A Burial with Dignity

By William Stewart/Daveyton

In the harsh crystal sunlight of a South African winter, the black township of Daveyton (pop. 30,000) is a bleak monument to the law of the land: that blacks and whites shall live apart. Near the entrance to the township a large sign promises the people of Daveyton a POT OF GOLD AT THE END OF THE RAINBOW. But the little concrete houses that line the treeless streets, the dry, packed earth that everywhere passes for a garden, and the acrid smell of coal fires in the early-morning air are evidence of a far different reality. Last week the people of Daveyton braced themselves for what seemed an almost inevitable confrontation with security forces. The township was preparing to bury Egnes Mbongani, 18, and Elizabeth Khumalo, 16, two girls shot and killed in a demonstration. They were victims, and thus they had become symbols of the unrest that has swept across South Africa.

Black funerals are not just family affairs but community occasions. In the current atmosphere they have become not only forums for black protest but, to much of the white establishment, symbols of disorder and subversion. Under the state of emergency, black South Africans are forbidden to march in funeral processions.

By midmorning police and military units had completely sealed off the roads leading into Daveyton, while at key intersections armored cars intercepted internal traffic. Helicopters flew overhead. Mounted policemen stood at the far edge of the cemetery, like shadowy centaurs shimmering in the dazzle of fine dust and sunlight.

Near the tent that was to serve for the funeral service, crowds of youths had gathered. There was dancing, rhythmic chanting and waving of fists for imprisoned Black Leader Nelson Mandela. Stones were picked up, but none were thrown. Army weapons were held at the ready, but no shots were fired. Police dogs appeared atop armored cars, but none were unleashed. Police whips were brandished, but none were used.

There was a steely politeness that heightened the tension. A service had already been held for Egnes Mbongani, but would the crowd of several hundred gathered for the funeral of Elizabeth Khumalo insist on marching from the tent to the cemetery only a few blocks away? In the largest display of force since the emergency began, police and army units were on hand to prevent any such move. But the mood of the crowd was to march.

Suddenly a red Toyota drew up near the tent and out stepped the familiar figure of Bishop Desmond Tutu. In purple cassock and silver pectoral cross, he strode into the tent and took his place. The silver-handled coffin of Elizabeth Khumalo was brought in, and the family, wrapped in blankets, sat on the ground in front of the bishop. The tent was jam-packed, and the crowd spilled out onto the street.

In one extraordinary moment the atmosphere was transformed. Anger seeped from the tent into the cool winter air as the crowd sang the black anthem God Bless Africa. They sang first in Zulu and then in Sotho. They sang with joy, and they sang with conviction. Speaking in English, Tutu told the gathering that he had asked the government, "Please allow us to mourn, to bury our dead with dignity, to share the burden of our sorrow. Do not rub salt in our wounds ... I appeal to you because we are already hurt, already down. We are humans, not animals. When we have a death, we cry."

Then in a clear warning to the authorities, the bishop declared, "I have been a minister for 24 years, and I am not going to start now being told what to preach. I do not want to defy the government. But Scripture says that when there is a conflict between the law of God and the law of man, we must obey the law of God. I will continue to preach as instructed. Our God is not blind. He is not deaf. He is not sleeping. He sees what is happening, and when he sees, he acts. God came down to deliver his people out of bondage. I have no doubt that the God we worship sees what is happening in our land. For goodness' sake, we are human beings, not animals. Recognize us for what we are: those whom God made in his image. I believe that what you get through the barrel of a gun you must keep with the barrel of a gun. All that is happening here is quite simple. The unrest is because of apartheid. Because some of God's children are treated as if they are less than God's children. As long as some of God's children are not free, none of God's children will be free. Those who rule us are watching us. They can't enjoy their freedom. It cannot be divided. It must be enjoyed by everybody."

By then it was just after noon, the deadline set by the police for the completion of the funeral. Lieut. Colonel Gert Nel, the police commandant, warned the crowd over a loudspeaker, "You are acting against the law. You must disperse. When the convoy starts moving you must all be in vehicles. No processions and no bicycles should be used." But there were no buses to take the mourners to the cemetery. Tutu pleaded with the colonel for buses. Otherwise, he warned, the crowd might turn ugly and there would be bloodshed. The colonel said he could not promise enough transportation. The standoff continued for almost an hour, with the tension rising steadily. Finally, after an hour of weapons drawn and whips at the ready, six blue-and-cream Daveyton buses drew up near the tent. There were cheers and snouts as the crowd made its way onto the vehicles.

Common sense had prevailed. Said Tutu with a twinkle in his eye: "I have always believed people to be saints until they proved themselves rogues." The colonel was more taciturn. "No comment" was all he could muster.

The funeral procession slowly made its way to the cemetery. There, amid more singing and chanting, Elizabeth Khumalo was buried, while in the distance, mounted security forces maintained their shadowy watch. By keeping order, they had done their job well. Even the bishop was pleased, and he told the colonel, "In trying to maintain unreasonable laws, you were reasonable and well behaved today, and I want to thank you for that."

Later Tutu was able to smile at his confrontation with Colonel Nel. "He saluted me," the bishop chuckled. "Twice." --By William Stewart/Daveyton