Hunger, threats and jokes amid bitter struggle
Faces of the Platinum Strike | Photographing the miners was a gut-wrenching experience, writes Simphiwe Nkwali
HE had never seen me before but it did not matter. With hunger and desperation etched on his face, he approached me and asked for food.
The memory of this anonymous man, whom I encountered during the prolonged strike on South Africa’s platinum belt near Rustenburg, will remain with me always.
It was the start of Easter and the Association of Mineworkers and Construction Union (Amcu), which had called the strike, had hired about 100 buses to take the miners home for the long weekend.
The miner, a man probably in his early 30s, was wearing blue overalls, safety boots and a thick beanie to fend off the cold. I was sitting in the car, still assessing the situation as the buses lined up near the Lonmin mine for the miners to board, when he approached me.
“Eish, my brother, don’t you have food on you? I am very hungry and my next meal will most likely be when I get home in Matatiele,” he begged.
I gave him R20 and he disappeared into the shacks, reappearing minutes later with a loaf of brown bread and three bananas. Four miners shared the meal, finishing it off in a short time. It was clear they had not eaten much for a while.
I did not have the courage to photograph that moment. It would have been too intrusive.
Some of the miners who had decided against going home that weekend had been teasing those boarding the buses, saying: “Why go home empty-handed? Your families are expecting something from you.”
But some said their presence at home would be enough.
I was covering the strike that had brought the town of Marikana to its knees. Several businesses had shut down owing to a lack of income.
Malebamang Rakuba, 40, who runs a food caravan near the Wonderkop hostel, used to move 30 chickens a day, but she was struggling to sell even five.
The strike had been going on for three months by that time. Being assigned to cover it was not just any ordinary task. I remember feeling gloomy because I imagined the dire situation the miners were facing. I had covered the 2012 strike in which 44 people were killed.
Despite that feeling, my emotions would change every time I got to Marikana because I always found a way of making friends with the miners so that it would be easier to take pictures later on (they were not really well disposed to cameras).
Funny looks, threats and insults would be thrown your way if you pointed a camera at them. They would angrily shout “Usishudelani? (Why are you taking our pictures?)”, and it sometimes took as long as 30 minutes to explain why the picture was necessary to tell the story of their plight. There had been situations where my explanation did not work. “No, we don’t want to be photographed please.” I got that a lot.
Before taking any pictures, I would hang my camera around my neck and walk around while greeting them. I would try to read their moods before attempting to snap away, and there were times I could tell I was not welcome at all.
At times I would ask them how they were surviving. Some
My brother, don’t you have food on you? I am very hungry and my next meal will most likely be when I get home
would tell me about their families in far-flung places such as Lusikisiki in the former Transkei and Maseru in Lesotho. They spoke of how they had to rely on a little money being sent to them from home to buy food for survival.
Some said they had to rely on their grandmothers to share their pension money just to avoid going to bed on an empty stomach all the time.
Once I had won their trust, I would ask them about their view on the strike. They supported it wholeheartedly and praised Amcu for its bravery and commitment.
“Joseph Mathunjwa is the man that stands for the truth. He’s the man we trust.” The contrast was that news reports would talk about the miners starving because they had gone
for months without pay. But when I got there, some would still crack jokes and laugh, seemingly oblivious to their situation.
I also met a guy called Seven, a funny character who was always full of jokes. Everyone around Seven laughed; that was a guarantee. I befriended him and even though he would always ask for R5, being seen with him opened doors for me.
When the strike ended last month, I returned to Marikana to photograph the workers when they returned to the mines.
The hostility some might previously have displayed towards the camera had vanished.
As they were taken for their reinduction, the miners posed for pictures looking excited. And as they were loaded into the cages that would take them below ground, they were smiling.