As with its albeit shallow adherence to the complaints procedure, it was all to do with appearances, and with South Africa’s desire to be accepted as a fair player, and an ally, in a conglomerate of western democratic states.
International opinion of South Africa had become overwhelmingly negative, and the government was becoming increasingly concerned. In the wake of a number of sporting bans a couple of years previously that had drawn worldwide attention to the true excesses of apartheid, it was having to learn fast how to deal with outsiders intent on applying political pressure on the country.
In 1961 FIFA had imposed a ban on South Africa’s whites-only national team playing competitive or friendly games against other countries. However, its then president, the Englishman Sir Stanley Rous, a die-hard colonialist, had campaigned long and hard against what he described as political interference. He was content to ignore the fact that the South African government’s racial policies were a political decision that ensured that only whites could participate in international football at the highest level.
In 1963, the world ban was withdrawn based largely on Sir Stanley’s assessment that ‘South Africa’s coloured footballers are happy with the relations that have been established.’ He came to this conclusion after a short visit to South Africa in which he met men who were approved by the government and South African football officials. His opinion certainly would have come as a big surprise to the men on Robben Island.
White South Africa was playing international football again – but not for long. The following year, the annual FIFA conference was attended by a much larger contingent of delegates from Africa, Asia, and the Eastern Bloc than previously, most of whom roundly condemned any policy of segregation based on colour or race. The ban was put in place once more, in 1964. For the prisoners, this was morale-boosting news. South Africa would not be invited to rejoin the international football community for almost thirty years. In 1974, Sir Stanley lost his presidency to the Brazilian João Havelange, who used Rous’s actions concerning South Africa as a major focus in his campaign to unseat the long-serving Englishman.
New prisoners flooding on to the island brought more sports-related good news: the International Olympic Committee had followed FIFA’s example. It had demanded that South Africa formally and publicly renounce all racial discrimination in sport. The government refused to comply and was therefore not invited to participate in the 1964 Olympic Games in Tokyo. South Africa became the first country to be kicked out of the IOC, the first country to be banned from taking part in the Games. Also in 1964, it was learned that several tennis players at Wimbledon who had been drawn to play against white South African players had pulled out of the tournament.
On the mainland the security services had never been more completely in control of dissent and opposition, but the government was becoming more and more concerned at these sporting organizations’ attempts to isolate the nation. It had no intention of changing course over apartheid but was worried about the potential effects of international boycotts on its economic partners around the world – governments and large companies who wanted to invest in South Africa. Begrudgingly, the South African government began to see the sense in allowing the International Red Cross on to Robben Island.
During that first visit, the prison authorities did everything within their power to pull the wool over the delegation’s eyes. As well as making a show of the improved food and new clothing, warders were encouraged to be courteous to the prisoners. The prison was to appear to offer all inmates a range of activities and recreation opportunities. To this end, Nelson Mandela and the other senior political leaders in the isolation cells were supplied with sewing kits and material. Category-D prisoners in the communal section were let out of the cell blocks for an exercise session, and Red Cross officials were allowed to conduct a few short, unsupervised interviews with a number of inmates. Their complaints and accusations about life on the island seemed curiously at odds with the sanitized version presented to the delegation by the prison authorities.
Although this first visit from the Red Cross did lead directly to the provision of better clothing for the inmates, the delegation was generally conservative in its judgements and restrained in its criticism of the Robben Island regime. Over time, this would change, thanks in no small part to one fiercely independent critic of the effects of apartheid on South African life, Helen Suzman MP.
Helen Suzman MP was a white politician who fought tirelessly for liberty and equality for all South Africans. She was one of that rare breed in the Sixties, a female politician. She was isolated in other ways because of her party affiliation. In 1961, eight years after having entered Parliament, she was the only remaining member of parliament of the Progressive Party. She would continue to be a lone member until six colleagues joined her in 1974. She justifiably had no faith in the official opposition party, which had become virtually indistinguishable from the ruling National Party on important issues affecting the majority of South Africans. Suzman was not afraid to stand as a lone independent and shine a light on the darker recesses of the regime. Her status as an MP gave her the right to visit prisons and, much to the staff’s irritation, she arranged visits to Robben Island, starting in 1967, to see for herself the conditions and talk to the inmates.
When Suzman arrived on the island, she was the first woman many of the men had seen for well over three years. She spoke with Nelson Mandela in the isolation block and dozens of prisoners in the general section. One of the men told her that there was a guard with a swastika tattoo on his arm, and Suzman complained to South Africa’s Director of Prisons. He dismissed her concerns initially but soon took notice when she threatened to call a press conference, inviting representatives of the world’s newspapers. A few short weeks later, to the jubilation of the inmates, ‘Suitcase’ Van Rensburg was quietly transferred to a less high-profile prison on the mainland.
Suzman continued to make conditions on Robben Island known to the public, putting pressure on international agencies such as the Red Cross to do more than scratch below the surface and to investigate the prisoners’ complaints more fully.
Successive visits from the IRC became increasingly critical of the prisoners’ life on the island. The prison regime grew to dread the agency’s arrival and, in a game of cat and mouse that was to be ongoing, they did everything they could to hoodwink its representatives. Their efforts were not to meet with lasting success. The barren island off the tip of the Cape, South Africa’s most heavily guarded, most controlled patch of land, was to become the government’s most public Achilles’ heel.
Sensing their opportunity, the would-be soccer players regularly made the same appeal to members of the Red Cross as they did at Saturday-morning complaints. In turn, the Red Cross asked the chief warder why their request could not be granted.
Coming under increasing pressure to make concessions, the prison administrators presented a variety of excuses. Allowing the prisoners to play football would be a major security issue. The prison didn’t have the manpower to guard and supervise large numbers of men in the open (other, of course, than for their work in the quarry). Matches would have to be played at the weekends, when fewer staff were on duty. In any case, there was no pitch. The prisoners didn’t have kit, football boots – or even a ball. Furthermore, football would be bad for the prisoners’ health: they were too weak to take part in regular matches.
The men were heartened by the pressure being put on the authorities from outside but were also aware that the Red Cross came only on periodic visits. The prisoners’ most potent weapon remained their resolve and, in the end, their single-mindedness paid off.
In early December 1967, after three years of unremitting requests, the prisoners were informed that the chief warder had granted them permission to play football for thirty minutes every Saturday. They had won.
The chief warder told his officers that it was almost certain that the prisoners would tire of playing football, that they were too feeble to play a vigorous sport. It wouldn’t last two weeks. In his white supremacist eyes, not only were the prisoners too physically weak, they were also far too undisciplined to organize regular matches and teams. If they didn’t lose interest in the whole project, the regime could use the threat of withdrawing the privilege as yet one more means of controlling the prisoners. If football meant that much to them, being deprived