 

to set up a transitional government to exercise authority for about 10 

months. EIections were set for late October, independence for November 

11. 

The transitional government, very logically, was headed by a Portuguese-appointed 

high wmmIssioner and a cabinet of 12 ministers, 3 

each for the Portuguese and the three movements. In addition, there was a 

Presidential Council, with one representative of each movement and 

monthly rotating chi ' ' 'p An integrated defense force was to be 

formed from the four existing armies. When I arrived in Luanda in 

March, it had about 3,000 men, 500 from each movement and a matching 

~,jw from the Portuguese. The goal was 8,m from each movement wih 

a matching 24,000 from the Portuguese. Then, after independence, the 

Portuguese would gradually withdraw.

Angola: After the Coup 283 

The problem was that the transitional government never really had 

power. Power still lay with the three separate movements, which continued 

their long-standing animosities and suspicions. Their tenuous coalition 

began to break down while I was there. My observations and discussions 

gave me ample evidence of the difliculties lying ahead. 

I met several times with Tim Killoran. When I k t saw him, he had 

just returned from a trip to the main coffee-growing area mud Cannona 

to the north. Because of unsettled conditions, many workers who were 

from the south, were returning to their home area, leaving few laborers to 

clear the weeds and underbrush. Consequently, Killoran thought the 

coffee crop, the country% main export, would be about 40 percent of 

normal, a bad omen for the economy. 

Killoran, who e x p d no bii, thought there would be violence at 

least in Luanda and that the FNLA and UNITA would likely join forces 

against the MPLA, based in Luanda. He saw no evidence of CLA involvement: 

perhaps he really did not know about the $3w,m it gave to the 

FNLA in covert assistance in January, although later it was common 

knowledge. He specifically told me that Roberto was not receiving U.S. aid 

but, ironically, was being pilloried for it. I think Killoran may not have 

been infarmed about U.S. covert aid authorized by the National Security 

Council's "qo Committee," but if he did know, he had no reason to tell me. 

On my h t day in Luanda, I heard that the FNLA was giving a party to 

celebrate its National Day in a public garden across from the palace, still 

the seat of government. I walked to the garden, and since I had no 

invitation I had to drop names of FNLA leaders I had known in order to 

persuade the soldiers at the entrance to let me in. Immediately I was faced 

by a huge picture of Holden Roberto, who was still in Zaire. Other leaders 

were present, including Johnny Eduardo, the FNLA representative on the 

Presidential Council; Paul Tuba, his assistant; and Hendrick Vaal Neto, 

minister of information. The diplomatic comrnunicy was well represented, 

and a large UNITA delegation was on hand; there were wen some MPLA 

leaders such as Saydi Mingas, minister of b c e and planning. The 

advantage of my being there was that I was able to make appointments for 

the days ahead. 

FNLA STRENGTH 

I met several times with Paul Tuba, who had represented the FNLA in 

New York. He was now in a key position, and the information he gave me 

presented a decidedly pessimistic view of the future, including the pos- 

sibsty of civil war. He described clashes in the mussapes between FNLA 

and MPLA troops. The FNLA was opening a large milirary ttaining camp 

near Ambriz on the seacoast north of Luanda. It had 5,0o0 mops in the 

Luanda vicinity, many more than the integrated army. There was no limit


on the size of the military forces of the three movements," and each had its 

own uniform. Tuba impressed upon me that violence was an ever present 

reality. As we disembarked from his car at a restaurant one evening, he 

took a revolver out of his glove compartment and carefully put it in a 

holster at his side. 

Both the Soviet Union and China were involved in Angola, Tuba said, 

supporting the MPLA and the FNLA respectively. He observed with a 

laugh that the FNLA might be responsible for bringing China and the 

United States together, since both were assisting the FNLA. Chinese 

instructors were training FNLA troops at the Kinkuzu base in Zaire. Tuba 

felt optimistic about the FNLA's strength. It had just purchased the TV 

equipment the Portuguese had left and, unlike the other movements, 

planned to begin its own TV program soon. 

Tuba said Roberto would not come to Angola until his public relations 

advisers had had time to build up "the myth of Holden." Then when he 

arrived shortly before the October election, he would have an aura of 

mystery that would attract the masses. The theory was that Neto and 

Savimbi, as known factors, would be less appealing. It was clear, however. 

that the FNLA's struggle lay not with UNITA but with the MPLA. 

IMPRESSIONS OF UNITA 

In the dining room of my hotel, I noticed a group of Angolans wearing 

UNITA buttons. I approached one of them, who spoke some English, and 

he introduced me to others. About 20 UNITA members who worked in 

the three UNITA-led ministries were staying in the hotel. Through them I 

made contact with Jeremias Kalandulah Chitunda, minister of natural 

resources. I had met him in the United States, for he had studied at 

Lincoln University in 1964 and in Arizona. He invited me to his home. We 

had friends in common because he had gone to school at the Dondi 

Mission, where Ian Gilchrist had grown up and Larry Henderson had 

worked. Our discussion reinforced certain impressions I already had. The 

conftict shaping up did not emanate from the ministerial representatives, 

who met regularly and fairly harmoniously, but the real power wasn't with 

them. Chitunda felt UNITA was gaining in popularity even in Luanda, the 

MPLA's chief base. Savimbi had attracted hundreds of thousands to his 

campaign rallies in Lobito and Nova Lisboa (now Huambo).j- No ideolog- 

ical problems divided UNITA and the FNLA, although they had basically 

different ethnic followings. Chitunda thought both UNITA and the 

MPLA were expanding beyond their tribal base but not the FNLA. He 

hinted at ideological differences with the MPLA. If the movements did 

*At this time rhe military forces were approximately 21,000 for the FNLA; 8,000 for the 

MPLA; z,m for Daniel Chipenda's organization, which afliliated with the FNLA after 

breaking with the MPLA; and 3,000 for UNITA. 

?I was told 400,- in Lobito and 800,000 in Nova Lisboa.

Angola: After the Coup 

not work together, civil war would result. "I pray it doesn't come to tbat," 

he said. 

It seemed to me that UNITA was putting its emphasis on political 

reauiting. I visited its chaotic headquarters in Luanda. Interspersed 

among the mainly African crowd were white Portuguese. The people were 

trying to register with UNITA and pay their membership dues. Similar 

activities were caking place at the headquarters of the other movements. 

A few days later I flm to Lobito, south of Luanda, an area with a swng 

UNITA following. I had known Jorge Valentim, who was in charge of 

UNITA work there, as an exuberant studeat in the United States. He had 

then been an avid enthusiast for Holden Roberto. In 1963 he continued his 

studies in Europe and joined UNITA when it was formed. As soon as I was 

settIed, I went to UNITA headquarters. As in Luanda, hundrtds of 

people, mostly African, crowded the building. Some wanted to join; 

others had unemployment or housing difiiculties. It took a while for me to 

get a message to Valentim. Finally a lad motioned for me to follow him 

onto the srreet, where another person beckoned me. An armed UMTA 

soldier led us several blocks to a hotel and upstairs past three more armed 

soldiers. I found Wentim at a desk surrounded by piles of membership 

forms, which he was going over one by one. On the waUs were pictures of 

Savimbi and huge crowds. As Valentim stood up and greeted me with a 

smile, I couldn't help but notice a revolver at his side. Wi: talked for two 

hours. 

Valentim was bitterly anti-MPLA and mti-Communist. He didn't say 

the MPLA was Communist but that it was allied with Communists and 

that it was also backed by the hWA in Portugal. Although UNITA and the 

FNLA were competing, they were not divided ideologically, he said. He 

was concerned about Portugal's nationalization of the bade and its &kt 

on the private sugar companies, in which the banks owned a large share. 

He was also concerned about the slowdown, sponsored by the MPLA- 

affiliated trade union, in unloading ships in Lobito and Luanda, and about 

the MPLA introducing "politid' into the school curriculum. He worried 

about land redistribution too, since as late as 1962 Portuguese had simply 

taken what land they wanted and ordered the occupants off. But there was 

as yet no plan for an orderly redressing of these wrongs. 

Valenth assigned a td, slim UNITA sergeant, probably still in his 

teem to show me around Lobito, He wore a revolver on his hip, but he 

brought his fiancke with him, he said, so no one would think I was under 

arrest. We attracted a lot of attention as we walked around, he openly 

holdiug hands with his shy girl. We communicated in simple phrases. His 

name was Miguel Gilwto Higino, in honor of Ian Gilchzist's father, Dr. 

Sid Gilchrist, who had been the much-loved doctor at the Dondi Mission 

and had d elid Miguel. 

My guide had been in UNITA for four years, nvo of them in Moxico 

disuict, where he had been wounded in the knee in battle with the MPLA 

m, & -1y sus~icious of the MPLA, which, he said sim-

The Final Confict 

plistidy, would turn Angola over to "foreigners." He was generally 

favorabIe toward the FNLA and rather well disposed toward Portuguese 

and other whites. On the strength of his uniform, we were picked up 

several times by whites driving cars as we trudged around Lobito, a 

frequent occurrence, he said. In two more days he was leaving for a period 

of officer's training. 

I didn't want to leave this part of Angola without visiting Nova Lisboa 

and the Dondi Mission, about which I had heard so much. I also wanted to 

ride on the famed Benguela railroad, wbich was such an important link 

between AngoIa on the Atlantic and Mozambique on the Indian Ocean. So 

I boarded the nain in the evening and 12 hours later wts in the cool Angola 

highlands about a mile above sea level. (The trip by mr takes only about 

tbree hours.) Much of the ride was in the morning so that I saw each of the 

mmy viUages at which we stopped along the way. Even in this heavily 

UNITA region, each movement had an office, marked by flying banners. 

I went by taxi to the Dondi Mission, where I met Joyce Myers of the 

staK She had been in Angola I I years. On our tour of the school, hospital, 

and villages, we talked about the difference between the parties' present 

struggle for power and the much less complex struggle against Portugal. 

After the April coup, people gradually realized their new freedom. At a 

large celebration, according to Myers, nearly everyone came in traditional 

African dress, which the Portuguese had always discouraged. In school, 

classes were often conducted in Umbundu rather than Portuguese. Myers 

thought that the people in the area were go to 95 percent for UNITA, 

probably because of ethnic &ty. 

The American vice consul had held a meeting with dl the local mission- 

aries the & before. He told them they ought to start storing their 

possessions and plan a way of leaving in case of trouble. None of the 

missionaries, however, were then prepared to think redistically about such 

an eventuality. 

IMPRESSIONS OF THE MPLA 

When I first arrived in Luanda, I had sought out the Methodist bishop, 

Emilio de Carvalho. I had never met him, although be had gone to Garrett 

Biblical Institute, in Evanston, Illinois. He knew my name because of my 

African work and my Methodist connection and was very helpful. As we 

toured the city in his car, I was M y interested in his account of the 

MPLA-sponsored attacks on the prisons in February 1961 and the brutal 

Portuguese response to the uprising in the north a month later. He W f 

had been arrested in August 1961 and held for 25 months. He described 

how he and other pastors were beaten and tormred with electric shocks as 

the Portuguese vied to extract information about the suspected subversive 

activities of American missionaries and church leaders. About 30 pastors 

just disappeared. His own release came unexpectedly without explanation. 

Luanda was tense the day we toured. Fighting had broken out in the


mmeqrres between FNLA and MPLA troops. We did not enter the mum- 

pa because, Carvalho said, it was not safe. Portuguese no longer lived 

there. A big supemkt was closed because of the fighting the day 

before. We saw gutted and burned out Portugueseswned stores that had 

been attacked shortly after the Lisbon coup, in retaliation against white 

violence. We also saw the wrecked headquarters of the Daniel Chipenda 

organization, which the MPLA had driven from its independent position 

into the FNLA. The building was now guarded by FNLA troops, and 

Chipenda was made secretary general of the FNLA. 

The bishop drove me to the Ministry of Finance and Planning, where I 

had an appointment with the MPLA minister, Saydi Mingas. We inter- 

cepted him as he was dashing away, obviously highly agitated. He stopped 

just long enough to apologize and tell me he had just been shot at by an 

FNLA militant. 

I had a long talk with Lucio Lara, head of the MPLA office. People 

filled the street and courtyard outside headquarters. Inside, I bad a hard 

time working my way through the crowded reception room to someone 

who could help me find him. Finally I was ushered into a quiet inner office 

on the second floor. Lara was an impressive man, light-skinned with a 

prominent moustache and a low voice. He was not propagandistic but 

pragmatic. A key leader almost from the beginning, he combined the- 

oretical knowledge and practical organizational skills. He had been in 

Portugal studying when the MPLA was organized in 1956, had returned to 

Angola in November 1974, and had established the Luanda office of the 

MPLA after the coup. 

The MPLA was very strong in Luanda, he said, but the FNLA was 

strong in the north and UNITA in the central plateau. They didn't mm 

one another, and if they didn't learn to work together, he said, there wodd 

be serious dilllculties. Lara thought they could work out their ideological 

differences on a pragmatic basis. He discussed some of the problems. The 

people were poor aad there had to be changes in control of land and 

foreign corporations. But Gulf Oil, for example, could not be told just to 

get out of the country. They were needed and practical adjustments had to 

be made. 

I was especially glad to have a private talk with Dr. Agostinho Neto. 

Lara drove me to his fairly large house with a h e view of the sea. MPLA 

soldiers were on guard. Neto and I sat in the living room for our hour-and- 

a-half discussion. WE had talked five months previously in Dar es Salaam 

before the Alvor Agreement. He had returned to Luanda on February 4, 

the MPLA's National Day, and had been greeted by an estimated 300,000 

people* 

In spite of the Alvor Agreement, Neto said, not much had changed in 

the relations between the three movements. He thought the FNLA and 

UNITA might very weU join forces against the MPLA, which although it 

might not sweep the country in the elections, would not be last. The 

settlers, as he called the resident Portuguese, tended to support UNITA 

and rhe FNLA. The MFA supported the MPLA, but the police did not.

The Final ConJIict 

He was unhappy about the Portuguese high commissioner, Gen. Silva 

Cardoso, who had previously headed the Air Force in Angola.* 

I was interested in Neto's characterization of Roberto and Savimbi in 

their negotiating sessions. Roberto took a very firm position, which had 

been worked out in advance, and resisted any deviation. Savimbi, by 

contrast, was ready to negotiate. In regard to a peaceful solution in the 

relationship of the three movements, he said, "We always hope." I had the 

feeling, however, that they were irreconcilable. 

My last day in Luanda, March 25, I heard gunfire from time to time. 

The transitional government had already begun to unravel. My appoint- 

ment with General Cardoso was canceled at the last minute because 

sghting had broken out. Nothing that I had seen or heard gave me the 

feeling that political campaigning could proceed peacefully toward elec- 

tions in October. It was not long before the civil war erupted in full force. 

CIVIL WAR 

I was barely back in New York when news came about an FNLA attack on 

an MPLA training camp north of Luanda, in which 50 young recruits had 

been killed. At this time, the FNLA still had the largest and best- 

equipped military organization. From that point on, the fighting spread 

with increasing intensity. The Soviet Union, the United States, China, 

South Africa, Zaire, and Cuba were all involved. 

I conduded that the FNLA leadership felt that the Alvor Agreement 

could not last and that its best chance for control of all Angola was to try to 

eliminate MPLA power in Luanda without delay. This feeling was 

bolstered by the support it had from the Zairian military. 

The intensity of the confrontation mounted during April and May, as 

the FNLA attacked MPLA suboffices in the musseques of Luanda, and the 

MPLA called upon the Soviet Union for more sophisticated armaments. 

Further, the MPLA army was reinforced by several thousand Katanganese 

gendarmes, who had been in Angola ever since Katanga's attempted 

secession from the Congo. UNITA, the weakest of the movements mili- 

tarily, drew closer to the FNLA as its offices in Luanda were attacked by 

MPLA forces. UNITA's support from the Angolan Portuguese strength- 

ened the MPLA perception that it was facing a military threat from both 

the other movements. 

One last attempt was made to prevent the incipient civil war. Again 

chaired by Jomo Kenyatta and backed by the OAU, a conference in 

Nakuru, Kenya, in June, brought together Roberto, Neto, and Savimbi. 

% first high commissioner had becn Admiral Rosa Courinbo, who had been r~placed by 

Cardoso after the Alvor Agrccmenr. Borh rhs FNLA and UNITA felt &at Coutinho was t6o 

sympathetic to the MPLA. Howmer, the UNITA and FNLA representatives I talked with 

liked Cardoso.


They agreed to renounce force and to prepare for a peaadid transfer of 

power. But it was already too late. Heavy fighting occurred in July. The 

sh-engthened MPLA drove the FNLA out of Luanda and extended its 

control along the corridor to Malange and all the way to Henrique de 

Carvalho in the east. The FWLA in turn forced the MPLA out of the 

northern districts of Uige and Zaire. 

South Africa's active entrance into he codict marked a tuming point. 

Savimbi had met Prime Minister John Vomter in May, even calling him a 

"responsible leader," to begin a long-continuing relationship. South Africa 

supplied personnel to train UNITA troops. It seemed contradictory that 

South Africa should be militarily in Angola precisely when a detente in the 

Rhoddau codict was supposedly in effect. 

Nevertheless, as early as August, South African forces occupied the 

area of the Cunene hydroelectric dam in southern Angola near the Nami- 

bian border. The principal South African invasion did not begin until late 

October when two columns of troops, backed by UNITA and Chipenda's 

FNLA-related soldiers, msed into Angola. 

The so-called Zulu Column rapidly advanced north. On November 4, 

they took Benguela and Lobito. They were not halted until late Novem- 

ber, some 120 miles south of Luanda at the Queve River, by hastily 

summoned Cuban reinforcements. 

Cuban support for the MPLA was not new. Cuban military advisers had 

been on hand when the MPLA was headquartered in Brazzaville in thc 

1960s. Cuban doctors had worked with the MPLA medical program long 

before the coup in Portugal. Angolan youth sympathetic to the MPLA had 

for years been given scholarships to study in Cuba. Furthermore, Cuban 

military advisers came to Angola in spring 1975, as the fighting heated up, 

to help main MPLA forces. At the time of the October South African 

invasion, several hundred Cubans were advising and supporting the 

MPLA, but the airWg of thousands of Cuban soldiers in Operation 

Carlota did not tgke place until November 7, in response to an urgent 

appeal from Neto, when Luanda was threatened not only with the South 

Afh-led force from the south but by the FNLA-Zairian forces of 

Roberto from the north. Caught in a military pincer, the MPLA was fad 

with a crisis of survival. 

Roberto's objective was to take the capital by November 11. The 

Portuguese military had already withdrawn, and the transition govern- 

ment had been declared dead in August. A critical battle took place at 

Kifongondo, 14 miIes north of Luanda, which I visited almost six years 

later in 1981. It is a small village on a Bill overlooking the Bengo River 

where the road fmm Cartito to Luanda crosses it. The MPLA and newly 

arrived Cuban m ps had a commanding hilltop position. At this point the 

road is bordered by mushes, making an escape on the flanks almost 

impossible. As it was explained to me, the MPLA strategy was to allow 

part of the advancing FNLA-Zaire force to cross the bridge and then 

destroy it, thus dividing the attackers. Then the MPLA could let loose 

with the frightening mobile 122mm rocket launchers newly acquired from


the Soviet Union. In his book In Smh of Enemiar, John Stockwell, the 

former head of the CIA'S task force in Angola, credits the MPLA victory 

to this weapon as much as any other factor. The strategy worked as 

planned and the Roberto forces were decimated. To mark this major 

WLA victory, Angolan and Cuban flags were flying side by side on the 

hilltop. 

In the midst of this hectic military action, the MPWI declared itself the 

government of independent Angola with Agostinho Neto as president. 

The FNLA and UNITA countered by attempting to set up the Demo- 

cratic People's Republic of Angola in Huambo, but it never got & the 

ground. The two movements never resolved their mutual suspiaons. 

Roberto, for example, never dowed UNITA forces to enter his stronghold 

in the north. 

The retreating Zulu Columa had completely withdrawn from AngoIa 

by March 1976. The ltlPLA army drove the FNLA out of the north, 

captured the FNLA headquarters at Ambriz in January, and took Nqui 

on the Zairian border by early March. Roberto, back in Zaire, had only 

the remnants of a political oqanhtion. He even lost the 14-year-long 

support of his great benefactor, as President Mobutu Sese Seko signed a 

dedaration normaIizing relations with Angola on March 23, and the 

FLNA center in Kinshasa that I had so often visited was vacated." 

The People's Republic of Angola was barely two weeks old when it was 

recognized by Nigeria,Tanzania, Ghana, and the Sudan, in part at least 

because of South African intervention. 

AMERICAN INVOLVEMENT 

On the home front the ACOA's objective was to stop U.5, intervention in 

Angola. My colleagues and I had long been critics of the U.S. pro- 

Portuguese policy. Secretary of State Henry Kkinger did not really 

become concerned about the anticolonial struggle in Africa until the 

reality of the competition for power in Angola was thrust upon him. And 

then he saw it not in terms of an Angolan suuggle but as a global conflict 

between a Soviet-backed movement and one having U.S. support. He 

hoped that CIA funds far military equipment would tip the contest toward 

an PNLA-UNITA victory. Thus several hundred thousand dollars went 

covertly to Roberto in January 1975 and $14 W on in July; he requested 

another $27 million late in the year, which Congress turned down. 

The issue for U.S. policymakers was not what might be the best 

movement for Angola but simply U.S.-Soviet competition. In a Ierter to all 

the African heads of state in fall 1975, President Gerald Ford called Soviet 

*Roberto was hnally expelled f'm Zaire in 1979 after he accused Mobutu of em- 

millions of dollnn in aid inmdcd for thc FNLA during the dpil war, a c bqc thet StocLaffll 

vmitics.

Angola: Aftm the Coup 291 

support of the MPLA "intervention 8,000 miles from its borders." The 

American press inevitably described the MPLA as "Soviet-backed" or 

st" and the other two movements as "pro-West." No attempt was 

made to aplain what "Marxist" or "pro-West" meant in terms of a 

program in Angola. 

This White House policy had some tough sledding in other government 

drcles. Kissinger ran into problems with his own assimant secretary for 

Africa, Donald Easum. I knew from Samora Machel (soon-to-be president 

of Mozambique) that he had received a sympathetic hearing in Dar es 

SaIaam in 1974 from Easum, who hoped the United States would be able 

to open up a new, positive era with Mozambique and ay to make amends 

/ for years of support for Portugal. Easum was cool toward U.S. intmention 

: in Angola. He was relieved of his post shortly after he returned to Washington. 

Nathaniel Davis, U.S. ambassador to Chile during the coup against 

Salvatore AUende, was nominated to succeed Easum. The ACOA had 

joined with other groups to oppose his nomination. We felt this was no 

time to send such a man to a country fraught with cold war implications. 

How wrong we were. Davis proved to be independent and hardheaded in 

analyzing the Angolan situation. He rightly saw U.S. support for FNLA- 

UNITA as a no-win affair. He resigned in August. 

It was in Congress, however, the interventionist policy in Angola ran 

into the most severe opposition. Sen. Dick Clark of Iowa, chairman of the 

Senate Subcommittee on African Affairs, twice held hearings on U.S. 

policy toward Angola. After a nip to Angola, he wrote in an Op Ed piece 

in the New Ymk Timw (January 29,19761, "I returned convinced that our 

involvement was a mistake." In spite of his objections, covert U.S. aid 

1 increased four times in four months. He finally offered the Clark Amend- 

) ment to the Security Assistance Act to prevent funds from being spent in 

I I Angola without specific congressional approval. It lasted 10 years until it 

was repealed in July 1985. Further, an amendment to the Defense Appropriation 

Act barring further funds for Angola, sponsored by Sen. John 

Tunney of California, was overwhelmingly passed by both houses. After 

Vtemam, Americans were not anxious to be involved in another conflict 

thousands of miles away. 

The ACOA tried to pull together what nongovernmental forces we 

could to form a coalition to stop U,S. intervention in Angola. More than 40 

organizations responded. A rally was held in Wgshhgton in support of the 

Tunncy Amendment, and the coalition sponsored newspaper ads likening 

U.S. involvement in Angola to U.S. involvement in =emam. 

I wrote an Op Ed piece in the New Ymk Times (December 14, 1975h 

"Comm~ and the War in Angola," and appeared in hearings before 

the Clark subcommittee in February 1976, along with my friends John 

Uarcum and Larry Henderson. 

By this time the immediate internal struggle in Angola was virmally 

over. The MPLA was established in Luanda and had military control in 

other major centers. U.S. assistance to other groups was cut off through

TIre Final Conj'llct 

the Clark and Tunney amendments, and the MPLA government was 

fe~gnizd by 41 nations. 

I learned from this experience that it was much more diEcult to wiu 

public support for a campaign involving the cold war than for an antiapartheid 

effort. The American people did not know much about Angola. 

One had to appeal to their fear of another Vietnam and their distaste that 

U.S. support for an anti-MPLA movement put the country in a de fact0 

alliance witb South Africa. Black leadership in Congress was united in 

opposition. Vmally the only noticeable black support for U.S. interntion 

was in a campaign by Roy Innis, head of CORE, to recruit black 

Vietnam veterans to fight with the FNLA to defeat "communism" in 

Africa. I don't chink any volunteers reached Angola, fomtely for them. 

At best they would have lauded in a quagmire of disorjpization and at 

worst they would have been captured or killed. 

THE CIA AGAIN 

From time to time, the old rumor surfaced about CIA funds going through 

the ACOA to Roberto. A friend called my attention to a book by the Soviet 

journalist OIeg Ignatiev, Secret Wiafm in A+. Chapter 2 asserted that 

Roberto was receiving CIA assistance and that during much of the 1g6as it 

came through the ACOA. Igoatiev's contention that Roberto had received 

CIA aid was not in dispute, but his information, quite apart from his main 

error in pasiting a CIA connection between the ACOA and the FNLA, was 

factually incorrect on so many details teat I probably should have dismissed 

it. I decided, howwer, to write him a letter pointing out specjf~c 

errors and sent it in care of his publisher in Moscow. We exchanged two 

letters, and I received a near retraction. In the first (December 17, 1978), 

translated at the Soviet Embassy, he wrote, "I want to say that there is 

nothing in the book . . . that would give grounds for any conclusion that 

you have contacts with the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency . . . none of 

the material I had gathered for the book links your name directly with the 

CIA." This sentence contradicted his linking me and the ACOA to the 

CIA by implication. In the second, he thanked me for my letters and said, 

"I shall not omit to take them into account in prepwhg the second revised 

edition of my book." I did not see the revision, so I don't know what he 

did with my information. 

This kind of attack helped to balance attacks from the extreme right. 

For example, the N& R& Bulletin (April 21,1978) wrote that I, a 

white Methodist minister, was executive director of the ACOA described 

by Infomrarion Digest as *the leading U.S. support group for the Sovietaligned 

Marxist terrorist movement in Africa." Congressman Larry 

McDonafd had described the ACOA and me almost identically in a speech 

in the House (September g, ~gn) as serviag "for more than two decades as 

the principal support group for Marxist terrorist movements on the African 

continent."

AngoIa: After the Coup 293 

Philosophically I reasoned that if I was publicly involved in conmom- 

sial issues, I had to expect a certain amount of unjustified smearing. 

THE EFFORT TO REBUILD 

My next visit to Angola, more than five years after the civil war, was not an 

easy experience. The wxne in Luanda was rather appalling. Most of the 

busy stores I had seen in 1975 were dosed in 1981. Long queues formed in 

front of stores rumored to have food. The streets, with their few cars, were 

nothing like the bustling thoroughfares of a few years earlier. City dwellers 

went into thc country to buy food. The government had instituted an 

austerity program to limit borrowing from sources abroad aod was running 

up huge foreign debts. 

All bur ro percent of the Portuguese had fled the country during the 

fighting in 1975. This meant that most professionals were gone, and much 

of the equipment they had not taken with them such as trucks and 

tractors, was sabotaged. The coffee plantations, which had onw produced 

about 2w,ooo tons of coffee a year, the country's prinapal export, had 

been so grievously neglected that production was more than cut in half. 

Sugar production was at a standstill. Diamond production was reduced by 

80 percent. Fishing from Portuguese trawlers, now gone or unusable, 

ceased, and tsaditional fisbhg from small boats or canoes was M y 

inadequate. Roads were in disrepair. Nearly 150 bridges had been destroyed 

in the war, and rebuilding could be done only with foreign aid, 

chiefly from sdst countries. 

Fwd shortages were constant; almost 5o percent of flour, sugar, cooking 

oil, and powdered milk had to be imported. A sharp drop in the world 

prices of coffee and oil meant thar the country faced a critical economic 

situarion. At the same time, most of the 300,000 refugees who had been in 

Zaire and some 30,m in Zambia returned. 

In addition to its economic problems, the MPLA govmment ffacw 

political crises. Barely a year and a half after independence, Nito Alves, 

minister of internal administration, attempted a coup on May 27, 1977, 

against Neto. Alves's forces had briefly taken control of the radio station 

and a prison and had taken a few MPLA leaders (including my friend 

Saydi Mingas) as hostages before the government reasserted its authority. 

Alves opposed Neto's nonalignment policy, advocated scrappiug the private 

sector in the economy such as the contractual relationship with 

Cab* Gulf Oil, and favored putting whites and mestim in subordinate 

positions. The Neto policy, however, prevailed. 

Later the same year the MPLA held its first fidl congress and formed 

the WLA Rker's Party, transforming itself from a broad hition 

movement into a political party followipg Marxist-Leninist principles. 

Banks had already been natio-, but the procless was rapidly applied 

to breweries, sugar plants, and cement and textile factories. The last 

companies to be nationalized were Dmang, the diamond company, ,and


Cabinda Gult Three fourths of American investment in Angola was 

through Gulf. The nationahtion of oil through Sonangol, the state oil 

company with 51 percent control of Cabinda Gulf, which was finalized in 

September 1978, did not change tbe company's good working relationship 

with the government. Angola received about $500 million annually from 

Gulf in taxes and royalties. The president of Gulf Oil (the parent company), 

appearing in congressional hearings and speaking in favor of U.S. 

recognition of Angola, said, "Gulf has encountered no ideological or 

discriminatory problems of any significance. . . . [Angola follows] a bigbly 

nationalistic and yet pragmatic policy toward foreign inve~ments."~ Angola 

pursued an expedient policy of getting help where it was available. 

Most military mat&el came through the Soviet Union, costing Angola aa 

estimated $2 billion from 1983 to 1985.~ Cubans served in both military 

and technical roles with Angola covering the cost of room and board. More 

than 400 Cubans filled impoffant health posts, leadiug Andrew Young, 

U.S. ambassador to the UN, to make the controversial statement after he 

visited Angola in 1977 that "Cubans bring a cermin stability and order'" to 

Angola. Yugosiavs and East Germans were especially helpful in rebuilding 

bridges and roads. Help came from the West too. Swedish bankers offered 

technical advice in restructuring the National Bank of Angola; the French 

helped to restore coffee production; Austrians assisted in the production 

of iron ore. 

To compound the problems of Angola, Neto died in September 1979. 

He was succeeded by Jod Eduardo dos Santos, who was mined as a 

petroleum engineer. Most devastating for Angola was the destabWg 

effect of South Africa*s continued intervention thmugh UNITA. The 

rationale was that Angola offered support and sanctuary to the South West 

Africa People's Organktion (SOtrAPO) in the suuggle for iudepcndence 

in Namibia. The rationale for U.S. refusal to recognize the Angola government 

and for overt-covert aid to UNITA was the presence of Cuban 

troops. Yet as long as South Africa intervened, Cuban help was needed. A 

report to an MPLA congress in December 1985 summarized South African 

actions in Angola in the 1g80s: 4,000 violations of at: space, 168 

aerial bombardments, 230 airborne troop landings, go srrafing attacks, 74 

land attacks, and 4 naval landings. 

UNITA's guerrilla activities in the Angolan higbhds, making it unsafe 

for the farmers to till the land, tragically disrupted the production of food. 

This area, once the breadbasket of Angola, reportedly had 200,000 people 

suffixing from malnutrition. Only 3 percent of the arable land was under 

cultivation. A Red Cross report in late 1985 indicated that 400 tons of food 

were flown weekly into the area. This dreadful situation did not result 

from drought, as in the other hungry areas of Africa, but from UNPTA's 

destabilizing campaign, which had tuned Angola from a net exporter of 

food stuffs into a country dependent on imported food.

CHAPTER TWENTY 

Mozambique: 

The FRELIMO Victory 

ozambique had been independent for just four months when, in 

M October 1975, I visited it for the first time. To me, Mozambique 

was the most exciting indwdent corntry in Africa just thm, not simply 

becaw the liberation struggle had been won but also -use of the 

integrity of thc E;RELIMO leadership. Yet it was clear that the testing time 

was just beginning. 

As the plane landed at Lourenso Marques (Maputo after February 

1976)~ I was fascinated by the city's imposing skyline. My friends were 

away and so could not meet me at the airport, but by lucky chance, 

Alberto Sithole, whom I had known as the FRELIMO representative in 

Lusaka and who was then with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was there. 

He drove me to the plush Polana Hotel, which had a spectacular view of 

the Indian Ocean, a large outdoor swimming pool, and an extensive 

subtropical garden. The hotel was a vestige of the colonial past. One of the 

staff told me that go percent of the guests used to be South Africans on 

holiday, but now there were only 6 South Africans of 60 guests. The hotel 

could accommodate zoo, Thus one of the realities of independent Mombique 

was impressed on me. 

PROBLEMS AND ASSETS 

In spite of the hope and the enthusiasm FRELIMO brought to the task of 

rebuilding the country, the movement had inherited serious problems. 

Most of the Portuguese residents in the south never came to terms with the 

reality of a FRELIMO victory. The heavy fighting had taken, place hun- 

dreds of miles to the north, and to them the possibility of the "terrorists" 

winning a victory was like a bad dream. Nevertheless, the accord between 

FRELIMO and Formgal was signed in Lusaka in early September 1974. 

Some adamant resident Portuguese made an attempt at m It against 

the transitional government and even called for a white-controlled uai- 

lateral declaration of independence, as in Rhodesia. A contingent of med 

dissidents had briefly taken over the radio station in Lourenso Marques in 

September, only to be driven out by the remaining Portuguese mps. A 

month later, dissident Portuguese attacked FRELIMO soldiers on police 

duty. This time the people rewated by attacking Portuguese establish- 

ments. Several hundred people were killed or injured.

