Amandla! A Revolution in Four Part Harmony (2002)

[bunniefuu]

Attention!

Your left, right!

Oh, left turn!

* Form the unit and fight

* Hoos, hoos
* Form the unit and fight

Amandla!

Awethu!

Amandla!

Awethu!

Song is something that
we communicated with people...

who otherwise would not...

have understood
where we're coming from.

You could give them
a long political speech.

They would
still not understand.

But I tell you,
when you finish that song,

people will be like, "Damn!
I know where you n*gg*r*s are coming from.

I know where you guys are coming from.
Death unto apartheid."

It's about
the liberation struggle.

It's about those children
who took to the streets,

fighting, screaming
"Free Nelson Mandela."

It's about those unions...

who put down their tools
and demanded freedom.

Lizobuya. Yes.

Yebo!
Yes! Yeah! Hey!

* Hey, oh

* Freedom *

* This is the unknown grave

* The one

* Who d*ed
maintaining his mind *

* His will had been so strong
and musically inclined *

* His sad melody

* Is coming out like smoke
from the wood fire *

* Confessing

* Who d*ed last night

* Who d*ed this morning

* And why

* One dangerous mind
and four million graves *

* Look down into the grave
and do not weep *

* Skeleton confessing the loss of music and culture and beliefs *

* Skeleton confessing
the age of lamentations *

* And the age of broken minds
and souls *

* I picked up the soil
from this unknown grave *

* And blew it up with the wind
as to make reference one day *

* And I say

* Mayibuye, iAfrika *

* Sing now, Africa

* Sing loud
and sing to the people **

**

**

Mini, you see,
set a particular trend of every freedom fighter...

for our country that...

it's freedom or death.

He had this incredible
bass voice,

he was an incredible
composer of song...

and that every week
seemed to produce a new song.

And that, uh, that--

He was also, probably because
of this amazing bass voice,

was one of the best organizers
in the liberation movement.

So, song had become
an organizer,

and I think he was the embodiment of this reality.

If you meet somebody
who knew our father,

he will tell you that
your father was the greatest.

He was a singer, he was a composer,
he was a politician.

He was
the people's man.

This is the number
which belonged to him...

when he was
sentenced to death.

**
This is the number.

Mighty of the mightiest.

Thank you.

It was because they refused...

to give evidence...

against their colleagues.

That was all.

We thank you, comrade.

He was hung--
physically hung.

We were spiritually hung.

Do you think that
when they report...

cases of ill treatment
of Africans...

that they're really
exaggerating?

Not only exaggerated,
it's a bunch of lies from "A" to "Z."

There are, here and there,
a little whipping, you know,

and that sort of thing.

That you find everywhere,
perhaps, in the world.

Our policy is one...

which is called
by an Afrikaans word,

"apartheid."

And I'm afraid that
has been misunderstood so often.

It could just as easily...

and perhaps much better
be described...

as a policy
of good neighborliness.

Because it was--
You were almost daring them.

**

The people
of the world will rise up!

We will always remain
a portage of freedom.

It can change.
It can change.

We are the Africans of Africa!

* Naants' indod'
emnyama Verwoerd *

* Bhasobha naants' indod'
emnyama Verwoerd *

* Bhasobha-- **
And this sound like a--

That sounds like a--

Sounds like a-a-a fun song.

But it's really like,
"Watch out, Verwoerd.

Here comes the black man.
Your days are over with."

**

**

**

Sophiatown was the place
in Alexandra Township,

but they were also very rough
for us as singers, you know.

Because everybody wanted
to be with the singer.

And so they--

Dolly?
Hello.

Come quick.
Come and see yourself.

Come. Come, come.
Come quick.

Wow!

Hey! First African
film star.

Hey, look at you, man.
Look at you. Sexy.

Okay. "We won't move."

Look.
They are breaking down our doors there.

Sophiatown.

Do you remember when
they started moving us?

That is, I think,
'56 or-- Yeah.

See, apartheid could not...

handle the whole country
overnight.

So everything just kept on--

stage by stage, from 1948,
when the Nats came into--

They went from one neighborhood
to the next,

"cleaning up,"
as they called it.

Making the picture look white.

To physically contain
nonwhites in their own areas,

thousands of natives have been moved
by force to government-built housing.

We were just forced out
of Sophiatown...

into a place
called Meadowlands.

The houses-- It looks like a-- Matchboxes.

Yeah,
like a train.

If the windows are open in the morning,
it's like carriages-- train carriages.

No yard.
Hmm.

When there was
the forced removals, uh,

in Sophiatown,

there was a song that became a hit,
but it came off the street.

I don't know if you've heard
of "Meadowlands." You know.

**

* Meadowlands
Meadowlands *

* Meadowlands
*

* Meadowlands
Meadowlands *

* Meadowlands
**

They used to
clap hands, huh?

