Abstract: Colonised countries were prisons without walls. The South African nation state dramatised graphically a reality that was a global phenomenon. In that country white settlement were designed to be served by black citizens who were forced to live within prisons without walls, otherwise known as locations. There, they were subject to harsh restrictions on their wishes and movements. Despite the historic advent of constitutional democracy in 1994 the prisons, although experienced differently today, persist in the ambiguous realities of their existence. In the same way, despite the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the end of colonial states around the world did not remove intractable, complex dependencies and unfulfilled expectations for most of the global population. The way South Africa still struggles to transform dream into reality, may bear some resonances for how the global community under pressure from the nightmare of Covid-19 seeks to re-imagine the future of the world.
What a delight for me to be so warmly welcomed back to my College where my wife, three year old son, and I lived through one of the most formative times of our lives! Thank you Professor Donald, Master of Churchill College, for the invitation, on behalf of the College, to deliver the 19th Roskill Lecture, a well-established platform for reflection. The entire world is going through so much right now: some of the events could not have been imagined early in 2021 when you sent me the invitation. Reimagining can be a complex task. Invariably, one gets to confront difficult issues So, in this global unfolding, where to begin, and where to end? It occurred to me that something like a personal story could help ease myself into my thoughts. In it the personal and the public seemed to converge intuitively with some resonance.
The story I tell took place in Charterston Location where I grew up after my family moved from Western Native Township in Johannesburg, where I was born. The location was a satellite black settlement whose minimalistic design, like countless others like it around the country, was for the sole purpose of supplying black labour to the white mining town of Nigel, three miles away. The town and its location were at the easternmost edge of the gold reef, whose extreme western end was the mining town of Randfontein, to the west of Johannesburg. The big metropolis itself stood somewhere in the middle. That seventy miles stretch of gold reef was a critical part of the British Empire. It yielded great riches, in gold and other minerals, to the centre of the Empire in England. The stones from the Cullinan diamond, a product of nature named after a human on whose mine it was found just north of the gold reef, are among the crown jewels of the British Monarchy. [1] But let me drop the attractions of big history and tell my story.
I was alone at home when the incident that left a deep mark on my sense of self occurred on a bitterly cold South African mid-year winter day: could have been June or July of 1968. I had made a good kitchen fire in the yellow panelled Ellis Deluxe stove which those of my age present may remember. On that day I had vowed to emulate my father and learn how to type. I thought he was a wizard at it. I was rattling away with increasing confidence on his old typewriter when there was a knock on the door. But whoever was out there did not wait to be let in as was the custom in the location.
Two white men barged in through the unlocked door, took a brief glance at me while absorbed in the drift of an ongoing conversation in Afrikaans between them. The messages reflected on their faces and in the language of their bodies were instantly clear to my twenty-year old mind . These men had entered a dwelling to which they felt entitled. Instinctively, I responded to their intrusion through a subtle protest of my own. I remained seated, denying them in my mind , the learned civilities of growing up in my community where a young person would stand up when adults walked in.
The white man who led the charge wore khaki shorts with matching shirt, sleeves rolled up, fawn socks stretched up over his ankles and calves to just under the knees, and then folded downwards once from the top ends. I had seen many Afrikaner men attired in this manner, and some British ones as well in Eswatini, then the British Protectorate of Swaziland. Thus attired, they were a visual symbol of white men at work. On that day, this picture was rounded up by a clipboard with paper in the leading man’s left hand, and a pencil in the other. His companion, looking a little older than the fellow intruder he followed, wore a suit and tie. The two men simply continued with their conversation as if I did not exist. I was later to learn from my mother, that the clipboard man was the Superintendent of the location.
“What are we doing here?” the Superintendent asked surveying over my head everything on the table before me: the centrepieces being the typewriter and the typing manual just to my right. He leaned over so closely I can still feel the passing puff of his breath on the back of my neck. In an environment I felt to be hostile, that puff of breath was repulsive. It urged me to want to say: “can’t you see?” But I didn’t. By then, I had learned to choose the form and timing of my battles with white people. So it would do for now that I hadn’t stood up for them even though they were almost certainly ignorant of there being any civilities in the lives of that species of people they called ‘natives’.
