Of course, the men realized that this was against prison rules. Their desire to play real football on a proper outside pitch stood in stark contrast to the reality – the authorities’ almost total control over the prisoners’ lives. Initially, political prisoners on Robben Island weren’t allowed to talk to one another, let alone congregate in groups. Pencils were banned, and even board games such as chess, ludo, and draughts; team sports played outside were out of the question. If they were ever going to change things, to take football out of the cells and into the open air and play in proper teams, the men would, somehow, have to change the rules and gain official permission from the prison authorities.
When the cell-block players first talked openly about wanting to play organized football, some of their fellow prisoners laughed. They could not believe that the prison regime would ever even consider granting them permission. However, the footballers had been doing their homework and had formulated a way of using the prison system’s own rules to help them make their case.
According to these rules, prisoners confined in a cell for more than seventy-two hours had to be allowed out in the fresh air for exercise. Up until now, the prisoners’ exercise had taken the form of walking aimlessly round and round the compound – but why shouldn’t they be allowed to use this time to play football?
The first obstacle the prisoners had to overcome in this improbable protest campaign was to work out how to even ask this question. It wasn’t as if they could just pop along to the chief warder’s office, knock on the door, and waltz in with their demands. Again, prison regulations played into their hands. They would make their request during Saturday-morning klagtes and versoeke, a session which allowed the prisoners to raise any ‘complaints’ and ‘requests’ they might have.
These sessions were held in each of the cell blocks and gave the prisoners an audience with the chief warder, Captain Theron. The right to complain was enshrined within South Africa’s prison regulations and had to be seen to be enforced regularly at penitentiaries throughout the country. The apartheid regime prided itself on following rules and regulations to the letter, and was keen to give the impression internationally that it was fair and respected due legal process. However, there was no official obligation actually to act upon any of the prisoners’ complaints.
So, every Saturday morning, an empty charade was played out on Robben Island. The prisoners would file forward and register their objections – about the poor quality of the food, the clothing, and the working conditions. They would complain about the treatment meted out by the guards and the lack of any privileges. And each week, the chief warder would stare uninterestedly into the middle distance, shrug his shoulders, and dismiss the inmates and their complaints. Nothing changed, but the regulations had been observed.
Now, from late December 1964, inmates began to take it in turns to make the same request every week: ‘We would request to be allowed to play football.’ Early attempts were met with sneering derision by Captain Theron, who could hardly believe the audacity of the prisoners, and the prisoners’ campaign soon became the talk of the warders’ barracks. The staff were infuriated by the prisoners’ demand: in their eyes, it was totally unreasonable. These terrorists weren’t on the island to play sport and enjoy themselves, they were there to be punished, through hard labour and intimidation. Something would have to be done. There would have to be reprisals.
A few weeks into the campaign, Tony took his first turn at that Saturday’s complaints and requests session. He phrased the prisoners’ request in the same words – ‘We would request to be allowed to play football’ – and, without looking up, the chief warder demanded that a guard take Tony’s ‘ticket’, i.e., he was to be given no food during the following weekend. In the months to come, this was the form the authorities’ reprisals would take.
Despite the punishments meted out week on week, the prisoners continued to show resolve and unity. The men in each cell agreed among themselves who would make the request the coming Saturday, in the full knowledge that whoever it was would be put on a spare diet for two days. Perhaps not surprisingly, the keenest footballers on the island, such as Mark Shinners, Big Mo Masemola, and Pro Malepe, were among the first to step forward and sacrifice their food tickets. The prisoners tried to make sure that older men and those who were ill did not make complaints, but everyone was keen to participate. The men had used this selective approach successfully in the hunger strikes that had led to improvements in diet and clothing.
The prisoners’ persistence confused and baffled the prison regime’s hierarchy: why would men living an already harsh life wilfully set themselves up for further discomfort and punishment – and all over a stupid game?
The war of attrition dragged on through 1965, each side determined not to back down. It took a lot of strength for the prisoners to carry on but, as time went by, the campaign to secure the right to play football became a cause in itself, something for the men to rally around. It also brought additional, perhaps longer term and broader benefits: the will to play, and the mens’ efforts to win the right to do so, transcended political divides. Political divisions between parties permeated the men’s lives on the island, extending into all their activities but, now, supporters of PAC and the ANC began to mix to discuss their crusade, and men from both parties volunteered to step up at Saturday-morning complaints. And the longer they battled in common cause against their shared enemy, the intransigent prison authorities, the more the prisoners began to realize exactly how far-reaching the benefits of playing organized football might be.
Of course there was the sheer physical enjoyment of the sport, the thrill of pulling together as a team, the adrenalin of competition, and the motivation of pitting your own abilities against others’, but on Robben Island there was even more to be gained. The men’s fight to play league football was all about proving to themselves and to the prison regime that they were capable of organizing themselves, of acting with discipline, and of working in harmony together. It was about self-respect and developing a sense of community, despite everything.
There were also the psychological aspects to consider. Back on the mainland, Sedick Isaacs had read a number of books about the effects of long-term imprisonment, the mental vacuity and listlessness to which inmates could succumb. To survive and maintain some kind of emotional wellbeing, it was vital for the prisoners to keep physically and mentally active. They had to resist the efforts of the prison staff to grind them down. The introduction of studying had given many prisoners a purpose. Football would give them a passion.
Sedick could already see just how much of a boost the protest had given the men. The cell-block footballers held meeting after meeting to discuss how they would organize the matches, were permission granted. The meetings were always animated and often heated, and the prisoners became willing, and positively keen, to hold meetings to discuss other matters. If they won their campaign, football would also keep the men healthy and fit, in shape to resume their struggle against apartheid on their release, to effect the revolution Sedick firmly believed would eventually take place in South Africa.
The Saturday-morning requests and the officers’ reprisals continued into 1966. The chief warder remained as stubborn as the men were patient, the irresistible force against the immovable object. Things, though, were about to change.
The first clue came in the unlikely form of chunks of meat in the prisoners’ porridge and a delivery of clothing for a good number of the inmates. A few days later, a delegation from the International Red Cross (IRC) arrived on the island. The prisoners had found an important and unexpected ally.
The irony of the visit was not lost on some of the men. The official remit of the Red Cross is to visit sites of detention to monitor conditions for refugees and/or political prisoners and prisoners of war. It is not their task to do this for common-law prisoners. However, in the vocabulary of apartheid, there was no such thing as a ‘political prisoner’ in South Africa. The greater majority of the Category-D prisoners on Robben Island were officially termed ‘enemies of the state’ and regarded as nothing other than terrorists. With no inmates recognized as political prisoners and none granted the status of