# KATHARINA JÖRDER

# **BUILDING A WHITE NATION**

PROPAGANDA, PHOTOGRAPHY, AND THE APARTHEID REGIME BETWEEN THE LATE 1940S AND THE MID-1970S

**BUILDING A WHITE NATION**

**T** hroughout the apartheid era, South Africa maintained a wide-reaching propaganda apparatus. At its core was the information service that strongly capitalised on photography to visually articulate the minority regime's racist political messages, promote Afrikaner nationalism, and consolidate White rule. By unearthing a substantial corpus of photographs that so far have been hidden in archives, this book offers a distinctive perspective on the institutional context of the regime's photographic production and how it was tightly linked to the objective to build a White nation. Through scrutiny of the photographic material's iconographies, its circulation in printed matters, and a comparison with works by photographers like Margaret Bourke-White, Ernest Cole, and David Goldblatt, readers gain fresh insight into the country's visual culture of the period. Based on the ambiguity of photographs, the monograph challenges the alleged dichotomy between socalled pro- and anti-apartheid photographies, highlighting how the regime was able to position photographs in the

**Katharina Jörder** is a postdoctoral researcher and lecturer of Art History at Freie Universität Berlin. Her work focuses on histories of photography, African photography, and

grey area of inconspicuousness.

visual culture.

KATHARINA JÖRDER

Building a White Nation Propaganda, Photography, and the Apartheid Regime Between the Late 1940s and the Mid-1970s

# **BUILDING A WHITE NATION**

# **PROPAGANDA, PHOTOGRAPHY, AND THE APARTHEID REGIME BETWEEN THE LATE 1940S AND THE MID-1970S**

KATHARINA JÖRDER

LEUVEN UNIVERSITY PRESS

Berlin, Freie Univ., D188

This publication was financed in part by the open access fund for monographs and edited volumes of the Freie Universität Berlin and KU Leuven Fund for Fair Open Access. Printed with the support of Ernst-Reuter-Gesellschaft der Freunde, Förderer und Ehemaligen der Freien Universität Berlin e. V.

Published in 2023 by Leuven University Press / Presses Universitaires de Louvain / Universitaire Pers Leuven. Minderbroedersstraat 4, B-3000 Leuven (Belgium). © Katharina Jörder, 2023

This book is published under a Creative Commons by Attribution 4.0 International licence.

Further details about Creative Commons licences are available at https://creativecommons.org/ licenses/

Attribution should include the following information:

Katharina Jörder, *Building a White Nation: Propaganda, Photography, and the Apartheid Regime Between the Late 1940s and the Mid-1970s*. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2023. (CC BY 4.0 International)

Unless otherwise indicated all images are reproduced with the permission of the rights holders acknowledged by the author in the illustration credits (pp. 363–367). Please contact Leuven University Press in case of any omissions or errors. All images are expressly excluded from the CC BY 4.0 licence covering the rest of this publication. Permission for reuse should be sought from the rights holders.

ISBN 978 94 6270 380 3 (Paperback) ISBN 978 94 6166 526 3 (ePDF) https://doi.org/10.11116/9789461665263 D/2023/1869/26 NUR: 652

Layout: Crius Group Cover design: Jason Anscomb Cover illustration: S. Matthysen: Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, 1972, large format colour negative; C12086, Transnet Heritage Library Photo Collection, Johannesburg, South Africa.

# **TABLE OF CONTENTS**



ILLUSTRATION CREDITS 363

# **ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS**

There are many people to whom I would like to express my gratitude for supporting me along the way of writing this book that is a revised version of my dissertation. From the beginning Tobias Wendl encouraged me not to shy away from researching such a contested and sensitive topic as South Africa's propaganda photography during apartheid. Throughout the years he has been a supportive and critical supervisor, whose broad knowledge of African history and photography often helped me to sharpen my argument. Kerstin Schankweiler's infectious enthusiasm for African art history has been invaluable. Her always constructive feedback often rekindled my motivation while her critical thinking challenged me to question my own path. The participants of Tobias Wendl's colloquium on African arts at Freie Universität Berlin enriched my research with their valuable comments and I want to thank Craniv Boyd, Paola Ivanov, Verena Rodatus, and Martin Vorwerk.

Thanks to a generous grant by the German Academic Scholarship Foundation, I was able to exclusively concentrate on my research from 2015 to 2018 and to do research trips to South Africa. I want to thank all those who shared their memories and knowledge of photography during apartheid with me. Among them are Rory Bester, Michael Godby, David Goldblatt, Lizè Groenewald, Verne Harris and his colleagues at the Nelson Mandela Foundation, Gideon Mendel, Rita Potenza, Jürgen Schadeberg, Warren Siebrits, Jeanne van Eeden, Quinten Venter, Paul Weinberg, and Dee Worman. The expertise of many librarians and archivists opened the doors to photographs and other sources for me. I am especially thankful for the assistance by the staff of the Alan Paton Centre & Struggle Archives, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Pietermaritzburg, the Mthatha Archives Repository, Mthatha, the Archive of Contemporary Affairs, University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, the Ditsong National Museum of Cultural History, Pretoria, the National Archives of South Africa, Pretoria, the National Library of South Africa, Pretoria, the Erfenisstigting Archives (at the Voortrekker Monument), Pretoria, the Transnet Heritage Library, Johannesburg, the Historical Papers Research Archive, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, the National Library of South Africa, Cape Town, and the University of Cape Town Libraries' Special Collections, Cape Town. Without their help the book would not have become as rich on photographic material as it is.

Without the community of fellow PhD candidates of different disciplines, the past years would have turned out quite differently and I thank them for their solidarity in the writing process of which much has happened in Berlin's Staatsbibliothek. I thank Robin Möser and Jessica Williams, both of whom I met in South African archives, for their amicable collaboration, for sharing archival findings as well as the fascination for South African history and photography with me.

When turning the dissertation into a book Mirjam Truwant and her colleagues from Leuven University Press gave me indispensable guidance in the editorial process. I thank Darren Newbury and Rory Bester for their thoughtful reading of the manuscript and their comments on it. Hubert Graml, Dominik Puntigam, and Emely Kreutz took a great load off my shoulders by helping me to re-gather some of the rare publications from the apartheid era and with digitising parts of the photographic material for the publication. Celia Schmidt steered the project through the late phase of financial administration.

I especially thank Lisa Hörstmann not only for our joint nightly bike rides from Dahlem to Neukölln, but for our close friendship that grew over the last, often challenging, years. Carla Lohmann-Malegiannakis has been critical as an art historian to give me important feedback on my writing, but most importantly she has always been a good friend. Even before I started to study art history, the friendship and hospitality of Heike Stieltjes and the Cloete family from Ida's Valley, Stellenbosch, gave my life the decisive twist that led me to pursue this research project.

I am more than grateful to Jakob Klaer, who went through this with me from the beginning, for his incredible patience and confidence, for his daily words of encouragement and his love. Providing me the emotional backup, Julia Jürgens and Inge Jörder always believed in me. When I was 12 years old Georg Jörder taught me how to use a single lens reflex camera. Shutter speed and aperture opened new ways of seeing to me and sparked my fascination with photography. It is with great sadness, that he missed the completion of my dissertation only by a couple of months and will not hold this book in his hands.

# **NOTES ON TERMINOLOGY AND FIGURES**

To write about South Africa's histories and society means to enter highly contested terrain. One risks reproducing and perpetuating the discriminating, derogative, and racist language that evolved during colonialism and that found its boldest manifestation in apartheid's racial classifications. Yet, in dealing with that time, to omit such contentious vocabulary would have a historically distorting and misleading effect. To articulate my argument, I need to quote from several sources that express racist opinions. There are ongoing debates for many of the following terms whether they should be used or not. Despite their pejorative deployment some of these terms have become a self-identification for a group or parts of it, therefore carrying a certain ambivalence.

With the terms 'Blacks' and 'Africans' I refer to people whom the apartheid regime classified as 'non-White' or 'non-European'. From the 1960s onwards, the apartheid state started to replace the word 'Native' by the word 'Bantu' to name Africans. Before the regime conquered the term 'Bantu', meaning 'the people', the word ethnographically identified the linguistic family of the Nguni, Sotho, Venda, Tsonga, and Shona groups. The apartheid state further categorised people as 'Indians' or 'Coloureds'. The latter has been in use in South Africa since the nineteenth century to name a truly diverse group of people of mixed heritage who were designated neither White nor Black. Referring collectively to Khoikhoi (also Khoi, Khoe, or Khoekhoe) and San, the term 'Khoisan' applies to the indigenous population of southern Africa and their descendants. White settlers and apartheid discourse sometimes interchangeably denominated them derogatively as 'Hottentots' or 'Bushmen'. Especially the latter term is at times still in use.

I will use 'Afrikaners' to refer to White people who self-identify as such and whose mother tongue is Afrikaans. I also use this term to emphasise the emergence and formulation of Afrikaner nationalism during the twentieth century. To name their idea of being a national 'imagined community' in the sense of Benedict Anderson, I deploy the Afrikaans term 'volk' which can be translated as 'a people' or 'nation'. Broadly synonymous with Afrikaner is the word 'Boer'. Meaning peasant or farmer, it also came to be used pejoratively. Afrikaans is a creole language that has developed in southern Africa since the seventeenth century. The Dutch spoken by the European settlers fused with the indigenous population's language as well as with the Malay and Portuguese the enslaved at the Cape spoke. In 1925, Afrikaans became recognised as an official language in the Union of South Africa. With the word 'English' I refer to English-speaking White South Africans and with 'British' to people of British nationality. I employ the term 'Whites' for both Afrikaansand English-speaking White South Africans. Following Kwame Anthony Appiah, I will be capitalising both Black and White when the terms refer to race and social categories.1 In quotations I will stick to the original writings.

It is important to note here that all these denominations encompass all genders. Although men dominated South African politics during the twentieth century, the role of women cannot be dismissed, especially in articulating and nurturing Afrikaner nationalism. Likewise, it needs to be mentioned that women played an active role in the African liberation struggle. In other words, although women might not always have been in the political vanguard, they took part in shaping South African society. In turn, not all Afrikaners were nationalists. Yet, it should be pointed out that they and English-speaking White South Africans lived in a system of White privilege that continues to be at work.

The literal translation for the term 'apartheid' is 'apartness' or 'separateness'. For practical reasons I will use it to frame the years between 1948 and 1994, from the moment when the National Party gained political power to the country's first democratic elections. With this periodisation I do not intend to postulate these years as definitive starting and end points of racial discrimination. Segregationist laws and White supremacy had been forged long before the late 1940s and apartheid did not end abruptly in 1994. Apartheid thinking neither ceased to exist from one day to another, nor can the enduring financial and psychological effects it had on entire generations be reduced to the years before 1994. This is to say that there is no clear temporal caesura dividing the apartheid period from an ostensible post-apartheid era.

Most of the visual material in this book originates from the colonial period and the apartheid era. Like language, it is deeply entrenched in the racist thinking of its time and reproduces stereotypes. To analyse the visual rhetoric of the apartheid regime and to show how it used images for propaganda, it seems inevitable to print some of these images here. Not publishing such pictures in the context of a study on propaganda photography would obscure and trivialise the injustice and harm the apartheid regime did to the people. Nevertheless, where it was possible to unfold my argumentation without images, I tried to reduce them.

In general, the figures in this book come from a wide variety of sources. Because of the available reproduction facilities and light conditions at the archives as well as the state of the originals, their qualities differ. Extant original captions provided by South Africa's information service to single photographs and captions quoted from books, periodicals, and so forth are set in quotation marks. For reasons of better legibility, I have made some typographical changes to those original wordings of sources and captions written in capital letters. I have translated all quotations that appear in Afrikaans, German, and French.

# **INTRODUCTION**

In a lively black-and-white photograph by Alf Kumalo (1930–2012), small children crowd around an elderly woman who is presenting a portrait of Nelson Mandela to one of the toddlers (Fig. 1). Mandela is dressed in a striped shirt and is frowning slightly, while his bearded face has a tired and sad expression. Engaged in an intense exchange of gazes, the woman, the child, and Mandela form an intimate trinity, so that the portrait turns into the focal point of Kumalo's photograph. Kumalo pictured Nosekeni Fanny Mandela holding her son's portrait after he had been sentenced to life imprisonment in the Rivonia trial of 1964. Significantly, with Mandela's conviction Pretoria's White minority regime decreed it illegal to publicly quote him or to publish pictures of him.1

Fig. 1 Alf Kumalo: A mother remembers. Nosekeni Fanny Mandela holds up her son's photograph, 1964.

This proscription epitomises how Pretoria tried to control, suppress, and censor the plurality of opinions throughout apartheid. Visual culture had become a crucial domain for the regime in which to establish its own selflegitimising perspective on apartheid, sugarcoating the system's racist cruelties while at the same time propagating Afrikaner nationalism. Photographers who pictured the circumstances in the country from a critical stance, not reproducing the image of a prosperous land in the sun, feared prosecution by the security police. In some cases, these methods put an end to the photographers' work in South Africa or to their careers in general.2 Okwui Enwezor points out that '[n]o form of media frightened the regime more than photography did, with its powerful testimony that could be used to expose and counteract the sanitized, propagandistic images working in the government's favor …'3

Apart from being expressions of fear, the White supremacists' measures against photography were a symptom of their awareness of the political impact images might have. This observation marks the starting point of my examination and raises the central research question: If the White minority regime was aware of the political dimensions which photographs are able to unfold, how did it in turn use photography to visually articulate its political messages, to bolster apartheid and to consolidate its power? My aim is to shed light on the interplay of the apartheid regime's propaganda and photography. At the core of South Africa's wide-reaching propaganda apparatus were the various incarnations of the information service that was responsible for creating a favourable image of the country and selling apartheid as a benevolent separate development. Part of this agenda was the production and distribution of photographs of which many originated from the information service's photographic section and its specially established photo library. By scrutinising the iconographies, the trajectories, and the discursive framing of a selection of photographs, I explore how they correlated with the discourses and practices of exercising power and the supremacists' endeavour of building a White nation.

# WHITE NATION-BUILDING AND THE MYTHS OF AFRIKANER NATIONALISM

To study this question means tackling the interdependencies of nationalism, photography, and propaganda. Understanding nationality, nationalism, and nationhood as cultural artefacts, Benedict Anderson defines the nation as

#### Introduction 15

an 'imagined political community'. It is a community of comradeship which is imagined because no member of a nation ever gets to know all their fellow members. Without setting out to include the entire world population, nations are imagined as limited and sovereign. Since nations are invented, artificially created, and constructed entities, they require mechanisms to induce a sense of belonging in the respective community and to demarcate themselves from other nations.4 One such mechanism is 'the invention of tradition' as Eric Hobsbawm outlines it:

'Invented tradition' is taken to mean a set of practices, normally governed by overtly or tacitly accepted rules and of a ritual or symbolic nature, which seek to inculcate certain values and norms of behaviour by repetition, which automatically implies continuity with the past.5

Although they might appear to be old, 'invented traditions' are novel and symbolise to varying degrees social cohesion, legitimise institutions or authorities and instil beliefs, values, and conventions.6 In colonial Africa, Terence Ranger identifies two forms of 'invented traditions': those that were imported *to* Africa from Europe and those that were invented by European colonisers *in* Africa. During the late nineteenth century, these traditions served the Europeans to establish their status as the ruling class and became 'a matter of command and control' in White settler colonies. Terence Ranger points out how in colonial Africa 'invented traditions' were seen as 'agencies of "modernization"', becoming effective, for instance, in education, the military, and ecclesiology.7

Significantly, the appearance of the term 'nationalism' during the late nineteenth century coincided with the expanded availability of photographs. Their increased employment in visual politics developed parallel to and intertwined with the formulation of national identities.8 Photographs, as Joan M. Schwartz observes, are able to contribute to a 'national imaginary', 'to generate a sense of belonging to a community and to foster the idea of nation'.9 To become part of a nation-building process, photographs therefore need to offer markers and points of reference that the 'imagined community' can relate to and identify with.

Yet, nation-building is not a monolithic straightforward process but an ongoing development of constant transformations, negotiations, and redefinitions, which is often interrupted by political shifts and changes. The nation-building processes of South Africa during the twentieth century found expression, for instance, in questions of language and visual culture, including photography from the early twentieth century onwards.10 Although these processes are historically linked to each other, they can be divided roughly into three periods: the first, from 1910 to 1948; the second, from 1948 to the early 1990s; and the third, from the 1990s onwards.11

The emerging democratic nation of the 1990s eagerly tried to overcome and detach itself from colonialist structures and injustices on which previous White nation-building projects had been based and for which the year 1652 proved to be crucial. That year Jan van Riebeeck, commander of the Dutch East India Company, established the first White settlement at the Cape, a geographically important location on the sea route to Asia. After the Dutch and the British had alternately ruled the Cape Colony, the latter became the dominant colonial power during the nineteenth century.12 To escape British rule, Boer Voortrekkers (pioneers) emigrated during the 1830s from the Cape Colony to the hinterland in what later would become known as the Great Trek. The land at the southern tip of Africa subsequently became divided into the British controlled Cape Colony and Natal on the one hand, and the two Boer-led independent republics of the Orange Free State and the Transvaal on the other hand.

After the South African War (1899–1902), which had been triggered by colonial conflicts between the British and the Boers, the declaration of the Union of South Africa in 1910 marked a pivotal point in the conciliation between English- and Afrikaans-speaking Whites.13 Nourished by the war experiences, however, the following decades saw the rise of Afrikaner nationalism. Countering and contesting the Anglophile character of the Union, it was further fuelled by the so-called poor White problem of the 1920s and 1930s.14 When the National Party under D. F. Malan eventually came to power in 1948, the Afrikanerisation that successively replaced English-speaking Whites in key positions by Afrikaners, reached the highest political ranks.15 Aiming to build an independent White nation state for the *volk*, the nationalist government from then on rapidly implemented apartheid legislation that would economically and spatially exclude Blacks by depriving them of citizenship. To ideologically bolster and legitimise this endeavour, the regime (re-)activated a set of nationalist myths.

Myth, according to Roland Barthes, causes the distortion of signs and therefore deforms their meanings. Significantly everything, and here Barthes explicitly mentions photography, can turn into myth when it is appropriated by society. In the guise of normalised forms, appearing innocent and inconspicuous, myths efficiently spread into different spheres of

#### Introduction 17

everyday life, anchoring the norms that have been set up by the dominating class within society. Since these norms appear to be naturally given, they are not questioned but accepted as facts – until the social context from which a myth has emerged changes and it disappears.16

Historian Christoph Marx identifies several Afrikaner nationalist myths that informed the nation-building process of the twentieth century. Their breeding ground was the Afrikaners' experience of hardship and oppression caused by the British during the South African War that had deepened the rift between the two groups. Memories of it continued to influence much of the emerging mythology and became a leitmotiv of Afrikaner republicanism, depicting the British Empire as the 'house of bondage'. Accordingly, Marx identifies the Great Trek as the central myth of Afrikaner nationalism. Only Afrikaner historiography condensed the different episodes of Boer migration from the Cape Colony into a single event, allowing for an ideologisation that justified the Boers' quest for freedom and political autonomy. In the Afrikaners' belief, a new South African nation could only become possible because of the exodus from the Cape Colony. Imbuing the emigration with an anti-colonial connotation, the exodus motif was transferred to political departure from the British Empire into the promised land of the republic. Related to this was the portrayal of the Afrikaner woman, who had suffered in the British concentration camps during the war, as the 'unwavering representative' of the *volk*. Stylised as *volksmoeder* (mother of the nation) she stood for racial purity, virtue, and vigour, constantly reminding contemporaries of the sacrifices of their forbears and cautioning them to ensure the continuity of the *volk*. 17

Referring to F. J. Turner's essay 'The Significance of the Frontier in American History' from 1893, Marx emphasises the necessity of understanding the Great Trek as a frontier myth. Turner described the successively westward moving frontier as a site where the American nation in a struggle between 'civilisation' and 'wilderness' was formed. The colonisation of the land, according to Turner, consolidated the American nation. This also meant a movement away from the European way of life that had first entered the continent towards a new American national identity.18 Like Turner, who categorises the indigenous people of America as belonging to the realm of nature, the Great Trek myth depicted the Voortrekkers' struggle against the Zulus as a struggle of 'civilisation' against 'barbarism'. Race turned into an articulation of 'nature' which set at risk White 'civilisation'. In this rationale, racism became necessary to ensure survival, ultimately justifying minority rule, and nationalism presented itself as the 'natural order of things' to keep at bay and counter imminent imperialism.19

The analysis of Afrikaner nationalism by Marx corresponds to the two main themes of Afrikaner mythology that Leonard Thompson identified: firstly, the mobilisation of Afrikaners characterised by a strong liberatory motif directed towards British imperialism; and, secondly, racism that always had infused Afrikaner nationalism.20 After 1948 and in the changing geo-political constellation that saw Britain handing over power to its former colonies, this second theme of Afrikaner nationalist mythology became more important in the need for legitimising apartheid. With the expulsion of Blacks to the homelands and the exploitation of their workforce, the apartheid state de-emphasised the old anti-imperial element in Afrikaner mythology.21

Therefore, based on a nationalist mythology that consisted of a twofold interlocking with colonialism, a White Afrikaner nationalism steered the nation-building project of apartheid South Africa. Originally antiimperialistic, it concurred with an internal colonialism that ideologists tried to save, through blunt racism, from becoming paradoxically distorted and which eventually assumed the form of a racist and repressive state. At this point, Roland Barthes's concept of myth functions as a productive hinge between the prevalent ideologies of the time and the use of photography by the apartheid regime.22 South Africa's information service, I suggest, visually reiterated nationalist Afrikaner myths in various forms in the propaganda photography which it produced and distributed.

# PROPAGANDA AND PHOTOGRAPHY

The ambivalent and unstable character of the term 'propaganda' often results in vague and at times contrasting use. Among contemporary South African actors, it notably occurred both in relation to photographs that were used to bolster apartheid and those that were deployed in opposition to the regime. State officials regarded photography as one of their propaganda tools, while after 1976 and especially during the 1980s, social documentary photographers who depicted the atrocities of the apartheid regime to raise awareness among the international public, called their own work 'morally honest propaganda' in favour of liberation.23 This positive notion of the term changed in hindsight and the one-sided and reductive representation evoked self-criticism, for instance, among members of the Afrapix collective.24 On a scholarly level, the few academic interrogations touching on the photographic discourse that bolstered apartheid, label the images as propaganda without defining the term.25

Historically, the term 'propaganda', deriving from the Latin verb 'propagare' (Eng. 'to extend' or 'to spread'), saw several mutations of connotation. The emergence of the modern notion of propaganda is commonly dated to the foundation of the papal institution *Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide* in 1622. Confronted with the Reformation, the institution aimed at diffusing Catholic faith in the world by distributing different kinds of printed material. Propaganda only mutated into a political term in the eighteenth century when it expanded to include aspects of conspiracy, the apparatus, and the directed use of both misinformation and information. During the nineteenth century, the term was increasingly applied to designate active dissemination of ideological doctrines. Eventually, during the twentieth century propagandistic methods began to be employed to a hitherto unknown extent and the term gained a sinister reputation. Its negative connotations in democratic societies of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries mainly lead back to its employment by totalitarian systems like Fascism, Stalinism, and National Socialism. Today, especially in Germany, propaganda is often implicitly equated with the activities by the *Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda* (Third Reich's Ministry of Propaganda) established in 1933 under the aegis of Joseph Goebbels.26

For a current understanding it is important to note that propaganda not only refers to the *action* of systematically disseminating information in a biased or misleading way to promote a political cause, but also to the *categorisation* of data, and to the *instruments* that spread this information.27 According to historian David Welch, it is a misconception that propaganda is limited to lies and falsehood. It rather 'operates on several levels of truth – from the outright lie to the half-truth to the truth taken out of context'. Excluding religious propaganda and advertisement, Welch further distinguishes propaganda not only from information as a 'straightforward statement of facts' but notably also from education, which teaches people 'how to think'. Therefore, unlike information and education, propaganda is aimed at directing and restricting people's perspectives. Yet, as Welch states, propaganda is also 'concerned with sharpening and focusing *existing* trends and beliefs'.28 It therefore does not necessarily seek to convert public opinion by means of revolutionary ideas.

Propaganda can also be perceived as a technique of representation that operates in a manipulative fashion. To be effective in the political field, it requires stakeholders with an apparatus on one side and the public on the other, while at the same time eliminating controlling bodies and the freedom of the press. Yet, the employment of propaganda techniques is not exclusively confined to totalitarian societies and can also be at work in democratic societies. But in democracies the freedom of speech and the press, pluralism of opinion, as well as a legal system and constitution can counter and therefore weaken propaganda of a particular (political) group.29

Since the 1990s an interdisciplinary field of research, in which art history takes an important position, has been concerned with the manifold interdependencies between images and politics, including propaganda. Considering the distinction between politics, polity, and policy, it becomes evident that these interdependencies are active at different levels. Images of politics depict both the process and actors of political participation. Images of policies concentrate on a topic of political discourse.30 Still, both kinds of images are used to influence, foster, and fuel political processes. This in turn is by no means a recent invention. For centuries people have employed various media like coins, paintings, sculptures, buildings, murals, and posters to express and stabilise social power relations.31 During the nineteenth century, the emergence of photography added to this list. Because of the prevailing belief in its relation to a referent and in its ability to depict reality truthfully, photography seemed – and still seems today – to be predestined for political use, especially in totalitarian states.32

Informed by the method of political iconography, art historian Michael Diers discusses 'public images', remarkably avoiding terms like 'political image' or 'image politics', which scholars have used vaguely and defined differently over the last few years. Understanding 'public image' not as a genre but as a concept, he defines it as an image that depicts a publicly performed political event that has, moreover, been published. Viewing it from a social perspective, the term, according to Diers, names the phenomenon that perceiving and experiencing social reality is substantially based on mediation, whereas one possible way to mediate is through images. The public is increasingly created and represented both *in* and *through* images. Analogous to public opinion, the term 'public image' refers to an ideational concept as well as the actual production of an information system that is responsible for the creation and dissemination of images. Diers discusses, for instance, the iconic photograph of then German Chancellor Willy Brandt, kneeling in front of the memorial of the Warsaw ghetto in 1970. Symbolising Germany's plea for forgiveness after World War II, the photograph itself became a historic monument.33

#### Introduction 21

This concept can easily be translated to the South African context. For example, Sam Nzima's (1934–2018) photograph of student Hector Pieterson, who was shot at the Soweto uprising in 1976, or Graeme Williams's (b. 1961) image of Nelson Mandela and his wife Winnie leaving prison with raised fists in 1990, come to mind (Fig. 2). While the former exemplifies the atrocities of apartheid rule and the struggle against it, the latter represents the success of the liberation movement. Like the photograph of Willy Brandt, these images have become historic monuments, firmly entrenched in public memory.34 That this concept translates so effortlessly to the South African context underlines the one-sidedness of South African photo historiography and how much some photographs have overwritten others. In focusing on photographs of historically important moments and iconic images, the concept developed by Diers does not consider the power of more inconspicuous images that may have a more subtle or everyday life political dimension.35 The concept thus remains confined to single images without considering broader visual power relationships.

Fig. 2 Graeme Williams: Nelson Mandela with Winnie Mandela as he is released from Victor Vester Prison, 1990.

Political scientists Petra Bernhardt and Benjamin Drechsel postulate that the more general notion of 'image politics'36 describes first the interdependencies of images and politics. Second, it names the strategic employment of visibility and the effects of images, not only by artists but also, for instance, in natural sciences. Third, the term is often applied to specify the use of images by potentates or other actors who are involved in political processes. Notably, Bernhardt and Drechsel stress that political imagery cannot be reduced to propaganda but appear to simplify propaganda by equating it with manipulation and falsehood.37 Yet, they emphasise how the context is pivotal for politicising images. Images are therefore not intrinsically political but various parameters lend them political relevance.38

Elsewhere Drechsel develops this aspect of contextualisation in greater detail when he examines the notion of the 'political image'. He argues that any image can become political, including non-public images, like, for instance, photographic police records.39 This approach differs from the notion of the 'public image' by Diers. Drechsel bases his definition on the understanding of an image as a visual sign that comprises the gaze, the medium, and the meaning. Accordingly, the politicisation can take place, first, if the gaze relations linked to the image are politicised, second, if the medium is politicised and, third, if the image's meaning is politicised. The ambiguity of images and their unfixed but dynamic meanings are crucial to Drechsel's concept. Since there are always various possibilities of contextualisation, a visual medium bears a great potential of meanings. Yet, the individual gaze transforms this potential only into limited information. As much as any image based on this polyvalence can possibly gain political relevance, images might also be depoliticised. Consequently, there is no unique genre of political images.40

While Diers and Drechsel are more concerned with the political dimensions or politicisation of single images, scholars like Tom Holert extend this perspective to social processes in which images are involved. In the book *Regieren im Bildraum,* Holert expressly steps away from developing a comprehensive theory of the political image to instead correlate his analysis with visual culture studies.41 Although Holert focuses on the time after the year 2000 and starts with the image production that emerged around 9/11, the book's first chapter offers a theorisation of images' political dimensions which also applies to earlier cases. Clearly distancing his approach from the idea of omnipotent images, Holert argues that, to determine the political dimension of images, the systems and apparatuses, which are responsible for the emergence, organisation, and circulation of images, as well as image-clusters need

#### Introduction 23

to be considered. This is based on the core assumption that the communicative use of images, both of singular visual products as well as of apparatuses and infrastructures, which produce, select, combine, and publish these, open a space of political action. Such 'image space'42 is deeply embedded in the social realm, linked to it in a relationship of reciprocal influence.43

According to Holert, the instrumentality of images is pivotal to his key question of how images function in representing interests and in exercising power. Images only become visible the moment a purpose and a meaning are attributed to them – albeit these factors vary historically and images might miss their originally ascribed purpose. The fact that images are used, actualised, consumed, operationalised, manipulated, and censored underlines this instrumentality. To be understood as constructions, images are enmeshed in social practices and depend on the context in which they appear. Their impact is tied to cultural and political expectations as well as to historical contexts.44 Regarding the colonial context, for instance, Paul S. Landau argues that the role of photography, which he identified as a 'tool of empire', did not emerge either from photographers or from the graphic content of the images themselves. Rather it arose from broader structures of power, which marshalled the distribution of photography and dominated its interpretation.45

One level on which to exercise power by means of images are visibilities. Questioning how images induce, supress, and counter visibilities, Holert links them to the notion of representation and underlines how visibilities are constituted by certain visual repertoires that reflect the interests of a particular social group. Representing the group either adequately or in distorting, stereotyping or glorifying ways, this visual repertoire takes part in the formation of identity. Yet, in the next step, the formation of identity leads to the separation of the Self from the 'Other'. Therefore, by categorising and discriminating (at gender, ethnic, and religious levels) as well as by producing information and knowledge, images constitute and perpetuate visibilities and gain a normative function.46 This way, such images are part of the practices to form public opinion and influence social processes.47

In his essay 'The Spectacle of the "Other"', Stuart Hall explores the normative function of images and the politics of representations in greater depth. Meaning, according to Hall, depends on the difference between opposites. Therefore, the employment of binary oppositions in visual representations differentiates the Self from the 'Other'. By reducing and simplifying racial and cultural differences, the 'Other' is excluded from the Self, which in turn is defined and bound together in an 'imagined community'. The frontiers of stereotyping between 'us' and 'them' thus contribute to maintaining social and symbolic order. Crucial to Hall's argument is the understanding of a single image as part of a wider visual network, a 'regime of representation'. Therefore, the representation of 'Otherness' and difference surfaces when reading a single image against and in relation to other images that circulate simultaneously in the same historical moment. Yet, Hall also emphasises the ambivalence of 'difference'. While it is, on the one hand, necessary to produce cultural meaning, on the other hand, it is a site of 'hostility and aggression towards the "Other"'.48 Since fixing differences and forming identities were key elements of apartheid, this political dimension of images becomes particularly relevant to the regime's propaganda photography.