They think we're,
you know-- Yeah.

It's nice music. "Oh, these blacks can sing so nice.
They can sing so nice."

And they clap their hands,
and we're saying,

* We will sh**t you
We will k*ll you *

* Be careful
what you say *

Uh, but-- * You're gonna die slowly *

* Be careful
* What you say

* What you do *

You know, you'll hear
the white people say...

we have to, like, uh,
leave here.

And then you'll hear
the Tsotsis say,

"We're not going anywhere.
We're staying here."

"We're not moving!"
Of course.

Oh, yeah.
But... we moved.

We had to.

**

**

Apartheid created a--

an environment
of denial and lies.

You had to live it
from day to day.

South Africa defines me.
You know what really defi--

It's the mountains.
It's the smell.

It's the--
It's the madness.

'Cause we are
a mad people.

How can we not be?

Apartheid was schizophrenic.

If you look at apartheid
as a-- as a character,

uh, this individual,

he was a very
schizophrenic character.

One minute smiling,
but by the very same token--

uh, the very same-- the very same minute, murdering.

We don't even know
how deeply this affected us,

because apartheid
has affected all of us.

You know, white, black--
across the board.

The only thing is that we-- maybe we don't want to admit it,
you see?

Here's a mother,
a black mother,

standing with
her child, right?

Little black child
at the bus stop.

Okay? The bus comes,
and the bus stops,

and the mother
lets the bus go.

The bus is empty.

Now, this child wants to know
from the mother,

why did they not
get on the bus?

What they actually did
was they created the laws,

but we had to execute them.

**

The thing that saved us
was music.

So the music was actually--

is not even what we call
"liberation music" or what.

It was part
of liberating ourselves.

It's not a revolutionary song,

as we would call some of
the songs that we sang.

You know, it's a prayer.
"Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika."

It's a very g-g-genuine,

soothing,
very unthreatening prayer.

You know,
it has survived the times.

I think it was written
in somewhere in the late 1800s,

and it's still here
with us today.

Amandla!
Awethu!

"Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika"
became the alternative anthem...

for people who were opposed
to the apartheid regime.

So it was a song that was sung at the beginning
of meetings and at the end of the meetings.

You had mothers
trying to instill...

a sense of fear.

"You will not sing
'Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika'...

because the state
does not like it."

At schools, it--
it stopped.

Somewhere from the cracks
of all of that repression,

you'd find the song
permeating.

Because a schoolteacher
in the schools...

would refuse to just think that this is a subversive song,
and you'd hear that song being sung.

And you would know
that it was a sign of protest.

And everybody would feel very great just by listening to them.

**

Second segment of "Youth Crossfire" now in full effect.

Talking about
freedom songs.

Liberation songs that were sung by activists, protestors.

Looking at just how these songs were used to mobilize...

and to strengthen
the community at large.

Well, I suppose
times where...

they were mostly used
when people were very angry.

Mm-hmm.
Irrational.

Right.
Facing b*ll*ts with stones.

The freedom songs evoked a kind of pride in me,
which kwaito does not.

There was no age-group boundary
for freedom songs.

Absolutely not.
You could be standing next to a 60-year-old woman...

who would be singing
"Senzenina" or whatever.

And there would be a bond and an immediate kind of acknowledgment...

of commonality
in what we were about.

Now, now, now, do you think
older comrades appreciate, um--

Are you talking to me?
I'm talking to you, yeah.

I'm talking to you.
I'm not an older comrade.

However, I do believe...

that I'm kind of like a bridge between that generation,

because I remember the '80s, Mm-hmm.

And I remember
singing freedom songs,

and I remember
running away from police.

Right.
I also wake up in the morning and groove to Phat Joe.

You know?
Yeah. Yeah.

Where do these songs
come from?

Where do they originate from?
Who wrote them?

Do we know the people?
Do you know who put them together?

African people always made music.
Right.

Nobody ever said,
"I wrote this song in three minutes,"

or "I wrote it in three months.
This is my song."

Mm-hmm.
Because you start a song,

and someone backs you,
and people just build up a song.

What I'm saying is that song
didn't give birth to struggle.

Yeah? Struggle gave birth to--
No.

Which one came first?
Struggle gave birth to song.

No. No, no,
no, no.

That's not true.

We are
a spiritual people,

and one of the ways of expressing spirituality is through song.

One of the ways
that an African...

feels closer
to his creator...

or her creator
is through song.

We were raised
in families and homes...

where our parents would break into song at the slightest provocation.

When your mother couldn't figure out what to feed you for that night...

because she didn't have any money--
she came back from looking for a job--

she would break into a dirge that would be expressing how she felt.

Every day of the year,

except Sundays and holidays,
trains come to a halt...

at this siding
in Johannesburg.

Every day they unload
cheap cargoes of human labor.

Without these men,
the economy of South Africa would collapse.

