This article first appeared in THE WEEKENDER

8th November 2008

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Some time ago, I spent a week with a group of journalists from Russia, Poland and the Czech Republic. After a few days, conversation began to dwindle – and, in a misguided attempt to fill the awkward silence one dinnertime, I remarked on the twentieth-century connections between South Africa and Eastern Europe, and Russia in particular. I went through a brief list of apartheid-era exiles who spent time in Moscow, mentioned the support the resistance movement received from the Soviets, and concluded by observing that the SA Communist Party was an ally of the current ruling party and active in matters of government.

Perhaps I had seemed too light-hearted or too smug in rattling off these facts, because my Russian colleague wasted no time in telling me off: “You think that’s good? I can tell you, it’s not good. You ask any of the people at this table – we all lived behind the Iron Curtain. Communism was terrible! Communism is terrible!”

It didn’t matter how much I tried to mitigate, by explaining that communism in SA is not associated with Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev and company; or by suggesting that, in a country where first race and now class continue to create a yawning chasm between “bourgeoisie” and “proletariat”, the idea of socialist revolution is not as tainted as elsewhere in the world; or even, when that failed, by pointing out that one of our finest poets and most trustworthy politicians (Jeremy Cronin) is also a prominent member of the SACP. Her answer was firm: “It’s crazy! Opposing apartheid with communism would be like exchanging one totalitarian regime for another!”

I gave up, secretly thinking, You just don’t understand. South Africa is full of contradictions, and one of those contradictions is that you can be a communist and a democrat at the same time.

Furthermore, I reassured myself, there are historical explanations for other anomalies and anachronisms in our country – the way the title “comrade” is bandied about, for instance. Whether you’re inside the ANC or not, as a South African you know what it means when someone’s name is prefixed by “comrade”: it means the speaker wants to flatter them by underlining their struggle kudos, or by implying that they are part of the ongoing struggle for equality in SA.

Until recently, I haven’t minded the “comradery” (not to be confused with camaraderie) that cushions almost every statement made in the halls of power, from Luthuli House to the Union Buildings. It reminds me that, when the Bolsheviks used the word tovarishch (comrade) in the years after the Russian revolution, they did so with an idealism and determination that was admirable – despite the degeneration of their ideals in the decades that followed. It also reminds me that, running parallel to a sordid history of governance in this country, there is a proud tradition of opposition to colonial, Union and, particularly, apartheid rule.

Recently, however, my views have started to change. And I know I’m not the only one. Consider the brief parliamentary debate that ensued when an objection was raised to the introduction of the new State President as “comrade Kgalema Motlanthe”. Parliamentarians can be an irritatingly pedantic lot, but on this occasion I had to admit I was rather impressed: it was a minor point with major consequences.

When Motlanthe was sworn in, he ceased – in principle at least – to be first and foremost a party politician and became, instead, a nominal representative of all South Africans, including the approximately 48 million citizens who are not members of the ANC or its allies. Given that the Tripartite Alliance has appropriated the term “comrade”, Motlanthe should only be referred to as “comrade” within alliance circles. As State President (the parliamentary minority argued), he is Kgalema Petrus Motlanthe, plain and simple.

This is an important verbal distinction because it indicates the ostensible separation of party and state, even if that separation is extremely tenuous in practice. Of course, as demonstrated by the post-Polokwane “lame duck” months of Thabo Mbeki’s presidency and his subsequent resignation, it’s really the party that makes all the decisions – including who gets to be president. There is increasing consensus among those who value democracy in this country that we urgently need electoral reform; but try telling that to people like Gwede Mantashe.

Announcing the NEC’s decision to recall Mbeki, the ANC Secretary-General couldn’t conceal the delight with which, in anticipation of the reshuffling of cabinet positions, he used that other favourite word in the struggle lexicon: “deployed”. In Mantashe’s view, Mbeki was “deployed” by the ANC to perform the function of president, just as Pumzile Mlambo-Ngcuka had previously been deployed as deputy president. No doubt, he considers Motlanthe and Baleka Mbete’s new roles as “deployments”.

Why does all this matter? Well, it matters because word choices make a difference. Civilians aren’t “deployed”; “deployment” is a military term. Like “comrade”, it harks back to the ANC’s resolution take up armed struggle: it calls to mind Umkhonto we Sizwe, espionage and subterfuge, campaigns of sabotage, army training camps in neighbouring countries. Few would deny that this form of opposition was necessary – the apartheid regime had shown it would not be persuaded by non-violent protest. That is why we valorise “freedom fighters” and why it is high praise to identify someone as a “cadre”.