The Final ConjPict 

A Portuguese exodus began-doctors, lawyers, teachers, businas pto- 

ple, technicians, farmers. A year after independence the Portuguese popu- 

lation had declined go percent, to abut 20,000. Just as in Angola, they 

often took with them what machinery or farm equipment they could and 

destroyed the rest. Factories and stores were abandoned, as there were no 

managers or technicians to run them. Most Africans had not been trained 

to do so. Farms and plantations were likewise abandoned, some 4,000 in 

the fertile Limpopo River valley alone, north of Lourenso Marques, where 

much of the food for the capital area was grown. The ports and the railroad 

lost 7,000 skilled and semiskilled workers. Eighty percent of the doctors 

departed. Tourism came to a halt, and servants of the Portuguese joined 

the unemployed. 

Furthermore, FRELIMO inherited a lopsided economy from the Por- 

tuguese. Expms were half as great as imports. The country could not feed 

itself. Trade, at the time af independence, was a dassic mample of a 

colonial economy-78 percent of the exports were raw macerials and 

agricultural produce, and 85 percent of imports were manufactured goods. 

The economy was geared to and dominated by the relationship to South 

Africa. The porn and the railmads were dependent on South African 

Mc. Abut 125,ooo Mozambicans were employed in the South African 

mines. When, in 1976, South Africa cut this number to 40,000, it simply 

added to Mozambique's economic woes. 

Mozambique suffered from its relationship with Rhodesia as well. 

Within six months, President Samora Machel closed the border. This cut 

off Rhodesia's use of the railroad and the port facilities at Beita, but the 

loss of revenue from these services and from migrant labor payments cost 

Mozambique more than $150 million a year. 

In spite of these problems, FRELIMO tackled the task at hand with 

vigor and determination. I sensed the air of optimism and excitement 

everywhere. FRELIMO had a lot of things going for it. Mozambique was 

not without natural resources-a lot of land, water, potential energy, vast 

reserves of cod, some minerals and iron ore. Furthermore, there was no

Mmmnbique: The FRELIMO Vicmy 

Iarge group of wealthy land owners to stand in the way of sodization, to 

which FRELIMO was wmmitted, nor was there a large group of landless 

peasants. In 1975 there was even a small balance of payments surplus 

kuse imports were curtailed while exports continued at the regular pace 

for a short the. 

A DEDICATED PEOPLE 

The country's main asset, however, was the dedication of leaders and 

peoplc to tackling their new responsibilities. It was thrilling for me to see 

the reunion of former comrades who had once shared prison cells. I spent 

several days with a young FELIMO party worker, Inado Cossa, who came 

from southern Gaza Province. He went with me on my visit to the home of 

Eduardo Mondlane described in chapter 14. He was one of 75 nationalists 

caught by South African police as they were nying to escape from Mozam- 

bique through the Transvaal to join ERELIMO in Dar es Salaam. They 

were turned over the Portuguese authorities. After five years in prison near 

Lamp Marques, he was released in 1969 and then forced to join the 

Portuguese army and not allowed out of the Lourengo Marques area. If he 

had been, he wouId have deserted, he said. On our mp we met two of his 

fellow prisoners, the head of FRELIAIO for Gaza and the governmeneal 

administrator for the district of Manjacaze, The men's greetiug and em- 

brace, accompanied by laughing and back slapping, signified a special 

bond forged through a common experience in the liberation struggle. 

Basic FRELIMO organizational practices were just being worked out. 

At that time, only those who had been in the armed fom or who had 

lived in the liberated areas during the struggle were party members. But 

the constitutional meam of establishing membership was being discussed. 

The new flag d e d symbols of FRELIMO p~ciplcs-the hoe for 

agriculture, the star for solidarity with people everywhere committed to 

likation, the gun for struggle, and the book for education. 

I was impressed by the enthusiasm of new ERELIMO recruits of 

Portuguese extraction. I spent long hours with a young teacher of English 

at the local high school, walking mound the capital, visiting the docks, 

noting the half empty apartment buildings vacated by fleeing Portuguese 

and now beginning to fill up with Africans, noting the former houses of 

prostitution closed or converted to other uses. My companion was waiting 

for a call to do national reconstruction work in a northern village for which 

he and four friends had volunteered. 

My companion first explained to me the importance of the so-called 

Dynamiziag Groups (Gapes Dinamezadores, GDs), which were set up in 

neighborhoods, schools, and business establishments to raise the political 

consciousness of the peoplc and initiate them in programs supportive of 

FRELIMO. They were not an intergral part of the movement, although

298 The Final Conflict 

they were nurtured by it. Participation was entirely voluntary, but everyone 

was encouraged to be active m a GD. They had weekly meetings, 

chose their own leaders, and enjoyed a lot of give and take among the 

members. 

Each GD had operational sections devoted to women's organization, 

political work, information and propaganda, cultural emphases, and social 

affairs. One vofunteer was responsible for each section. I saw evidence of 

the work of the GDs in neighborhood clean-up squads and local vigilance 

committees, which patrolled day and night to discourage petty thieving 

and make people aware of security problems. I was once challenged by a 

young girl when I was taking movies of FRELIMO slogans written on the 

side of a school building. Our "conversation" consisted of gesnves and my 

showing her a letter from a FRELIMO leader granting me the right to 

take picmes. She smiled, we shook hands, and I continued my photography. 

For tbe first two years of independence, the GDs s e d an important 

role in introducing many people in areas far removed from the liberation 

struggle to community action and responsible work. 

My companion appraised the GDs realistically. There was a lot of 

apathy to contend with. When they organized GDs at his school, about 

2,000 students turned out, but after a series of discussions on FRELIMO 

ideology aud the GDs, only about 300 elected the secretariat and the key 

rerp~naPIols to head the operational sections. 

When I visited FRELIMO headquarters, it seemed to me that the 

seeti& encouraging the GDs, where Cossa worked, was the most active. 

Various GD delegations came in for help in solving problems rauging from 

uaempleyment to violation of men's rights, to isolated acts of racial 

discrimination. When he and I visited a clothing factory and a cashew 

plant, he called for the GD representatives to join us. These units were like 

trade unions, and through thun g r i v dbe presented to management. 

I' T! 7 - I- 

I visited some People's Shops, a carryover from the independence 

struggle. On a Saturday afternoon, about a hundred people were queued 

up at the door, They were let in a few at a time to prevent overcrowding. 

The shop was one of sewn in the city, all owned by the state and operated 

for the ben&t of the people- Prices were about 10 percent lower than those 

in an ordinary shop There was not much stock, however, and the future of 

the shops was in doubt. They seemed better adapted to their original role 

as barter mding posts than to competition with other stores in the city. 

CULTURE AND HEALTH 

On Saturday afternoon in the crowded outlyhg areas of the city, the 

narrow, unpaved roads were thronged with pedestrians. In open spaces 

between the small houses constructed of sheets of metal and odd pieces of 

boarding, d d g and dancing were in progress. For blocks away the 

rhythmic sounds were compelling. In the Malhangalene area a FRELIMO 

flag was flying inside a law faced enclosure, and a couple of hundred

Mmambique: The FRELIMO Victory 299 

people were participating in festivities, sponsored by the cultural section 

of the neighborhod GD. I talked with the responsad for culture, a 

woman, who explained that they were teaching the children the traditional 

dances. The drumming was done by women. Boys and girls were decked 

out in straw skirts and straw anklets. A man was leading the dancing. The 

ztdkovery of the people's culture was under way 

I spent a lot of time with Dr. Helder Martins, the minister of health, 

with whom I had worked when the ACOA had contributed to the health 

program of FRELIMO for the long years of the struggle. He explained 

that despite the serious problem caused by the exodus of doctors, they 

were making some changes. Medical services had been nationalbed. A 

long-term plan was in effect emphasizing preventive medicine and health 

education. The 1976 budget called for constructing one hospital in each 

province. Martins was hopeful about training new doctors. Ufthe furrent 

crop of graduates from the university medical school, only 12 our of 25 

were staying in the country with government contracts, but in the next 

year's graduating dass only 3 were leaving. Plans were moving ahead for an 

accelerated training program for medical assistants and nurses, the con- 

struction of local clinics and sanitary posts (under the Portuguese 89 

percent of private doctors had worked in the capital) and mass irnrnuniza- 

tion campaigns. 

FRELIMO's priorities were decaad in the budget. President Machel 

had announced that education and culture wee first, followed by agri- 

culture, health, and, last, the armed services. The emphasis paid off in 

education, for in the first five years primary school attendance increased by 

about 100 percent to almost ~,p,ooo in school, and secondary school 

students rose from 20,m to 35,000. Literacy rose from about 5 percent to 

25 percent. 

RURAL COMMUNITIES 

I went on a trip to Tete Province hundreds of miles north of Lourenq 

Marques. This had been the area of heavy armed struggle between 

FREWO and the Portuguese. Here the Pormguese bad forced people 

into aldem. In one small district there were 14. Several hundred 

people lived in the village of Nchamba. It had been set up in 1972 and 

included a military post composed of African soldiers in the Portuguese 

army. This prompted a villager to comment to me, "FRELIMO sees no 

dHerences in race. Wi: have some friends who are white, and some 

enemies who are black." Since independence, some of the people had 

moved back to their old homesteads, but most had stayed on. The village 

now had a school, a rudimentary health post, and an active GD. 

The most important feature of FRELIMO9s plan for rural community 

life, however, was the establishment of communal villages. This was given 

highest priority. It was hoped that the aldeamentos could fit within their 

smm. The process of building the villages was just beginning. In the 

southem part of Maputo Province, I saw a village where f d e laud was


already being worked in common by peasants even before new houses were 

constructed. Joaquim Chissano, the foreign minister, explained to me that 

they would range from 500 to 1,- fdes in size. A awnendous 

educational campaign was being planned to explain to the people, who had 

traditionally lived in separate homesteads and worked small plots, the 

advantages of communal life. Schools, clinics, stores, uansportation, and 

communication facilities would be more available in a village. The land 

would be worked in common and the income from the produce would be 

shared, but families would have private plots as well. The blueprint 

sounded good, I though, but would it work? 

NATIONALIZATION 

The process of nationalization had just begun when I was there. I dis 

cussed it with Marcelino dos Santos, minister of development and m 

nomic planning. The legal profession, the education and health systems, 

and funerals had been nationalized almost immediately. The idea was to 

stop exploitation of the common people. Nationalizjng of funerals was 

particularly popular because of the exploitive practices of fuaeral direc- 

tors. Unused land and rental apartment buildings were also controUed by 

the government, but not private homes, private industries, or stores. 

RELATIONS WITH SOUTH AFRICA 

I was particularly eager to know how FRELIMO would relate to South 

Africa, which is only 40 miles from the capital. Mozambique had inherited 

an economy geared to South Africa; thousands of men were employed in 

South African mines; its railroad and port facilities were made for South 

African use, and its Cabora Bassa Dam produced power for South Africa. 

Furthermore, FRELIMO was closely associated with the South African 

ANC dedicated to the overthrow of the apartheid government. How would 

South Africa respond to an independent Mozambique? 

Security in Mozambique did not seem unusually tight. I had no qualms 

about walking around Lourencp Marques any time of the day or night. On 

the highways outside the aty there were occasionally police madblocks 

and checkpoints, but it was pretty routine as long as a driver had a permit 

for the trip 

Chissano and I discussed the relationship of the two countries. He took 

a pmgmatic view about the Cabora Bassa Dam. I had spent some hours at 

this most impressive site in a deep gorge where the Zambezi must have 

flowed swiftly before the construction of the dam and the lake, which 

stretched back about 125 miles to the Rhodesian border. Only two of the 

five turbines were completed and in operation then, with all the electricity 

going to South Africa. About ~,m workers out of an original 7,000 were 

still on the job. 

The Mozambique goverment was not planning to interrupt the con-

Mmumbique: Tite FRELIMO Vktary 

struction or cut off the flow of power to South Africa, Chissano explained 

to me. "The current which is flowing in the wins from CabOra Bassa to 

South Africa is like a river. It would be dimcult to stop and stopping it 

would not change the situation in South Africa." Maybe the situation 

would change later, but in any event, FRELIMO would take its lead from 

the liberation movement in South Africa. The more serious problem with 

South Africa, he thought, involved the migrant miners and the use of the 

port facilities, where some I O , ~ 

were employed. Obviously this was an 

inherited economic fact of life for Mozambique, which could not bc 

precipitously changed. 

NOT A SIMPLE SUCCESS STORY 

I have been back to Mozambique several times since 1975 and have had a 

wide variety of experienmobering, exciting, disappointing, and satisfying. 

Mozambique cannot be regarded as a simple success story. The 

problems of daily existence make that impossible. Drought followed b~ 

floods in southern Mozambique in 1982-1983, for example, bad terrible 

effects. Rainfall had been BalZ the normal amount, and tens of thousands 

of people were stanring. Eifforts to send in fwd were sabotaged by the 

South African-backed Mozambique National Resistance (MNR), an anti- 

FRELIMO guerrilla group It was dangerous to travel by car outside 

urban areas in many provinces. The UN World Fwd Program was unable 

to opaate in Gaza aud Jnhambane because of MNR harrassment. 

I was told that the long lines of people wairing to enter restaurants in 

Maputo were the result not of a lack of money but of a shortage of food. 

Maputo had a rationing system. Toward the end of the month, many 

people had used up their allotments and had to go to restaurants to eat. 

Fdties at even some formerly first-class hotels were dismal. Frequently 

the main elevator was not running, as no spare parts were available 

for repairs. There was no soap or hot water; running water was sometimes 

turned off for many hours of the day, and flush toilets frequently did not 

work properly. Brealcf~t consisted of dry toast and tea or coffee. People 

who knew the ropes brought their own butter, jelly, or milk. The government 

gave low priority to tourism. Casual visitors were not likely to be 

drawn to Mozambique. 

In spite of FRELIMO's vigorous attack on its problems, tremendous 

ctZEculties persisted. To be sure, in the h t five years of independence thc 

number of primary and secondary school students rose dramatically. But 

there was a great shortage of mined teachers. There were few text books, 

and fresuently the only way to obtain reference material was laboriously to 

make copies from singte adable books. 

The number of communal villages grew slowly. In 1978 the head of the 

program in GaPl told me there were about 860 in the entire country. Four 

years later there were 500 more. The government hoped to increase the

The Final Cm.ict 

population in such villages from 1.5 million to 5 million by rgp, a 

seemingly impossible goal. 

I found my visits to communal villages fascinating-the welcome by the 

leaders, the singing and the discussions (frequently involving translation 

from the local language into Portuguese and then to English) interspersed 

with an easy comradery. I witnessed open-air literacy classes for adults and 

elementary classes for children (frequently within reed fences), poorly 

stocked cooperative stores, and lines at the well and the clinic. The people 

worked in the communal fields from 7:00 A.M. to 2:30 P.M. and then in 

their family plots. It was a hard life. They suffered from the same 

problems affecting the country as a whol~ught or floods, MNR 

attacks, and lack of machinery and consumer goods. 

By the early 1980s the number of doctors had risen to about 350, many 

of them from overseas. About half were serving in Maputo. The shortage 

was a contant problem. Nevertheless, in the country at large, mass vaccination 

campaigns have been important in knocking out smallpox and 

attacking serious diseases such as measles. 

I knew something of the destruction caused by the MNR from my 

&its, news accounts, and talks with offids. The amount of physical 

damage credited to the MNR was sobering. Machel recounted the cost in a 

speech made in 1984: 840 schools, 186 health posts and centen, 24 

maternity clinics, goo shops destroyed. The oil pipe line and the railroad 

from Beira to Zimbabwe were blown up Foreign techidans were kidnapped 

and four had been killed. Sawmills, tea factories, and cotton gins 

had been destroyed. On top of FRELIMO's other problems, these losses 

were ovemhdmhg. The MNR was a natural successor to the force of 

right-wing Portuguese and Rhodesian white supremacists and anti- 

FRELIMO Mozambicans that had operated against black nationalist 

forces during the struggle for the independence of Zimbabwe. After 

independence, they had fled to South Africa, on which they depended for 

support. 

FRELIMO and the South African ANC had a close relationship of 

longstanding. Time and again leaders of both movements told me they 

vowed support for each other to the end. Mozambican independence was 

looked upon as a victory for the ANC too because it meant that the ANC 

had a friendly neighbor. Oliver h b o was treated almost like a head of 

state when he came to Mozambique. 

That is why the highly publicized Nkomati Accord signed by President 

RW. Both of South Africa and President Machei of Mozambique in 

March 1984 in an atmosphere of friendliness and a mutual sense of victory 

came as an unexpected shock to many sympathizers with FRELIMO. It 

was a nonaggression pact in which each counuy agreed to rapt the 

sovereignty of the other, to settle disputes peaceNJy, to prohibit propaganda 

against the other* and to forbid the use of its territories by an enemy 

of the other planning violence. How could such a friendly document come 

about after years of mutual renimination and the sudden night attacks by

Mo~ambique: The FRELIMO Victory 303 

South Afria commandos and planes on n odmy buildings in Matola, 

a suburb of Maputo? 

I had visited the sites of two such attacks. In 1981 threc houses of South 

African ANC members had been damaged and 12 people killed. When I 

saw the houses, they were in the same condition as the day of the attack 

except for the removal of the bodies-huge holes in the wals, bullet marks 

on the floors, ceilings, and walls; blood stains on the walls and steps, 

rnarking the exit route of those trying to escape. Scattered on the floor 

were ANC and SWAP0 pamphlets, a copy of Newmeek, the book Fiwe 

Secondr to Live, a toy pistol, broken glass, and personal dfects. 

In 1983 a jam factory had been bombed on the pretext that it was an 

ANC stronghold. Three workers had been killed and one injured. A 

nursery close by had been hit, but fortunately no children were there so 

early in the morning. 

After all this destruction, many ANC leaders were understandably 

bitter about the accord and especially about Mozambique's air of victory. 

In November 1984 in Algiers at the 30th anniversary of the struggle 

against the French, an ANC leader told me he was convinced that South 

Africa was still supporting the MNR eight months after the accord. And 

yet, Mozambique had expelled all but 10 members of the ANC diplomatic 

mission in holding up its part of the accord. He said he had not lost faith in 

FRELIMO, but he believed the agreement could not last.* 

Also in Algiers a FRELIMO leader told me that he recognized the 

ANC% disappointment but that the accord was a necessity. He realistically 

commented that the "bandits" of the MNR were gaining strength and it 

was hoped the accord would at least slow them down. In private I found no 

Mozambicans who looked upon the accord as a victory. Obviously it 

represented FRELIlClO's inability to stamp out the MNR or mpnd 

forcefully to South African aggression. 

HOPE IN SPITE OF ADVERSITY 

The many economic and other problems burdening Mozambique notwith- 

standing, I cling to a great hope for the country. For one thing, I respond 

positively to the pragmatism of FRELIMO leaders, to their openness, self- 

criticism, and willingness to change their approach if it is not working 

effectively. I have sensed the efforts to change direction several times even 

in the decade or so since independence. For example, at the beginning, in 

an atmosphere of optimism the GDs were enthusiastically promoted. Yet 

*A year later Sou& Africa admitted violating the accord. A hcadline in the Ncm Yd TUM 

(Sepmbw 20,1985) announmd: "Soutb Africa Admits Breaking Mozambique PactH The 

deputy foreign minister, Louis Nel, admitted he had made rhrce sccrct trips to rcbl 

h d q ~ ~ n ~ b iand o u c 

f*ip 

w*. r-'7 'I 

- P

304 The Final Conpict 

when I returned to Mozambique three years later, I was surprised to find 

they had been superseded. It was explained to me that the GDs were 

important for the transition period, but something more was needed for 

the bng haul. They hadn't ceased to exist but were no longer central to the 

organization of the country. 

THE THIRD CONGRESS 

FRELIMO's third congress,* in 1977, adopted a grand development plan. 

Members and candidates soon rose from about rg,ooo to 100,000. It was 

not easy to become a member, for only the most committed could win the 

commendation of their fellow workers, a prerequisite for membership. 

Economically the plan called for the establishment of large state enter- 

prises. The farms and plantations abandoned by the departed Portuguese 

would be transformed into state farms as the most effective way of meeting 

food requirements. Simultaneously, state-owned heavy industry was sup- 

posed to produce necessary consumer goods. I spent a day at a state farm 

at Umbeluzi, about 30 miles from Maputo. It covered about 6,000 acres 

and had some 1,500 workers, who were paid $50 a month and given 

housing. Previously the land had been divided into several privately owned 

farms operated by Italian and Portuguese farmers. Large blocks of the 

state farm speciaIized in citrus fruit, growing some go,^ trees. Farmers 

were uying to develop a d ower hybrid whose seeds would produce a 

superior oil and were experimenting with 12 varieties of maize, onions, 

and other vegetables. The farm looked impressive, but I could not judge 

the overall effectiveness of the system. There were about 50 state farms in 

Maputo Province. 

My firsthand view of Mozambican industry was limited. The country 

had been one of the top 10 industrialized countries in Africa. Cashews, 

primarily, followed by tea, cotton, sisal, and sugar were processed for 

export. Rice, meat, and dairy products were processed for local consump- 

tion. In addition, plants manufactured textiles, clothing, ferdlizer, beer, 

paints, and some steel. 

I was especially interested to visit the largest cashew plant. Not highly 

mechanized, it depended on more than 2,000 workers, mostly women. In 

one huge room some 800 women at long benches cracked the nutshells 

with hammers. The room was filled with the sound of cracking shells, the 

hum of conversation, and background music coming through a loud 

speaker. The nuts were then sorted by hand and packed in large tins, also 

manufactured in the plant, for shipping. Ninety percent of the export was 

to the United States. The plant also extracted a fine oil from the shells for 

; Inrr 

export. + 

Pan of the grand plan was to hasten the oh&tion of communal 

villages and producer cooperatives. The dream. was that by the end of the 

*The first was in 1962, thc wxund in 1968.

Mo~ambique: The FRELIMO Victory 305 

1980s the bulk of the rural population would live in communal villages and 

work through co-ops or on state farms. 

The plan, however, did not work the way it was hoped. Production fell 

by 50 percent over a two-year period. Trained persomd were insufficient. 

Machinery broke down and spare parts were lacking. The counuy also 

sutiered from a balan-f-payments problem. Prices for Mombicm 

exports sank, while the cost of imported oil, steel, and trucks rose. The 

farm cooperatives did not attract mass support from the farmers, who 

preferred to work their own land. The incentive to communal work was 

lacking, especLally when consumer goods were in such short supply. With 

more money available than goods to buy, prices rose and the black market 

prospered. People's Shops were defunct because of the lack of goods and 

poor management. 

THE FOURTH CONGRESS 

In this troubled atmosphere, FRELIMO held its fourth congress in 1983. 

When I arrived about thee months Iater, its maia decisions were explained 

to me. Reversing the.plicy of the third congress, FRELIMO was again 

setting off in a new direction. Big industries and state farms were deem- 

phasized in favor of the private sector. Family farming, I d industries, 

and private shops even in the communal villages were encouraged. It was 

taatly recognized that famiiy farmers produced most of the crops. Machel 

set out on a trip to Western Europe and later to the United States to seek 

aid, with some success. 

Other considerations bolster my hope for the fume of Mozambique. 

Despite the twists and turns in the fortunes of the country, FRELIMO has 

been remarkably stable. Divisive internal power struggles have not oc- 

curred. No purges have taken place. The assumption of power at indepen- 

dence did not lead to a round of executions of former coLlaborators and 

party dissidents, atthough there were punishments, and for three years 

pictures of "compromisers" (who hold actively warked with the Portuguese 

during the struggle) were posted at work places. A series of meetings 

between hundreds of former collaborators and the pnsident ended this 

phase of public humiliation in I 982. 

My visit to a communal village named February Third, the date of 

Eduardo Mondlane's murder, was also encouraghg. Nearly 300 of the 

3,500 villagers, many of them women, constituted a welcoming commit- 

tee. They sang beautifully as we gathered in the shade of a large mango 

tree, In the discussion that followed, one villager after another spoke about 

their life together. They emphasized the problems--lack of tractors and 

adequate fwd and water* There was no hesitation about speaking out in 

the presence of the FRELIMO officials accompanying us. This was a 

message not to foreign visitors but to their own government. I lied this 

freedom of expression. 

On a visit to the Francisco Manyanga secondary school in Maputo, 

named for a FRELIMO hero, my son, Steven, a teacher, and I talked with

The Find Conflict 

a young woman math teacher from Eastern Europe, who had been in 

Mozambique for two years. She marveled at the freedom of speech and 

said she wished they had as much back in her home. 

In a small restaurant in a town in Tete Province, I noticed the Portuguese 

woman proprietor rallring worriedly with one of my FRELIMO 

companions. A few hours earIer, an African patron had leaned back on the 

two hind legs of a fragile chair. When she had asked him to sit squarely lest 

the chair break, he had reacted furiously, using disparaging radal epithets. 

The woman was appealing to the official, whom she knew, for help He 

assured ha that FRELIMO was nonracial and she was within her rights to 

protect her +, she was to let him know in case of furteer trouble. 

Janet Mondlaae told me that she thought Mozambique was the least 

racist couarry in the whale world. Although the great buIk of peopIe are 

black African, everyone in the country is called a Mozambican, regardless 

of color or ancestry. The party and governmental leadership is racialiy well 

mixed. Marrins, the h t 

dtex of health, was white; Marcelin0 dos 

Santos, a Coloured in South African parlance, was married to a wbte 

South Afrim. Many leaders were of Asian or Afro-Asian extraction. My 

friend Sharfudine Khan, the FRELIMO representative in New York for 

so many years, had an Indian and African background. His wife, Norma, 

is a Christian Egyptian, while he him& is Muslim. 

I was in Maputo on April 7, 1981, the Day of Mozambican Women. 

This annual holiday reminds the people of FRELIMO's dedication to the 

liberation of women. The celebration was capped off by a huge parade 

with dancing, singing, and speeches led by the women of the Organization 

of Mozambican Women. 

Women rue campaigniug for complete equality. FRELIMO is breaking 

the traditional mold by discouraging polygamy and the old system of bride 

price, under which a man virtually paid for a wife who would then do his 

household work and bear his childten. Some signiiic811t changes have 

occurred. More than a quarter of FRELIMO party members are women, 

although the party and the sociery are still male domiuated. As of the 

middle 1980s there had been only one woman minister, Graga Uachel, 

minister of education and wife of the president. 

Some of the worst features of political favoritism are resisted in Momun- 

bique. High government officials are not permitted to carry on business 

pursuits on the side to enrich themselves. There is, however, a formality to 

government lift that has been inherited from the Portuguese. Those of 

high rank and aspirants to it are expected to wear suits gad ties, unlike the 

informal dress in Tanzania, which I personally prefer. They a!so enjoy 

special privileges-front seats on planes; better facilities in hotels, mmu- 

rants, or hospitals; and the opportunity for family members to travel 

abroad for education and medical treatment. Generdy, though, elitism is 

frowned on. 

Mozambique is a one-party stare, yet there is a lot of give and take in 

party politics. Elective positions in the local and national assemblies are

Mozambique: The FRELIMO Victory 307 

hotly contested. In the 1978 elections, 2,200 candidates approved by the 

party were turned down by voters. 

I regret some practices FRELIMO has adopted. Following the fourth 

congress, in 1983, public executions and floggings took place for economic 

crimes. Up to 1979 there was no death penalty and up to 1983 it wss used 

only for treason. Since then I have read newspaper accounts of public 

execution by firing squad of a smuggler and also of a train engineer who 

sold off some of his cargo of sugar. The executions wee discussed ia 

hushed tones when I was in Mozambique a few months later. 

At about the same timeI the government enacted a dubious policy of 

shipping thousands of the unemployed, nonresident men floating around 

Maputo and other cities to the far nonhern provinces for a kind of ford 

labor. The program was intended to ease the tight economic situation in 

the cities by putting the jobless to useful work, but protests mounted and 

the program was soon dropped. 

MOZAMBIQUE AND THE UNITED STATES 

The relationship of Mozambique to the United States has grown increasingly 

pragmatic. In the early days of independence, the legacy of the 

U.S. alliance with Portugal soured any possibility for friendship Mozambique 

was on the American black list. The U.S. consulate in Louren~o 

Marques was closed down. By congressional action no economic assistance 

was permitted. The United States was not even officially invited to the 

independence celebration, atthough Sen. Dick Clark and Rep Charles 

Dii were invited as individuals. 

By the time of my second visit to Mozambique, in 1978, relations had 

impmved. I talked several times with U.S. Ambassador Willard De Pree, 

who was informed about, and sympathetic to, Mozambique and was well 

received by Mozambican officials. Food was being shipped w Mozambique, 

althougb other aid was still prohibited. He told me there were only 

54 Americans then in the country. 

An& Young, U.S. ambassador to the UN, had gone to Maputo in 

~ gfor n a UN conference. Machel had gone to the UN in 1978 and had 

met President Jimmy Carter. Machel said the time had come to "wipe the 

slate clean" between the two countries and start again. 

Mozambique has followed a neutralist foreign policy. During the years 

of combat with Portugal, the Soviet Union and other Eastem European 

countries supplied most of FRELIMO's milimy equipment. Mozambique 

&ed neutral, however, in the Sino-Soviet split. It signed a zoyear 

friendsbip waty with the Soviet Union in 1977 but did not set up an 

embassy in MOSCOW until 1980. Excepting military heb technical aid has 

been more important in Mozambique's relations with Eastern Europe than 

has trade. Eastern European doctors, teachers, and technicians are in 

Mozambique in sigdic~nt numbers. The Soviet Union has helped build


schools and offered liberal scholarships. More rhan a thousand Mozam- 

bicans were studying in Cuba on the Isle of Youth when I visited there in 

1982. But only 15 percent of Mozambique's made was with Eastern 

Europe. The country is not a member of the socialist economic com- 

munity. Furthermore, it resisted a Soviet effort to establish a naval base 

there. 

By spring 1981, the administration of Ronald Reagan had set a tone 

distinguishing its African policy from Carter's. During my travels time 

and again African leaders asked me: "What is Reagan trying to do?" "Is 

the United States really going to choose to work with South Africa over the 

rest of the continent?" Everyone I talked with was familiar with the 

current debate in Congress on repealing the Clark Amendment, which had 

disallowed U.S. aid to dissident movements in Angola. Was the CIA to be 

reactivated in Angola? I detected not so much anger as incredulity about 

the posture of the new administration. 

My trip in 1981 coincided with the first trip of Chester Gocker to 

southern Africa as the State Department's assistant secretary-designate for 

Africa. Our paths crossed in Mozambique and Angola. From my con- 

versations with officials, I learned that his discussions with them, par- 

ticularly in Mozambique, had been tense. Only a few days before his 

arrival, four U.S. embassy staff had been expelled for suspected CIA 

connections. His discussion with Foreign Minister Chissano was strained 

and ended abruptly and inconclusively. Later, in Angola, I asked a mem- 

ber of Crocker's delegation at our hotel how the trip was faring. He said, 

"Fine, everywhere except Mozambique." 

What Mozambique's new turn in economic policy since 1983 may mean 

for future relations with the United States remains to be seen. In the early 

1980s Mozambique had a favorable balance of trade with the United 

Statessome $28.5 million in exports and $20 million in imports. The 

United States, which with Western Europe accounted for 80 percent of the 

country's trade, was the chief customer for two main Mozambican ex- 

ports-cashews and sugar. There was Little private American investment, 

principally Exxon and General Tire Co. 

Crocker played a significant role in orchestrating the Nkomati Accord. 

Thereafter, the U.S. government waived the ban on development aid to 

Mozambique and approved a bilateral program. The United States autho- 

rized more food aid to Mozambique than to any other African country 

during the drought of 1982-1983. 

President Machel mveled to Western Europe in late 1983 in an attempt 

to attract investment in Mozambique.' He went to the United States in 

late 1985 and met with President Reagan. Future good U.S.-Mozambican 

relations may depend less on events within Mozambique itself than on 

events in South Africa. 

*The tragic death of Machel October 19, 1986, in a suspiaous plane crash in Sou& Africa 

and Chissano's acoesrion to thc prrsidcn~y 

took place after this chapter was wrinen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 

Western Sahara: 

Struggle in the Desert 

u ntil the middle rg?os, Spanish Sahara (Western Sahara since 1976) 

had been little more than a place on the map to me, I had spent time 

in all the countries of North Africa and had inevitably touched the Sahara, 

but the small areas under Spanish control were a blank to me. 

My experience of Wksern Sahara began in May 1979 in western Algeria, 

20 mile. from the desert town of Tindouf, about r ,zoo mils west of 

Algiers. There the Popular Front for the Liberation of Saguia cl Hamra 

and Rio de On, (POLISARIO) maintained a reception center in close 

proximity to desert refugee camps where some 100,aao Sahrawi (Ssharans) 

lived.* For a week I visited some of these camps. My most constant 

companions were an Algerian linguist named Farouk, who served as 

interpreter, and Ahmed Ali, a Saharan assigned by POLISARIO to accompany 

me. Although he spoke a little English, some French, and some 

Spanish, Ahmed was most comfortable in Arabic. A short man in his 2os, 

he was both a guerrilla and a mathematics teacher in a POLISARIO 

milimy school. 

This trip and one in November in 1979 rank among the most fascinating 

I have had in more than 30 years of navel in Africa. This was true in 

part because of the desolation, beauty, expanse, and mystery of the desert 

setting. Also I felt that I was witnessing the establishment of a nation by a 

people displaced by war who were reconstructing a way of life uniquely 

their own. In addition, I had the opportunity to see something of POL- 

ISARIO orgmhtion in a contested zone in the desert. 

BACKGROUND TO CONFLICT 

During the 1950s and IW, 

there was no liberation struggle to attract my 

attention to the Spanish colonies. Spain, like Porn@, did not become a 

member of the UN until 1955, so even in the glass house on thc East River 

Spain received virtually no attention. 

As a UN mrmber, Spain tried to avoid the attention focused on nonself- 

governing territories by claiming it had none. In 1958 Spain did as 

Poftug9.1 had done and made its colonies (the small enclave of Ifni, on 

Mom's southwest coast, Rio Muni, and Spanish S h ) , which it bad

310 The Final C&ict 

held since 1884, provinces of Spain. Only after the UN passed Resolution 

1514 in I@, on granting independence to colonial counuies, and set 

up the Demlonization Committee to implement it, did the Spanish mlo- 

-.--;?J 

nies become a matter of UN debate. -#'i 

The focus of debate, not yet really heatkd, was 6n how to induce Spain 

to allow the people of Spanish Sahara to exercise their right of self- 

determination. All the most concerned countridpain, Morocco, 

Mauritania, and Algeria-agreed on a referendum under UN auspices. 