When all our land was taken,
and we had to go to...

the urban areas
to look for work,

the train is what
we had to get on.

So, the train has always been
a symbol of something...

that took away your mother
or your father...

or your parents
or your loved one.

Because the train was...

really South Africa's
first tragedy.

**

* There's a train that comes
from Malawi and Namibia *

* There's a train that comes
from Zambia and Zimbabwe *

* There's a train that comes
from Angola and Mozambique *

* This train

* Carries young and old
African men *

* Who are conscripted
to come and work on contract *

* In the gold and mineral mines
of Johannesburg *

* And its surrounding provinces
and "metropoli" *

* Sixteen hours
or more a day *

* For almost no pay

* Deep, deep

* Deep, deep down
in the belly of the earth *

* Right under
where you're standing now *

* When they are digging
and drilling *

* For that shiny
mighty evasive stone *

* Or when they dish
that mish-mash-mush food *

* Into their iron plates
with their iron shovel *

* Or when they sit
in their stinky *

* Filthy, funky

* Flea-ridden barracks
and hostels *

* And they think about the loved ones they may never see again *

* Because they might already
have been forcibly removed *

* From where
they last left them *

* Or wantonly m*rder*d
in the dead of night *

* By roving and marauding gangs
of no particular origin *

* And when they hear
that choo-choo train *

* Smoking and a-steaming
and a-pushing and a-crying *

* And a-steaming and a-pushing and
a-hustling and trembling and a-standing *

* Tooting and a-steaming
and crying and pushing *

* Tooting and a-steaming
and a-toting *

* Screeching and a-crying and

* They always curse and
they curse the coal train *

* The coal train that brought them to Johannesburg *

* Stimela *

Dizzy Gillespie said to me,
uh, in the 1970s,

"Man, I'd like to be part
of your revolution,

because the people are always
dancing and singing."

**

**

You know,
having a voice--

a singing voice--
is a gift.

And that gift
gave me power,

because I didn't have to work
like my mother,

as a domestic servant.

I used the voice,
this gift from God,

to earn a living.

I was a nanny once.

I looked after
some white little babies.

And, uh, you know,
you take that baby, put it on your back,

and it feels the warmth
of your back, and you hold it.

And the child really
becomes like yours.

And then that very child,
as it grows up...

it is told that
you are different...

and you must be treated
different.

And this is the child that will
grow up and call you names.

* Madam, please

* Before you shout about
your broken plate *

* Ask about the meal
my family ate *

* Madam, please

* Before you laugh
at the watchman's English *

* Try to answer

* In his Zulu language

* Madam, please

* Before you say
that the driver stinks *

* Come take a bath

* In our Soweto sink

* Madam, please,
before you ask me *

* If your children are fine

* Ask me when
Ask me when *

* I last saw mine

* Madam, please, before you call
today's funeral a lie *

* Ask me why my people die

* Ask me why
my people die *

* Madam, please *

Beautiful.

Mrs. Woery, decides, however,
to check up on something else.

That is whether her servant
has his reference book...

and if his service contract
is in order.

Nothing missing,
except one tooth.

**

**

There are many people
who feel...

that it is useless and futile...

for us to continue talking peace
and nonviolence...

against a government
whose reply...

is only savage att*cks...

on an unarmed
and defenseless people.

You know?
About the pass laws. Yes.

F-F-For us not to
carry passes.

I remember at one stage they said we should burn all these passes.

I know.
But it was trouble after that.

I know.

It happened on Monday,
March 21, 1960.

Several hundred natives
gathered peacably...

to protest
the pass laws.

Police, mounted on tanks,
opened fire.

Sixty-nine natives were k*lled,
176 wounded.

Most of the victims
were sh*t in the back.

...black South Africa
went into shock.

Is the voice of protest
heard in South Africa?

Most of the opposition has been stilled by banning or arrest...

and no longer can their words be heard or read.

Nelson Mandela
had been sent away forever,

and that was how it was
to our parents.

And the government
had kind of introduced...

this blanket fear
among people.

I was traveling with my father
to a train station.

We were going somewhere, dressed nicely in our suits,
and my father was holding me.

I was about nine years old.
I was just learning to read.

And there was a graffiti at the train station that said,
"Free Mandela or bombs."

And my father
actually slapped me.

Because I was reading.
I was just learning to read.

And something there--
"Free Mandela or bombs."

My father
couldn't read or write.

So, I mean, to him,
he must have wondered...

why I shout Mandela's name
in public and stuff like that.

You know, there was that kind of thing.
That's what happened to song.

You couldn't just
break out into song...

and sing any type of song
in the streets.

I've spoken about
"Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika."

You couldn't sing Miriam Makeba's songs.
You would get arrested.

Whether we like it
or not, um,

the spirit of the people...

was broken by the sh**t,

by the banning
of the organizations,

by the exodus of leadership
into exile.

