
That
Zapiro can righteously draw parallels between a time we'd rather forget and now is
a fucking disgrace. What the hell has happened? Who's going to take the rap for this one?
Thabo? You up to it? Like it or not, it's your baby.
Given time's passing, that most cannot remember the horror of Vorster and Kruger rampant is a fact. They should be grateful for it. They're spared terrible memories, nightmares, cold sweats, and sudden bouts of nausea. And maybe a bar of soap or three.
That year, it started with COSAS. Immediately thereafter, a host of organisations, movements, groups and individuals were banned. Many were locked up, not a few were tortured, and some were disappeared. This just a month after
Steve Biko's murder and a year after Soweto. It was the start of a filthy, all-out war that was to last ten years.
Today, journalists — facing
repressive legislation and under constant threat of intimidation or arrest, work to extricate meaning from the obfuscatory shroud of smoke and mirrors that our 'transparent' government has become. Subject to vitriolic personal attacks by cabinet ministers appointed on a
jobs-for-pals basis and myriad other
political opportunists from the public and private sectors, theirs is an unenviable task.
Vorster's Minister of Police was a
smug, mean, vicious, corrupt and murderous thug. The sclerotic alcoholic's cabinet comprised apparatchiks of the first order. So-called intelligence agencies run by
Calvinist warlords permeated society, running
hitsquads for pecuniary gain. State propaganda was obediently and incessantly broadcast from Auckland Park by
mediocre masters of slime, epitomised by the unctuous and oily Cliff Saunders.
Little has changed. Sure, we've rid ourselves of apartheid, but social engineering and weasel words remain our stock in trade. A cynical eye on the run up to the rugby world cup final had me marvelling at the short-term genius of our perpetually bent and twisted overlords. A country
desparate for good news was primed for and pumped to hysteria by every arm of the broadcast media and, as the seconds ticked away for England on Saturday night, the push to
impose a new order on an old sport became crushingly inevitable.
With victory imminent, the commentary changed to Xhosa. Immediately after the game, TV cameras opened their eyes on festivities countrywide. Not a
white in sight. A moment to celebrate? Nah, it was
so contrived it might have backfired. But it didn't. And won't. Propaganda is an ugly business more frequently
wielded with the finesse of a club than that of a rapier. No matter how it's conveyed, an image or idea persists. And we will lend it whatever meaning we are told it has.
The push for '
transformation', i.e. the transfer of power from one power elite to another, is remorseless. Driven by neo-liberal economics, it's a high-profile, high-stakes game of take and take. The poor are becoming increasingly poor; the rich, ever more greedy, corrupt and voracious.
There'll be no more World Cups after this one. In four years' time though, we'll not have B.J. Vorster or Jimmy Kruger to blame. We'll have isolated ourselves.
Madiba offered us a shot at glory and we failed him and the old men at his side. Sadly, with Thabo at the helm, we've
risen only to new lows. We need radical change.
It might yet come.