But Spain was not anxious to proceed rapidly for fear that it would lose 

control of the rich phosphate deposits just discovered in the desert and the 

ludve fishing rights in the coastal waters. Morocco and Mauritania each 

assumed that, given a choice, Spanish Sahara would choose &tion 

with their country. 

In the meanhe, a new nationalism began to take root in Spanish 

Sahara. In the Zenila suburb of the capital, El Aailin, then a town of about 

29,000, a group of young anticolonialist S hwi who had studied abroad 

began to meet clandestinely. They organized a rally on June 17, 1970, at 

which a petition for reforms was presented to Spanish officials. When 

police were called in to disperse the demonstrating crowd of some 1,500, 

several protesters were killed. Hundreds were arrested in the aftermath. 

This Zenila Massacre spelled the demise of this group but spurred others 

to action. 

POLISARIO was organized at an unpublicized gathering at the desert 

town of Bir Lehlu in Spanish Sahara May 10,1973. Its charismatic leader 

was El Ouali Mustapha Sayed, a Sahrawi who had studied law in Rabat, 

Morocco, and with other young anticolonialist Sabrawis had begun the 

discussions that led to the Bir Lehlu meeting. The name of the new 

nationalist movement incorporated the names of the two parts of Spanish 

Sahadaguia el H am in the north and Rio de Oro in the south. The 

movement was commirted to guerrilla warfare against Spauish rule, al- 

though by 1975 it may have included no more than 200 guenilIas,* El 

Ouali was elected secretary general. 

UN debates on a referendum in Spanish Sahara might have procded 

quietly for some years had the April 1974 military coup not taken place in 

Portugal, Spain's neighbor. That caused new urgency to end the rule of 

Spain, Europe's last colonial power in Africa. In the fall of 1974, the UN 

made two aitical decisions. One was to submit the case of Spanish Sahara 

to the ICJ to clarify its status. The other was to send a visiting UN mission 

to report on the situation in Spanish Sahara. The idea of a referendum was 

sidelined. 

In its dedsion (late 1975) the ICJ found no evidence of ties between 

Spanish Sahara and either Morocco or Mauritania prior to Spaids occupa- 

tion. The UN mission reported that "at every place visited, [it] became 

*For a more &tailed discussion of ttbt formaion of POLISARIO see lbny Hadgcs, Wfmm 

Soh, TlCc R ~ 4a Y Desert WZu (Ukqmn, COM.: Lawrence Hill and CO., 1g83), ch. 15. 

.

Westem Sahara: Struggle in the Desert 311 

evident to the Mission that there was an overwhelming consensus among 

Saharans within the territory in favor of independence and opposing 

integration with any neighboring country." POLISARIO "appeared as the 

dominant political force in the territory."1 

In response, Morocco took direct action. The highly publicized Green 

March was o@d (the holy color of Islam being green). Promoted by 

Ring Hassan II, this huge demonstration of 35;0,m Moroccans marched 

south into Spanish Sahara. The march confused many opponents of 

colonialism because although it appeared to be an act of protest against 

Spaaish rule, its purpose was quite different. The Green March sabotaged 

any plans for a referendum by occupying the territory. Spain ded the act 

"a march of agression." Less publicized was the fact that as unarmed 

Moroccans marched into one part of Spanish Sahara, Moroccan mops 

were occupying other areas. 

Wlth General Frandwo Franco on his death bed in Madrid, Spain had 

no desire to fight Morocco. The result, a success from Moroccos pomt of 

view, was a complete tm-arouad by Spain. Yielding to Moroccan pressure, 

it gave up its commitment to hold a referendum. In a tripartite 

agreement with Morocco and Mauritania, Spain turned over the northern 

part of the area with its phosphate deposits to Morocco and the southern 

part to Mauritania. 

As Morocr=nn forces moved into Saguia el Hamra and Mauritanian 

troops took possession of Rio de Oro, they became the focus of POL 

ISARIO action. The smuggle for Spanish Sahara's selfdetennination took 

on dimensions that were to persist for many years. Spain's administration 

was due to end formally February 26, 1976. By that time Momcan and 

Maurib mops bad occupied all the major centers and new administraaons 

were in place. The next day POLISARIO mounced it had 

formed the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic (SADR). 

THE SAHRAWI 

The people of what is now Western Sahara are the descendants of Berbers 

and Arabs, with some mixture of black African blood. They speak a 

distinctive Arabic dialect called Hhya. A nomadic people, living in 

tribal units, in precolonial tima they had regulated their affairs through 

councils called djemaa. Hassan I1 of Morocco, however, claimed that the 

people of Western Sahara were really Moroccans, and further, that POL- 

ISARIO was composed esscntialIy of dissident Moroccaus, Mauritauians, 

and Algerians under Algeria's control. I wanted to visit the country and 

see for mys& The opportunity came in 1979. 

I had met Madjid Abdullah, POLISARIO's repnseatative in New 

York, in 1978. The ACOA was invited to send a representative to the 

celebration of the third anniversary of the SADR on February 27,1979. 

My colleague Richard Knight accepted and came back with a f dting 

account of visits to refugee camps in Algeria and a brief foray into W&tcn~

The Fiml Conflict 

Sahara. His report made me all the more eager to make the trip myself. I 

departed in May. 

The desert reception center, near Tindouf, was a low, concrete building 

with a corrugated metal roof, over which the POLISARIO flag with its 

crescent and star was flying. The rooms had no furniture. Mattresses and 

blankets covered the concrete floor. Using the center as a base, Farouk, 

Ahmed Ali, and I visited several refugee camps. 

I learned that most of the Sahrawis had streamed into the camps three 

years earlier, either in an act of solidarity with the POLISARIO-led 

resistance or to avoid being caught in military action when their towns 

were occupied by Moroccan troops. I could hardly believe the stories I 

heard about this mass migration. Whole communiti-hildren, women 

with babies, old people-walked, sometimes for several hundred miles, to 

the area Algeria turned over to POLISARIO for their use. But the migra- 

tion took its toll as the people tried to settle in what had been just flat, open 

desert. Fwd, clothing, water, and firewood had to be transported long 

miles over poor roads. The winter nights were very cold; tents and 

blankets were in short supply. In such conditions, disease ran rampant- 

polio, cholera, diphtheria, tetanus. Malnutrition was endemic. The UN 

High Commissioner for Refugees estimated that in 1976,25 percent of the 

babies died before they were three months old. At hst, international 

sources gave only limited help Major aid came from the Algerian govern- 

ment and the Red Crescent, its counterpart of the Red Cross. 

I was astounded by the efficient organhtion of the widely separated 

POLISARIO camps. Over the years I had been in many refugee settle- 

ments, large and small, for Angolans, Mozambicans, South Africans, 

Namibians, and Zimbabweans, but I had never seen such organimtion as 

at the POLISARIO camps. Perhaps it was because a large part of the 

Western Saharan people was there, so that there was no identity problem, 

or because the Sahrawi have a nomadic legacy and did not find it difficult 

to live in tents in the desert. Perhaps it was because the Algerian govern- 

ment came m their assistance. I believe, however, that a dominant reason 

why the iefugee camps seemed more like settled communities than just 

gatherings of displaced persons was that the people were united in purpose 

and had a sense of nationhod under effective leadership. 

I quickly discovered that the amps were divided into three large areas, 

called wilayas, or provinces, corresponding to the divisions of the country 

itself.* Each wilaya was divided into dairos, or districts, again correspond- 

ing to local areas inside Western Sahara, for a total of 23. 

Each camp consisted usually of hundreds of tents strewn over the desert 

plain. A few goats, some privately and some communally owned, wan- 

dered around. The tents were much larger than the kind I have used when 

camping, perhaps 30 by 30 feet. They were strongIy reinforced and 

anchored against the powerful desert winds. Inside, I was amazed at the 

*By the mid-190s there were four.

Warn Sahara: Struggle in the Dam 313 

homey atmasphere cxeated by tapestries on the walk and by rugs, mats, 

and pillows, making a floor over the sand. There were no chairs, tables, or 

beds. People sat on the rugs, propped up by the pillows, a position I found 

surprisingly comfortable. 

The vast majority of the people in the camps were women, with many 

children and some old people. Most of the men were with POLISARIO 

inside Western Sahara or on duty elsewhere. The mmen wore the traditional 

long black gown with attached hood over the head but no veil. 

Sahrawi women, unlike many other North African Muslim women, do not 

cover their faces. Dark haired and dark eyed, they were sniking to look at. 

From my many con~ons it was clear that virtually all the refuges 

were POLISARIO membcrs. They were organized in r I-member cells. 

"b they socialist?" I asked. The answer came back that there were 

many tendencies in POLISARIO, and their immediate task was to win 

independence. Then the people would decide. The Soviet Union did not 

recognize their SADR and even maintained a cordial trading relation with 

their adversary, Morocco. 

There was no regularity to meals. Except for the tea driaking, which 

was ordinary hospitality, I would usually have nothing to eat all day. 

Finally, often late in the ewning, just before we moved to another tent, 

almost miraculously food would appear-traditional couscous (a steamed 

grain) with goat meat. Wk ate out of a large communal dish. The food was 

delicious. 

On one day's expedition we were up by 4:30 A.M. and off for a camp in 

the wilaya of Dakhla, same 125 des and more than thnt hours away. At 

two check points in the desert, blue-uniformed POLISARIO military 

checked our papers in an entirely unthreatening manner. Twice our Toyota 

Land Cruiser stalled in thc sand. I thought we might be stuck for the day, 

but the POLISARIO driver knew just what to do. In a moment the hood 

was up, the gas filter cleaned of dust and sand. 

The town of Dakhla, for which the camp was named, was in the Rio de 

Om division of Western Sahara, then occupied by Mauritania. The refugees 

in Dakhla camp had trekked hundreds of miles to reach Algeria. 

The terrain of the camp was fiat and sandy with tents in every direction. A 

few animals roamed mmd. Part of the area was an oasis, looking almost 

like a Hollywood set, with date palm rrees and a well from which people 

were drawing buckets of cool, dear water. Camels were tethered close by. 

They were community property, used for carryhg loads and also as a 

source of protein. When we M y ate, at 2:oo P.M., sure enough, the stew 

had camel meat in it. The well water was wed to irrigate a garden with 

melons, tomatoes, and other vegetables. 

I spt several hours calking with the members of the camp council, 

composed entirely of women. As we sat in the shade of a tent, drinking tea 

from time to time, I learned that the work of the community was essentially 

done by five committw+health, education, food distribution, justice, 

and handicraft. One person from each tent was assigned to work with 

each committee. The education committee, for example, was responsible


for teaching the younger children to read and write, using the Koran. The 

literacy rate was 85 to 95 percent. 

fa one large tent I met with 50 women who were responsible for justice. 

Their chief tasks were to handle marriage ;armg-ents and divorce 

proceedhgs, although there were vwy few of the latter. There was virtually 

no stealing or individual violence. There wasn't much in the way of 

personal possessions to steal, and there was no place to go with any loot. 

Also, the sense of national purpose militated against ordinary crime. 

The health committee had responsibility for the clinics and central 

hospital, a low building with 13 mms, a kitchen, and a small refectory. 

No doctor was then available, but there were 18 nurser;. The hospital was 

busy with mothers and newborn babies and with sick children, many with 

respiratory problems, accompanied by their mothers. 

One fascinating evening was devoted to Western Saharan music and 

culture. We were ushered into an unusually large tent, where about a 

hundred people, mostly women, were gathered. Outside, the moon was 

almost full. Inside, kerosene lamps gave a soft Light. In the center of the 

tent, eight women sat around a large drum. They sang mditional songs of 

welcome and POLISARIO freedom songs in the somewhat shrill North 

African style, punctuated by beating the drum. The music was interspersed 

with discussion of the role of women and how POLISARIO had 

revolutionized their position. I noted, however, that while most of the 

practical work of running the camps was done by women, the administrators 

were all men. The women were optimistic that their subservient 

role was changing. 

One camp I visited gave special attention to children suffering from 

malauuition. They were fed an enriched diet, which usually restored them 

to good hedth in a few months. I couldn't help but wonder whether the 

horde of buzzing desert flies had anything to do with the spread of 

disease. They seemed to gather particularly on the heads of children too 

weak to brush them off, whose mothers had to do so for them. Yet 

miracuiously at nightfall the 6es disappeared. 

I spent some time at the national school, called simply Juae 9, cornanorating 

the date on which El Ouaii was killed in battle. It had been in 

operation for ody a little over two months when I arrived. There were 

about 1,500 students, almost half of them girls, but it would accommodate 

twice as many students when it ms completed. The children ranged from 

6 to 15, and their studies were designed to last six ymrs. Emphasis was on 

reading, writing, geography, and math, with generous attention to the 

history and aims of POLISARIO. 

I also visited a military school for POLISARIO guerrillas. It was called 

October 12, after the Day of National Unity established in 1975, The 

school, where my companion Ahmed Ali taught, was about a two-and-ahalf-hour 

drive hm the reception center. Our orientation discussion was 

held in an underground bunker. I visited classes in politics, math, and 

military theory and then went out in the open desert to watch maneuvers 

with live ammunition.

Western Sahara: Smggle in the Desert 3Ic 

This visit was in conrrast to my visits to peaceful refugee camps, where 

I rarely saw a weapon or a soldier. It was an introduction to the other side 

of the struggle of the Vtksern Saharan people. 

My overwhelming impression was that the camps were the Western 

Saharan nation in forced exile. I found it impossible to think of these 

people as just refugees. They were dependent on friendly countries and 

international o ~ t i o nfor s food and clothing to be sure, but they 

independent of outside control and had organized themselves according to 

their own way of life. Although the Moroccans and Maurimhm occupied 

xo or 12 towns in the country, I felt the nation was here, united in its 

commitment to independence. 

ACROSS THE DESERT WITH POLISARIO 

After a week of visiting camps, on the eve of my scheduled departure, I 

was un-y offered a new adventure. It was midnight, and I had just 

lain down on my blanket when Ahmed Ali came into the room. In his 

halting English he said, "George, we are leaving very soon to cross the 

desert to the Atlantic Ocean. Do you want to come?" 

In my mind I began marshaling reasons for not going. An arduous trip 

across 400 des of desert had not been part of my original plan. I had 

already used my allotted time and had appointments in Algiers and a UN 

conference in Geneva. "How long will the trip last?" I asked Ahmed. 'at 

least a week," he replied. I ascertained that I would be joining a group of 

POLISAH0 guerriUas driving in captured Spanish Santanas (similar to 

Land Rovers) to the ocean near Cape Bojador. We would go through areas 

where POLISARIO guenillas and Moroccan mops were fighting. Did I 

want to risk that? It was one thing to visit refugee camps in Algeria and 

quire another to go into a war zone in the Western Sahara. 

One of my companions of the past few days was Jod Martin Artajo, a 

free-lance Spanish journalist whose father had been foreign minister under 

Franco. While briefly in the foreign service in Libya, my companion had 

fallen in love with the desert. He had broken politically with his family and 

now called himself an anarchist. Anxious to take the trip and hoping he 

would be included, he spoke urgently, "George, you can't miss this 

opportunity. You may never have another chance to mss the desert. You 

will always regret it if you don't go." 

I asked Farouk if he could go. He told me that he couldn't because if an 

Algerian was captured by Moroccans in the company of POLISARIO 

guerrillas, there would be an international scandal. Then he explained that 

if I went I would have to sign a waiver to indicate that I absolved the 

Algerian government of any responsibility in case of "accident." If nothing 

else brought home to me the seriousness of the decision I had to make, the 

waiver he showed me did. 

After a few moments' inner turmoil, I signed. I m te an explanatory 

letter to my wife, wbich Earouk would take back to Algiers, together wirb

Tk Final Conflict 

Jose: Artajo (left), Spanish journalist, aud George Houser at POLISARIO 

headquarters near Tindouf, Algeria, 1979. 

a cable message to Geneva and messages to Algiers. Then I lay down on 

my blanket for a little sleep. 

It seemed only a few moments before I was awakened at 3:30 A.M., a 

half hour before departure. There were two Santanas, each with six 

occupants-nine armed POLISARIO combatants and three foreigners. 

Joining Artajo and me was an Italian metallurgist, Dominico Palumbo. 

Outside in the cold morning air I was glad for my lined windbreaker and 

the COXnf0rt of my shah, or scarf, which I wmpped around my face, neck, 

and head in Arab fashion. 

TO THE OCEAN 

We boarded the Santanas and headed west in the darkness, toward the 

unmarked Western Saharan border. The vehicles had no roofs or wind- 

shields. Glass would have been a hazard both because it would have 

reflected the sun, making us more visible from planes, and because it 

could shatter. We sped along, the wind rushing in our faces. Headlights 

were on, but there was no road, just tracks on the sandy or stony surface. 

Soon Ahmed told me we had entered his country and he felt free. A 

little farther on we stopped. A fire was built of well-dried desert scrub for 

making the traditional, hpavily sugared tea. We rested on blankets spread 

on the ground, waiting for dawn, I assumed. My companions told me that 

I was the first American to take this journey all the way to the Atlaatic.

Western Sahara: Struggle in the Desen 

Because of our somewhat zigzag course, the uip would cover about 1200 

miles. 

At sunrise, about 6:w on Saturday, May 12, we drove on again. For 

eight hours we traversed sand and bare rock, up and down low hills. 

Occasionally we passed a clump of short trees or some grass with desert 

flowers in bloom. Once I saw a large lizard, Iike an iguana, which wriggled 

away at our approach. In the distance I spotted a large bird floating 

overhead. There was no other sign of life. Most of the time, the Santanas 

drove in tandem, and the unfortunate one in the rear was peppered with 

dust and sand thrown up by the one ahead. 

As the day wore on, it became hot, and I shed my windbreaker but not 

the protective skesh. My hands began to burn, and I wished I had brought 

some light gloves. The drivers skillfully adjusted from high speed on flat, 

smooth surfaces to a crawl on bumpy terrain. On my map I tried to keep 

track of where we were. It always seemed to me that we were charting our 

own course like a ship at sea. But POLISAFUO people know the desert. 

About 2:w P.M. we stopped in the relative shade of some thorny trees. 

Blankets were spread again, and a fire was built for making tea. We lay 

down to rest. lkto guerrillas disappeared over a hill. I wondered if they 

were senuies but was told that the Moroccans would not venture five miles 

outside fortilied towns. POLISARIO controlled the desert. I heard gun 

shots. Soon the two men returned carrying a rabbit. Tea was served in the 

small glasses that the Sahrawi seem always to carry with them. I felt a little 

rested but hot and dry. Water, carried in large dnunlike barrels, was used 

sparingly. I was hungry, but apparently this was not the place or time for 

food. 

Another hour of travel brought us to a camouflaged underground 

bunker, where we stopped again. Water was available and food was pre- 

pared--couscous and camel meat. After a short rest, we piled into the 

Sanranas again and moved on west as the sun was sinking. About I0:30 

some buildings appeared suddenly in the moonlight. There had been no 

sigas or roads, just a town rising out of the desert. We bad come to Tifariti. 

It was I:W A.M. before I lay down on the sand in a blanket, too tired to 

ask any questions. In the morning I learned that the population of Tifariti 

might have been about I 5,- including Spanish troops and Sahrawi living 

in tents close by. The Moroccans had occupied the town in 1976. A two- 

year codict ensued, off and on. A month and a half before we arrived, 

POLISARIO had captured the town. The signs of battle were every- 

where-the mall burnt-out school, discarded weapons, helmets, spent 

bullet casings. All the people were gone, leaving only a few forlorn dogs 

behind. The airstrip was no longer in use. In a large graveyard, mounds of 

rock and sand axirked the places where bodies of Sahrawi civilians and 

Moroccan and POLISARIO combatants lay buried. We spent a good while 

exploring the area-the empty shops, the debris of the battldeld, the old 

administrative center with its abandoned tennis court, a captured GM 

truck, still in running shape. 

Late in the morning, we pushed on west. On the way we stopped by a


s i - 

POLISARIO guerrillas in the d m shadc, Wmm Sahara, 1979. 

mostly dry streambed, where I took a welcome bath in a pocket of leftover 

rainwater. In the late afternoon we reached the desert town of Amgala, 

now occupied only by a few POLISARIO sentries. I was impressed by the 

extensive defense network the Moroccans had constructed in the sides of 

the surrounding hills. The final bade for the town had ended only two 

weeks before we arrived. Fresh graves and the debris of combat gave 

evidence of the ferocity of the fighting. The roofs of virtually alt the stone 

houses were crushed in. The one bright spot was an undamaged well with 

the coolest, clearest water I had yet tasted on this mp We drank deeply 

before moving on. 

It was midnight before we stopped in open desert, made a fire, and 

prepared f d. I was glad for my extensive camping experience, for I had 

no trouble sleeping well on a blanket under the stars. Just before dawn I 

was awakened by a distant d e shot. hediately three of my POL 

ISARIO companions sprang to their feet with their riees ready. One of 

them shot tracer bullets into the air, quite visible in the semidarkness. 

Startled, I wondered if the Moroccans were coming. It was some moments 

before it was explained to me that the shots were POLISARIO signals. 

There was to be a rendezvous, but one vehicle had run into mechanical 

trouble. The first rifle shot had come from a POLISARK) comrade who 

had walked and run all night to get close enough for his signal to be heard. 

One of our Santanas went to the rescue with an extra wheel. 

Soon seven POLISARIO vehides had gathered, and we moved on a 

short distance to a concentration of thorn trees, which offered shade. Here

Western Sahara; Struggle in the Desert 319 

we spent the day waiting for the disabled vehicle to be repaired. It gave me 

a chance to converse and observe the life of the desert guerrilla. With 

Ahmed's and Artajo's help, I talked with Mussa. He was reluctant to say 

much about himself. POLISARIO is what counts, he told me. Nevertheless, 

I ascertained that he came from El Aaitin and had joined POL 

ISARIO at the beginning in 1973. He stated his concern about U.S. policy 

toward Western Sahara: "We want to be friends with the U.S." Others 

spoke out vehemently against U.S. policy of supplying arms to Morocco. 

Mussa lashed out at King Hassan. "He tells the Soviet Union that POL 

ISARlO is composed of religious fanatics and reactionaries. Then he tells 

the U.S. that POLISARIO is Communist. How can a movement be 

Communist and Islamic at the same time?" Mussa asked. "It is a contradiction." 

He and others were concerned about U.S. elections (in 1980) and 

hoped there would be a change of policy. "We build our hopes on this." 

As the day passed, it grew hot. A Santana brought water to fill up our 

tank. It looked like dish water and tasted of mud, yet my body was so 

parched that I drank it eagerly. Sometimes on the trip canned milk or a 

make substance and sugar were mixed with the water in a large communal 

pan, which was passed around for everyone to drink. Occasionally the 

water had a gasoline taste from having been siphoned into a dnun by a fuel 

hose. Eating was communal style too: with everyone dipping his fingers 

into one large pan. The question of sanitation never bothered me, and I 

had no stomach trouble at all. 

During my week with the POLISARIO guerrillas I never saw a hint of 

conflict among them or a struggle to exert authority. It was difXcult to tell 

who was in command. Each person had his task and did it4ne cooked, 

one made tea, two or three would fetch wood, and some would hunt. They 

changed assignments from time to time. I noted a kind of hierarchy, but it 

was a matter of first among equals. 'When we stopped, Bashir assumed 

command, indicating where the vehicles should park so as to be hidden 

from the air. He rode in the front seat of the lead vehicle. Otherwise he 

seemed to be just "one of the boys." The POLISARIO are all Muslim and 

say their prayers reguIarly. 

Wk were at this campsite for 15 hours, long after the crippled vehicle 

had been repaired. We were not far from Bu Craa, a Moroccan stronghold 

and site of the phosphate mines, from which we could make a nighttime 

dash to the sea. I shall never forget that ride. The waning moon rose about 

I I :w P.M. and by 12 was high enough to give needed Light. Four Santanas 

were in our party now. We moved across the moonlit desert in a southwesterly 

direction, the four Santanas side by side, headlights off, skimming 

over the ht, smooth sand at high speed. The bauw of it was 

overwhelming. We didn't stop for more than three hours. Kk must have 

been well beyond the Moroccan base, for fires were built for making tea, 

and sand-baked Sahara bread was passed around. Even the invitable 

crunch of sand in the bread didn't bother me. 

I slept soundly for two hours. At about dawn, we started on. I felt the 

cool ocean b m and could even smell the salt. Before we came within


sight of the ocean, we came upon a wrecked American F-5 jet. The 

Moroccan piIot had parachuted to safety and was a prisoner of war. I 

photographed the American markings just in case evidence might be 

needed that U.S, military equipment was being used by Motom, in 

%stern Sahara, contravening a U.S.-Moroccan agreement. 

After more driving, finally we reached the Atlantic. What a thrill! I felt 

like an explorer who has just made a great discovery. No palm trees or any 

other growth lined the shore, unlike the coast farther south in tropical 

Africa. The sand of the desert melted into the sand of the beach. 

We were some distance north of Cape Bojador. A disused lighthouse 

rose high above the shore, Two small, abandoned freighters were beached 

a mile apart below high-water mark. We clambered aboard one and 

am&ngly found a lot of Spanish beer. Our Muslim companions drank 

nothing alcoholic, but we three foreigners quenched our thirst. I picked 

up a few stones and shells as souvenirs. 

The Atlantic at this spot is very cold and sparklingly clean. We swam 

and bathed, and I washed my two shirts, which dried in minutes. We 

didn't tarry long, how- Wk had a long trip back. 

THE RETURN TRIP 

As we left the ocean and headed northeast, we crossed a narrow, pad 

road (the first I had secn since leaving Algiers), the main road from El 

Aaib to Bir Enzaren in the south. The Moroccans didn't use it, for 

POLISARIO controlled the desert. A German-made rmck wrecked by a 

land mine lay along the side. There was no risk of coming across Maurim- 

n h mops because Mauritania wanted to get out of the war, aud a cease- 

fire was in effect. In the south, POLISARIO militants traveled freely, 

despite the p mce of about 8,000 Moroccan troops. 

After many hours of driving, we came to a camoufIaged bunker, where 

we ate the usual late night meal and stretched out to sleep. Up early, we 

sped north across the desert for three hours to within 20 miles of Sernara, 

the second largest town In the country. Here we saw U.S.-made 75mm 

cannon, manned by POLISARIO, and I was told that a bombardment of 

Moroccan d a f i was about to begin. Artajo, Palumbo, and I were 

presented with long Saharan gowns so that we could not be distinguished 

from our companions if phes gave chase. I had not asked for experience 

af combat, but there was no escape. In early aftcrnwn, the honcsr time of 

day, we clambered up a rocky hill to watch. We were told to lie low. The 

rocks were too hot for me to touch and for the camera and tape recorder 

with which I documented the scene. It was quite a feat to hold my 

equipment and stay bclow the brink of the hill. 

Then the bombardment started. Through binoculars I watched six 

POLISARIO shells land about four miles away, marked by a puff of 

smoke, and then hard the delayed sound of the explosion. Momcum 

mops were dug in there on the perimeter of the defense system of Semara, 

about 12 miles from the town. Only a few moments passed before answer-

Western Sahura: Struggle in the Desert 321 

ing he came from the Moroccans. I decided this was not really a serious 

miIitary exchange but just a way of saying, "We're stiU here." 

Suddenly my POLISARIO companions told us to get out of there 

immediately; Moroccaa planes might come. We ran down the hill, jumped 

into the Santauas, and raced at high speed about two miles to a growth of 

trees, where we hid in the shade. I was relieved that no planes me. After 

half an hour, I divested myself of the gown, and we proceeded. I was really 

glad when we came to a place where rainwater had coUected to form a 

small pond. It was muddy, but I drank it and then, fully clothed, poured 

the cool water over my head and let it trickle down. We drove on, and in 

five minutes I was dry and just as thirsty as before. 

We arrived at a base where several Santanas and more than the usual 

number of guerrillas had gathered. Treaches and camodagd nooks in the 

rocks provided shelter. R did not stay the night but decided to make the 

dash back to the reception center in Algeria. We ate about midnight and 

set out in darkness. Tbis was my second night in a row vimdy without 

sleep. By this time, I was tired and couldn't 6ght off a cold. All night we 

drove, at times very fast and at other times autioudy over rough terrain. 

Between moments of sleep I fantasized about water, imagining Ieaning 

ovcr a Rocky Mountain smmn and drinking the cool, clear m-off from a 

glacier. It was a relief to reach the reception center at mid-morning and lie 

down on a mattress for a long sleep. 

The next day a sand storm confined us to the building. This gave me a 

chance to catch up on notes and to talk, As Artajo and I summed up our 

experience, we agreed that the POLISARIO guerrillas were a remarkable 

people-hardy, friendly, companionable, hardworking, and efficient. 

They were not dilettantish but kept to a schedule. In the desert they slept 

from midnight to dawn, uaveled, stopped in the heat of the day for a late 

lunch and rest, and then started off again in the evening. I heard no 

bickering, arguments, or angry voices. When meeting other POLISARlO 

guerrillas in the desert, they stopped, embraced, laughed, and said touch- 

ingly genuine farewells. I felt their sense of unity in a cause. 

Since I had not shaved for almost two weeks, I had quire a beard. As a 

memento of this experience, I decided not to shave it all off until indepen- 

dence was achieved* 

A SECOND TRIP 

This memorable mp had a scquel later that year. I accepted the invita&ion 

of the Algerian government (as the only private U.S. citizen) to attend the 

November I celebration of the 25th anniversary of the bepjnning of their 

smuggle against French domination. Still entranced by my desert trip in 

May, after several days in Algiers, I went to POLISARIO headquarters 

and made arrangements to fly to the nxeption center at Tid~~f, again 

accompanied by Farouk. The main object of my trip was to visit Mahbes 

inktern Sahara.

The Final Cmrflct 

The year 1979 was one of great advance for POLISARIO. W~thout 

knowing it, in May I had seen some of the fruits of the so-called Boumc- 

dienne Offensive, named for Houari Boumedienne, who as Algerian presi- 

dent for 13 years had aided the POLISARIO cause. The victories at 

Tdariti and AmgaIa testified to its effectiveness. POLISARIO had drim 

occupying Moroccan troops out of almost all the towns of Saguia el Hamra 

except for EI Aaiiin, Semara, and the phosphate mines at Bu Craa. Not 

until mid-October had the fofied town of Mahbes, the easternmost 

center in Western Sahara, been attacked. 

In the opening pages of this book I have described something of the 

devastating Scene I encountered at Mahbes, which had been a major 

Spanish stronghold before 1976. POLISARIO claimed that some 7m 

Moroccans were killed in this vicious bade. POLISARIO d ties (al- 

though I never obtained the figures) must have been considerable. Planes 

had bombed their positions. Ahmed Ali, who again was with me on this 

expedition, told me that the Moroccan commander bad escaped to Mo- 

rocco with about 40 tanks. POLISARIO had captured 450 tons of am- 

munition at Mahbes and taken 45 prisoners. 

Later in the day we went to a spot in the dmrt where some of this 

captured matdriel was stored. Here was more military equipment than I 

had ever seen-caanon, rifles, machine guns, and tanks, French, Aus- 

trian, and U.S.-mad+in an area about the size of a football fieid. 

Nearby, a straggly line of about 50 prisoners of war were standing at 

ease or sitting on the sand. Many had been captured at Mahbes. I mlked 

with a caprured air force captain who spoke good Eqkh. He had trained 

at Randolph Field in T-. His plane, an American Es, had been shot 

down about 11 months earlier near Semara, and he had parachuted to 

safety. He came from Meknes in Morocco, was manied, and had a four- 

year-old daughter, whom he missed. I also talked with a lieutenant, who 

had commanded a tank and been captured April I I, 1979, in southern 

Morocco. 

Although we were not in thc presence of POLISARIO personnel, these 

prisoners gave fairly pro forma responses to my questions. They looked in 

good shape and said they were well ueated. They said the war was a foolish 

one and they would like it to end so they could go home. I could not avoid 

a feeIing of sympathy for them with the bleak fume they faced. 

OBSERVATIONS ON U*.S. P~LICV 

The day ended in an unexpected way. Back at the reception center, the 

SADR minister of the interior, Mahfoud AIi Beiba, invited me to join him 

for a late dinner. W1th him was a memkr of the National Council and two 

older leaders at a refugee camp Wk conversed as m sat on mats around a 

long, low banquet table at the center. The discussion began with Ali Beiba 

making a lengthy statement about their struggle and their concern for U.S. 

policy. I rn surprised at his knowledge about the situation in the United

Warn Sahra: Struggle in the Desert 323 

States. He said that POLISARIO could not understand why at this 

particular time, when it had made a great leap fomd, the United States 

had dacided to give new, sophisticated weapons and equipment to Morooco. 

"Caa this be called neuaality?" he asked. "Neudiry would be 

giving ww~pom to both sides or neither side in the conflict." 

In 1978 Morocco had spent $goo,ooo hiring a public relations fmo to 

lobby the U.S. government for six months. In late October 1979, the 

Unitcd States, in response to urgent requests from Ha;ssan XI, had agreed 

to supply aircraft, helicopter gunships, and armored personnel carriers to 

Morocco. It had provided &.4 million worth of spare parts for fighter and 

transp~rt planes and k million worth of aircraft ammunition. 

The US. rationale was that strengthening Hassan would make POL 

ISARltO realize that it could not win a military victory and thus render it 

open to a negotiated settlement. This was a strange intespretatim d 

nwnality. There was real cantrovemy within the Jimmy Gum administration 

between National Security Adviser Zbigeiew Bnezinski and 

others such as Andrew Young and Donald McHenry at the U.S. Mission to 

the UN. FurthermoreS Dick Clark, chairman of the Senate, Subcommittee 

on Africa, and Stephen Soh, chairman of the Housc Subcommittee, 

were pressing for a pullback in military support to Alomcc~. 

Back ia Algiers I d c an appointment with the U.S. ambasador, ulric 

Haynes, w b f had known for some years because of his long involvemcnt 

with Africa. He was quite eager to talk because bis news of POL 

ISARIO came second or third hand. I asked if he had ever met with

324 The Fiml Conflict 

POLISARIO. "Of course not", he replied. 'You know we haw instme 

tions not to ndk with POLISARIO. There is only one pan of the government 

to which this stricture docs not apply, the U.S. Mission to the U.N." 

U.S. embassy personnel at h t time were not perxnitted to visit the refugee 

camps either. 