“Ahh! Learning to type” he exclaimed, glancing around and writing on the clipboard. But his rhetorical finding was directed at the other man in what I discerned to be a sharing of condescension. At the same time it hinted at a relationship of power between them. The Superintendent seemed to earn the approval of the man he appeared to be taking on a tour of the location. After a brief silence of cursory glances around the kitchen, and further note taking, the Superintendent declared: “Kombuis!” [2] They nodded as they walked out of the kitchen and saw themselves in and out of the rooms in the rest of the four-roomed house, while flustered, I remained seated in the kitchen as the intruders made an unwelcome tour of my home.
Since I could hear their voices as they went from room to room I knew when they were returning to the kitchen. Their voices rose, not because they spoke louder. The acoustics of the passage projected their voices towards the kitchen, which they re-entered still in earnest conversation, and note-taking. They passed behind me, and walked out leaving me gaping at the open door they left unclosed behind them, as I tried to take in what had just happened.
I sat there, drawing some comfort from a position that offered something as protective as a foetal enclosure must be. Everything before me blurred: the table; the typing manual, and the paper in the typewriter on which I had typed the letters QWERTY endlessly. It was the freezing air from outside surging into the kitchen that forced me from my chair finally, to shut the door.
Father Trevor Huddleston, a British member of the Anglican Community of the Resurrection, left Mirfield for South Africa where he would be the parish priest of Christ the King Anglican church in Sophiatown, a black community that was to Johannesburg what Harlem was to New York. Father Huddleston came to be highly cherished in the memory of Black South Africans. He loved his parish, its congregants, and the people of Sophiatown into which he easily integrated from the manner in which he practiced his ministry. Sophiatown loved him back. He was always there in their times of joy and travail. So much did he feel at home among his parishioners and the entire community of Sophiatown that he chose to become a citizen of South Africa. He gives us a good entry into the subject of prisons without walls, and helps to put into a perspective my story just shared with you.
"Part of the meaning White South Africa’s attitude to the African” he writes, “is revealed in that word ‘location’. In America it generally has reference to part of the technique of the cinema industry. A film is made “on location ” in order to give it the genuine flavour and atmosphere required of the story. But everywhere else in the world, so far as I know, the word just means a place; a site ; a prescribed area. That is why, no doubt, it was chosen by the European when he decided that the African must have somewhere to live when he came to work in the towns and cities of his own country. He could not live in a suburb. He could not live in a village. He could not live in the residential area of the town itself. He could only work in those places. And because he is an abstraction— ‘a native’ he must have an abstraction for his home. A “location ” in fact: a place to be in, for so long as his presence is necessary and desirable to his European boss.” [3]
British author Alex Renton, in his recent book, Bloody Legacy: Reckoning With A Family’s Story of Enslavement, [4] displayed deep insight into how the British treatment of slaves in the Caribbean could be a template for the nature of the South African location and its relationship to its white town. As Renton read through his family papers, primary sources for his book, he came to realise “that my ancestors” he writes, “were indeed plantation owners in the British slave colonies: farmers of human beings.” [5] Instantly, I recognised what he meant. When the Superintendent barged into my home, with a guest he appeared to be showing around, they were on an inspection tour of their municipal farm of human livestock.
The Superintendent, farm manager of his location, wielded total power over his livestock of people. The South African location, more popularly known today as a “township”, was a utilitarian place of controlled confinement. But the essence of such confinement is that it was invisible. In the location, you did not feel confined as such; there being no walls around you. Rather, your sense of confinement was woven into the location as a dormitory settlement with basic housing, a water tap in each street, and bucket toilet system, and one of the few tarred street a bus route to take the workers out in the morning and bring them back in the evening. The location was built to an overriding purpose that had little to do with the hopes and desires of the people who were required to live in it. With only two exits, the location could be quickly entered and subjued by a police or military force.
