Given that we’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, the death of IFP founder Mangosuthu Buthelezi was remarkable for the copious bile and hatred it unleashed for one of the most influential political figures of recent times.
Just as he was a polarising actor during the struggle to end apartheid, in death Buthelezi has left public opinion about his legacy deeply divided.
Some cast him as a bloodthirsty warlord responsible for the deaths of thousands, while others only have praise for him, apparently a man who would never hurt a fly.
His party described Buthelezi’s death as an “unspeakable loss to the IFP, the Zulu nation, our country, and the greater cause of justice and peace”.
EFF MP Mbuyiseni Ndlozi called him “a man of peace”; for the Speaker of parliament, Nosiviwe Mapisa-Nqakula, he was “a guiding light” and “source of wisdom”.
ANC spokesperson Mahlengi Bhengu-Motsiri said Buthelezi’s vision had been to normalise relations between the ANC and the IFP. Buthelezi, she said, wished to be “reunited with the prized membership of the ANC”. “The ANC recognises his contribution to the liberation struggle and the post-apartheid political environment,” she said.
To cap it all, the president honoured him with a category 1 official funeral.
But this characterisation of Buthelezi would be unrecognisable to the victims of political violence who called radio shows and took to social media with stories of the loved ones they had lost, and accounts of the murderous actions of Inkatha supporters in townships in the then Natal and Transvaal. It must feel surreal to them.
The question of violence aside, much of the early political conflict between Buthelezi and the liberation movement stemmed from his participation in an apartheid structure, the KwaZulu “homeland” authority, designed to disenfranchise and deprive black South Africans of their citizenship.
But even such entanglement with apartheid institutions would not by itself explain Inkatha’s particularly bitter relations, first with Steve Biko’s Black Consciousness Movement and then with the ANC — which had initially even supported the formation of Inkatha.
The bad blood against Buthelezi seems to have arisen from his crossing of the line that separated the National Party regime from those seeking to end its rule
After all, some “homeland” leaders, such as Enos Mabuza of KaNgwane and Bantu Holomisa of the Transkei, enjoyed warm ties with the liberation movement, despite their pivotal positions in the Bantustan system. Holomisa, who gave succour to the liberation movements, briefly became one of the ANC’s most popular leaders, before falling out with the party.
The bad blood against Buthelezi seems to have arisen from his crossing of the line that separated the National Party regime from those seeking to end its rule. When relations between him and the liberation movement plummeted, he made common cause with the apartheid state, which provided Inkatha with weapons and training.
As the struggle to end apartheid reached a climax, he sided with a state adjudged by the international community to have committed a crime against humanity through its racist policies. He could have chosen differently, as one of his reputed heroes, Albert Luthuli, did when confronted with a similar dilemma. Luthuli opted to forfeit his traditional leadership position rather than leave the ANC, as Pretoria would have liked him to.
But historical considerations aside, the death of Buthelezi, and the virulently divided response to it, raises another question — what progress have we made in promoting true reconciliation in the 30 years since the end of apartheid and the supposed dawn of a new society?
While the emphasis has been on reconciling black and white South Africans, what have been consigned to the back burner are the residual, yet potent, animosities between black people that arose from the political differences of the past during which much blood was spilt. Whether between the ANC and Inkatha, or between affiliates of the United Democratic Front and black consciousness formations.
In my recent interview with veteran actor John Kani, he bemoaned the mishandling of the reconciliation project. “We’ve put a large Band-Aid around the wound. The problem with Band-Aid is that it has to be removed. And when you do the wound is still there,” he said.
As the raw responses to Buthelezi’s death show, the wounds from the past continue to fester, and have not healed themselves as we seem to have assumed they would.
It is all well and good to reconcile black and white. But it is equally necessary to seek reconciliation among black people, and to acknowledge the pain and the losses suffered through assassinations, township massacres, train shootings and political rivalry.
Conspicuously lacking in appraisals of the role of Buthelezi and the IFP in political violence has been discussion of the hidden hand of the apartheid state in instigating and fanning it, as captured in media reports and detailed by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
Such violence, aimed at weakening the liberation movement as political negotiations got under way and demoralising its support base, included hit squads and vigilante groups such as the “witdoeke” and “kitskonstabels” (“instant cops”). The resultant conflict was characterised as “black-on-black violence”, insinuating the genetic hardwiring of black people to kill each other for no reason.
Whether one regards Buthelezi as chief villain of the bloody pre-transition period or as a champion of Zulu nationalism, his death shines a spotlight on the victims of political violence; the walking wounded who were themselves scarred by it, or still live with the pain of having lost loved ones.
What are they to do with their trauma and resentment? To whom should they take their plight? And who will listen?
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