Haynes and a few of his staff wanted to knm what the chance for a 

political solution would be. W~uld POLISARIO make a deal if Mauritania 

made a separate peace and POLISARIO then occupied Rio de Om? I said 

this obviously could not end the conflict because POUSARIO saw the 

whole country as its property. Mauritania and the SADR did make a 

separate peace in 1979, but the Qhting with Morocco continued, as 

Moroccan mops occupied former Mauritanian cenfers. 

Haynes put forth the principal fear of the U.S. government, that if 

Hassan compromised by reaching a settlement with POLISARIO, his 

government might fall. The United States then, would lose a staunch ally 

arid possibly landing rights for U.S. planes. Further, if the United States 

did not back Hassan, it would make our government appear weak and 

indecisive, I pointed out that by backbg Morocco, the United Sates was 

sabotaging a peaceful solution of the contoversy through a UN-sponsored 

referendum and was supporting an occupation that was just as imperi- 

alistic as Spain's. 

THE STRUGGLE IN THE MID-1980s 

As of this writing, there is still no end to the struggle in the Sabara. It is a 

war of amition. The chanca are that neither side can win an outright 

military victory. Morocco has in excess of I W , troops ~ committed to the 

conflict at tremendous cost. Yet Hassan resists negotiating an end to the 

fighting. He refuses to allow a referendum, which he agreed to at an OAU 

meeting in 1g81, probably because he fears he would lose. 

As a defense against the constant incumions of POLISARIO guerrillas 

inta southern Morocco and around Moroccan-pied centers in Western 

Sahara, Morocco has constructed a nine-foot wall of sand and stone. It 

stretches about I soo miles fmm the Algerian border to the Atlantic, giving 

some protection to El Aaih, Sem, and the Bu Craa phosphate mines. 

This wall made it possible for the mines to be activated again in 1982, after 

six years of disuse. The wall has observation posts, Americaz~~supplied 

radar and electronic sensors, land mines, and barbed wire. 

POLISARIO can breach the wall by making concerted attacks at considerable 

cost. Perhaps as many as zo,m gueni4las pursue the conflict. In 

the south, outside the 4, which cuts off perhaps two thirds of %tern 

Sahara, the gumillas still have the run of the desert. They win Bignificant 

victories from time to time, as for example, in 1981, when they drwe the 

Moroccans out of Guelta m e r and Bis Enzaren. 

In 1984, five years after a cease-fire, Mauritania officially reoognized the

Warn Sahara: Struggle in the Desert 325 

SADR. Recognition wzs given by 31 African states and altogether 63 

countries by the end of 1985. The OAU accepted the SADR as a member 

in 1984. Morocco reshed in protest. 

Thete is no lessening of Algeria's support for POLISARIO. As a guest 

at the 30th anniversary celebration of Algeria's struggle for independence 

(November I, 1984), I talked briefly with President CBadli Benjedid in a 

reception line. I was asked by his aide not to take long, M, as I shook 

hands, I simply congratulated him on Algeria's continued support for 

POLISARIO. To my surprise and embarrassment, as the aide watched 

me, he responded, with enthusiasm and at some length, that Algeria 

would always back up POLISARIO.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

Zimbabwe: Winning Independence 

ter the 1974 military coup in Portugal, it was hoped that the indepen- 

A dence of Mozambique and the detente between Zambia and South 

Africa wouId speed the process toward the independence of Zimbabwe. 

The detente was designed to neutralize South Africa's support of the Ian 

Smith government in Rhodesia so that negotiations could begin to reduce 

white minority control there. Funhermore, it was hoped that the detente 

atmosphere would help unite the liberation movements. Unformnately, 

neither purpose was realized. 

INTERNAL DISUNITY 

The problem of unity was particularly vexing. The idea of setting up the 

African National Council (ANC) as an umbrella organization to unite 

ZANU, ZAPU, and later FROLIZI seemed to be an ideal solution. 

Under Bishop Abel Muzorewa, who was chosen president of the ANC in a 

ZAFU-ZANU compromise, it was thought that negotiations with Smith 

could proceed. But the struggle for power among the nationa4ists was 

overwhelming. According to the agreement of December 1974 in Lusaka, 

the ANC was to hold a congress in four months to choose its leaders. 

Joshua Nkomo of ZAPU was for it, but Muzorewa, Ndabaningi Sithole of 

ZANU, and James Chikerema of FROLIZI were unalterably opposed, so 

it was not held. Muzorewa and Sithole, whom I saw in Dar es Salaam in 

November 1975, told me teat it would have been divisive. It was likely that 

Nkomo would have won the presidency. 

Both Zambian president Kenneth Kaunda and Tanzanian president 

JuIius Nyercre, the key Afikm leaders involved in settling the Rhodesian 

conflict, tried to make the ANC formula work. The offices of ZAPU and 

ZANU in Dar es Salaam and Lusaka were closed. When I was in Dar in 

October 1975, I found the ZAPU office empty. On a trip to Lusaka, I had 

trouble finding George Siiundika and Jason Moyo. A friend in the African 

National Congress of South Africa took me to the market near the old 

ZAPU office. In only a few moments Silundika appeared out of nowhere. 

The office might be closed, but ZAPU was still operating. 

In the meantime, efforts were still proceeding to briag Ian Smith to the 

conference table. Just as Zambia and Tanzania pressured the nationalist 

groups to join the ANC, so South African prime minister John Vorster 

pressed Smith to open discussions with the nationalists. Vorster publicly 

announced that South African troops would be withdrawn from Rhodesia.

Zimbabwe: Wiming Indepertdence 327 

Preparatory discussions for substantive negotiations in Rhodesia were set 

ia a neutral site, a railrogd car on the bridge across the Zambezi River at 

Wctoria Falls, berween Rhodesia and Zambia. But the discussions collapsed 

almost before they started when Smith refused to guarantee immunity 

from arrest for nationalist leaders (such as Sitholc, Moyo, and 

Chikerema, all of whom had illegally left Rhodesia) if they later attended 

the substantive negotiations inside Rhodesia. According to what 

Mmrewa told me, Smith purposely planned to scuttle tbt Victoria FaUs 

discussions and was rude and haughty toward them. The nationdim 

a& there was no bssis for further meetings. The ANC never again 

served as a united front. Shortly afterward, Smith capped off the failed 

calks with the statement in Bulamyo: uWe have never had a poIicy in 

Rhodesia to hand our country over to any black majority government and 

as far as I am concerned we never will have."' 

The division in the ANC became permanent when Nkomo, still inside 

Rhodesia while Muzorewa and Sithole were outside, made known that he 

was calling a congress to elect a president in keeping with the Lusaka plan. 

A majority of the ANC leaders were inside Rhodesia and accepted 

Nkomo's plan. At once Muzorewa expelled Nkomo from the ANC. The 

way was cIear for Nkomo to call a congress, whose 6,000 ddegates manimously 

chose him president. A few weeks later, Muzorewa's supporters 

held a rally in Salisbury at which more than 20,000 denounced Nkomo's 

move. By October 1975, there were two ANCS, one I d by Muwrewa and 

the other by Nkomo. 

There were serious strains in ZANU also. The division between Sithole 

and Robert Mugabc did not heal. Sithole was working through the A X as 

he had agreed at the Lusaka meeting. Mugabe was critical of tbis agreement 

and of the Kaunda-Vorster detente. He M y befiwed that only 

amed struggle led by WLNU would bring Smith to tums. Sithole told me 

in Dar es SaIaam that he had little contact with Mugabe. 'We have 

occasional correspondence, but not as much as I would like." Mugabe was 

just not involved in all the maneuvering for control of the AX. His focus 

was entirely on ZANU and the swggle against Smith. 

h serious events nearly halted the struggle in Rhodesia for a year. 

One was the Nhari revolt, led by Thomas Nhari. In November 1974, a 

group of guerrillas fighting in northeastern Rhodesia, dissaMed with the 

support they were receiving from the ZANU politicians and military 

leaders comfombly simted in Lusaka, kidnapped the wife and children 

of the head of the ZANU forces. They demanded the replacement of the 

entire military command and briefly took over ZANU's main base on the 

Zambia-Mozambique border. Some 60 ZANU militants died kfore the 

leaders of the revolt were executed, 

The other event was the assassination of Herbert Chitepo, ZANU's 

chairman, by a bomb explosion as he started his car on the morning of 

March 18,1975. As the only African barrister in Rhodesia, he had a busy 

practice in Salisbury in the 1950s and had then worked in Dar es Salaam. 

When ZAPU split in 1963, he sided with ZANU. At the fmt WLNU

Roben Mugabe, president of ZANU, in the WWU o5a in Maputo, 

Mozambique, 1978. 

congress, he was elected chairman under Sithole's presidency, responsible 

for o d g external political and military work. His headquarters were 

in Lusaka, where I had frequently talked with him. 

Who was responsible for Chitepo's death? The simple answer was 

agents of the Smith government, but they were not the only suspects. 

Many blacks with whom I raked put the blame on the power smggle 

among Shona subtribes within ZANU. This was also the conclusion 

reached by the International Commission of Inquiry set up by the Zam- 

bian government. Whoever committed the murder, the effect was to put 

the brakes on effective ZANU prosecution of the armed struggle for a year. 

Zambia imprisoned many ZANU leaders and detained about 1,500 ZANU 

guerrilIas. 

Despite the collapse of the Victoria Ealls conference, Nkomo, the only 

major nationalist leader still inside Rbodcsia, decided to make his own 

effort at talks with Smith. Smith was willing because in that way he d d 

give the impression that something significant was happening without 

having to concede anything. He could stall for time. The 13 Nkomo-Smith 

discussions lasted for almost three months, ending in March 1976. 

Nkomo's ZAPU colleagues Moyo and Silundika told me in Lusaka that 

there was no contradiction between negotiations and the continuing awed 

struggle. "Negotiations are a game. Both sides play at it. Smith is arming 

while talks take place and so are we." They pointed out that the United 

Stata and China were negotiating in h a w while they were fighting in 

Korea and Vietnam.

Zimbabwe: Winning Indepettdence 

When the negotiations, unsurprisingly, broke off, Nkomo said Smith 

iasisted on a transition period of ro to I 5 years before majority rule. Smith 

said Nkomo wanted an immediate transfer of power to an interim council 

headed by a British-appointed chairman with an equal number of govern- 

ment and ANC members. Driving home his point, he subsequently said 

on British television, "I don't believe in majority rule ever in Rhodd- 

not in a thousand years."2 

For foreign supporters of the liberation struggle, this was a frustrating 

period. Smith seemed to be getting away with his stalling tactics. The 

detente with South Africa had not brought him to the confmce table. 

The ANC was split between Muzorewa and Nkomo. ZAESU leadership 

had shifted from Sithole to Mugabe, who had established headquarters in 

Mozambique. 

THE STRUGGLE INTERNATIONALIZED 

If 1976 was marked by black nationalist disunity, it was also notable 

because the conflict became international. The intensification of fighting 

was partly responsible for this shift. Mozambique, independent since June 

1975, provided a friendly base for a guerrilla organization. Within a fm 

months, some 20,000 young nationalists escaped across the border to join 

guerrilla units for military training. From bases ia Mozambique, fltra- 

tion into eastern Rhodesia increased. 

On March 3,1976, Mozambique clmed its border with Rhodesia, thus 

cutting off Rhodesia's access to the Indian Ocean port of Beira, the use of 

the railroad, and the import of ail through the pipe line. The dosing was 

expensive for Mozambique too. At the UN Security Caundl and in 

conversation with me, Joaquim Chissano, Mozambican foreign minister, 

estimated the annual loss of revenue from exports and imports and the 

compensation for Rhodesian use of facilities at about $150 million. In 

retaliation, Rhodesian forces invaded Mozambique in August and attacked 

a refugee camp at Nyadzonia in Tete Province. They slaughtered an 

estimated 1,000 people, almost all civilian refugees. 

The surprising involvement of U.S. secretary of state Henry Kissinger 

also contributed to the internationalization of the codiict. After Angola 

won its independence with the support of Cuba and the Soviet Union, he 

traveled to Africa in April 1976 and in a speech in Lusaka gave notice of a 

new U.S. concern about southern Africa. The United States would give no 

support to the Smith government. He named American citkm not to go 

to Rhodesia and urged those who were there to leaw. He cornmittad 

himself to work for repeal of the Byrd Amendment. He then began a 

dialogue with Nyerere and Kaunda to try to reduce the struggles in 

Rhodesia and Namibia. His two highly publicized meetings with South 

Africau prime minister John Vorster, in June and September, set the stage 

for a second round of discussions with Kaunda, Nyerere, Vorster, and 

Smith. Out of this shuttle diplomacy came the Kissinger proposals for a


settlement of the Rhodesian contlict, calling for majority rule within two 

years. Under a multiracial interim government, with a black majority but 

with whites in the Ministries of Defense and Intd Security, sanctions 

would end and fighting would cease. Later Kissinger proposed an international 

fund of $2 billion ta $3 billion to provide an incentive for Europeans 

to stay after independence or to help in their resettlement ehmhere. 

This plan was not acceptable to the Zimbabwe nationalists. Never& 

less, with British and American urging, it was agreed that a conference 

would convene in Geneva ia late October. Mugabe and Nkomo, presenting 

a united position, formed the Patriotic Front 0, although ZANU and 

ZAPU maintained their separate organizations. Smith headed the Rhodesian 

delegation; Muzorewa, the ANC; and Sithole his splinter from 

ZANU. 

The conference was stalemated for weeks on the issue of a date for 

independence and was suspended on December 14, when it was dear that 

no progress was being made. In general the lineup of forces after the 

conference continued right up to independence. The PF maintained a 

fragile unity of ZANU and WIPU, Muzorewa headed the ANC, and 

Sithole, heading his own ZANU group, worked with Muzorewa but not 

with Mugabe. 

THE ROAD TO LANCASTER HOUSE 

Three years elapsed between the Geneva conference and an agreement at 

hcaster House, London, that hid the foundation for the independence 

of Zimbabwe. During these years the nationalist movements grew in 

strength, the liberation war expanded, and Ian Smith tried one device after 

another to stave off the inevitable. Britain, the United States, and African 

leaders played important roles. I kept in touch through the UN, contacts 

in Washington, and several trips to Africa. 

ZAPU IN ZAMBIA 

By 1978 ZAPU and ZANU, in the PF, were applying pressures that made 

the Rhodesian issue of international concern. I was amazed at the size of 

ZAPU's exile organhation in Lusaka, where I spent some time in August 

and September. Civil headquarters was Zimbabwe House, which now 

consisted of a complex of buildings in a Iarge walled compound guarded by 

ZAPU troops. (Military headquarters were elsewhere.) Hundreds of peo- 

ple were engaged principally in work for the vast numbers of refugees 

(who called themselves Zimbabweans) pouring into the counny. Medical 

and educational programs and work among youth and women were em- 

phasized. I felt that I was not viewing a movement struggling for shvial 

but a disciplined organization preparing itself for major resonsibility. The 

atmosphere was like that at FRELIMO headquarters in Dar les Salaam just 

before the transitional government took power in Mozambique.

Zimbabwe: Winning Independence 331 

In the ZAPU compound I ran into Edward Ndlovu, whom I had known 

for years. He told me there were about 45,m refugees in Zambia then, 

compd to Z O , the ~ year before. Their number was increasing every 

day because of the intensification of the struggle in Rhodesia, the closing 

of rural schooIs, and overcmwding in cities, to which nual people fled for 

safety. The refugees were staying in Iarge camps. The aim of the w e e 

program, Ndlovu explained, was to keep the people occupied and train 

them for work back home. They made clothing, grew vegetables, and 

raised poultry and pigs in an effort to be as self-reliant as possibIe. About 

300 teachers, many of whom had fled with their students, were working in 

the educational programs. 

At Zimbabwe Home I also met Jane Ngwenya, who was now in charge 

of women's work. She told me about her brush with death a year and a half 

earlier. On a Saturday morning (January 22, 1977), she and m ZANU 

leaders, Durniso Dabengwa and John Nkomo (no relation to Joshua 

Nkomo), had been in conference with Jason Moyo. Moyo had been given a 

small package addressed in the handwriting of a friend in Botswana. 

Ignoring mtions, he opened the package himself. It exploded, tearing 

out his stomach. The others were injured but not fatally, and Ngwenya had 

fully recod. This bomb was unquestionably the work of the Rhodesian 

secret police. 

During our convenation, Joshua Nkomo arrived. It was faxhating to 

watch the response to him. He was regarded not only as the o ~tion's 

leader but as disciplinarian, chief, and father figure. He was called Mdala, 

or "old man," a term of respect in NdebeIe. When he entered a room, 

people stood at attention. When young girls handed him anything, they 

curtsied or knelt d m as a sign of respect. Nkomo exp& outrage to 

me about the controversy then going on in the World Couacil of Churches 

over its grant of $85,000 to the Patriotic Front. The Salvation Anny was 

threatening to leave the WCC because funds were being given to "terrorists." 

Nkomo remarked that he would like to invite someone from the 

Salvation Anny to visit PF refugee centers, particuIarly where fits, 

children, and old people were suffering. "This might have an effect on 

them," he said. "After all, $85,000 means only a little over $40,000 for 

each movement [ZAPU and ZANU] and this is nothing compared with the 

millions needed." Nevertheless he was grateful for what the WCC granted. 

With Jane Ngwenya I visited a refugee settlement about 30 miles from 

Lusaka. Several small buildings served as crowded dormitories for 113 

women with 115 babies, who averaged 5 to a roam. I saw no beds, only 

mamesses and blankets on the floor. The director was a middle-aged 

woman who had spent time in prison for panicipatiug in a woman's protest 

action. There were two nurses, who had very Iittle equipment. On the land 

around the buildings well-cultivated gardens were producing vegetables. I 

was told that better facilities would be available soon. 

Later I went with Nkomo to visit the Girls' Victory Camp in the former 

headquarters of a Yugoslav company. I was surprised by its sk-sorne 

6,000 girls were living in new dormitories and tents, and another 5,000

331 The Final Cmflkt 

were expected from Botswana. The camp was finand &idly by the UN, 

although contributions also came from various countries and private or- 

ganhtions. Nkomo told me that the United States had given $1.5 million. 

Thirty cement block buildings were under construction for dormitories 

and classrooms. At the moment, classes were being conducted outdoors in 

any available shade. Everyone seemed to be busy. One large building was 

med with men and women sewing clothes for the girls on machines 

donated by East Genaany and the Soviet Union. I talked with the prin- 

cipal of the school program for both this camp and one for boys a few miles 

away. He had been a teacher in a school in Rhodesia that had marched 

across the border to join the ZAPU community in Botswana. The Smith 

government claimed they had been kidnapped by guerrillas. The principal 

laughed as he explained how in fact the whole student body of 4004dd had 

carefully organhed their own escape. 

Shortly before we left, Nkomo led me by the arm to a large athletic field 

ringed by several thousand girls. They started singing with an enthusiasm 

and nand harmony that thrilled me. The songs were of freedom, the 

struggle, and their desire to return home soon. Vhat shall we do with 

Muzorewa, with Sithole, with Chirau [one of the traditional chiefs working 

with Smith]?" one of the songs mt. "W& shall decide when we return 

home," was the response. 

In Lusaka I visited Nkomo's home, provided by the Zambii govern- 

ment. He introduced me to a five-year-old child who had been picked up a 

few days earlier wandering on the Botswana side of the border. He didn't 

know where his parents were. The Botswana police asked him where he 

was going. He had heard about the Geneva conference and replied, "I'm 

waking to Geneva to join Nkomo." Nkomo picked up the lad and said, 

"He has arrived in Geneva." 

ZANU IN MOZAMBIQUE 

The central offices of ZANU's exile organization were in Maputo, capital 

of Mozambique. The Mozambican government gave ZANU office space in 

a former apamnent building. As with ZAPU, I was amazed at the size and 

scope of the operation. Eddison Zvobgo, secretary for information and 

publicity, with whom I talked many times, had a staff of 39 but expected to 

triple it soon. I had the feeling that ZANU leaders were poised and ready 

to take governmental responsibility. My opinion was cmfhmd by another 

new arrival in Maputo, my friend Davis M'Gabe, who had been a key 

ZANU representative in the United States and was on a sabbatical from his 

teaching post at Staten Island Community College. "George, I had no idea 

of the size and the strength of the movement before I came here." 

There were many more Zimbabwean refugees in Mozambique tlaan in 

Zambia. ZANU was inundated by young men and women crossing the 

border and wauting m join the military. About 45,000 men and women 

were attached to the armed forces. Zvobgo said there were as many as 

70,m waiting for training in Mozambique and another ~oo,ooo in Rho-


desia. ZAEPU had facilities, however, to train only 5,000 every three 

months. 

According to the UN representative, in 1978 there were 75,ooo refugees 

in Mozambique in five camps. ZANU was sponsoring educational and 

dcal programs among them. I had met ZANU's secretary for health, 

Dr. Herbert Ushewow, when he came to New York in early 1978 to 

laise funds for medical work among the refugees. The ACOA had mrdinated 

his me1 schedule and arranged for many meetings. For years he 

had run his own medical service in Bulawayo and helped recruit for 

ZANU. He had been in d e since 1976. When he heard I was in Muputo, 

he trawled the rough roads from one of the ZANU camps fa. to the north 

to meet me. He gave me vivid accounts of Rhoda bombing raids on 

refugee centers. Twenty refugees, mostly women, had been killed in one 

raid. Another had lasted six hours but wounded only six people. 

For a time Ushewokunze was the only doctor sehg the camps. He 

moved from one to another with virtually no equipment or facilities and no 

armsthetics for surgery. I was introduced to six young ZANU soldiers, all 

of whom had just received artificial legs from the Internationat Red Cross. 

All but one had been injured by antipersonnel mines near the border. 

My long-time friend Nathan Shamuyasira was in ZW's Deparunent 

of Education. The education program was directed not only toward the 

refugee camps, where eight schools operated with some 30,- students 

and 700 teachers, but also toward an estimated I million people in the 

Iihted areas inside Rhodesia. ZANU was even beginning to use some of 

the rival schools that the government had been forced to vacate. 

By 1978 the stepped-up military campaign was having a marked effect 

on Rhodesia. Casualties on both sides were up dramatically. White emigration 

mse to almost 14,ooo in 1977. Tourism drapped by about 75 percent 

in 1978 compared with 1972, when the serious fighting began. 

About 30 missionaries were killed during the conflict. These atrocities, 

attributed by white Rhodesians to guerrillas, received much publicity. The 

Patriotic Front in turn claimed the murders were the work of special 

Rhodesian guerrilla units ded the Selous Scouts, who posed as rebel 

forces. Some missionaries were known to be giving guerdlas food and 

clothing. By attacking these missionaries, the Selous Scouts could both 

teach them a lesson and score propaganda points against the ZANU and 

ZAPU forces. In fact, since most missionaries were in unprotected rursll 

communities, if the guerrillas had wanted to kill them, few would have 

survived. 

STRAINS WITHIN THE PATRIOTIC FRONT 

Most of the fighting took place in eastern and northeastern Rhodesia, to 

which ZANU forces in Mozambique had relatively easy access. The 

activity of WlPU forces based in Zambia was more limited, a sore point for 

ZAPU. Nkomo was agitated by an article that quoted me slightly out of 

context as saying that ZANU forces were doing most of the fighting. He

334 The Final CmflkC 

had a coworker write a strong letter accusing me of no longer being a 

friend of the Rhodesian struggle. The next time ye met however there 

seemed to bc no rift in our relationship e; 

s&$ 

Although the Patriotic Front held together fir '& years, serious 

rivalry berween ZAPU and ZANU persisted. The PF was in real jeopardy 

in August 1978 when Nkomo was holding secret ralks with Ian Smith in 

Lusaka, unknown to Mugabe. According to the Daily News in Dar es 

Salaam, Nkomo denied any such meetings, but I talked with many people 

there who firmly believed they had taken place. Muzorewa and Sithole 

were enraged, presumably because they felt Smith was bypassing them. 

Nyerere was upset that Kaunda had allowed such meetings without telling 

other African leaders. 

A few days later in Lusaka I learned that indeed Nkomo and Smith had 

met. According to Kaunda's press representative, who had been at the 

meeting, Smith's strategy was to have Nkomo return to Rhodesia to head a 

uansitiod government. Apparently, Smith rightly perceived that neither 

Mworewa nor Sithole could conuol the guerrilla forces and end the 

fighting. Nkomo, he thought, could accomplish this, especially because of 

his alliance with Mugabe. Nkomo was interested in the proposal but could 

not follow up without Mugabe, who would not agree. The ZANU Cenrral 

Committee met in Maputo and turned the plan down. 

The episode straiued relations between Mugabe and Nkomo. When I 

saw Mugabe in Maputo, he made it quite clear that he was upset by what 

he felt was a maneuver by Smith to break up the PE Neither Nkomo nor 

Mugabe could afford to scuttle their PF alliance, certainly not Nkomo, 

who could not control the ZANU forces that were doing most of the 

fighting. 

I 

I ',A NEW INTERNATIONAL INGREDIENT 

International pressure, particularly by Britain and the United States, 

helped end the war in Rhodesia. Kissinger had laid the groundwork. The 

Jimmy Carter administration m e into office in rgn determined m act 

resolutely on southern African issues. Vice President Wter Mondale had 

a well-publidzed meeting with Prime Minister hrster in Vienna. Speaking 

bluntly, Mondale said, "If South Africa persists in its ideology, our 

paths wiIS diverge and our poliaes come into codict." 

The Bynl Amendment was repealed by Congress in the third month of 

the new administration. Andrew Young played a key role in African policy 

in the early pan of Carter's term and was supportive of efforts for African 

liberation. Shortly after he became U.S. ambassador to the UN, he let me 

know that Carter had asked him to provide leadership on African issues. 

He was happy about this assignment. 

Young, whom I had first met when he was assodated with Martin 

Luther Kiag, was not a typical government operative. He was freewheeling. 

We undemood the language of organizations tbat had causes and was 

at ease with representatives of the liberation movements in Africa, such as


Oliver Tambo, Sam Nujoma, Mugabe, or Nkomo. This facility stood him 

in good stead. Early in his UN term a resolution calliug for sanctions 

against South Africa was introduced in the Security Cwncil. Traditionally 

the United States had vetoed all such resolutions and probably would have 

done so again. In behind-the-scenes discussions Ambassador Leslie Har- 

riman of Nigeria, himan of the UN Special Committee Against Apart- 

heid, succeeded in toning down the resolution, and Young was spared the 

embarrassment of voting negatively on an antiapartheid resolution. His 

effectiveness at the UN was enhanced by his deputy, Donald McHenry, 

who, like Yo-, was black and had diplomatic experience and deep 

knowledge on African issues. 

Young worked with David Owen, British foreign minister under James 

Callaghau, to help lay the foundation for a Rhodesian settlement. Carrying 

on their own shuttle diplomacy with all the principals involved, they 

presented the socalled Anglo-American proposals. These includcd a new 

constitution for an independent Zimbabwe, a National Assembly to be 

elected by universal suffrage, a Bill of Rights to protect minorities, a 

Zimbabwe Development Fund of $1.5 billion, a &-months Wtion 

period under a British resident commissioner, a cease-fire, and the lifting 

of sanctions. The African reaction was that at least the proposals were a 

basis for negotiations. The Owen-Young team had separate meetings with 

Mugabe and Nkomo, rcpnsenting the PF, on hlalta and in Dar es Salaam 

to try to work out an agreement. 

In the meantime, Ian Smith continued compounding the difticulties. 

During the height of the Owen-Young diplomacy, he called for elections in 

which his party, the Rhodesian Front, won all 50 seats resend for whites. 

To placate black and international objectors, he eased discriminatory 

practices in some restaurants and allowed limited sports events between 

black and white schools. At the same time, he authorized air force attacks 

on Zambia. Shortly afttr I returned to New York from Zambia, the news 

came that the ZAPU Boys' Victory Camp, which I knew was not military, 

had been bombed. More than 200 were killed and hundreds wounded. A 

few days later, commandos raided Nkomo's house in Lusaka, which I had 

visited. The house was destroyed, but fortunately Nkomo was not there. 

THE INTERNAL SETTLEMENT 

W g 

a last desperate &ort to establish the semblance of majority rule, 

Smith reached an agreement with Muzorewa and Sithole on a so-called 

Internal Settlement. It was so named to distinguish it from the intema- 

tional efforts for majority rule. It included a new constitution calling for 

elections iu which blacks would participate; a black prime minister and a 

cabinet with a black majority would be chosen. Whites would maintain 

control of the police, army, civil service, and prison system. They also 

would have more than enough votes, including 28 reserved seats in the 

legislahue, to block any constitutional changes. The PF rejected the 

senlement.


A resolution was introduced into the U.S. Congress calling for the 

United States to send impartial observers to monitor the elections, sched- 

uled for April 1979. The ACOA interpreted this move as tacit recognition 

of the validity of the Internal Settlement and therefore joined with others 

to campaign against the resolution, which was defeated. 

When Muzorewa's United African National Council (UANC, formerly 

the ANC) won a victory, and he became the first African prime minister of 

the country now called Zimbabwe-Rhodesia, the issue arose again. Should 

the United States lift sanctions? The ACOA argued that they should be 

maintained. The elections could not have been free with martial law in go 

percent of the country and military forces of the government and the 

Muzorewa and Sithole militia ranging the country pressing for votes. 

Furthermore, the PF had been banned. Under these circumstauces the 

vote of the 64 percent of the electorate who cast ballots had to be ques- 

tioned. President Carter vetoed the Senate's vote to lift sanctions. 

It soon became apparent that Muzorewa could not end the war. The 

guerrillas did not accept him. No countries recognized his government. 

Muzorewa went to the United States to win support, but his sponsorship 

by the right-wing forces of Sen. Jesse Helms was surely not the way to win 

. . 

points with the Carter admumaation. Casualties were mounting. The 

guerrilla armies numbered close to 25,000. About 25,000 people were 

killed in the seven years of the war, which cost the Muzorewa government 

more than a $I million a day. 

LANCASTER HOUSE 

A Commonwealth summit conference in Lusaka in August 1979 put final 

pressure on the British. To avoid a crisis, Prime Minister Margaret 

Thatcher and the new foreign minister, Lord carrington, agreed to call a 

constitutional conference in London with all parties represented, which 

even Muzorewa, lacking international recognition and facing domestic 

crisis, had to accept. 

Most people thought the Lancaster House conference, beginning in 

September, would probably not last more than two weeks. Six weeks later, 

when I was in London, it was still going on, although it was by no means 

clear that an agreement would emerge. There were touchy questions to 

deal with: How would the British government exercise and implement 

p e r during the interim perid leading to new elections? Would the PF 

forces be integrated into the m y, police, and civil service during this 

interim so that elections would be fair? Would a UN force be called upon 

to maintain order, since a cease-fire would otherwise be difficult to 

achieve? 

It was encouraging to see that the PF had a united delegation. Both 

ZAPU and ZANU representatives with whom I talked (including Nkomo, 

Zvobgo, and Ushewokunze) were skeptical that a workable agreement 

could be reached, yet they did not want to be responsible for breaking up 

the conference. On the one hand, if no agreement was reached, they felt

Zimbabwe: Wiming Independence 

Zimbabweans celebrating at the election, February 1980. 

the Muzorewa government would be recognized and the fighting would go 

on, putting them back where they started. On the other hand, they were 

sure that if elections were fair, the PF would win an overwhelming victory. 

Zvobgo dogmatically stated that Muzorewa, caught between the white 

minority and the British and saddled with continuing a war against the PF, 

was losing influence. 

Despite these perplexities, an agreement was thrashed out. A constitu- 

tion providing for majority rule was accepted. The conditions for a oease- 

16re were set, and a date for elections was chosen. The next problem was 

how to put this agreement into operation. 

THE MIRACLE OF ZIMBABWE 

Elections under the Lancaster House agreement were to take place the last 

three days of February 1980. I felt that there was no place more impormnr 

for me to be than in Rhodesia just beforehand. Provision had been made 

for both official and unofficial international observers to see that cam- 

paigning and the election were conducted fairly. I organized an unofficial 

delegation of Americans representing the ACOA, the Wbbgton Office 

on Africa, the NAACP, and Traes Africa. Our team of five consisted of Ted 

Lockwood, director of the Washington Office; Tilden LeMdlc, a pro- 

fessor at Hunter College; Cynthia Canady, a lawyer; Robert Edgar, a 

professor at Howard University; and me. Our friend Mike Shusta of

338 The Final CmJict 

National Public Radio, although officially there as a journalist, was part of 

our group 

I had been a prohibited immigrant in Rhodesia ever since 1954. Could I 

get in now? I took the precaution of talking with Sir Anthony Parsons, the 

British ambassador to the UN, about my possible problem. He made 

inquiries and gave me an official letter saying that the interim governor's 

office in Salisbury had approved my entrance. 

When our unofficial team arrived in Salisbury about two weeks before 

the election, the atmosphere was so tense, the intimidation so widespread, 

that it was easy to think the whole process would break down overnight. 

The main contenders were Muzoreways United African National Council, 

Sithole's ZANU splinter, and the two parties of the PE It was the choice of 

Mugabe's ZANU that the uneasy alliance in the PF forged for the Geneva 

conference did not hold for the elections.* 

Our team was only a small part of a large number of foreign observers 

and journalists on hand. According to official statistics, there were 281 

observers and 680 journalists in a country just a little smaller than Califor- 

nia. By dividing our forces our group covered each of the eight provinces 

by car and plane, visited cities, Tribal Trust Lands, tea estates, European- 

owned farms, and protected villages. We attended mass political rallies, 

visited party offices, and talked with leaders and ordinary people. 

For me the intimidation began when we arrived at Salisbury airport. I 

went through the immigration line with some nervous misgivings but 

seemingly with no trouble. As I was changing some American traveler's 

checks, however, the black immigration officer who had passed me 

through came running after me to say that his superior wanted to see me. 

With sinking heart I waited in an office for the white chief immigration 

officer, who bluntly told me I could not stay, that I was "prohibited." I 

then produced the letter given me by Parsons in New York. The officer 

scowled and angrily asked why I hadn't produced it in the first place. "I 

didn't expect any difficulty," I replied. After a telephone call to the 

governor's office, to my great relief, I was allowed in-until March I. 

