n a confluence of evil, power and
quite possibly greed, hundreds of
lives were irrevocably scorched in Nomzamo on 2nd and 3rd June 2014 when bulldozers and arsonists, under orders from the ANC owned SANRAL mowed down
their homes.
I walked among the shatter shards of these broken lives, the pain profoundly evident in the soft, grey noise of the community hall devoid of exuberance, of children’s laughter, of the sound of chatter and friendship. A pseudo-congregation of shared grief, they sat in neat rows, quiet, waiting on a preacher to tell them
it was all a nightmarish hallucination and cure his congregation of their demented dreams.
Toddlers and elders, parents and scholars sat there, amidst this profound lack of noise. The low rumble in the hall felt foreign to the effervescent exuberance so typical of Nomzamo’s streets. Many hundreds of broken lives lay scattered in the mud and rain, but the greatest horror in all this, is undoubtedly the desolation and resign in the eyes and quiet voices of those I spoke to. They shared with
me in whispers the story of that Monday and Tuesday.
Many were out at work on Monday and returned to ruins where once they had built
a life. Matric students shielded their eyes,
as they recounted how almost none of their books were saved, none of their notes or textbooks. These are simply not a priority I suppose when you only have a few minutes to get out - if you have the luxury of choice at all!
Two women whispered their hell. They'd been out to work all Monday only to return
as night was falling. Their home lay shattered among tear gas canisters and rubber bullet casings, behind a barbed wire
border. Nothing is left of a once safe nest.
Some men shouldered past me. I was taken by surprise with the force of their movement. My eyes trailed their path as I saw them leaning against the food table. Their hunger captured in a moment of physical contact. Later I found them visibly calmer, eating their meal - turning for a quick photo, only long enough to get back to the business of hunger busting.
My teaching background and life in churches could not ever prepare me for the silence of the children. I walked further down the displaced congregation to find the children. They sat on sacks, mattresses, big plastic balls, their bright colours an inappropriate companion to the pain in the room. In every other hall I had ever been in the children would run playing tag, catch, enjoying the echoey tones of their voices off the walls. Their silence was deafening. You could shatter the soft dull noise with a scraping chair! It took a couple of waves over my lens to elicit any response, and tucking my head turtle style up and down to find a smile in their eyes. School seemed an all but distant memory as they grappled with the immense life changing moments they had witnessed just days before. How could they ever take a home, safety, security as a natural part of a family, of their lives?
An elder from the community appeared at my right. His words etched into my being. "Ons hart is stukkend." Along with their courage to stand up against the abuse of power, to rebel against evil overlords. These people have been exposed to the gas chambers of power and are forever altered. The senseless abuse of power has robbed them of bravery, of determination to overcome and carry on the fight to survive. Their eyes tell of a loss, immense, pervasive, profound, where hope was sacrificed on the altar of political power.
The Nomzamo Nightmare
Community NEWS
An eyewitness account of the gas chambers of power
These people have been exposed to the gas chambers of power and are forever altered. Their eyes tell of a loss, immense, pervasive, profound, where hope was sacrificed on the altar of political power.
08 - JULY 2014
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