Because locations were situated out of sight of the white settlement known as “town”, the word carries a special connotation in South Africa. “Town” is where you go, if you are black, to work in white people’s homes, businesses, factories, municipal or in government institutions. On Saturdays you went “to town” to do your shopping. While there and you happened to run afoul of the law, you could be put behind bars in a walled prison where the reality of confinement evoked the real sense of punishment. In the location, punishment was invisible: being woven into the lifestyle of living not for yourself, but for others.
In my growing up days a white man in town could push you off the pavement on impulse and move on as if nothing has happened. Take a look in your imagination at the Nigel Post Office, and you are black! You could stand in a long queue and be deliberately ignored by the white postal staff, even though the white side of the post office was completely empty. This behaviour actually made little sense since almost all the black people in the queue were at the post office on white people’s business. It is conceivable that, back in their homes after work, white post office staff shared jokes about how the made the “kaffirs” wait for a long time without serving them. This is the kind of banality of prejudice that gets passed from one generation to the next at different levels of the Western world. The racist gene showed up recently when African, Arab, and Asian students were denied exit from Ukraine, and entry into Poland.
At night, life in the location was a totally different place. After its relative emptiness during the day, it teemed with people back home to be themselves and shed the day’s performance of being servile at work. It became a place of resistance to something external to itself, but in a manner not overtly political. I will tell you what I mean through an anecdote following the strange intrusion of the Superintended into my home. It had to do with how my mother reacted to my hurt and my silent protest in response to the Superintendent’s violation of our home. I thought I had impressed her with the story of my passive resistance. After a brief silence she gestured firmly with her fingers as she said: “Firstly, you should have shown some respect!” Then, more devastatingly: “Secondly, the man was only doing his job!” I was deflated and confused.
South African academic, Jacob Dlamini, in his book Native Nostalgia, has helped me think through my mother’s reaction. Dlamini had had a comparable incident with his mother. When my mother chided me for my disrespect, she was not expressing approval of the Superintendent’s behaviour. She was referring to and affirming, in a natural kind of way, the African ways in which kinship between people is invoked even when they were not related by blood. It was a signalling of affinity, the reduction of any possible hostility among strangers meeting, one of the foundations of communal life held together by mutuality, deportment, and respect for self and others. When the Dutch and the British arrived and enforced the commoditisation of people into units of labour, they hit at the core of the African social order.
But that social order was weakened rather than destroyed. The resilient elements of it enabled people of the location to survive every horror thrown at them. In the location, and despite the racist oppression, Jacob Dlamini writes, there “were bonds of reciprocity and mutual obligation, social capital, that made it possible for millions to imagine a world without apartheid,” long before apartheid was finally defeated. [6] In a profound, seemingly non-political way, steeped in the resilient socio-cultural politics in the currents of lived life, I now think that what my mother was saying to me was: let the Europeans be the savages that they say you are; and don’t ever emulate them, or you’ll lose yourself.
And so, my experience with the Superintendent was to be the first time I intuited the nature of the relationship between my community of Charterston location and the invisible walls that surrounded it, and the politics behind those walls as personified in the Superintendent, its farm manager. He arrived every morning for duty at his office, impossible not to see on your left as you entered the location; bringing with him the aura of his authority from town, a flag waving unseen, but present. He departed at closing time the afternoon. Then there would be not a single white person overnight in the location: and we would be by ourselves.
Evening was when we regrouped as community: children back from school and parents back from work in town, friends visiting one another, ballroom dancing at community hall, and drinking at the City Council owned beerhall. At night we took care of ourselves within the norms of mutual interaction, which over time took on a defining social character. It welded people from different parts of the country, across multiple ethnicities who intermarried massively, into a community that evolved shared notions of itself, where almost everyone knew everybody else and could speak one another’s languages.
