The recent launch of a book about Rick Turner prompted some retrospection. I moved to Durban in 1983, five years after Turner’s assassination; I had been in a “Christian National Education” school (and a Christian nationalist family) at the time and have no memory of the assassination being reported or discussed. More surprisingly, upon moving there, I enrolled at the philosophy department of the campus where he taught, where I also have no such memory. But I did encounter chapters from The Eye of The Needle as readings in Sociology 1, that year. Inevitably, the context of the author was mentioned.
For me, moving to Durban involved founding a commune called Angel City. I would say it evolved into a frontline (by suburban standards) of the anti-apartheid struggle. The abundance of communal houses at the time resulted from the housing market in “white” suburbs being relatively saturated, as the “white” birth rate had dropped and emigration had commenced.
The Group Areas Act was still enforced except in areas of the inner city where it had never entirely succeeded in the first place. One of these was the “Warwick Triangle,” which was close to Angel City. We could hear the calls to prayer from the mosque. The other demographic anomaly nearby was the Dalton Men’s Hostel (Thokoza Women’s Hostel was further, but still within walking distance).
I had to reconcile myself to occupying a contradictory role where I felt committed to ensuring the longterm existence of the commune, but also to living in an egalitarian, democratic way. I had to mediate between the landlord - my racist, petit-bourgeois father - and housemates who often exaggerated their commitment to co-responsibility because they wanted to benefit from the non-profit arrangement. It cost less than half to live in Angel City, than any similar house I was aware of. My failure to exploit my housemates and climb the property ladder contributed to my eventual disinheritment. It’s better to risk misplacing one’s trust, than to live in mistrust.
Besides an army friend, initial recruitment of inmates for Angel City was via a classified ad in the largest-circulating daily paper, which of course had a filtering effect; there were only “white” applicants. But from the beginning, guests with other designations were frequent, eventually leading to demographic representivity in the house.
An early example was Ben Langa. His brother Pius (future Chief Justice) may not have visited, but once received a portion straight from the communal supper, while he was swotting in the UND library.
Among the Angel City artefacts in the archives of the Durban Local History Museum, besides the ledger recording residents’ and visitors’ contributions, is an ornate chillum. Angel City was even caricatured in an “educational” play presented at schools, as a “druggies’ commune.” Yet remarkably, this was never weaponised by the security police, whose raids, visits, surveillance and harassment became part of life there. We were lucky not to be bombed as some political communes were. I was eventually told by former intelligence operative Raymond van Staden that my profile as “former SADF officer gone native” made a less attractive target than the stereotypical “naive white leftists dallying with terrorism.” Many “hard” lefties shied away from the Bohemian image of the house.
The End Conscription Campaign came as a breath of fresh air as it mobilised a wide range of social sectors. Its Durban wing had a distinct Quaker-Gandhian pacifist influence, personified by Richard Steele who had been caretaker of the Gandhi House museum at Phoenix until it was destroyed by vigilantes. At the abovementioned book launch, I learned that Turner (along with Biko) was a regular habitué of the ashram. Richard was the core member of my support group as conscientious objector, which usually met at the commune. Our strategy was to seek a mutual compromise with the regime: if it undertook not to conscript me further, I would abide by the Official Secrets Act’s criminalisation of whistleblowing by former soldiers.
After I turned down a telephonic offer (facilitated by Carole Charlewood, M.P.) from a deputy cabinet minister (possibly Kobie Coetzee) to have charges dropped, but still be eligible for call-up, the matter went to trial and I spilled the beans (testifying in one’s own defence is protected speech). Shortly before though, Dirk Coetzee had spilled so much that my contribution paled. I was the first CO to have his jail sentence suspended.
From the beginning the commune had a “self-sufficiency” agenda (its yard was relatively spacious and somewhat interleading with the neighboring spacious yard). We even drew complaints from busybodies for growing mielies (maize) in our front garden. By accident I evolved a soil improvement method using charcoal, which I later found had been a pillar of pre-Colombian civilisations. We always had a compost bin in the kitchen, which frequently got handfuls of shredded newspaper added.
MaZondi was our part-time cleaner in the early years. The decision to employ somebody was fraught with conflict: some (including myself) were against it, but at the other extreme, my army buddy wanted us to have her cook for us too. Anyway it turned out to be a blessing as I was learning Zulu, and she was glad to do some food-gardening in her spare time. The sweet-potato vines she introduced became endemic, until the place was demolished. And in 1985, three of us housemates accompanied her to her mother’s home near Mahlabathini, where the matriarch made me a precious gift of six eggs and a sweli clump with instructions to plant it by the door of the house to repel snakes. Soon afterwards I began keeping fowls of my own, and appreciating home-laid eggs all the more.
Before there were backpackers’ lodges in Durban, hitchhikers would end up at Angel City. The most extreme case was two Romanian student refugees who arrived having been given the address by a Durbanite in Malta! The general rule was that you could crash in the spare mattresses in the lounge for up to a week for free, but after that a daily contribution was needed. Diakonia Council of Churches once sent about a dozen KwaMashu Youth League members to hide with us, from the bantustan police who had been killing their friends.
In the late 90s the landlord decided to divide the property into separate units. This took a few years of phased alterations, at the end of which (despairing of me ever joining in his eugenic crusade) he decided to sell the property (2006). But during the era of decline, the outbuilding at the rear (a former servant's room and a garage, which had been made interleading) was a microcosm of Angel City, with many old-timers coming back for various intervals. We called it Ekugcineni, which simultaneously means "The End" and "Place of Keeping."