Exile was a spiritual desert.

That's what I
have always called it.

It's an emptiness.
It's a spiritual--

You go into this--
the Kalahari of the spirit.

I took my little girl
from here when she was nine,

and she came to join me
in America.

She never came back, 'cause she
d*ed before we came back.

And, uh,

my mother d*ed.

I couldn't come and bury her.

The hardest thing in exile...

was dreaming.

Because you would dream
that you were at home.

Imagine sitting in New York and
dreaming that you were at home,

then waking up to the reality that you're not and you can't go.

You can't go back.

I remember my first year,

I was sitting in Central Park,

and I was talking to myself.

I hadn't spoken Zulu
for a long time, or Suthu.

I was beginning
to dream in English,

and it was starting to worry me,
and I was sitting there.

And so as not to forget the language,
I was talking to myself.

So I was--

I was talking to myself.

And then I'd change
and I'd say--

You know what I mean? I was alone,
and I was changing languages and everything.

And some people were looking
at me in Central Park,

and they called a cop,
and they said,

"Think that guy maybe is losing it,
you know?"

At one time we were saying,

"Free in '63!"

Not knowing
it's gonna be years.

**

I think, in South Africa,
there is a song...

that everybody,
at one point or another, sang,

particularly in the '70s,
I'm not very sure in the '80s.

* Senzenina

* Senzenina

* Senzenina

* Senzenina

* Senzeni
Senzenina *

* Oh, Senzenina *

Can you imagine?
That's one line.

Senzenina.
"What have we done?"

Over and over and over.

I mean, come on.

You have no other option but
to stand up and go and fight.

I mean, you've-- If somebody asks you that,
you know, it's like hammering somebody.

Just like go--
koosh, koosh, koosh.

* Senzenina

* Senzenina

**

Somewhere along the line,
a thousand years from now,

we will be forced to sit down
and review our history.

"Senzenina,"
like "We Shall Overcome,"

will take her rightful place
in society.

Because at one time,
a mass body of people...

related to that song and touched each other's hearts using that song.

In the townships,
peaceful protests...

have escalated
into bloody rioting,

and civil disturbance was rife
throughout the republic.

The '76 riots
led directly from the fact..

That the apartheid government
tried to make Afrikaans...

the medium of instruction
in schools.

So that meant that you
would have to learn...

math, science, geography
in Afrikaans,

and black kids
basically said no to that.

Children were k*lled
because of a language.

Afrikaans.
Afrikaans.

We wrote songs
to say to the children,

you are strong,
you are beautiful, you are--

Black.
That's it. You belong.

Please disperse!

It's illegal for you
to be like that.

Please disperse!

I think I was
just an average kid.

A bit of a loudmouth.

But I had also lost friends.

I mean, the children
were being arrested all over.

Children were being sh*t down.

I thought, in 1977,

I'd be going
to medical school.

Saw myself as a little
country doctor somewhere.

And all that was, you know,
just blowing in my face.

So I was angry.

And I didn't believe
I wanted to go back to school.

I was too angry
to be a student.

After 1976,

you see the songs of youth,

with energy.

Youth that is dynamic.

I think these songs expressed...

not just the mood,
you know,

but the political momentum
of the time.

The more, I would say,

radical the situation
was becoming,

the more militant
many of those songs became.

**

The Soweto Uprising
was just starting.

At first we thought that it
was very, very important...

that we focus...

on the mood
of the people at that time.

And there was this little upright piano standing in the corner.

So we had a break,
and I went over to the piano and touched it in "G."

**

But I think in the '70s,
that is when some of us,

particularly people
of my generation,

started seeing the crystallization of the struggle.

We started seeing where
the struggle was going,

and we started
setting time frames,

and we started seeing the possibility of the fall of the apartheid regime.

**

**

M.K. stands for
Umkhonto we Sizwe,

which translated means
"the spear of the nation."

It was the m*llitary wing
of the A.N.C.,

which they formed in 1961...

after they basically
decided that...

the government was not interested in negotiations-- in dialogue.

The South African
security forces...

believe there are
at least 4,000 guerillas...

under training in camps
in Mozambique, Angola...

and other
frontline states.

The guerillas' song
is about 1976, about June 16.

When Umkhonto we Sizwe
was formed,

you see again
a change in song.

Now, the change of song...

is of people
in a w*r situation.

Those songs started, like,
beginning to--

to take on those overtones-- just changing a word here,
changing a word there.

When they say
you are the Commissar,

you are the mother
of the soldiers.

You must make sure
that soldiers are happy,

soldiers are having
enough morale,

and by so doing,
by,

you bring lot of confidence
to the soldiers.

Even when we were dying,

the feeling was that,
when people have d*ed,

if you mourn them for too long,

it demoralizes your spirit.

So, as a result,
even when we used to go...

to bury some of our comrades who had been ambushed on the way,
we never used to cry.