I think what developed was an informally evolved, self-organised form of self-governing which maintained a fragile autonomy under the radar of hostile and controlling external white management. But such self-organising could be double-edged. On the one hand it could be interpreted by the white municipality as a measure of its success in managing the location into orderly “natives” as invisible as I was to the Superintendent and his guest.
On the other hand, the invisibility of the location’s people to the white municipality could lead to greater levels of self-awareness among the oppressed Africans, a sense of self that seeks to assert its presence, individuality of individuals with a communal identity, and a shared quest for freedom to exist. Depending on the options available to them to acquiesce or resist, much of the cross-generataional social psychology of the people of the location could either promote or impede new ways of self-perception even as citizens of a relatively new democracy today depending on the oscillations between acquiescence and resistence.
I am now able to look back and see that the depersonalisation I experienced in my own home in the context of a location was a condition with a dimension much larger than I could grasp at the time. I got to recognise and discern this larger dimension in my first encounter with British rule as a student at St. Christopher’s School, an Anglican school primarily for boys, in Eswatini. A vast majority of the boys came from different parts of South Africa, sent there by their parents as educational refugees to avoid the newly introduced apartheid system of education in South Africa designed for Africans into what Father Huddleston called “education for servitude”. [7]
In June 1963 five years before my drama with the Superintendent, the First battalion of the Scottish Gordon Highlanders [8] was swiftly flown in from Kenya to quell a strike for more wages by workers at the Havelock Asbestos Mines. The strike triggered sympathy strikes in other parts of the country. As students at the boarding school, and the vast majority of us being South Africans with an active political awareness not only in relation to the struggle against apartheid back home, but also aware of anti-colonial struggles around the world, we sympathised with the striking workers. The Ngwane National Liberatory Congress, led by Dr. Ambrose Zwane supported the worker’s cause. His leadership support included a “call to the United Nations and to independent African states to protect them against British ‘high handed methods’ aimed at ‘suppressing the voicing of grievances by the oppression of the people of Swaziland’.” [9]
As I contemplated my experience with the Superintendent, it occurred to me that the striking Swazi workers had existentially far more immediate and difficult choices to make than I could ever have imagined. Who they were as people and their bodies were exposed to life or death with differentially severe consequences for their choices. By force of arms, their capture within a colony was made real through the threat of violence and death. The mine , with a military force and the British Government in London behind it, would continue to pay the lowest wages possible under conditions of work they would never contemplate for their own people, and earn the British a disproportionate financial benefit. Some upset parliamentarians in London objected to the use of the British Army to settle labour disputes. As is currently the case in the United Kingdom, government got away on flimsy excuses. [10] Corralled as location dwellers, the line had been drawn for the mine workers: go back to work or be killed!
Where I had been erased as a person and turned into an object, the Swazi workers were erased as people by their employers and turned into objects as defenceless shooting targets for the British Army. On the one hand, was one black boy at home in a South African location, on the other thousands of Africans, citizens of an entire country, one among many others across the continent of Africa, erased as humans not worthy to be negotiated with. Both the personal and the collective shared one fate. It was this: what was required of them to do, for others, had far more value to those that took advantage of them, than who they were as human beings. This is a critical part of the historical legacy of the relationship between Europe (Britain in this case), and Africa. Perhaps the last word on the breaking of the Swazi mine workers’ strike by the British Army must go Lt-Col Charles Napier who commanded the Gordon Highlanders. On landing in Swaziland from Kenya, he told the waiting press at the time: “This is a ‘showing the flag’ mission. I do not know how long we shall be staying. I hope it will be long enough to make it worthwhile’.” [11]
What happened to me, and to the striking miners represents two dimensions of prisons without walls. The one is the South African location; the other is an entire country seen on a map of Africa by European powers who divided it up, seeing only maps rather than living spaces with people. Together, in their separate ways, in their respective “possessions” the European powers had one thing in common: to enhance nationalistic, economic competitiveness by creating and administering an infrastructure of roads, rail, airports, harbours, and corralled labour, all orientated towards extraction and export of raw materials to Europe which would become as enormously wealthy as it is today.
