South African NRI women's rights activist honoured -A life worth celebrating



Johannesburg, Jan 03, 2004
NRIpress

The life of the diminutive Amina Cachalia, the ninth of 11 children, was bridged by two of the 20th century's greatest men - Mohandas Gandhi and Nelson Mandela. Both were to have a dominant influence on her life.

At the one end was Gandhi, religious leader and lawyer, a man she never met but a friend of her father, Ebrahim Asvat, with whom he worked to organise the Indian passive resistance campaigns of 1906 and 1907. At the other end has been Mandela, her friend and comrade who was prepared to die for the cause he espoused.

Now in her 70s, the serene activist has had time to look back on a lifetime devoted to a fight for justice and human dignity, something she personally was so long denied and for which she toiled for decades. Her political philosophy was formed at home and reinforced by her comrades in the struggle

Veteran South African Indian anti-apartheid and women's rights activist Amina Cachalia was conferred a doctorate of law and immediately dedicated it to those who had fought for the country's freedom.

"To receive a doctorate of law from a distinguished establishment such as the University of the Witwatersrand is indeed an honour and my appreciation in accepting this is considerable," Cachalia said, dedicating the honour to all those who had made sacrifices in the struggle for a democratic South Africa.

"(Nelson) Mandela, when he was honoured in this way for the umpteenth time, made the point that nobody should be singled out for their contribution to the liberation struggle. I fully agree with him on that score.

Cachalia said it was the collective effort of thousands of people from various organisations throughout the decades of struggle that was responsible for today's free and democratic South Africa.

"I was told that I am the first Indian woman to be honoured in this way by this great institution," she said.

"I must admit that I was only aware of the fact that I was Indian when I was about 10 years old - that's simply how we grew up in (the cosmopolitan Johannesburg suburb of) Newclare - without any racial differences.

"While I am very proud of my Indian roots I never joined the struggle as an Indian. I was just one of the millions who had been stripped of dignity and human rights and who decided to fight for liberation."

But she expressed her pride at the contribution South African Indians had made to the struggle.

Following on from the early days of Mahatma Gandhi, Ebrahim Asvat, Ahmed Muhamed Cachalia and Thumbi Naidoo, a very large number of people of Indian descent joined the struggle for liberation - as foot soldiers, volunteers, leaders and fundraisers, she recalled.

Cachalia was born in 1930 in the rural town of Vereeniging, the youngest daughter of Ebrahim and Fatima Asvat. The family's tradition of political activism dates back to her father's close association with Mahatma Gandhi and the first passive resistance campaign of 1907.

Amina's sister, Zainab, was an early activist and Amina's subsequent political activism and championing of women's rights was almost preordained.

Having spent her entire life establishing or serving on bodies fighting for a democratic order and the rights of women, she was involved in organising the protest campaign against passes for women introduced by the apartheid minority white government and was one of the leaders of the 20,000-strong march of women on the Union Buildings in Pretoria in August 1956.

Cachalia recounted how apartheid laws that separated races were defied in prison.

The circumstances were quite special because for the first time in the history of South Africa the women who defied on August 26, 1952, were not separated in prison, she recalled.

"For once all the races could live together, even though it was under a prison roof. I spent every night and every day with 28 women, serving our sentence, in the Boksburg gaol," Cachalia reminisced.

"I wish to reiterate that I accept this honour tonight on behalf of all these comrades and on behalf of my late husband, Yusuf Cachalia, who was fortunate to enjoy one year of freedom and democracy that he had so tirelessly worked for."

After the government's crackdown on opposition organisations in 1960, Cachalia pursued her political activities clandestinely and, as a result, was served with a restrictive ban order in 1963 while she was recuperating from a serious heart operation.

Her underground activities continued throughout the period of her ban, which lasted from 1963 to 1980. Her late husband Yusuf too was banned and for 10 years kept under house arrest.

Cachalia was elected an MP of the South African National Assembly in the first democratic elections in 1994. She was also offered an ambassadorial posting but was unable to accept it because of family commitments.

