Lucky along the line

The heat today took me away from my computer and out into the shade. It could have been a welcome break from news and thoughts of war and slaughter, flight and its aftermath.

But because I am glued to the Middle East blogs, it’s not a case of taking a break, sipping a drink. I am, after all, looking for grace towards enemies. I take outside with me Pity the Nation and Country of My Skull. Two wounded nations.

I flick idly through Country of My Skull, skimming for the names of people I knew until I spot a reference to Joyce Seroke, and several paragraphs further on, to Ellen Kuzwayo too. So it is, hooked by two giants Joyce and Ellen, that I come across the testimony of Deborah Matshoba and read about the man Taljaard.

During Deborah Matshoba's first detention in the Old Fort, she was returned to her cell after harsh, harrowing interrogation over several days, during which she became delirious and collapsed.

She recalled in her testimony to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, “The cell was swarming with lice. The blankets were caked and smelt of urine. I didn’t know where I was, I was screaming and shouting and had severe asthma attacks.”

“But,” she added, “I was lucky along the line. Because an Afrikaner came, Taljaard, I’ll never forget his name. He said he thought I was mad. I told him I was a political prisoner. He listened carefully and smuggled an asthma spray and some tablets in and helped me to hide it behind the toilet.”

Incredulity and humility compete as I return to these words:

But I was lucky along the line.