There was something else in common. It is starkly captured for me at the end of the Australian movie, Rabbit Proof Fence. In the movie, an official of the Western Australian Government who had to implement a policy to capture mixed race Aboriginal children and bring them up as domestic servants for white Australians has failed to bring back two of the three girls who escaped from capture. He dictates a letter to report his failure: “We have an uphill battle with these people”, he says, “especially the bush natives, who have to be protected against themselves. If only they could understand what we are trying to do for them.” [12] The declared intention to do good for the natives, by all colonisers were more often than not contradicted by their brutal actions, ensuring that they could never be trusted by those they sought to civilise through cruelties of care.
It should be clear by now that what I am trying to understand is how it is that European world today can live comfortably, in the 21st century with the histories of two contradictory sides of itself: on one side of the coin is a mission of civilising benevolence. On the other side is the manifest brutalities to which Europe subjected people of other parts of the world who did not look like them, and whose wounds are still visible today. My personal experience in a South African location, is one I share with nations, and continents turned into global prisons without walls.
To what extent are Europeans today conscious in their lives of moral contradiction integral to their history? To what extent would they consider such contradiction sustainable in a world so intricately connected? “You can’t change the past,” says Sir Geoff, as quoted by Alex Renton, “but you can change its consequences” [13] It seems to me that such awareness together with the decisive end of colonial times might provide a basis for a new global conversation to alter the consequences of the past which cannot be changed.
At the time I received my invitation to speak tonight, we were into our ninth month of Covid-19 lockdown in South Africa. Seven months earlier George Floyd was murdered in Minnesota in the United States before billions of global eyes. The witnesses were a global community of millions of Europeans and billions of other peoples of the world to whom the fate of George Floyd was a part of their own historical experiences. I was inspired by the wave of global outrage against racism that spread across the world, uniting both past colonisers and the once colonised peoples.
As memorials to enslavers tumbled, and monuments and symbols which glorified European colonialism around the world defaced, I recalled the Anti-Apartheid Movement which also became a global movement of solidarity with South Africans struggling against apartheid. The movement grew hugely when it took on the campaign for Nelson Mandela to be released. Anti-Apartheid Movements in many countries worked together successfully to end racism in one country. Global awareness combined with global action.
I believe that the times in which humanity finds itself today represent a potentially evolutionary moment in the growth and deepening of moral sensibility across the world. What is at stake is the prospect of the human species annihilating itself, as George Orwell foresaw in 1945. [14] We have destroyed so much of the natural environment and its complex ecosystems, and now seem poised to throw nuclear weapons at one another. But a moment of pessimism might also be a moment of great creativity, which stears us away from inventing weapons of more and more devastating destruction towards an instinctive, overpowering sense of self-preservation in favour of human community as the site for resolving the most complex and intractable of our shared problems. We need to understand one another far more deeply and more intimately as human beings.
Covid-19, a great leveller of human beings, came along to signal yet another moment when the need for universal awareness led to global solidarity. Unfortunately the triumph in the speedy development of lifesaving vaccines did not last. The availability and distribution of the vaccines soon showed up the fault lines of global history. Technologically advanced and wealthy nations of the world showed little compassion towards those that paid a huge price for their many successes. It went under the name of “vaccine nationalism”, a phenomenon which “occurs when governments sign agreements with pharmaceutical manufacturers to supply their own populations with vaccines ahead of them becoming available for other countries.” [15]
I was later to learn that the impact of these events also reached Churchill College. I watched from the college website the robust discussions which reflected a serious self-scrutiny of unexamined aspects of the college’s institutional sense of self. It felt right that my college was confronting the full legacy of the person after whom it was named: a world figure who nevertheless, believed in the supremacy of Europeans, the “Aryan stock” [16] whose duty it was, he said, to use “the power of the modern nation…to kill savages”, especially those “filled with ideas”. [17] The memory of my mother got me asking: in the killing of savages by the “modern nation”, who were the savages: those killed or those doing the killing? More than being a grateful recipient of a Churchill College Bursary, I would love to be part of a fuller and richer story and understanding of how such a question might be answered. Certainly, having been a student at Churchill College has made Churchill a part of me; equally so, I have become an uneasy part of his commemoration.