The peace during the campaign period was obviously fragile. There was 

an uneasy truce among the four different Rhodesian and Zimbabwean 

armies on Rhodesian soil. On highways, signs read, "Warning to 

motorists: it is dangerous to travel this road after 3:oo P.M." Outside 

principal cities, road blocks manned by police and troops let cars with 

whites through with a nod but searched Africans and made thun produce 

identification papers. One could not enter a hotel, bank, or public place 

without having bags and parcels scrupulously examined for weapons or 

explosives. In the Tribal Trust Lands there was curfew from sundown to 

sunrise. At the daily official press briefings, statistics gave evidence of 

violence. On February 19, for example, there were 14 "incidents," 11 

*&cause a* the popularity of Ihc PE Nkmno anpaigncd in the name of the PF, not ZAPU. 

To maintain same a m of the nllipnec, My,gaWs party yas c@cd ZANU(PQ whi$-e 

distinguished it from Sirhole's splinra. . Q


"contacts" (meaning actual exchange of armed fire), 8 deaths, and 12 

violations of the cease-fire. 

I dropped in on Zvobgo at the ZANU office, who informed me that his 

wife had just been arrested along with Richard Hove, a ZANU leader, for 

allegedy aiding a terrorist. They had gone to the rescue of a wounded 

ZANU member near Fon Victoria. They ultimately won their case. 

I visited the Domboshawa area, a Tribal Trust Land, near Salisbury. A 

crowd was gathered around one of the houses, where a young man had 

been shot the night before as he came home about 7:oo P.M., after curfew. 

His bereaved mother took me inside to see his body lying under a white 

sheet. 

I accompanied Nathan Sharnuyarira to his hotel in the African township 

of Highfield. He told me the mom had been ransacked by the police 

the night before. It was a mess. Suitcases had been emptied on the floor. 

Papers were strewn about. Many papers and Rhodesian $1,- of ZANU 

money had been taken. 

Several attempts were made on Mugabe's life. A hand grenade was 

thrown at his home but missed. A more serious attempt was made after he 

had addressed a mass rally at Fort Victoria. An explosion on the highway 

just missed his departing car, leaving a gaping hole in the road. The last 

rwo major ZANU rallies of the campaign were held without Bim because 

of the danger to his life. 

Several times I found the street to the ZANU office in Salisbury 

cordoned off and blocked by police. It was on account of more bomb 

scares, which were becoxning routine, but ZANU officials suspected it was 

police harassment. They frequenrly toc$c $ h e by staying at their desks 

rather than pouring onto the street. - 

Our group had a harrowing experibce that brought home to us the 

prevalent atmosphere of intimidation. On a quiet Sunday we set out in two 

cars for the Chiota Tribal Trust Land, about 60 miles south of Salisbury in 

the company of four ZANU friends who had been campaigning for ZANU 

candidates. Our objective was to talk to whomever we could to ascertain 

their experience in the campaigning. 

turned off the paved highway onto a dirt road and headed toward 

the village of Mahusekwa. On the way we detoured to stop at the Furamera 

School run by Wesleyan Methodists. We talked with the headmaster and 

several initially cautious teachers. As they gained confidence they reported 

some of the coercive tactics used to stop people from attending ZANU 

meetings. We were just getting back to the main dirt road when a frightened, 

dissheveled African rushed up. We stopped and he began to tell us 

that down the road he had just been beaten by soldiers, who were coming 

this way. Before we could get his whole story, we saw a truck speeding 

along the road raising a cloud of dust in its wake. As it approached, the 

driver slammed on the brakes, and a dozen shouting black soldiers with 

guns aimed at us and nervous trigger fingers jumped off. They ordered us 

to get out of our cars. A sergeant shouted that no one should move or he 

would be shot. We stood still, I was not alone in thinking that this might be


the end of the road for us. The soldiers were searching for "terrorists," 

and ZANU sympathizers were looked upon not only as terrorists but as 

Communists as well. 

The sergeant then gave us crisp orders. LeMelle and Shuster and three 

of our ZANU companions were put in the back of the truck with she 

soldiers pointing guns at their heads. Cynthia Canady was put in one car 

with a ZANU driver and m soldiers. I was at the wheel in the other car 

with two soldiers in the back seat, their guns leveled at my neck. The 

sergeant barked, "Stay behind the truck. Do not go more than five miles 

an hour or you will be shot." I could dearly see Cynthia in the car in front 

and LeMelle and Shuster in the truck. We headed slowly down the road, I 

wondered where. 

To cover my nervousness, I began to talk to my two soldiers, who had 

both gone to mission schools and spoke good English. I told them my 

name and why I was there. They told me where they came from and where 

they went to school. I could see that they gradually moved their guns away 

from the back of my head toward the open windows, which made me feel 

more comfortable. They began to warn me against terrorists. There was 

still a war on in their country, they said. There were 5w "terrorists" in the 

Chiota Tribal Trust Land and their job was to fmd them. They told me 1 

was unsafe with the ZANU men and that if the soldiers had not "rescued" 

me and my companions, we would have been taken into the bush and shot. 

They called the ZANU guerrillas ugooks" who kill whites. That day, they 

said, they were Iooking for a terrorist known as Durban and thought one 

of our ZANU companions was he. They were silent when I protested that 

these were not guerrillas or "terrorists" but our friends. 

Soon we arrived at the military base at Mahusekwa. Soldiers con- 

gregated at the gate cheered loudly, for they believed our soldiers had 

captured Durban. Inside the compound we four Americans were sew 

rated from our ZANU companions and interrogated briefly by white 

Rhodesian officers. Who were we? What were we doing with these men? 

How did we mat them? 

Presently we were put in our GUS again and taken several miles farther 

to Marandellas, regional headquarters of the Special Branch of the Police.. 

Here a white Rhodesian officer asked whether we were victims of incimida- 

tion by the ZANU men. He told us we were foolish to have come with 

them and might have been killed. We in nun told him that the only 

intimidation we had suffered was from the government soldiers and from 

the Special Branch as we tried to mrry out our assignment as foreign 

observers of the election. Our exchange was tense and unfriendly. 

We were finally released from this four-hour ordeal with the warning 

that we had better get back to Salisbury before dark, since the roads were 

not safe at night. When we reached Salisbury, we telephoned back to 

Marandellas and learned that our ZANU friends had been released shortly 

after we =re. When we met them later, they credited our presence with 

having saved them from being shot as terrorists with no one the wiser. 

Such incidents were common during the campaign.


The atmosphere was more relaxed in areas of ZAPU suength. LeMelle 

and I vied to attend a huge rally in the beautiful Motopos Hills area of 

southwestern Rhodesia. The spot for the rally was some distance off the 

main road. When a big rainstorm struck, we abandoned our car and aied 

to walk through muddy paths to the meeting place. I shall long remember 

the great sense of unity among the laughing, singing, shouting thousands, 

who, like us, were sloshing through rain and mud, never to reach the rally 

spot und after Nkomo, the main speaker, had come and gone in his 

helicopter. 

The next day we attended a ZAPU rally at Gwelo. There must have 

been zo,ooo Nkomo supporters on hand. Police were there too, but rather 

inconspicuously. It was a festive political occasion capped off by the 

appearance of Nkomo, who made a basic appeal for good wiU among all 

Zimbabweans and added a particular plq$y ,vplqb ., . p~ rn leave the 

country. 

Robert Mugabe was looked u p as the nu& ht'bY the m&'and 

most white Rhodesians. ZANU was seen as almost satanic and assuredly 

terrorist and Communist under his leadership. Bishop Mmrewa was the 

darling of the whites. Typical of articles in the daily Herald, was a frontpage 

story of February 27, 1950, the day voting began, in which 

Muzorewa was quoted as saying, "Zimbabwe will be invaded by Russians 

if the election result goes against the wishes and design of the Communists." 

The biiop was pictured as religious, moderate, strongly anti- 

Communist, and a friend of the white man. By all odds, he had the bestfinanced 

campaign. He had six helicopters at his disposal. ZANU (PF) had 

none. In many full-page ads, he was usually pictured h his clerical 

vestments holding a scepter and a Bible. Mugabe was portrayed as and- 

Cbrisim, Marxist, and a destroyer of churches. 

The corridor talk among journalists was that probably no party would 

win an absolute majority of the roo seats in Parliament. Smith already had 

won all the zo seats reserved for whites. It was assumed that none of the 

African parties would win 51 seats out of the 80 reserved for Africans. So 

probably a coalition government would have to be formed, perhaps led by 

Nkomo joining with Muzorewa and leaving out Mugabe. Yet this was not 

the way Nkomo talked. He was disappointed that ZANU and W U had 

not stuck together for the election. Yet during the campaign he and 

Mugabe were careful not to attack each other. I talked with Josiah 

Chinamano, vice president of ZAPU, who said, "W are not in a battle 

against ZANU. I don't say all is well, but bad feeling is a creation of the 

press." There was c@rtainly some bad feeling between them, but it was 

kept under wraps during the campaign. 

Racism among the whites was by no means dispelled by the prospect of 

a black majority government. It came up frequently in subtle ways. For 

ample, before election day I had lunch at a country club on a whiteowned 

tea estate in the eastern part of the country. I asked one middleaged 

white woman how many people lived on the huge estate. She replied, 

"Twelve." I thought she had not understood my question, for I had seen


hundreds of African workers whose homes were on the estate. So I asked 

how many workers there were. She then said: "Twenty-four hundred." 

On the we of the elections, no one knew what might happen. If a 

coalition government was formed against ZANU, would the 22,000 stillarmed 

guerrillas stay in the 16 assembly points around the country where 

by terms of the cease-fire they were gathered? What about another 3,000 

or more still ranging the countryside and the still more thought to be on 

call in Mozambique or Zambia? If Mugabe won, might there be a white 

coup backed by South African troops? 

My visit to an assembly point called Romeo, a three-hour drive northeast 

of Salisbury, was a strange experience. Several hundred ZAPU guerrillas, 

with weapons and tattered uniforms, were there with a smaller force 

of white mops as part of an attempt to integrate the armed forces. The 

atmosphere was stiff. Only a few weeks earlier these units had been 

involved ia fierce combat, but now they were begiming to go on joint 

patrols. While I was there, Nkomo with the white commander of the 

Rhodesian forces anid by helicopter to pay a formal visit. A military 

assembly was called, the troops standing in neat rows. Nkomo spoke 

brieily, calling on the troops to be ready to accept the election and stressing 

the necessity of black and white living together in peace. Mugabe was 

making similar visits. 

Very few people outside of some ZANU leaders foresaw the overwheIming 

victory that ZANU won. More than 93 percent of the potential voters 

went to the polls. In spite of the pervading air of intimidation, there was 

virtually no violence during the three days of balloting. Our group covered 

many polling stations in the Salisbury area and saw no infractions worth 

mentioning. People waited their turn in long lias and cast their ballots 

without interference. 

The election results were astonishingly one-sided. After all the money 

spent on his behalf, Bishop Muzomwea won only three seats and 8 percent 

of the vote. ZAPU won 20 seats and ZANU 57, an absolute majority plus 

6. The governor asked Mugabe to form a government. 

What was to be expected from this leader of the "terrorists" who was 

now to be prime minister? He had been quoted in 1978 as having said, 

"What I want is for Mr. Smith to be taken before a people's court, judged, 

and I seriously hope shot by a firing squad." While the ZANU enthusiasts 

were dancing and singing in the smeets, shocked white Rhodesians, were 

making plans to adjust the only way they knew how. According to the 

London Sunday T k 

(March g, I*), "Within hours, civil scrvice r e- 

nations poured in, husbands phoned wives telling them to pack a bag and 

leave for South Africa, children had even been sent to school that morning 

carrying bags packed for flights in case early rumors of the results were 

me. Yet within 24 hours this panic rebounded with an equally unfounded 

optimism." 

Most whites had bad no exposure to Mugabe, for he had hardly ever 

been seen on television, heard on radio, or quoted in the press except as an 

object of negative propaganda by his white opponents. So when he spoke

Zimbabwe: Winning Independme 343 

to the nation over radio and television as prime minister-elect, it had a 

momentous effect. Miraculously this speech changed the atmosphere of 

the country. He said, "Our theme is reconciliation. We want to ensure that 

there is a sense of security on the part of everybody, winners and 

losers. . . . Forgive others and forget, join hands in a new amity and 

together as Zimbabweans trample upon racialism, tribalism, and region- 

alism and work hard to reconstruct and rehabitate our society." Mugabe 

made immediate moves to quell fears. He said he would take whites into 

his govefIMent and maintain his alliance with Nkorno by including ZAPU 

leaders in his cabinet. He told the business community there would be no 

early nationalization. He promised civil servants that pensions and prop- 

erty rights would be respected. Foreign policy toward South Africa would 

be one of coexistence but by no means acceptance of apartheid. After all 

the bitter years of a violent struggle, he set the tone for a new era. 

PROSPECTS FOR THE FUTURE 

The independence of Zimbabwe in April 1980 marked a milestone in 

southern Africa. The mieority government, in control for 92 years, was 

finally overthrown. The new government took on its responsibilities with 

enthusiasm, and the response was equally enthusiastic. I could feel it in 

New York. Mugabe was warmly welcomed at the UN. Of all the receptions 

the ACOA sponsored for African leaders, none was more thrilling than the 

one for the new prime minister of Zimbabwe. Zimbabweans who had been 

working or studying in the United States made plans to go home to help 

build a new country, even though the move often involved personal and 

financial complications. 

With independence the exodus of whites increased. One to two thou- 

sand people a month streamed out of Zimbabwe. It was estimated that a 

hard core of ~oo,ooo whites (out of some 280,000) would stay on. The 

attitude of many was, UI'll stay as long as it pays." On the whole, those 

who stayed l id as comfortably as they did before independence. On one 

of my visits I asked the white desk clerk of my small hotel how everything 

was going. She replied, "I'm just waiting to get out of here." Then, unsure 

of my sympathies, she quickly added, "I'm no racist, though." Other 

whites were very supportive of the government. A new group of whites 

sympathetic to the government were attracted to Zimbabwe for jobs in 

teaching, government, technology, and development schemes, a mnd that 

augurs well for the future. 

Some changes came quickly. When a new city council was elected for 

Salisbury, the name of the city was changed to Harare, afrer Neharawa, the 

Shona chief at the time of the Pioneer Column in 1888. Names of other 

cities were changed to their originals such as Gwelo to Gweru, Fort 

Victoria to Masvingo, Umtali to Mutare. And street names were 

changed-in Harare, Jameson Avenue became Samora Machel Avenue and


Kingsway was changed to Julius Nyerere Avenue. The statue of Cecil 

Rhodes on the main thoroughfare was toppled. 

More fundamental changes came too. W~thin a year after independence 

the number of students entering secondary school rose from 18 percent to 

83 percent. Free medical care became available for everyone with an 

income of less than Zimbabwe $235 a month. A national minimum wage 

was set in commerce, industry, and mining. 

There were dissatisfactions, too, however. Land reform proceeded 

slowly, In the first three years the plan called for 162,000 people who 

nded land to be resettled on unused or underused land acquired by the 

government, but only a little more than 20,000 had actually been resettled. 

Some 5,500 white farmers still owned 39 percent of the land. Multina- 

tional corporations, although paying a 50 percent tax on profits, were still 

exercising a perfid infIuence. 

Perhaps the most serious problem was the continuing political and 

tribal codct. Dissidents in Matabeleland, once loyal to Nkomo's ZAPU, 

had hiddcn arms, presumably to initiate antigovernment attacks. Some 

people in government circles thought Nkomo was involved. He emphati- 

cally denied it, and I believed him; armed revolt was not his style. He was a 

politician, not the architect of a violent coup. It seemed rather that he 

could not control the dissidents, some of whom were disgruntled former 

ZAPU guerrillas and some common criminals. The government re- 

sponded to the threat of violence by taking emergency military action in 

which thousands of innocent people suffered, especially in Matabeleland, 

presumably for harboring dissidents. I know from my visits in the 

Bulawayo area that many people feared traveling into the rural areas where 

government troops might apprehend hem. 

The codict strained Mugabe's coalition government. Nkomo was dis- 

missed from his ministerial post. Feeling in danger of arrest, he secretly 

escaped from the country in disguise and went to London. He told me in 

Harare only a few weeks before he fled, "I suppose there has to be an 

unsettled period after independence, but does it have to be like this?" 

Other ZAPU leaders had moments of disullusionment. One asked, in a 

dispirited tone, "Is this what we fought for?" 

My own feeling about Zimbabwe is optimistic. The progress in cduca- 

tion and health care is heartening. The economy has recovered with rhe 

end of the crippling drought. Critical voices, white and black, sensible and 

nonsensical, can speak out. Even Ian Smith was for several y~ars still in 

Parliament, although he was hardly a friend of the black government. The 

transition to independence is never easy, but the future of Zimbabwe looks 

promising.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 

South Africa and Namibia: 

.& The Final Conflict 

outh Africa has not basically changed in the 3s-odd years I have been 

S concerned with it. Organizations and individuals resisting apartheid 

are still being banned. Since the Sharpeville Massacre of 1960,3.5 million 

blacks have been forcibly relocated out of urban areas by the government. 

Political prisoners and executions are still, per capita, the most numerous 

in the world. Torture is routinely used by the police. The vast majority of 

the people, the Africans, still cannot vote. Whac were in the 1950s called 

"native resed' have ken renamed "Bantustans," then "homelands"; a 

few are even known by some as "nations" and have a pseudo-independence. 

But a separate status for the mass of people, most of whom live in 

ignominious poverty, still persists. 

From my vantage point outside South Africa I have watched the course 

of the struggle. I experienced the brief wave of optimism that swept 

southern Africa after the FRELIMO government was formed in Mozambique. 

I listened skeptically as South African prime minister John Vorster 

wished it well, pledged that he would work for peace and development in 

an African context, and hinted at unexpected change within South Africa 

in six months. Reality returned, however, when SASO, the BPC, and the 

Black Allied PPlorked Union announced they were holding a public rally 

in celebration of FRELIMO's victory and the government banned the 

rally and arrested the leaders. 

THE SOWETO UPRISING AND AFTER 

The excitement aroused by the Soweto uprising of June 16, 1976, was 

comparable onIy to that surrounding the Sharpevllle Massacre of 1960. 

Unlike Sharpeville, the uprising in the sprawling Soweto Township outside 

Johannesburg was led by young students, not older liberation organiza- 

tions. The Smeto Students' Representative Council (SSRC) was the only 

oqankd group openly mentioned. The demonstration of some 10,ooo 

students protesting the 1955 requirement that Afrikaans be a language of 

instruction in the schools may have arisen out of their identification with 

the pervasive black consciousness movement. 

For several weeks the students had been actively protesting and boycot- 

ting subjects such as mathematics and science taught in Afrikaans. Their 

protest culminated in a march the morning of the 16th with students

The Final Conpict 

singing forbidden songs of the banned African National Congress (ANC) 

and giving the black power salute. They were stopped by armed police, 

who used tear gas and, when the marchers did not disperse, fired shots. 

Twelve-year-old Hector Peterson was killed immediately; he is now revered 

as the first martyr of Soweto. 

The demonstration spread and erupted into rioting. Bantu administration 

offices were burned; hundreds of white students at the University of 

Witwatersrand, joined by black students at the University of Zululand and 

the African University of the North, marched in protest. A thousand 

protesters mged the streets in Alexandra Township Within two weeks 

there were 1,300 arrests. According to government statistics, nearly 500 

had been killed; unofficial estimates put the figure at more than I ,ooo. 

One of the colorful leaders to emerge was 19-yes-old Tsietse Mashimini, 

president of the SSRC. He came to public attention (gendy 

anonymity was important to avoid reprisals) when a clandestine interview 

witb him in Johannesburg, arranged by a British television crew, was aired 

in London. He became a wanted fugutive for whom a reward was offered, 

but he successfully eluded the police and finally escaped to Lmdon. At my 

invitation he came to New York, where the ACOA held a press conference 

for him. Like most youthful leaders, Mashimini was disarmingly frank 

and unsophisticated. "I didn't even become a revolutionary until I came 

out," he said. "I have only just learned about things like capitalism and 

Marxism and communism, and I still don't know much about them. 

They're just a bunch of 'isms'." 

The SSRC achieved a siflmnt degree of control in Soweto. At its 

insistence, state beer halls were closed for a time. The state-controlled 

Urban Bantu Council, including the chairman, David Thebahali, who was 

threatened with having his house burned down, all resigned. Some time 

later The- came on a U.S. government-sponsored visit to the United 

States and stopped at my office. He did not impress me by rationalizing 

that he was working with the apartheid government to weaken it from 

within. He told me that government officials had convinced him that 

reforms in housing and education would come and that "shouting for 

political freedom has done absolutely nothing to improve the things that 

really matter to the people." 

The government cracked down after Soweto in reaction to the continued 

student protests md the boycotting of classes and exams by 300,000 

students. Especially devastating was the arrest of the young leader Stephen 

Biko in August 1977 and his murder in prison 28 days later. The shock at 

learning the details of the tom and beatings he suffered before he died 

was compounded by a sense of outrage that at the inquest the legally 

untrained chief magistrate in Pretoria found that the police bore no 

responsibility in Biko's death. "To me it was just another death," Marthinus 

Prim said. It was grotesquely callous for him to add tbat with the 

case over hc was lookiag foward to relaxing and doing some W g , p if 

the ordeal had been his.' 

Almost eight years later (July 5, 1975)~ a medical panel ruled thac the

South Africa and Namibia: The Final Confit 347 

two doctors who allowed the police to transport Biko by van, naked, 

manacled, and suffering fmm brain damage, 800 miles from Port Eliza- 

beth to Pretoria, were guilty only of "improper conduct." One doctor was 

reprimanded and the other suspended from practice for three months. 

Biko's death was a terrible Ioss. I felt that what he quietly said about 

black consciousness was important not only for blacks but also for white 

people like myself to hear. So often wbies who try to identify with blacks 

in the struggle for justicje develop a kind of martyr complex or tend to 

think of themselves as especially annointed leaders. It is a good antidote to 

such a false sense of importance to be told that blacks must be in the 

vanguard and whites in supporting roles. 

The government crackdown was reminiscent of the neason arrests of 

1 956 and the post-Sharpeville period. In September 1977 the government 

suppressed all opposition. Eighteen organizations were banned, 2 major 

black newspapers were shut down, and some 60 black (and a few white) 

leaders were arrested.* 

Many young leaders of the black consciousness moment fled South 

Africa in the aftermath of Soweto. Some wanted to join the ANC and the 

PAC outside, through which they could receive military training or go 

overseas to study. Others wanted to establish a firm external base for the 

various organizations identified with the black consciousness movement, 

notably the BPC. 

In Gaberone, the capital of Botswana, in 1978 I met magy of these 

activists. Botswana was the easiest refuge to reach and Gaberone was 

hardly 12 miles from the border. This small town reflected South African 

duence. The major radio programs, the food in the hot& and restau- 

rants, and the goods in the shops all came from South Africa. As one who 

had made a point of personally boycotting South African goods, I was 

confronted with an impossible situation. 

Botswana's proximity to South Africa often resulted in tension. The day 

I arrived in Gaberone a crisis was unfolding. Students had been denied 

permission to hold a demonstration, and police had used tear gas to 

disperse a gathering of protesters. Several arrests were made. In retaliation 

the students had burned some of the surrounding veld. The crisis had 

arisen because the government had put on trial several soldiers who had 

killed two South Africans and a Briton apprehended near the Rhodesian 

border while engaged in suspicious activities, presumably for the Ian 

Smith government. The students were protesting the trial, which they felt 

came about only because of South African pressure on Botswana. 

Botswana was a haven for nationalist refugees from its mubled neigh- 

bors, partidar1y Rhodesia and Namibia. Camps were set up aided by the 

UN and international church agencies through the Botswana Christian 

*Among the organhations banned were tbe BPC, SASO, SSRC, Christian InSli~te 

of South 

Africa, and Union of Black Journalisu. W -knm individuals dctaincd or band included 

MQobops, cditw of T~;M, thc largest bkk nmpapu; Donald Ubods, white &tor 

of thc Eon Londmr Daib, Dip& Bcycn Naude, white director of the Qlrisrian Institute; 

and Dr. Nutho Motlana, chPirman of Smro's Comrnittcc of Tm.


Council. The roughly 2,000 South African refugees, mostly political, were 

less numerous than the others. The ANC representative in Gaberone said 

about go people a month came through the ANC, most of them in transit. 

They were fed and housed in three buildings as they waited to move on. I 

visited with some who had been involved in the Soweto demonsmtions 

and had left to avoid arrest and to study abroad. 

These young escapees were new to exile politics. Some of them hoped 

the BPC could receive enough h cial aid to become a viable force in 

exile. They respected the older ANC and PAC as history but no longer 

looked to them for leadership They were convinced that they themselves 

represented the new freedom fighters in the struggle against apartheid. I 

thought they were quite uarealistic about their prospects for political 

survival removed from their base inside South Africa. The ANC, es- 

pecially, with its prestige snd respected leaders hi^ was already effectively 

tapping governmental and nongovernmental support for the antiapartheid 

cause internationally. It would be difficult for anyone else to break in. 

I talked with Joe Matthews, who was no longer with the ANC but was 

in private law practice in Botswana. He was afraid the ANC was losing 

touch with the day-to-day life of the people in the country and was 

spending too much time, energy, and money in just keeping the external 

apparatus going. More conservative now, he was critical of the campaign to 

stop investments in South Africa, but he cushioned his remarks by saying 

that the campaign wasn't the key to bringing internal change in South 

Africa. I didn't disagree, for few proponents of divestiture believed it 

would end apartheid. Rather, we believed it was a way for outsiders to 

highlight the role of business in strenaening the apartheid regime. 

Matthews asked me if I remembered the police lieutenant who had 

interrogated me when we were picked up near Port Elizabeth in 1954. 

How could I forget him! Matthews told me he had telephoned this official 

recently in connection with a law case and that he had risen high in the 

South African police system. The official had asked Matthews whatever 

happened to that white guy he had picked up years ago. Matthews had 

responded, "He's still at it." 

OUTSIDE REACTIONS 

The Soweto uprisiog and the subsequent government crackdown spurred 

a crescendo of activity outside the munhy. The UN General Assembly and 

S d t y Council spent hours debating the issue. Western cow& would 

not accept overall sanctions, but the arms embargo was strengthened. 

Especially important at the UN was the watch dog body set up in 1963 

and later known as the Special Committee Against Apartheid. It was a low- 

level committee composed mostly of African, Asian, and Latin American 

countries (no permanent Security Council members), so it did not auto- 

matically carry much influence. It could, however, be freewheeling, and

Smth Africa and Namibia: The Final Conflict 349 

bebind the scenes it engineered many UN resolutions and strategis. It 

senred as a rallying point for nongovernmental organizations interna- 

tionally and helped many of them. Through the ACOA I appeared many 

times at its hearings. 

The success of the Special Committee was largely due to the behind- 

the-scenes mrk of its chief of staff, Enuga S. Reddy. An Indian, he bad 

studied at New York University and had become a researcher at the UN in 

1949. He tackled the initially nonprestigious job with imagiuation and 

energy and made the Special Committee into one of the most active bodies 

in the UN. Its staff increased from 5 to 35, and its budget grew to about $3 

million. Another $5 million was raised for victims of apartheid and for 

schohhips for black South Africans. 

I was among those who hoped that the post-Soweto Jimmy Carter 

administration would mean a more vigorous policy in opposing South 

Africa. Andrew Young at the UN told me that the government would take 

some new initiatives. He traveled to Maputo, Mozambique, to participate 

in a UN Conference in Solidarity W1th the People of Zimbabwe and 

Namibia. There he spoke of a "new interest in Africa" and alluded to 

policies that would "represent something of a revolution in the con- 

sciousness of the American people." 

The United States donated $goo,om to the UN Education and Training 

Programs for Southern Africa, repealed the Byrd Amendment, and 

changed the Zimbabwe Development Fund so that it would be used for 

development projects rather than for encouraging whites to stay. When 

Biko was killed aad protest organizations were banned, the United States 

backed a strengthened UN arms embargo against South Africa. 

The most troublesome aspect of U.S. policy on South Africa for me was 

its emphasis on the ccntdty of the business community in encouraging 

change. In a speech to business leaders in Johannesburg, Young said, "I've 

come to think of the business community as . . . being the key to the hope 

. . . for South Africgns to live together as brothers. . . ." He used the 

analogy of the civil rights struggle in the United States as relevant for 

South Africa; he said that Martin Luther King had told the people of the 

Southland that "their economic system could not run without the support 

of black Americans." He specifically told how he and King had organized 

a committee of ~oo business leaders in Birmingham, Alabama, which 

negotiated "the end of apartheid in Birmingham in spite of the fact that on 

the books of law it was still illegal to desegregate anythiug." In private 

conversation Young reiterated these same points to me. 

I felt that this approach gave business leaders the impression that not 

only should they continue their profitable pursuits undisturbed but rhcy 

could also be consoled by thinking that in so doing they were a force for 

change. I felt that the U.S. civil rights struggle was not essentially revolutionary. 

It was aimed more narrowly against clkrbhtion and segregation, 

not at basic political and economic control. It could not be a model 

for South Africa, where the white minority rightly perceived that their 

privileged way of life was at stake. I felt that the outlawing of the pass laws,

The Final Conpict 

the recognition of black trade union rights, and the achievement of a 

universal franchise would condemn the old system. A philosophy that saw 

remedial reforms in business practices as the means of bringing about 

basic change seemed to me a delusion. Internal codct would inevitably 

lead to international strife in which the United States would back up a 

white goverrun~t with whose preservation it was concerned. For by the 

1980s the United States was South Africa's chief trading parmer, supply- 

ing 19 percent of South Africa's imports and buying 15 percent of its 

exports, and U.S. investments had mushroomed to more than $14 bil- 

lion.* Furthermore, American investment was substantially concentrated 

in critical anas of the South African economy-maeufacnuing and en- 

ergy-related enterprises. 

I did not believe that the Sullivan phciples, which stressed reforms in 

the workplace of Americanswned businesses, would make fundamental 

changes in the injustices of the system. The advocacy of greater equality in 

the workplace would have virtually no effect on apartheid in the larger 

comunity-separate housing, black homelands, and lack of voting rights. 

Moreover, how could the Sullivan principles have much effect when only I 

percent of South African workers were employed in Americandominated 

industries? 

The ACOA initiated campaigns in coalition with other organizations to 

implement a divestiture strategy. Wk organized the Campaign to Oppose 

Bank Loans to South Africa (COBLSA), directed by Prexy Nesbitt of our 

staff. It involved 48 cooperating organizations. We concentrated on urging 

state and local governments to divest themselves of investments in banks 

or corpof~tio~~ heavily involved in South Africa. 

The ACOA's research work on divestiture was ably headed by Jennifer 

Davis. Durnisaai Kumalo, a founder of the Union of Black Journalists in 

South Africa, who had fled police harassment there, made spegches and 

organized efforts around the country. His outgoing personality and his 

experience as a black South African made him an effective speaker. 

Divestiture campaigns on college campuses began to reach signi6cant 

proportions after the Soweto uprising and the murder of Biko. Students at 

Hampshire College in Massachusetts occupied the administration building 

in April 1977, demanding divestinue, and they won. Other student groups 

rallied to the cause, and the ACOA was besieged with requests for information 

on the economic ties between the United States and South Africa. 

ACOA sraff members were frequently asked to speak on college campuses. 

I was invited to participate in a conference at Northwestern University 

in May 198 I. A generous honorarium was offered, which, like everything 

I received for writing or speaking, would have helped the ACOA's 

budget. My plans were aborted, however, when a fit-it,g-:tud!~ em+is , 

- - 

*In JWC 1983 U.S. banks rrprrt laming $3.8 billion to South Africa; corpoisfe invcs&ts 

urEalcd $2.6 billion; and AmPicPIl individual stockholders owned $8 hillion kr J3PtCQ 

lined on the J ~ ~ b ustwk r g uchnge-

South Africa and Namibia: The Final Confrict 351 

was organized by my old friend Dennis Brutus, professor of English. 

Protesters called on the invited speakers to boycott the conference because 

they felt it was a way of circumventing a face-to-face confrontation on the 

issue of Northwestern's $80 million investment in U.S. companies doing 

business in South Africa. They promised to picket all sessions of the 

conference. I knew I would not be able to cross a picket line of those I 

considered to be allies in the divestiture campaign. Consequently I and 

several other speakers withdrew. 

ACOA efforts to combat apartheid were not turned exclusively to 

economic investments. We were also concerned with South African participation 

in sports events. When the Davis Cup tennis match beween 

South Africa and the United States was at Vanderbilt University in 

Nashville in 1978, the ACOA joined a coalition of organizations to protest 

South Africa's participation. The NAACP was prominently involved, as 

was Franklin W m , president of the Phelps Stokes Fund, but the chief 

leader was Richard Lapchick, a teacher at Virginia Wesleyan University in 

Norfolk and a specialist in the relation of sports to society. The demonsua- 

tion outside the gymnasium and the publicity given the protest had their 

effect. Only about I ,100 attended the match in the gym, which would seat 

9,600. As a result, Lapchick received considerable pubiic attention and 

suffered the consequences. Late one night in his university office he was 

physically assaulted by two white men, who, after beating him uncon- 

scious, carved "niger" (sic) on his stomach. They were never ap- 

prehended.* 

Three years later we again worked with Lapchick in a campaign against 

the U.S. appearance of the South African Rugby team. We forced the 

cancellation of scheduled matches in New York, Chicago, and Rochester. 

At the one public game that was held, in Albany, the demonstrators 

ournumbered the spectators 10 to I. 

V T 

I - .. 

TO INSURRECTION - :31 * 

~1CI1:'pJ*+~C*--~t)l 

The campaign a&t apartheid and &tc k&ority domktion k ged 

both qmtitively and qualitatively inside South Africa in the early rg8os. 

Prime Minister Vorster left office in 1978 in the aftermath of the so-called 

Muldergate scandal, in which an estimated $100 million had been spent on 

projects backed by Vorster and Cornelius Mulder, minister of information, 

to counter the growing international isolation of South Africa. P.W. Botha, 

minister of defence, became prime minister. Sounding like a reformist, he 

told the South African people they would have to adapt to new realities or 

die. Then he initiated some highly touted reforms such as eliminating laws 

full story of the racism of the policc is grim reading in Lapchick's book B A 

a e 

hwim, Rcleirm in American Sponr (1984.) ,


forbidding interracial marriages, giving black trade unions certain rights 

of collective bargaining, ending the reservation of certain jobs for whites, 

lifting the ban on multiracial political parties, and establishing black 

community councils with some responsibility for administration in black 

township. 

About this time, in 1980, Ronald Reagan was elected U.S. President. 

