Robben Island: Prison became freedom's cradle
His real name was Ntoza Talakumeni. But when the gates of Robben Island prison slammed shut, he became 58/86. He was the 58th prisoner to be incarcerated on South Africa's notorious island prison in 1986.
Like the hundreds of other black people who rode the ferry from Capetown to the rock fortress, 58/86 faced a 14-year sentence of isolation and cruelty, his life relegated to working in the island's limestone quarries.
His crime: Terrorism. He opposed the horrors of apartheid, a codified system of discrimination that placed South Africans into racial categories whites, blacks and coloreds (the label applied to those of mixed race or Asian).
South Africa's minority white population enjoyed the full benefits of life protected human rights, education and an economic bounty. Coloreds received fewer benefits and rights than whites. The majority blacks enjoyed almost none.
Opposition to apartheid was brutally met with death, torture and imprisonment in such places as Robben Island. It is the prison that housed for two decades Nelson Mandela, the symbol of freedom for blacks and South Africa's first elected black president.
58/86 was among the first group of prisoners freed from Robben Island when South Africa threw off its chains of apartheid in 1994. But he remains "sentenced" to the prison today now by choice.
Like many other former prisoners, Ntoza Talakumeni is now a guide to the hundreds of tourists a day who ride a ferry from Capetown to Robben Island to see for themselves - to see the brutality of the former white regime, see the tiny cell where Mandela slept, see where prisoners scratched limestone from quarries, leaving many of them blind from the sun's glare.
Ntoza Talakumeni's beard and hair now have flecks of gray. He was serious, but welcoming when he led my group through the prison's cell-lined hallways. Many of the cells were equipped with tape players that allowed visitors to hear former prisoners describe why they were arrested and how they lived on Robben Island. Standing among their meager belongings, it was chilling to hear the voices of prisoners describe the tortures they experienced.
On the wall of a dormitory was a list of typical provisions. Even food was dispensed according to race. Whites received the most; coloreds less; and blacks much less.
Depending on a prisoner's behavior, privileges were added and subtracted.
We were led into a courtyard, where privileged prisoners were allowed to keep gardens. Ntoza Talakumeni pointed to Mandela's. It is where he smuggled and hid his memoirs. One day, guards found and destroyed the buried pages. As a result, Mandela lost all privileges for four years.
In hindsight, it was a strategic mistake for South Africa's former white government to concentrate so many of its political opponents in the same prison. Although they were forbidden from communicating with each other, they found opportunities.
Visitors to Robben Island today squint into a cavern carved into the wall of a limestone quarry. It was a place for prisoners to eat and take care of their personal needs. It also became a university of sorts.
Ntoza Talakumeni explained the philosophy: "Each one teach one." Each prisoner and that included Mandela, an attorney, as well as many recognized black scholars taught fellow prisoners the basic skills of reading and writing, as well as political theory.
The blacks who walked through the gates of Robben Island when apartheid crumbled had taught each other how to lead the new South Africa. They had plotted the course of their country as they whispered in the shadows of the cavern.
As we passed through the gate that once deprived Ntoza Talakumeni of his freedom, he leaned on a memorial that featured jubilant blacks celebrating their release in1994.
He said goodbye and thanked the Americans, the Brits and the Germans who comprised my tour group.
"Without your support, this would still be a prison," he said, crediting the pressure exerted on South Africa from around the world for forcing the white government to share its power with blacks and end apartheid.
A somber group filed back onto the ferry for the return trip to Capetown.
On the ride back to our hotel from the dock, we asked Yusuf Voterson, our taxi driver, why there are so many museums in South Africa devoted to apartheid and why both whites and blacks seemed committed to preserving the story.
"For us to move forward, we cannot live in the past," he said, "But we must never forget it."
Dianne Hardisty is The Californian's editorial page editor. She accompanied her husband, Jack, to South Africa last fall.