We used to sing.

**

And suddenly
I'm just remembering...

when we had to bury
26 comrades in one day.

**

The bush was so thick,

it wasn't easy
to find comrades.

**

When people came back
from there,

they looked at the ones
that were gone,

and a song had to come up,

a song that would call the names
of those that had passed.

I'm sorry.

**

Translation, comrade.
Ahhh--

"We said, 'Yes,' and we
departed for other lands,

where our mothers and fathers
don't know where we are."

"Where they've never been."
"Where they've never been.

And... we are chasing after freedom."
"We agreed." Yeah.

"We agreed."
"We agreed to be the bearers of freedom."

If you look at the wars...

against the British
and the Afrikaners,

you know, 200,
300 years ago,

there's a whole lot
of battle songs.

And I think part of the reason why we lost the country,
to a certain extent,

is that before
we att*cked the enemy,

we'd sing, and they'd
know where we are.

You know? I don't know
if you ever saw the--

the, uh, movie Zulu.

And there are these Zulus
all over these mountains.

And, like, at dawn,
they sang so beautifully.

There was a few British guys,
but they said,

"Before we hit them,
let's let them finish their song. It's a nice song."

Ingoma is the Zulu word
for "song."

And so,
Ingoma Umzabalazo.

It means
"the song for struggle."

Almost every phase...

of our struggle...

had its own kind of songs.

So all the songs
were composed...

to fit in with a particular phase in the struggle.

So it would be
really, really difficult...

to know how many songs
could have been composed.

It would be hundreds
and hundreds of songs.

There's no
initial arrangement...

as to who starts
what song.

As a song finishes,
another one starts one,

and in that process,
there's a lot of compositions coming up-- new song altogether.

And, you know,
the person might have...

tried to sing
what is presenting...

with one or two other people
during the day.

And as he leads,
and the other two are backing him,

you are then all drawn
to follow...

and-- and-- and--
and there's a song.

- You've got a new song.
- The songs select themselves.

You know? Because if people
don't like a melody,

or it doesn't, like,
fancy them that much,

they'll sing it, like, maybe for two verses,
and then somebody will go:

"Sixteen!" Or Bopha, which means,
"Stop this f*cking song. It's not happening."

"Shonamalanga."

* Shonamalanga * Shonamalanga, sho--

I love that song.

"Shonamalanga"
really was a song...

which came from
domestic servants, you know?

"Till Sheila's day."
The origins of "Shonamalanga" is "Sheila's day."

'Cause the darkies couldn't say-- the Zulus especially--

can't say "Thursday."

Instead of Thursday, it's just "Shlursday,"
which became "Sheila's day."

Sheila's day was Thursday,
when the domestics,

like my mom,
on their free day from the plantation--

the one day of the week
when they could just chill...

all over Joburg, when Joburg
used to be nice, man.

On a Thursday,
that place used to look like a Christmas tree.

Because why?
The darkies are free at last.

But what happened was,
in the days of exile,

that song, like many others,
was adapted...

to the condition
that we found ourselves in.

So, as opposed to saying--

"We will meet on Thursday,
on Sheila's Day,"

it became, "We will meet
where we would rather not meet,

in the bushes
with our bazookas."

**

These songs really reached the streets of Soweto.
They reached South Africa.

Because these songs were
then played by Radio Freedom,

and people here
listen to Radio Freedom.

And in no time,
those songs were being sung in the streets of this country.

**

This is Radio Freedom,

the voice of
the African National Congress.

So Radio Freedom was talking
about all those issues...

to tell the people that,
okay, the struggle is there,

this is the nature of the government that you are facing,

Mm-hmm.
And this is what you must do.

A lot of us who were
young at that time...

would listen
to Radio Freedom,

and we used to do so
under the blankets.

You didn't want people who know you
to know that you are listening to that.

You don't know who's who.
You could be arrested for listening to Radio Freedom.

For those that listened
to Radio Freedom,

they knew that the program starts with a song and closes with a song.

* La la la la

* So who are they who say
no more love poems now *

* I want to sing
a song of love *

* For that woman who jumped
the fences pregnant *

* And still gave birth
to a healthy child *

* La la la la
La la la la *

* La la la la

* Softly I walk

* Into this embrace

* Of all this fire

* That will ignite
in my love song *

* My song of life

* My song of life

* My song of love

* My song of life *

Even love songs
can be struggle songs.

Because imagine a man,
or a woman,

who is underground...

and needs to get a message across to his loved one.

It is a song of struggle.

I was about 19.

I was about 19 when I was first sent into the country.

I had specialized
on information gathering.

I was also very good
with expl*sives.

We would
gather information,

send it back
to Lusaka for approval.

If they said, "Go ahead
with the operation,"

we'd hit whatever target
we'd identified.

When I was 19,
remember,

that's when you
start discovering life.