To be a cadre in the liberation movement was to be part of the backbone of the struggle: a committed, reliable and inspiring leader able to sustain and nurture the smaller groups or units upon which the survival of underground resistance depended. To be called a cadre in post-apartheid SA, however, means comparatively little; over-used and misapplied, the word has been emptied of meaning.

“Comrade”, too, has lost its substance. The word should imply respect and solidarity – yet in SA today it can be used even as you ridicule or ostracise someone (the ousting of “comrade Mbeki” is a case in point). As with Iago’s pretence to Othello, the comrade-caller “may smile, and smile, and be a villain”.

When used without sarcasm or deception, on the other hand, terms like comrade and cadre are often tainted by the unctuousness of yes-men and toadies. They can also signify membership of a select – dare one say elite? – group, as has been the case in Zimbabwe for many years (where only Zanu PF members could be referred to as “Comrades”).

These words also act to suppress criticism, acting as amnesiacs to the short-term memory. They cover present flaws by alluding to the glorious past of a generic “struggle veteran”: think about comrade Tony Yengeni, comrade Alan Boesak, comrade Winnie Madikizela-Mandela and any one of the Travelgate or Arms Deal comrades. Apartheid-era credentials alone are not enough to justify post-apartheid corruption. Such retrospective perceptions about individuals are analogous to the self-congratulatory attitude of the ANC as an organisation, sitting on its anti-apartheid laurels while reneging on present responsibilities.

Out-of-date struggle diction facilitates and aggravates this problem by creating a wide scope for the abuse of power or neglect of critical tasks. Being “deployed” is not the same as being employed, or appointed, or commissioned. For one thing, in a military organisation the deployed person usually has little say in the position he or she is given, and often little aptitude for it. In civilian government, this can lead to bureaucratic bungling, incompetence and sheer indifference. There is no accountability; if you are deployed in a certain position and you mess things up, you are simply re-deployed – with no need for explanation or reparation to civil society. Alternatively, if you are deployed and you do a good job, but annoy the top brass, you are re-deployed anyway (as Nozizwe Madlala-Routledge found to her cost).

As comedian Nik Rabinowitz demonstrates, there is something ridiculous about the circumlocution of struggle-speaking politicians. Reminding audiences in his stand-up show One Man, One Goat about Jacob Zuma’s claim that the ANC will rule until Jesus returns, Rabinowitz (the Xhosa-speaking Jew) asks: What will happen when that day comes? How will the Saviour be re-introduced? “Formerly of the Galilee Collective, comrade Jesus has been redeployed by his committee structures after completing his mandate, which was to die for our sins ...”

Outmoded struggle rhetoric is easily mocked, but it can also have more serious repercussions. Living in one of the most violent societies in the world, can we afford to foster a discourse of militancy? It is, after all, the root cause of a particular strain of pig-headed public proclamation, apparently somewhere between the metaphorical and the literal, that can be traced back to Peter Mokaba’s “Kill the boer, kill the farmer” and runs through Julius Malema’s “We’ll kill for Zuma” to the most recent manifestation: ANC supporters chanting “Kill Lekota! Kill Shilowa!”

Indeed, the ruling party’s frenzied response to the prospect of a breakaway party gives further evidence that the ongoing use of struggle rhetoric signals a mindset that, ironically, counters the principles of democracy for which so many liberation heroes fought.

If Lekota and company are to be prevented from campaigning; if they are to be subjected to “disciplinary measures” like disobedient soldiers; if anyone opposing or leaving the ANC can expect to be punished like a truant schoolkid; then “the movement”, as it is rather presumptuously still called, is showing itself to be anti-democratic.

Struggle rhetoric had value during the struggle – it galvanised many people into action, and it reflected a necessarily militaristic approach on the part of the ANC and its allies. Military organisations discourage a culture of transparency. When threatened, they close ranks. They keep things secret. They distrust debate and dialogue. They don’t like the media disseminating “classified” information. They make decisions from the top down. They don’t tolerate dissent.

These are understandable protocols during times of war, and the fight against apartheid was a kind of war. But they have no place during times of peace (or when peace – that is, safety and security – is desired by all members of a society) under a democratic constitution.

It will be interesting to see if the leaders of the new party adopt struggle-speak as their official party dialect. Perhaps they will; it will help to substantiate the claim they are likely to make, around election time, that they are closer to the “old” or “original” values of the ANC (a paradoxical mix of socialist and liberal democratic principles). If they are brave, however, they will attempt to win over South African voters not by looking back, but by looking forward.

What, then, of the ANC and its allies? Will they continue to speak as if living in the past? If so, I will start to think my Russian friend was right after all. Hopefully, however – assuming the ANC will still be the ruling party after 2009 – our leading politicians will ditch the military rhetoric, and make use of a more democratic discourse. Until then, struggle-speak will remain an embarrassing, anachronistic and dangerous lingua franca.