To understand images as constructed visual signs whose meanings are ambiguous, dynamic, and dependent on context, entails that an exploration of their political dimensions cannot ignore the parameters which characterise the specific context from which they emerge. That the socio-historical contextualisation is decisive and the politicisation of the image takes place beyond the photograph become clear through Barthes's distinction between denoted and connoted messages, too. While the denotation of a photograph remains inaccessible at all times, an image's social existence depends on being immersed in a connotation whereas a political connotation is generally generated by text.49

Apart from the ambiguity of the images' meanings and their dependency on context, it becomes salient that the political dimensions of photographs are not limited to single images but especially unfold within a 'regime of representation' and social processes involving images. By transporting messages and by creating, perpetuating or suppressing visibilities, images generally have an opinion-forming function and can therefore be used to exercise power.

I argue that, if photographs are prone to politicisation at various levels, they are similarly prone to propagandisation by apparatuses and within structures of power. The difference lies in the transparency regarding the intention of dissemination and the group, institution, or apparatus responsible for it. If propaganda is to be characterised by a one-sidedness or limitation of a pluralistic visual culture, censorship in turn is often part of it. Yet, again, censorship is not confined to dictatorships and encompasses a wide range of different measures like prohibitions or temporal protractions of publication and the banning of photographers and other actors.50 Democratic structures provide, at least officially, the possibility of visual

#### Introduction 25

diversity that includes counter-images and a space where visual power relations can be negotiated. Due to the ambiguity of images, the boundaries around propaganda nevertheless remain blurry. Accordingly, just as there is no genre of political images, there is no genre of propaganda photographs. Being neither linked to a specific visual quality or rhetoric nor to a certain aesthetic, *any* image can turn into propaganda – also, apparently inconspicuous, innocuous photographs.

Not using the term 'propaganda' as a categorisation of single photographs, I operate with it to emphasise that the images that the apartheid state produced, used, published, and disseminated formed part of an assortment of strategies, processes, and visual practices that opened a space for political actions and power relations. The mutability of images that allowed officials to turn photographs into propaganda, I argue, was central to the use of photography by the apartheid regime. Veiling its institutional dimension and concealing it from being considered propaganda, the apartheid state positioned its photography in the realm of inconspicuousness. While several photographers certainly were opposed to the regime and became photographic activists, others operated in the fluidity of this inconspicuousness that allowed them to permeate the lines between ostensible pro- and anti-apartheid photographies. This approach challenges parts of the South African photo historiography.

# RESEARCHING PROPAGANDA PHOTOGRAPHY AND THE STATE OF THE ARCHIVES

As a reaction to Nelson Mandela's death in 2013, historian Jamie Miller published a blog entry titled 'The Black Hole of Apartheid History'. Cogently arguing for the necessity to study the apartheid regime, he asked: 'Why does the apartheid regime continue to have this alienating effect on scholarship?'51 Miller outlined how since the Soweto uprising in 1976, the apartheid state in a 'scholarly scramble for South Africa' had been subject to social science research. For this scholarship it became imperative to delegitimise the White minority regime. The early 1990s marked a caesura to this approach because with the transition to democracy 'there was nothing left to fight for'. Instead, foregrounding long-neglected histories of liberation movements and suppressed people inevitably resulted in marginalising political-historical research on the old White regime. According to Miller, the governing African National Congress (ANC), which had built most of its identity and power on the party's anti-apartheid legacy, had a decisive impact on these developments. The ANC had to maintain its image as triumphant liberator that worked only in opposition to a one-dimensional image of the evil apartheid regime. This attitude became noticeable in the lack of funding for independent research, which could possibly place at risk the existing image of the ANC by subjecting it to revisionism.52 While it was overdue and not surprising that suppressed liberation histories became the focal point of interest, it concomitantly caused a gap in the knowledge of the regime, its powerplays, structures, and functions. Aside from minor examples, propaganda photography dating to the apartheid era falls into a similar academic gap.53 So far, a strong focus on documentary photography and photojournalism, which in many cases intersect with each other, characterises the research on photography during the second half of the twentieth century. Studies specifically concentrate on photography that was created to oppose apartheid and that emerged from the circle of *Drum* magazine photographers. They highlight the work by single photographers like Eli Weinberg (1908–1981) or Ernest Cole (1940–1990), the so-called 'struggle photography' from the mid-1970s on and the Afrapix collective.54 Yet, crucially, these studies, which at times even point out censorship and the government repressions against photographers, fail to move the lens. First, they do not subject photography by the apartheid regime to a profound and critical analysis, and, second, they do not identify the state's information service as the central institutional apparatus of dissemination.55 This focal point of research, however, overlooks the visual experiences that many South Africans made parallel to or even totally apart from the portrayal of the spectacle of apartheid.

To collate a body of photographs for analysis, I had to conduct research in a highly contested archival landscape. It has become commonplace to understand archives as sites of power, where not only memory and preservation but also forgetting, destruction, and loss are at work.56 Moreover, in archives multiple temporal dimensions converge. First, the overlapping and intersecting pasts that saw the archives' creation; second, the futures for which the archives were conceptualised and, third, the present in which the researcher lives and works scrutinising and analysing what has been built up over these diverse pasts.57 Archives are always sorted by processes of selection and discrimination. Being a 'result of the exercise of a specific power and authority', as Achille Mbembe argues, they are the 'product of a judgment'. Highlighting their materiality, according to Mbembe, the

#### Introduction 27

'architectural dimension' of archives is constitutive of their power. This not only encompasses the physical space, the building in which historical resources are located, but also the archives' organisational structures including the filing systems.58 As such, according to Elizabeth Edwards, the archive is a crucial site to validate photographs and to therefore articulate a nation.59 To understand archives, Edwards argues elsewhere, it is critical to explore 'the structuring of forms of accession, the processes of collecting and description, contexts of collecting and use and the range of social practices associated with them at a historically specific level'.60 Comprehending photographs as material and culturally conditioned objects, points to their social biographies and expands their analysis beyond iconographic interpretation.61 Therefore, by focusing on the social biographies of photographs, their migration through different spaces becomes salient and provides important perspectives on the valuation and meaning of photography at a specific historical moment.

The photo library which the information service by the apartheid regime built up, was such a form of validation and judgment, constituting an institutional photographic archive that presented the officially approved perspective on apartheid South Africa. At unknown points in times, this collection was incorporated into South Africa's archival landscape that unfolded beyond the ministry's structures. The photographs are the physical residues of the regime's visual practices of production and selection, which opened a space for political actions and power relations. Today they are scattered across South African and possibly international archives that in turn were shaped by administrative structures that had been influenced by political shifts.

Since 1922 South Africa has maintained a centralised archival system that was shaped by apartheid and absorbed its bureaucratic culture.62 Undergoing several structural alterations, in 1962 its mandate was extended to control also governmental record keeping. In subsequent years, the institution's power over public records was strengthened, including the authority to destroy records. From 1976 onwards, South Africa's centralised archival system also started to reflect at an institutional level the policy of separate development that aimed to expel Blacks from areas designated as White and to resettle them in the homelands. The apartheid regime made provisions for archives with their own legislation and repositories that would be uncoupled from the national archival system to be established in the homelands.63 As Mbembe astutely comments, state and archives maintain a paradoxical relationship: 'On the one hand, there is no state without archives – without its archives. On the other hand, the very existence of the archive constitutes a constant threat to the state.'64 Therefore, if the homelands were to be recognised as independent states, they had to have their own archives. In turn, this close relationship between state and archives became the White supremacists' Achilles heel during transition. Unsurprisingly, the passing regime authorised wide-ranging destruction of public records between 1990 and 1994.65

In 1996, the National Archives Act of South Africa inaugurated the development of a new national archival system that is still operating today.66 In 2015, The Archival Platform presented an alarming account of its current state. Reporting significant differences regarding the quality of record keeping from institution to institution, it draws the sobering conclusion that South Africa's national archival system is struggling because of insufficient storage space, a shortage of well-trained staff, a loss of electronic and audiovisual records due to outdated equipment, a lack of proper record management, little or poor leadership and records in disarray. Another problem, according to the report, is the fragmentation between the public and non-public sector. Private individuals as well as civil society institutions and organisations that hold non-public records operate in isolation from the archival structures of the public sector.67 Political disregard and little understanding of the importance and value of archives and record-keeping management moreover result in a lack of funding.68 Further, the report states: '[a]partheid-era patterns of archival use and accessibility have proved resilient. Archives remain the domain of elites.'69 All this potentially leads to the loss of historical memory.

According to Mbembe, the subjective experience of individuals using the archives is constitutive and archives have no meaning outside this experience. In other words, archives depend on their users to gain relevance, whereas the institutional context in which the individual visits the archives influences this experience.70 During my research trips to South Africa in 2016 and 2018, I had to navigate through this archival landscape as a White female researcher born and raised in West Germany. Hence, I belong to a privileged group of people and I was socialised in a democratic system where I was never exposed to a totalitarian or repressive environment. Until the research trip, I had neither experienced discrimination, nor had I been part of a political system that would be overthrown. Therefore, I researched the South African photographic archive as an outsider.

Apart from an awareness of my personal background, the archival fieldwork required me to be cognisant of the current socio-political situation in South Africa as well as of the political sensitivity that surrounds the topic of propaganda photography during apartheid. At the time of the research trips, the country had passed more than twenty years in democracy, but many South Africans were disillusioned by the idea of the so-called 'rainbow nation' as it had been proclaimed since the 1990s. The dissatisfaction with the system vociferously erupted in student protests and the #RhodesMustFall campaign that spread across universities from 2015 onwards. At the same time some White South Africans of an older generation, whom I met holding positions in private and public archival institutions, nurtured nostalgic feelings for or defensive attitudes towards the apartheid years. To research the propaganda photography by the apartheid regime meant digging into the unpleasant past of many South Africans, touching on their responsibility for or complicity in a repressive and racist system. Depending on the institution and considering both the fluidity and negative connotations of the term 'propaganda', it did not always seem advisable or productive to ask directly for propaganda photographs. To phrase the subject matter of research very often became a balancing act. In fact, it was most distressing how my research in combination with my Whiteness, and possibly also my German background, seemed to invite people to share with me their points of view that ranged from being apologetic towards apartheid thinking to being openly racist.

In turn, I often depended on the help and expertise of archivists, whereas at the same time a great deal of archival serendipity was at play. Corresponding to observations by The Archival Platform, I experienced differing conditions of record keeping in the archives, while some did not even provide reference systems. Photographs in the National Archives in Pretoria, in particular, were loosely stored in cardboard boxes and often bent and battered (Fig. 3). At the point of my archival fieldwork a large number of photographs in the collection of the National Archives had not even been catalogued yet. These records were initially out of reach to me as a researcher, in a condition close to non-existence. It also remains unclear how many photographic records from the apartheid era are still hidden in archives and private collections and which photographs were destroyed by the passing regime during the transition years.

Certainly, the idea of comprehensively well-organised and freely accessible archives, where records are easy to find, becomes not only frustrated in South Africa.71 The low priority of photographic records in the South African archival system and the poor condition in which many are found, nonetheless suggest that little value is attached to them as historical documents.

Fig. 3 Box with uncatalogued photographs at the National Archives of South Africa, Pretoria, February 2016.

This observation corresponds with Jamie Miller's aforementioned account on the lack of research into apartheid history. Moreover, the limited accessibility to parts of the photography of the apartheid regime might explain why to date little research has been carried out into it. An article in the *Mail & Guardian* newspaper of March 2016 adds another perspective to this. The author Ra'eesa Pather also observes how '[d]isturbingly, the state of our country's public archives is much like the state of the nation: it needs to be mended.' Yet, referring to pressing housing shortages and severe education challenges, she closes by stating that '[i]n a country short on resources and steeped in inequality, the archives may have to wait.'72

As much as archives are a product of judgement, the body of photographs that I discuss here is selective. Pieced together from findings in national and provincial archives, archives of universities and private institutions, museum and library collections, the corpus of sources includes parts of the former photo library of the apartheid regime's information service. Whether

#### Introduction 31

the photo library's fragments have been transferred completely to publicly accessible archives after 1994 or whether some remained with governmental institutions like the Department of Documentation (DoC) is, however, uncertain.73

Infused with nationalist Afrikaner mythology and relating to the White nation-building process of apartheid, the body of photographs selected covers a period from the late 1940s to the mid-1970s. While the apartheid state at the beginning of this time frame was concerned with articulating the White nation, it became clear towards the end of this period that the apartheid state would not survive. The years between 1948 and 1966 especially, from the National Party seizing power to the assassination of then Prime Minister H. F. Verwoerd, saw the implementation of racist legislation and policies. During this period, the regime moreover initiated infrastructure projects with the intention of preserving the *volk* and building a White nation state. By the 1960s, the policies aimed at uplifting poor Afrikaners showed results and the country experienced new economic prosperity. This had a decisive impact on Afrikaner nationalism. Albert Grundlingh notes how a new consumer mentality gained ground thereby perforating group boundaries by enhancing the importance of individualised materialism for the construction of identity. With the proclamation of the republic in 1961, the goal of dissolving ties with Britain had become real and the nationalist movement lost much of its fervour and energy.74 When Verwoerd eventually died in 1966, the nation was deprived of an important leading figure. From that point on, Prime Minister J. B. Vorster turned South Africa into a security state and in the wake of an intensifying Cold War, anti-communism became more virulent.

Regarding White nation-building, the mid-1970s marked an interesting phase in apartheid history. On the one hand, major projects and policies were completed, for instance when Pretoria granted independence to the Transkei homeland, cutting it off from the White nation state. On the other hand, the formation of the Black Consciousness Movement from the 1960s onwards, the Soweto uprising in 1976, and the murder of Steve Biko by the police in 1977 brought the apartheid state under severe pressure and signalled its steady demise.75 The Information Scandal of the late 1970s and the fact that South Africa became more and more embroiled in the Border War further weakened the state's power.76 It became clear how it had manoeuvred itself into a political impasse.

# **I. SOUTH AFRICA'S INFORMATIONSERVICE**

Operating as the regime's central propaganda apparatus, an official photographic discourse emanated from the information service throughout the apartheid period. As this governmental institution's annual reports reveal, the information service between 1948 and 1994 had continuously to (re-)define itself in accordance with and responding to national as well as international politics. The institution's changing self-conception demonstrates how the country felt attacked by the international public and how it reacted to this in self-defence.

The information service's history dates to the years prior to 1948. Under Prime Minister J. B. M. Hertzog, the so-called Information Bureau was established in 1937 as part of the Department of External Affairs. Because of the outbreak of World War II in 1939, its task of distributing 'official information' was broadened and it became 'a war propaganda office', which was incorporated into the Department of the Interior.1 After the war, on 1 January 1947, the State Information Office2 replaced the Information Bureau, now being mandated

A. To co-ordinate the publicity services of the State; B. To arrange for the publication of official statements; C. To supply the Union's representatives abroad with information; D. To assist State Departments with their work of enlightenment; and E. To advise the Government in regard to publicity.3

Yet, only the new government of Prime Minister D. F. Malan implemented these functions. During reorganisation in 1949, the tasks of the external information service that had previously been performed by the Department of External Affairs were handed over to the State Information Office. In this way, the domestic and external information services were combined to form a single institution and the decision was made to expand its work abroad.4

The first annual report by the State Information Office, which covers the year 1949, quotes then Director du Plessis referring to the importance of information services. Pointing out the mutable connotations of the term 'propaganda' and how its categorisation depends on the political perspective, he differentiates between propaganda and information:

As long ago as the first [*sic*] World War it was realised what an important and powerful weapon information could be in the international field. … At that time it was already customary to call your own enlightenment service 'information' and that of your opponent 'propaganda'. During the period between the two wars, certain countries, of which the totalitarian countries were the most important, created Ministeries [*sic*] of Information or Propaganda, and it is interesting to note that these were at first treated with derision by those who only later began to realise their great value.5

From this statement it becomes clear that – albeit acknowledging the 'great value' of propaganda – the Union of South Africa in its point of view was disseminating information, and accordingly named the responsible institution State Information Office. At the same time the office appears to have been perfectly aware that other states would possibly perceive it as propaganda machinery.

The actual effect the work by the State Information Office had on public opinion at the beginning of the 1950s is hard to measure. While the reports state a 'noticeable change'6 in South Africa's reputation abroad for the years 1950 and 1951, according to Deon Geldenhuys, this was 'little more than temporary respites' before the country's international standing got worse in subsequent years.7 Indeed, reflecting this development, the reports divulge how South Africa felt under pressure and targeted by international public opinion from 1952 onwards. The apartheid state saw itself involved 'in a cold war whose weapons are words and illustrations'.8

As a result, besides continuing its domestic endeavours, it was deemed necessary to expand the information activities abroad. The State Information Office was spun off from the Department of the Interior and became a financially autonomous division within the Department of External Affairs on 1 April 1955. It was not only programmed to increase its personnel in North American branches but, being aware of the decolonisation processes taking place in Africa, the State Information Office also planned to direct more of its international programmes towards other African states. By 1957 the number of staff members had risen to 105 people and 14 offices were operating abroad, employing a total of 23 information officers.9 At this point the Union of South Africa still felt it had been wrongfully denounced for its race policies. On the one hand, the State Information Office understood the Union of South Africa's 'good name' as a sales commodity in a 'a normal marketing project',10 while, on the other hand, it now referred to its own activities as propaganda. The department's main function, according to the annual report, was:

to present continuously a positive picture of all South Africa's problems and policies clearly reflecting the way of life and achievements of the people of the country. This not only constitutes good propaganda but it is also the best method of restoring our national perspective, so ruthlessly distorted by writers and journalists.11

While again being renamed to South African Information Service in 1957 did not affect the definition of its functions,12 H. F. Verwoerd's election as prime minister in 1958, followed by the withdrawal from the Commonwealth in 1961, had structural consequences for the information service. Before becoming an independent republic, the Union of South Africa experienced harsh international criticism after the Sharpeville killings on 21 March 1960.13 Once again, the apartheid regime felt unfairly judged and the information service opened a comparison with other totalitarian states of the twentieth century:

Within a month South Africa had been denounced and vilified in all the newspapers and periodicals of the world, on cinema and television screens and from pulpits and political platforms in a manner which made all previous attacks seem friendly tributes by comparison. Without exaggeration – on the authority of scientific survey – it may be stated that neither Hitler-Germany, Mussolini-Italy, nor Khrushchev-Russia, has been attacked with anything like the same purposeful enmity as was South Africa in 1960. If ever there was a cold war which made journalists, writers, announcers, preachers and politicians concentrate on one single target, it was the cold war of 1960 against South Africa.14

When South Africa became a republic the subsequent year, the South African Information Service merged with the information services of the Departments of Bantu Administration and Development, of Coloured Affairs, and of Indian Affairs to transform into the fully-fledged Department of Information. Entailing a centralisation of all information activities addressed to local and international audiences, the foundation of the new department had become necessary because South Africa could no longer resort to information sources provided by Great Britain to the Commonwealth states.15 As described in Government Notice 1142 of 1 December 1961, the Department's functions did not fundamentally differ from those postulated by the State Information Office in 1949 and 1957 respectively. It was, however, novel that it explicitly mentioned the utilisation of media to spread 'accurate information' about both South Africa and South West Africa.16

United Nations reports document the international community's awareness of South Africa's propaganda activities at the time. In 1968, the UN stated that, under the government of the National Party since 1948, the country had 'maintained an ever-growing elaborate information and propaganda service abroad'.17 Commenting on the intensification of propaganda by the apartheid state, the UN explicitly spoke of a 'propaganda machinery' with the South African Information Service at its heart.18 This did not go unnoticed by the Department of Information, which in turn called the UN 'one of the most important nerve-centres from which attacks on South Africa are launched'. Still seeing itself confronted by a 'violent campaign', the apartheid state did not consider any downscaling of its own propaganda activities.19

But even though the Department of Information appears to have been determined to counter international criticism, it had limited funds and a lack of trained personnel to deal with.20 Confronted with the 'propaganda onslaught'21 against South Africa at the beginning of the 1970s, officials regarded the country's information service insufficient. According to Eschel Rhoodie, who had become Secretary of Information in 1972, ministers described the department as 'a glorified post office' that managed to do little more than duplicate the work of the South African Tourist Corporation, Satour, which promoted South Africa as a paradise-like travel destination for Whites.22

Since Eschel Rhoodie made this statement in his book *The Real Information Scandal,* its reliability is doubtful. The book is a very subjective account of the events that developed within and around the Department of Information during the 1970s, and demonstrates how Rhoodie felt he had been made the scapegoat for the Information Scandal.23 After the then Minister of Information Dr Cornelius (Connie) Petrus Mulder had entrusted Rhoodie with facing the 'propaganda onslaught' against South Africa in 1972, Rhoodie became one of the central protagonists in a covert 'propaganda war' launched by the Department of Information.24 Crucial to this 'propaganda war' was Rhoodie's proposal of a five-year plan of secret projects, approved by Prime Minister Vorster in 1974 and partly financed by secret funds from the Department of Defence.25 This plan envisaged Rhoodie's clique to engage in founding front organisations, in bringing foreign journalists and influential guests to the country, and in influencing decision takers from politics and business.26 Moreover, they got involved in buying national and international newspapers. When this was less successful than hoped, the English daily newspaper *The Citizen* was founded in South Africa, which today rates as one of the most prominent cases of secret operations.27

To a certain extent the annual reports reflect these developments and the self-perception of the department at the time. On the one hand, the reports deliberately stated that funds had been increased and operations had been expanded to influence, for instance, 'opinion formers and decision-takers across the whole spectrum of public life in all countries that are of importance'.28 Obviously, secret funds were not mentioned. On the other hand, detailed descriptions about the department's activities were discontinued due to the involvement in a 'psychological warfare', and discussions about activities that were published in previous reports were deemed counterproductive.29 In this period, the information service was described as indispensable to hold South Africa's own in the 'propaganda war'.30 Similar to previous years, the department did not deny internally that it was conducting propaganda but officially called its activities 'counter-information'. Since it felt unfairly attacked, it presented itself in a position of self-defence and accused opponents of propaganda defining it as 'a communications technique directed at emotion rather than logic. Facts are twisted and presented in such a way that the expectations of the communicator are realised.'31

While Prime Minister Vorster's détente policy might have brought about slight changes in the public perception of South Africa, these were soon negated. In 1976, the international community refused to accept the Transkei's independence and condemned the violent repression of the Soweto student protests by the police.32 The regime demonstrated its brutality again the following year by torturing Black Consciousness leader Steve Biko to death.33 Shortly after these socio-political turning points in the history of apartheid that provoked international attention, the Department of Information also started to falter. From early 1978 onwards details about secret operations leaked to the domestic English press and 'irregularities' became public.34 Because of the so-called Muldergate, John Vorster was forced to resign as prime minister in 1978 and as state president in 1979. Furthermore, on 1 July 1978, the Department of Information was dissolved and the Bureau of National and International Communication,35 which no longer had the status of a distinct department, was established under the Secretary for Plural Relations and Development. Besides the secret operations being at least officially terminated, the new bureau continued to perform all tasks of the former Department of Information.36 Ron Nixon described it as follows: 'Muldergate was just a bump in the road. The apartheid propaganda machine continued to roll on.'37

Indeed, after the eruption of Muldergate, the information service continued to operate under different names and in various formations throughout the 1980s.38 Eventually, during the transition years, the now called South African Communication Service (SACS)39 tried to reinvent itself to become a neutral government agency.40 But only in 1998 was SACS replaced by the newly established Government Communication and Information Service (GCIS) whose mandate, according to Robert B. Horwitz, was 'to deliver, access, and outsource essential communication services and serve as a government-media-community liaison'.41 The most recent change in the history of South Africa's information service took place in 2014, when the Department of Communications (DoC), which is still operating today, replaced the GCIS.42

#### I.1. THE INFORMATION SERVICE AND PHOTOGRAPHY

Not only a general awareness of propaganda but, more importantly, also a readiness to employ a diverse set of propaganda strategies characterised the information service. To influence public opinion and to improve South Africa's image, it made various endeavours to address both domestic and overseas audiences. The range of activities included a guest programme that involved inviting foreign journalists, religious leaders, politicians, and businessmen to South Africa to present them with a controlled image of the country.43 Radio programmes were broadcast, exhibitions were curated and even though TV was only introduced in South Africa in 1976, an Audio-Visual Section also produced television films for distribution overseas from 1955 onwards.44 Furthermore, a film division was responsible for the production of documentary films it circulated worldwide and presented at international film festivals.45 Another cornerstone was issuing a variety of publications. Again, their distribution was not limited to South Africa and they were published in various languages.46 Interwoven with these activities was the production, use, and circulation of photographs.

As part of the reorganisation of the State Information Office under the Malan government, the so-called Visual and Photographic Sections were combined to form the Visual Publicity Section.47 Being one of six sections, this division was 'responsible for the design and working drawings of all publications, posters, exhibitions and photographic and other displays produced by the State Information Office'.48 Although the internal structure of the information service was revised several times after 1949, photography always remained a sub-division within the Visual Publicity Section and never became a discrete unit.49

Nevertheless, the information service produced, used, and circulated photographs throughout the whole apartheid period, as remnants of the former departmental photo library reflect. Established on the basis of a photographic collection started before 1949, the photo library archived negatives, photographic prints, and, at a later stage, colour slides.50 It accumulated a stock that grew continuously from more than 3,000 negatives with prints in 1949 to 581,000 negatives in 1975 and by 1969 the department had gathered 156,400 slides.51 These photographs could be processed in in-house darkroom facilities52 and covered a broad spectrum of subject matters. Besides apparently innocuous themes like the documentation of cities and various industries, the range also includes racially categorised population groups, homeland politics, exceptional festivals, and governmental events.53

To establish a photo library and to create the state's own overarching photographic presentation was not a South African invention. In colonial Belgian Congo, for instance, the agency InforCongo operated until the Congo's independence in 1960. It emerged in 1955 from the *Centre d'Information et de Documentation du Congo Belge et du Ruanda-Urundi* (CDI, Information and Documentation Centre of Belgian Congo and Ruanda-Urundi), which had been established five years before 'to develop a systematic and encyclop[a]edic recording of the Congo'. Following Ann Stoler's approach to study archives as subjects, Sandrine Colard examines how InforCongo was conceptualised to build an archive, which in terms of its bureaucratic, totalising organisation and the classification deployed in the photo library, was an 'epitome of the Imperial Archive'. As it was in South Africa, the themes covered by the staff photographers of InforCongo and the preceding institution ranged from social events to industrial development, agriculture and infrastructures, to the depiction of social 'advancement' and ethnographic 'life'. Vignettes with information about the photographs as well as the reference numbers of the classification systems were glued on the reverse sides of InforCongo's black-and-white photographic prints, which were then filed and stored in Brussels. Here people could consult them and request copies.54

The extant fragments of the former photo library of South Africa's information service are indicative of a similar pursuit of organisation and classification. Elizabeth Edwards's approach to research photographs as material objects is useful for revealing both how the photographs reflect the bureaucracy of apartheid and their value for the regime. As Edwards remarks: '[i]f reality constructions are a mosaic formed by fitting together observations according to their content, the shape of recording, selection and dissemination is crucial.'55 Different kinds of stamps, handwritten notes and signs, labels and captions on the reverse of the photographs offer insight not only into the systematisation of the photo library but also into the production and use of the images. During the time of the State Information Office, a circular stamp was printed on the reverse of photographic prints that read: 'Issued by the State Information Office Union of South Africa \* Uitgereik deur die Staatsinligtingskantoor Unie van Suid-Afrika' and 'Photo Foto'.56 They were completed with a handwritten number in their centres, suggesting that a numerical system was consistently applied to the photographic production of the governmental information service (Fig. 4). Moreover, typewritten captions which repeat the reference number on the circular stamps were often printed on or attached to the reverse. Reflecting the increasing Afrikanerisation of government, these at times quite lengthy bilingual descriptions confirm both English and Afrikaans as the languages of administration.57 Albeit modified over time, photographs of later years indicate that systems of marking, numerical archiving, and indexing were maintained throughout apartheid and that the practice of providing captions for the single photographs was continued at least until the late 1980s.58

In 1960, the photo section introduced an index system to file every negative which staff photographers added to the archives. The existing collection was updated and sought to close gaps in the coverage. Twelve years later a new post of photo editor was created and the photo library was reorganised, entailing a revision of the index system.59 According to the annual report for the year 1974, all items in the photo library were categorised by subject, while

Fig. 4 Reverse of a photograph issued by the State Information Office in 1952. The circular stamp and handwritten reference number exemplify the institution's indexing system.

Fig. 5 File for photographs from the former photo library. The machine written label exemplifies the photo library's subject classifications.

later reports mention '43 subject classifications'.60 Photographic prints in the National Archives in Pretoria that can be attributed to the former photo library are still partly organised into files which were presumably introduced during apartheid. These cardboard files are labelled with a number and a subject that was occasionally split up into further subcategories (Fig. 5).61

From a present perspective, the remnants of the index system and the stamps and captions are valuable sources. They demonstrate how the State Information Office introduced at an early stage of apartheid an archival system that was continued throughout the years. The filing system is an unsettling account of the racist labelling of South African society pursuant to apartheid bureaucracy, reflecting how racist classifications impinged on every sphere of the state and how the information service transferred this bureaucracy and classification into the visual discourse. Turning the photographs into official documents by the information service, the stamps brand them as the apartheid regime's officially approved view. The explanatory captions – which certainly help to identify the photographed scenes – disclose South Africa's internal colonialism on a textual level and indicate how it attempted to stipulate the photographs' interpretations. In other words, what is crucial for the examination of South African propaganda photography during apartheid is that the index systems with its stamps and captions point to a thoroughly curated photographic production by the information service.