Amina continues to serve in organisations and groups that focus on the uplift of women, the nurturing and protection of children, and the rehabilitation of the disadvantaged.


A life worth celebrating
April 20, 2004

By Winnie Graham

The life of the diminutive Amina Cachalia, the ninth of 11 children, was bridged by two of the 20th century's greatest men - Mohandas Gandhi and Nelson Mandela. Both were to have a dominant influence on her life.

At the one end was Gandhi, religious leader and lawyer, a man she never met but a friend of her father, Ebrahim Asvat, with whom he worked to organise the Indian passive resistance campaigns of 1906 and 1907. At the other end has been Mandela, her friend and comrade who was prepared to die for the cause he espoused.

Now in her 70s, the serene activist has had time to look back on a lifetime devoted to a fight for justice and human dignity, something she personally was so long denied and for which she toiled for decades. Her political philosophy was formed at home and reinforced by her comrades in the struggle.

She was banned for 15 years and her husband, Yusuf, placed under house arrest for 25. Their family life was destroyed and, at a stage when her husband was jailed, she was in such dire straits she was forced to give up her home and move into a relative's house with her children.

The doctorate she receives tonight comes at an appropriate moment. Just a few nights ago she was part of the huge crowd celebrating the ANC's election victory, savouring afresh the joys of a prize well won.

"When we started the struggle we had no idea we would have to fight for 40 years," she said at the weekend. "When Madiba was jailed we vowed we would free him within five - yet he served 27 years behind bars."

The remarkable Amina Cachalia (nee Asvat) was born in Vereeniging in 1930. The first language she learned to speak was Afrikaans - learned at her mother's knee who, in turn, had learned it from her mother, a Dutch woman who had married her Indian sweetheart and quickly picked up Afrikaans.

"I loved the language," Cachalia said. "However, as a little girl I never realised that a part of me was 'Boer'."

She was five when her parents moved to Newclare, a cosmopolitan area of Johannesburg. She remembers a carefree childhood playing with black, Chinese, Indian and white children.

"I had no concept of race. I didn't know I was an Indian. I was just another kid on the block," she said. "In fact, I didn't know that the junior school I attended was for coloureds. It was just a school."

It was only later, when the family moved to Fordsburg and the young Amina noticed the girls were exactly the same colour as herself, that she asked for answers. Her political initiation started with her father's explanation and she learned for a first time about racial discrimination.

Her education continued when she listened to dinner table conversations between her father and older siblings.

At school one of the teachers, Mervy Thandray, noticed her interest and, keen to instill a sense of justice, guided her reading. By the time she was at high school, she was ready for action.

She was a young teenager when the Transvaal and Natal Indian Congress embarked on a passive resistance campaign in Durban and an older sister, Zaynab, was imprisoned for her part in the crusade. "I was desperate to join," she said. "I also wanted to go to jail but because I was young and small of stature I wasn't allowed to take part."

Undeterred, she persuaded her mother to let her move to Durban where she stayed with a married sister. Her school work suffered. Her interests were totally centred on the camp where members of the defiance movement gathered.

When she returned to Johannesburg she knew what she had to do. She would learn to type so she could earn a living. She then embarked on another campaign: teaching skills to women. Empowering them gave them independence and a sense of dignity, issues of paramount importance to the young activist.

By now she was actively involved in the Indian Youth League. When the Defiance Campaign was launched in 1952, she recruited women to the movement and on August 26 1952 was one of the first 29 to be arrested for defying the Germiston township permit regulations. Just 22, she was recognised as a formidable force in the anti-apartheid struggle and was working with women such as Lilian Ngoyi, Albertina Sisulu, Helen Joseph and Josie Palmer.

As she looks back, she remembers the women's march to the Union Buildings in Pretoria on August 9 1956 as a landmark.

She, heavily pregnant, was one of 20 000 women who gathered to protest against the imposition of a law that would force black women to carry passes.

