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From the book: Le Rona Re Batho (An account of the 1982 Maseru Massacre) by Phyllis Naidoo, South Africa, 1992
After the raid into Lesotho on Thursday, 9 December 1982, I started writing about my comrades and the raid generally. When we sought help for our traumatised comrades, we found minimal medical help that would suit politicos.
One medico, in need of therapeutic help, himself, advised me at 5am one morning that the patient had to externalise his/ her trauma. Until some of us could be sent out of Lesotho amateurs engaged in this "externalising" exercise.
We were unable to sleep in our homes unless family in our homes or expatriate friends visited. With their cars parked in front of the flat we hoped to be frightened, they would be death squads away. We mostly slept in cars or in homes of friends. As results I kept all the typed material on the raid in various homes around Maseru.
When South Africa closed the borders to Lesotho and demanded our exit, I had already been given a new contract the Lesotho government as their Chief Legal Aid Counsel, then Minister of Interior, on 8 September 1983, said that he been warned by South Africa that the 21 ANC members would be killed if they had not left Lesotho on Saturday morning (24hrs later). He assured me that I was on that list.
At first I refused to leave till I heard that oxygen required for a patient on the operating table was held up at the border. The regime refused to allow it to be brought in. I knew then that I had to leave.
On the Saturday (3/9/83), not knowing that it would be my last in Lesotho, I bought some white pansies, (that was the only colour at the nursery) and went around and collected various articles and placed them in two sets of scrapbooks original and one copy. I planted the pansies that I would not water on the next Saturday. We left on 10 September 1983.
I left my home and all my affairs with Robin Gibson a wonderful Canadian. His exemplary handling of the load I had left on his shoulders beggars description. Judy and took our beloved dog Sasha II to their home, and tended with so much affection. Later when the Zimbabwean Government gave me a home they paid for her despatch to Harare.
Thank you Robin, Judy and John.
If you find this account disjointed, bear with me, it is a carry over of that traumatic time. It was an exceedingly painful time.
It hurts 10 years later. This is no fiction. All these people mentioned here, both Basotho and my comrades were real.
I require you also to understand the rationale for the NAME GAME that the ANC engaged in exile. We were never sure that" our names would not be handed over to the regime. Even when we registered with the UNHCR some gave false names. A story is told of Johnny Makathini (ANC Rep. at the UN/ who died in exile). Entering Heathrow with a name other than his own, he had his passport stamped by an official who said, "enjoy your stay in London Mr. Makathini." Does that tell you why we had to be careful.
On the 9th, I had gone to sleep at midnight. I had admired the beautiful moonlit night. Drew the curtains aside so that I could bathe in its luster. Hearing explosions soon thereafter, I jumped to the floor. The noise hurt my bombed ear so much; I covered my head with a pillow. I could see flares. One had fallen in a flat about 4 blocks removed from me. I heard later that it fell through the roof, the ceiling and landed at the foot of a Swede's bed. I was convinced it was another LLA attack. There had been several attacks on the hill opposite my flat near the PMU headquarters. Explosions continued for sometime. I sat on the floor waiting but never thinking we were under threat.
At 5 am on the morning of the raid, hearing a knock on my door and seeing the ANC VW parked close by, I went downÂstairs. There was impatient knocking accompanied by "Ma is you there". Seeing me was such obvious relief - they held onto me saying," Thank God you're alive, Ma".
What happened? A massacre! Who? Us! Who? Zola and so many of us. It was a massacre they repeated again and again. Both were devastated but were checking on those that reÂmained. I asked to go with them. They said, "Go and have a bath and we shall come back for you. They were not sure that it was safe for me to venture out".
This is the humbling quality of my sons. Thank you Rich and Alan. I am in tears just remembering.
After my wounded comrades left for medical treatment, Ngoako Ramatlhodi, a student at Roma University, after his examinations came to stay with me, as I was alone, and to 'protect' me. No he did not have a gun, not even a nduku. You have to see him to believe this protection gimmick. A puny fellow, with the most disarming smile. It was therapeutic in the extreme to have his company, especially at the height of the disinformation debacle. He was calm and collected and I the complete opposite. We complemented each other. On New
Year's Day, 23 days after the massacre and 13 days burial, he said, "Sit down Mum", putting my feet on a proof. "You must rest today, you are very tired. I have a present for you". Can you believe this? Their scholarships barely took care of their needs. How was it possible? How this generosity?
He exhorted me to close my eyes and then bang, crash, a tape was playing with the most heavenly music. Unbelievably beautiful music. He had taped two cassettes of Handel's Largo Beethoven, Bach, minuets (I am not clever at names. I enjoy some music, wherever it comes from). We laughed together at the beauty he had chosen, and he was so relieved that I enjoyed it. It is the most precious gift I've ever had.
My children are under instructions to play the tapes when they carry me out, headfirst. Thank you my son.
I make no apology for the many NAMES. Some reading this account were confused by the names. Blacks even in new "South Africa' are a nameless phenomena. They are statistics. Some statistics leave out the majority of our people. If a White is involved in an accident you know more details about him, even his dashed hopes for his future than a Black father killed in the same accident.
Blacks are ghosts in our society. I tried in a small way to remedy that. If I have not succeeded completely, I am sorry.
The ANC owes a debt of gratitude to the many expatriate working in Lesotho from every corner of the world. They did exceptional work from digging graves, to tending the wounded. It was mind-boggling solidarity and I want to thank each every one of them.
My thanks to Tom O'Neill, Anthony Simon, lan Phillips, Jeff Guy, the Phoenix Community Centre, Peter Wellman, Archie Gumede, A Qono, Jane Argall, Peta Thornycroft, Judy Figland, M Rhumba Hira, Ngoako Ramatlhodi, Kessie Govender, Sheryl Roberts, R. Matji, Lawyers for Human Rights (Pretoria) David and many others who made this possible, but mostly Comrade Oliver Tambo, our then President, who has been the inspiration for this account.
I dedicate this work to the memory of the 12 Basotho and 30 of my comrades who were massacred on 9 December 1982 in Lesotho.