Apart from archiving the pictures, the photo library was also responsible for their distribution. In a very systematic approach, it supplied photographs and colour slides to other government departments as well as to the overseas offices, where photo libraries were also built up.62 To align their photographic stocks, the head office in Pretoria compiled 'master albums' that were sent to the offices abroad. Images in the annual reports show staff in Pretoria sorting such albums, which presumably gave an index-like overview of available photographs, from piles of photographic prints.63 Apart from this distribution over departmental branching, the photo library provided the press and book publishers with photographs on request.64 Using requisition forms, people could ask for reproductions from at least 1953 by submitting reference numbers for the photographs.65

Regarding distribution numbers, the inconsistency of the reports does not allow an extrapolation. Yet, by listing exact numbers reports for the period between 1949 and 1953, at least, give an insight into the scale on which the information service operated in the first years of the emerging apartheid state. In 1949, 2,220 photographs were distributed in South Africa and 9,276 prints overseas, including various European countries, their colonies, and Argentina.66 The number subsequently peaked at 29,655 in 1951 but then dropped to 20,734 in 1953.67 Twenty years later, the annual turnover of prints numbered 30,000.68 After that, only the report for 1976 gives a precise distribution figure of 45,441 whereas 9,600 photographs were circulated to overseas offices.69

Very little is known about the guidelines for distribution and publication and those can be inferred only from minor examples from the 1970s. In 1973 and 1974, it was stated that photographs were not issued to members of the public70 and were provided only 'on a selective basis with a view to achieving the express purpose of the Department of Information'.71 Two photographs dated 1976 exemplify this. A portrait of State President N. J. Diederichs was marked with the stamp 'FOR RELEASE', while a picture of anti-apartheid protesters in Germany at a meeting between Prime Minister Vorster and the American Secretary of State Dr Henry Kissinger bears the stamp 'FOR GOVT PUBL ONLY'.72 The fact that, according to the stamps, the innocuous photograph of Diederichs passed the censorship while the photograph showing international opposition to apartheid did not, points to the restrictiveness of image release in the apartheid state.

Today the practices of distribution by South Africa's information service can still be traced in archives and collections. Multiple copies of the same images among the fragments of the former photo library are indicative of planned and systematised circulation, while overlapping sets of photographs archived in distinct institutions point to the migration of copies from the stock of the information service to different recipients. Although in these cases major parts of the photographs' social biographies are unknown, their object character as 'reproducible forms', which can migrate (simultaneously) 'through different spaces', becomes salient.73

# I.2. PUBLICATIONS

In the information service photographic production was tightly intertwined with the work by the Publications Section, which had been established as a separate division in September 1950 against the backdrop 'of the increasing importance of publications'.74 Accordingly, publications of great topical and linguistic variety were produced in Pretoria and overseas offices during the whole apartheid era, mirroring the photo library's stock in their illustrations. Regular as well as more sporadic periodicals, books, brochures,

Fig. 6 Reverse of a photograph of H. F. Verwoerd that carries indications for cropping and a reference to possible publication in *Bantu* in October 1954.

and pamphlets were published in Afrikaans, English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch as well as in Xhosa, Sotho, Venda, Tsonga, and Zulu.75 While the Visual Publicity Section was in charge of the printing, design, and lay-out and provided illustrations for the brochures and periodicals, the Publications Section was responsible for the editorial part and the publications' distribution.76

This close cooperation between the two sections is not only traceable according to the annual reports but is also apparent on the photographic prints. Notes on their reverse sides refer to the magazines and issues where an image was planned to be or had been published, while straight and sinuous lines mark where a photograph was supposed to be cropped for publication (Fig. 6).77 The notes most frequently referred to the magazines *South African Panorama*, *Bantu,* and *South African Digest* thatwere rated as 'prestige' projects in the publications programme.78 In the late 1970s, the annual reports called the work by the layout section of these magazines 'the sugar coating round a tablet – it not only tastes good, the hidden medicine does a lot of good'.79

#### *SOUTH AFRICAN PANORAMA*

After a survey had found there was a need for a periodical with 'a wider popular appeal', the information service conceived the journal *South African Panorama* in 1955.80 Inspired by the large photo-essays of *Life* magazine,81 both colour and black-and-white photography played a pivotal role in *South African Panorama*. Founding editor Otto von Adendorff and the information service were convinced of the power of photography. The latter stated explicitly that '[i]llustrations carry the burden of its [the magazine's] message', while Adendorff characterised the medium of photography as more 'trust-worthy' and of higher credibility.82 Accordingly, the magazine's first issue published in 1956 emphasised the importance of photography: 'The spreading of information is one of the most important activities of the State in the modern age. By common consent, it is the picture rather than the printed word that tells the story.'83

By the end of the 1950s the information service deliberately spoke of a 'concentration on visual propaganda' of which *Panorama* formed part.84 This concept did not change during the following decade when the Secretary of Information F. G. Barrie referred to the magazine as one of the 'most important weapons in the information task'.85 The journal depicted 'subjects of topical interest in the day to day life of the country, achievements and developments of national importance'.86 Indeed, covering a broad range of topics – from industry, economic progress, mining, agriculture, to education, housing, population groups, nature, and art – the magazine aimed 'to sell apartheid as "separate development"'. This was expressed, for example, by the absence of Indian, Coloureds, and Blacks from the covers (with minor exceptions) even though they were regularly featured in the articles.87

With this agenda *Panorama* sought to reach a vast audience regularly. After initially having been published every six weeks, *Panorama* became a monthly magazine in 1957.88 From the beginning, the information service issued the periodical separately in English and Afrikaans, addressing both South African and international readerships. Shortly after the magazine's launch, the department's annual report stated that *Panorama* not only circulated among 'regular subscribers' but also 'in a considerable number of White and *non-White* schools in the Union, thus serving an educational purpose'.89 A survey conducted in 1991 revealed the readership distribution in South Africa: many readers had been subscribers since 1956, and '[i]n 1991, the majority (58.1 per cent) of the respondents were (older) white males, predominantly English speaking with tertiary qualifications, and 41.9 per cent were (younger) white females, predominantly Afrikaans, without tertiary training.'90

From 1963, the range of *Panorama* was broadened to quarterly editions in German and French that were compiled from features in the South African issues.91 Reaching out for even more readers not only in Europe but also the Americas, this was later supplemented by Spanish (1969), Dutch (1970), Italian (1974), and Portuguese (1974) editions.92

The magazine's price policy may have had an impact on the formation of its group of readers. As a fully state-funded magazine *South African Panorama* did not contain any advertisements.93 While it had to be purchased in South Africa, its overseas equivalents were distributed free of charge until 1976.94 This local, international, and partly gratis circulation can be read as an indicator of the department's intention to distribute the magazine as widely as possible. And the free distribution overseas undoubtedly contributed to its increasing circulation numbers. In 1956, 35,000 copies per issue were printed, while ten years later the overall circulation number, then including the German and French versions, had reached approximately 100,000 per month.95 Due to a shortage of funds, the international editions had to be discontinued in 1976 and were revived only after reader protests. From then on, the magazine's overseas issues and later also the South African editions were available only by subscription and all the recipients had to pay for it. At that point the English and Afrikaans issues numbered 97,000 and 20,000 respectively.96 After that the periodical ran its various editions until 1992 when publication was stopped for ideological reasons.97

Against this backdrop the propagandistic nature of *Panorama* does not seem questionable, and previous research has indeed discussed it in this context, although to a very limited extent. Okwui Enwezor, for instance, calls the magazine a 'propaganda tool' and assumes that the popularity of *Drum* induced the government to launch *Panorama* as a competitor.98 But considering *Drum* targeted primarily a Black readership and *Panorama* mostly a White public, this does not seem feasible. Moreover, according to Eschel Rhoodie, only *PACE* was founded in reaction to *Drum* in 1978, when front men involved in the Information Scandal failed to buy the latter.99 The information service therefore does not seem to have positioned *Panorama* as a direct competitor to *Drum* but rather an alternative project that offered a favourable White perspective on South Africa.

Lizè Groenewald examines the question of *Panorama's* propagandistic agenda in greater depth by analysing its covers in the context of national identity between 1956 and 1961. Referring to *The New Rhetoric. A Treatise on Argumentation* by Chaïm Perelman and Lucie Olbrechts-Tyteca, Groenewald differentiates education as reaffirming existing values, and propaganda as a distortion of truth based on revolutionary aspects. The covers of *Panorama,*  she argues, perpetuated and reinforced already existing values – such as White supremacy – within the White South African community, but did not introduce new, revolutionary arguments.100 Yet, as outlined above, definitions of propaganda also offer contrary concepts, identifying the perpetuation and reinforcement of values as crucial. Since the information service itself regarded *Panorama* as an instrument of visual propaganda, the periodical can be understood as a 'deliberate attempt to influence public opinion' by reaffirming existing values.101 Taking this into account, it seems critical to emphasise *Panorama*'s value in documenting 'a broader African culture'.102 The visual stipulation of racist social demarcations in the apartheid state through photo-essays about Indians, Blacks, and Coloureds published by White potentates need to be seen in the context of South Africa's internal colonialism, therefore, in the context of the highly contested history of colonial photography. In the case of *Panorama* magazine, it can be argued that the photographs became the sugar coating round the tablet of the racist separate development policy. It sounds nearly self-ironic when the report for the period 1978/79 states: '*SA Panorama* without its attractive apparel would look like a super parrot without its feathers – a grey little body with a harsh voice.'103

#### *BANTU*

One year before *South African Panorama* was devised in 1955, *Bantu: an Informal Publication of the Department of Native Affairs*<sup>104</sup> appeared for the first time, replacing the newsletter which this very department used to send to its officers. Apart from addressing the staff of the Department of Native Affairs, *Bantu* also aimed at informing Blacks about the government's race politics. The editorial of the first issue explained the magazine's launch by citing the increased importance which the Department of Native Affairs had gained among the ministries in the light of the so-called 'Native question'.105 Indeed, under the aegis of H. F. Verwoerd as Minister of Native Affairs from 1950 onwards, the Department of Native Affairs developed 'into a key institution' within the consolidating apartheid state.106

When the fully-fledged Department of Information was established in 1961, it took over the information service of the renamed Department of Bantu Administration and Development.107 This included the publication of *Bantu,* while the periodical's mandate remained the same throughout the 1960s. Portraying 'the way of life and the development of the Bantu peoples',108 the magazine encouraged readers to hand in articles, discussing subject matters like the education, cultures, or housing of Blacks:'The suggested feature must serve as a source for the exchange of knowledge in the interest of our country and its people.'109 Understood as an 'illustrated monthly',110 it not only included pictorial articles, but from 1960 on the covers also featured large black-and-white photographs under brightly coloured headings.111

Initially published as a bilingual periodical in Afrikaans and English, *Bantu* was issued in separate editions from 1963 onwards and distributed in South Africa as well as abroad. While the circulation number for the period 1963/1964 was 22,400 per month, this figure had risen to 71,000 by 1976. Although the magazine's main target group was Whites, also Blacks, according to the information service, read the *Bantu* periodical.112 Yet, in 1978, the magazine was renamed *Informa* because its initial title caused the misinterpretation that the magazine was intended for an exclusively Black audience.113

The mere fact that the regime published a magazine dedicated to people whom it had classified as a distinct population group reflects the policy of separate development. Shortly after Verwoerd's death in 1966, one of the fiercest supporters of separate development, *Bantu* tried to justify this policy by quoting new Prime Minister B. J. Vorster:

I believe in the policy of separate development, not only as a philosophy but also as the only practical solution in the interest of everyone to eliminate friction, and to do justice to every population group as well as every member thereof. I say to the Coloured people, as well as to the Indians and the Bantu, that the policy of separate development is not a policy which rests upon jealousy, fear or hatred. It is not a denial of the human dignity of any one, and is not so intended.114

Corresponding to its ideological alignment, the magazine extensively covered the gradual process of – in the regime's terminology – granting independence to the homelands, especially in the 1970s.115 *Bantu*, thus, was the department's constant mouthpiece for propagating separate development.

# *SOUTH AFRICAN DIGEST*

In April 1954, the very same month when *Bantu* appeared for the first time, the State Information Office launched the *Monthly Digest of South African Affairs.* Like the magazine issued by the Department of Native Affairs, the *Digest* substituted a weekly newsletter that the State Information Office would send out at an earlier time.116 Conceptualised to provide an account of news about government, public administration, social and economic affairs,117 the frequency of the *Digest's* publication was soon increased to every fortnight and eventually, in October 1962, to a weekly run.118 That same year, the magazine was renamed *South African Digest*. 119

According to the information service's self-perception, the magazine was offering an objective, balanced review and its impartiality was emphasised on several occasions.120 Even though it was described as an 'illustrated weekly',121 the *South African Digest* did not publish photographs to the same degree as *Panorama* did. Characterised by a very artless layout, it relied exclusively on black-and-white photographs that rather recalled the sober design of daily newspapers than that of an illustrated magazine. Occasional credits, moreover, suggest a reuse of photographs from newspapers.

Like *Bantu* and, to a certain extent, also *Panorama,* the *South African Digest* was a free publication that included no advertisements.122 As indicated by the language policy pursued by the periodical, the target group seems to have been more limited than that of *Panorama*. The information service published the *Digest* in English while it introduced an Afrikaans version titled *Suid-Afrikaanse Oorsig* in 1970. Only in the late 1970s did the Department of Information consider launching French and German editions and so published first issues in these languages in 1981.123 In an attempt to provide a representative cross section of South Africa's media, as the first German issue explained, the magazine's contents had a variety of sources.124

According to the information service, the *South African Digest* was generally of special interest to people from industrial and business circles, whereas its possible value for educational purposes was only noted in 1974.125 Distributed both locally and internationally, the circulation numbers nevertheless rose from 4,000 per month in 1954 to 50,000 per week in 1964. In 1976, distribution numbered a total of 135,000 (English and Afrikaans issues combined).126 After the information service stopped the distribution of the *South African Digest* abroad as early as in 1988, it completely discontinued the magazine's publication in December 1989 for unknown reasons.127 Similar to the other two magazines, the impending political change might explain why the publication was terminated.

# I.3. ACTORS IN THE PROPAGANDA MACHINERY

Although the information service was the apartheid state's central apparatus from which a visual discourse emanated, it was not a solitary, selfcontained, and impermeable institution. As an important actor within the broader machinery of the apartheid state, it was entangled in multiple relations with different actors, who both inside and outside the confines of the information service participated in the task of influencing opinion. In fact, various associations, companies, institutions, and individuals – consciously or unconsciously – took part in the image creation that favoured South Africa. In terms of photography, the ramifications of this network covered politicians, ministers, and state secretaries, who stipulated and executed broader politics and guidelines, to other institutions and photo agencies. The smaller, albeit crucial, wheels in the system were magazine and photo editors, the staff of photo libraries and, finally, photographers and private citizens who provided photographs that could be integrated into the visual discourse of apartheid.

# CORPORATIONS: THE SOUTH AFRICAN RAILWAYS & HARBOURS AND SATOUR

Significantly, the emergence of nationalist movements during the second half of the nineteenth century not only coincided with the expanding use of photography, but the latter also entered a synergetic relationship with the railways. Jeremy Foster argued that photography and the railways became 'natural allies in the creation and definition of new political territories, they lent themselves to modern governance and nation-building'.128 When the State Information Office came into being in 1947, the South African Railways & Harbours (SAR&H, today Transnet) had already prepared the ground for capturing the country in favourable images.

Established in 1909 as successor of the Central South African Railways (CSAR), the state-owned South African Railways (SAR) claimed monopoly on travel in and to South Africa by the 1930s. Now called South African Railways & Harbours, its activities reached far beyond the field of transportation. Being the employer of 7 per cent of the White population, the SAR&H became entangled in the activities of the government regarding labour, welfare, and housing. By spreading both its physical network and its influence on social and economic matters, the SAR&H gained more and more power and had a decisive impact on South Africa's development.129

To promote tourism, investment, and settlement in South Africa, photographing the country formed part and parcel of the corporation's activities. In 1910, at the very beginning of its existence, the SAR&H established a 'Publicity Branch', which, after World War I, expanded and opened its first overseas office in London in 1921, followed by more branches in other cities including New York. The Publicity Department's work relied heavily on different kinds of publications. It circulated, both nationally and internationally, books, brochures, calendars, postcards, and posters, which featured, in particular, black-and-white photographs. In addition to these publications, the Publicity Department used the photographs for lectures and hung them in train cabins for the purpose of decoration.130

According to Jeremy Foster, the SAR&H assembled a photographic archive that held 'the first comprehensive pictorial representation of South Africa'. By 1921 the corporation had gathered a stock of 20,000 negatives which had mostly been taken by photographers whose names are no longer known. Because 3,000 new photographs were added annually since 1928, the collection continued to grow. Colour photography only became relevant during the 1940s. Until the second half of the same decade, the SAR&H could claim to be the 'primary commissioner, publisher and purveyor of images of the country'.131

Like Schwartz, who observes that photographs can add to creating a 'national imaginary',132 Foster correlates the photographic production of the SAR&H with the process of White nation-building and the concept of the 'imagined community'. After the Union of 1910, not only was the SAR instrumental in South Africa's transformation 'into a unified, modern, and economically self-sufficient nation' but it also spatially bound together the four formerly separated South African territories.133 The emergence of 'imagined communities' coincided with the geographical imagination of and collective subjectivity towards a geographical space. In the Union of South Africa, the SAR&H's landscape photography mediated such community formulations and the landscape of White 'South Africanism'.134

Referring to Forster's argument of nation-building, Jeanne van Eeden highlights how the SAR&H continued to contribute to the creation of 'a "positive" view of South Africa' during apartheid, producing images 'that served the new Republic'.135 The work by the SAR&H's Publicity Department was paralleled by and interlocked with the photographic production of the South African Tourist Corporation (Satour). Satour's establishment was announced in 1947 despite the SAR&H's extensive publicity programme and its large photographic stock used to promote tourism.136 After the tourist corporation had also opened an office in London in 1949, clear task sharing was agreed upon with the SAR&H from the 1950s onwards. While Satour was promoting South Africa as tourist destination from overseas, the SAR&H was taking care of domestic tourism.137 In addition, Satour's and the State Information Office's areas of action had also to be defined. The annual report by the latter for the year 1949 reveals how closely positioned the two institutions were in their task of presenting South Africa to the world:

The activities of the State Information Office and the South African Tourist Corporation have also been properly allocated. The former is concerned mainly with the distribution of information on South Africa's manifold political social and economic problems and matters of policy of national interest, while the latter informs the world of the Union's scenic beauty and attractiveness. There is a close co-operation between the two organisations, however, and in countries where the Tourist Corporation does not have its own offices, work in connection with tourism is entrusted to the Information Attachés.138

The information service seems to have been perfectly aware of the propagandistic value of the photographic work of Satour and the SAR&H Publicity Department. In addition to similarities with a more general visual narrative, the entanglement of the SAR&H and Satour with the information service is also evident in the examples of actual exchanges of photographic material. These swaps presumably continued until around 1987 when the SAR&H Publicity Department ceased to operate as a separate entity.139 Traceable both in the magazines and by references on photographic prints at the National Archives in Pretoria, photographs by Satour and from the SAR&H stock appeared, for instance, in *Panorama* and *South African Digest*. 140 In 1949, the information service noted how the Public Relations Office at the South Africa House in London lent SAR&H photographs to the British press. Overseas offices of the information service especially, distributed Satour publications and screened its films. Satour in turn provided material for exhibitions organised by the information service.141

The *Meet South Africa* exhibition is one of the most prominent examples to which the SAR&H contributed material. Organised by the United Kingdom Government Central Office of Information in collaboration with the Union High Commissioner's office, the show opened in London in March 1948, shortly before the Malan government came into power. From there it toured the United Kingdom through nine other cities until February 1949, attracting a total of 316,000 visitors. The exhibition included industrial, commercial, mining, scenic, racial, urban, rural, and travel themes. For the display section on transportation the SAR&H provided dioramas and models on South Africa's train facilities, aviation, and harbours. The brochure *Meet the S.A.R.*, designed by the railways corporation, was distributed in conjunction with the show and several lectures on South Africa accompanied the exhibition.142 At the time, it was common practice for the United Kingdom Central Office of Information and the Imperial Institute in London to organise and offer such lectures.143

Amounting to a total of £30,000, the United Kingdom government bore almost the entire cost of *Meet South Africa*. According to the annual report by the State Information Office for the year 1949, the exhibition was the last project of the 'virtually free publicity facilities' provided by the British government to members of the Commonwealth during and following World War II.144 In December 1948, High Commissioner Leif Egeland in a confidential letter to the Secretary of External Affairs in Pretoria remarked that exhibitions are 'a useful medium of publicity and propaganda'. Although he stated that *Meet South Africa* 'was not specifically intended to counter hostile criticism', he acknowledged that it 'has proved of value in inculcating a better knowledge of South Africa amongst the British public'.145

In November 1948, the South African Treasury – now under the Malan government – approved £2,000 for the acquisition of the *Meet South Africa*  exhibits from the British government, demonstrating an awareness of their potential to depict a favourable portrait of South Africa. But, in 1953, the South African Information Office did not consider the exhibits to be useful any longer. A board of enquiry found that the costs for their possible renovations could not be justified. The exhibits were moreover criticised for being outdated and, since the show had originally been designed to be displayed in the United Kingdom, it was found not to fit in with the context of other exhibitions. In addition, possible transportation costs to places outside the Union were deemed too expensive. The board of enquiry therefore concluded 'that although certain of the individual items may be of some use to the State Information Office the retention of these articles could hardly be justified especially in view of the present acute shortage of suitable accommodation'.146

During apartheid, endeavours like the allegedly harmless *Meet South Africa* exhibition and the work by Satour and the SAR&H provoked protests. While the exhibition was running, demonstrations took place in front of the South Africa House in London and university students launched protests and distributed pamphlets when the exhibition was on display in Bristol.147 In 1968, the UN identified Satour as part of the apartheid propaganda machinery for the very reason of 'depicting South Africa in rosy colours'.148 Some of the annual reports by the information service, indeed, mention the encouragement of tourism from South American countries and Belgium and describe tourists as 'the best advertisement for the country'.149

Scholars have assessed the work by Satour and the SAR&H more ambiguously. According to art historian Michael Godby, *Meet South Africa* depicted a harmless picture to the 'unthinking tourist' and he expressly ranks the exhibition as propaganda.150 Van Eeden states: '[t]he official metanarrative produced by powerful bodies such as the SAR during the second half of the twentieth century did not necessarily produce explicit propaganda for the government, but did attempt to "direct the tourist gaze" and create a "positive" view of South Africa.'151 She here refers to historian Albert Grundlingh, according to whom it is questionable whether the apartheid government deliberately set out to promote its race policies in the tourist market. Although tourists were presented a positive image of South Africa, tourism, as Grundlingh remarks, was not understood to be an instrument of proselytism during the 1960s.152

That the SAR&H and Satour from the beginning contributed to the articulation of a visual discourse which distracted from apartheid ideologies, if not bolstered them, points to the blurriness and variability of propaganda. If the photographic production by the South African railways mediated the process of White nation-building, then the photographic production by the information service is similarly linked to the nation-building process under apartheid, mirroring and conveying its ideologies.

# PHOTOGRAPHERS

One of the smallest albeit crucial wheels in the machinery of apartheid propaganda photography was the actors who took the photographs. The information service's annual reports suggest that a changing number of photographers, both employees and freelancers, produced the plethora of photographs.153 While they remain anonymous in the annual reports, some of their names occur on the reverse of photographic prints or in the publications' image credits.154

The composition of this group of actors, however, is more complex. Most obviously the long period of time the unjust regime was in power complicates the question of collaboration and keeps the composition of the group extremely blurry. Between 1948 and 1994, presumably many people were involved in the information service's photographic production, resulting in a certain heterogeneity. This is further confused by the lack of information and the state of archival disarray in which the pictures of the former photo library are found. Besides occasionally revealing the names, the photographs do not provide more information about the photographers and their work relationships with the information service. It was therefore impossible to reconstruct the precise circumstances under which the photographs were commissioned. That the information service also purchased photographs from the press renders the situation even more complex.155 Does the presence of a photograph among the copies of the former photo library turn the picture's author into an actor of the apartheid regime's propaganda machinery? Since time and political change have divorced the photographs from their original context and producers, the pictures' biographies – looking at them from the vantage point of the present – are opaque and cannot be fully reconstructed.

In this context two more findings, which show the complexity of the question of actors, are worthy of discussion. First, the rather mediocre quality of most of the photographs and, second, the involvement of photographers who today are enjoying international acclaim for having documented the apartheid years and whose works became mostly integrated in an antiapartheid discourse.

According to Okwui Enwezor, the photography by the Department of Information was characterised by 'the absence of photographic sophistication', although he admits that exceptions might have existed.156 Looking through the information service's mass of photographs as well as its illustrated publications it indeed becomes evident that the governmental institution did not develop an original photographic style or visual rhetoric. The photographs of new townships for Blacks or urban areas for Whites, of Bantu education or the racially segregated welfare system, to name just a few of the tropes, depict South Africa in an inconspicuous manner. This also applies to more exceptional themes like festivals and political events. The huge body of photographs reflect a mediocre quality that absorbed the individuality of photographic style and that congealed nearly any theme into incontestable inconspicuousness.

Regarding the aforementioned postcards by Satour, Jeanne van Eeden similarly observes a style that originated in political and visual conservatism and that did not change between the 1960s and 1980s. Explaining this with the aim of representing South Africa as a timeless 'paradise that was untouched by the political or economic realities', she stresses that the generation to whom these images were addressed was visually not very literate and 'had to be reassured of the stability of their world'.157

The incontestable inconspicuousness that dominates large parts of the former photo library's remnants is indicative of a photographic practice in which the photographer as author was secondary, if not insignificant. The author's insignificance might be one of the reasons why very little is known today about the photographers who worked for the governmental information service. Nevertheless, this needs to be qualified by two more aspects. Many of these photographers might be forgotten today because they have passed away, and others may have embarked on different careers after the official end of apartheid. In the face of political change, they have kept rather quiet about their involvement in the apartheid propaganda machinery.158 Significantly, photographers who are known today for their commonly called anti-apartheid photography, maintained silence about their work in the network of the information service. While Okwui Enwezor draws attention to British photographer Ian Berry (b. 1934) as someone who worked both for *Drum* and *Panorama* in the late 1950s,159 his colleague and German expatriate Jürgen Schadeberg (1931–2020) claimed in an interview in 2014 to have published photographs in *Panorama* too. According to Schadeberg, it was a general magazine, containing some propaganda. Against this background he described his stories for *Panorama* about painting classes for children and the Italian community as harmless. When asked if he did not find it problematic to publish his work in a magazine which was openly issued by the governmental information service, he justified it by saying that he had never read it and that he had to earn a living.160 More recently, in his memoirs *The Way I See It,* published in 2017, Schadeberg for the first time commented publicly on his work for *South African Panorama*:

I was also approached by *Panorama*, a magazine produced by the National Party government that catered for the tourist market. I was worried about working for the government, even on a freelance basis, but the story they wanted me to do, which I photographed in colour, seemed harmless enough. It was about paintings produced by 4-6-yearold children in a progressive nursery school which promoted creativity in young children.161

Yet, as photo historian Candice Jansen observes in a review of the memoirs: '[t]he book requires the reader to look outside its pages for the vulnerabilities of Schadeberg's career and its risks to his reputation, for instance, given the recent insights into scientists like Tobias.'162 She here refers to Schadeberg's participation in the 1959 Kalahari expedition by paleoanthropologist Phillip Tobias. Jansen formulates the assumption that photographs of the expedition that were published in *South African Panorama* in 1960 were taken by Jürgen Schadeberg and states that some of these pictures resembled those in Schadeberg's 1982 book *Kalahari Bushmen Dance*. *Panorama* indeed did not credit the photographs to Schadeberg but to the agency Africamera.163 Schadeberg, in turn, presented four of the photographs from *Panorama* on his website, and in 2002 republished two of them in the book *The San of the Kalahari. 1959.*<sup>164</sup> On the website and in the books, Schadeberg, significantly, did not include any photographs that show Phillip Tobias or other White males examining and measuring the San as scientific objects. Therefore, by mentioning his 'harmless' work for *Panorama* in his memoirs, Schadeberg seems to try to anticipate and invalidate possible criticism. But as Jansen discovered and, as it can be proved by comparing the photographs of the San in *Panorama* with those that Schadeberg published online and in print, he excludes the correlation of his far more problematic work with the government magazine from his own photo historiography.

While many photographers who used to work for the state-run information service are today forgotten in the public memory of apartheid photography, Berry and Schadeberg are internationally renowned photographers. Acclaimed for having documented the apartheid years, some of their photographs have become iconic and they are mentioned in the same breath as *Drum* magazine.165 In fact by publishing a number of books during the 1980s and 1990s on *Drum* photography from the 1950s, Schadeberg himself, as Newbury states, 'staked *Drum's* claim to provide the definitive picture of the period'.166 Apart from Enwezor who names Ian Berry, the almost complete concealment of the fact that pictures by photographers like Berry and Schadeberg can be found in *Panorama* simplifies the situation of photography during apartheid and results in a one-sided historiography. Although the excuse of the need to earn a living might sound mundane or evasive, the findings on photographers who published their works in magazines of such 'opposed agendas',167 as Enwezor describes them, illustrate the difficulty of identifying the actors of governmental propaganda photography during apartheid. Besides people directly employed in the photographic section of the information service, there are many shades of grey in which photographers collaborated in the governmental photographic production and the creation of a positive image of South Africa – whether consciously or unconsciously, whether under financial duress or not.168 Even if Berry and Schadeberg may be cases whose work might not have been published regularly in *Panorama* (and maybe other state publications), they dismantle the sharp dichotomy between pro- and anti-apartheid photographies – at least for the late 1950s – that seems to have built up especially after 1994 in South African photo historiography.

If the photographer as author was insignificant to the photography of the information service and if the role of photography emerged from the structures of power, it was easy for people like Schadeberg and Berry – as well as all the other photographers who contributed images to the visual discourse – to conceal their accountability or even complicity. The conceptualisation of illustrated magazines like *South African Panorama*, *Bantu*, and *South African Digest* exemplifies how the regime opened a vast framework in which photographs could be published as from the 1950s. Here especially *Panorama* magazine is a salient example of the power the regime ascribed to print photography. By distributing these publications to people of different nationalities, interests, languages, and statuses, the images circulated to geographically and socially diverse areas, creating a close-meshed visual network. To trivialise publishing in such magazines as harmless misses recognising the powerful forces that by marshalling the distribution of images in their visual networks erected a 'regime of representation'.

Since South African propaganda was not revolutionary but confirmative and perpetuating, it can be concluded that the information service – apart from the possibility of a consciously chosen inconspicuous style – did not develop an outstanding, creative, or new visual rhetoric. The information service therefore did not need to hire exceptional, artistically ambitious photographers with genuine style. This suggests that rather than the moment of creation and production, the moment of a photograph's use needs to be stressed. Here the one central apparatus responsible to produce images relates to the mostly White South African citizens, whose complicity thus potentially fuelled the propaganda machinery by uncritically reproducing and perpetuating the (political) everyday life realities. As it becomes apparent in the annual reports by the information service, it was not only officials and governmental institutions who were involved in the endeavour of improving South Africa's image, the state consciously included 'voluntary public effort' and 'willing recruits', turning ordinary citizens into ambassadors of the South African case.169 As much as citizens were piecing together the ideological apparatus of the state, (professional) photographers, equally citizens, were contributing to it visually. Consequently, the regime did not have to depend on individual photographers and on a consistent visual rhetoric but could use images by nearly every citizen in an almost incidental way to support its system. The fact that possibly every citizen took part in the apartheid propaganda points to its blurry nature and the many shades of grey it encompassed, making it impossible to track its entire outreach. On the one hand, no one can be held accountable and that the moment of use is so significant makes it more difficult to identify and pin down propaganda photography. On the other hand, one can assume that these factors made the photography circulated by the apartheid state more powerful because it was a hardly discernible, insidious, and subtle process.

