Headlines read…
“The State is to press
murder charges against some of around 260 Lonmin mineworkers arrested during
the violence at Lonmin's Karee mine at Marikana.”
“Three-thousand striking
workers Lonmin platinum mine in Marikana in the North West have been given a
final ultimatum to return to work today or face dismissal.”
“Flags will fly at half-mast
across the country from tomorrow. President Jacob Zuma has declared this week a
period of national mourning.”
“The bloodbath at Lonmin's
Marikana Mine has led to a drop in the company's share price, the Guardian
reported today.”
- SABC http://www.sabc.co.za/news/tag/Marikana
Today I walked past the
police station in town and saw the flags at half-mast. I knew it had to be for the fallen in
miners in Marikana, even though at that moment I had no idea that South Africa
is in a period of national mourning.
To anyone who doesn’t know
much about mining and what it means to South Africa’s economy, join the club.
Before I came to South Africa, all I knew about the mines was that it had been
a breeding ground for the spread of the HIV virus and had distanced families
from their loved ones and had little to adequate housing for its workers.
However, piece by piece it
starts to get clearer and clearer to me how the industry works here. Just look at the village where I live,
the only people that I know who are working and have a steady job are working
in the mines. I watch men as I go
out for my run at dusk leaving the village and heading for the tar road in
their uniforms, ready for work.
Occasionally, I even see a women dressed in uniform and headed to work
(way to break barriers – makes me smile).
And then, as I leave my house in the early morning, I watch men get
dropped off from the kombie taxis, coming home from work.
Men (mainly) walk through the village
wearing their mining uniforms with the neon strips that glow when the car
lights hit them in the night and the strips of material then shine across their arms and legs. My host father “Papa Stuart” came down to South Africa from
Botswana to work in the mines, now he receives the pension and stays at home
enjoying the life of retirement by fiddling in his garden and fixing up the
house (sound familiar Papa Dinsmore?).
As you drive through the Northern Cape, it’s almost impossible not to
see a mine along the side of the road or off in the distance. In fact, last time I was in the kombie
(taxi) heading to Pretoria a university student, who was doing his practical
out in Northern Cape, tapped my shoulder and pointed at a gold mine which he
stated was the deepest gold mine in the world. He said that at this mine they got the gold and then sold it
to China, where it would be processed. [FYI China is taking over African
business, or maybe just South African biz, since I always see them talking
about it in the SABC nightly news].
What became quite clear to
me today was not that the price of platinum rose to its highest price in more
than six weeks after the violence at the Marikana mine (New York markets closed at $1469/ounce on August 17th), but what emotional pain
this is bringing to so many of the people involved, government, families, industry, and unions alike. The news tonight reported that women were in hysterics
because they had not been notified by the hundreds of husbands, brothers and
uncles who were arrested during the strike and about if they are alright. Tonight, I sat in the dimly light livingroom
with my host mother and father with chills running down my arms as I saw the
pain in their voices and their eyes.
Map of South Africe where "A" marks where Marikana is in North West province
I turned to my host parents and looked at their faces and saw the
sadness. They said to me that it
was outrageous that they did not know what was happening behind closed doors in
the prison. My host dad said, “this
is very bad for South Africa” and turned his head away and closed his eyes in
what looked like shame and grief.
Having just been to the Apartheid Museum and having just watched this
movie The Bang Bang Club, which is about several renowned photographers during
the last years of Apartheid, all I could think about was how these images of
the violence in Marikana seemed so similar to images presented to me in both
places. And all I could wonder
about was if my host parents were thinking the same thing.
