National Peace Accord Trust

The well-dressed young man facing me across a boardroom table at the Modderfontein offices of the National Peace Accord Trust (NPAT) is not your average thirty-something trying to make it in a fast-changing South Africa. Indeed, behind the calm façade lurks a troubled mind for this is one of many ‘Young Lions’ who became political enforcers in the early nineties and who have had to adjust to the new realities of a democratic society.

A decade on and he tells me he is still trying struggling with the psychological and social consequences of his role as a member of the Special Defence Units established in the townships to protect black communities from apartheid violence.

“I am proud of the role we played in liberating South Africa,” he says, “But none of us feels good about some of the things we did back then. When the peoples courts found people guilty of crimes we took them away and made them drink petrol. Sometimes we beat them with sjamboks. At the time I didn’t feel anything. We were at war. People were killed and I felt nothing. But later I started to have terrible fears. At times I am still afraid.”

His fears are psychologically rooted. They are not directly linked to the prospect that one day he may have to face the legal consequences of past acts and stand trial. He, and others like him, however, remain at risk for these are former SDU members who shunned the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. “If we asked for amnesty under the TRC we would have had to make full disclosures and that would mean putting old comrades at risk,” he says.

“Why”, I ask, “when the struggle was over would full disclosure have endangered your friends?”

“Because a number of people from the SDU days turned to crime and some are still involved.” He pauses, “Bank heists, hijackings, armed robberies … murder. They are still doing these things because they can make a living from crime. They believe there is nothing else for them to do.”

“Do you believe they would stop if they were offered the option of living normal productive lives?” I ask.

“Of course. Everyone wants to live a good life. But we spent our youth at war and when it was all over there was nothing for us. The new government gave some ex-combatants a one-off payment but there were no funds for education, no job prospects and no future. After the transition, some of the SDU members who fought apartheid joined the new police force, the army or security firms but they never settled. Some committed suicide. Others just continued doing what they had done in the early nineties.”

In this case, the past is not a place to go rooting around too deeply. Many demons lurk there. For men such as this, traumatised and often brutalised by their early experience of township conflicts, the past is largely a closed book, but there is no stopping the ghosts returning in the night or the inescapable and irrational fears that grip them.

Maggie Seiler, executive director of the National Peace Accord Trust, which works extensively with traumatised communities and ex-combatants, puts it into context. “The democratic landscape of South Africa is marred by the lack of integration of ex-combatants, who in many instances have become victims of the peace. Mobilised to fight the apartheid state and lionised as heroes during the struggle, many became social misfits in the post-conflict period.

“The very meaning of life for many ex-combatants and their families was linked to the struggle. That sense of meaning was shaken with the transformation to a democratically elected government in 1994. Many ex-combatants become self-destructive, feeling they didn’t get the rewards they deserved. They saw little ‘pay-back’ for the sacrifices they made during the struggle. This perceived lack of reward was exacerbated by the return of exiles. Most returnees were urbane, well educated and upwardly mobile. Returning exiles inevitably took top positions in government and the public sector, and were prime candidates for lucrative black economic empowerment schemes within the private sector. The visible success of returning exiles was a reproach to those who had been part of the struggle within South Africa and who were now largely marginalized,” says Seiler.

She says people need meaning in their lives as much as they need food, shelter and clothing. “With their liberation mission accomplished, there was little to fill the vacuum. Many turned to crime and as they became engaged in criminal activities, many became alienated from their communities.”

Once considered a ‘generational problem’ that will disappear over time, she says there is strong evidence to suggest that alienated ex-combatants who have turned to crime attract a youthful criminal following, thus creating “a cohesive and self-perpetuating criminal class that has a major negative impact on the broader society with dangerous implications for democracy”.

Yet there is hope and the young man sitting before me is living proof that ex-combatants can overcome their past and become productive citizens. Unlike many of his old SDU colleagues from the early nineties, his experience of township struggle did not convert to a life of crime. Today he is a full-time community worker in Katlehong and a pillar of the community. So much so that community members want him to put his name forward to become an ANC member of parliament.

“I was lucky,” he says. “I made contact with a woman who was a counsellor linked to the National Peace Accord Trust. She helped me turn my life around. It took me a long time to trust her but eventually I could open up and tell my story.”