# **II. CELEBRATING THEWHITENATION**

Within the first four years after the National Party had come into power in 1948 two events of national importance took place in the Union of South Africa. On 16 December 1949, the Voortrekker Monument in Pretoria, the 'national shrine of the Afrikaner[s]'1 , was inaugurated with a solemn ceremony attracting a crowd of 250,000 people.2 Only a few years after that, in 1952, the Jan van Riebeeck festival was celebrated mainly in Cape Town to commemorate the arrival of the commander of the Dutch East India Company in Africa three hundred years before.

The State Information Office was closely involved in the organisation of both events and national and international photographers, including staff of the information service, documented them.3 Series issued by the State Information Office are today fragmented and spread over various archives. Testifying to the systematic organisation of the ministry's photo library, the characteristic circular stamps and the indexical reference system on the reverse of the prints link them to the governmental information service, while some extant machine written captions exemplify the official reading of the scenes.4

An examination of these photographs needs to account for the particularities of national monuments5 and national festivals. With the aim of presenting achievements, commemorating important historic events, honouring eminent personalities, and celebrating culture, the creation of the long-lasting architectures and the organisation of these ephemeral events spring from the same motivation. Both monuments and festivals articulate ideologies of the socio-political context from which they originate. They therefore share an ability to express national values and to construct histories. But this ability also makes them receptive to propagandistic purposes. Being points of reference for a particular community, identities unfold and shape around festivals and monuments and in turn they become symbols and expressions of identity.6

This brings into play Benedict Anderson's definition of nation as an 'imagined political community' as well as the notion of 'invented traditions' elaborated by Hobsbawm and Ranger.7 Just as 'invented traditions' depend on a – sometimes invented – continuity with the past,8 commemorative monuments, as Marschall outlines, 'promote the notion of shared historical bonds and provide a stage for ceremonial public reverence that is designed to conjure up the idea of the imagined community and foster the desire to belong'.9 Similarly, by celebrating a festival, defined in contrast to everyday life, a particular community reassures itself. While the celebrating community separates itself from the outside, the inner, social affiliation of the community members to the group is strengthened.10 Using 'simplified narratives of history and tradition', state engineered festivals, according to historian Leslie Witz, aim 'to create a sense of belonging and identification to what is proclaimed to be a new nation, conveying a sense of pastness that is distinct and revelatory.'11 Hence, as physical and imaginative sites of commemoration and 'valued memories' monuments and festivals lend legitimacy to a particular social group.12

Being prone to ideological exploitation, the coincidence of the inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument and the Jan van Riebeeck festival seems to have played into the hands of the Malan government: they offered an opportunity to highlight the achievements of the young and emerging apartheid state, to legitimise White supremacy in the Union, to demonstrate power, and to forge a White nation. Photographs that originated from both festivals at first sight may appear thematically and visually disparate. Yet, both bodies of work offer insights into the self-concept and aspirations of the White supremacists in power and they reflect the attempt to build a White nation. An outline of some of the photographs' iconographies and comparisons to pictures by photographer Margaret Bourke-White (1904– 1971) as well as in a private photo-album reveal their position in the broader visual tradition.

# II.1. THE INAUGURATION OF THE VOORTREKKER MONUMENT, 1949

Originally planned to be completed for the *Tweede Trek* (second trek), the centenary celebrations of the Great Trek on 16 December 1938, the Voortrekker Monument was only inaugurated eleven years later.13 The day chosen to celebrate the inauguration marks a central moment in Voortrekker history and plays an important role in Afrikaner nationalist mythology. On that day in 1838, Andries Pretorius led a commando of Voortrekkers to fight against an army of Zulus in the Battle of Blood River/Ncome. According to nationalist Afrikaner mythology, a few days prior to the battle, on 9 December, the Voortrekkers had vowed to God to erect a memorial church and to celebrate the battle's anniversary every year in honour of God if they triumphed over their opponents. Although King Dingane's troops outnumbered the Voortrekkers, the Zulus could not compete with the Whites' firepower and were defeated.14

The increasing Afrikaner nationalism of the first four decades of the twentieth century specifically interpreted the vow and victory as confirmation of divine protection. The two events, according to Marx, allowed for 'a historical justification and logical deduction of nationalism, so that the nation is seen as an institution willed by God and instituted by God himself'.15 As from 1916, for instance, the epic film *De Voortrekkers,* for which Gustav Preller wrote the screenplay, contributed considerably to articulating and sustaining the myth that depicted 'the trekkers as founding fathers of a new nation'.16 After its release, the film was repeatedly screened across the country to commemorate 16 December,17 instilling the myth in the audiences' minds and memories. The vow was turned into a central aspect of the Great Trek narrative, adding to the idea of the Afrikaners as chosen people, who in a frontier-like movement had brought light and 'civilisation' into the 'dark interior' of southern Africa.

Situated on a hill outside Pretoria, the Voortrekker Monument is visible from a great distance.18 Being linked to the question of land claim and the interrelated nationalist Afrikaner myths, it is a 'signifying landmark' that charges its environment with meaning.19 According to architect Gerard Moerdijk,

[t]he Voortrekkers paid a terrific price for this country. To their descendants the Monument is akin to a deed of transfer, proving their lawful ownership, acquired through blood and tears. The Monument thus answers the question as to whom South Africa really belongs. … The Monument thus stands as the symbol of the Afrikaners' lawful ownership of this country.20

Moerdijk's massive main architecture is surrounded by a granite wall of sixty-four ox-wagons, forming a protective *laager* (circular formation of wagons for purposes of defence).21 Broad flights of stairs on the exterior lead visitors over several platforms up to the Monument's entrance, which opens into the Hall of Heroes. Along its walls runs a marble frieze of twenty-seven panels that depict scenes from the Great Trek. Daylight enters through the yellow glass of four large arched windows on each face of the building, bathing the interior in a solemn dimmed atmosphere. Every year at noon on 16 December, if the weather is right, a beam of sunlight falls through an oculus in the large dome that spans over the Hall of Heroes. Another circular aperture in the floor of the hall directs the sunlight into a second lower hall where a cenotaph is positioned. Being the centrepiece around which the whole building is organised,22 the beam highlights its inscription 'Ons vir jou Suid Afrika' (We for you, South Africa).23

The solemn inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument of 1949 was preceded by three days of festivities. From 13 December on, there would be choir and theatre performances, folk dances, sermons, a historical exhibition, film screenings, speeches, special programmes for children, and historical tableaux to entertain the crowd.24 A vast campsite on the slopes of Monument Hill provided accommodation 'on more than 5,000 sites' for festival participants.25 When, at noon on 16 December, Prime Minister D. F. Malan eventually gave the sign to open the doors of the Monument, the festival crowd spontaneously started to sing 'Praise the Lord'. The Monument's official guide describes the scene as 'an experience never to be forgotten'.26

#### THE STATE INFORMATION OFFICE'S INVOLVEMENT

The State Information Office's annual reports for the years 1949 and 1950 disclose the institution's involvement in the inauguration celebrations as regards photography: 'The State Information Office, at the request of the Voortrekker Monument Committee, also undertook the Press and publicity arrangements for the opening of the Voortrekker Monument.'27 This included the national and international distribution of information material and photographs beforehand and a preview of the Monument for the media on 9 December. The organisers set up a press office on the site of the Voortrekker Monument and provided a working infrastructure for journalists. As the report resumes, '[a]bout 100 representatives of the press, radio and film, overseas as well as domestic, availed themselves of the facilities provided by the State Information Office.'28 Therefore, according to the report, the Voortrekker Monument Committee and not the officials of the information service took the initiative to arrange for the inauguration to be covered by the media.

Apart from setting up a press office, the organisers deemed it important to give journalists the space and opportunity to follow the celebrations from convenient viewpoints: 'arrangements were made to give the Press special reserved accommodation in a position from which they could see and hear the celebrations'.29 The report does not mention, however, how many of these areas were designated, whether the press was restricted to them or if photographers were allowed to choose their positions.

The presence of a considerable number of national and international members of the press resulted in a plethora of publications picturing the inauguration festival. Photographs were published in newspapers and magazines, special albums were compiled, and commemorative publications featuring photographs were issued.30 One can also suppose that at least a few visitors brought their own cameras to take pictures, which would later be viewed in private and circulated.31

The series of photographs issued by the State Information Office comprises architectural photographs of the Monument, aerial views of the festival site, scenes from the cultural programme in the amphitheatre and pictures of politicians delivering speeches. The collection also holds photographs showing members of the *Voortrekkers,* an Afrikaans youth organisation, camp life during the days of the celebrations, and a series of revived Voortrekker costumes. Yet, in this loose and fragmentary series, with only a little information emanating from extant captions, the single pictures remain entangled in the ambiguity of photography and do not disclose the narrative for which they were used to construct.

# THE PHOTOBOOK *DIE GELOFTE*, 1950

The photobook *Die Gelofte* is a good example of how thirty-nine photographs from the series issued by the State Information Office were selected to form a visual account of the Monument and its inauguration.32 A brief note at the beginning of the book mentions a collaboration with the information service but does not specify that this applied to the reproduced photographs.33 Again, the photographers are not credited and remain anonymous. Issued shortly after the celebrations, *Die Gelofte* was part of a selection of publications that the State Information Office distributed to information attachés abroad to build up libraries: 'These books are chosen with discretion. Where justified, Attachés receive as many as 25 copies of a particular publication for distribution to foreign diplomats, libraries and leading newspapers

Fig. 7 Artist unidentified: The vow, *Die Gelofte,* 1950.

as they may deem fit and necessary.'34 Neither the annual reports nor *Die Gelofte* offer any information about the book's circulation numbers and it remains unclear how broadly it was distributed. As one of the books that was 'chosen with discretion', *Die Gelofte*, however, provides a good starting point for unravelling the apartheid state's photographic self-presentation at the Voortrekker Monument's inauguration and to explore how the State Information Office fed photographs into its visual propaganda discourse.

On the dark-green cover, the book title appears in Afrikaans, English, German, and French. This indicates the publication's multilingual concept, which is maintained throughout the sixty-four pages of the book, and that it was intended for international distribution. The design combines the title with a stylised depiction of a man pushing the wheel of an ox-wagon – a symbol of the Great Trek, which is also frequently repeated in the book. On the preliminary pages, the vow is presented to the readers. An illustration in the style of a woodcut frames the text while clearly referring to architectural elements of the Voortrekker Monument (Fig. 7). From an oculus at the top of the illustration a sunbeam cuts through the middle and is directed onto a cenotaph positioned in the foreground. To the left and right of the sunbeam the text of the vow is placed in two windows in the style of gothic sacred

Fig. 8 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'A quarter of a million attend dedication ceremony: In one of the most impressive ceremonies in modern times, a quarter of a million people gathered at the Voortrekker Monument near Pretoria, in the Union of South Africa, to honour the promise made by their forefathers 110 years ago before the historic Battle of Bloed River. The picture opposite shows part of the crowds taking part in the solemn dedication ceremony. In the background rises the grey mass of the great Monument.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

architecture. A Voortrekker holding a rifle and a Voortrekker mother with two children flank the windows.35

In the following section of the book, photographs are mostly reproduced to cover two-thirds of a page. Descriptive or explanatory captions accompany the pictures, providing some rudimentary background information about the festival and the Monument's architecture. The editors grouped the photographs into three thematic sets, the first mainly concentrates on the Monument, showing it in aerial and wide-angle views during the celebrations as well as in architectural shots. As Prime Minister Malan proudly stated, the inauguration attracted 'presumably the greatest [assembly] that has ever gathered on South African soil'.36 Pictures of the densely crowded amphitheatre emphasise the large number of people who attended the festival. The first of these horizontal pictures was reproduced vertically, spreading over the entire page (Fig. 8). While this layout decision in the first instance implies an interruption in the viewing process of the spectator, it also allows for enlarging the picture. In the photograph, people who become unidentifiable in their sheer mass, cover Monument Hill. That

Fig. 9 Photographer(s) unidentified/State Information Office: 'Another view of the crowds: A general view of the crowds in the amphitheatre during the dedication ceremonies at the Voortrekker Monument on the 16th December, 1949. It was at the Battle of Bloed River that the power of Dingaan, the great Zulu despot, was finally broken and Southern Africa was opened to European civilisation.' (left), 'Aerial view of the Monument: An aerial view of the monument which was officially opened by the Prime Minister of the Union of South Africa (Dr. D. F. Malan) on the 16th December, 1949. The dedication of the Monument was the occasion of a great pilgrimage of Afrikaans people from all parts of the Union, South-West Africa, the Rhodesias and Kenya.' (right), *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

the crowd is cropped on three sides of the picture reinforces the impression of an endless multitude of people. Only parasols and the spotless white *kappies* (bonnets) of female Voortrekker costumes peek out in the foreground, mingling into an indefinite conglomeration of black and white spots towards the middle ground. In the background, the Monument towers over the crowd, rising monolithically into a cloudless sky.

While the second photograph of the crowd in the amphitheatre takes a similar position with comparable effects, subsequent aerial views offer a more distant perspective on the Voortrekker Monument and its surroundings (Fig. 9, Fig. 10). Apart from the crowded amphitheatre, the large tent city is clearly visible. The festival's scale, according to Andrew Crampton, enabled the organisers to present Afrikanerdom as a modern society able to arrange an event that required a town-like infrastructure.37 In combination with text elements, the photographs also engender the notion of pilgrimage. In *Die Gelofte* the caption of the aerial views describes the inauguration

Fig. 10 Photographer(s) unidentified/State Information Office: 'Crowds massing in the amphitheatre: This aerial photograph shows the crowds beginning to gather in the amphitheatre for the dedication ceremonies. This National event was attended by South Africans from as far north as Tanganyika and Uganda.' (left), 'Another aerial view of the crowds: Showing the Monument, situated so as to dominate the country-side *[sic]* for many miles around, and the crowds who came to honour the memory of their forefathers. In the foreground is the great platform and amphitheatre carved out of the hillside, where the ceremonies took place.' (right), *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

festival as 'the occasion of a great pilgrimage of Afrikaans people from all parts of the Union, South-West Africa, the Rhodesias and Kenya'.38 An extant caption by the State Information Office to a photograph of the vast campsite designates the participants as 'pilgrims'.39

In 'Die Heldeverhaal' (The Heroic Story) at the end of the book, author Bartho Smit does not use the term 'pilgrimage'. Yet, he leaves no doubt as to the quasi-religious significance of the Monument: 'The Voortrekker Monument which now stands on the crest of a hill in Pretoria – that is the Temple.'40 For the formation of 'imagined communities', religious pilgrimages as well as their 'secular counterparts', in the sense of social life journeys, are crucial. People from different places and of different backgrounds experience the reason for their pilgrimage as a shared element and the pilgrimage itself as a unifying enactment.41 While this was relevant to the *Tweede Trek* of 1938, which culminated at the site of the Monument, Anderson's argument is pertinent also to the aerial photographs in *Die Gelofte*. Interpreting them in combination with the text, they visually establish the Voortrekker Monument as the

Fig. 11 Photographer(s) unidentified/State Information Office: 'The Voortrekker kappie: One of the most important features of the Voortrekker costumes was the characteristic "Kappie" or bonnett *[sic]*. This head dress was designed to protect the face from the hot sun and scorching winds.' (left), 'Ensemble for travelling: Long sleeves, slim waist, bouffant skirt, held up by stiffened petticoats, mittens and fichu, are the features of this frock, which conforms to the historical pattern.' (right), *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

temple of the Afrikaner *volk*, their new pilgrimage destination. Architectural photographs of the building's exterior and interior that follow thereafter introduce the new temple to viewers. Vast perspectives that accentuate the size of the crowd as well as the scale of the festival underscore the Monument's significance and validate its ideological and political implications at the time.

The second thematic set presents six photographs under the heading 'Voortrekkerdrag' (Voortrekker clothing). The State Information Office had started to promote the traditional clothing prior to the inaugural celebrations. Gertruida (Trudie) Anna Kestell, an expert on traditional dress, assisted in assembling articles on 'authentic historical Voortrekker costumes' and photographs of men and women modelling the clothing were taken for international distribution.42 Because of their quality as regards composition, the 'Voortrekkerdrag' photographs differ from most pictures in the book and gain greater prominence. Giving special attention to female clothing, four photographs depict young women modelling long, bouffant skirts with slim waists and tight bodices. Often combined with a fichu or shawl, *kappies* complete the costumes, which the photographer carefully modulated through lighting (Fig. 11). This is pushed to extremes in the picture 'Ensemble for Travelling'. Characterised by a stark chiaroscuro, the model who is gazing into the distance poses in front of the wheel of an ox-wagon or coach.

In the nationalist context of the inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument, the photographs are not mere representations of historical costumes. They also invoke the ideal and iconography of the *volksmoeder,* the Afrikaans articulation of the international phenomenon of the mother of the nation.43 The *volksmoeder* as a figurehead dates back to the late 1880s, when the Women's Missionary League of the Dutch Reformed Church claimed that women's scope of action had to reach beyond the home into the church and nation. Originating from there, the *volksmoeder* ideal became a recurrent trope in Afrikaner nationalist propaganda during the first half of the twentieth century, adapting to its mutations as well as to broader social and political shifts.44 Virtue, purity, selflessness, and housewifeliness characterised the *volksmoeder* and the ideal, as Liese van der Watt briefly summarises, 'combined domesticity with service and loyalty to the family and the Afrikaner *volk*'.45

Visual expressions of the *volksmoeder* ideal started to occur during the early twentieth century when the Afrikaners had to reconcile themselves with their defeat by the British in the South African War and a united Afrikanerdom was beginning to be forged. The traditional female dress, and especially the *kappies,* became the symbols of this ideal.46 In 1907, sculptor Anton van Wouw (1862–1945) created the small *volksmoeder* figurine *Noitjie van die Onderveld, Transvaal, Rustenburg, sijn distrikt* (Girl from Upcountry, Transvaal, Rustenburg district), which became the emblem of the magazine *Die Boerevrou* (Fig. 12).47 Shortly thereafter, Van Wouw designed the central sculpture of the National Women's Memorial in Bloemfontein. The Memorial was inaugurated in 1913 to commemorate the women and children who had suffered and died in the British concentration camps (Fig. 13).48 The rather humble and devotional expression of the *Noitjie* – a single standing woman, who has lowered her head and clasped her hands in front of her body – clearly differs from the sculpture in Bloemfontein. Here, two women figures are placed on a plinth, which is inscribed 'Aan onze heldinnen en lieve kinderen' (To our heroines and dear children). With mournful expressions they stare into the distance, one holding a lifeless child on her lap. According to Elsabé Brink, the sculpture reflects the attempt to come to terms with the human losses of war: 'Rather than remaining victims of war, women's dignity and worth needed to be restored by portraying them as heroines who made great sacrifices at the altar of the nation.'49

Fig. 12 Anton van Wouw: Noitjie van die Onderveld, Transvaal, Rustenburg, sijn distrikt (Girl from Upcountry, Transvaal, Rustenburg district), 1907.

Fig. 13 Anton van Wouw: Central figurative group, National Women's Memorial, Bloemfontein, 1913.

In the first section of *Die Gelofte,* three of the architectural photographs show another *volksmoeder* sculpture designed by Anton van Wouw. Flanked by two children looking up at her, the bronze figure stands upright on the central axis of the flights of stairs that lead up to the entrance of the Voortrekker Monument. Devoid of mourning or suffering, the woman's level gaze firmly faces every visitor approaching the building (Fig. 14). As architect Moerdijk explains in the official guide to the Monument,

[t]he place of honour has been given to the woman because it was she who ensured the success of the Great Trek and thus brought civilization into the interior of South Africa. She made everything possible by trekking with her husband. Her courage and enterprise founded a white civilization in the interior of the black continent.50

It is against this backdrop that the photographs of Voortrekker clothing in *Die Gelofte* invoke the ideal of the *volksmoeder.* In 1938, the *Tweede Trek* already

# II. Celebrating the White Nation 71

Fig. 14 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'On the first platform: Giving a close-up view of a Voortrekker woman and children. This group was the last work of the famous Sculptor, Anton van Wouw. The four bas-reliefs depict the Wildebeeste, of which there were immense herds at the time of the Great Trek.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

gave way to a revival of traditional clothing when people across the country imitated the style of the Voortrekkers: 'The Voortrekker outfit of Van Wouw's *Noitjie* became the fashion statement of the time.'51 Now, in 1949, the State Information Office was involved in the visual articulation and promotion of the *volksmoeder* ideal. Contrasting the sculptures in Bloemfontein and Pretoria, the photographs in *Die Gelofte* depict beautiful and optimistic *volksmoeders*, proud to wear the traditional clothing. If the memorial in Bloemfontein symbolises the nation weeping over the losses caused by the South African War in the past, the photographs in *Die Gelofte* convey a confident and futureorientated portrait not only of the nation but of White 'civilisation'.52

To extend this narrative of the *volksmoeder*, the editors made use of the photobook's capacity to arrange pictures into series and sections. A single photograph of the men's costumes brings into play the male component necessary for the preservation and perpetuation of the *volk* (Fig. 15). Not specifically focusing on the clothing, another photograph stands out from the section because it is a night shot (Fig. 16). A family of four, also wearing Voortrekker garb, is huddled together around a campfire. They seem lost in reverie as the father and one of the girls *braai* (grill) *boerewors* (farmer's sausage). In the dark night, only the fire illuminates their faces and bathes the scene in a romanticising chiaroscuro.53 The photograph presents the effect of the State Information Office's promotion of Voortrekker dress, launched before the festival. The visual representation of the *volksmoeder* ideal was not only enacted in these photographs but also by people participating in the inauguration celebrations. More importantly, the photograph points to the family as the smallest cell, the nucleus of the Afrikaner nation. Malan elaborated on the role of the family for the Voortrekkers, stating in his inaugural address that

they had a national calling which had set them … to see to the maintenance of their own white paramountcy and [that] of their white race purity. They were insistent on maintaining the unity and the inviolability of family life, which was an outstanding characteristic of the Voortrekkers, and upon which alone a healthy national existence can be built.54

This comment demonstrates how closely linked the idea of the family was to the endeavour of building and preserving a White nation. As Liese van der Watt remarks, '[a]t mid-century … the trope of the family – central to the icon of the *volksmoeder* – was an important way to relay the need for unity, security and continuity on a national level.'55

The third set of photographs entitled 'Hoofsprekers en Tableaux by die Monument' (Principal Speakers and Tableaux at the Monument) is more heterogenous. The pictures show scenes from displays and performances, officials delivering speeches on a stage in the amphitheatre, as well as the solemn opening of the Monument's doors. Yet, focusing on the festival programme, it is especially this part of the book which provides an insight into the self-concept and structures of Afrikaner society at the end of the 1940s.

Fig. 15 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Corduroy and veldskoen: Corduroy suits with the short jackets cut away from the single top button, silk scarves passed through a bone or wooden ring and shoes made of soft raw hide, was the outfit of the young Voortrekker dandy.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

The photographs of the speeches in the amphitheatre, that assemble a variety of different clothing indicative of the structures of Afrikaner society, are characterised by busy and imbalanced compositions. In the photographs, the speakers are surrounded by microphones, they are flanked by members of the *Voortrekkers* holding big parasols while other high-ranking guests of the festivities are seated to their right and left. This is strikingly illustrated by a photograph of Prime Minister D. F. Malan that shows him

Fig. 16 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Around the campfire: This charming family photograph was taken at the Monument celebrations, where thousands of people wore the traditional costumes of the Voortrekkers. Beards were very much in vogue, and prizes were offered for the best growth.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

during the inauguration speeches. Dressed in a three-piece suit, Malan is pictured as sunk into an armchair, an apparently unmoved listener to a speech by Professor van de Leeuw from the Netherlands. A tripod's bar, microphones, and a heavy wooden, altar-like podium partly obstruct the view of the speaker. Complying with the other female festival participants, to the left in the picture Malan's wife is wearing a Voortrekker dress (Fig. 17).

Fig. 17 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Prof. v. d. Leeuw: Prof. v. d. Leeuw of the Netherlands reading the message from the people of the Netherlands. The Prime Minister and his wife (Mrs. D. F. Malan) are seen on the left.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

Not being represented as a powerful statesman or even the sole leader of the nation, neither the pictorial composition nor the merely identificatory caption are consonant with Malan's political role as prime minister.56 This conforms with the fact that, first, the National Party's electoral victory came as a surprise and was not that closely linked to Malan as a person, and, second, it reflects how alien a personality cult it was to the Christian-Nationalism that informed nationalist politics during the 1930s and 1940s and how individuals were important only when contributing to the national cause.57

Fig. 18 Photographer unidentified/*Rand Daily Mail*: 'The opening of the doors: It was a solemn moment when, at a signal from the Prime Minister, Dr. Malan, the main doors of the Monument were swung open by twelve boys and girls dressed in Voortrekker costumes, at the conclusion of the ceremonies.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

Yet, more generally, the White supremacists' role of leadership is articulated through their clothing. Margaret Bourke-White photographed Minister of Finance C. R. Swart with his wife in dress similar to that of the Malans attending the inauguration festivities. With respect to this photograph, Okwui Enwezor comments on the proximity of tradition and modernity expressed in the different styles of clothing: 'This depiction of modernity

Fig. 19 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'From the inside: As the doors were swung open at a signal from the Prime Minister, a fortunate photographer managed to get this picture. The grave faces of the twelve boys and girls indicate that they, too, considered the moment of great historical importance.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

and tradition, a pre-1948 Afrikaner ideal of feminine virtue and a post-1948 vision of masculinist modern nation builders, captures a central tenet of Afrikaner nationalism.'58 Enwezor here points to what Anne McClintock calls '[a] gendered division of national creation'.59 While women represented 'nationalism's conservative principle of continuity', men embodied a progressive agency of national modernity and a 'revolutionary principle of discontinuity'. This was also the case in Afrikaner nationalism during the first half of the twentieth century when 'men were seen to embody the political and economic agency of the *volk*, while women were the (unpaid) keepers of tradition and the *volk's* moral and spiritual mission'.60 Therefore the Voortrekker costumes, especially worn by the politicians' wives, not only recall the ideal of the *volksmoeder* but also contrast the men's modernity and leadership roles.

Similarly, the appearance of members of the *Voortrekkers* youth movement indicates the demarcation from the British. At the beginning of the twentieth century Girl Guides and Boy Scouts had emerged in England and soon after, the organisations spread to the Union of South Africa. Yet, since these movements pledged loyalty to the British king, Afrikaners had reservations about joining them. In 1931, they instead established the *Voortrekkers* as their own counterpart movement.61 An extant caption to one of the photographs of the festival site emphasises this impetus to articulate a distinction from Britain by stating, 'South Africa has its *own* Scouts and Guides, known as Voortrekkers'.62 The *Voortrekkers*, which was only open to White boys and girls, was often involved in public ceremonies like the Monument's inauguration and the re-enactment of the Great Trek in 1938. Characterised by quasi-military structures and authoritarian in flavour, the movement recalls youth organisations and their indoctrination of children and teenagers in other states like *Hitler Jugend* (HJ) during the Third Reich and *Freie Deutsche Jugend* (FDJ) in the German Democratic Republic. The *Voortrekkers* aimed at shaping members intellectually, physically, socially, and spiritually into good citizens and upon acceptance made them vow to be faithful to God and to live according to the Voortrekker law.63

Against this backdrop, the presence of the *Voortrekkers* in *Die Gelofte* pictures is indicative of a militarisation of Afrikaner society which started at a young age. Yet, these details are not given much attention. Like the Voortrekker costumes of the women and the suits worn by the ministers and other officials, the appearance of uniforms in the photographs is imbued with a sense of normality.

The pictures that follow the photographs of official speeches seem at first glance randomly assembled, with no coherence other than presenting scenes from the festival programme. However, they are grouped together thematically. Two photographs show the solemn opening of the doors of the Monument (Fig. 18, Fig. 19). Dressed in Voortrekker clothing, twelve girls and boys lined up on both sides of the main doors are pictured entering the Monument. Turning the page, the same scene is presented from the inside

Fig. 20 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Symbolic ox-waggon: Here we have the symbolic ox-waggon passing through the crowd on its way to the amphitheatre. This is a small replica of the waggons which served the Voortrekkers as homes on their epic journeys covering almost the whole of what is now known as the Union of South Africa.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

of the Monument with a caption that underlines the historic significance of this moment.

Still, the photographer might not have been as fortunate as the caption suggests. Indeed, several photographs of this very moment viewed from the Monument's interior exist and a film documents the firing of a number of flashes, disclosing the presence of more than one photographer.64 The fact that photographers gained admission to the Monument to capture the

Fig. 21 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Ox-waggon wheel tableau: Young people from every quarter of the Union, the Rhodesias, South West Africa, Tanganyika, and Uganda, from, in fact, everywhere in Southern Africa where there are Afrikaans communities, form a symbolic wagon wheel.' (left), 'The massacre of Blaauwkrantz, 1838. Oil [painting] by Thomas Baines (1820–1875). By Courtesy of the Africana Museum, Johannesburg.' (right), *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

opening of the doors from the inside points to the scene's staged character and to an awareness of its possible visual effect. However, the photographs in *Die Gelofte* do not aesthetically reflect the extraordinary nature of the moment. Instead, they exemplify how the state used photographs, despite their mediocre quality, to unfold a nationalist narrative.65

Apart from the female traditional dresses and the uniforms of the *Voortrekkers* organisation, subsequent photographs contain additional national symbols: folk dances point to the White culture and 'civilisation'; *rapportryers* (dispatch riders) and the Afrikaans Students Union present the former republican and Voortrekker flags in the amphitheatre; and again, the ox-wagon is featured in the form of a replica and as tableau vivant shaped by performers wearing Voortrekker clothing (Fig. 20, Fig. 21). In his analysis of the festival programme, Andrew Crampton identifies three aspects that functioned similarly to the pilgrimages described by Anderson in mapping out an 'imagined community' and national territory. First, the dispatch riders delivering messages from various parts of the nation, second, the 'flame of civilisation' that had been carried across the country to be placed in the Monument, and third, the ox-wagon replica that had travelled the Union

Fig. 22 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Arrival of despatch riders: From every part of the Union and from South-West Africa, despatch riders set out on horseback to carry the greetings of their communities to the Monument officials. The photograph shows the arrival of some of these riders.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

during the *Tweede Trek* in 1938.66 Therefore, while *Die Gelofte* surprisingly does not contain a photograph picturing the 'flame of civilisation', the symbolism of other photographs in this section of the book implies a geographical scope which is brought to the fore, especially by the captions. They repeatedly mention how people from all over the Union took part in the performances and how the dispatch riders and the ox-wagons had crossed the country (Fig. 22).67 Evoking a sense of territorial extension of the nation and of the community's spatial dispersal, the captions add up to the notion of pilgrimage induced by the photographs at the beginning of *Die Gelofte*.