In 1955 she had married Yusuf Cachalia who with Walter Sisulu, was joint secretary of the Congress Alliance and the Defiance Campaign. The birth of a son and daughter, Ghaleb and Coco, 1956 and 1957, did not interfere with their commitment to the struggle.

When the treason trial began in 1956, the young Mrs Cachalia was again in the forefront helping the dependents of the accused with food parcels and money. The clampdown on political organisations came after the Sharpeville shootings in 1960 when the government banned the ANC and the PAC, crippling the Indian Congress by placing the organisation's executives under house arrest.


But the worst was yet to be.

Ordinary people whose only "crime" had been to speak up against injustice - many of them chiefs in rural areas - were banished to remote areas and given a small stipend on which to survive. Denied access to their families and unable to earn a living, many were unbearably lonely and depressed.

"Helen Joseph suggested we visit them," Cachalia said. "We spent three weeks making contact with people denied their homes. It was an eye-opener to see how they were suffering in their enforced isolation. We tried to help by arranging food parcels, clothes and other necessities and we kept in touch through correspondence. I still have some of the letters written me."

In 1962 Amina Cachalia's name was added to the banned list and she could not leave the magisterial district of Johannesburg. Her husband was under house arrest which was to be repeatedly reimposed during the next 25 years.

They could not entertain friends or family or communicate with other banned people. Their lives, in fact, were on hold.

"We were constantly watched," Cachalia said, "But somehow we found a way. Lilian Ngoyi, for instance, would come to where I worked and pretend to be a customer. We would disappear into the kitchen to talk."

Because the situation was taking its toll on their children, the Cachalias sent their daughter to London to live with Amina's sister Zaynab who was in exile and practicing medicine in Britain. Their son, Ghaleb, went to Waterford in Swaziland.

When he was 14 he joined his sister in Britain for a short holiday - only to find he could not return to South Africa. His passport was withdrawn and he was refused re-entry.

"I applied for a new passport for him every six months but was turned down each time," she said. "That was one of the most devastating things the old regime did. They punished us through our children. You can imagine our anxiety at being parted from them for so long. We worried constantly about our children."

Eight years were to pass before Ghaleb returned home and could go to university - and even then his parents' worries were not over. At 4am one morning their home in Vrededorp was raided and their son was arrested. He was one of many students involved in political protest.

But, Cachalia said, others were having a worse time. People who displeased the authorities were constantly harassed. "They did terrible things to them," she said. "For instance, a dead cat was hung on the handle of our front door."

Hounded as a "communist", she still believes it would be a great concept "if only people weren't so selfish".

Now, as she is recognised for her role in the freedom struggle she remembers the sacrifices made by many others, some of whom have not been acknowledged and others who may have died before the new democracy came into being.

Then there were others who made their contribution in different ways. One young couple, for instance, offered refuge to activists at their Doornfontein home when the security police were looking for them.

"Mandela was one given sanctuary there," Cachalia said. "In fact, he still asks after Ayesha and Bob Khota when he sees me. That's what I like about him. He has never forgotten his friends."

Despite the social isolation the Cachalias were forced to endure throughout much of their marriage, Amina Cachalia feels no bitterness or hatred. Along with the bad times, she likes to recall the good times, when comrades met, had parties and fun. She did what she had to do and is content now to enjoy her children and grandchildren. She is still involved and is particularly concerned about the Aids pandemic.

"I preach about it all the time - starting with my own grandchildren," she said.

Her flat in Killarney reflects a simple lifestyle. Delicious smells emanate from the kitchen - a meal she is preparing for her family's weekly visit on Saturday.

When asked if there was any truth in rumours some years ago that marriage between herself and Mandela was on the cards, she shakes her head.

"No," she said. "Mandela was very supportive after my husband died and we are friends but there was never any thought of marriage."

The one positive in her life?

"That Yusuf lived to see the birth of our new democracy," she said. "He was buried on the day Mandela was inaugurated president. Yusuf was truly a liberated husband. He always let me do exactly what I felt necessary. Now, when I need to reminisce, I miss him so much."