Winston Churchill is a fact of history who rightfully earned the gratitude of a nation when he led it successfully against German aggression. It is also a fact of history that the British electorate did not elect him Prime Minister after his leadership of the country through the World War 2. What did the electorate sense which led to their decision? But history’s effects project forward to future generations, and are therefore always present. One facet of that presence is that a Cambridge University College was named after him. That fact would make of the College one resonance of Churchill’s historic presence which imbues the college with accreditations of commemoration. But such accreditations may, and often do, come with pitfalls. Certainly, Churchill’s attitudes towards those in the world who are not “white” is one such pitfall.
The college can choose to either accept that pitfall as an indelible historical fact, and then either find justifications for it, or engage in a robust critique of it. How does the college in its self-definition react to the global outrage against racism in the world in the wake of the public murder of George Floyd? Was George Floyd a savage who deserved his end? What the world saw and heard was a human being pining for his mother, and begging for life-giving air that belongs to us all. I asked the question about George Floyd with provocative intentionality.
It can indeed be asserted that Churchill was a product of his times. Those times will need to be spelt out in their full starkness not only at Churchill College but also in the schools, universities, and in the array of cultural institutions in the United Kingdom which shape opinion and the national sense of self that are passed from one generation to another. The deeper question for the College today is: what are the times in which the College, named after Churchill, is itself a product of? After all, the essence of an institution need not be reducible to its unexamined name when strong moral and ethical grounds exist for its examination. It is possible that upon examination, the name itself can become the very source of the College’s search for its contemporary essence. The College that does not shy away from the history of its name might become the richer for it.
It is against such a background that I make the observation that oppressed peoples around the world, tend to display a clearer , more genuine, and sharper moral sensibility for justice, fairness and equality, a greater sense of human community in a social order which centres human relationships in whatever political and economic order supports and draws its legitimacy from such relationships. From the ghettos of the United States and the locations of South Africa two voices, among many others confirm my observation. African American Nikole Hannah-Jones writes: “We were told once, by virtue of our bondage, that we could never be American. But it was by virtue of our bondage that we became the most American of all.” [18] In other words, African-Americans have fought for what the United States preached, but did not do.
From South Africa, Tembeka Ngcukaitobi, an Advocate of the South African Supreme Court, in his book The Land is Ours: South Africa’s First Black Lawyers and the Birth of Constitutionalism, [19] tells the story of how South Africa’s first, black lawyers, trained in the US and others in the UK were pathfinding lawyers who, through their activism for justice and fairness, thought through and visualised the necessity for Constitutionality and the Bill of Rights, their foundational work is today enshrined in the South African constitution much lauded around the world. In this way they enabled Black South Africans to become the most South African of all.
As I draw close to the end of my address and with so much unfolding before our eyes, I invite us to be fully present at this moment of our times. On the 21st of March this year President Biden addressed top American Chief Executive Officers at the Business Roundtable's quarterly meeting at the White House, and reportedly off the cuff said “Now is a time when things are shifting. There’s going to be a new world order out there, and we’ve got to lead it. And we’ve got to unite the rest of the free world in doing it.” Russia’s invasion of Ukraine had been underway for just under a month.
Unfortunately, President Biden did not specify the characteristics of this “new world order”, except that he, and American oligarchs in business and government, would lead it, and by implication, be its beneficiaries. He also did not specify what part of the world constituted “the free world”; and which did not. By not doing so he has taken us back to the Cold War.