In the last double-spread of the book, the photograph of the ox-wagon tableau vivant is juxtaposed with the history painting *Battle of Blaauwkrantz 1838* by Thomas Baines (1820–1875, Fig. 21)*.* <sup>68</sup> The photograph jointly displays the symbols of the Voortrekker costumes, the ox-wagon, and the flags in one frame. While it is hard to recognise the symbol of the ox-wagon as such in the photograph, the painted ox-wagon stands out clearly in the scene of fierce battle between Zulus and Voortrekkers. Being the final picture of the book's illustrated section, which not only presents the Voortrekker Monument but also the culture and 'civilisation' of the Afrikaner community, the painting serves as visual demarcation from the 'Other'. Especially in juxtaposition with the photograph it spells out the Great Trek as a frontier myth. The migration to the hinterland in the self-perception of the White Afrikaner nation, had fought 'barbarism' to bring 'civilisation' in its place.

# MARGARET BOURKE-WHITE'S ACCOUNT OF THE FESTIVAL

The American photographer Margaret Bourke-White, who in 1949 was 'one of [the] most famous photographers – one of the most famous women – in the world',69 pictured the inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument as well. On assignment for the prestigious *Life* magazine, Bourke-White arrived shortly before the festival and stayed until mid-April 1950 in southern Africa, travelling through the Union of South Africa, South West Africa (Namibia), and Bechuanaland (Botswana). The photographs she took during that time were compiled into four photo-essays, of which 'South Africa Enshrines Pioneer Heroes' focused solely on the inauguration celebrations in Pretoria.70

The Union government was perfectly aware of Margaret Bourke-White being in the country. As described in *Life,* it was her 'sensitive cameras and unfailing energy that took her deep … into the heart of government'.71 Bourke-White portrayed high-ranking politicians like Minister of the Interior T. E. Dönges while playing cricket and Prime Minister Malan with his family. Two group portraits show a leadership meeting of the National Party and Malan's cabinet members of which the latter was published in *Life*. 72 Later Bourke-White described how it took considerable diplomatic skill to approach the state officials, especially because they were cognisant of the prevailing international critique towards the Union of South Africa.73 The annual report by the State Information Office for the year 1950 mentions Bourke-White as the first on a list of international press representatives who were 'assisted' by the State Information Office. Accordingly, the ministry provided Bourke-White and her colleagues with 'information which will give them a correct and balanced picture of our way of life and problems'. Yet, as it was pointed out in the annual report in a somewhat disenchanted tone: '[t]he trouble that was taken did not in all cases produce the results expected, but generally it bore fruit.'74 Whether Margaret Bourke-White's photo-essays on South Africa belonged in the category of unexpected results remains speculative.75

For an examination of 'South Africa Enshrines Pioneer Heroes' it seems noteworthy that *Life* published the photo-essay while Bourke-White was still sojourning in the Union of South Africa, continuing to document the country and its people.76 Spread over seven pages, the photo-essay compromises seventeen black-and-white photographs. The sequencing of Bourke-White's images in the magazine is crucial, starting with an emblematic page that features solely an image of dispatch riders in combination with the article's title and some text. The pages that follow show how Bourke-White pictured scenes from the amphitheatre and the official programme, how she portrayed the spectators of the celebrations and gave little insights into the festival life happening aside from the programme. The photo-essay ends with a photograph of the pivotal moment when the sunbeam fell on the inscription of the cenotaph, mirroring how the values of Afrikaner nationalism were literally enshrined in the Voortrekker Monument (Fig. 23–Fig. 25).

'South Africa Enshrines Pioneer Heroes' has attracted scholarly attention and notably, evoked divergent readings by John Edwin Mason and Alex Lichtenstein. According to Lichtenstein, the photo-essay 'treated Afrikaner nationalism ambiguously enough so that the nationalists were "made to feel quite friendly" toward the *Life* photographer'.77 Quoting Bourke-White, he interprets the photographs and the way they were published in *Life* as a conscious strategy to win the trust of government officials so that Bourke-White could pursue her exploration of the apartheid state without official interference in the weeks that followed.78 Yet neither accounting for the photographs' visual rhetoric and iconography, nor contextualising them in a broader visual discourse of the time, Lichtenstein's analysis remains limited to a historical approach.

His benevolent interpretation is in stark contrast to John Edwin Mason's examination of the same photo-essay. According to Lichtenstein underestimating Bourke-White's calculated manipulation of South African officials,79

Fig. 23 Dispatch riders arrive on the festival site, 'South Africa Enshrines Pioneer Heroes', article with photographs by Margaret Bourke-White, *Life,* 1950.

Fig. 24 Scenes of the inauguration festival, 'South Africa Enshrines Pioneer Heroes', article with photographs by Margaret Bourke-White, *Life*, 1950.

Fig. 25 View from the dome onto the cenotaph, 'South Africa Enshrines Pioneer Heroes', article with photographs by Margaret Bourke-White, *Life*, 1950.

Mason states that the photo-essay was informed by 'political naiveté'. He depicts Bourke-White as a photographer who was proficient in attracting the attention of *Life* readers and explains the photo-essay's uncritical tone with Bourke-White being 'seduced by the occasion'. Although conceding the lack of evidence that *Life* or Margaret Bourke-White followed a pro-National

#### II. Celebrating the White Nation 85

Fig. 26 Photographer unidentified/*Rand Daily Mail*: 'Looking down from the inner dome: Looking down from the circular gallery of the inner dome on the Mosaic paving of the second floor. Bathed in reflected blue light, the scene impresses one with a sense of quiet dignity.', *Die Gelofte*, 1950.

Party agenda, from Mason's point of view, the political naiveté resulted in a reproduction of Afrikaner myths and nationalist ideologies.80

These divergent readings vividly epitomise the ambiguity of photography. Both Lichtenstein and Mason neglect to embed Bourke-White's photographs in the broader visual production evolving around the inauguration celebrations. A comparison between Bourke-White's photographs and those issued by the State Information Office demonstrates how the

Fig. 27 'South Africa Enshrines Pioneer Heroes', article with photographs by Margaret Bourke-White, *Life,* 1950.

festival resulted in photographs of the same national symbols and scenes: Voortrekker costumes, flags, members of the *Voortrekkers*, the ox-wagon, and the Monument itself all appear in Bourke-White's photo-essay. Possibly pointing to the designated press areas discussed before, the photographs sometimes were even captured from very similar perspectives but differed in terms of formal quality.

Photographs of the arrival of the dispatch riders on the festival site exemplify this (Fig. 22, Fig. 23). Bourke-White and the photographer of the State Information Office not only captured the scene from a very close vantage point but, as the similar cloud formations in the two photographs indicate, they also pressed their respective shutters almost simultaneously. The blowing flags of the former Boer republics and the two blurred riders on the right give the State Information Office image a certain dynamic quality, while focusing on the two following horses seems to be incidental rather than stylistically intended. In Bourke-White's composition, the dispatch riders move towards the viewers and seem to look directly into the camera. Compared to the State Information Office photograph this intensifies their presence in the picture and evokes, according to John Edwin Mason, 'a sense of valour and chivalry'.81

How much the approach to the same scene or motif differed becomes even more obvious in Bourke-White's photograph of the cenotaph, covering an entire page in *Life* magazine (Fig. 25). Looking down from a position high up in the Monument's dome, it shows the aperture in the floor of the Hall of Heroes while the sunbeams fall on the cenotaph. The geometric floor pattern radiating from the aperture not only gives the photograph its graphic strength but also emphasises the cenotaph's symbolic importance and indicates it as the Monument's focal point. Peculiarly, in *Die Gelofte* a photograph of this crucial moment of the festival is missing. Instead, the editors of the book used a photograph which can be credited to the *Rand Daily Mail* (Fig. 26). Taken from a similar perspective, it shows one corner of the Hall of Heroes in pale shades of grey. Attempting to create a certain symmetry, the photographer surprisingly excluded the cenotaph from view and instead showed the marble frieze that was not completed for the inauguration day.82

The composition of the crowd in the amphitheatre with the Voortrekker Monument rising in the background also gains great prominence in Margaret Bourke-White's photo-essay. Printed over the width of one and a half pages, the article's layout highlights the gathering's enormous size. As regards this image, the disparity in quality is not as obvious as in the other two photographs and it is only through meticulous attention to detail that one can identify the differences between the photographs by Bourke-White and those issued by the State Information Office (Fig. 8, Fig. 9, Fig. 27). A look into the broader visual history that developed around the Voortrekker Monument, reveals that this perspective became the iconic view of the building. In late December 1949, *The Illustrated London News* published a photograph of this composition on its cover. The newspaper *Die Transvaler* and other commercial or (presumably) private actors compiled photo albums of the inauguration, which also contained very similar photographs.83 In later years different editors reprinted the photographs dating to 1949. South Africa's information service reused the picture from *Die Gelofte* in brochures and magazines until at least the end of the 1980s and the photo was also republished in Alan Paton's *South Africa and Her People*. 84 Similar photographs dating to 1949 were used in the official guide to the Voortrekker Monument as well as in a pictorial souvenir of the Jan van Riebeeck festival and a commemorative brochure by *Die Huisgenoot,* a traditional Afrikaans culture magazine, when the Monument's twenty-fifth anniversary was celebrated in 1974.85 Remarkably, photographers who documented later events also pictured the crowd in the amphitheatre in comparable compositions.

Fig. 28 Photographer unidentified: ''n deel van die magtige skare by di Voortrekkermonument, waar die Republiekfees sy hoogtepunt bereik het.' (A part of the mighty crowd at the Voortrekker Monument where the Republic Festival came to a head), *Die Huisgenoot*, 1966.

In 1966, *Die Huisgenoot* published a colour photograph of the Republic Day festivities, which clearly draws on the composition of the 1949 pictures (Fig. 28).86 The Voortrekker Monument thus continued to serve as a backdrop for picturing the *volk* after the inauguration and the photographs by Bourke-White and the State Information Office only marked the beginning of a photographic tradition.

As in *Die Gelofte* the various text elements of the *Life* photo-essay have a decisive influence on possibly divergent readings of the photographs. The short text and the captions offer some rudimentary information about the festival and the Monument. However, they mostly exclude any critical analysis of the political situation in the Union of South Africa and of the nationalist symbolism staged during the celebrations. That the USA at the time was itself a racially deeply divided nation might explain why *Life* – addressing a predominantly White middle-class readership – expressed only slight criticism through pointing out the Whites' minority status in South Africa and how the 'race-conscious' D. F. Malan 'used the occasion to warn his fellow Afrikaners against "absorption into semibarbarism [*sic*] through miscegenation and the disintegration of the white race."'87 In contrast with *Die Gelofte* that pictured exclusively Whites, the photo-essay in *Life* includes a photograph of two Black women preparing food in a camp kitchen (Fig. 24). As the caption states: 'The only natives who attended were servants. These Bantu women are cooking a heavy Dutch dinner.'88 Nonetheless, among the other photographs on the same page and in the photo-essay this remains a footnote, not opening a critical discourse about exclusion, discrimination, exploitation, and South Africa's internal colonialism.89 Other parts of the *Life* photo-essay imprudently take on the nationalist and colonialist vocabulary by the celebration organisers, as becomes most evident in the title 'South Africa Enshrines Pioneer *Heroes'*. 90 Combined with the photograph of the dispatch riders, there is, according to Mason, an allusion to American pioneers conquering the West.91 The text also points to the myth of the Great Trek as a frontier movement that induced development: '[The Afrikaners] gathered with pride and prayers for the white Christian civilization their forefathers brought to the dark continent.'92

Both Lichtenstein and Mason detect echoes of Fascism in the design of the Voortrekker Monument and the festival which reverberate in the *Life* photo-essay. The former detects an allusion to Hitler's plan for the Third Reich to last a thousand years in the *Life* text's report on Moerdijk's ambition for the Monument to stand just as long.93 In the official programme for the inauguration festival, architect Moerdijk in fact stated: 'A monument which is to stand for a thousand years and more to remind us of the deeds of gallant men, must needs be grandly conceived and must do honour to those who are worthy of honour.'94 According to Mason, a photograph of torch bearing Voortrekker girls at night is only prevented by the caption, which identifies them as Afrikaans counterpart to the Girl Scouts, from recalling images of Nazi rallies.95 Here, however, he fails to draw parallels between the *Voortrekkers* and *Hitler Jugend*.

Nonetheless, a subtle humorous tone sharply bordering on mockery can be detected in the text that describes how Afrikaners 'crawled like ants over the hillside', vividly illustrated by the photograph of the crowd in the amphitheatre, and how the Monument resembled 'a modern powerhouse'.96 At the same time, the photograph of the gathering in the amphitheatre is likely to evoke associations with Third Reich mass assemblies that were staged for the cameras.

Margaret Bourke-White herself did not necessarily have a decisive influence on the textual framing of her photographs in *Life.* For the period of World War II it is known that she had only very limited control over how the magazine interpreted and contextualised the images.97 Therefore, whatever intention Margaret Bourke-White might have had when photographing the inauguration festival, being an adept photographer, she captured the scenes and fixed the symbols of Afrikaner nationalism in visually strong photographs. Thinking of the fluid, unstable political dimensions of photography and of propaganda not being an aesthetic quality inherent to photographs, it needs to be questioned at this point whether the act of photographing the festival in itself is condemnable or if it is rather the missing critical textual framing which turns the photographs into visual articulations of the festival that played into the hands of the apartheid state more than seriously upset it.98 To put it in blunt terms, Margaret Bourke-White created the aesthetically appealing photographs of the national symbols which could have become the icons of the new nation if they had been contextualised accordingly and extensively used, reproduced and circulated within the apartheid state's own propaganda network.

# A PRIVATE PERSPECTIVE ON THE FESTIVAL

Neither the series of photographs issued by the State Information Office nor Margaret Bourke-White's photo-essay – apart from the two women preparing food – show the off-sites of the festival. The functional infrastructure needed to run the campsite, the festival's unglamorous side effects, and the Black workforce on which it relied were inappropriate for representing the festival, which aimed to display the modernity of Afrikaner society. A photo album archived at the Erfenisstigting Archives, Pretoria partly fills this gap and adds another perspective to the visual discourse of the festival.

According to a note at the beginning of the photo album, the twenty-three black-and-white photographs were taken by R. G. Siebert.99 Arranged one photograph per page, each picture is provided with a brief machine-written caption. Starting with more general photographs of the Monument, the amphitheatre, and the festival area viewed from the top of the Monument, the album goes on to show the scenes happening that are not part of the official programme, and in the picturesque camp life. Siebert not only documented the 'Rubbish bin area: Sarel Cilliers restaurant' and 'Waste water' but also

Fig. 29 R. G. Siebert: 'Rubbish bin area: Sarel Cilliers restaurant.', 1949.

traced the source of the latter back to open-air shower cubicles. In the last photograph of the album, the field kitchen in the Voortrekker camp speaks of the carelessness of festival life and the untidiness that occurs when many people must be catered for.

While Bourke-White's photo-essay explicitly frames the presence of Black servants at the festival in only one picture and through the text elements, R. G. Siebert's photo album by comparison is indicative of the sense of naturalness that imbued the presence of Blacks behind the festival scenes. In two photographs Black men appear randomly, without being the focus of the pictures and not attracting much attention (Fig. 29, Fig. 30). The casualness of their emergence in the photographs attests to a perspective that did not question the current race relations and status quo.

Siebert's reason for compiling the album and the range of circulation of the photographs remain unknown. By shifting the lens away from the official programme and national symbols, these photographs retrospectively disrupt the appearance of the *volk* as disseminated to the outside

Fig. 30 R. G. Siebert: 'Soyer stoves: Voortrekker camp.', 1949.

world in images created by both the State Information Office and Margaret Bourke-White.

This comparison of different perspectives of the inauguration festival in particular illustrates some aspects of the series issued by the State Information Office and *Die Gelofte*. The medium of the book offers an opportunity to embed a single photograph into a more comprehensive sequence. By combining the photographs with text elements, their ambiguity is reduced but not wholly compensated. Therefore, if understanding the compilation of a photobook as a process of selection, *Die Gelofte* is indicative of the State Information Office's effort to curate a particular visual narrative, the narrative of pilgrimage. Considering that the ministry's extant series comprises far more pictures than published in the book, this becomes especially evident. Consequently, there is a need to question according to which criteria the pictures were chosen for *Die Gelofte*, for instance, regarding the visual symbols that the book excludes or includes. Among the series issued by the State Information Office is at least one photograph of the torchbearers arriving in the amphitheatre at night.100 Why does *Die Gelofte* not contain such a photograph as well as pictures of the 'flame of civilisation', which – after all – was one of the most striking symbols of Afrikaner nationalism? And why is there no photo of the sunbeam spotlighting the inscription on the cenotaph, as one of the most iconic moments during the celebrations, which – as Margaret Bourke-White demonstrated – could be captured in aesthetically strong photographs?101

Answers to these questions remain speculative, and in attempting to tackle them, one certainly needs to consider that *Die Gelofte* had been conceptualised to address an international readership and was distributed only five years after the end of World War II. According to Mason, photographs of teenagers in uniforms carrying blazing torches through the night might have evoked allusions to the Third Reich.102 It is therefore conceivable that the book's editors were wary of visual similarities and tried to avoid being equated with the Nazis. By contrast, M. C. Botha, in his far more comprehensive account of the inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument, which also encompasses the journeys of the *rapportryers* across the country, did not shy away from including photographs of teenage *Voortrekker* torchbearers. As Botha states in his introduction, the book sought to give a general overview of the festival year 1949 and to create ''n brëe nabeeld' (a broad after-image).103 Exclusively published in Afrikaans, the book presumably only targeted a domestic readership for commemorative purposes and was not intended for an international audience.

The State Information Office was still in its infancy when *Die Gelofte* was issued shortly after the inauguration celebrations and the publication section was not fleshed out yet. *South African Panorama* and other periodicals by the State Information Office were only introduced some years later. Therefore, *Die Gelofte* was one of the few channels through which the State Information Office could curate its message and disseminate it internationally. Despite some aesthetic deficiencies in single photographs, the photobook can be considered to have been the State Information Office's visual flagship of the Voortrekker Monument inauguration around 1950.

# II.2. 'WE BUILD A NATION': THE JAN VAN RIEBEECK FESTIVAL, 1952

After the inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument in December 1949, the Malan government set out to consolidate apartheid. From 1950 onwards, segregating and discriminating race laws were passed in rapid succession.104 However, since the majority of South Africans had been excluded from voting in 1948, and because of the distorting effects of the electoral system that favoured Afrikaans dominated constituencies, the nationalists' power was not based on the population's majority and was rather fragile.105 It was therefore important to broaden the political support for the apartheid state among Whites, encompassing not only Afrikaners but also Englishspeaking White South Africans. While the inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument had been an event centred around and pivotal to Afrikaner identity, the coincidence of the tercentenary offered the Union the opportunity to promote a White settler nationalism that established a self-concept as bearer of 'civilisation', dating back to 1652 and providing the ground for a broader sense of White legitimacy.106

Under the tightening grip of the apartheid state, the opposition started to take action. In February 1952, *Drum* for the first time featured a photograph of Nelson Mandela, who at the time was president of the ANC Youth League (Fig. 31). The picture shows him during the ANC convention in Bloemfontein the December before when the party decided on the Defiance Campaign against Unjust Laws. Focusing on civil disobedience against apartheid legislation, the campaign was publicly launched on 6 April 1952, the very same day that the Jan van Riebeeck festival culminated.107

Fig. 31 Jürgen Schadeberg: Nelson Mandela and Ruth First at the ANC Conference in Bloemfontein where the Defiance Campaign was conceived and planned, 1951.

Under the slogan 'South Africa after 300 Years – We Build a Nation' the festival unfolded a narrative that combined colonialist and nationalist aspects and enthroned Jan van Riebeeck as the founder of the White nation, with Cape Town as its cradle.108 As Prime Minister D. F. Malan stated in the official programme: 'The country-wide national festival … offers us the opportunity of paying tribute to those who carried the torch of Western civilisation to this southern corner of Africa and came here to lay the foundation of a new nation.'109 Demonstrating the same attitude, P. J. Olivier, Administrator of the Cape, wrote: 'The Van Riebeeck Festival of 1952 will not only be an occasion for paying homage to the pioneers of the past, but will also present a picture of how far we have progressed as a nation, materially and spiritually.'110

Officially divided into three phases and comprising different formats of events, the festival started on 1 February. Although the organisers sought to arrange a nation-wide festival, the main acts were planned for Cape Town. Festivals of art, culture, drama, music, and sports were scheduled for the first phase. On 13 March the second phase started with the inauguration of a festival fair. Considered one of the 'major attractions', the fair aimed to portray the 'material development' of the Union of South Africa as announced by Administrator Olivier. Accordingly, various aspects of the country's industry, agriculture, and economy were displayed.111 Since the fair was a great success, it was extended until 14 April, attracting a total of 887,648 visitors.112 Between 30 March and 6 April, the celebrations culminated in a series of ceremonies, performances, and pageants.

Leslie Witz underlines the festival's strong visual dimension and how the organisers planned it 'as a visual extravaganza, a "spectacle" more than an "experience"'. All performances, shows, and displays in the festival stadium, museums, and the streets of Cape Town were conceived to be ''n Fees vir die Oog' (a festival/feast for the eye).113

Photography allowed the authorities to fix this 'visual extravaganza' in pictures and to disseminate them independently from time and place. As in 1949, the State Information Office was involved in the organisation and the press activities of the tercentenary. From the outset, the ministry notably saw the festival as 'a unique opportunity to convey to the outside world South Africa's message after three centuries of Western civilisation', not hesitating to make 'full use of this opportunity during 1951'.114 In its own words, the State Information Office was responsible for the 'arrangements in connection with the internal and external publicity of the great national festival'. Local media like the English daily *Cape Times*, with the festival taking place on its doorsteps, indeed reported extensively on the celebrations. For international journalists the State Information Office not only provided press facilities but arranged interviews with 'leading personalities' and offered 'comprehensive tours', which were organised in collaboration with the S.A.R.&H Tourist and Travel Bureau.115 That South Africa felt harshly attacked by the international community during the early 1950s explains this deliberate targeting of the 'outside world'. Speaking of 'a flood of propaganda, based on ignorance, prejudice, and hostility against the Union' the report for the year 1952 complains:

It stands to reason that this organised campaign of vilification rendered the task of the State Information Office difficult internally as well as externally. Particularly discouraging is the fact that some overseas journalists eagerly avail themselves of all facilities granted to them, yet afterwards unhesitatingly participate in the campaign of misrepresentation in the Press and over the radio against South Africa.116

Although the State Information Office indirectly admitted the ineffectiveness of its own propaganda methods, it did not change its approach significantly.

Two extant series of black-and-white photographs that were issued by the State Information Office and by the *Cape Times* newspaper reflect the diversity of the festival programme and provides an insight into how it promoted the idea of a White nation.117 The photographs depict the pageants moving through the streets of Cape Town, the floats arriving in the festival stadium as well as performances. More general scenes show visitors strolling on the fairground among the impressive architectures of the pavilions. In photographs of symbolic tree planting and wreath laying ceremonies, White, high-ranking male politicians dressed in dark three-piece suits still embody political agency. Remarkably, the photographs again do not show Prime Minister D. F. Malan as the leader of the nation. His age and physical weakness are clearly visible as he his holding on to the back of a chair while giving a speech. The series also feature pictures of *Voortrekkers* at night displays carrying flags and torches (Fig. 32–Fig. 35). Yet the presence of the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides alongside the *Voortrekkers* is indicative of the organisers' intention to promote a more inclusive White nation. Photographs that show the floats in the pageant, the Khoisan who were on display at

Fig. 32 Photographer unidentified/ State Information Office: Prime Minister D. F. Malan giving a speech in the festival stadium, Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

Fig. 33 Photographer unidentified/ State Information Office: 'Photo no. VR.156 issued by the State Information Office, Pretoria. Boy Scouts and Girl Guides carrying the flags of the nations where these movements flourish, on the night display in the stadium.', 1952.

Fig. 34 Photographer unidentified/ State Information Office: Members of the *Voortrekkers* movement carrying torches at the night display in the festival stadium, Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

Fig. 35 Photographer unidentified/ State Information Office: Aerial view of the festival stadium during the Pageant of the People, Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

the festival fair in the South West Africa pavilion, and the re-enactment of Jan van Riebeeck's landing are particularly palpable of the festival's deeper narrative of White nation-building and disclose the photographs as being anchored in colonialist tropes of representation.

# PAGEANTS OF THE PEOPLE

On Thursday, 3 April, the so-called People's Pageant, with a historical part in the morning followed by a procession referring to the present, moved through the streets of Cape Town to the festival stadium.118 Historical pageants, which are often staged on town anniversaries, manifest continuities and transformations of perceptions of history. As audience orientated performances of historical-political ideals, they simplify and canonise historic correlations to depict historical developments in the form of allegories. The singularity and individuality of each pageant cause the fugitive nature of the performative act. In light of the media- and culture-historical transformations of the first half of the twentieth century, historical pageants became rather outdated while at the same time both film and photography became a means to save pageants for national memory and limit their ephemerality.119

In Cape Town, the procession of floats displayed what the festival organisers considered to be highlights in South African history; what they deemed worthy of commemoration and to be applauded by the spectators. The State Information Office photographs show the parading standard bearers, brass bands, and floats. Their heterogenous perspectives, including some aerial and wide-angle views are indicative of a number of different photographers who have documented the spectacle and possibly also result from the repetition of the pageants the following day, on Friday, 4 April.120 In some photographs, people are lined up along the streets, looking out of windows and from balconies and the 50,000-seat stadium is packed with spectators, while other photographs show large parts of the stadium's seats empty (e.g. Fig. 32, Fig. 38). Even if considering two possible recording dates, the pictures of the pageants do not necessarily validate the national significance of the Jan van Riebeeck festival regarding the attendance numbers.

By portraying the pageants' floats individually from a close vantage point, mostly on the lawn of the stadium, the photographer(s) created an inventory-like account. The floats bolstered the festival's narrative of development towards modernity and 'civilisation' through industry and economic progress, other floats contained a deeper ideological meaning. Although

Fig. 36 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Photo no. VR.283 issued by the State Information Office, Pretoria. Van Riebeeck Festival, Cape Town, 1952. The biggest pageant South Africa had ever seen was staged in the form of a procession. Picture shows the float symbolising the South African iron and steel industry.', 1952.

Fig. 37 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: Pageant float depicting the South African Airways in the festival stadium, Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

Fig. 38 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Photo no. VR.272 issued by the State Information Office, Pretoria. Van Riebeeck Festival, Cape Town, 1952. The biggest historical pageant South Africa had ever seen formed a three mile procession. Two thousand persons and four hundred horses took part. Picture shows the recognition of a new language Afrikaans.', 1952.

in some cases titles indicated their symbolism, the allegorical floats can be decoded in particular in correlation with the official festival programme.

The pictures document, for instance, how two floats presented the discovery of diamonds and gold. Above a display of modern steel architecture on another float, a sign told the spectators that 'civilisation' depended on steel (Fig. 36).121 On the South African airways float, two stewardesses wave and smile like puppets at the crowd, standing behind a globe that is crowned by a huge airplane (Fig. 37). A direct flight between the Netherlands and South Africa is marked on the globe so that a relationship of aviation's modernity with the Afrikaners' European origins is created.

Since the historical pageant and the pageant of the present displayed the history of the White nation, it will come as no surprise that the persons riding on the floats were all White. Several floats focused in particular on White bodies and their physicality. In the book *Affective Images,* Marietta Kesting briefly comments on one of the photographs from the *Cape Times*  that shows the float commemorating the manifesto by Voortrekker leader Piet Retief. Men and women wearing Voortrekker costumes are gathered around a huge ox-wagon wheel. At the front of the float a young man holding a torch exposes his undressed athletic torso to the spectators. Kesting asserts that the float has an iconography that 'immediately calls up registers of both Leni Riefenstahl and fascist visuality'.122

A similar focus on Whiteness imbued the floats 'Recognition of Afrikaans', 'We Build a Nation', and 'Womanhood'. The pageant celebrated no other language in South Africa but Afrikaans. Young well-trained White men pulled the float which was dedicated to its recognition as official language (Fig. 38). On the float, four equally athletic living Atlantes carried the roof of an architectural construction with space for three women on each side. According to the festival programme, while the women signified the language's beauty, the young men embodied the pillars on which the language rested: the individuals using the language, the law that declared Afrikaans an official language, the cultural organisations promoting Afrikaans, and the Netherlands as the mother country of the language.123 With the living Atlantes the float referred to an architectural motive that is deeply rooted in European architecture, symbolising the figure of Atlas, who, according to Greek mythology, was condemned by Zeus to carry the celestial sphere at the world's most western point as ancient Greeks then knew it.124 The float thus portrayed Afrikaans as a European language and by displaying it as exclusively resting on White bodies, it excluded any speakers of Colour. Especially in the Western Cape with its large Afrikaans speaking Coloured communities this must be read as a decisive racist gesture.

The historical pageant ended with a float named 'We Build a Nation' that drew on a style of antiquity, representing the link between the two pageants, between the past and the present: 'With courage, faith and strength the young South African nation enters the future.'125 (Fig. 39) A young man is seen holding the reins of a chariot pulled by two white horses. Although accompanied by a woman, he is reminiscent of the ancient allegory of the charioteer who represents mastery over fervour and instincts, personifying reason. In the *Phaedrus* dialogue, Plato used the allegory of a winged chariot to explain the human soul. The charioteer keeps the two horses of opposing characters from taking diverging routes and instead leads them together towards enlightenment.126 Indeed, according to Leslie Witz, the 'float was supposed to symbolize the coming together of the South African settler nation in 1952'.127

On the float that highlighted the role of womanhood, different generations of White women were sitting on a throne like structure next to a globe. Threads of gold were hanging over it to represent the women's virtues like faith, hope, and love (Fig. 40).128 Unlike the other pictures that were mostly taken on the lawn of the stadium, this picture is photographed against the backdrop of Table Mountain, the natural landmark of South Africa's mother city. If, on the other floats, the partly undressed athletic White male bodies conveyed a sense of power and strength while the young women evoked the association with beauty and health, this display of womanhood suggests the idea of women as reproducers of a pure White race.

Drawing on different aspects, these examples illustrate how the pageant aimed to portray the development of White 'civilisation' at the Cape and how it tried to Europeanise South Africa's history. A reading of the photographs against the backdrop of the official festival programme decodes the floats' allegories and reveals their national symbols. They are thus important documents for reconstructing the festival's visuality.

There are questions, however, about the use of the photographs by the State Information Office and their propagandistic value. Stefan Schweizer observes how any mediatisation of a pageant fails to transmit the effects of the corporal experience during the event.129 By singling out the floats from the procession, the photographs emphasise their architectural character so that they recall national monuments and their propagandistic value. At the same time the photographs become entangled in the dichotomy of

Fig. 39 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: Pageant float 'We Build a Nation', Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

continuity and discontinuity. While photography fixes the ephemeral monuments for future spectators it also disrupts the time continuum. By portraying the floats individually, the photographer(s) split the pageant into fragments even though its aim was to create a historical continuity.

