Voices from the Underground by Shirley Gunn & Shanil Haricharan

Author:Shirley Gunn & Shanil Haricharan [Gunn, Shirley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House South Africa
Published: 2019-09-14T00:00:00+00:00

7

Ismail Vallie

Beyond the Skyline

‘MY GOD, WE are not going to make it. If they stop us now, we are finished.’ This is what went through my mind when I saw the heavy police presence on the South African side of the border. My wife Julie and I were returning from Botswana, carrying arms and explosives for MK in a Nissan Skyline. We’d already avoided three roadblocks by taking a two-and-a-half-hour detour through dense bush, following an ANC comrade in a 4 x 4. Just before we joined the tarred road to the border, his vehicle got stuck in deep sand. ‘You guys carry on,’ he said. ‘I will find my way back.’ On we went, and now we were facing a huge roadblock. There were about forty men in SADF uniform manning it, supported by Casspirs. At that time, the South African government was at its weakest: bombs were going off everywhere, so they were intensifying vehicle searches, and commuters could be delayed for hours. The SADF had also introduced metal detectors, sniffer dogs, and mirrors on long rods to check underneath the cars. Our car was laden with explosives. I can’t begin to describe the adrenaline rush. I wondered if I should turn around and attempt a getaway. It felt like we were driving into a deathtrap. Then my rational mind kicked in: ‘Whatever happens, will happen,’ I thought.

I was born in the winter of 1959, on 3 August. My paternal grandmother, whom we called Dadima, came to South Africa from India. My mother, Amina, was from Lourenço Marques (now Maputo) in Mozambique. I lived with them at 39 Selkirk Street in District Six, along with my dad Mohammed, and my siblings Abdul-Aziz and Salim.

My grandparents owned the house. In those days, people often didn’t make wills, and when my grandfather passed away my dad lost the house, eventually having to rebuy it from the state at its market value.

My dad was very involved with the community. For years he was chairman of the Muir Street Mosque, and when there was a problem in the community, people consulted him as an elder and he gave them advice. My dad was well educated for his generation, even though he had been forced to leave school in matric and play the role of breadwinner after his father passed away, continuing the family’s fruit and vegetable business and abandoning his ambition to become a doctor. We were what was then considered middle class.

In District Six, everybody knew everybody else and there was a wonderful community spirit. If a neighbour asked for sugar, no one hesitated to help them out. As children, my brothers and I used to play in the streets. If someone saw us doing something wrong, they’d give us a whack. We were children of the community.

My father and his two brothers, Suleiman and Moosa, owned Empire Farm Fruiterers. We had a number of tenders, supplying fruit and vegetables to hospitals, chain stores and restaurants. It was a fairly big business and we were busy.

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