Reflections of an SA icon
SAM NZIMA’S LIFE WAS NEVER THE SAME AFTER ‘THAT PICTURE’
Sam Nzima, responsible for forever freezing in time the harrowing image of a dying 13-year-old Hector Pieterson, has recounted his story more times than he can remember. In that moment, Nzima encapsulated what would eventually contribute to great change for apartheid South Africa ... and likewise it would alter his life forever. Reporter Yadhana Jadoo and photographer Refilwe Modise visited him in his home village of Lillydale.
His iconic photograph has been used on everything from billboards to T-shirts – an image which articulates a renewed struggle against inequality, this time by the youth of June 16, 1976, who rose up against a system which forced them to learn in Afrikaans, a language that neither they nor the teachers holding the chalk understood.
And, as he turns 80 in August, former photojournalist Sam Nzima offers up a reflection of his past, its consequences on life presently, and his outlook for the future.
You will not find a website dedicated to him – but if you ever visit a village called Lillydale in Bushbuckridge, Mpumalanga, you will find a tiny museum created by Nzima, which showcases his work.
It is by no means fancy, but a reflection of the humble character that is Nzima. Both his personality and daily life contrasts the renowned photograph which shook the world into reality.
Let me put it this way. The picture of Hector Pieterson destroyed my future in journalism. I couldn’t be a journalist anymore because of that picture
Nzima waits at his bottle store, which he craftily calls a “bar and lounge”, beyond the dusty undeveloped road to Lillydale, a day after he related his story to us at a plush Nelspruit hotel.
What we find on arrival is a volley of surprises. Good ones indeed.
From his house, he brings out an old Pentax camera with standard 50mm lens – used for the picture – so casually, as if it were just lying on a television cabinet.
“Do you know, Hillary Clinton wanted to buy this from me? I said no way. Then Winnie Mandela asked for me to donate this to the ANC Women’s League. I declined,” he says with a smile unpretentious enough to cause you to reflect on yourself, even if a little.
The camera is visibly worn out with a bronze mark caused by the wear and tear of Nzima’s thumb during its use, its thin leather straps fraying.
Back at the hotel, Nzima spoke of his initial failure to gain copyright on the picture, and when he did, the difficulty in receiving adequate money for those wishing to use it.
“I don’t want any money from the ANC,” he says, about the ruling party’s use of the photo.
Nzima once said that the picture ruined his life. He revealed he was also never compensated for his picture’s use at the Hector Pieterson Museum in Soweto.
The money, however, could have assisted in the development of his museum, with visibly cracking walls and a curtain attached to windows using pegs; draped along the edge of the low ceiling are some of the world’s flags, similar to those used in decorations during the 2010 Fifa World Cup.
But he would never admit that. Nzima displays too much modesty, even though it took some 22 years for him to gain that copyright.
While access to copyright was difficult for him, framed pictures in the museum of Nzima next to the likes of late former President Nelson Mandela, assassinated SA Communist Party leader Chris Hani and Clinton adorn some of the shelves – an indication that he knew the picture belonged to him, and that was all that mattered.
Nzima stays in the humble complex with his family, and other residents who he seems to have taken under his wing.
“Here we have neighbours. You can’t be in Joburg and ask someone for sugar when you have run out. This is home.”
Besides already been awarded for community upliftment over the years, he also hopes to one day open a school for photojournalism in the area.
Nzima reveals a fairly simple makeshift darkroom which he hopes to eventually use to teach students about how photojournalism worked in the “good old days”.
Then another surprise, under the covers of a gazebo situated outside his house, is a life-size sculpture by a Zimbabwean artist, Norman Nyamakura, who claimed to have created the piece over three years – and the rock used for it, extracted from a river in his home country.
“I wanted it. So we made a good deal,” he says.
“Soweto was on fire”
Nzima describes the events leading up to June 16. He had decided to march with students,
who he says appreciated his presence at the time.
And then, the first shot rang out.
It was initially a peaceful march, but then the pupils were told to disperse and then they started singing Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika.
“At first, I ran away from the scene. But then, after recovering myself, I went back. Then I saw that Hector fell down under a shower of bullets.”
Determined, Nzima did not give up the opportunity to show the world that “Soweto was on fire”.
He said that there was no order by the police who were shooting randomly.
“When I took that picture, I did not know whether the bullets were going to hit me from the back.”
In front of him was the image of a young Mbuyisa Makhubu carrying the bleeding Pieterson in his arms. And beside him, Pieterson’s sister Antoinette Sithole.
In his house, Nzima displays a picture, unseen by most of the public, of Pieterson being put into a car, Makhubu holding his legs while both he and Sithole are seen screaming. Behind them is another unidentified student who seems to be in a state of shock.
“The students of 1976 had a purpose. They wanted to study. It’s a big difference from the students of today. Born-free students don’t value June 16,” says Nzima.
Death threats
Soon after the image had been published by The World, Nzima began receiving death threats.
“Two days later I received a call from John Vorster Square. The station commander phoned, wanting to speak to me.”
He asked Nzima to visit him for a “cup of coffee”. He then reported the call to his editor at the time, Percy Qoboza, who in turn advised him that if he did go for a “cup of coffee”, he would “come back a corpse”.
Qoboza then spoke to the commander, advising him that as an editor, he should be the one visiting John Vorster Square.
The commander told Qoboza that Nzima had been “selling” an image that South African police were “killing [unarmed] children”.
Nzima was later told by a source of his within the police that he was to be arrested in the early hours of the morning.
“Indeed they came, but I did not sleep at home.”
An instruction was later given to police to shoot Nzima wherever he was found to be taking pictures.
“I was stressed. I was told [ by the source] to choose between my life and my job. I didn’t know what to do, this was my profession, what I did for a living.”
It was there that Nzima made the decision to move back home and open a bottle store.
But his worries were not over. A visit by members of Nelspruit’s security branch caused him to never return to the profession.
They pulled out a fi le with a picture of Hector Pieterson and threatened him.
Nzima was then told that he was to be put under “house arrest” for a year and a half for “running away” from Johannesburg.
“Let me put it this way. The picture of Hector Pieterson destroyed my future in journalism. I couldn’t be a journalist any more because of that picture and I would never put my life in danger.”
Safe now in his home town, Nzima says he will always remember the trauma of the day as it unfolded.
Every June 16, he kneels down in prayer.