Looking at the distribution of the photographs illustrates how much the presentation of South Africa's history in a pageant was bound to the ephemeral event. The State Information Office and the South African Railways provided photographs for a special issue on the Union of South Africa that the periodical *La Revue Française de l'Élite Europ[é]enne* published in conjunction with the festival. Highly praised in the annual reports, it featured articles on the Afrikaans language, arts and education, agriculture, mining, the steel and iron industries, and on public transport. The magazine issue, in other words, focused on the very same themes which the pageants displayed and commemorated, but apart from one photograph of the 'Fruit for Health' float, it published general pictures to illustrate the articles. Therefore, the festival gave reason for printing the special issue on the Union without depicting the festival in general or the floats in particular.130

Fig. 40 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Photo no. VR.284 issued by the State Information Office, Pretoria. Van Riebeeck Festival, Cape Town, 1952. The biggest pageant South Africa had ever seen was staged in the form of a procession. Picture shows the float symbolising South African womanhood.', 1952.

In turn, *The Festival in Pictures* included photographs of the floats from the *Cape Times* series.131 In the introduction, the chairman of the Central Van Riebeeck Festival Committee, A. J. van der Merwe, writes that this bilingual publication was intended to preserve the festival 'for future generations' and to present it to those who could not attend it.132 Edited by the *Cape Times*, it is probably the most extensive pictorial account of the tercentenary. In the commemorative brochure, the pictures function as records of festival scenes but do not depict the themes of economic and cultural development that the floats symbolised. This discrepancy between the photographs in the series, portraying the floats as monuments of national history, and the photographs that the State Information Office circulated for the tercentenary, points to the boundaries which the photographs of the floats reached as regards unfolding a propagandistic visual narrative, at least for an international audience.

Minutes of the meetings of the Pageant Sub-Committee indicate that *The Festival in Pictures* was the reason the State Information Office itself did not publish a brochure on the pageant. After two different publishers had been approached, it is reported that Anna Neethling-Pohl, the pageant mistress, addressed the information service on the matter of a possible publication. In late February 1952, the State Information Office agreed on a publication which was planned for mainly overseas distribution with only 'a few hundred copies' available for domestic circulation.133 But after the festival ended this plan was dropped: 'The Pageant Mistress reported that the State Information had expressed themselves as no longer prepared to undertake the publication of a Pageant Brochure since the *Cape Times* had already published "The Festival in Pictures".'134 Consequently, it seems unlikely that the State Information Office issued a comprehensive publication which featured its in-house photographs of the festival.

# THE KHOISAN AT THE JAN VAN RIEBEECK FESTIVAL

The festival's narrative of South Africa's development towards a modern nation was very much based on the comparison with what the White supremacists saw as their 'primitive Other'. The presence of Khoisan people was crucial to fill this part at the celebrations and in their photographic representation. Seventeen adults and children were on display in the so-called 'native section' of the South West Africa pavilion. Dr P. J. Schoeman, Chief Game Warden of South West Africa at the time, had been responsible for their selection out of a group of 140 Khoisan from north-eastern South West Africa. He chose, in his own words, the 'smallish yellow-ones' because they 'were still the closest to the original Cape Bushmen of Van Riebeeck's time'.135

Schoeman brought them to Cape Town by truck and train, where almost 170,000 visitors came to see them at the fair.136 In the same pavilion, the exhibition informed visitors about the Karakul sheep and mining industries, there were photographs of Namibian scenery on display, and a photographically illustrated brochure was handed out. Thus, the organisers used photography during the festival on the fairground first to target the visitors directly, and, second, to promote the festival and its messages beyond its geographical and temporal borders.137 Photographers of the State Information Office moreover photographed the Khoisan while on display in the fair pavilion. Recalling ethnographic photographs of colonialist visual discourses, the remnants of the series show the Khoisan seated on the floor, busy doing craft work and producing arrows. Their barely dressed bodies are exposed to the spectators. Most of them have their gazes lowered, seemingly not paying attention to the camera. Only in a group photograph does one of the women and an infant look directly into the camera, countering the photographer's and the viewers' voyeuristic gazes. A closer examination reveals the reed in the background as wall decoration, which together with the grassy and earthy soil imitate the 'natural surroundings' of the Khoisan. The space for the Khoisan is clearly separated from the visitors' space (Fig. 41). A long piece of wood that cuts diagonally through the foreground of one of

Fig. 41 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Photo no. VR.196 issued by the State Information Office, Pretoria. Van Riebeeck Festival, Cape Town, 1952. Bushmen specially brought from South West Africa to the Van Riebeeck Festival Fair were of great interest to thousands of visitors. These primitive people closely resemble those found by Van Riebeeck at the Cape three centuries ago. Photo shows: Two Bushmen in their nomadic shelter.', 1952.

the photographs emphasises this division, plainly marking off the Khoisan on the exhibition side.138

The photographs are historically entangled in the interplay and intersections of Khoisan iconography, exhibitions, and human displays, (ethnographic) photography and its circulation in printed matters. Since the late 1870s, human showcases (also called ethnographic showcases) became a famous display method in extensive international exhibitions and world fairs*.* But from the 1930s onwards, they caused increasing moral criticism, leading to their disappearance from international exhibitions.139 In South Africa, from where many people had been sent off to be displayed around the world, the case was different. Here the practice of putting people on display continued throughout the 1930s and 1940s, with the 1936 Empire Exhibition in Johannesburg and Donald Bain's 'Bushman camp' being possibly the most notorious example. In the tradition of international shows, the human showcases in South Africa were meant to contrast progress and development, demonstrated, for instance, by industrial displays.140

Photography was generally not only used to promote and advertise the human displays but was intrinsically involved in the creation of the 'primitive Other', distancing them in time and space from the viewer.141 At the same time the human showcases were emerging, Namibia was being photographically explored from the 1860s onwards. Turning them into the most salient representatives of the 'Other', very often the way the Khoisan were portrayed drew on the very same myth of 'primitiveness'.142 Photographs from the South West Africa pavilion illustrate how the display at the Jan van Riebeeck fair offered the opportunity to continue the photographic representation of the Khoisan as pristine people, broadening the distance between them and their onlookers. The extant caption on one of the photographs demonstrates how the authorities of the festival fair intended the Khoisan to mark the 'primitive' starting point from which the White nation had developed since Van Riebeeck's arrival.143

The Khoisan display, standing in the festival's narrative for a primeval, 'savage' Africa and a nationless world, served to present to the audiences a counter-image of the White nation founded by Van Riebeeck.144 It plainly exemplifies how '"[c]olony" and "nation" are never far apart in the hegemonic practices of colonial representation'.145

Mirroring the authorised view by the State Information Office, the photographs are devoid of any signs of the Khoisan's unwillingness to participate in the fair or of resistance to it. After a few days, the hours the Khoisan appeared 'on display' were reduced and they refused to go for an arranged swim, which the press had been eager to photograph. When the fair was extended for another week, they did not agree to extending their stay. In the meantime, voices from certain parts of the press had started to question the White nation's claim to modernity in the light of the inhuman practice of displaying people.146 Considering first these critical comments being raised in the South African press, second the ethnographic showcases having fallen into international disrepute since the 1930s, and third South Africa facing harsh international criticism at the beginning of the 1950s, it seems doubtful that these photos were added to the State Information Office's official propaganda discourse.

Being compiled prior to the start of the festival, the bilingual brochure which the South West Africa Administration handed to visitors at the fair pavilion, could not include photographs from the fair display. But notably, this brochure did not at all feature photographs of the Khoisan. Under the heading 'Glimpses into Native Life' the publication instead assembled photographs of a mission school in the Okavango area or a cattle sale, while in the first part it focused on modern administration and government buildings as well as different industries.147 Therefore, the editors did not set up the Khoisan to mark the point of 'civilisation' from which the White nation had developed in the publication, but the colonialist binary opposition was played out between the brochure and the live display.

The South West Africa Administration not only handed out the brochure at the pavilion but also distributed it to members of the UN in New York. South Africa's representatives at the UN had advised the officials in Windhoek on the selection of the photographs for the brochures beforehand. They recommended that 'the subject may have to be cautiously posed'.148 The guidelines stipulated, for instance, to include scenes from Ovamboland or street scenes showing Blacks and Whites in the same frame. Conforming to the annual reports by the State Information Office, such images of 'modern' content targeted outside viewers.149

The assumption that the information service was careful regarding the publication of photos showing the exhibited Khoisan is partly contradicted by other publications that addressed a largely national readership. Capetonian newspapers printed photographs which bluntly drew on the dichotomy between the alleged 'backwardness' of the Khoisan and European 'civilisation'. On 22 March 1952, when the fair was still in full swing, the *Cape Times Magazine* published a photograph which was also included as a differently cropped version in *The Festival in Pictures* after the celebrations had ended.150 Most of the Khoisan are pictured standing, while Schoeman points at them very explicitly from the right side of the photograph. For the publication in the brochure the graphic designer partly cropped Schoeman so that he appears to be standing outside the picture frame like an onviewer of a diorama. Although the photograph was not taken while the Khoisan were already on display for the fair visitors, it demonstrates the power relations between the exhibitors and the exhibited, between the viewers and the viewed. In other words, the *Cape Times,* which had published critical voices on the Khoisan display, nevertheless published photographs that presented them as exhibits.

Yet, apart from all possible guidelines by newspapers and the information service, private visitors who brought their own cameras could capture the Khoisan display on film and circulate the pictures afterwards. These photographs, and the viewers' personal visual memories, were beyond the control of the State Information Office and the festivals officials.151

# THE RE-ENACTMENT OF JAN VAN RIEBEECK'S LANDING

The trope of the Khoisan forming a contrasting background against which the regime could highlight the development and achievements of the White nation came to a head on 5 April, when Jan van Riebeeck's landing and his encounter with the Khoisan was reenacted at Granger Bay in Cape Town. Being one of the highlights in the festival's multifaceted programme, not only did photographers of the State Information Office document the reenactment, but a spectatorship of 20,000 people also witnessed it.152 Through an interrelated reading of the photographs with the festival programme the plot can be reconstructed: Jan van Riebeeck's ship, the *Dromedaris*, anchors off the coast. From there, two boats bring the Dutch commander together with his wife Maria, his son Lambertus, and his crew ashore (Fig. 42, Fig. 43). Any signs that would situate the scene in the twentieth century are excluded from the picture. Yet, in a third photograph the audience can be discerned in the distance. The presence of the spectators watching Van Riebeeck and his entourage taking the first steps on the African continent, debunks this arrival as being staged (Fig. 44). After the settlers have disembarked and chosen a spot to plant and hoist the flag marking their new territory, a group of Khoikhoi approaches them. In the photograph of this encounter, the Europeans are grouped closely together, outnumbering and confronting the indigenous people. The audience witnessing the scene appears again in the background. After the Khoikhoi have received gifts from the European newcomers, they bow to them and then withdraw (Fig. 45).153 A juxtaposition of two more photographs – one focusing on the Khoikhoi and one portraying the Europeans – underlines how they are represented as distinct groups (Fig. 46, Fig. 47).

Yet, this was not the only landing of Van Riebeeck that was staged during the festival. In the Netherlands, a re-enactment of Jan van Riebeeck's landing was performed at the port of his hometown Culemborg.154 And in Cape Town, corresponding to the ideology of separate development, the organisers arranged a special 'day for Malay and Coloured communities' on 2 April.155 The first scene of the 'Pageant by Griqua Community', which took place in the festival stadium, saw an encounter between a group of local people and Van Riebeeck.156 Although the person performing the Van Riebeeck role in the festival stadium differed slightly from the one at Granger Bay, the general visual narrative was the same (Fig. 48). Van Riebeeck and his entourage are unmistakably dressed in the European style of the seventeenth

Fig. 42 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: The *Dromedaris* anchors off the coast and a boat brings Jan van Riebeeck and his entourage ashore, re-enactment at the Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

Fig. 43 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: Jan van Riebeeck and his entourage set foot on the beach, re-enactment at the Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

Fig. 44 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: Jan van Riebeeck and his entourage on the beach with the audience visible in the background, re-enactment at the Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

Fig. 45 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: The Dutch settlers meet the indigenous people, re-enactment at the Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

Fig. 46 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: The indigenous people on the beach with the audience visible in the background, re-enactment at the Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

Fig. 47 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: Jan van Riebeeck surrounded by his entourage, re-enactment at the Van Riebeeck festival, Cape Town, 1952.

Fig. 48 Photographer unidentified/ State Information Office: 'Photo no. VR.265 issued by the State Information Office, Pretoria. Van Riebeeck Festival, Cape Town, 1952. A pageant by the Griqua community showed many highlights in the history of the Hottentots at the Cape of Good Hope. Picture shows a visit of some Hottentots to Jan van Riebeeck.', 1952.

century, whereas the people acting as South Africa's indigenous population wear pieces of leather and fur. And while the latter are armed with bows and arrows, the Whites carry rifles.

Notably, pageant mistress Anna Neethling-Pohl did not base the reenactment of the encounter between the settlers and the local population on sources dating back to the seventeenth century, but rather on the 1850 history painting *Jan van Riebeeck lands at the Cape* by Charles Davidson Bell (1813–1882) (Fig. 49).157 Representing European 'civilisation', in the painting, a trader, a preacher, and soldiers accompany Van Riebeeck while, according to Andrew Bank, the Khoikhoi are depicted as 'a miserable clutch … already symbolically conquered and dispossessed of their lands'.158 Thus, Bell did represent them as 'ignoble savages', which in the South African context was often distinguished from the notion of the 'noble savage' as represented, for instance, by the Zulu warrior.159 A comparison of Bell's painting with the photographs discloses how it influenced the re-enactment and how the festival organisers dramatised the scene. Not only do his son and wife accompany Van Riebeeck, pointing to the future of White 'civilisation' at the Cape, but the local community is armed, indicating possible resistance. And although in the photographs the latter might not appear as passive as in the history painting, the representation of the encounter still establishes the colonial dichotomy between 'primitive' Africans and 'civilised' Europeans.160

The painting and the re-enactment photographs, recall other representations of land discovery and conquest by European explorers. The preliminary sketch of Jan van der Straet's (1523–1605) famous copper engraving *America* (*c.* 1590), for instance, illustrates the protocol regulating colonial land seizure according to medieval natural law (Fig. 50). The extra-pictorial

Fig. 49 Charles Davidson Bell: Jan van Riebeeck lands at the Cape, 1850. Oil on canvas, 75.9 x 92 cm. Cape Town, National Library of South Africa.

Fig. 50 Jan van der Straet, called Stradanus: Allegory of America, *c*. 1578–89. Pen and brown ink, brown wash, heightened with white, over black chalk, incised, draft for sheet 1 of the Nova Reperta series, 19 x 26.9 cm. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art.

spectators of the sketch, according to Viktoria Schmidt-Linsenhoff, turned into European witnesses who were required to approve this proclamation.161 Like Amerigo Vespucci, Van Riebeeck is depicted as physically present on the land, marking it with a banner. Thus, the re-enactment and the photographs thereof did not invent a new iconography of the Khoisan or of European colonisation but rather perpetuated well-known representation patterns.

Furthermore, thinking of the aforementioned tradition of photographing Khoisan, the pictures of the re-enactment also need to be seen in the context of colonialist photography. The contrasting juxtaposition of symbols of European 'civilisation' and African 'primitiveness' at the performance of the very historical moment that was stylised as the foundation of the South African nation, separated the White European Self from the African 'Other'. Within this 'regime of representation', to cite Stuart Hall, placing the Khoisan in a past natural space kept them at a distance and their difference was naturalised. Unlike a cultural difference, this could not be modified but was fixed.162 The festival organisers shamelessly presented this narrative to both the audience at Granger Bay and the spectators of the Griqua pageant who, under apartheid rule, were disenfranchised. But as Leslie Witz points out and as the nearly empty ranks in the photograph indicate, the Malay and Coloured communities largely boycotted the festival.163 Here the government's message fell on deaf ears.

Considering that the festival organisers did not invent a new visual narrative, but rather relied on established visual norms, it will be fruitful to examine the additional value and implications of photographing a historical re-enactment. One can certainly read the photographs as mere documentation of the festival, but when questioning the qualities of re-enactments and photography, yet another layer surfaces.

A re-enactment is the performative repetition of a particular historic incident, aiming at experiencing the past as present. The staged past coexists with the present in which the re-enactment is performed, preserving the distance between the different temporalities. Tightly interlaced in the mediated imagery of the event which it is relating, a re-enactment activates this imagery and creates an updated version that settles in with the collective cultural memory. Because of their ability to structure and restructure the past, re-enactments are prone to being used for propagandistic purposes, to generate identification with a community and certain ideologies.164

Elizabeth Edwards demonstrates how a 'double mimesis' characterises photographs of ethnographical re-enactment. While in a first step the re-enactment represents the original event, the photograph in a second step represents the re-enactment. Being articulations of the assumptions or imagination of their directors, the reality effects of photographs validate reenactments.165 In other words, photographs naturalise the theatrical qualities of a re-enactment, and they become validated statements. Hence, to photograph a re-enactment is a strategy for authentication.

Against the backdrop of established visual norms, the distancing of the European Self from the Khoikhoi 'Other' in the photographs by the State Information Office appears not to be ingenious. Yet, the re-enactment not only provided an update of Bell's painting for the collective memory, but in 1952 the belief in the veracity of photography turned the photographs into documents of an event that originally could not be photographed. This meandering between documenting the festival and being retrospective documents of Van Riebeeck's arrival becomes especially salient in the photographs in which signs of the present, like the audience in the background, disrupt the performed past and point to the present (Fig. 44–Fig. 46). Expanding the distance between the audience and the Khoikhoi, the visibility of the audience first demonstrates how the 'Other' was staged to be gazed upon. Second, recalling Schmidt-Linsenhoff's examination of Van der Straet's sketch, not only extra-pictorial viewers witness the scene, but the spectators pictured in the photograph also reapprove the land seizure.

Showing the performative repetition of what was considered the foundational moment of a White 'civilised' nation at the Cape, the photographs represent an event that was crucial for the self-concept of the White South African supremacists and which forged their identity. In the guise of the ephemeral re-enactment as well as in the photographs documenting it, the festival organisers could perpetuate and update the colonialist visual representation of the Khoikhoi as 'primitive' Africans in contrast to the 'civilised' Europeans. The festival's narrative of Western 'civilisation', development, and achievement brought to South Africa by European settlers becomes condensed in the photographs. They are indicative of a European identity which did not need to be constructed from scratch but rather had to be reaffirmed to unite the English- and Afrikaans-speaking people as 'civilised' Whites. The photographs can therefore be read to reflect the attempt to maintain the existing social order of White supremacy and to legitimise and stabilise the apartheid state.

Despite their possible potential to depict the festival's narrative and the self-perception of the White nation, and since the State Information Office had refrained from publishing a commemorative brochure, the photographs' trajectories remain obscure. When, in 1953, the State Information Office designed the publication *South Africa 1954*, with a circulation of 80,000, it included a photograph of the re-enactment (Fig. 51). Van Riebeeck, his wife, and his son have just set foot on the beach with their entourage, and the huge banner carried by one of the men indicates the land seizure which will take place shortly. For unknown reasons the State Information Office, however, used a photograph from the *Cape Times* series, which had been published before in *The Festival in Pictures,* presenting the re-enactment on a double spread titled 'Van Riebeeck lands again'.166 In *South Africa 1954,*  the photograph alongside a portrait of Van Riebeeck and a reproduction of a painting of 1820 settlers*,* 167 is printed on the spread titled 'First South Africans'. Notably, in this case the photograph seems to substitute Bell's

Fig. 51 Photographer unidentified/*Cape Times*: 'The enacting of the landing of Jan van Riebeeck during the Tercentenary celebrations at Cape Town in 1952.' (top right), *South Africa 1954*, *c.* 1954.

history painting, which was – and still is today – often used to illustrate the Cape's colonisation. And while the Khoisan are mentioned in the text as 'inhabitants of South Africa'168 at the time when Van Riebeeck arrived, they are not visually represented. The paragraph about immigration facilities at the end of the brochure suggests that the publication mainly targeted an international readership and aimed at attracting immigrants who could contribute to '[t]he maintenance as far as possible, of the existing composition of the European population and its way of life.'169 The apartheid state according to its rationale had to secure the White European 'civilisation' that Van Riebeek had planted.

# **III. H. F. VERWOERD: 'MASTER-BUILDER' OF THEWHITE NATION**

After the first democratic elections in 1994, 21 March, the day of the Sharpeville massacre of 1960, became South Africa's individual Human Rights Day.1 On this day in 2018, an antique and collectables market took place at the bottom of the amphitheatre of the Voortrekker Monument in Pretoria. It was the very same spot where in 1949 Afrikaners had gathered to commemorate the Great Trek and to celebrate White 'civilisation'. Among the stalls packed with porcelains, rifles, jewellery, postcards, stamps, and books was a portrait in a heavy dark wooden frame. Under the dust jacket of the flea-market Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd intruded on the public space of the present South Africa (Fig. 52). Neither prominently displayed on the seller's table nor really hidden from customers' views, the portrait was put in an ambivalent position of exposure, placed on the floor next to an old milk pot. Succeeding D. F. Malan and J. G. Strijdom, Verwoerd was the third apartheid prime minister from 1958 to 1966. Prior to that he had served as Minister of Native Affairs for eight years. The seller at the flea market in 2018, it seems, had no qualms about displaying, on Human Rights Day, the portrait of a man who many today regard as one of the harshest racists from the apartheid era and who was responsible for curtailing the rights of the majority of South Africans. Instead, he must have thought he would find someone to purchase the portrait in these specific surroundings. However, the pictorial Verwoerd could provoke an uncomfortable feeling in viewers who disapprove apartheid, its political leaders, and racism. This duality speaks to the broad spectrum of mutable valuations visual representations of high-ranking politicians are exposed to and that in their most extreme forms result in acts of iconoclasm.2

Between 1948 and 1994, several different prime ministers and state presidents governed, led, and represented South Africa. They were all White

Fig. 52 Portrait of H. F. Verwoerd at an antique and collectables market, Voortrekker Monument Pretoria, 21 March 2018.

male supremacists who contributed in one way or another to conceptualising, strengthening, and maintaining apartheid rule. As leading politicians, each was photographed to different extents and under different technical conditions as well as photographic conventions. The pictures of Prime Minister Malan or C. R. Swart at the two big national festivals at the beginning of apartheid are only a few examples of the broader range of leadership representation. However, thinking of other authoritarian regimes of the twentieth century in terms of photography – such as the Third Reich or Stalinism – the question of how national leaders are visually depicted is pivotal to an examination of the photographic self-representation of a nation state. Standing out from the list of White apartheid politicians and from the succession of prime ministers, H. F. Verwoerd, it seems, has become the face of apartheid. Differing from the Christian-nationalist circles of the 1930s and 1940s when the greater political community was more relevant than individual political leaders, Henry Kenney even goes so far as to speak of a 'Verwoerd personality cult' for the mid-1960s, which was reflected in the naming of lakes, schools, streets, and buildings after him.3

When historians try to describe Verwoerd as a politician, the notion of leader recurs. He was regarded as the 'father of the (white) *volk*' and many see him as the 'architect' or 'master-builder' of apartheid.4 Verwoerd is often depicted as a strong and self-confident personality, as a 'natural autocrat, convinced of his own rightness'.5 Being an apartheid hardliner, Verwoerd would not make any concession in race politics. At the same time, he is said to have been extremely intelligent and, notably, historians ascribe attributes of charm and even charisma to him.6 Deon Geldenhuys, for instance, remarks, that '[h]e undoubtedly had charisma, particularly for the Afrikaners. It was charisma in the sense of being seen to possess exceptional abilities (with regard to intellect, determination, steadfastness, reliability, powers of persuasion, etc.), and certainly not in the form of any theatrical qualities.'7 In other words, Verwoerd was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Doubtlessly, the fact that Verwoerd miraculously survived a first assassination attempt in 1960 and that he was eventually stabbed to death in 1966 contributed to the position he took among apartheid politicians. Moreover, during Verwoerd's premiership the apartheid state reached the zenith of its power. It manoeuvred itself into international political isolation, proved to be extremely violent, and – depending on the perspective – withdrew or was expelled from the Commonwealth which resulted in the formation of the independent Republic of South Africa.

Despite his seemingly strong personality and charisma, Verwoerd is mostly excluded from South African photo historiography. Photographs of him do not form part of scholarly discussions and barely occur in the discourse of the much-debated South African photography of the apartheid years.8 Once more, it can be observed how images that have become iconic symbols of apartheid resistance dominate the photo historiography of the years of Verwoerd's political career. With attention to the political and social dimensions of the portraiture genre, it thus needs to be scrutinised how Verwoerd has been represented and remembered photographically. This entails examining what kind of images were published and distributed and which photographs were, by contrast, withheld from publication.

### III.1. FROM MINISTER OF NATIVE AFFAIRS TO PRIME MINISTER

When Verwoerd became Minister of Native Affairs in 1950, apartheid, which up till then had not been much more than a conceptional vague word to name a political movement, gained a more precise outline with a crystal clear political content.9 As member of the cabinet, Verwoerd started to sharpen apartheid based on segregationist laws that the White Union government had started to implement in 1910.10 The passing of some of the most ruthless race laws until 1958, the year when Verwoerd was elected prime minister, came along with the turning of the Department of Native Affairs into a 'key institution' governing the African population. What distinguished Verwoerd from his predecessors was his rigorous, inflexible, and systematic implementation of apartheid policy which made it more comprehensive. The official propaganda, in turn, covered over the policy's brutal impact on peoples' lives and asserted it was benevolent. As historian Christoph Marx states, Verwoerd 'helped apartheid develop into nothing less than an attempt to rebuild a postcolonial state on racism and to refashion a complex multi-ethnic society according to racist assumptions'. Ultimately, it was Verwoerd's principal objective to create a White nation state and to secure White minority rule.11

The pretext of cultural relativism, which sugar-coated Verwoerd's racism, served him in achieving this. In Verwoerd's view, as Christoph Marx summarises, 'biology – evident in skin color – determined cultural belonging'.12 This rationale, however distorted it was, allowed Verwoerd to divide South Africa's Black population along lines of alleged cultural differences into distinct 'nations', arguing that each could only develop based on its respective culture. In doing so Verwoerd was not only able to break up the African majority of South Africa's population into smaller social entities, but more importantly, he could also draw the curtain over the institutionalisation of racism.13 This racist cultural relativism provided Verwoerd with a scheme to propagate what he and his colleagues euphemistically called separate development. In the long run, Verwoerd used separate development to legitimise the establishment of homelands and the granting of independence to them, cutting them off from the White South African territory.14

At the opening of the Transkeian Territorial Authority in 1957, Verwoerd gave a speech in Mthatha using the metaphor of a tree to define separate development as 'the growth of something for oneself and one's nation, due to one's own endeavours'.15 He continued to argue for separate development by distinguishing Blacks from Whites in terms of their different levels of development:

[T]he white man realises that he already has his tree of separate development. His tree of separate development was planted long ago. It is already a big tree and bears many fruits. You know that. You have seen everything that he has and he has that because he looked after his own tree. The white man knows what separate development means for his people and therefore he believes that if the Bantu wants to progress he must also have such a tree of his own.16

Fig. 53 Photographer unidentified/*The Star* [?]: Verwoerd as Minister of Native Affairs addresses a Black audience, *c.* 1953–1956.

Kenney describes how Verwoerd as Minister of Natives Affairs paternalistically travelled across the country, meeting African communities and their chiefs to promote separate development: 'Verwoerd as the wise and sympathetic father would attend patiently for hours during these sessions. All this play-acting was important to him, for the traditional rulers were the decisive element in his plans to bolster the 'tribal' system.'17

A black-and-white photograph possibly documents such an encounter taking place in a vast and arid landscape (Fig. 53). A perfectly positioned herd of cattle in the background underscores the rural setting. From behind a wooden table Verwoerd addresses the crowd in the foreground. Several White men, some with arms crossed, are grouped along a row of chairs behind the Minister of Native Affairs. Standing slightly isolated from them, a single man on the right equally addresses the audience, maybe translating Verwoerd's speech.18 The arrangement of the persons in the frame vividly underlines the separation between Blacks and Whites. Verwoerd and his entourage are provided with a table and chairs while his listeners are presumably seated on the floor. To date, the credits and the dating of the photograph are not clear, although various readings of it suggest the scene depicts Verwoerd being on tour to promote separate development.19 In the photograph the paternalistic schoolmasterly tone, which infused the Mthatha speech, finds visual expression in the way Verwoerd is positioned in relation to the audience. By speaking like a teacher to his students, it concurs with the racist social order of separate development and exemplifies how Verwoerd, in the guise of being a kind, caring uncle worked on implementing his perfidious policies.

In 1956, the fourth edition of the *South African Panorama* published a one-page photo-article reporting on Verwoerd's visit to South West Africa for which the Union's Department of Native Affairs had assumed administrative responsibility for the so-called African affairs two years before.20 Corresponding to Kenney's description, author P. J. Engelbrecht writes: 'As he has done in the Union and on previous visits to South-West, the Minister held indabas with the non-White population throughout the tour – a practice which is of the greatest value in promoting understanding and cooperation.'21 One of the three photographs in the article pointedly expresses Verwoerd's message (Fig. 54). A group of fourteen Hereros dressed in traditional clothing has approached the plane Verwoerd was travelling in. Except for one woman at the centre of the group who looks at the camera, the other people are all facing the aircraft. Standing under the front hull, some of them reach out to touch the shiny metallic exterior.22 Overarching the Hereros, the massive, upward pointing plane seems to explicitly articulate the cultural difference between the Hereros and White South Africans as well as the patronising claim of apartheid South Africa to bring 'civilisation' and development to the most remote corners of South West Africa. Most starkly, the photographer visually played out the trope of the dichotomy between 'modernity' and 'backwardness', between 'civilisation' and 'primitiveness'. This is also reflected in the photograph's caption that notes: 'GREAT BIRD is an object of awe to the Hereros who came from all parts of the Kaokoveld to the Minister's indaba at Ohopoho. For them it was an unforgettable day.'23 The *Fortnightly Digest of South African Affairs,* which would turn into the weekly *South African Digest* in 1962, published the same image and captioned it even more drastically and derogatively, not only emphasising the differences but also pointing out the Whites' financial benevolence: 'The past salutes the future. … Dr. Verwoerd received an enthusiastic welcome

Fig. 54 P. J. Engelbrecht: 'GREAT BIRD is an object of awe to the Hereros who came from all parts of the Kaokoveld to the Minister's indaba at Ohopoho. For them it was an unforgettable day.' (bottom), *South African Panorama*, 1956.

wherever he stopped to address the tribal gatherings. The task of civilising and educating these people will still take many generations and millions of pounds of the White man's money.'24

Thus, to justify South Africa's implementation of separate development and to tightly link the 'civilising' mission to Verwoerd and his work as Minister of Native Affairs, the State Information Office used such images in prestige and long-running periodicals, which it had launched by then. Significantly, around the mid-1950s, Verwoerd, who had gained his reputation as 'the architect of apartheid' by now, offered to step back from his position as minister for the very reason that apartheid policy had become too closely identified with him.25 In the end, Verwoerd did not resign as Minister of Native Affairs but pursued his political career.