His came across as a call for the “united free world” which, one can only guess, would be made up of the United States, United Kingdom, Canada, the European Union, and their collective instrument of war, NATO. It is these countries and coalitions that seem destined to work together to achieve President Biden’s new world order. Then the entire world will be freed by the “free world”.
With the best will in the world I do not think that in President Biden’s imagination, Africa features as part of his “free world”. Certainly not China and Russia. Certainly not a great deal of Asia, the Middle East and South America, and many other countries, who together constitute 85% of the the world’s population. [20] All of them seem invisible to Biden’s “free world”, the Superintendents who do not see others for who we are, but as notions of who they wish them to be. Will they breeze in and out of our houses in the global locations?
A unique opportunity has arisen for Europe if it cares for its sovereignty to learn from those whose freedom was taken away, and who appreciating its value, had to fight back for it. In this connection, Europeans do not to have to black to be real or metaphorically enslaved persons of another country. Their whiteness will not save them from the predations and tyrannies of US ‘superpowerism’. In addition to this, there is little sign that there is a collective of political wisdom to which NATO, an outdated organisation, is accountable. The world as we know it, seems to me exposed to the gravest of dangers that do indeed call for a new world order, but not the undefined one proclaimed only by the United States.
And here, I thank Churchill College for the opportunity it gave me to share my thoughts.
Njabulo S Ndebele
Churchill College
Cambridge
20 June 2022
[1] https://www.rct.uk/collection/themes/trails/the-crown-jewels/the-cullinan-diamond
[2] Afrikaans for “kitchen”
[3] Trevor Huddleston. Naught for Your Comfort. Trevor Huddleston (CR). Naught For Your Comfort. Johannesburg: Hardingham and Donaldson, 1956, pp. 123-124.
[4] Alex Renton. Blood Legacy: Reckoning with a Family’s Story of Slavery. Kindle Edition.
[5] Alex Renton. Ibid. p.29
[6] Jacob Dlamini. Native Nostalgia. Johannesburg: Jacana, 2009. Kindle Edition, p.29
[7] Trevor Huddleston. Ibid. p157
[8] Patrick Boniface. https://medium.com/@patrickboniface_39584/the-untold-history-of-the-british-army-in-swaziland-in-1963-380ef96b76e9. You can also read: Ian Raitt (1964) Operation “Green Belt” in Swaziland, Royal United Services Institution. Journal, 109:633, 40-44, DOI: 10.1080/03071846409419702. http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/03071846409419702
[9] Patrick Boniface. Ibid.
[10] Hansard HC Deb 26 June 1963 vol 679 cc1335-7
[11] Patrick Boniface. Ibid.
[12] Christine Olsen. Rabbit-Proof Fence (Screenplay). Strawberry Hills, Australia: CurrencyScreenplays, 2012. p.78
[13] Alex Renton. Ibid. p.18
[14] https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-foundation/orwell/essays-and-other-works/you-and-the-atom-bomb/
[15] Amin Khan. https://www.aljazeera.com/features/2021/2/7/what-is-vaccine-nationalism-and-why-is-it-so-harmful
[16] Toye, Churchill’s Empire, p.227. Quoted in Tembeka Ngcukaitobi. The Land is Ours: South Africa’s First Black Lawyers and the Birth of Constitutionalism. Cape Town: Penguin Random House South Africa, 2018. p.266
[17] David D. Nelson. The Imperial Mantle: The United States, Decolonization, and the Third World. (Indiana University Press, 2001), p.20. Quoted in Tembeka Ngcukaitobi. Ibid.
[18] Nikole Hannah-Jones. The 1619 Project. New York: One World, 2021. P.36
[19] Tembeka Ngcukaitobi. The Land Is Ours: South Africa’s First Black Lawyers and the Birth of Constitutionalism. Cape Town: Penguin Books, 2018.
[20] https://www.worldmeters.info/geography/7-continents/