His story is worth telling. He comes from a family of eight children, sharing a home in Katlehong on the East Rand with their father and his two wives. As a teenager, he was exposed to the turbulance of the June 76 student uprisings.

“During the eighties, youths were being mobilised in East Rand townships. It was difficult because my father was a municipal employee and I was very worried about him. All municipal employees were targets in the townships because they were part of the system. Most of the youth leaders in Katlehong had left their homes at that time. Staying at home was too dangerous. So younger children like me used to organise food for them and take it to safe houses. It was a very violent time with cops in Caspirs driving around the townships shooting or firing teargas. We rode around on our bicycles keeping watch for the cadres. We were their eyes and ears, watching out for the cops while the cadres attacked government buildings, hijacked company cars and looted food trucks and stores.”

His concern for his father was heightened when the house of one of the counsellors was burned down and two municipal policemen assigned to protect the house were killed. Following the example of many other parents who sent their children away to escape of the spiralling violence in East Rand townships, he was sent away to a church boarding school near Louis Trichardt.

“The headmaster had a problem with me because these rural schools didn’t want kids from the townships. They were worried we would mobilise their children to the struggle, which is exactly what we did. This was when I had my first encounter with underground MK cadres who were operating in Gazankulu, mobilising and recruiting youths to undergo military training outside the country. I was looking for a new family, a new identity and I agreed to go for training. But when MK left with a group in 1989, I was left behind. After that we really messed up that place, so much so that the boarding school was closed down.”

His father wouldn’t allow him back to Katlehong. Instead he was sent to another boarding school near Nelspruit, but by this stage, feeling isolated and rejected, his life was spiralling out of control. He drifted into drugs and alcohol and became suicidal. “This was a very low point in my life,” he says. “I missed school a lot and stayed in the bush, but somehow I still managed to pass exams.”

Eventually his father brought him back to Katlehong but by that stage he was so sick he had to be hospitalised.

“When I recovered I ran away from my father’s house and took up with my old township comrades. At that time the community, which was solidly ANC, was at war with Zulu hostel dwellers. Most of the hostel people were Inkatha supporters. Men and women from the community were abducted and taken into the hostels were they were murdered and hostel dwellers were ambushed and killed when they came out. It was like a civil war. We wore white headbands and the Inkatha people wore red headbands, but after a while nobody know who was who and we carried both white and red headbands for insurance. Weapons were pouring into the community and soon a black-market gun trade developed. I saw a lot of death. There were bodies all over the place. Sometimes they were there for days and dogs fed off the corpses, so we shot the dogs.”

Somehow from this crucible of violence emerged the miracle political transition in 1994. But it caught the combatants in townships like Katlehong by surprise. By the time the political changes came, the police were completely dysfunctional. Youths were running the townships. With the transition their role as guardians of the community changed. While some worked for reconciliation, others drifted into crime and were rapidly alienated from the very communities they had originally been mobilised to defend. Many are still involved in crime today and this marginalized group is undoubtedly one of South Africa’s dirty little secrets.

Says NPAT’s Maggie Seiler: “The objective must be to work to change aberrant ex-combatant behaviour by offering them a new mission in life. But this can only be done through professional interventions targeted at psychological healing and behavioural change. Any suggestion of dealing with ex-combatants separate from their communities is wrong headed and is bound to fail. The key to behavioural change is professional interventions at community level aimed at integrating ex-combatants into stable and productive community life.”

To prove her point, Seiler quotes the results of a research project conducted over the past eight years, which show that of 125 youth leaders who persisted in violent criminal activity in East Rand townships after the political transition, more than 80% have turned their backs on crime as a result of NPAT interventions. Substance abuse among participants dropped by 65%, trauma was reduced by 70%, stable relationships increased by 20% and from zero employment before the NPAT intervention, 72% are now gainfully employed, the majority in uplifting their own communities.

“We believe these findings are significant because the youths we surveyed all occupy leadership roles. While it is difficult to draw definitive conclusions, it is clear that our efforts to rehabilitate militarised youths who turned to violent crime after the transition have had a positive impact on the youths and on their communities,” says Seiler.

Perhaps the most telling quote, however, comes from the ex-combatant from Katlehong sitting in front of me. “The country faces a major problem if it doesn’t start rehabilitating ex-combatants who are still doing crime. They can change, and many want to change, but they need help from people who have been there and who understand the process of healing. There is no short-cut solution and there is no other way.”