# BECOMING PRIME MINISTER

When Verwoerd succeeded Johannes Strijdom as prime minister in 1958,26 the shift in power was also performed visually. On his appointment, portraits of Verwoerd started to be distributed to replace images of the late Strijdom. The communication between Pretoria and the Embassy of the Union of South Africa in Cairo from 1958 and 1959, for instance, documents how the information service sent photographs of the new prime minister to the diplomatic representation in Egypt. Portraits of Verwoerd were not only requested to be hung in the chancery in Cairo, but together with photographs of Strijdom's state funeral were also distributed to the local press such as the *Egyptian Gazette*. 27

This practice of visual introduction and replacement points to the aspects of power and social status, as well as to the dialectic of absence and presence which inform the medium of photography and the genre of portraiture. Ever since, pictorial depictions of political figures have been closely connected to claims to power and portraits have had a representative function. Marking a sovereign's absence, a portrait can also be used as the sovereign's proxy, re*present*ing the absent person.28 But as much as portraits can affirm and emphasise the social or political role of a person, they can also question established social hierarchies and articulate new claims to power. Visually expressed claims to power stretch from antiquity, when the portrait of a new ruler was set up and distributed as a political act, to the modern era, when the emergence of bourgeois portraiture challenged the aristocratic privilege to be portrayed, and questioned the aristocratic power manifested in portraiture.29

While the minutes from Pretoria do not disclose which portraits of Verwoerd were circulated in Egypt, in other countries or in the Union, *South African Panorama* exemplifies how he was visually introduced as the new prime minister. In October, the magazine offered a resumé of Strijdom's life on two double pages mainly with photographs of his political career.30 In the same issue, a black-and-white studio portrait presented Verwoerd as his successor on a spread that subsumed miscellaneous topics under the headline 'People and Events'.31 The following month, however, the magazine compiled pictures by different photographers, which show Verwoerd after his election, at work at the official residence Groote Schuur, meeting D. F. Malan, and at his first press conference as prime minister. A more private photograph depicts Verwoerd while fishing.32 Thus, from the beginning of his premiership Verwoerd was not only represented in his official political

Fig. 55 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Photo no. 41 issued by the South African Information Service, Pretoria. Dr. the Honourable H. F. Verwoerd, Prime Minister of the Union of South Africa.' The crossed out caption on the reverse of the print reads: 'Photo no. 40 issued by the State Information Office. Pretoria. Dr. the Honourable H. F. Verwoerd, Minister of Native Affairs.', *c.* 1950–1957.

Fig. 56 Photographer unidentified/State Information Office: 'Photo no. 39 issued by the State Information Office, Pretoria. Dr. the Honourable H. F. Verwoerd, Minister of Native Affairs.', *c.* 1950–1957.

role, but also as a private person and the magazine's editors used various pictorial sources.

A print of the Verwoerd portrait from the *Panorama* issue and a second similar studio portrait are among the fragments of the photo library of the former information service, exemplifying the official portraiture of the prime minister (Fig. 55, Fig. 56). Carefully staged, Verwoerd is positioned in front of a neutral background. Wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and a patterned tie, his blond wavy hair is slicked along a straight side-parting. A small pin on the lapel reflects the light that enters the picture from the right and casts strong shadows on Verwoerd's right cheek and forehead. The similarities between the two portraits in terms of format, composition, and Verwoerd's pose suggest that they were taken during the same session by the same photographer although they also show notable differences. In the first photograph, Verwoerd has a serious expression and is looking slightly to the right. In the second photograph, Verwoerd gazes firmly into the lens and his barely perceptible smile gives an idea of what has been described as his charm and charisma. The illuminated background contributes significantly to turn this photograph into a friendlier version of the first portrait. Neither of the two photographs include any national symbols or regalia of power and they are devoid of other indicators that would identify the depicted person as Verwoerd, a member of the political elite. Instead, the now unknown photographer pictured him like any other person who would have their portrait taken in a photo studio during the 1950s.

Yet, interestingly, captions on the reverse sides of the two prints suggest that the portraits date to a time before Verwoerd's premiership. The caption on the print of the friendly looking Verwoerd credits the photo to the State Information Office and names him Minister of Native Affairs. This indicates that the photo was taken before 1957 when the governmental institution was renamed the South African Information Service. On the other print a first caption that identifies Verwoerd as Minister of Native Affairs is crossed out. A second caption calls him the prime minister of the Union of South Africa and credits the photo to the South African Information Service. Considering their similarities, it can still be assumed that the two portraits were taken during the same studio session but the divergent captions seem to prove the use of the photographs during both political offices.

Delving into the multitude of governmental publications, indeed, reveals that the portraits were used in illustrated articles on Verwoerd or to accompany reprints of his speeches and that they date to a time before his premiership.33 In 1957, for instance, the information service of the Department of Native Affairs issued the brochure *Local Authorities and The State,* featuring the photograph of the friendly looking Verwoerd. On the same page is written: 'Separate development does not mean oppression, as is so often alleged. Separate development or apartheid, signifies precisely what is [*sic*] says, namely, an opportunity for everyone, but within his own circle.'34 The photographs' stylistic neutrality and incontestability enabled editors to use the same portrait of Verwoerd as Minister of Native Affairs and again during his premiership. This exchangeability contradicts the elaborateness which is often deployed in the conceptualisation of state portraiture.35

Yet, in combination with reprints of speeches and explanations of apartheid policies these portraits were not merely illustrative but rather reaffirmed the political ideas expressed in the texts and connected them closely to Verwoerd, who vouched for them by being present through his portrait.36 If portraits, as Peter Burke notes, do not record 'social reality so much as social illusions, not ordinary life but special performances',37 then these two portraits of Verwoerd record the inconspicuous normality of apartheid rule.

This inconspicuous normality becomes especially apparent in retrospect, at more than six decades, laying bare all the repercussions of Verwoerd's premiership and preceding term as Minister of Native Affairs that still resonate today. The portraits seem to be a visual euphemism, comparable to the euphemisms of 'good neighbourliness' or 'separate development' which Verwoerd used to justify apartheid and that imbued his political rhetoric.38

# III.2. THE PIVOTAL YEAR 1960

The year 1960 was a pivotal year in the premiership of Verwoerd and, according to Henry Kenney, 'the most dramatic year in South African history'.39 As regards photography, the year also claims a prominent position. Indeed, events unfolded in rapid succession. In January, Verwoerd announced that a Whites-only referendum on the question whether South Africa should become a republic would be held later the year. Shortly after that, on 3 February, British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan addressed both Houses of the South African parliament with his famous 'Wind of Change' speech, pointing out how it had to be accepted that forms of African nationalism across the continent were overthrowing the old colonial rule.40 In an impromptu speech Verwoerd responded:

The tendency in Africa for nations to become independent and, at the same time, the need to do justice to all, does not only mean being just to the black man of Africa but also to be just to the white man of Africa. … The white man who came to Africa … has remained to stay … We have nowhere else to go.41

The following month, on 21 March, the police violently suppressed the Langa and Sharpeville protests against unjust pass laws. Ian Berry became famous for being the only person who had photographed the brutality at the Sharpeville protests. Today, these photographs of people fleeing from police

Fig. 57 Ian Berry: Sharpeville massacre, 21 March 1960.

gunfire are anchored deeply in South Africa's public memory (Fig. 57). Similarly, photographs by Jürgen Schadeberg and Peter Magubane (b. 1932) of the endless rows of coffins at the victims' funeral have become iconic, symbolising the ruthless violence of the apartheid state.42 In 1960, the international media widely published the photographs of the Sharpeville massacre: 'Press condemnation was universal; papers devoted half their front pages to enlarged pictures of the "battleground" of Sharpeville, showing the twisted bodies of the dead and the dying.'43 Fearing the magazine would be shut down, *Drum* owner Jim Bailey in an act of self-censorship rejected Berry's photographs and instead only published Magubane's pictures of the victims' funeral in May 1960. The book *Shooting at Sharpeville: The Agony of South Africa,* which anti-apartheid activist Ambrose Reeves published in London and which featured photographs by Berry, was banned in South Africa on publication. Berry's pictures of the shooting were not printed in South Africa until October the same year when the state of emergency was lifted.44 Darren Newbury identifies the Sharpeville massacre as a turning point in South African photography. Due to increasing restrictions, photographers from that time on directed their work on the violent suppression perpetrated by the apartheid state towards an international audience.45

On 8 April, the apartheid regime banned the ANC and the PAC under the newly introduced Unlawful Organisations Act. One day later, the White farmer David Pratt shot Verwoerd twice at close range in the face at the Rand Easter Show in Johannesburg. Photographers and camera teams happened to be at the agricultural show to capture on film the assassination attempt on Verwoerd. Pictures of the collapsing prime minister covered in blood made it to the front pages of South African newspapers. Also, *Drum* magazine dedicated three pages to the attack, denouncing violence.46 In this attack on Verwoerd violence turned against the state embodied by the prime minister. As regards visual representation, crucially, the state's violence that erupted in Sharpeville and the violence against the state were pictured equally. Newspapers simultaneously reported on Verwoerd's condition and the consequences of the Sharpeville massacre while South African officials in total self-delusion condemned any violence against political opponents and declared it alien to White South African society. By asserting that Pratt was insane and by categorising his deed, that had ignored class and race, as madness, the political motivation for the attack, which he articulated in court hearings, could be eroded.47 Verwoerd surprisingly survived the attempted murder and, on 31 May, the prime minister, fully recovered, was back in the public arena to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the Union of South Africa.48 When he held the Whites-only referendum in October the same year, it ended with just over 52 per cent voting for the republic.49

The photographs originating from the Sharpeville massacre and the attempted assassination on Verwoerd as well as their political handling by the regime epitomise the temporal parallelism of visual discourses evolving in South Africa in 1960. Yet, while Sharpeville forms an integral part of the South African post-apartheid photo historiography, the attack on Verwoerd is scarcely mentioned. Two groups of photographs, a set of unpublished pictures by unidentified photographer(s) and a series that the information service possibly conceptualised and partly published in its magazines, provide a basis from which to explore how the consequences of the attempted assassination were photographically reflected but also give yet another insight into the propagandistic use of photographs by the apartheid state.

#### ON THE THRESHOLD OF DEATH

The first set of photographs portray Verwoerd in the hospital of Pretoria after the attempted assassination.50 In one photograph, Verwoerd is resting on the white linen of the sickbed dressed in beige pyjamas (Fig. 58). A blanket is pulled up to his chest and the elevated headpiece lifts the prime minister in a slightly upward position. His face and neck are severely marked by Fig. 58 Photographer unidentified: H. F. Verwoerd in his sickbed in the hospital of Pretoria after the attempted assassination, 1960.

darkened bruises and swellings, a white plaster covers the wound, while his blue eyes are staring apathetically into space.

In two horizontal photographs, Verwoerd's wife Elizabeth 'Betsie' is standing at the side of her husband's bed (Fig. 59, Fig. 60). In the first photograph, strong flashlights frieze the scene in glaring shades of white and blue, casting dark shadows on the wall in the background. The errors of exposure and Betsie's forced, weary smile together with Verwoerd's apathetic eyes evoke an awkward atmosphere of a staged photograph that has failed. The other photograph of the couple captures the scene more successfully. Verwoerd's head on the elevated pillow is slightly turned towards his wife who is wearing a blue outfit with a floral pattern and a white hat. Holding his hand, Betsie looks down at him, and their gazes, which meet in front of a bunch of flowers in the background, become the image's dominating axis.

Despite their different formal qualities and compositions, all the photographs depict Prime Minister Verwoerd as immobile and ravaged by serious injuries, which could have been fatal. The pale colours and overexposures make Verwoerd seem to fade away and make him appear to be on the threshold of death. Fred Barnard, Verwoerd's former private secretary, recalls how a bulletin was issued to the South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC) on the evening of the attack. Although it was uncertain if Verwoerd would survive, it assured the public that the prime minister was in a 'satisfactory' condition.51

Assuming that the photographs are not faked, they immediately prompt two questions: Who took the photographs and what was their objective? While at this point the photographer(s) remain(s) unknown, the tradition

Fig. 59 Photographer unidentified: H. F. Verwoerd with Betsie in the hospital of Pretoria after the attempted assassination, 1960.

Fig. 60 Photographer unidentified: H. F. Verwoerd with Betsie in the hospital of Pretoria after the attempted assassination, 1960.

of post-mortem photography provides a framework for scrutinising the possible reasons for the photographs' production and their social and propagandistic aspects.

Especially during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries it was an established practice in Western cultures to photograph corpses. In its multifaceted forms post-mortem photography emerged in both private and public realms. Some tropes represented the deceased person as alive, while others did not deny the end of life. Monarchs and political leaders were often photographed when lying in state or in a coffin, sometimes opulently decorated.52 Such forms of symbolising death are informed by politics of power, negotiating the constellations of social life. When a person dies, his

Fig. 61 Max Priester and Willy Wilcke: Otto Fürst von Bismarck on the deathbed, 1898.

or her role needs to be balanced in relation to the living. In some cases, a photograph of a dead person gains the status of a living person, representing the deceased beyond the passing. The cultural negotiation of what is acceptable to show and what is excluded from depiction illustrates the social aspects of the relationship between death and photography. The visual inclusions and exclusions indicate along social lines what and who belongs to a community. Katharina Sykora argues that no photographs are usually taken during the first phase after death when the bereaved have not yet reorganised the social order and the corpse signifies nothing more than a dead body. In this moment, the deceased holds no symbolic power and is not embedded in a network of social relations. But as much as photographs of deceased persons can take over the role of living persons, old or sick people can die a social death in the sense that they are no longer photographed. According to Sykora, scarcely any photographs of agony exist because loss of control and sovereignty enunciate prohibitions of gazes and images.53

A prominent case of an inappropriate post-mortem photograph is the picture by Max Priester and Willy Wilcke of Otto von Bismarck after he had died in 1898 (Fig. 61). By bribing the forester, Priester and Wilcke gained access to Bismarck's mansion in Friedrichsruh, east of Hamburg, and took the photograph without the family's permission. Surrounded by white bed sheets and covered by a blanket, Bismarck's head is resting on pillows. The bandage wrapped around his head to close his mouth is a clear indicator for how the dead body had lost control and that the corpse had not yet been prepared for official presentation to the public. Such a photograph, as Sykora summarises, was the complete antithesis of the powerful political figure Bismarck represented.54

By contrast with the photograph of Bismarck and official post-mortem photographs of political leaders, the photographs from the Pretoria hospital show Verwoerd heavily injured but alive. Betsie's presence moreover speaks of a situation in which it was agreed upon to take the pictures. In other words, it seems unlikely that someone had clandestinely entered the clinic to photograph the prime minister. Showing Verwoerd as a weak and defenceless victim of violence, the photographs demonstrate the state's vulnerability and constitute, like the Bismarck photograph, an unusual antithesis to the expression of power by portraits of leadership.

Verwoerd was not the only person to have survived an assassination attempt and afterwards to be photographed in his sickbed. Two years before, on 20 September 1958, Izola Curry, who is said to have been mentally ill, stabbed the leading member of the American civil rights movement Martin Luther King Jr. with a letter opener. Being politically opposed as much as one can be, presumably neither Verwoerd nor King, would have appreciated the comparison but in terms of photography a juxtaposition of these two cases proves to be fruitful. Like Verwoerd, King was photographed collapsing on the site of the crime, and several black-and-white pictures of King at Harlem hospital in New York exist. The day after the attack the *Sunday News. New York's Picture Newspaper* printed a photograph on its front page that shows King sunken on a chair surrounded by people, the weapon protruding from his chest*.* 55 A photobiography of Martin Luther King Jr. from 2000, includes a picture of Dr Emil A. Naclerio who had been a member of the medical team operating on the civil-rights leader, checking on the patient. Recalling the Verwoerd photographs, the elevated headpiece of the sickbed lifts King in a slightly upward position. The pulled-up blanket allows the viewers a glimpse of the bandaged chest. A tube fixed to King's nose by prominent white tapes leads beyond the frame to the right. However, unlike Verwoerd, there are no signs of apathy in King's eyes. Fully aware of the photographer being present in the room, he looks directly into the lens. A week after the attack, the *New York Amsterdam News* published another very similar photograph of Dr Naclerio next to King's bed on the same page with photographs of the assassin, of King before the attack, and of the nursing team who cared for him.56

The pictures of the collapsing Verwoerd at the Rand Easter Show quickly appeared in the media and one can assume that their pace of circulation was too fast for prohibition of publication to take place. In turn, the purpose of photographing Verwoerd in the sickbed remains obscure and it is still not known if the hospital photographs – different from the King case – have ever been published. One thus needs to question if the Verwoerd photos were meant for distribution and if so, what kind of message were they supposed to disseminate?

That both King and Verwoerd were photographed while recovering in hospital and that these photographs, at least in the case of King, were circulated in 1958 as well as woven into post-mortem pictorial narratives, indicates how the rare event of surviving an assassination attempt apparently weighs more than prohibiting gazes and images in occasion of agony. On the one hand, the Verwoerd photographs testify to the miraculous survival of a man who had been shot in the face twice from a short range. They therefore leant themselves to be capitalised on for propaganda to demonstrate his strength and even his alleged divine calling to lead the Afrikaner *volk*. 57 A possible explanation is thus that the photographs were taken to reaffirm Verwoerd's social and political presence and so his claim to premiership. On the other hand, the photographs are antithetical to leader portraits and the question arises if they may have been kept from publication because of their lack of formal quality and because Verwoerd looked too weak, thereby not reinforcing the narrative of a miraculous survival. Whether Verwoerd himself prohibited them from being circulated, or officials realised that no photographs were needed to bolster and propagate the narrative of the divinely ordained survival of Verwoerd remains speculative.

# SURVIVAL AND THE VISUAL RECLAIM OF PRESENCE

On 15 May 1960, only five weeks after the assassination attempt, Verwoerd was able to leave the hospital and returned to his official residence, Libertas, in Pretoria. A few days later, on 27 May, the *Fortnightly Digest of South African Affairs* published a photograph of Verwoerd and his wife (Fig. 62). Dressed in a dark pinstripe three-piece suit with tie and white shirt, Verwoerd is sitting in an armchair. He cautiously smiles at Betsie who is standing on the left and who happily returns her husband's gaze.58 This photograph serves as a good starting point for piecing together a series of photographs, which in contrast to the enigmatic photographs from the hospital, were eventually used to reclaim Verwoerd's social and political position. Likely to have been realised by the Department of Information, the series testifies to the government's interest in documenting Verwoerd's survival by mainly drawing on two themes. Firstly, Verwoerd resuming work and secondly, Verwoerd as family man.59

Fig. 62 Photographer unidentified/ Department of Information [?]: 'The Prime Minister, Dr. H. F. Verwoerd, photographed with Mrs. Verwoerd, soon after he returned to Libertas, his official residence in Pretoria, after having been in hospital for five weeks.', *Fortnightly Digest of South African Affairs*, 1960.

Pictured at his desk, the prime minister is browsing through piles of papers. Only a scar below his eye reminds the viewers of the gunshot wound (Fig. 63, Fig. 64). Again, Betsie can be seen standing at his side, smiling happily. Contrasting his official role, the other part of the series presents Verwoerd as family man (Fig. 65). He is playing with his grandchild Hendrik who is sitting on Betsie's lap next to him. None of them pays attention to the photographer. Family portraits show how the Verwoerds have gathered on the porch of Libertas (Fig. 66). The prime minister and his wife are sitting on a chaise longue and a rattan chair surrounded by five of their seven children with their partners and grandson Hendrik. Although they are grouped in a semi-circle which opens towards the spectators, none of the sitters looks at the camera. Instead, blond little Hendrik attracts everybody's attention and diverts the gazes from his grandfather.

Fig. 63 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: 'Die eerste foto van dr. Verwoerd in sy kantoor by Libertas ná die aanslag op sy lewe op 9 April 1960. Hy was opgewek en goed op hoogte van alles wat in die land aan die gang was.' (The first photograph of Dr. Verwoerd in his office at Libertas after the attack on his life on 9 April 1960. He was excited and well informed of everything going on in the country), 1960.

Fig. 64 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information: H. F. Verwoerd and Betsie at Libertas, May 1960.

Verwoerd takes an inconspicuous position among his family members which is even more surprising against the backdrop of the patriarchal structures of Afrikaner society in the mid-twentieth century. Yet, thinking about the significance of the family for mid-twentieth century Afrikanerdom, these pictures are not totally devoid of a potential ideological and political reading. In the guise of the normality of a family portrait, whose formality is broken up by the unique ability of toddlers to attract attention, Verwoerd returns to his life as family man and re-completes the nucleus of the nation.

Therefore, although Verwoerd is not photographed in traditional poses of power, these photographs lent themselves to being used to reclaim

Fig. 65 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information: H. F. Verwoerd and Betsie with their grandchild Hendrik on the porch of Libertas, May 1960.

Fig. 66 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information: H. F. Verwoerd with his family on the porch of Libertas, May 1960.

his social and political position. Indeed, in the *Fortnightly Digest of South African Affairs,* the photograph of Betsie and Verwoerd illustrated an article based on Verwoerd's announcement on the government's race policy. Not in shape yet to attend Parliament again, Cape Nationalist leader T. E. Dönges read Verwoerd's statement to the House of Assembly on 20 May.60 Referring to the events in Langa and Sharpeville, Verwoerd made it quite clear that there would be no departure from separate development: 'On the contrary, the events have now more than ever emphasised that peace and good order, and friendly relations between the races, can best be achieved through this policy.'61 Verwoerd's announcement was a response to reformative voices among nationalists that had become louder during his absence, demanding concessions in race policy.62 The article in the *Fortnightly Digest of South African Affairs* together with the photograph leaves no doubt: Prime Minister Verwoerd was back in politics, he had returned to his old rigour, and he was again building a White nation state.

# III.3. THE VERWOERD COUPLE

A coherent set of twelve black-and-white portraits of Verwoerd and his wife stand out from the fragments of the former photo library that are stored at the National Archives in Pretoria. Stamps on the reverse of the prints reveal the rather surprising authorship of Anne Fischer (1915–1986). Being one of the transnational photographers who shaped and influenced South African photography around the middle of the twentieth century, Fischer was, next to Constance Stuart Larrabee, one of the most renowned female photographers in the country at that time.63

Fischer, who was of Jewish descent, had trained as a photographer at a portrait studio in Germany's capital Berlin before she fled from the Nazi regime to Cape Town in 1937.64 Jessica Williams outlines how Fischer, politicised at a young age through the rise of Fascism in Europe, quickly immersed herself into the city's leftist circles and, apart from her work as portrait photographer, started to pursue various documentary projects that for a long time have not been known. For one such project, Fischer secretly ventured out with a group of Trotskyists to the racially segregated location of Langa outside Cape Town sometime between 1937 and 1941. This resulted in a series capturing 'both the unpopular facts of South Africa's discriminatory policies and the political claims of the Union's recently disenfranchised residents.' Although these images could have served the leftist cause of opposing the increasing racism and nationalism prevailing in the Union they would never be published.In 1948, Fischer left for London – a decision to which the National Party's rise to power might have contributed – but returned to South Africa in 1949 due to financial precarity. There is no evidence of Fischer being politically active to the same degree as prior to 1948 although she was still surrounded by bohemian and leftist friends.65 Now focusing more on building her business, Fischer became commercially successful through her portrait photography and by the 1960s, she was 'considered Cape Town's pre-eminent wedding photographer'.66

Fig. 67 Anne Fischer: H. F. Verwoerd with Betsie at Groote Schuur, *c.* 1958–1966.

Fig. 68 Anne Fischer: H. F. Verwoerd with Betsie at Groote Schuur, *c.* 1958–1966.

The reasons for Fischer photographing the Verwoerd couple and the pictures' circulation trajectories are unknown. Since Fischer possibly set the series at Groote Schuur, the official residence of the South African prime ministers, the date of origin can be narrowed down to the years between 1958 and 1966. Her reputation and professional success at the time make it unlikely that financial constraints forced Fischer to take on an assignment by the prime minister. However, Jessica Williams mentions that Fischer 'embraced work she disdained for financial and political reasons'.67 That Anne Fischer's photographs today form part of the former photo library's fragments and that in 1960 *South African Panorama* printed some of her other photographs, suggests she had some kind of connection to the information service.68

In the Groote Schuur series, Verwoerd's wife Betsie is wearing a light, ornamentally textured dress while her husband is dressed in a classic dark three-piece suit with white shirt and dark tie. Fischer portrayed them as a couple in front of a door that opens onto the garden (Fig. 67), and in horizontal half-figure portraits that exclude most of the surroundings of Groote Schuur's dark wooden interior. In another photograph the Verwoerds are seated at a table, pretending to browse through an illustrated journal, which, as regards format and layout, recalls *Panorama* magazine (Fig. 68). Anne Fischer moreover photographed Betsie alone in front of a big lattice window.

Fig. 69 Anne Fischer: Betsie Verwoerd at Groote Schuur, *c.* 1958–1966.

These photographs are balanced in terms of lighting and composition, yet the portrait of Betsie posing with knitting needles especially evokes a curious sensation (Fig. 69). Fred Barnard, Verwoerd's former private secretary, recalls knitting as one of her pastimes. He describes how Betsie 'had been quietly occupied all morning knitting a blue jersey', when she was informed that her husband had been elected prime minister in 1958.69 In Fischer's photograph, knitting becomes a strong motif that seems to counteract the conventional representation of a prime minister's or president's wife.70

The motif carries the connotation of domesticity, which in the South African context is further complicated by British colonialism and the Afrikaner nationalist idea of the *volksmoeder*. In Western cultures, knitting (like such other handicrafts as sewing, embroidery, and crocheting) was considered a predominantly female activity. Aiming to control both mind and body, nineteenth century education of European girls and young women deployed knitting as a disciplinary method. It was meant to suppress the sexual desires of women and girls, to form their moral attitude and to prepare them for lives as devoted housewives.71 In Southern Africa, the 'civilising' mission of Christian evangelists also targeted the various articulations of domestic life.72 As in Europe, textile work became a repressive method in missionary girls' schools of the colonies, aiming to discipline students and instil morality.73 Thus, questions of space, work, gender, and power inform the interrelations that exist between colonialism and domesticity.

Against this backdrop, Ladj-Teichman's reading of knitting needles as bearer of legitimised violence that induce a process of conquest74 gains an imperial dimension. The mission station, as Anne McClintock remarks, 'became a threshold institution for transforming domesticity rooted in European gender and class roles into domesticity as controlling a colonized people'.75 In other words, during the nineteenth century, British bourgeois domesticity instilled by missions in Southern Africa built up a colonial frontier between 'civilised' Europeans and the allegedly 'undomesticated' and 'uncivilised Other'. Yet this inculcation of domesticity was not confined to the colonies but was also mirrored in the British metropolis. As in African *terra incognita*, missionaries set out to domesticate the unknown and 'wild' territories of British slums, equalising the 'primitive' and the 'pauper' as the undomesticated 'Other'.76

In the decades after the South African War, the *volksmoeder* ideal informed the philanthropic and well-fare work of Afrikaner nationalists. Similar to efforts in Britain to save working-class people from degeneration, Afrikaner women were entrusted with bettering the situation of the increasing number of poor Whites, preventing them from breaking away from the volk.77 The *volksmoeder* was thus not only 'the cornerstone of the household'78 of the family home but also of the nation's home.

By the time of Verwoerd's premiership, the so-called poor White problem had been overcome. Afrikaners had reached a new material prosperity and, compared to the beginning of the century, their political situation had changed significantly. In the course of the 1960s, according to Gaitskell and Unterhalter, the home lost its importance as a 'key base' for the reconstruction of the Afrikaner nation and instead 'became a focus for the display of the new-found prosperity which ethnic mobilisation had made possible'.79 However, although the *volksmoeder* as figurehead in her long Voortrekker dress was now outdated, the *volksmoeder* spirit did not fall silent but it adapted instead to the zeitgeist.80

These ideological transformations regarding the *volksmoeder* ideal and the home during the 1960s were gradual, and the same decade still saw the articulation of statements that were deeply anchored in the colonial past of domesticity. A foreword by Betsie Verwoerd to the book *Borduur Só*, that was first published in 1965, reveals how – at least in certain circles of society – handicrafts were still seen as an exclusively female activity and were closely linked to the domestic in the sense of home. The prime minister's wife clearly points out embroidery for creating beauty, which she identifies as a sign of civilisation and which she charges with a nationalist significance:

This is what is so beautiful and valuable about this book: that it is born of and inspires love. There can be no doubt about this. And so, a great service is rendered to the *volk*, for whoever feels beauty, in whatever field, contributes to the cultural development of the *volk*. The subject this book deals with is specifically female and therefore contributes to the refinement and embellishment of a homely atmosphere. Such an atmosphere distinguishes the culture conscious *volk* from an uncivilised one.81

Thus, if knitting is a symbol of 'civilised' domesticity, the knitting motif in Anne Fischer's photograph positions Betsie as 'the cornerstone of the household' of the White *volk*, marking the border to the 'uncivilised Other'. The surroundings Groote Schuur and her elegant dress contrasted with the rather mundane activity of knitting simultaneously point out her role as the prime minister's wife of this domesticated, 'civilised' space of White South Africa, underscoring how the Afrikaners' role in South Africa had changed since the beginning of the century. Anne Fischer thus presented Betsie as the perfect match for Hendrik Verwoerd, the father of the White *volk*. 82

While it remains unclear who commissioned the series and whether the photographs were published, it is another example of the many shades of grey in which photographers operated during the apartheid era. Anne Fischer's photographs of the Verwoerds complicate if not obliterate the dividing lines between pro- and anti-apartheid photographies that many photo historians tend to presume to facilitate categorisations and which are not intrinsic to the photographs.

#### III.4. STATESMAN

Due to the increasing political and diplomatic isolation during Verwoerd's premiership, state visits were kept to a minimum. The only visit by the prime minister to a foreign country was to participate in the Commonwealth conference in London in March 1961. Visits by international politicians to South Africa in turn were equally rare. In 1960, British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan addressed the South African Parliament with his 'Wind of Change' speech; the following year Secretary-General of the United Nations Dag Hammarskjöld accepted Verwoerd's invitation to visit South Africa; and only days before his assassination in September 1966, Verwoerd received Chief Leabua Jonathan of Basutoland just before the British protectorate would become independent as Lesotho the following month.83 With respect to photography and the question of Verwoerd's photographic representation, two of these events are particularly interesting. First, his return to South Africa after the Commonwealth conference, and second, Chief Leabua Jonathan's visit to Pretoria.

# A TRIUMPHANT RETURN FROM LONDON

Verwoerd's visit to London and the subsequent withdrawal from the Commonwealth was a decisive turning point in his premiership and in the political history of South Africa. Since this step, which many assessed as a political failure, set South Africa free from any constitutional ties with the historical enemy it was an eminent triumph for Afrikaners. Henry Kenney underlines how 'Verwoerd had now achieved the historic ideal and returned home a hero of the first magnitude.'84 With the exit from the Commonwealth, Verwoerd, who had aimed to cut all political ties between the White nation state and the former colonial power, eventually led the Afrikaners into the promised land of a republic, independent from the yoke of the British Empire. In doing so, as Christoph Marx points out, Verwoerd ironically paved the way for a united White nation of English- and Afrikaans-speaking Whites with himself being the nation-builder.85

A look at *Drum* magazine on the one hand, and the governmental perspective on the other hand, indeed corroborates how differently the event was interpreted. *Drum* called it 'the most severe defeat Dr. Verwoerd has ever met in his whole political career', and presented South Africa's exclusion from the Commonwealth as the result of the political lobbying of the United Front (UF) in the run-up of the conference.86 The editors illustrated the article with a photo of UF members marching along London's Oxford Street with a banner that reads 'VERWOERD MUST GO!'87 South Africa's officials, in turn, presented the events as an unsolicited withdrawal from the Commonwealth.