The Reagan policy of "constructive engagement," a phrase coined by 

Chester Crocker, the assistant secretary of state for Africa, was a Bisheartening 

innovation to most of Africa. Reagan called South Africa a "friendly 

country'" a television interview with Walter Cronkite. Crocker said in a 

speech that the United States "seeks to build a more constructive relationship 

with South Africa, one based on shared interests, persuasion, and 

improved communicati~n.'~ In a private memo to Secretary of State 

Alexander Haig, he said, % can work to end South Africa's pdecat 

status in the world." 

This shift in policy led to many new government actions. Additional 

honorary South African consulates were opened across the United States. 

The way was cleared for enriched uranium to be exported to South Africa. 

Restrictions against shipping some types of U.S. goods for police and 

military use were relaxed. South African naval officers were trained with 

the U.S. Coast Guard. Between 1981 and 1983 the United States did not 

vote favorably on even one of the 38 UN resolutions concerning apartheid. 

The Reagan administration responded enthusiastically to Botha's reforms. 

Secretary of State George Shultz announced, "There has been more 

change in South Africa in the last four years than in the previous thirty." 

U.S. enthusiasm was hardly dampened by the brutality of the Botha 

government's attempt to dismantle the Crossroads shantytown near Cape 

Town. Nor was it cooled by the destabilization efforts of South Africa in 

backing the MNR in Mozambique and UNITA in Angola nor by the 

intransigence of the Botha government in forestalling UN-sponsored elections 

in Namibia. My former ACOA colleague Richard Leonard argues in 

his book Sowlr Afhz at Wrr (1983) that South Afxica is already at war, 

having a defense force that has grown from half a million to more than a 

million during the Botha years. 

Ironically it was a major "reform" instituted by Botha that opened the 

floodgates to a new, hitherto unequaled level of prorest. Botha initiated a 

new constitution in 1984, under which he became president and two 

houses were added to Parliament for Indians and for CoIoureds. The 

Coloured and Indian voters were displeased, however, as was clear when 80 

percent boycotted elections, and the Africans, who were more than 70 

percent of the population, were left out. 

Some 600 organizations came together to oppose the new constitution 

and set up the most formidable legal opposition yet seen, the United 

Democratic Front (UDF). A continual series of protests began. Eight 

hundred thousand students boycotted their classrooms; a two-day general 

strike was organized in Johannesburg; a confrontation between police and 

people erupted in the Crossroads shantytown; 19 were killed as the police

South A ha and Namibia: The Final Conflict 

tried to break up a Cape funeral procession on the 25th anniversary of the 

S M e Massacre; UDF leaders were arrested and banned. More than 

a thousand people were kiUed in a little more than a year. 

New South African personalities were thrust into prominence: Bishop 

Desmond Xtu, who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984; the Rev. Allan 

Boesak, a founder of the UDF and president of the World Alliance of 

Refonned ChurCees; and the Rev. Beyers NaudC, the founder of the 

banned Christian Instimte and general secretary of the South African 

Council of Churches. Anyone who watched televison or read newspapers 

became acquainted with the imprisoned nationalist Nelson Mandela. 

One of the most remarkable developments of this period was the 

resurgence of the ANC. Although banned for more than 25 years, its 

mention forbidden in the media or in public speech, it achieved a new level 

of popularity partIy as a result of its continued campaign of sabotage. The 

ANC is credited with 150 armed attacks berween 1977 and 1982. Most 

daring were a series of artacks on plants for the conversion of coal to oil in 

the Johanntsburg area in June 1980. Damage was estimated at $7.3 

million. In 1983 the nature of the attacks began to change when the 

explosion of a car bomb outside the South African Airforce and Military 

Intelligence offices in Pretoria killed 18 people and wounded go, including 

some Africans. Although these attacks were not expected to overthrow 

the government, they spoke eloquently for the presence of the ANC. 

The ANC also had the advantage of being identified with Mandela, who 

gained in stature through his years of incarceration. Winnie Mandela, his 

wife, bewme a headline personality in her own right. 

The opposition inside South Africa inspired renewed activity internationally 

on a much larger scale and with sustained pressure. U.S. action 

escalated. Initiated by the black lobby organization TWrica, the Free 

South Africa movement caught the imagination of U.S. opponents of 

apartheid. Beginning on Thanksgiving Day 1984, with arrests at the South 

African embassy in Vkhbgton, thousands of Amerians volmteed for 

arrest at South African consulates throughout the country. Many were 

prominent citizen+members of Congress; stars of films and television; 

church, labor, and civil rights leaders. Being arrested became the thing to 

do. Even the police and judges usually cooperated with the protest. When 

I was arrested in a group outside the South African consulate in New York, 

charges were dropped in court and the judge made sympathetic remarks. 

Other campaigns intded too. The divestiture effort gathered great 

momencum. Even Chase Manhattan Bank, against which we had campaigned 

for so long, announced it was ending loans to South Africa in 

1985. Since the start of the divestiture campaign, 17 states, 60 cities, and g 

countries had ended their South African investment to the tune of $5 

billion. Eighty-five colleges and universities had partially or totally done so 

for a total of more than $500 million. 

The pressure of events in South Africa and the United States, especially 

in Congress, made the Reagan administration listen. To fortstall stiffer 

measures in Congress, in September 1985 Reagan banned the sale of


computenr to the South African government, barmi most loans, proposed a 

ban on the import of Kmgemands, and prohibited mmt exports of nuclear 

technology. A year later, sdncrions became law over his wto. The fact is, 

however, that by the mid-1980s neither the deepening insurrection in 

South Africa nor the mounting international protest had been sufficient to - 

shake the apartheid regime into making fundamental change. 

THE CONTINUING STRUGGLE IN NAMIBIA 

SWAPO of the 1980s was a far cry from the fledgling organization I had 

lint encountered more than 20 years earlier. Now it had a well-run office 

near the UN with a permanent staff headed by Theo Ben Gurirab. Other 

offices, almost embassies, were in Dar es Salaam, Lusaka, London, and 

Luanda. An army of several thousand carried on a guerrilla conflict against 

a South African army in Namibii more than 10 times its size. SWAPO 

president Sam Nujoma was received almost like a head of state as he 

traveled around Africa. 

Many leaders 1 had known since their student days had developed an 

impressive assurance and maturity. Our relationship had, of course, 

changed. In Lusaka I dined at a restaurant with Hage Geingob, who 

directed the UN-sponsored Namibia Institute, aad Hidipo Hamutenya, 

who was on the teaching staff. Both had studied in the United States. As 

we ended our pleasant evening of discussion and reminiscing, I reached for 

the bill, expecting to pay as in the past, but Geingob beat me to it. He 

laughed as he said, "No, George. Things are not as they used to be. You 

are our guest this time." I knew that at the institute the SWAPO sraff 

members gave 50 percent of their modest salary to the organization; I 

appreciated Geingob's gesture. 

The UN Institute for Namibia was a major project with which SWAPO

South Africa and Namibia: The Final Conflict 

Sam Nujoma, president of SWAPO, at the celebration of the 10th anniversary of 

Zambian independence, Lusaka, Zambia, October 1974. 

was closely related. By the early 1980s more than 400 young Namibians 

were taking a three-year course there to prepare for practical leadership in 

an independent country. The institute, which opened in 1976, was the 

brain child of Sean MacBride, UN commissioner for Namibia in New York. 

It was one of the better examples of UN aid to the former mandated 

territory. 

The institute eventually had a staff of more than 60 from I 5 different 

countries and a budget of about $4 million a year. The students were 

introduced to law, economics, history and political science, education, and 

agriculture. In 1983 about go percent of them were women, compared to 

40 percent in 1981. Most of the young men were in Angola preparing for, 

or actually in, combat with South African forces. Four students with 

whom I talked on my 1983 trip were all in their third year. They expected 

to have a brief practical internship with the Yugoslav government and then 

be assigned to Angola, where 65 of the last graduating class of 80 were 

serving. 

Another of SWAF'O's major responsibilities was running refugee cen- 

ters, chiefly in Zambia and Angola. In 1981 with my friend Wing Wolfe, I 

visited the largest one, in Kwanza Sul district of Angola, some 200 miles 

south of Luanda. The trip took us about four hours of a hair-raising ride 

with some SWAPO friends in two Mercedes, tearing along a narrow road, 

sometimes at roo miles an hour. 

Although the center, founded in 1978, ,.)uas !?m milcxnnrrh clf the 

- C'- L

Hage Oringob, director of the UN Institute for Namibia, at the institute, 

Lusaka, Zambia, 1978. 

Namibian border, the danger of South African attack was by no means 

absent. Many of the refugees were survivors of the South African air and 

land attack in 1978 on a sdar refugee camp at Kassinga, about 150 miles 

north of the border, in Angola, where more than 800 were killed, Muding 

children, and more than 400 wounded. 

The Kwanza Sul camp, like Kassinga, had nothing military about it. 

Here we were seeing the rank and fde of SWAP0 people, comrades in 

resisting South African control of their country. The settlement, scattered 

widely under huge uees on a high plateau in a coffee-growing area, was 

delightfully cool. The majority of the 50,000 people, most of them young, 

were living in tents. Large numbers continued to arrive from the south 

every day. They were assigned to a particular sector of the camp depending 

on whether they were mothers with babies, farmers or workers, or persons 

receiving help at the health and education units. 

I was impressed to sce how the people adjusted to a rather difEcult life. 

There were 10,000 students, age 7 to 18, in the school program, supervised 

by ~oo teachers, some of whom I had met before. One familiarlooking 

young man greeted me by name. He was an Angolan agricultural 

specialist assigned by the government to work in this area. He reminded 

me that the ACOA had given him emergency aid 18 years earlier, which he 

had never forgotten. How grateful I was for his expression of thanks! 

The head doctor, with whom I had correspdhded, was Namibian. Our 

Africa Fund had sent medicines and supplies over the years. There were 3 

other doctors, from Finland and Sweden, 14 nurses, and 70 student

Smth and Namibia: The Final Conflict 357 

nurses, dealing with such tropical diseases as malaria and intestinal prob- 

lems. 

The spirit of the people was inspiring. We arrived on the 21st anniver- 

sary of the founding of SWAPO, and the evening was given over to some of 

the most beautiful singing 31 natural harmony that I have ever heard. They 

sang SWAP0 freedom songs, in which they expressed a longing to renun 

home, condemned the evil of apartheid, praised their leader, Sam Nu- 

joma, and committed themselves to continue the struggle until victory was 

won. 

SOUTH AFRICA'S INTRANSIGENCE IN NAMIBIA 

Nothing illustrates South Africa's determination to resist change more 

dearly than its continued efforts to frustrate Namibia's independence. 

When the independence of Angola and Mozambique was not quickly 

followed by Namibian independence, as many had hoped, the struggle 

became more bitter and intense. The United States during the Henry 

Khhger years feared that leaders with Soviet sympathies would become 

more prominent, and this fear had activated a new level of U.S. involvement. 

Yet it seemed absurd to attribute Moscow alignment to SWAPO, 

which had earlier had good relations with the FNLA and later with 

UNITA. When South Africa first invaded Angola in 1975, I well remember 

how a SWAPO leader in Dar es Salaam told me that all cooperation 

with UNlTA would end. 

In 1976 the United States supported the UN Sdty Cound in 

adopting Resolution 385 condemning South Africa's illegal occupation 

of Namibia, its growing military domination, and its oppressive rule 

and calling for elections under UN supervision and control leading to 

independence. South Africa, however, had embarked on its two-track 

policy, sponsoring mopes to set up and control a de facto internal government 

based on apartheid but at the same time never saying absolutely no to 

the UN so that it could be acceptable to the internationa! community. Its 

chief problem was that SWAPO's mass following would make the first 

objective di€Iicult and the second impossible. Therefore, South Africa's 

mom limited goal was to establish a credible internal government but at 

any cost to keep SWAPO out of power. 

In 1975 South Africa had sponsored the llmhalle Conference in Wmdhoek 

in an old gymnasium (lbnhalle in German). Delegates came from 

the r I ethnic pups in Namibia, including whites. SWAPO, of course, did 

not participate both on prinaple and because no nonethnic political body 

could be represented. The ddegates agreed to set up I I separate regions 

and a National Assembly chosen by tribal association. They perpetuated 

thdws as a political codition called the Democratic Turnhalle Alliance 

(DTA). In elections in December 1978, the DTA won 41 out of 50 seats, 

and the new legislature was trausformed into a National Assembly. Real 

power was in the hands of South Africa's appointed addnbuator general,

358 The Final Cmflict 

who could veto any measures or intervene at any time. The UN rejected 

the elections, as, of course, did SWAPO. 

The UN had tried to forestall this development in 1977 through negotiation. 

The United States and the four other Western states on the 

Security Council, as a "contact grou~" held separate meetings with South 

Africa and SWAPO to thrash out an acceptable mangemat. The council 

revamped Resolution 385 into Resolution 435, calling now for UN-supervised 

elections, phased withdrawal of aIl but 1,500 South African troops 

cohed to two bases, and formation of a UN Tetional Assistaacc 

Group (UNTAG) to police observance of the went. A special representative 

of the UN secretary general would administer the UN part of the 

responsibility. 

Both South Africa and SWAPO bad accepted Resolution 435, but 

South Africa never agreed to its implementation. It objected k t to the 

monitoring role of the UN, then to the size of the UN force, and again to 

the UN's lack of impartiality, and then to the location of SWAPO bases and 

of South African forces in a demilitarized zone. In 1983 it dissolved the 

four-ya-oId National Assembly and assumed direct control of Namibia 

through its administtator general. 

Obviously it would take more than UN resolutions for South Africa to 

agree to relinquish its conml, for it was clear that in a UN-supervised 

election, SWAP0 wouId win. Tie and again the United States, Brimin, 

and France vetoed international sanctions by the UN. Although SWAPO 

carried on a low-level guerrilla war against South African forces in 

Namibia, it was no match for its powerful adversary. 

Discusions in Geneva under UN auspices in 1981 broke down when 

South Africa questioned the UN's impartiality. A conference hosted by 

Kenneth Kaunda in Lusaka in 1984 likewise ended quickly with no 

agreement. South Africa's final stall against implementing Resolution 

435 was its refusal to withdraw its troops from Namibia until Cuban troops 

left Angola. But how could Cuban troops leave when South Africa was 

arming the UNITA mjiitary force bent on overthrowing the MPLA government? 

To make matters worse, the United States was giving aid to 

UNITAaswell. 

In the meantime the terrorism of the South African Defence Force, 

especially in northern Namibia, went on. I had some inkling of its methods 

through Bill Anderson, a young white South African draftee, who 

daerted from the army because he not only oppased South Africa domination 

of Nsmibia but was also appalled by its methods of tom. He came 

to public attention when his testimony about torture appeared in the 

Manelresw Guardian in September 1976, In visits to the ACOA office, he 

also described it to me. He had heard the scrams of Namibian suspects 

being to& at a camp while a throng of soldiers lookcd on-eIecaic 

shock on genitals, the head forcibly held in a pail fd of water, kickings 

and beatings. His battalion had scoured the countryside to bring in any 

male over the age of puberty. For several weeks some I,OW mm and boys 

were tortured, of whom 40 were finally charged with terrorist offences.

South Africa and Namibia: The Final CDnfIict 

Andirnba Toivo ja-Toivo, 

secretary general of SWAF'O, 

after his release from prison in 

1984. 

I gained another perspective on the conflict when I met Andhba Toivo 

ja Toiw after his sudden release from an unfinished 20-year prison term in 

March 1984. As I talked with him in New York, I could not overcome the 

feeling that I was meeting a legend. I had seen pictures of him in the 1960s 

but I would not have recognized him. Not only was he to years older, but 

he had lost hair, grown a full beard, and gained weight. His handshake was 

h and his smile friendly He gave the impression of strength. After 

serving 16 years in a &urn-security prison, he misted the idea of 

sudden release. He wanted to know why he, and not all the other political 

prisoners, was being released. He did not wish to desert his comrades who 

were still behind bars. It took great persuasion from his family and fellow 

prisoners to convince him to return to Namibia. I had the feeling that he 

was still uneasy about his decision. The South African authorities prob- 

ably released Toivo in the hope that he might challenge Nujoma as leader 

of SWAPO and thus cause a split. If so, the hope was in vain. Toivo 

certainly made it plain to me that he accepted Nujoma's leadership and 

was a loyai and committed nationalist. He felt he could do his part as 

secretary general of SWAPO.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 

"You've Got to Take the 

Long View" 

n a trip to Zimbabwe in 1983, I spent a stimulating three days with 

0 Garfield Todd, then a senator in Parliament. My son Steve and I 

drove with him from Harare to his home some 150 miles southwest near 

Zvishavani (formerly Shabani), where we enjoyed his hospitality and conversation. 

After just three years of independence, Zimbabwe was facing 

difficulties. A crippling drought had damaged crops. Corn was being 

imported, instead of, as in normal years, exported. Todd, like many other 

farmers, had had to slaughter a lot of the cattle on his ranch because there 

wasn't enough grass for them to feed on. 

Furthermore, the antigovernment violence in Matabeleland, followed 

by an excessive reaction from government troops, strained the coalition 

government. Todd was deeply disappointed in the breakdown of the 

Patriotic Front, for he had always been close to Joshua Nkomo. Although 

he felt positive about advances in education and health care, the problems 

faced by the new country seemed overwhelming. When I asked him where 

Zimbabwe was going, he responded thoughtfully, "You've got to take the 

long view," and he looked confidently to the future. 

I liked Todd's response and I have tried to adopt such a long view 

myself as I look at the African continent from the vantage point of the 

many years I have spent following, and sometimes being a part of, events 

there. It is not easy to be objective. Nor is it possible to avoid genuine 

dismay over many developments in the newly independent countries. 

SOME SOBERING REALITIES 

One must face immediate and depressing realities in Africa. The continent 

has 29 of the 34 poorest countries in the world. Per capita income is about 

$365 a year, the lowest in the world for one continent. Before indepen- 

dence, Africa produced most of its own food, but now almost all countries 

are net importers. Furthermore, the trend is not too hopeful. Africa's 

population has increased something over 3 percent a year, twice the rate of 

the rest of the world. In the 1950s the population was a little over 2oo 

million. It now approaches half a billion. 

Natural circumstances make rapid development in many countries next 

to impossible. Often economic advancement depends on only one or two 

resources. When the world price of copper went down, Zambia, for

"You've Got to Take the Long Vku" 

example, was faced with catastrophe because 80 percent of its export 

earnings were tied to copper. Ghana's economy was sererely affected when 

the price of cocoa fell, while income from exports dropped dramatically, 

consumer prim inaeased 70 percent. 

Leaders have sometimes used bad judgment. For example, Kwame 

Nkrumah was undoubtedly the greatest figure in the rise of nationalism in 

modern Africa, yet he made early administrative mistakes in Ghana. 

Millions were spent on nonessential new consuuction-a conference cen- 

ter, a super highway that ran only a few miles, a new state house. Foreign 

exchange reserves dropped from a surplus of almost $500 million at 

independence to a debt of more than $I billion in 1964. 

The continent as a whole was burdened with a $78 biion debt in the 

mid-1g8os, far above the amount brought in by exports, and the deficits 

will doubtless continue to soar. Agricultural production is likely to con- 

tinue to decline. The ecological system, especially the advance of the 

Sahara, is likely to deteriorate further. Population is likely to continue its 

phenomenal growth. 

Economic problems are compounded by problems of political in- 

stability. In the 30 years since Ghana's independence there have been more 

than 70 coups in Africa. Only three African leaders have voluntarily given 

up office. Refugees in Africa number close to half the world's 9 million. 

General health statistics are not too good. Infant mortality is about 137 for 

every 1,000 births, the highest in the world, with an average of one and a 

third dmtors for every ro,m people. Life expectancy is only 49 years. 

Although education has advanced, some two thirds of the people are still 

illiterate. 

Statistics, of course, are only impersonal figures. More emotionally 

disturbing are the images of poverty, disease, and hunger I have seen in 

many parts of Africa. Deeply troubling to me personally have been indi- 

vidual acts of violence agahst leaders I have known and worked with. I 

think of the murder of Sylvanus Olympio in a military coup shortly after 

he became president of Togo, or the assassination of Tom Mboya in 

downtown Nairobi in an act inspired by tribal conflict, or the slow death of 

Dido Telli (the first ambassador of the Republic of Guhea to the UN and 

the 6rst secretary general of the OAU) by neglect and starvation in a prison 

in S&ou Tomi's Guinea. Thc death of these men and others like them are 

tragic in quite a different sense from the martyrdom of Amilar Cabrai, 

Eduardo Mondlane, Patrice Lumumba, Jason Moyo, and many others, 

who were killed in the line of duty in the liberation struggle. 

I followed with horror the mass killings wrought by Idi Amin in 

Uganda, some of whose victims I had known. And the genocide in 

Burundi, when some =,am Hutus were killed by the ruling 'htsis in 

perhaps the worst outbreak of demonic tribalism in recent times in Africa. 

The problems have outweighed the simple successes in the early years 

of transition to independence. Some people in Africa have developed a 

kind of cynicism, when dreams of an uncomplicated independence of 

peace and plenty have been dashed. Others have adopted an attitude of


objective noninvolvement, like that of a detached specialist who is fascinated 

by what is happening but has no sense that it is a part of his own life 

experience. I reject this amhlde for mysell: I still feel like a partisan in the 

struggle for justice and equality in Africa, even if I am removed from daytdayevents, 

, -,, - -1- - - - 

A PERSPECTIVE 

By taking the long vim of Africa, looking at its past and its future, as well 

as its present, I try to put developments in some perspective. 

It must be recognized that the long period of foreign occupation fnun 

which Africa is just emerging has contributed heavily to its present pmb 

lems. The colonial powers were devoted to serving their own best interests. 

They were not essentially seeking progress for the people of the lands they 

controlled. Whatever advances were made were quite incidental. 

For example, the European scramble for Africa confused an already 

complex situation of 2,- ethnic groups, most of them speaking their own 

languages, by dividing individual groups by artif~cial political boundariles. 

Bansportation and communicauon systems were set up to suit European 

political and economic interests wther than African ones. Furthermore, 

the colonizers, who beneiited from a one-crop economy, did not try to 

broaden the economic base of their colonies or give the people skills that 

would dow them alternative occupations to subsistence farming. The 

peoples of the more than 50, mostly small, states of modern Africa have 

had to gain technical and political experience in the midst of struggle. 

Finally, colonialism was accompanied by racism. To be sure, not dl 

regions of the continent have suffered equally from it. Racism has generally 

been most severe in arcas settled by a relatively large number of 

whites, notably South Afiica and Southern Rhodesia. But even in areas 

with an enlightened colonial policy, a benevolent paternalism was the best 

that the system could produce. 

Africa has suffered also from natural calamities, particularly drought. 

The highly publicized famines of the last few years are testimony to the 

devastation wrought by natural forces. 

To recognize these conditions is not to overlook the responsibility of the 

people and leaders in some countries for corruption or for excesses in the 

struggle for power. For example, it is sad that in a country as potentially 

rich as Zaire, per capita income is only $127 a year, and 50 percent of the 

budget goes to service a $5 billion debt. Yet its ruler, A$Qpa@ese Seko, is 

reputed to be one of the wealthiest men in the warld. ! 

When I was briefly hitchhiking in Dar es Salaam in the early rg80s, I 

was picked up by a young Briton. This was a trying time for Ta&, 

when gasoline was $5.00 a gallon, people formed long lines to fdl small 

receptacles with very costly fuel to bum in their homes, and the government 

was spending 60 percent of its foreign exchaage for oil. The country 

also was suffering from years of drought. The East African Community

"You've Got to Take the L~ong View" 

(Taezania, Uganda, and Kenya) was breaking up, and Tanzaaia had borrowed 

money to end Uganda's aggression. Nyerere's plan for self-reliance 

and a non-Wt, African socialism wasnt working as it had been hoped. 

My driver, who had been in the country for only a short time, commented, 

"Independence was a mistake. These people don't know how to run 

anything." This was the attitude of many skeptics. 

Africans generally take a different view. Tom Mboya put it straightfomdly 

in a speech he made at the AAPC in 1958: "Civilized or not 

civilized, ignorant or illiterate, rich or poor, we the African states deserve a 

government of our own choice. Let us make our own mistakes, but let us 

mkc comfort that they are our own misrakes." 

I do not believe that colonialism is the embodiment of all evil. And it is 

quire obvious that independence will not lead immediately to stability, 

peace, and plenty. Nmrthel#rs, I strongly believe that without banishing 

colonialism, tackling the long-term problems would be an impossibility. 

This period of the anticolonial struggle has been a prerequisite for Africm 

development. I also believe that if the struggle had not achieved independence 

in most countries, Africa would be engulfed by expanding guerrilla 

dare, from which no creative solutions could emerge. With independence, 

at least attention can be focused on the right issue. 

In taking the long view there are some heartening facts to bear in mind. 

It is amazing to me that despite the history of the slave trade, the decades 

of colonial domination, aud in some countries the years of guerrilla conflict, 

there has been no campaign in independent Africa against the white 

presence. There is no antiwhite persecution. More whites are on the 

continent now than during the colonial era. Even in Zimbabwe, where the 

struggle for independence was most bitter and was most clearly in terms of 

a black-white confrontation, the white presence has stabilized, and the 

wholesale exodus has haIted. There are twice as many British in Kenya as 

at the time of independence. The French in Africa are five times more 

numerous than before 1g6o. (This may be a questionable boon, since 

many of them are in the Ivory Coast, where they almost monopolize the 

civil d c e and have sigdicant control in trade and investment.) 

Even in South Africa, where the struggle against white domination 

promises to be the crudest and most protracted, the military head of the 

ANC expresses the fear that the young people inside the country will stop 

listening to the ANC's nonracialism and seek only revenge. 

Another hening fact, given the way in which the modern map of 

Africa was drawn by the European powers, is that on the whole the 

independent countries have accepted the boundaries they have inherited 

from the colonial era. This principle was adopted at the second OAU 

conference in r964 with only Somalia and Morocco in oppwition. The 

conflict between Somalia and Ethiopia in the Ogaden, the war between 

Libya and Chad, and the struggle in Western Sahara are among the few 

exceptions. Tribal conflict bas not been wiped out; yet cansidering the 

multiplicity of ethnic groups, languages, and traditions among the African 

peoples, the efforts to minimirm! conflict have been outstanding. There

364 The Find Cmflict 

have been tragedies such as Burundi and Rwanda. Yet there are the 

remarkable examples of the 120 ethnic groups in Taazania living in Barmony, 

and the peace between the peoples of Nigeria following their civil 

war. 

The efforts to wipe out illiteracy have a long way to go. Yet in a country 

as poor as Tanzania the literacy rate has risen from about 20 percent to 80 

percent since independence. In Zimbabwe, in the first five years of independence, 

school enrollment rose from 800,- to 2.7 million. 

An important asset for the distant future is Africa's supply of untapped 

resources, the largest in the world, although they are not evenly distributcd. 

They include oil, gold, diamonds, water power, cobalt, phosphates, 

and coal. 

Perhps there is no more encouraging development than the intensification 

of the struggle to uproot apartheid in South Africa, because until hat 

is accomplished, Africa's progress will be crippled. Despite sanctions, 

which most African states support, virtually aJl of them trade with Soutb 

Africa. Despite South Africa's policy of destabilizing its neighbors (especially 

Angola and Mozambique), two thirds of their foreign trade is with 

South Africa. Nothing indicates more clearly South Africa's economic 

power. Through the Southern Africa Development Coordination Conference 

(SADCC), nine stat= have joined forces to limit their dependence 

on South Africa. But it takes time to construct the roads and railroads that 

by-pass South Africa by going through Angola, Mozambique, and Tanzania, 

and they must be maintained. South Africa's destabilization efforts 

frustrate these procedures. Nothing major can be done without the successful 

resolution of the struggle within South Africa itself. 

Obviously ending that struggle will not be easy. A people such as the 

Afrikaners, who perceive their power and privilege being challenged, do 

not give up gracefully. Ian Smith and his white supporters in Rhodesia 

fought stubbornly, and in the final 13 years of the mnflict, 25,000 lives 

were lost. That struggle was a skirmish compared to the probable devastation 

and destruction to come in South Africa. Africa's travail cannot all be 

laid at the doorstep of South Africa, of course; but the problems of the 

southern African states will be 4 immensely when the struggle against 

YP-.-T- 

apartheid is no longer necessuy. 

The A fher government hasn't really-ikrled Tedo-fight yet. It has not 

had to because the whites have not really begun to suffm. I I, 

however, that events wiU force the government to make changes. Serious 

urban violence has not yet spread to the white community, but unless the 

conflict is diffused, such violence will spread, as it did in Algeria. The 

black trade union moment has only begun to show evidence of its 

potential. Protest actions, spontaneous and planned, legal and extralegal, 

can be expected to increase. Sabotage is bound to become moie com- 

monplace as black demand for atizenship rights becomes even more 

urgent. The white exodus fmm South Africa, so far only a mckle, will 

become a t omt as violence increases. 

When the white govanmmt feels desperate enough, it will think of

4 

"You've Got to Take the Long V ~ * 365 

Ifauntless options to srave off granting citizenship to all the people. It could 

propose an array of reforms such as a fourth House of Parliament for 

Africans but without real power; a National Convention excluding the 

ANC but including elements forswearing all violence; relinquishing conrrol 

of Namibia. It might be willing to participate in international conferences 

on solutions to the South African conflict. It might even propose 

partitioning the country to allow for a "white homeland" reduced in size 

but well endowed. Or it might begin promoting black collaborators who 

emphasize tribal allegiance. If Gatsha Buthelezi does not allow himself to 

be so used, the white government will find others who will. It will still 

resist granting ahship rights that could put an African nationalist 

government in power. But change there will be. "No one can stop the 

rain." 

In the meantime, those outside will take serious action toward South 

Africa only as events inside compel them to do so. International economic 

pressure in the form of sanctions and divestiture will not by themselves 

bring down the apartheid system and its government. What they will do is 

give the South African government the unmistakable message that the 

people of the world will no longer support the injustice of apartheid and 

help force the white government to recognize the n d t y of change. 

ANTIDOTE TO CYNICISM 

Any tendency I might have toward cynicism is tempered by the m&nory of 

the innumerable acts of African generosity and goodwill that I have 

experienced over the years. For example, during our 1980 mp to observe 

the Zimbabwe elections, when our car was stuck in deep mud in a rival 

area, some nearby m ers helped us pull it out. Then they brought a pan 

full of deliciously ripe mangos, which we ate together with great enjoy- 

ment, the sweet juice dripping off our faces and hands. One of the 

Zimbabweans remarked with a laugh, "This is African communism. We 

share what we have." 

Or I recall the pain I suffered on my 1962 hiking expedition with rebels 

in Angola when I stubbed my toe hard on a rock hidden in the tall grass. I 

thought my toe was broken. That night in camp it was painfully swollen, 

and the next morning it was no better, but we had to move on. For a while 

I hobbled slowly, trying to keep up. Then one of my Angolan companions, 

not much larger than I was, insisted on carrying me on his back. I 

demurred, but he persisted. So for a short time I rode piggy-back. I think 

he would have carried me all day, but I could not stand the idea, SQ I 

hobbled on, footsore but strengthened by his act of solidarity. 

Garfield Todd told me about one of his prison experiences during the 

Ian Smith days. He was segregated from the African prisoners and allowed 

only a half hour of exercise a day, which he had to take alone. His cell door 

had only a small peephole. One day as the Africans were exercising in the 

yard outside, he heard a voice through the peephole, "Are you all right,

3 6 The Final Conpier 

sir?" "Yes, I'm all right,: he replied. Then several black hgers were 

thrust through the hole. Todd grasped them in a moment of shared 

fdlowship He never knew who the African was, but he could not forget 

this act of friendship 

Perhaps some will say I am being sentimental. A few acts of human 

kindness do not mean that the problems of Africa are going to disappear. 

That is true, but such actions are an antidote to cynicism and strengthen 

one's faith in the future. 

As I look back on the years of struggle and change in Africa from the 

1950s into the rggos, I have the ovemhelming reahtion that I have been 

greatly privileged to have lived through this era. The period of the 1950s 

and early rg60s was certainly the honeymoon p k of the srmggle for 

freedom, the time of greatest unity and uncomplicated enthusiasm. Everything 

seemed possible. Many people believed that freedom would come 

m n and a much better day would dawn. 

That things weren't all that simple soon became clear. Should one 

therefore condude that it was better for Africa to be on the threshold of 

freedom than to cmss into that di£Ecult status where countries have to take 

a large share of responsibility for their own mistakes? I do not think so. 

Every period of history has its sigdi~~~lce. We should be grateful for high 

moments of unity and optimism no matter what may follow. 

Should one embrace a cynicism and look with scorn on a continent 

wracked by poverty, famine, and strife? I do not believe so. "You've got to 

take the long view." Who knows what the situation may be a hundred years 

from now? 

A phrase that was popular especially during the liberation struggle in 

Mozambique is both good politics and good theology: a luta carimur ("the 

struggle continues"). Tht struggle fw a better person, a better Life, a better 

counuy, and a better world never ends. Perhaps the moment of greatest 

fdom is found as we engage in the struggle to achieve it. And that 

moment is always with us.

Notes 

CHAPTER 2 

I. Daniel Malan, quoted in South African Press Assodadon dispatch, 30 

Jmuary 1952. 

2. Flag Melo, quotcd in National Action Gomminec for t& 

Campaign, Bullcdn No. 2, July 1952. 

3, Ibid. 

4. Charlcs E. AUcn to Fvsdick, 6 Nmember 1952. 

5. Albert J. Lutuli, Let My People Go (London: Golh, 1g6a), Appdirr. 

I. 

1, John Gunther, Intide Africn (New York: Haqxr & Brothers, 1953). 

CHAPTER 3 

CHAPTER 5 

I. Nau YoJk Times Magaeine, 18 December 1960. 

2, Richard M. Nixon, quoted in New Ymk Times, 7 April 1957. 

CHAPTER 7 

I. Jackie Robinson, weekly column in N m York Post, I I September 1959. 

CHAPTER 8 

I. John kley Jones to Houser, 2 November 1956. 

2. Laurc~lt 

20 March 1lg58. 

Sehwartz, quotd in Le Monde, 20 March 1958. 

3. Le Md, 4. Charles dc Gaullc, quoted in A Savage War ofPe4te by Alistair Horn (New 

Books, 1979k 

- 

CHAPTER 9 

x. Wmton Churchill, quoted in Ksrmetli Krmndo of Zambia by Fcgus Mac- 

Phason (NCW YO&: Oxford UniVtXSitp hss, 19741, $6. 

