Honour the unsung black heroes of journalism under apartheid

Not many journalists know Phil Mtimkulu, but they should. Students of journalism learn about the importance of October 19 1977 — Black Wednesday — but may never know what Mtimkulu was up to on that fateful morning.

What they might stumble upon in lectures is how Percy Qoboza, the great editor of The World and Weekend World, wrote a powerful editorial that — together with the work of other activist journalists — raised the ire of the security branch, which swooped on the title and unleashed what today is known as Press Freedom Day.

What is not well known is that on that day, Mtimkulu, Juby Mayet and Mike Norton were among the first people to show up at the bank holding the account of the Union of Black Journalists (UBJ), where they withdrew every rand and cent it owned.

By the time the brutal security police woke up to the fact that its Black Wednesday haul, at least where it related to the UBJ was concerned, amounted to nought, Mtimkulu and his comrades had disappeared. It was a heist limited in rand value but rich in symbolism.

It showed grit. It showed the mettle to remain focused on what mattered — saving poorly paid journalists' funds. It showed the paucity of morals of a regime that wanted to rob a people whose dignity was already under siege. But Mtimkulu, Mayet and Norton  suspended their tears and stood in that 1970s bank queue in defiance of possible arrest.

This was a year after Hector Pieterson and many others were killed. It was weeks after Steve Biko was killed. It set off a cat-and-mouse game that culminated in the arrest of Mtimkulu, Mayet and Norton arrest in 1978.

But eventually Mtimkulu and his comrades emerged victorious — again — after demonstrating through their lawyer that despite the raid in the early hours of October 19, the actual banning order became effective only when proclaimed in the government gazette released later that day. Those baying for Mtimkulu’s blood were left red-faced. All they could do was set traps and later impose a banning order after he reported on a story about Mathatha Tsedu, who was under a banning order in Seshego, in what is now Polokwane.

But Mtimkulu’s fortitude and valour must be understood in terms of what he and his contemporaries did. He worked with and was detained along with The World's features editor Aggrey Klaaste, Dr Nthato Motlana, Black People's Convention (BPC) president Kenneth Rachidi and BPC director Aubrey Mokoena, who were held in terms of the Internal Security Act in October 1977.

Mtimkulu, Tsedu, Joe Thloloe and Charles Nqakula, who called each other David to confuse those who eavesdropped on their conversations, were intermittently banned for their activism. The UBJ, which Mtimkulu served as a secretary-general, morphed into the Writers Association of South Africa (Wasa), which mutated into the Media Workers Organisation of South Africa (Mwasa). It was Mwasa that agitated for the promotion of black reporters into what then were lily-white management positions in media houses, which led to the formation of the Black Editors' Forum, which came together with the whites-only Conference of Editors to form the South African National Editors' Forum (Sanef) 29 years ago.

Media freedom cannot operate in South Africa while the society in which it operates remains unfree

—  Percy Qoboza, former editor of The World and Weekend World

So, in a big way, Mtimkulu helped start a chain of events that eventually led to the organisation that Sanef is today. We, the editors of today, owe a great debt to the Mtimkulus who, clad in courage and an unmatched determination to do the right thing, used journalism to not only show the unjustness of apartheid, but to move us towards the democracy we all cherish.

So when the Sanef-contracted judges awarded Mtimkulu the Allan Soga/Standard Bank Chairman’s Lifetime Achievement Award, it was overdue. Thloloe, who wasn’t well, decided that for Mtimkulu it was worth dragging himself there. Thami Mazwai, Sekola Sello, Khulu Sibiya, Pearl Luthuli, Montshiwa Moroke, Thabo Leshilo, Willie Bokala all decided they wanted to be there. They did that because they know — unlike many in today’s newsrooms — who Mtimkulu is.

My heart bleeds when I think of what he and his generation went through. Take Bokala, for example. He spent about 24 months in jail for detailing in a comprehensive series of stories how the 1976 uprising was planned and executed, and how the youngsters were hunted down by the regime. Rich history, but largely unknown in many youthful newsrooms.

As we approach October 19, we must remember Mtimkulu’s leitmotif to the effect that “media freedom cannot operate in South Africa while the society in which it operates remains unfree”. It reinforced the saying “no normal press in an abnormal society”. The question it surfaces is: what is normal about the lives we live today? Why is the eradication of shacklands not an urgent business for all of us? Why are hospitals that are falling apart treated as normal? Why is crime within the police considered par for the course?

Mtimkulu is a tad self-effacing, but no doubt with a steely confidence built over many years of playing hide-and-seek with those who hunted him down, banned him, arrested him and sought to limit his influence over his peers.

Now retired after serving the University of South Africa for about 30 years as a politics lecturer, Mtimkulu has served this country with honour and grace. He and his contemporaries deserve much, much more. They deserve to be known, understood, respected. The meaning of things is everything. The prism through which we understand Mtimkulu is important for understanding who we are and, for journalism, why we do what we do. Mtimkulu is a reminder that to be a great journalist is not only to love words, or to read daily, but to also develop a deep love for one’s country and continent.