LAW MATTERS
SEPTEMBER 12 was the second day of the Oscar Pistorius verdict. The world media had again descended on the North Gauteng High Court and were picking apart the finding that he did not commit murder.
On the same day, not far away from the court, with hardly any media present, something else was quietly going on at the Marikana Commission — the families of the 44 people who died were telling their stories.
I consider myself one of the most fortunate legal reporters in SA because Business Day sent me to the inquiry rather than the Pistorius verdict.
The family presentations were short, terse even. But they have taken up permanent residence in my heart and conscience. Taken together, the presentations weave a compelling narrative of the lives of rock-drill operators — their aspirations, their determination to fight for a living wage, and what they were thinking and feeling during the strike. And the trauma and agony suffered from their deaths.
John Ledingwane, killed by the police like 33 others on August 16 2012, was just 24 years old when he died. Like me, he liked to spend his Sundays reading the newspapers. His four-year-old daughter, Tsenolo, can’t remember him, but she calls out his name when she sees a car similar to his driving past.
Bongani Nqongophele loved to tend to the cattle when he went home. Ntandazo Nokambo coached a soccer team, of 11-year-olds. Fezile Samphendu loved to cook.
The father of Mgcineni “Mambush” Noki — the man in the green blanket — was also a mine worker. Mgcineni’s mother was still pregnant with him when her husband died.
Cebisile Yawa took over his father’s job after his father was forced to stop because of his health. He continued supporting the family, including his brother, Mandla, who was at university. Thembinkosi Gwelani did not even work for Lonmin — he went to Marikana to look for a job. Every day he took his cousin, Musa, who worked for Lonmin, his lunch on the koppie. He was shot in the back of the head.
Jackson Lehupa’s widow said “he was drilling rocks for eight hours a day”. Michael Ngweyi told his family “he worked very hard and earned very little”. The job’s harshness and the meagre salary came up again and again. Lehupa said the strike was about “workers’ rights”, another theme that kept coming up.
My impression was that, for these communities of migrant labourers, where sons seem to follow fathers, this strike was about more than R12,500; it was about the future. It was, consciously it seems, an act of class struggle.
Fezile Samphendu’s sister, Ntombizolile, even turned to address workers at the commission, exhorting them to continue the fight. “I wish to pass a message to the workers, I want them to be strong and go forward with their demand for their money.
“This is not somebody else’s money that they are demanding but it is their money that they worked for. I want them to be strong, and go forward and know what they want and not forget the deceased,” she said.
This determination might also explain the fatalism suggested in the statement of Thobisile Zibambele’s widow, who said he gave her his banking details two days before the massacre. “It was like he knew that he would be killed.”
But, for the most part, almost all the families said they never “for a moment” expected the strike to result in deaths. Their biggest fear was job losses.
Bongani Mdze told his sister the day before he died that he was worried about the turn the strike had taken. People had been killed in previous days. But he did not understand why there were police and nyalas there. “He said the workers wanted to speak to employers but the employers never bothered to come and talk to them.”
On the morning of August 16, Mpumzeni Ngxande was “excited”, thinking the employer was going to negotiate and “would give them good news”. He rushed back to the koppie after lunch because “he wanted to hear what (union leader Joseph) Mathunjwa said”. He was rushing to his death.
Then there is a tragic gap in the narrative — the period when the killings happened. Instead, family after family say they didn’t know how their loved ones died, they only knew that they were killed by the police. Other workers said they could not see — there was tear gas and shooting “in a fog of confusion”. They want answers.
Nkosiyabo Xalabile was killed a month after getting married. His grandfather said: “My child, my son, died at scene two, Mr Chairperson, where he was actually hiding, hiding where he was killed and killed there like an animal.”
The families then talk of their desperate attempts to find their loved ones, the phones that are off, the searches, the trips to the Phokeng mortuary, the bodies piled up “like they were not human bodies”.
And then, the trauma and pain of those left behind. Khawamare Monesa’s wife was nine months pregnant when she lost her husband. She lost her child three days after it was born.
Every time Thembelakhe Mati’s relative, who works on a nearby mine, goes home, Mati’s child asks when his father is coming back. Bonginkosi Yona’s son was just seven days old when his father died and they never met.
Akhona Jijase had only been working at Lonmin for two months. His mother said: “I want the commission to know that I lost a son during the strike. I want someone to take responsibility for Akhona’s death.”
It is the commission’s job to ascribe that responsibility. While the fickle eye of the media may have been elsewhere, I believe the steadfast gaze of history is on Judge Ian Farlam. I hope he doesn’t let us down.