Going Home - Doris May Lessing [68]
There is no real need for a censorship in Southern Rhodesia.
An African trade-union leader tells me about his difficulties getting a passport in 1953 to come to Britain for a trade-union conference. First they asked him for a large deposit; then, when he had managed to raise the sum (I think £150), said they would consider the matter.
At last they called him in and asked, ‘What route would you take?’—meaning did he intend to visit Communist countries, as he did once before. He said: ‘The same route as before—Nairobi, Cairo, Rome, London—unless the air company has changed its route.’
‘And are you going to visit Caux again?’ (Caux is the headquarters of Moral Rearmament.)
‘No, I do not plan to visit Caux this time.’
He did not get his passport and is not hopeful of getting one.
About Moral Rearmament: ‘All they are interested in is getting hold of us trade-union leaders. They come to see us, night after night after night for months. They aren’t interested in ordinary people, it is the political leaders they concentrate on. Once I asked one of their men: “If Moral Rearmament is so necessary for good relations between white and black, why don’t you sign on Mr Fletcher” (Minister of Native Affairs), “then perhaps his heart will change towards us and he will repeal the Land Apportionment Act.” And another time they came and said they had been guided in a prayer during a Quiet Time that I should go to Caux again. I said: “That’s very strange, because I have just had guidance in my Quiet Time that I must not go to Caux.” So now Moral Rearmament leaves me alone.’
This man is a Roman Catholic. Long ago he was threatened with excommunication if he went on with his trade-union activities. He told the priest: ‘Then excommunicate me. But I have God in my heart, you cannot take Him from me.’
A party where some people who have left South Africa because they are afraid of what will happen there and are now settled in Southern Rhodesia, talk to another African whose last visit this is to Salisbury: his passport has expired and he knows he will not be given another one.
To his ex-compatriots he says: ‘When Central Africa goes the way of the Union, where are you going to emigrate to then? Britain?’
‘There’s just a chance Central Africa may not go the same way.’
‘Why? How? Has even one of the basic laws been changed since Federation?’
‘The atmosphere is much more pleasant here.’
‘It may be more pleasant for the whites, but not for the Africans. I’m going back to Johannesburg tomorrow, and I know I shan’t get out again. I’m in it for better or for worse.’
‘When the time comes the Africans aren’t going to distinguish between kind-hearted white liberals like us and the others. They’ll simply cut the throats of everyone with a white skin.’
‘Then at least my throat’ll be cut on my own soil, in my own country. I’m not running away.’
‘There’s nothing white progressives can do any more. We aren’t even allowed to do welfare work now. We aren’t allowed any contact with the Africans at all. South Africa will be delivered by the Africans themselves without our help.’
‘It’s my country as well as theirs. I’m third generation. I could run away to England tomorrow if I wanted, but I’m sticking it out. South Africa is my country because I’ve always fought for racial equality. And if they stick an assegai into me on the day by mistake then there’s no hard feelings.’
I met an old school friend in the street. She was one of the big girls when I was new at school. I was very homesick, and she was good to me. Now she is a thin, anxious, greying woman. We exchanged small-talk for a time. Then she said:
‘Good luck. I wish you all the luck there is. A lot of us hate what happens here. We aren’t all bad, you know.’
‘But I haven’t said so,’ I said.
‘But you’re always sorry for the natives. Well, I am, too. It’s all awful. I know it is. But some of us white people