2. Sir Roy Wensky, quoted in ibid., 114- 

3. Joshuo Nkomo, written in 1959, in AfFica Sd, quotcd in Ctiris in 

Rhd& by Nathan Shamuyarira (London: Trinity Press, 1965), $0. 

4. Hastings K. Banda, quoted in Kenneth KaMdo of Zmnbia by Fergus 

NaEPhcrson (New York: Oxford University Press, 1974X 267. 

5. Kenneth Kaunda, quoted in ibid., 60. 

6. Welcnsky, quoted in ibid., 59. 

7. Godfrey Huggh, quoted in ibid., 52.

368 Notes 

8. George Loft to Houser, 17 March 1959. 

9. Philip Stoddard to Houser, ro November 1959. 

10. Ibid. 

I I. Banda, quoted in Time, g January 1959, 34. 

12. Kaunda, quoted in Kenneth Kaunda of Zambia by Fergus MacPherson 

(New York: Oxford University Prws, 1974)~ 296. 

13. John Gaunt, quoted in ibid., 300. 

14. Kaunda, Houser's notes of May 1960 press conference. 

CHAPTER I1 

I. Anthony Sampsan, The Tteusun Cage (London: Heinemann, 1958X 38. 

2. Albert J. Lutuli, quoted in "Treason in South Africa," by George Houser, 

Chrislian C m 6 March 1957. 

3. Erwin Griswold, statement at ACOA conference, New York, 30 September 

1958. 

4. Ibid. 

5. Grimold, article in London Th, 25 September 1958. 

6. Griswold's notes to Houscr, 14 August 1958. 

7. Sampson, The Treason Cnge, 5. 

8. Lutuli, Let My People Go (London: Collins, 1962), 172. 

9. Humphrey Tyler, article in Africa To& May 1960. 

ra. Pawick Duncan, article in Africa Today, April 1960. 

11. Ibid. 

12. Ambrose Reeves, quoted in The Inmath1 Impact of the S d A f i 

Struggle for Liberation by George M. Houser (New York: UN Centre Against 

Apartheid, 1982). 

CHAPTER I2 

I. Moise Tshombe, quoted from an official government report on the con- 

ference. 

2. Patrice Lumurnb.a, ibid. 

3. Thomas Kanza, C m t in the Congo (Harmondsworth, Middlesex, En- 

gland: Penguin Books, 1972), 84. 

4. Lumumba, quoted in ibid., 161. 

5. Kanza, Conflict in fhe Congo, I 19. 

6. Madeleine G. Kalb, The Congo Cables (New York Macmillan Publishhg 

C 0 . Y 19821,233. 

7. Ad in the New Ymk Times, 14 December 1961. It called for U.S. recogni- 

tion of Tshombc as the legihate spokesman for Karanga. 

8. Humphrey to Houser, 6 April 1962. 

9. David Martin to How, undated, sent January 1963. 

CHAPTER I3 

I. A. J. Venter, The T m 

Fighters (Cape Town: Pumd and Sons, 1969). 

2. Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., A Thourimd Days: John Kennedy in the Whh 

Houte (Boston: Houghton-Mifflin Co., 1965), 562. 

3. Futton Lewis, Jt, New YdMirror, 19 August 1961.

Notes 

4 Gilchth to How, August 1962. 

5. Vcnttr, The Tmw Fighters, 84. 

6. Johrmejburg Srw, 25 July 1970. 

7. Gilcluist to Houscr, 25 August 1964. 

8. hterI Tke Tmw FigM> 29. 

g. Douglas Whecler, "The Portuguese Army in Angola," J m l of Modrm 

Africmr S d I 1969,425-439. 

10. UN Document AIIO~L, 842,~~ February 1973~ "Angola," working paper 

of the Semtariat for Decolonizatlon Committee. 

11. Reporred in August 1972 in Angola in Anns, an MPLA publication. 

IZ. The source of this information was Angob 196-7, issutd by the 

Ftiederich Ebert Foundation in Bonn. 

I. Mondlane later wrote of this in detail in his book 7"he Snyggle for Indepen- 

rItncc (Hmnondswonth, England: Penguin Books Ltd., 1969). 

CHAPTER 15 

I. House Committee on Foreign Affairs, Subcommittee on Africa, Hearings, 

26 February 1970. 

2. mi. 

3. Amilcar Cabral, quoted in A d Snuggle in A+* by Guard Chaliand 

(New York: Monthly Rmcw Press, rgbg), so. 

4. Cabral, quoted in United Nations, The United Nadcmr and Sauhrm Africa, 

BuktinNo. 11, August IW. 

5. Cabral, Subcommittee on Africa, Hearings. 

I. Joshua Nkomo, quoted in Ctisir in Rhodesia by Nathan Shamuyarira 

(Londan: Wty Press, 1g65X 77. 

2. Paul Mood, A S h Thourand YemJ (Salisbury, Rhodesia: Galaxic 

Press, 1980). 

3. Ian Smith, quoted in Rhmkia to Zimbabwe: A Chm~logy (New Yo& 

Africa Fund, 1976) 

4. Nm Ymk Times, 27 January 1972. 

5. rz December 1966. 

I. Lmdim Daily Expas, I July 1968, 

2. Jaanie de Wet, quoted in Namibia by Colin Wmtu (Gxaud Rapids, Mich.: 

Wriam B. Eudmans Publishing Co., rgn), I 17. 

3. Ibid., 130~- - - 1 ,T 1 

.-I I 

I. 8 August 1962. 

2. 14 November 1964. 

CHAPTER 18

Notes 

3. Quoted in Steve Biko, BIack CMLI- in South Africa, 4. Millard 

Arnold (New York: Random House, 1978), introduction. 

4. Donald Woods, Bib (New York: Vmtage Press, 1979). 

5. New YorR Post, 12 December 1965. 

CHAPTER Ig 

I. Quoted by Richard Tholin in "Angola: Confrontation or Cooperation," 

Christian Century, 13 May 1981. 

2. James Brooke, "Angola's Economic Problems," New Ymk Times, 31 Janu- 

ary 1986. 

CHAPTER 21 

I. United Nations, Official records of the General Assembly, 30th Session, ch. 

3, sec. B, para. 202, I I. 

CHAPTER 22 

I. New York Times, 3 December 1977. 

CHAPTER 23 

I. Ian Smith, quoted in Rhodena to Zimbabwe: A Chronology (New York: 

Africa Fund, 1976). 

2. Ibid.

Index 

AAPC (All African People's Con- ment of an Independent South West 

ference), 68,69.15 wim, 77,79, Africa, 2q 

86,891 91396, 103,1o8,136~ 1372 Adoula, Cynlle, 135,146,147,159, 

151, 164, 199,363; at Am, Af- 163, 164, 168, 188 

rican commonwealth, 74,128; non- AEMO (African Elcctcd Memben Oralignment, 

73; ncmviolcna, 73,74; ganization), 84 

at 'Rrais, Alguian war for indepen- AFWO, 7~~83,128 

dam, 74; Belgian Congo indepcn- Africa Bureau (London), 81,108, I I I, 

dace, 75; and Holden Roberto, 80; 129 

protest against French atomic tests, Africa Defcm and Aid Fund, 85,127 

75 

Africa Freedom Day, 86,98, roo, 105, 

AAPSO (Afro-Asian People's Soli- 108,127,152,269 

Ury O-tion), 71,72,73 Africa Fhd, I 94,278, 356 

ABAKO (Assxiation put la Sau- Africa T w 64,66,8&87,125, 270, 

vcgde de la Culture ct dcs IntMts 272 

des Bakongo), 136,137,151 African--can Institute, 72 

Abbas, Fahat, 93 

African-Amcrian Students Founda- 

Abdullah, Madjid, 31 I 

tion, 88, 89 

Accra, 26,27,29,69,72,78,79,86, African Heritage Studies Association, 

1519 247 

267 

ACOA (American Committee on Af- African Studies Association, 266 

rica), 61,~; and Al+ Struggle, African UDiVUSity of the North, 346 

91-98 passim; and Angala, 152, Afiicanists, 125, 126 

1-9 1733290-92; -3 

Af- ~~~iwF, 11,2451 345 

634; and Black Power, 265-67; Afh-, IO,II, 49,110,273,364 

and Centcal African Federation, 99, AFSAR (Americans for South Africau 

100,105; and CLA, 70-73,189, Resistance), 12,16,17,19,20,21 

292; and Congo crisis, 146, 147; and Air Tampon Agreement, 276 

Declaration of Consdmct, 146, 147; Ait Ahmwl, Hhe, 93,94,95,98 

and Guinea-Bissau and PAIGC, 205, Aideamtor, 170,185,194,195,299 

212; and Holden Rokto, 79; and Algeria, 2,609 70% 91-98, 1273 156, 

Mozambique and FRELIMO, 148, 159163164,1bg, 183,184, Igo, 

187, 190,299; and Sou& Africa, 206,207, 211,224; and Wkstero 

257,264, 26-1-68, qq6,35*+51; and -, 309-15 pa-, 321s 3% 

Southun Rhodesia and Znnhbwe, 3243 32s 

23I,232,235,W, 3339 336s 337s &irn 94, 190, 303,309, 3159 316, 

343; and South W'est Afnca and 320% 321 

Namibia, 113,248,251,252, 255: Ali, Ahmed, 309, 312,314, 315, 316, 

358; and Tom Mboya, 81-86 passlm; 3192 322 

and mon trial, 117, 120,123; and Ali, Muhammad, 275,277n 

Ilkstun Sahara, 31 I 

ALIAZO ( h c t des Rcssartissants 

Action Group, 33,34 

de Zombo), 80, ISgn 

Adama60, Tawiah, 28 

AU African Trade Umon Federation, 

Addis Ababa, 164,165,254,258 7589 

Adesola, B.E, 34 

ALN (Arm& dc Liberation Na- 

AcUh~rtee for the Develop- tiode), 94

Index 

Altena Farm, 238 

AIves, Nito, 293 

Alvor Agreement, 282,287,288 

Amalgamated Clothing Workers, 83 

Amaro, Reuben, 274 

Ambrhz, 283,290 

American Civil Liberties Union, 63 

American Colonization Socie&y, 25 

American Committee to Aid Katanga 

Freedom Fighters, 146 

American Friends of Katanga, 146 

American Friends Senrice Committee, 

22, .72, 243 

Amencan Metal Climax Cop, 253 

American Negro Leadership Con- 

ference on Africa, 266 

American Presbyterian Congo Mission 

(APCM), 40. See also Missionaries 

American-Southern African Coy& , 

234 flA 

m a , 318% 3f2 

AMSAC (Amencan Society of Afiimn 

Culture), 72 

"An Appeal for Action Against Apartheid," 

266 

Ancient Kingdom of the Kongo, 76, 

77 

ANC of Rhodesia (African National 

Council), 233,235,237, 239, 2415 

326, 327. See also United African 

National Council 

ANC of South Africa, 51~52, 53, 54, 

56, 1x4, 117,121, 123, 129, 1303 

189,256-60,262,263,365; and All 

African People's Conference, 70; 

and Black consciousness movement, 

263; and Congress of the People and 

Freedom Charter, 118; and Defiance 

Campaign, 1o,12,13,19,52,117, 

I 18,126,256; and military alliance 

with ZAPU, 232; 1969 Morogoro 

conference of, 263; and N kod 

Accord, relations with FRELIMO, 

302-3; and PAC split, 125; re- 

surgence of, 353; and Sharpeville 

massacre and banning, 126-27; and 

Soweto uprising and after, 34648; 

Youth League of, 13,126,t21,242, 

257 

Anderson, Bill, 358 

Andrade, Joaquim Pinto de, 175 

Andrade, Mario de, 150, 161, 175,179 

Angola, 21,~-49, 51,80,134, 145, 

150-76, m, 247, 248,255,280, 

308,355, 364s 365; after the coup, 

281-94; armed struggle in, 185; 

Catholic schools, 45; Civil War, 288- 

90; peasant uprising, 153-54; Por- 

tuguese colonial policy, 44-45; Presi- 

dential Council, 282, 283; Protestant 

schools, 45; transitional govern- 

ment, 28243,289 

Angola Committee (Holland), 172 

Angola Liberation Movements Recon- 

ciliation Agment, 174 

Anti-Apartheid Movement (British), 

128 

Anti-Communism, 234,259,285 

Arab? 92,311,316 

Arabic, 92,939 309,311 

Araujo, Jod, 214 

Arden-Clarke, Charles, 22,30,31 

Armitage, Robert, 106 

Arriaga, Kaulza Oliviera de, 194 

hjo, Jose Martin, 315~319~320~ 

321 

Ashanti, 30~67 

Ashe, Arthur, 274-75,277n 

Ashelman, Samuel E, 244 

Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Rep 

resentation Act, I I I 

AsEimilado, 44, 183 

Associated Negro Press, 72 

Association of Muslim Students, 92 

Att~ood, W w , 147 

Audin, Maurice, 97 

Avirgan, Tony, 198 

Awolowo, Obafemi, 33 

Azikiwe, Nnamdi, 33~66, go 

Azores, 159, 160 

BAFSAR (Bostonians Allied for South 

African Resistance), 16 

Bagamoyo, 184,190,193,195, 197 

Bakongo, 40, 151, 154,158, 166,168 

Balante, 204,208 

Baldwin, Roger, 12,63,64,96 

Balogun, Kolawole, 33 

Balubakat party, 142,146 

Banda, Hastings Kamuzu, 7039p102 

passim, row, 181, 186,187,223 

Bandung conference, 60,92 

Bank campaign, 270-71. See also 

COBLSA

Index 

Bantu Education Act, 65 

Botswana Chris& Coundl, 347-48 

J380.- (-=, h e x 55, Botswa~a (formerly Bcchuanalaod) 

255, 26% 345 

113, 129,239, W, 2-44 245, 

Bmbasa, Raphael, 205 

247-50 passim, 261,331) 332, M7 

Basutolaad. See Lesotho 

Boumedienne offensive, p 

Badsra, Jao, 155,156,157 

Boumendiel, bed, 74,96 

Battle of Algiers, 94 

Boumcndjel, Ali, 96 

Baudoin (Kirig), 137 

Bourguiba, Habib, 74,75,164 

Bcauvoir, Shone de, 98 

Bouton, Jim, 274,275 

Bechuanaland. See Botsw~na Bowles, Chester, 145,268 

Bcik, Mafoud Ali, -23 

BPC (Black People's Conmtion), 262, 

Bdra, 181,183,194,238, 2g6,302, 263,345, 347n, 348 

329 

Brd, ;r52,176 

BeMonte, Htiny, 88,108,276,277n B m d e (Br-),38,40,78,135, 

Belgian Colonialism, 38; contrasted 136, I*, 164,165,166,168,173, 

with British, French, and South Af- I75 

rican polidcs, 39; curfew, 38; pro- Bristol, Jim, 243,244 

cess for independma, 37; 

Britain, Great, 60,116,120,145,218, 

segregation, 38 

233; and British Africa, 99,180, and 

Belgian Congo. See Congo 

Cenual African Federation, roo; 

Belgium, 60,128. Sex alro Congo and Rhmy 220, u9,234,334- 

Ben Ma, hd, 93,95,98,164, 36; and South h t Africa, 249n; 

187 

and U.D.I., 228,229; and UN vote 

Bcako ri=, 289 

On ShNpdk, 127 

Bcogucla, 47,189 

British Conservative Party government 

Beagutla railmad, 169,286 

and Rhodesia, 229 

Benjedid, Chadli, 325 

British Labour Party, u, 108,120 

B-3 92,311 

British people, 362,363; and South 

Bcukcs, Johanncs, I 13 

Wcst Africa, IIO 

Bid district, 155,165,169 

British 6etrlers (Rbdcsia), u*21 

Bii, Stephen, 262,34647,349,350 British South Africa Company, 220, 

Bir Eozaraa, 320, 324 

225 

Bir M u , 3x0 

Bnto, Domingos, zog 

Bilssau, 202,203,205,209,213,216 Brockway, Fcnnu, 22,28,120 

Black Allied Wrkers Union, 345 Broao, Chris de, 275 

Black Concern, 275 

Brotherhood of Slecpmg Car Porters, 

Black Consciousness Movanent, 261- 6,83266 

639 347 

Brussels, 75, &, 252; Round Table on 

BM, Anhut, 14,19,49,52,53, Congo, 137~38 

118,120,121,129,26~ Brutus, Dew, 273-759351 

BM, ~ o 49,264 ~ ~ Bnezinski, , Zbigfucw, 33 

Bloody Sunday, 254 

Bu 319, 9, PI 

Boal, Manuel, 21 I 

Bulawayo, uq, =7,97, w 

Bobman, David, 244,246 

Bunche, Ralph, 67 

Bocsak, Allan, 353 

Bureau of African Affairs (Ghana), 68 

BoM, 21 I 

Burundi,. 361~ 364 

Bokwe, R.T., 18,1g 

Buthdeu, Gatsha, 365 

Bond, Julian, 27711 

Byrd Amendment, conrrroocrsy. See 

Booth, William, 267 

United States of Amaica 

B W ~ E.J., , 172 

Bob, EW., 302,351; reforms under, 

351-52

374 Index 

Cabinda Gulf Oil, 293, 294. See also 

Gulf Oil Co. 

Cabo Dclgado PMV~CC, 185, rgo, IW 

Cabora Bassa dam, 186,3u+301 

Cabral, Amilcar (Abel Djassi, pseudonyrn), 

179,199-21 8,361; assassination 

of, 213-15; assessnmt of, 216 

18; early life of, 202; in Conakry, 

204-5; in the U.S., 212-13 

Cabral, Luis, zoz, to3,214,21~ 

Cabral, trasco (photo), 206 

CmWh, Yusuf A*, IO,II, 14 

Caerano, Marcello, 176,255 

Caira,92,168,1@,1Q,1w,zzo, 

China, 6,67,71,147,151, 166,168, 

169,176,188,189, 190, 215, ZP, 

252, 253,259! 284,288,307 

-0, J d , 341 

Chiota ?kiW Trust Land, 339-40 

Chipenda, Daniel, 48, 173, 175,2840, 

287,289 

Chipenda, Jtssc, 48 

Chipenda, Jod, 48 

Chissano, Joaquim, 193,196-98~214, 

300,308~ 329 

Chirepo, Herbert, ~ 3 237397-28 , 

Chitunda, Jcrcmias, 284 

Chiume,RanyarnaYgg,~oo,~o2,~o3- 

2% 247 

3~36,709 78,179 

Canada, 162,168,282 

can ad^^ Cynthia, 337,340 

CANU (Caprivi African National 

UnianX 249 

Cape Bojador, 315, 320 

Cape of Good Hope province, I I, 15, 

118, UO, 262 

Cape Town, 42,493 50,553 56, 57961, 

112,115, 125, 130,247, 352 

Capc Town University, UI 

Cape Verde, 201,202,203,214,215; 

and Portugal, 201 

Capitalism, 188, 346 

Capitant, RenC, 96 

Capricorn Africa Society, lor 

G~rivl S ~ 2459 R 2499 250 

Cardoso, Silw, 288,288n 

whn, Jd, 250-511 255 

Carrington, Lord, 336 

carter, Jimmy, 307~308~323~334, 

336; policy on Southem Africa, 349 

Carvalho, Emilio de, 286,287 

Catholic mission schools, 81,262 

Carumbcla sugar plantation, 47-48- 

Centers for Revolutionary Iasmon, 

5,144~186,187 

Chokwc, 149: 175 

Christiap Acaon, 121,128 

Christian Care, 231 

Christian Council of Tanzania, 247 

Chris& hmitute of South Africa, 

347% 353 

Church, Frank, gg 

Church of the Livingstonia Mission of 

Nyasaland, 107 

Churchts, North Amerimn, 168 

CIA: and ACOA, 172-73; .and Angola, 

283,290,292,308; and Lumumba 

murder attempt, 144, 147~ 189 

Clair, Matthew W., 43 

Clark Amendment, zg1--g2,308 

Clark, Dick, 291 D 357,323 

Clarke, John (John Laurenc~), 264-65 

Clarke, John Hcnrik, 275 

Clutton-Brock, Guy, 231 

COBLSA (Campaign to Oppose Bank 

Loans to South Africa),350 

Cocoa Marketing Board, 31 

Cocoa Marketing Company, 3 I 

Cold Comfort Earm, 226,231 

Collias, L. John, 121,128 

Colons. See French colons 

171 

Ceatral African Federation (Fcdcration 

of Rhodesia and Nyasahd), 21, gglog, 

222,223,225; state of cmergency 

in, 102 

Coloud, Io,rI, 55,573 273,352 

Committee of Consdmce Against 

Apanbcid, 270 

Commonwdth Conference, 336 

Communal villages, 299-300, 301-2, 

Chad, 36s 363 

Chanderli, Abdelkad~, gt, 95,98 

Chase Manhattan Bank, 270,353 

Chefw do Posfo, 4,46 

Chikcrmra, James, 221,222,223, ug, 

304-5 

~ommunism, 13,1~,88,89,95,145, 

146,187,219, 250, 274,285,2~, 

319, M-I, 346; and Declaration 

of Conscience, 124; and mason 

232,236, 2373 241,316,327 

kur~nga~ 2%-33 

aial, 1194ci,1u 

Communist (~~unmes, 167-68,~~

Index 

Communist Party, 14,60,175; and Dar es Salaam, 74, 103,165,173, 180, 

~Y&uI FLN, 93-94; in South Af- 181,184, ~ga, 193,195,196, 199, 

rica, 175,2S9,260 Uq, 226, =?Y 2% 247,248, 249, 

Commufllty Cburch of New York, 12, 260,263,287,291, 297, 326,327, 

4 33P1334,363 364 

Como, battle for, 206-7 Davidson, Bas& 16gn, 212 

CONAKAT (Conft5dt5radon dcs Asso- Davis, Jennifer, 25r, 350 

ciations Tribalcs du Katanga), 136, Davis, Michael, 251 

13% 14 Davis, Nathaniel, 291 

Conakry, 150,161,199, zoo, 204,205, Declaration of Artists Against Am- 210,213,214,218 heid, 276 

Conco, W.Z., 260 Declarauon of Conscience, 123-24 

Congo (formerly Belgian Congo, then Decree No. 1. See United Nations 

Democratic Republic of the Congo, Defence and Aid Fwd (British), 128 

then Zaire), 134, 1 35-49,150,15 I; . Defiance Campaign, I+=, 51-54 pas- 

and Angola, 159,164; Brusstls Con* sim, 56,57, I 14, 1 17, I 18, 126,129, 

ference, I 38; independence, I 39 256 

Congress Alliance, I 18,263 De Gaulle, Charles, 38,97,98,136 

Congress of Democrats, 118,125 4 Dembos, 150,154,165 

Congress of the People, 53, 1x7-19, , Democratic Party (United States), 272 

126, 129 - Democratic llmhalle Alliance, 357 

Conscience Afrihe, 136 4.4 De Pree, Willard, 3q 

Consrmcrive Engagement, 352 Devh Commission of Inquiry, 103 

Con- labor, 43,45-47.152.153 4 Devonshk Deckation, Im 

CORE (Congress of Racial Equality), . , Diamang, 293 

8,1o, 12, 13,63,64,105? 273: 292 . , Diggs, Charles, 71, 197, 307 

COREMO (&mite R6volunondno de, -; Dodd, Thomas, 145,146 

Mogmbiiquc), Isgn, 184,188,189,: .Dodge, Ralph, 151~ 161 

192 _ ' Dondi Mission, 284,285,286 

Cossa Inacio, 297,agS ' Dolisic, 171 

CPP (Convention Peoples Party), 27, Dominion Farty, 225 

fi,67 86,115 

I Dom Pedro V, 76 

Criminal Laws Amendment Act, 18, . Dos Santos, Jose Eduardo, 294 

52 I DOS Santos, Marcelino, 189, 192,300, 

Crocker, Chster, 308,352 396 

CRUA (Cornit6 Revolutionnaire - ' Douala, 3~~36,-78 

#Unite tt #Action), gj - ; Drug and Hospital Wbrkcrs, 273 

Cruz, Areoh Lopes da, zog Duncan, Patrick, 14,189 30,54-55, 

Cruz,Vlriatoda,150,161,166,167, 'I- 70,126,259 

168 Durban, 50,52,53,111,118, 1zy,.131 

Cwando Cubango district, 165, 169 Dynamizing groups. See Grupes Dm- 

Cuanhama, 158 amcdadom 

Cuba, 232,269,308; and Angola, 288, 

289,294,329; doctors from, 21 I; 

WPS from, 294,353 East m y 5 184, 219, 294, 39 

Cunene, 169; dam at, 289 East London, 17,125, zQ 

Cyprus, 128,229 Eastern Europe, zog, 218,306,307, 

~ho~lovh, 141~22s 308 

bum, Donald, 291 

Dadw, Yusuf, cq, I 19 Edgar, Bob, 337 

Dakar, 23-*,so, 214,216 Eduardo, Johnny, 283 

Dakhla, 313 EEC (Eumpcan Economic wm- 

, 

Damara, I 14, 11 5 m~fll!$tyh~4? -. 1

376 Index 

E~YWY 60~70~ 721 127, 14% 1699 190, 

306 

Eisenhower, Dwight D., 60~67~68, 

80,959 268 

El Aaiun, 3102 3199 3201 322, 324 

El Ouali Mustaph Sayed, 310,314 

Elizabethville. See Lubumbashi 

Engelhard, Charles W., 272-73 

England. See Britain 

France, 128~1.45~294 

Franchise Action Council, 10 

Frank and Hirsch Co., 272 

Fm, Donald, 277 

Frederick, Wayne, 268 

Free South Africa Movement, 353 

Freedom Charter, 53,118, I 19,126, 

IS9 

FRELIMO (Frente de Liberta@o de 

English 1m-s 137, 2193 284, 2971 

302,309, 3151 322 

Enugu, 33, 34 

Episcopal, 235,267 

ERA (Emergency Relief to Angola), 

162 

Ethiopia, 60386,140,254, 363 

Evolu&, 39 

Em, 31 

Export-Import Bank, 254 

Falk, Richard, 251 

Farmer, James, 8,63,266nY 26911 

309,3121 315 

FARP (Forces Andes Revolutionmires 

du Peuple}, 207 

Fearless (negotiations), 229 

Fernandes, Gill, 2oo,z13,214 

Field, Winston, 225,227 

Finland, 128, 356 

Firestone Rubber Co., 24,25,26 

Fit National City Baak (Ciribank), 

270 

First, Ruth, 175, 176n 

FLN (Front de Liberation Nationale), 

70% 72, 73, 74r9f Y 93, 94-96, 97, 

Mo~ambiqw), 214,238,239,280, 

282,330, 345; before independence, 

177-98 passim; independence and 

after, 295-308 passim. 

French colonial poltcy; m Algeria, 93, 

94~97; in Congo (Brame), 136; 

massacre, 127. See also French 

Equatorial Africa; French West Africa 

French colons, 93,94,98 

French Equatorial Africa, 21~36~38 

French language, 92~93,137, 162, 

171, 48, 309 

French people, 211, 363 

French Union, rq 

French West Africa, 21~23; Grand 

Council of, 23 

Friends of Rhodesia, 234 

Friendship Institute, 209-10; pilot 

school, 210,212. See also PAIGC 

FROLIZI (Front for the Liberation of 

Zimbabwe), ~ 3239,326 7 ~ 

Fula, 204, 208 

98, I55 

FNLA (Frente Nacional de Libenapo 

de Angola): after the Pomguese 

coup, 281-84,285,286,287; civil 

war and, 288-90; difficulties of, 

16548,172-76 passim, 188,189, 

252,357; formation of, 159; refugees 

and, 16243,170-71; resisting 

united front with MPLA, 161,164, 

I74 

FOR (Fellowship of Reconciliation), 5, 

7-83 209 f 1 64 

Ford Foundation, 183 

Foreign Agent Regismtion Act, 160 

Fort Hare University College, 12,21, 

I 13,126,129,242,2j7,261 

Fort Victoria. See Masvinp 

Fortes, Fernando, 402, 217 

Gabemne, 3472348 

Gabon, 36,38 

Galvgo, Henrique, 152-53 

Gandhi, Manilal, 12,13,17,18, 53-54 

Gandhi, Mohandas K., 8,1o, 53, 108 

Gaza province, 178,192,297. 301 

Gbedemah, K.A., 30 

Geingob, Hage, 354,356 

General Chedu, 225 

General Laws Amendment Act, 257- 

58 

Geneva, 82, 169,232,251,261,316, 

332s 358 

German Democratic Republic. See 

East Germanv 

Germany and south %t Africa, IIG 4 

15 

Getzen, Eric. See Kerina, Mburumba 

Ghana, 73,77,79, 85,r02,ra4,127, 

128,129,151,183, 188,225, 24% 

I, . 

E

247, zgo, 361; Ail Alkm People's 

Conference and, 69,71,72; Bureau 

of African Affairs and, @, 71,72; 

Coaga Crisis and, rqo,141c43,144; 

indcpmdencc of, 67-69 

Ghana Congrtss Party, 27 

Ghana-Guinea Union, 68,73 

Ghana Trade Union Congress, 75,89 

Gilcbiist, Ian, 162-63, 166, 16e8, 

284,285 

G i , Antoint, 145 

Gold Coast (now Ghana), 20,21, u, 

23,634 33,559 643 (Xebdon 

Committee, 67 

GonakudjziDgwa detention camp, 230, 

234,239 

Go*, 24 

Gould, Ray, 216 

GPRA (Gouvemrment Provisoire de la 

Rtpubliqut Algerienne), w, w,98 

GRAE (Gop&me Rwoluciodrio de 

Angola no Exilio), 159, 1-8, 

IP75 passim 

Grant, Jack, 231 

Great Zimbabwe, uo Otem March, 311 

Griswold, Erwin, and South African 

neason nial, f21-23 

Group Areas Act, I I, 55 

Groutville Mission Resave, 19,260 

Grupes Dinamczadores (GDb or Dy- 

Groups), 297-989 303-4 

G*, 2g-8,209,215 

Guinea, Republic of, 68,79,14,142, 

ISOI 188,2W, 204, 207,ZI I, 214, 

361 

~ - B h 134, , 154,170,176, 

185, rgy-~18,280,281,282; Coun- 

cil of Commissioners of, 21 5,2 16; 

Council of Smtc of, 212,213,215, 

216; independence of, 216; procla- 

manon of the state of, 215 

Gulf Oa Co., 287, 294 

Gumanc, Paulo, ISgn, 184,189 

Gun*, John, 120, I- 

Gurirab, Th-#) Ben, 252,354 

Gwambe, Adelino, 181,183 

m o -1,341,343 

cwcnjue, Mateus, 190 

-pi, Henry, 239 

Hammarskjild, Dag, 134,140,144, 

I45 

Hamumya, Hidipo, 250,354 

Hararr (SalisburyX 360 

Ham T ~ uz R 

Harriman, Lcslie O., 335 

Warrington, Donald, 12,63,265 

H- 11, Ring, 311, 319,323, W 

Hatch, John, u 

Hawkins, Edler, 278 

Haynes, UJric, 270,323,324 

Heinjeko, Tobias, 249 

Hcllmann, Ellen, 121,123 

Hcndmn, I ~ and Y fi, 47,48,284, 

291 

Hm, 

110, 112,114,11j,116 

Herero Chief's Cod, 113,114,114 

Herskovits, Melville J., 179 

Herter, Christian, 129, 140 

Highiicld Tinmiship, 223,231,339 

Hiilman, Sidney, 83; foundation, 123 

Wistoric Ninc, 93,94 

Holloman, John L.S., 244 

Hooper, J=t, 199 

Hooper, Mary Louise, 70, 117,121, 

276 

Houser, David, 8 

Horn, George M., p @hotoh n, 

79,246,316 @horn) 

Houser, Jean, 8,35 

Houser, Martba, 8,231 

Houser, Steven, 8,305 

Housu, Thomas, 8 

Huddleston, Tkmr, 64,6566,129 

Huggins, Godfrey (Lord Malvern), 

102 

Human Rights Day, I-, 266,270 

Humphrey, Hubert, 87,146,269 

Hutchinson, Alfred, 70 

Ibadm, 32,33 

Ibo, 33,34 

ICCR (1ntediit.h Center for Corporate 

Responsibility), 271 

ICFTU (Inttmtional Confederation 

of Free Thde Uniomb 75,82,86, 

89 

Ignafiev, Oleg, 292 

India, 77, 82, 108 

Indians (South African), 10,5j, I 18, 

352

ICJ (International Court of Justice) 

and SWAY III, 117,243,248,249, 

251 , 254, 310-1 I 

International Defence and Aid Fund, 

274 

International Ladies Garment Workers 

Union, 83 

International Longshoremen's Associa- 

tion, 235 

International Monetary Fund, 148 

IOC (International Olympic Commit- 

tee), 273,274 

Wine, Keith, 64,81 

Ish, 311, 319 

Jack, Homer, 13, a, 67,69,80, 190 

Jim Crow, 8,14,40, 100 

Johannsb~, 14, 15,173 41, 49,509 

51~64, 105, If5~1I9~ 125,179, 247, 

257,264,265, 349,352 

Johnson, Lyndon B., 261,269,272, 

277 

Joint Action Committee, I I 

Junod, Violahe, 130 

Index 

Kalanga, 228,237 

Kani, Inocendo, 213 

Kanza, Thomas, 138-41 passim, 143, 

I47 

Kapuuo, Clement, I I 5 

Karanga, 228 

Karefa-Smart, John, 40 

Kasai, 38,40,141~ 142, 143 

Kasawbu, Joseph, I 36-39 passim, 

141,142, 143, 145-48 P*, 151, 

164 

Kassanga, Marcos, 158 

Kassine, 356 

Katanga province, 38,138,139,140~ 

14x1 I437 145-47 

Katatura, 116 

Kaunda, Kenneth, 70,99, roo, 101, 

102, IO5-9,189~ 193,198, u 3927~ 

237,244,269n, 326, 3299 334,358; 

detente and, 240,326; nonviolence 

and, 108,1og 

Kavandame, Lazaro, 19 

Kawawa, Rasbidi, 1g0 

Kennedy Foundation, 89 

Kennedy, John E, 61,87,88,89,95, 

145,268 

Kennedy, Roben, 189 

Kenya, 21,22,~,64,70,8~-go, 104, 

~9,282,363 

Kenya Africa Union, 82 

Kenya Federation of Labor, 72,75,81, 

82983 

Kenyatta, Jomo, u, 64,72,82,86, 

89-90,282,288 

Kerina Mbununba (also Eric Getzen), 

112, I13,114, 116,251 

Kgokong, Alfred, 263 

Kgosana, Philip, 126 

Khama, Seretse, 22 

Khan, Shahdine, go, 306 

Khartoum Conference of Liberation 

Movements, I 89 

Kiiongondo, 289 

Kikuyu, 22,81,89 

Kilbracken (Lord), 185 

Killoran, Tom, 282,283 

Kimbundu, ~54,166,175 

1o8,12o,14,256,266,334,349 

Kinkuzu, 159~ 167,168,174, 247, 

49,284 

Kinshasa (Leopoldville), 14, 171, 

I731 174, 1751 247, 290 

Kissmger, H-5 234,269, ?w, 291, 

334,347; plan for RhfJdesla, 32P- 

30; shuttle diplomacy, 329 

Kittrell, Flemmie, 244 

Knight, Richard, 311 

Koinange, Mbyiu, 22 

Kooper, Markus, 248 

Kotane, Moses, 260 

Kozonguid, Jaritetundu (Kozo), I 13- 

16 pa^&, 252,253 

Kuhangua, Jacob, 115,247,248 

Kumalo, Dumisani, 350 

Kumasi, 30, 106 

Kunzika, Emmanuel, 159,166, 171, 

175 

Kutako, Hosea, 70, 110, 1 11, 113, 

114,248 

Kwacha, 104,106 

Lagos5 32, 33, 79 

Lambarthe, 36 

Laneaster House Conference. See Rho- 

desia 

Landis, Elizabeth, 66 

Langa3 51, 553 57 

Lapchick, Rcbmrd, 351

Matthews, Z.K., 12, 15, 17,2o, 21, 

54, 55, 56, I 17, I 18, I 19,126,259, 

261 

Mau Mau, u, &,73, 82,86 

Maun, 245 

Mauretania, 310,31 I, 315,320,324 

Mawema, Michael, 233 

Mboya, Torn, 72, 73,759 79~81-901. 