And, uh, at 19,

that's when you think actually part of the reason we are on this world...

is to discover yourself.

Yes, I--
I had an affair.

A member of my unit.
Somebody I had recruited into the unit.

During the time
of the struggle, whatever,

it was not only just,
you know, struggle, struggle.

There were also people
who made love.

**

Things usually
would go very bad.

Even when they went bad,
I thought I had survived,

because I was moving around.

And finally
I got arrested.

And I was, uh,

four or five months
pregnant then.

I had been detained
at John Vorster Square.

I had been interrogated.
I had been tortured.

They pull your breasts.
They stripped you naked.

They put in cameras
in the cells,

so they could monitor your movements from wherever they were.

Sat on the toilet,
they looked at you.

They would b*at me
on the stomach.

And I broke my water
during interrogation.

And they simply took me and dumped me in my cell,
and they went off home.

Then I thought, "Well,
they definitely will be finishing me off."

And that day, I told myself,
"This is it.

Might as well do it."

And I went towards this toilet
in that cell...

and thought,
"Well, if I try hard enough,

I could actually
drown myself here."

And as I knelt down...

to-- to start doing it,

the baby
started kicking.

After Tsolo kicked,
it was...

almost an act
of defiance.

"So what? They are
threatening to k*ll you?

"They could. They can
any time they want to.

"But why would you
willingly go to it?

"So they don't
want you to sing?

"Do it anyway.

You can't fight against them.
There are too many. They are men."

And I sang--

I think
I sang anything--

everything.

And I think
around 9:00 that night,

my daughter was born.

When I was 18 years old,
I joined the underground.

And finally, in 1976,

the security police captured me
with some other comrades...

and put me into detent--

interrogated me,
tortured me,

and then I was sentenced to seven years of prison, okay?

Because I'm a whitey,
I was sent to Pretoria Maximum Security.

**

People always talk about maximum and the discipline there,

and you always want to
go and work there,

and then they transferred me
to maximum.

I started there
on a Monday,

and that Wednesday,

I've been at my first,
uh, execution.

We would get locked up
at 3:30.

So night begins at 3:30 in the afternoon
when you're locked up in your cell.

And then you
get a chance to listen.

But slowly, slowly,
as we listened,

we began to realize
a terrible thing.

That the prison that we were now in was the hanging prison,

the prison in which
they were executing people.

Start liking to work there.

There's times that you--

you-- you've got power
over life.

You know, you're walking up
with this guy.

He's alive. He's well.
He's fit.

And five minutes after 7:00,
he's dead.

So there's a little bit
of power feeling in it.

But it was your job.

**

that they didn't get
the last-minute pardon,

they had seven days
to live.

They would
start communicating.

You would hear.
I would hear.

When the desperation
set in,

either they would become,
if they were political prisoners,

very, very political...

or very religious.

Either way,
there would be songs.

Everybody is singing
and clapping...

and stamping their feet
in their cells.

One, they were psyching themselves up,
preparing themselves,

those who were going to
go to the gallows,

but those, of course,
who knew that in the following weeks or months...

they too would be
going the same route.

**

I-- I don't think
the regime then understood,

uh, the importance and meaning of song in the struggle.

I don't think
they did. Uh--

You know,

if I can go back
to history,

when Vuyisile Mini
was hanged,

he went to the gallows
singing.

He went to the gallows
singing.

**

This is where
the old gallows was.

There was beams up here.

We would hear them
coming down like this.

They were in leg irons.
We would hear them coming down the passage.

And you'd bring the prisoner.
He would stand like that on the footprints.

And his hands was cuffed.

And then the hangman would come.
He's got this mask on.

He would put a rope
around his neck,

close the mask.

And you walk up,
and he will pull the lever.

And then at 7:00
we would hear a sound...

which would be a bit like in a cinema when the seats go back.

Paah!
Then everybody's quiet.

"Mini-- big, strong,
smiling Mini--

"and Kayingo and Makaba,
who loved life no less,

"have been robbed of their most precious possession-- life.

"'How did Mini
and my brothers die...

"in that secret hanging place?'
You may ask.

"Please let me tell you.
I know.

"Singing?
Yes, but how they sing.

"Big, firm Mini,
not smiling on this day.

"A smile at the lips,
perhaps,

"but the eyes grim,
always grim...

"when facing the enemy.

"Heads high, they walk.

"Strong.
United together.

Singing Mini's own song."

* Naants' indod' emnyama
Verwoerd *

"Watch out, Verwoerd.
The black man will get you.

"Watch out, Verwoerd.
The people have taken up this song.

"Watch out, Verwoerd.

The world sings with Mini."

**

In the '80s,
every Saturday...

you go two or three times
to the graveyard.

Uh, those who were
k*lled by vigilantes...

or the police.