137, 163,269n~ 361, 363 

McCarthyism (Joseph McCarthy), I 3, 

35 

Mae, Gale, 98 

McHenry, Don, 323, 335 

McVeigh, Malcolm, 154 

Meany, George, 83,108,128 

Mendes, Francisco (Chico), 215 

Meriwether, Louise, 275 

Methodist Church, 227,233, 235,286, 

292,339. See also United Methadist 

Church 

MFA (Movimento das Fonp Arma- 

dos), 280,285,287 

Milas, Leo, 184 

Military Procurement Bil, 234 

Millings, Mallinga, 180, 181 

Mingas, Saydi, 283,287,293 

Missiiio, Evangelica, qz 

Missionaries, Christian: British Baptist 

Index 

in Angola, 153; Catholic, 192; Methodist 

in Angola, 4~~43,151,154; @ 

Nigeria, 34; Protestant, 154, 155; m 

Rhodesia, 333; Southern Presbyte- 

rian in Belgian Congo, 40-41; Span- 

ish, 195 

Mmole, Matthew, 180,181 

MNC (Mouvement Nationale Con- 

goldsh 70,136,I37r138,1@, !47 

MNR (Mozambique Nauonal Resist- 

ance), 301,302,303,352 

Mobutu, Joseph (Mobutu Sese Seko), 

141, 142,144,145,148,168, I742 

176, 290, 362 

Moi, Daniel araB 85 

Molotsi, Peter, 256,258,259 

Mondale, Walter, 334 

Mondlane, Eduardo Chivambo, 177- 

80, 181, 184,186, 187--92, 195,218, 

297s 361 

Mondlane, Janet, 179, 183, 185, 187, 

191-94 P-Y I97 

Monrovia, 24~26~79 

Moatem, Frank, 69,88 

Mom mo eat Movement, 30 

Morocco, 2, 91392,943 135,1409 1421 

164, 173~206~310,311,312~ 315, 

317-24 pas-, 363 

Morogoro, 260,263 

Moscow, 168, rga, 292 

Moslem Association Party, 27 

Moss, Frank, 98 

Movement for Colonial Freedom, 22, 

120 

Moxico dismct, 165,169,170,285 

Moyo, Jason, 226,236,237,326,327, 

328,331, 361 

Mozambique, 134, 154, 170,176,177- 

98, 229, 2305 238,241 272, 

273,280,282, 286,291,295-308, 

326,329,345, 364, 366; cashew industry 

in, 304; communal villages 

in, 29F300, 301-2,304-5; education 

in, 299, 301; health in, 302; 

nationalhation in, 300; relations 

with South Africa, 296,3-301; 

relations with U.S., 307-8; relations 

with ZANU, 332-33; state farms in, 

304 

Mozambique Institute, 183,189, 193, 

I97 

MphahIele, Ezekiel, 70 

MPLA (Movimento Popular de Liberta@o 

de Angola), 80, 15-51, 152, 

153,16061,162,163, 164-65, 168, 

170,173-76 passim, 188,z03,211; 

after Portuguese coup, 282-93 passim, 

358; ad war and, 288-90; 

Workers Party of, 293; attempts for 

united front by, 161; education and 

health programs by, 171; prison attack 

in connection with, 153, ~h, 

286 

MTLD (Mouvement pour le Triomphe 

des Liberth Dhocratiques), 93,94 

Mtwara, 19% 194, 195, 197 

Mueda, 183 

Mueshihange, Peter, 247 

Mugabe, Robert, 223,226,227,231, 

241-42, 327, 3291 3301 3349 3353 

339,341 J 342,344 

Murumbi, Joseph, 22 

Muslim, 3,342 939 306s 313, 319, P 

Mwseque, 44,283,287,288 

Muste, A.J., 7,63 

Mutasa, Didymus, 231

NAACP (National Association for the 

Advancement of Colored People), 

63, 68,272, 337, 351 

Naidw, Indres, 272 

Nairobi, 81~82, 89, 129, 145, 147, 

184, 361 

Nairobi Peoples Convention Party, 86 

Nama, 110, 114, 115 

Nambuagongo, 153, 161 

Namib, I 10 

Namibia (Southwest Africa), 66, 110, 

243% 249-55 passim, 2803 329,354- 

593 365 

Nasser, Gamal Abdel, 72,73,86 

Natal, I I, 52,260,262 

National Coordinating Committee 'of! 

Friends of Rhodesian Indepen- 

dm=, 234 

National Council of Churches of Christ 

in the USA, 63 

National Council of Methodist Youth, 

6 

National Democratic Party (Southern 

Rhodesia), 102,225,227,230,242; 

banning of, 3; founding of, 223 

National Liberauon Movement (of 

Ghana), 67 

National Party (of Afrikaners), I I, 65 

National Union Party (Portugal), 150 

Native Representative Council, 13 

Native Resettlement Act, 55 

NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organi- 

zation), 97,160 

NaudC, Beyers, 347n, 352 

NCNC (National Council of Nigeria 

and the Cameroons) 33, 

Ndebele, 103,220,228,230,331 

Ndlovu, Edward, 226,237,331 

Necaca, h ue1 Bms, 4,7678, 79, 

80, 150, 152 

NESAM (National Union of Mozam- 

bean Students), 170 

Nesbin, Prexy, 350 

Neto, Agostinho, ISI,I~I, 164, 173, 

174, 175, 179,2o2,282,284,287- 

88, 289,293 293,294 

Newmont Mining Corp., 253,255 

Ngala, Ronald, Q, 85 

Ngubane, Jordan, 70 

Ngwenya, Jane, 230,239,331 

Nhari revolt, 327 

Niassa, 185, 194 

Niebuhr, Reinhold, 6,97 

Nigeria, 21,239 31, F-34, 353 66,701 

73,909 128,2go, 364 

Nixon, Richard M., 61,67,68,71, 

87-892234, 235,2539 2% 

Niongwe, J. L., 56 

Nkobi, Tom, 260 

Nkomati Accord, 302-3, 308 

Nkomo, Joshua, 70,232,236,239, 

240>24I, 269% 3353341-44 passim3 

360; African Nauonal Council and, 

326,327; detention of, 230; first trip 

to U.S., 99-105; Ian Smith, discus- 

sions with, 328-29, 334; and Na- 

tionalist split, 225-28; and National 

Democratic Party, 223,224; and Pa- 

triotic Front, 330, 336; and South- 

em Rhodesian ANC, zu, 223; and 

ZMU, 224% 225,3313 332 

Nkosi, Sikelel iAfrica ("God Bless Af- 

rica"), I I 9 

Nkrumah, Kwame, 23,27-32, 6748, 

70,729 73, 759 799 85, 89, 106. 115, 

164, 183, 187, 361; and All Africans 

People's Conference, 69,74, 75; at- 

titude toward Americans, 29,30; 

and Holden Roberto, Isr,15t; and 

International Alignment, 28; and 

Patrice Lumumba, 137, 144; and 

Tom Mboya, 86; and Moral Rearma- 

ment Movement, 30; and Moslem 

Association my 30; and non- 

violence, 29; and Robert Mugabe, 

342; and West African Federation, 

29 

Nkumbula, Harry, zo1,108 

Nokwe, Duma, 260 

Nonviolence, 242,266; and AAPC, 

73; and Algenan war for indepen- 

dence, 91; and Defiance Campaign, 

10, 12; and Kenneth Kaunda, 10% 

9; and PAC, 258 

Northern People's Congress (Nigeria), 

33 

Northern People's Party (Gold Goast), 

31 

Northern Rhodesia (Zambia) 21~22,

99, 10% 107,108, log, 113,145, 

222,223 

Northern Rhodesia African National 

Con?, lor, 107,108 

Nova Llsboa (Huambo), 284, 286 

Nujoma, Sam, rrg,116,15gn, 247, 

25L252, 335,339, 354,355 

(Photo), 357 

NUSAS (National Union of South African 

Students), 261 

Nyahnia, 329 

Nyagumbo, Maurice, 242 

N~andom* UIY~~~Y 223, 232, 

236,237 

N@d (Malawi), 21, 22, 70x99s 

roo, 102, roq, 105,1o6,181,222, 

223 

Nyasaland Afriam Congress, loo, lox, 

103, 106 

Nytnre, Julius, 66,86, Izq, 164, w, 

zp7,268,3?9, 3343.363; and f~rma- 

uon of Afncan Natlonal Council of 

Zimbabwe, 326; and ZAPU-ZANU 

split, 226; and Zimbabwe government 

in d e issue, 225 

Nyobe, Ruben Urn, 35 

Occupation Day, 220, a u 

Odcndaal P h, 246 

Odinga, Ogiaga, 85 

O'Hara, Barrctt, 270 

Old Location, I 16,246 

Olympic Games, Mexico City, 275; 

and South African boycott, 273-76 

Olympio, Sylvanus, 66,361 

OMM (Organization of Mozambicau 

%men), 196,306 

O'Neal, Frcdcrick, 276 

Optration Anvil, 83 

Optration Carlota, 289 

Orgarbtion of Atricaa Unity, 134, 

165,166,168,169,173, 189, 1% 

~ 7 237~258r , 282, &8,3~, 

325, 

361,363; Commission of Coach- 

tion (for AngoIaX 173, 175; found- 

ing of, IQ, 187; Liberation 

Committee (for Angola), 164,168 

Orlando Location, gr,52,125 

Ovambaland, I 15, 247,250,254,255; 

National Coapcss of, I 12; People's 

Organization (OPO), I 15, I 16,zg7 

O~aXllb~s, 115,251, 254 

Ovimbundu, 162,167,169 

Owen, David, 335 

Padmore, George, 22,28,68,69,73, 

ny 79 

PAIN (Partido African0 dc Indepen- 

&cia dc GuinC e Cabo We), 189, 

~gp-218,282; armed struggle of, 

206-8; lqghiqp of, 202-3; dcvelopment 

progtams of, 208-1 I; 

First Congress of, 206; organizing 

the state, 21 1-12; peasant based, 

203; use of sabotage by, 205 

Pan African Freedom Movement of 

East and Central Africa 

(PAFMECAy also PAFMECSA), 72, 

73,164; and Freedom Fund, 74 

Pan-Africanism, 60,183; Fifth Con- 

gress, 22; and Lumumh, 138; and 

Nkrumah, 27,68; and ZANU, 226; 

and ZAPU, us 

Pan Africanist Congress, 125,126, 

129,256,257-59,262,347,348 

Parsons, Anthony, 338 

FCC (People's Caretaker Council), 226, 

227 

PDA (Partido Democr4tico de An- 

gola), 1599 163, 175 

Pearce Commission, 233-34,235 

People's Shops, lgo, 196, rag, 298, 

305 

Pereira, Aristcdes, 202,204,213,214 

Peterson, Hector, 346 

Peterson, Jose Manuel, 155,157 

PF (Patriotic Front), 331,333, 335-38, 

360; formation of, 330; ZAPU- 

ZANU, tension in, 333-34 

Phelps Stokes h d, 179, 351 

Pidjiguiti massacre, 203,z15,217 

Pike, James, 120, r q 

Pin&, Eduardo J., 79 

Pioneer Column, a, 343 

Pitje, G.M., 13 

Plirnpton, Francis, 268 

Poitier, Sidney, 88,276 

Polana Hotel, 295 

Polaroid Corp, 271-72 

Polisario Front (Freate Popular para la 

Liberacibn dc Saguia el Hamra y 

Rio de Om), 2,3op25; and Com- 

munism, 319; National School (June 

g), 314; October 12 SC~W~, 313;

eception center of, 309,312,321; 

dug# camps of, 312-15; and U.S. 

relations, 319 

Population -stration Act, 20,334 

PWQ, 258 

Port 15,17, 55, 56, 125, 

261,347,348 

Portugal, 60~80, 134, 151, 170% 176, 

281 ; African territories of, 234; Angola, 

153% 1543 155, 15pdIa 164, 

165,169,170; Cape Vude, 201-2; 

Mozambique, 1 7 ~ passim, 7 295~ 

296,297,299; the coup and after, 

197,255,256,280,282,285,31~, 

96 

Portuguese American Cornminee on 

Fo* Afiairs, 160 

Portuguese Guinea (now Guinea- 

Bissau), 199, zoo, 201,203,204, 

m~, ZO~,ZO~, 211,212,213-15, 

216 

Potelchin, Ivan, 71 

Powdl, Adam Clayton, 14,67 

PPA (Parti du Peuple Al@m-A), 93 

Pmcc Congolaise, 80 

Pretoria, 4,49, so, 127,250,2~11 

346,347, 353 

Preventive Detention Act (Southern 

Rhodesia), 103 

Primam plantation, 153 

Prohibited immigrant, 21, 84, 338 

Project Fund, 65,66 

Pmtcctcd villap, 238 

Providence Island, 25 

Public Safety Act, 18 

Quaker Mission to the UN, 243 

Qu- Mission, 43, 46-47 

Qucvc River, 289 

Rabt, 173,310 

Randolph, A. Phili~ 6, 12,67,83, 

108, 125,266n, 270~ 277n 

Raymond, Catharine, 57,Q 

RDA (Rasscmblcment hocratique 

Africain), rq 

Reagan, Ronald W.3 308, 352,353 

Rebelo, Jaw, 19s 

Red Crescent, 312 

Red Cross, 218,294,312,333 

W~Y, Ems., 277, 349 

RCCVCS, Ambmse, 121, I*, 127 

Refugees: African, 361; Algerian 

(photo), 95; Angolan, 156,1579 162, 

167; Namibian, 355-56; Zibab- 

-3 331-33 

RENAMO (Resistencia Nacional dc 

Moqmbique). Sec MNR 

Reservation of Separate Amenities Act, 

55 

Resha, Robert, 263 

Reuther, Wtcr, 83,108,174 

Rhoda, Ccdl, IOZI 120, 249Il, 344 

Rhoda, 70, 134, 145,1941 247, 260, 

27332% 96-43, 364; h l o - h - 

ican settlement proposals, 335; Ge- 

neva Conference, 330; internal 

setdemmt, 335-36; Lancaster 

House Conference, 330,33&37; 

and Mozambique, 296; and ViEtoria 

Falls confmce, 327,328 

Rhodesian Afrian Railway Workcrs 

Union, 103 

Rhodesian Front, 228,335 

Rikhe, Indar, I@ 

Rio de Om, 311,313,324 

Rio Tinto Zinc, 253 

Riotous Assembhes Act, 52 

Rivonia, 257,258 

Roberto, Holden (Jose Gilmore and 

Rui Ventura, pseudonyms), &71, 

78-80, 150, ISI-.52,153,155, 159, 

161,162,163,16~8,17~89 pas- 

sim, 248,252,26gn, 281-92 pawn 

Robeson, Paul, 276 

Robinson, Jackie, 88, 108, 128,274 

Rockefeller, David, 87 

Roosevelt, Eleanor, 67,96,~08, 121, 

124 

Root, Christine, 235 

Royal Sanitary Instirute Medical M- 

ing Schml (Nairobi), & 

Rusk, Dw, 147 

Rustin, Bayard, 8, 10,12 

SADCC (Southern African Develop 

mat Coordination Conference), 364 

Saguia el Hamra, 31 I, 322 

Sahara, 98,268,309, 316-22 

Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic 

(SADR), 311,313, 317,3223374, 

325 

Sahrawi people, 309,310,311-1j 

St. Peter's School, 65, 129

Sakiet Sidi Yousef, 96 

Sah, hul, 97 

!&hw, Antonio de Oliveira, 150,152, 

160,161, 183,255. 

SaIifbury Central Pmson, 230,231, 

239 

Salisbury (Harare), 121, 181, 194, 

=*w passim, 2273 230,239,327, 

338: w, 343 

SaIvatlon Army, 331 

SANROC (South Africa Nonracial 

O~PP~C a&tte), 273-75 

Santa Maria, 152-53 

Sgo Salvador, q, 77,78,158 

SARA (Scrvip de Assis&cia aos Re- 

fugiadcw dc Angolo), 1 54, 162, 167, 

168, 170 

SASO (South African Students' Or- 

etionh 2&, 345, 347n 

Savlmbi, Jonas, 155,159,166,167, 

16849,175,252,281,282~ m-86, 

288,289 

Schaad, UOY~, 46947 

Scheinman, Bill, 69,83,87,88 

Schlesinger, Arthur, Jr., 96,160,268 

Schweitzer, Albert, 3G37 

Scott, MichacI, 70~81,104, 110, III- 

12s !13s 1:4 

Selass~e, Hade, 86, 164, 187 

Selous Scouts, 333 

Smra, 320,322, 324 

Stmedo, Julio, 217 

Senegal, 23-zq,7o,zoo, 218,267 

"Settler 74" campaign, 239 

Shamuyak, Nathan, 237,333,339 

Shapville massacre, 61, 1zq-31,u3, 

247,256,257,259,267,272, zn, 

345 r 353 

Shepherd, George, 64 

Shesh, 316,317 

S~bwa, Auk, 247,251 

shona, 22% 22S~228,233,343 

ShuIa, hw, 352 

Shustcr, Mh, 337, 340 

Siem bnc, 40,. 162 

Sirnuke, Jaime bvaz, 181 

Sikombcla Restriction Area, 231 

Silm*, G+org~, 236, 237, P6,3Z8 

Simango, Uria, 181,189, xw, rgz 

Sinoia, Battle of, 232 

Sisulu, Wter, lo, 11, 13,14,15,52- 

53,126,257 

Sithole, Ndabaningi, Iggn, 273,226, 

227,231 , w, 326-30 -, 332, 

334,3362 338 

Smith, Ian, 227,128,229,231,234, 

239,240,241,326, 971 328-29, 

391 334, 3351 341, WY 344,364 

Sobukwe &use (of G a d Laws 

Amendment Act), 257 

Sobukwt, R ob, 125,126,256,257 

SociaIism, 68,171,188,313~ 363 

Socialist Parry, 175 

Sofala provina, 194,195 

Soh, Stcven, 323 

Solidarity hospital, 211,212 

Sonangol, 294 

Sophiatown, 20 

South Africa Dcfaue Fund, 120,121 

South Africa Emagency Commirtct, 

128 

South Africa Foundation, 272 

South Africa Native National Con- 

i5ras, 13 

South Afnca, Republic of (Union of), 

11,15,21,36,-39, 41~49-57~65, 

117-31,134, 145~186~198,221, 

230, 234,280,345-54, 256-7793629 

363,364-65; and Afncan voting 

rights, 55; and Angola, 288,289, 

294; and bannings (1977h 347; and 

detente, 240; and Mozambique, 

296,3-301; and Namiblay 357- 

58; and Rhodesia sanctions, 229; 

and Sharpeville massacre, I 24-31 ; 

and South West Africa, I I I, 243-55; 

and Soweto uprising, 345-46; and 

spom policy, 274 

South Africa Sports ASSOChIhIl, 273 

South Africa United Front, 258 

South African h y s , 267,276-77 

South African Christian Council, 14, 

19, 263 

South African Coloured Pcoplc's Or- 

-+ 118,125 

South Ahcan Council of Churches, 

353 

South African Defence Force, 358 

South African Inh Congrrss, 10, 

14~70, !IS, 125 

South Afncan Institute of Race R&tions, 

18, 56, 57, I ~ I 

South African Olymp~c Games Association, 

273

Index 

Southan Chdstiao Leademhip Conference, 

8 

Souh Rhadeaia, 21,49,93,w-103 

passim, 106, rq, 121,130,361; 

basis of conflict, 220-21; Pwrce 

Chunkion, ~33-34; d o n s 

against, ug; UDI, 228-29. See ah Rhodesia; Zimbabwe 

Swthtm Rhodesia Africm National 

Yo& League, 221-22 

South West Africa (Namibia), 70, I I* 

16,134, -55 

South Wbt Afnca Native Labor Association, 

I15 

South %t African Student Body, 1!4 

South West Africa Progressive Assoclation, 

114 

Soweto (South Kbt TWps), 55, 

345,346 

Sowem Smdents Representative Cowd, 

345,346,347n 

Saweto uprising, 345-46,347,3483 

3so 

SP~J~, 2, 60,280, 3% 310, 317, ?lu 

Spanish Sahara, 280,309,310,31 I. 

Seeafso~Sahara 

Spacial Branch (police), 113,264, 340 

Spinoh, Antonio dt, 176, zo8 

Sponono, 276 

SRANC (Southern Rhodtsia Africau 

National Congress), 99, lor, 102, 

IO3* 231,233; hIhlg, 223; foundinp, 

= 

Stanlme WmX 136,142, 

1433 1459 I47 

Stevens, Hope, 265 

Stmn, Adla& 875 1445 1451 1599 

268 

St-, John, 2-90 

Stokes, Anne h, 97 

Suliivan Prinaples, 350 

Suppression of (=ommuism Act, 13, 

15~20, 52, I?, 25% 264 

Supreme Cound for Sport in &a, 

274 

Supranc Council for the Liberation of 

bola, I74 

Sutherland, Bdl, 10,20,26,27,28,67 

WANU (South West African Natlonal 

Union), 115, 116,251,252,253 

SWAP0 (South Wat Africa People's 

Orgauhtion), I 16,189,244,247- 

555 303,354-59; kwh3 of amEd 

smuggle, 249; foundhq, I 16; pro- 

gram, 251-52; rtfugct Programs, 

355-56 

Swctltn, 128,140,194,294,356 

Tabata, I.B., 56, 57 

Takawira, Leopold, 224,226,~7,231 

Tad, Oliver9 13,53,1lo, 121,126, 

129,232,2~6~ 257,25*, 269n~ 

302,335 

Tangaeyrka, 21,22, 66,739 107,113, 

128,181,183,184,188,249n, 268 

TANU flhgmyika African Nahonal 

Union), 66, 247 

Tanzania, 169,185,187,190, 195, 

=4,237,241,247,260* 290,326, 

362,363,364 

Tarn, Lyle, 243,244,246 

Taty, Alcxauder, 167 

Telli, Diallo, 361 

Rrrorism Act, 250 

Tete province, 181,186, IN, 195,299, 

3063 329 

Teixdra de Sousa, 16g 

Than1 9 Us 145, 146 

Thomas, Norman, 6,12,63,96 

Th~svfie, 143, 159 

Tifariti, 317, p2 

Tmdouf, 2, jog, 3113 321 

%dd, Garfi+?ld, 222--23,231-32, 360, 

36566 

Todd, Judith, 231-9 

Togo Qww= Party, 31 

Togo Cm~land), 31,663 71,361 

Toivo Ja Toivo, Herman (Also And- 

hb), 1x2, II3,II5,249~250,251 , 

329 

Tolon-Naa, 31 

Torch Commando, 51 

Tour&, Sekou, 16q, a, 268,361 

hAfria9337r 353 

Transke., 256 

Tmsvaal, I I, I I I, 297 

%ason Ira, 112,257 

Treason Trial Ddum Fund, 120,121 

Tribal Trust Lands, 338,33~40 

Trigg, Charles Y., 12 

Trut Whig-, 25 

Tshombe, Noh, 136,138,142, 143, 

145-48 passim, 168 

Tsu~c~, 112,253,254

lhba, Paul, 283,284 

%dm, 192,194, I97 

~ s i a 74,9I, , 92,94,96,97,135, 

140,142, 143, 153% 155, 156,163, 

164, 

Tunney Amendment, 291,292 

?Ilmhalle Conference, 357 

Tutu, Desmond, 352 

UAW (United Auto Workers), 83,273 

UDENAMO (Uni5o Demodtica Na- 

cional de Mopmbique), 180, 181, 

184,187,188 

UDF (United Democratic Front), 352, 

353 

UDI (Unilateral Declaration of Inde- 

pendence), 225,228--29,234 

Uganda, 21,643 363 

UGCC (United Gold Coast Con- 

vention), 27 

Umbundu, 162,286 

Umkhonto We Sizwe (Spear of the 

Nation), 257 

UNAMI (Uni20 Nagonal Afrim de 

Mopmbique Independente), 181 

Ungar, Andre, 274 

Union of Black Journalists, 347n, 350 

Union Minitre du Haut Katanga, 41 

Union Theological Semi- 6,7, 15, 

I7,fO 

UNIP (United National Independence 

Party Northern Rhodesia and Zam- 

bia), IOZ 

UNITA (Udo Nacional para a Inde- 

pendbcia Total de Angola), 168-69, 

1703 173,176,252, 352,353,358; 

after the coup, 281,282,283-86, 

287; civil war, 288-90; destabiIiza- 

tion, 284; education and medical 

pmgram, 171-72 

United African National Council (Rho- 

desia), 336,338 

United African Nationalist Movement, 

72 

United Church of Christ, 19,47, 235 

United Methodist Church, 3,8; Rocky 

Mountain Annual Conference, 5; 

mission work in Angola, 42: 43 

United Nations: Ad Hoc Poliucal 

Committee, 17; African group, 60; 

Afro-Asian group, 60; and Algerian 

Index 

issue, 91,92, N, 95; and Angola, 

80,152,155,159,166,170; and 

Central African Federadon, 103; 

and Congo crisis, 134-48 passim, 

Dhtion of Human Rights, 124; 

Decolonization Committee, 170, 

310; Decoionization Resolution 

(1514), 61,310; Economic Commis- 

sion for Africa, 267; Education and 

Training Program for Southern Af- 

rica, 349; Fourth Committee, I 12, 

I I 3; and Guinea-Bissau, 205 ,2 I 2, 

213; High Commissioner for Ref- 

U P S (UNHCR), 312,332; and 

Namibia and South %t Africa, 

110, I 11,243-9,251-55.passim, 

357-59; Cound for Narmbla, 253; 

General Assembly Resolution 

(2145), 243; General Assembly Res- 

olution (2248), 243; Good Offices 

Committee on South Wst Afiica, 

112; Institute for Namibia, 354-55; 

Transitional Assistance Group (UN- 

TAG), 357. And South Africa: arms 

embargo against, 349, Commission 

on Racial Situation in, 268, General 

Assembly and racial situation in, 16- 

17,348; Special Committee Against 

Apartheid, 275, 277,335,348-49. 

Security Council, 348: Angola, 152; 

Congo, I@, 143,145; Mozambique, 

329; Resolution (389, 357; Resolu- 

tion (435X 357; SharpevilIe, 127; 

Trust FWLd for, 277,278; and 

Southern Rhodesia,. 224,228: 229, 

233,235; T m f h council, ~ 35; 

Trusteeship Division, 145, 179; 

Trust TerritoryAhmeroons, 35; 

and ktem Sahara, 309,310,312; 

and World Food Progmm, 301; and 

World Health Organization (WHO), 

40 

United States of Amerib: and Algerian 

struggle, 95,96,97; and Angola, 

159,16o,284,288,2~2, 

294; and Congo, 38, 140, 142: 145, 

147,148; Department of Jusuce, 

160; and FRELIMO, 196-97; and 

Guinea-Bissau, 215,218; House of 

Representatives Subcornminee on 

Africa, 197,213,217,235,267,270, 

275,277; Immigration and Nam-

tabinon Service (Sponono case), 

276; Marshall aid, 36; Mission to 

UN, 17,269; and Mozambique, 

189,307-8; National M t y 

Study 

Manorandm (39),234,269. Policy 

rotRard Africa: 34HO; 

Eisenhower, 268; Kcnndy, 268-69; 

Nixon, 269; -9 352; -9 

26849. Portugal, asslstana to, 1%'; 

and Scott, Michael, I I 1; Senate For- 

eign Relations Committee (Subcorn- 

mime on Africa), 87,95,267,291; 

and South Africa: aircraft d et 

visitation, 277; economic investment 

in, 270; atellite tracking stations, 

2j7; SharpeviUe mafmcft, 127; 

South Afriam Ahays, 276-77; and 

Southern Rhodesia, ug; Byrd 

Amendment, 234-35; ganctions, 

=9,332: 334-35, 336; south 

Ws Afm (NamibmX 252,253-54, 

357-58; Smu Department, 17,268: 

advisory Council on African Affairs, 

268,269; Burcau of African Affairs, 

60,160,268; Supreme Court, zqq; 

and Tambo visa, 129; md UNITA, 

358; and -tern Sahara, 319,320, 

322-25 

United Steclw~rkers, 83 

Unity Movement? 56 

UniVQSity Ctuisoan Mwrmcnt, 270 

Unidty of Natal Mcdical School, 

262 

Univdty of South Afric~, 103,231 

Uaty of mtwatd, 126, 179, 

346 

Unlawful Orgauizatioos Act (Southern 

Rhodesia), 223 

UPA (Udo das Popula* dc An- 

la), 76,799 80, ISW51, 152, 172; 

peasant revolt, 153, 155-59,161 

UPC (Union des Populations Cam- 

munaises) 35936 

UPNA (UGo das Popula+ do 

None de Angola), 76, n, 79 

Urban League, 68,6g, 261 

U.S. Olympic Committee, 275 

Ushcwokux, Hubert, 333,336 

USSR (Soviet Union), 60,71,75, 134; 

and Angola, a84,288,2goy 292, 

294~~99; and Congo crisis, 14passim, 

175, 189, 190, w7,215, 

219,232,259,268; and Mozambique, 

307-8; and Soviet-China 

cold war, 188~3~~ 332,357; and 

%?stem Sahara, 313,319 

Valentim, Jorgc, 285 

Van Riebcck Day, x I 

Venter, A-J., 154,165;~ 168,249 

Verwocrd, H d , 65,260 

Victoria Falls C~~CZMCC, 97, 328 

Vieira, Jo&o B d o (Nino), 205, 

206,215 

Vorster, John (B. Johannes), 198,232, 

2403 246,2543 274, 289,326, 329, 

3349 3459 351 

Wdheim, Kurt, 254 

Walvis Bay, 254 

-,HawY6 

w o n Office on Africa, 235 

WekhOff, HChlkh, 145; 

WSS, Peter, 63,& 74,1409 2513 267 

%lensky, Roy, IOI 

Rttm PoWC~S, 141, 14&49, 168, 

188, mg, 212,215,348 

Western Sahara, z,280,309-25,363. 

See also Spanish Sahara 

Whipping Post Law, 19 

Whistlefield Farm, 238 

Whitehead, Edgar, 102,223 

Whyte, Quintin, 18 

W~PY 31% 313 

W-, Roy, 87,266n 

ww, Franklin, 351 

Williams, G. Menuen, 144, 145, 268 

Wilson, Harold, A, ~9,233 

Windhoek, 113-16 p k , r45,246, 

254~ 357 

Winter, Colin, 254,zjs 

Woods, Donald, 262,347n 

World Alliance of Reformed Churches, 

353 

mrld Council of Churches, 261,331 

World Federation of Trade Unions, 89 

World Lutheran Fedu~tion, 241 

Wbrld War II, UI, 243 

Wbrthy, Bill, I2 

Ya Otto, John, 250,254 

Yadd, M'HaIUmed, 92s 94, 959 98 

Yorub 32, 332 34

Zaire, 144,r48,r69,170, ~71,174. 

176,479 283,2841 188,2w, 293, 

362 

ZamW Rim, 165,182, 186,219, 

249,3009 327 

Zambia (Northap Rhodesia), 165, 

169,1719f86, 19,219s ~ 7 , 

236,237,405 24x1 243s 2449 249, 

250,272, ?93, 326rr.328r355.360 

Zambian African Nauonal Congms of 

Northem Rhodesia, 108 

ZANLA (Zmbabwe African National 

Liberation Army), 238 

ZANU (Zimbabwe African National 

Union), 189,23+@ @I 941 

3;~7, 328; armed s-e begios, 

2-33; ckaion (1980X 338-42; 

founding, 22627; d PRELIM0 

mopmuion, 238; and ncw offensive, 

238; and Paaiotic Fmnt, 330,336, 

338 

Index 

ZAPU (Zimbabwe African People's 

UnionX Isgn, 189,230,232,234, 

236,327, w; and ANGZAPU military 

alhu, 232,260, baMing of, 

uj; mion on campaign (1984,341, 

343; founding of, q; d government 

in d t issue, up263 in Zambia, 

33w; Boyg' Vicfory cam^ 

335; Girtsf Wctory Camp, 331-9; 

and Patriotic Fmnt, 330,336; split, 

225-28 

ah, Lydia, 64 

Zenila massacre, 310 

-, 228,237 

Zimbabwe Dcvclopment Fund, 335, 

349 

Zimbabwe (Southan Rhodesia or 

Rhodd), 219, 3=, 96, 360, 363, 

364,3453 after ~n-e-9 343- 

44 

Zimbabwe House, 237,330-31 

Zulu Column, 289,290 

Zvobgo, Eddison, 226,227,230,231, 

241,332,336,339

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