**

* Who I am, who I am
I'm the one **

The '80s became the advent of what was called "The People's w*r."

* Africa, Africa

The kind of w*r strategy
was train people from within.

It would be the people
living within the townships...

or living within the cities,
already fighting.

So instead of
sending a whole army,

you send one or two people
to kind of train people.

And I think with that came a militarization of songs.

You saw an army
of South African youths...

with grenades, with Makarovs,
with AK-47s,

and I think that's
reflected a lot in the songs,

because the songs had to articulate a new urgency and a new direction.

* Form the unit

* And fight

* Form the unit

* And fight

**

We didn't have a w*apon. No, Toyi-Toyi,
for us, is just like a w*apon.

You see? Because we didn't have g*ns,
we didn't have tear gas.

We didn't have all the sophisticated modern technology for w*r.

And then, one way or another,
for us Toyi-Toyi is like a w*apon of w*r.

It's a tool
that we use in a w*r.

**

**

The Zimbabweans sang
and practiced Toyi-Toyi.

And our people who were then
trained there, deployed there,

fought with ZAPU
in Zimbabwe,

when they came back into the camps,
they introduced Toyi-Toyi.

**

As you were running
up and down those mountains...

and training as a soldier,

you would then be doing
your Toyi

And, of course,
there was no way you would not be fit with that kind of training.

**

It was a w*apon
also to fight hearts and minds.

Yeah.
And also to instill fear on the enemy.

That was the time,
General, when, uh,

you took the rubber g*ns
from our-- and the shotguns--

Because you can't
b*at these people physically,

you can scare the sh*t
out of them with the songs.

Yeah, well, well, uh,
as I said, you know,

uh, you-- you can't go into a situation like this using batons.

You're gonna get people k*lled.

You gotta take precautions and
equip them with heavy weapons.

It's especially tough
on the youngsters, eh?

'Cause a lot of these units,
the members were very young-- 18, 19, 20 years old.

And you send them in a situation where
they faced 100,000 screaming, singing,

dangerous-w*apon-waving crowd approaching you,
and you've got to stand.

**

You can't fall back. You've got to stand.
You've got to make a stand.

**

Even for the older guys-- although most of them won't admit it--

but I can assure you that
a lot of the older guys,

they were also frightened stiff,
I'll tell you.

* Siyaya, Siyaya **

They didn't mind that song so much,
but then people would start saying,

Kubo! Kubo!--
like "charge."

And then-- They said, "Hey,
that Siyaya we don't mind.

This kubo comes with stones."
Yeah.

**

The Toyi-Toyi had made us
even not to see the b*ll*ts...

and the g*ns that the whites
used to sh**t at us.

Because even, we said,
tear gas b*ll*ts wouldn't stop us.

**

It actually was a w*r here.
We had a w*r here.

If you were on Khumalo Street
in-in-in Katlehong,

you got these electrical boxes painted "Vietnam,"
"w*r Zone," and things like that, you know?

These guys meant w*r there.

What I saw in the '80s I had never seen anywhere in my life...

and I could never ever imagine.

You know, because if we had put
the struggle into fifth gear,

you can imagine
what in the '80s they did,

particularly with that Toyi-Toyi and
the songs that were associated with it.

It was something else, you know?
It gave you chills just watching it.

For me, it was irritating.

Uh, even now,
seeing people singing and Toyi-Toyi-ing in the street,

that's irritating.

* Hoos, hoos

Can you sing
any of the songs, though?

* Hoos, hoos

No.
That was part of the songs that they used-- that "Hoos, hoos."

That was part
of the singing.

So, but--

I remember them
screaming "Amandla!"--

all that stuff.

**

In a way,
it told you that South Africa was going somewhere.

You didn't know where,

but, damn, this country's
going somewhere, you know?

And not all of us were entirely convinced that it was towards liberation.

It was, like,
whites will wake up...

and sh**t everybody dead
because of what was happening.

Or, I mean, I don't know.
I don't know what was gonna happen.

It was like our young people were running
straight into the sea at high speed.

**

* Racial venom
is like a social dynamite *

* This is the voice of concern

* A voice of social redemption

* An eye for an eye
makes the world blind *

* Reconstitution
and reconstruction *

* It's like a dark cloud
giving way to the blue sky *

* Humankind
must put an end to w*r *

* Or w*r will put an end
to humankind *

* Africa and the world
cannot afford this effigy *

* If something's
not worth living for *

* It is not worth dying for

* Yes, this is
the voice of reason *

* In search of liberty
eternally **

**

At the height of the South African madness in the '80s,

we had to also do something
out there wherever we were.

Others were engaging,

uh, apartheid
with the g*ns.

Others were engaging them
through discussions.

Others were engaging them
through song.

That's how
we managed to turn...

the tide of the world.

When we were thinking
of Nelson Mandela,

when he was still
this mythical figure--

he was somewhere
in jail--

we imagined them to be singing those songs...

as they were longing for being back home for their freedom.

As we were singing,
longing for them,

we imagined them singing those same songs longing for us.

So there was a cross-purpose.
There was a connectedness just in the song.

In 1983 I was in Botswana,
and I got--

It was my birthday.

And I got this birthday card from Mandela.

Here's a guy who's
been in jail for 20 years,

but he's writing to me,
giving me encouragement.

You know, egging me on to say,
"We're very proud of what you're doing,"

and, you know,
"May the gods of Africa give you strength."

"And say hello to Deliwe,"
who was my niece who was staying with me,

"and to Jabu, your wife,
and to George--"

you know, all my friends.

It was like, you know,
like I was in jail.

And this song just-- when I lay it down,
when I finished reading it,

I just shook my head,
and tears were streaming down.

And the song
just came up to me.

* Bring back Nelson Mandela
Bring him back, oh *

I didn't compose it. It just came up.
It was like he said it.

* Bring back Nelson Mandela

* Bring him back home
to Soweto *

**

* In South Africa

* Tomorrow

* Bring back Nelson Mandela

* Bring him back home
to Soweto **

The literal story in the Bible is that they came to the walls of Jericho...

and they blew
the trumpets,

and then from blowing them,
the walls fell, yeah?

They didn't cr*ck.
But the whole point is that that was a poetic statement...

about the fact that they actually att*cked the walls of Jericho.

* Free Mandela, jail Botha
Free Mandela, jail Botha *

* Free Mandela, jail Botha
Free Mandela, jail Botha **

Free Mandela!
Free Mandela!

Free Mandela!
Free Mandela! Free Mandela!

Down with apartheid!

Down with apartheid!

**

* Children of Zion

* Daughters and sons
of the soil *

* People of Zion
We're risin' *

Amandla!
Awethu!

* Children of Zion

* Daughters and sons
of the soil *

* People of Zion

* We're risin', we're risin'

* See, we come too far

* See, we come too far

* See, we come too far
too far, too far *

* See, we come too far

* See, we come too far

* See, we come too far
too far, too far *

* See, we *

I am now in a position to announce that Mr.
Nelson Mandela...

will be released
at the Victor Verster Prison...

on Sunday, the 11th of February,
at about 3:00 p.m.

When we saw our...

beautiful Madiba
come out of prison,

and everybody was, like,
glued to the TV.

...his first steps
into a new South Africa.

I just went down on my knees
in front of my TV and cried.

Amandla!
Awethu!

We made it, girl!
We made it.

We made it.
We made it. We made it.

We made it, comrade.

**

In a very general
sort of sense,

it talks to
the fathers of the nation.

But it is about the ancestors.

And it is saying,
"Let their demise--"

"Let their destruction
not be for naught.

Let their demise
be for a reason."

But more importantly
it is about saying,

"It will be so,

"if we come together
as a people, as a nation...

"and remember
who our ancestors are...

and remember our heritage."

I don't know my father.

I was two years old
at the time he was hanged.

So today it's as if I'm seeing him for the first time and I could sense him.

**

**
**

**

**

And I thank the gods of Africa
and my grandmother...

for having, like,
made it possible for me to come back.

Because there is nothing that I missed
more than the people in this country.

Didlala, you know?

Didlala is home, you know?

Ah, but I just love
the way he dances.

He's a messiah.
Yes. He is Solomon.

Yeah. I thought
you'd say he's Moses.

He's Moses!

**

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

* Nelson Mandela

**

The revolution
in South Africa...

is the only revolution
anywhere in the world...

that was done
in four-part harmony.

There's nowhere else
in the world where they--

Oh, Sophie!
Look at this.

Have you ever seen such
beauty in all your life?

But you were
never safe. Ne?

No. Ooh. I had it tough.
I know.

Yeah. You know my trademark
was here at the back.

Oh. I had a nice little booty,
you know,

when I used to
move around.

The guys would say, "Dianeki.
That's mine for the day."

I was one of the first
female commissars.

Madame Chair,
I will answer that question as follows.

I'm a member
of parliament now.

If you push me into a corner,
I hit back.

And I'm learning
that in politics,

that is one of
my strongest points.

Be as honest as I can...

and hit back
with all the might.

I mean, how do you stop people
from singing, you know?

It's true. They tried all that.
They tried to ban the songs.

They banned virtually
everything.

But how do you stop people
from singing?

**

We're lucky to have been able
to come out of it.

But what's amazing
about this nation...

is that it's the only people
I know...

who got so much sh*t, you know,

and didn't
burn the country down.

And I think that, like, for
the first time we're in a era,

you know, where we're in
the beginning of the good times.

One day, it'll be the good
old times. I won't be around.

But we're one country that's never been
able to say-- to open our lips to say--

eh, "During the good old days."

You know? Because the
good old days have just begun.