The information service had been aware of the importance of the conference and of the international hostility Verwoerd would have to face in London due to South Africa's race policies. Accordingly, in 1961, the publicity work concerning Verwoerd's participation became '[t]he major single project tackled by the South African Information Service'.88 Blowing its own trumpet, it stated in hindsight that it was thanks to its propaganda efforts that 'no visiting statesman has left the shores of Britain more popular in his personal capacity than Dr. Verwoerd'.89 Verwoerd's return to South Africa, especially, was visually turned into one of the most triumphant moments in his career.

*South African Panorama* merged pictures by different photographers into a photo-essay on the London conference. Commenting in a caption that 'Dr Verwoerd's friendliness is one of his outstanding personal attributes', the article presents an always smiling South African prime minister.90 While the editors dedicated two pages of the article to the actual visit in London, they allocated just as much space to Verwoerd's arrival at Jan Smuts Airport in Johannesburg. At the bottom of the article's last page a photograph of the crowd awaiting the prime minister is combined with two photographs in the upper part that show the dais from which Verwoerd addressed the people (Fig. 70). While one photograph depicts a side view of Verwoerd, waving to the audience,91 the other photograph shows the decorated front of the dais. Flags of the Union of South Africa as well as a larger-than-life portrait of Verwoerd, resembling the friendly portrait of Verwoerd discussed at the beginning of this chapter, were displayed on the stand. From this set-up Verwoerd spoke to the crowd:

But I wish to repeat on this occasion that something great has happened. A republic has been formed; a peaceful republic of South Africa, with dangers and possible disadvantages averted, a South Africa which will emerge from this hour more powerful than ever before … We have triumphed – not over another country, nor over Britain, but we have freed ourselves from the pressure of the Afro-Asian nations who were busy invading the Commonwealth. We were not prepared to allow these countries to dictate what our future should be.92

Fig. 70 A. E. Dykman/ *Die Transvaler*: H. F. Verwoerd's return from London and the crowd awaiting him at the Jan Smuts airport in Johannesburg, *South African Panorama*, 1961.

It remains unclear who took the decision to mount the portrait. According to Pelzer, the National Party and various Afrikaans cultural organisations had arranged the airport reception.93 Fred Barnard describes the strong resonance by parts of the South African population and the huge awaiting crowd as a surprise to Verwoerd and his delegation: 'Such a thing was unique in the history of South Africa. Nothing had been organised beforehand. It was the spontaneous welcome of a nation to its leader.'94

While the photographs in *Panorama* magazine obscure the dramaturgy of the platform set-up, another picture which can be ascribed to the photographic production of the Department of Information, lays bare the decisive impact that the larger-than-life portrait had on it. Reminiscent of the social and political utilisations of portraiture, it might had been put up as a sort of advance notice for the crowd expecting the prime minister, similar

Fig. 71 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information: H. F. Verwoerd at Jan Smuts Airport Johannesburg on his return from the Commonwealth conference in London, 1961.

Fig. 72 Photographer unidentified/*Rand Daily Mail*: H. F. Verwoerd at Jan Smuts Airport Johannesburg on his return from the Commonwealth conference in London, 1961.

to portraits serving as proxy to represent an absent person. Yet, significantly, when Verwoerd was delivering his speech, he stood right behind his own likeness, doubling his own presence (Fig. 71).95 While in the early modern ages a meeting between sovereigns and their own portraits was avoided,96 Hans Belting points to the practice of the late twentieth and early twentyfirst centuries to double present speakers in live video images. Enlarging the speaker for the audience, the video image attests to the speaker's physical presence.97 The case of Verwoerd's portrait displayed at Jan Smuts Airport seems to lie somewhere between these two practices. The portrait of Verwoerd on the dais differed from the live video images in that it did not depend on his physical presence and did not synchronise to the same degree. Nevertheless, it too provided a close-up for the crowd and personified his political message.

The photograph not only captures Verwoerd's double presence in Johannesburg in 1961 but unfolds it beyond the temporal and spatial dimensions of the moment of exposure. Verwoerd is turned to the left speaking to the crowd at the airport, which is not visible in the photograph, whereas the gaze of the portrait is directed towards extra-pictorial viewers. Thus, temporally as well as spatially criss-crossing each other, the Verwoerd *in persona* and the portrayed Verwoerd are addressing different groups of spectators in different times and physical contexts.

Among a number of similar photographs that show Verwoerd on the dais, one photograph in the collection of the National Archives in Pretoria is of particular interest (Fig. 72).98 Slightly turned towards the photographer, Verwoerd has raised his arms in a Messiah-like gesture, waving at the crowd. Apart from his massive figure, Betsie is the only other person visible in the photograph. The print, however, is marked by heavy retouching. Someone painted over parts next to Verwoerd and the stairs leading up to the platform with white colour, erasing, as a comparison with similar photographs suggests, an unidentified man who had been sitting on the steps. Thinking of the photographs of D. F. Malan during the Voortrekker Monument inauguration ceremony, this retouched photograph speaks of another visual strategy. It exemplifies how the reduction of visual distractions singled out Verwoerd as the saviour of the *volk* who had led them out of the 'house of bondage' into an independent republic. The ideological aspirations, which had been expressed in the celebrations for the inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument eleven years before, had now turned into realpolitik embodied by Verwoerd.

# VERWOERD MEETS THE PRIME MINISTER OF BASUTOLAND

On 2 September 1966, only four days before Verwoerd was assassinated and one month before Basutoland would become the independent kingdom of Lesotho, its Prime Minister Chief Joseph Leabua Jonathan came to Pretoria on a state visit.99 The meeting was of historic significance not only because state visits to the apartheid state were extremely rare but because for the first time a South African prime minister officially received a Black politician on South African territory.100

Although, as Deon Geldenhuys states, there was 'apprehension in government circles about a publicised meeting' and although Verwoerd apparently tried 'to keep publicity to a minimum', photographers documented the encounter.101 They were waiting for Jonathan on his arrival at the Union Buildings and after the talks, the two political leaders jointly presented themselves to the cameras.102 Several photographs show Verwoerd

Fig. 73 Photographer unidentified/ Department of Information [?]: H. F. Verwoerd receives Chief Joseph Leabua Jonathan in Pretoria, September 1966.

Fig. 74 Photographer unidentified/ Department of Information: H. F. Verwoerd receives Chief Joseph Leabua Jonathan in Pretoria, September 1966.

and Jonathan, both dressed in dark three-piece suits, in a poorly lit interior scene at the Union Buildings against the backdrop of wood panelled walls, windows or a world map. Verwoerd standing on the left and Jonathan with a broad smile on the right, the two men are turned towards each other but do not look at the camera (Fig. 73, Fig. 74).

The diplomatic business of politics, as Michael Diers notes, is mostly based on written and spoken language. Yet, it has always been committed to images.103 The tradition to depict encounters between political leaders dates to antiquity and often pursues political and propagandistic objectives, attesting that a meeting has taken place. To date, it is common practice to photograph and film politicians before and after they engage in talks.104 Although they are not able to articulate the content of the talks, the photographs function as an official statement; they are the visual protocols of a meeting that – frequently combined with a caption – can be circulated around the world. They become *public images* in the sense that they depict a publicly performed political event. Doubtlessly, the prevailing belief in the veracity of photography contributes to the significance such pictures gain in visual politics.

Countless photographs of politicians shaking hands on occasions of state visits form part of the visual histories of the world. In the extant series from Pretoria, however, the handshake between Verwoerd and Jonathan is missing. Dating back at least to the sixth century before Christ, the significance of the handshake reaches far beyond being an everyday gesture of salutation. It is a symbolic act of agreement and engagement. Functioning as a judicial or political act, it confirms both sacral and profane contracts, bonds, alliances, and vows. As such the gesture of handshake translates an abstract process into a visible and therefore comprehensible act. In turn, this symbolic act has been depicted in multifaceted variations throughout the centuries, across different media, and among different cultures – often in political contexts.105 But instead of shaking hands Verwoerd holds a little piece of paper on which Jonathan seems to be commenting (Fig. 73).106

According to the South African Institute of Race Relations, Verwoerd and Chief Leabua declared in a joint statement issued after the meeting, 'that the object was to get acquainted and to establish how good neighbourly relations and co-operation could be arranged. It was quite clear that there was no desire to interfere in one another's domestic affairs.'107 This relation between cautious rapprochement on the one hand and keeping distance on the other is reflected in the photographic series by the friendly smiles and the absence of a handshake respectively.

Thinking of the significance of Jonathan's visit, the formal mediocrity of the photographs is surprising at first sight. Not only are the compositions imbalanced, mainly due to the backgrounds, but the lighting also lacks photographic skill. The use of strong flashlights results in harsh shadows in the background while other parts of the photographs are tinted in wan tones of grey. Yet, if Verwoerd and other officials really wanted to minimise publicity, little attention might have been given to adequate photographic documentation of the encounter beforehand. For the period from April 1966 to March 1968, the report by the Department of Information, for instance, does not comment on Jonathan's visit to Pretoria or possible preparations regarding public relations.108

Nonetheless, Jonathan's visit to Pretoria turned out to be a diplomatic success.109 The meeting gained international attention and one of the photographs made it to the front page of *The New York Times*, illustrating the diplomatic move with two smiling state leaders. Titled 'Verwoerd Confers With the Leader of a Black State', the short article equally underlines the historic significance and exemplifies how it offered South Africa the opportunity to evoke the impression of breaking through international isolation: 'A smiling Chief Jonathan … indicated the success of South Africa's gesture in opening the door to diplomatic relations with a neighboring black state.' By stating that Jonathan took 'official recognition of South Africa's apartheid policy', the article moreover exemplifies how the meeting in Pretoria enabled South Africa to sell apartheid as an interracially acceptable policy.110 Especially in retrospect, the photographs of the meeting between Verwoerd and Jonathan gained additional importance, not only because they show one of the few situations when Verwoerd could perform as international statesman but also because they were taken shortly before he was murdered.

# III.5. PICTORIAL AFTERLIFE

On 6 September 1966, the parliamentary messenger Dimitri Tsafendas stabbed Verwoerd to death at the House of Assembly. His deed was not politically motivated and the trial found him mentally ill, not to be held responsible for the murder.111 Throughout his life Tsafendas had been racially re-categorised several times and not permitted permanent residence in South Africa. Zuleiga Adams describes how Tsafendas 'circumvented South Africa's identity paper regimes' and was eventually categorised as White. This enabled him to become a parliamentary messenger and to assassinate the master-builder of the very racialising bureaucracy which had discriminated against and suppressed him.112

Historian Deborah Posel discusses the symbolism and significance of the murder for the apartheid state, and identifies a shift in power which takes place in the moment of an assassination:

[T]he assassin usurps the power of the most powerful – a symbolic inversion which fundamentally unsettles the stability of the polity. Indeed, the assassination becomes a performance of the vulnerability of the political body … The meaning attached to the leader's corpse, in death and retrospectively in life, is therefore central to efforts to re-establish the conditions and legitimacy of the political life of power.113

Thus, the murder of Verwoerd at a time when the apartheid regime had reached its zenith of power was of great symbolic significance. Verwoerd, 'the father of the (white) *volk*', had taken a position which neither Malan nor Strijdom had taken before him. His assassination removed him as the stabilising factor and element of 'hubristic certitude' from the apartheid system. This, Deborah Posel speculates, constituted the 'symbolic origin of deviation' on which followed alterations in governance.114

As regards photography, different politics seem to have been at play compared to those at play in the attempted assassination in 1960. The

Fig. 75 Photographer unidentified: H. F. Verwoerd is rushed out of the Houses of Parliament after the attack on his life, Cape Town, 6 September 1966.

parliamentary session of 6 September 1966 had been greatly anticipated. After having met with Chief Leabua Jonathan only a few days before, Verwoerd was expected to make an important announcement on new policy directions and the 'press galleries were full to capacity'.115 Different to the attack of 1960, no photographs of the wounded prime minister exist or at least made it to the public. When an ambulance arrived, Verwoerd had already been declared dead.116 In the photographs of people rushing down the stairs of the House of Parliament with a stretcher it is not possible to identify Verwoerd's corpse. They rather conceal the attack in the abstract uncertainty of a blanket (Fig. 75).117 Nevertheless, the vulnerability of the apartheid state could not be denied.

The brutal death of Verwoerd prompted the publication of myriad photographs that national and international, non-governmental and governmental actors collated into reviews of his life and political career. Regarding coverage, two publications stand out from the photographic compilations. Pieter W. Grobbelaar assembled *Man van die Volk. Gedenkalbum H. F. Verwoerd*, while N. F. Hefer and G. C. Basson compiled *Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd. Pictorial Biography 1901–1966.*118 Notably, Voortrekkerpers, a publishing house that was closely connected to the politics of the National Party and Verwoerd, issued the latter.119 Conceptualised as a non-profit product, Voortrekkerpers regarded the book as a tribute to the late Verwoerd and claimed it to be the first photo biography of a South African politician.120 The creation of new formats to commemorate a prime minister is indicative of Verwoerd's outstanding position among South Africa's political leaders.

Overlapping each other in the use of the same images, the compilations comprise pictures by newspapers like *Die Transvaler* or *The Rand Daily Mail*, by single photographers like Cloete Breytenbach (1933–2019) or by the Nitzsche-Reiter studio,121 photographs issued by South Africa's information service, as well as from the Verwoerd family archives. Inevitably the different origins of the photographs result in a broad diversity in terms of formal qualities and photographic styles. Both pictorial biographies outline Verwoerd's life from his childhood to his funeral122 and create a narrative of a remarkable political career and of Verwoerd as an extraordinary man. Captions to photographs from the 1960 series showing Verwoerd back at work and with his family after the assassination attempt, for example, describe him as a busy and hard-working prime minister, who even after the harshest attack on his life, resumed work immediately on his recovery and was well informed about the situation in the country.123 For the photographs of the meeting with Chief Leabua Jonathan, the editors also made sure to underline the encounter's historic significance through the wording of the captions.124

The information service took part in the creation of Verwoerd's pictorial afterlife too. Under the headline 'Moment of Triumph', the *South African Digest* printed the heavily retouched picture of Verwoerd on the dais at Jan Smut Airport together with an article on the new Prime Minister J. B. Vorster.125 Now credited to the *Rand Daily Mail*, it is unclear whether the newspaper or the Department of Information is responsible for retouching the print. The publication of the photograph after Verwoerd's death, however, exemplifies how pictures of his return not only circulated in 1961 but also assumed a prominent position in the pictorial reviews of his life. Reappearing in differently cropped versions and with captions emphasising the historic significance of the event, the photographs stylised the withdrawal from the Commonwealth as the most important moment of Verwoerd's career.126 As Michael Diers remarks, 'only triumph crowns a political figure, the defeat distorts its image.'127

In November 1966, *South African Panorama* featured an article titled 'A man of mark has passed'.128 Like the two pictorial biographies, this combination of private and official scenes creates an image of Verwoerd as a friendly man, easy to relate to. Smiling in nearly every photograph, Verwoerd is far from being presented as a political hardliner. The short text accompanying the photographs describes the late prime minister as an intelligent, eloquent, and benevolent person and appraises him – despite being born in the Netherlands – as a full-blood Afrikaner, connecting and identifying tightly with his people. In short, 'he towered the great chief of a little folk'.129

Notably, in 1966, the German edition of *Panorama* did not mention Verwoerd's death. Instead, it presented a peaceful Karoo landscape and carefree student life in Stellenbosch.130 The magazine, which at that time appeared quarterly, only indirectly raised Verwoerd's death in its third issue in 1967. The cover photo shows the new Prime Minister Vorster during a portraiture session with painter Irmin Henkel. In a short article about the artist, the readers then learn about Verwoerd's dying. In one photograph accompanying the article, Vorster poses for Henkel with portrait sketches of former State President Swart and Verwoerd in the background.131

Like the beginning of Verwoerd's tenure as prime minister, the shift of power is thus played out through the production and circulation of portraits. It moreover becomes evident how differently the editors of *Panorama* handled the death of Verwoerd at national and international levels. One can speculate whether they expected a commemorative feature praising Verwoerd as highly as in the English edition to fall on deaf ears among the German readership. By excluding the assassination, *Panorama* could gloss over the weakness and vulnerability of the apartheid state – at least on the magazine's pages.

In the light of how the international media reacted to Verwoerd's death, this attempt appears rather desperate. Ironically, the very same magazine that had inspired the conceptualisation of *South African Panorama* in the 1950s gives a striking example of how divergently the international press perceived and visually represented Verwoerd's death. On 16 September, *Life* dedicated four double-pages to South Africa's former prime minister. The photographs, which illustrate the article 'A Violent End for the Apostle of "Apartheid"', notably condense and juxtapose both the violence by and against the state.132 On a full-page colour portrait of Verwoerd by Terence Spencer follow photographs of the stretcher being rushed out of the House of Parliament, of the Sharpeville massacre, and of the burning of pass books. The small photograph of Verwoerd and State President C. R. Swart during the Republic celebration in May 1961 is only a minor counterpart to this. On the subsequent double page, the pictures of the attempted assassination of 1960 extensively demonstrate the vulnerability of the prime minister. The caption to a smaller photograph showing Verwoerd after his recovery dryly comments: 'Two months after he was shot, Verwoerd appeared in public to release a dove which didn't fly.'133 The text by Anthony Sampson, who had been editor of *Drum* from 1951 to 1955, forecasts how historians would later characterise Verwoerd: 'Dr. Verwoerd seemed a man of unusual gentleness … He spoke in a soft, schoolmasterly way, as if reassuring anxious students, and he smiled with cherubic innocence, which seemed to say "It's all so simple."' But Sampson also calls him 'a political fanatic', who 'among his own people … established a kind of dictatorship'.134 A small reproduction of a black-and-white portrait of Betsie and Hendrik with their 'brood' of twelve grandchildren and the last full-page colour picture of the couple in the garden of Groote Schuur contrast the violence of the previous pages as well as the idea of a 'fanatic' statesman. The represented idyll of Verwoerd's private life emphasises quite drastically the hypocrisy of White South Africa in the heyday of apartheid.

The fact that Verwoerd did not die a natural death but was murdered certainly contributed to, if not caused, the high-frequency circulation of photographs of him. As Deborah Posel notes, the risk of a leader's death lies in the disintegration of the body inducing 'an erasure of meaning and memory'. To re-establish the hierarchy prevalent before the assassination, and to re-transfer the power to kill from the assassin to a designated sovereign, a symbolic afterlife needs to be created.135 Thus, the production of a pictorial afterlife of Verwoerd can be understood as an act of countering the assassination, of saving his corpse from meaninglessness and as a reclaiming of power.

It becomes evident how, during and after Verwoerd's lifetime, an overall image of Verwoerd unfolded that was pieced together from the different facets of his political and private life. The predominately inconspicuous photographs, which probably result from his alleged charisma, conceal and – especially in hindsight – radically contrast his politically inhuman agenda. Put differently, in many cases the inconspicuousness of the photographs glossed over Verwoerd's political rigour and he was not depicted as a political hardliner. At this point it is crucial to note that there was no single authority who was responsible for the creation of a coherent and concise image of Verwoerd. The variety of sources rather indicates that the right to photograph Verwoerd and to publish the pictures was not confined to a single photographer, to a specific agency, or to a governmental institution. In other words, South Africa's information service took part in the representation of Verwoerd but its photographic department did not have a monopoly on representing him and stylising him as a leading political figure.

Fig. 76 Franco Fasoli, Addam Yekutieli, Ricky Lee Gordon, and Gaia: Mural at Maboneng precinct Johannesburg, 2012, photographed in 2018.

As the years since 1994 have proven, his image provokes debates and strong emotions which have resulted in the dismantling and removal of statues, busts, and plaques as well as the renaming of streets, buildings, and schools. However, the image of Verwoerd is not completely banned from contemporary South Africa. While the presence of the portrait at the antiques and collectables market might originate from the mindset of an Africana collector, there is also an artistic engagement with Verwoerd. In 2018, an exhibition of video work by South African artist Penny Siopis (b. 1953) was shown at the only recently opened Zeitz Mocca Museum in Cape Town.136 Using collages of found footage and news images, two of the works focused on the figure of Verwoerd and the question of how he is remembered. In *The Master is Drowning* (2012) Siopis embarks on the year 1960. She includes film material of Verwoerd breaking down after the attack at the Rand Easter Show as well as of his return from London speaking from the dais decorated with his own likeness. The other work titled *Obscure White Messenger* (2010) explores the figure of Tsafendas and the murder of Verwoerd in 1966, juxtaposing and interweaving the film material on the former prime minister and his assassin with rediscovered footage material of White South African families.137

Not reserved for only those who are able and willing to pay the Zeitz Mocca entrance fee of R180,138 a portrait of Verwoerd turned upside-down forms part of a long stretching mural in Johannesburg's trendy Maboneng precinct (Fig. 76). Commissioned by Jonathan Liebmann, the entrepreneur who developed Maboneng, the mural from 2012 is a collage by four international street artists. Gaia (b. 1988), who added the head of Verwoerd, aimed 'to conflate South Africa's violent colonial past, with the settler futurity of Maboneng, essentially marrying the legacy of apartheid to the future of gentrification'. On the wall Gaia coupled Verwoerd, the 'symbol of evil', with the portraits of Steve Biko and Oliver Tambo, representing 'goodness through resistance'.139 Just across the street, on the Arts on Main block, young and hip locals as well as international tourists enjoy themselves at the weekly Maboneng food market facing the bodiless head of the former apartheid prime minister. While the old apartheid order might have officially been overturned, new demarcations caused by gentrification are lurking.140

# **IV. PROPAGATING SEPARATE DEVELOPMENT**

On 9 April 2015, David Goldblatt (1930–2018) took a picture on the campus of the University of Cape Town (UCT). It shows the dismantling of the statue of Cecil John Rhodes, which had been prominently placed on the university premises overlooking the Cape Flats in a thinking pose for more than eight decades (Fig. 77).1 In the photograph, a crane has lifted the heavy statue from its plinth, now hovering in the air over a densely packed crowd. Most of the predominantly student-aged spectators hold up tablets and smartphones recording the scene with their devices – only a few clicks away from the world-wide networks of social media.

Fig. 77 David Goldblatt: The dethroning of Cecil John Rhodes, after the throwing of human faeces on the statues and the agreement of the University to the demands of students for its removal. The University of Cape Town, 9 April 2015.

The removal of the Rhodes statue was precipitated by protests which had been ignited a month before. In an iconoclastic act on 9 March 2015, student activist Chumani Maxwele had thrown human excrement at the figure of the British colonialist and diamond magnate. To the protesting students the statue symbolised institutional colonialism and the lack of transformation.2 Under the hashtags #RhodesMustFall and later #FeesMustFall the protests, which spread to universities across the country and which extended into 2016, went viral on social media and pointed the finger straight at the prevailing structural racism, White privilege, and inequality in South Africa's educational system. Reviving Black Consciousness theories, the protests were informed by thinkers like Franz Fanon or Steve Biko,3 and demonstrators positioned themselves explicitly in the tradition of the student uprisings of 1976. As Pier Paolo Frassinelli notes, the 2015/16 protests need to be understood as a response to the shattered myth of a post-apartheid era and a postcolonial South Africa after 1994.4

Taken by one of the most renown photographic chroniclers of apartheid, David Goldblatt's picture of the removal of the Rhodes statue reflects his critical and analytical observation of South African society. The photograph marks a shift in ways of witnessing from an analogue to a digital age, which itself is captured in the photograph through the raised recording devices. At the same time the picture is a photographic hinge between the student protests of 2015/16 and those of 1976, symbolised by Nzima's Hector Pieterson photograph. In the photobook *The Structures of Things Then,* which was first published in 1998, David Goldblatt explored South African society by focusing on its built structures which he understood as 'expressions of values'.5 Goldblatt notably included a photograph taken in 1993 of the temple-like Rhodes Memorial situated near UCT campus on the slopes of Devil's Peak, presenting it as a symbol of colonial oppression. The picture of the Rhodes removal needs to be read as a sequel to this analysis of social structures cast in architectural structures and statues.6 As such the photograph links the enduring inequalities in the educational system to the implementation of Bantu education as one of the instruments of shaping apartheid society during the second half of the twentieth century. Being one of the cornerstones of separate development, Bantu education was mainly coined and implemented by H. F. Verwoerd. According to Hermann Giliomee, his 'intervention in black education was the act for which he would become most notorious.'7

Separate development infused and regulated not only South Africa's education system but all spheres of everyday life. Nationalist social engineering was possibly even more perfidious when it came to public health care, where it literally concerned the body of the people. The physical survival and maintenance of the health of Africans was essential to providing a cheap workforce for the economy of the apartheid state. Shula Marks points out that 'apartheid operated not simply through coercion but also through "manufacturing consent", through attempting to establish its hegemony as natural and taken-for-granted'. In the endeavour to establish such hegemony, Marks continues to explain, 'the state's provision of welfare in general … is frequently regarded as central'.8 Thus, Bantu education and health care unsurprisingly were recurrent themes in the separate development propaganda and played a pivotal role in the photography of South Africa's information service. Focusing on the filmic and photographic portrayal of urban Blacks in the separate development propaganda, Hanna Rönty in her valuable analysis identified the contradictions that shaped this visual discourse. Aiming for political, cultural as well as spatial separation, townships for urban Blacks were one of the policy's most blatant expressions. Masking the fact that they organised South African society along racial categories, the nationalists, according to Rönty, relied heavily on the idea that social entities are to be distinguished based on their cultures and traditions. Yet, these alleged cultural differences disappeared in the propaganda. Blacks were not only pictured 'as detribalised and stripped of their ethnic identity', but also appeared to be adopting the lifestyles of the Whites.9 The regime envisioned Africans living in the homelands but accepted solitary men as migrant workers in the cities, expecting them to commute back and forth to the homelands. So, despite the plan to keep the cities White, the regime consequently had to face a growing number of not only Black workers but also Black families permanently residing in urban areas. To this steadily increasing number of Black city dwellers and growing slums, the regime eventually reacted with housing campaigns that became a recurrent theme in the nationalists' visual propaganda – contradicting it most strongly at the same time. Photographs of geometrically planned townships that consisted of uniform small matchbox houses, as Rönty noted, propagated an image of 'orderly development' while the urban architecture symbolised 'the progressive nature of the apartheid programme' (Fig. 78). The promotion of townships marked a paradox in apartheid ideology, undermining the regime's idea of an exclusively White nation state.10

With these ideological contradictions in mind, how the regime pictured and presented Bantu education as well as health care, epitomising the Fig. 78 Photographer(s) unidentified/South African Information Service [?]: Aerial view of the township Meadowlands (top) and model housing in a township (bottom), *Progress through Separate Development. South Africa in Peaceful Transition,*  1965.

broader system of separate development must be questioned. The iconography of literacy, which encompasses the interrelated acts of reading and writing, and the iconography of the Black nurse in white uniform qualify for a closer examination because they offer the opportunity to reveal the perpetuation of colonialist visual strategies, and to unmask how apartheid nationalists propagated their wide-ranging plan of independent homelands in the guise of allegedly inconspicuous photographs and detached from the obvious spatial structuring exemplified by townships.

That Ernest Cole in his much-acclaimed photobook *House of Bondage*, first published in 1967, presents a photographic account of the same themes offers the basis for juxtaposing the perspective fostered by the state during the 1960s with Cole's contrasting viewpoint. This comparison uncloaks the distortions in the photographs and their publications by South Africa's information service, and lays bare the deeper socio-political structures which eventually created the environments and events in which Nzima took the photograph of Hector Pieterson and in which Goldblatt photographed the removal of the Cecil John Rhodes statue almost forty years later.

# IV.1. BANTU EDUCATION

Based on the findings by the Native Education Commission (1949–1951), headed by anthropologist and secretary of Native Affairs Werner Eiselen, the Bantu Education Act was passed in 1953.11 In a speech that Hendrik Verwoerd gave to the Senate in his position as Minister of Native Affairs in 1954, he revealed a straightforward rationale for suppression. In paternalistic tones Verwoerd expressed overtly and drastically which effects he envisioned Bantu education to have:

It is the policy of my department that education should have its roots entirely in the Native areas and in the Native environment and Native community. There Bantu education must be able to give itself complete expression and there it will have to perform its real service. The Bantu must be guided to serve his own community in all respects. There is no place for him in the European community above the level of certain forms of labour. Within his own community, however, all doors are open. For that reason it is of no avail for him to receive a training which has as its aim absorption in the European community while he cannot and will not be absorbed there. Up till now he had been subjected to a school system which drew him away from his own community and partically [*sic*] misled him by showing him the green pastures of the European but still did not allow him to graze there.12

In other words, aiming to answer the ideological demands of separate development, Blacks were meant to be taught and trained only to a level that would serve but not threaten White supremacy.

Under the new legislation a major shift of control over the education of Africans took place. Provincial administrations had to cede control to the central Union government and the Department of Native Affairs assumed responsibility for Bantu education. Mission stations, which up to this point had been fundamental in providing education for Africans by running a considerable number of schools, also had to relinquish their positions to the government. Moreover, a disparity in financing for White and Black learners as well as different curricula characterised Bantu education. In 1953, the annual per capita expenditure by the state on a White student was approximately seven times higher than that for a Black student. The nationalists envisioned Blacks to increasingly shoulder the financing of education by themselves through taxes.13 To tighten the students' bonds to what the regime deemed to be their culture, the change of curriculum placed stricter focus on mother tongue education. Arguing that these were 'relics of tribalism', teachers and the Black elite heavily criticised this extension of mothertongue instruction.14 In April 1955, the government officially started to implement Bantu education across the Union of South Africa.15

With the Separate Universities Education Bill eventually enacted in 1959, the regime expanded separate development to include higher education as well. Although many institutions had previously enrolled only a small number of students of Colour, they had been free to do so. The new act restricted institutions in their scope of action and from then on Black students could only enrol at White universities with permission from the Minister of Education. In turn, new university colleges were founded – all set apart from each other by 'ethnic' distinctions and predominantly staffed with Afrikaans-speakers and apartheid-supporters as rectors.16

Thus, the Bantu Education Act and subsequent legislations put education under the firm grip of the apartheid government. Yet, as David Welsh pointedly observes, at the time Verwoerd and his fellow nationalists did not realise how 'dragon's teeth were being sowed by the new system', which would 'demonstrate their ferocity' in the 1976 uprisings.17

The nationalists propagated Bantu education extensively and the Department of Information brought up the issue repeatedly in singular publications as well as in regular magazines and journals. Being consonant with Verwoerd's statement, the general narrative that unfolded in these publications presented Bantu education as a benevolent policy serving Blacks:

Phenomenal progress has been made in educating the Bantu peoples of South Africa. At the present rate of increased enrolment in the schools, illiteracy will be wiped out in the next two or three decades. … The education of the Bantu is geared towards national service in their own communities.18

The narrative commended the educational system on being better than in any other African country and emphasised its 'civilising' effect. Thanks to Bantu education Blacks would progress from the 'primitiveness' of the traditional 'tribal' life to 'civilisation' and 'modernity'. Eventually this process would result in rising living standards but – and this is an important aspect of the nationalists' rationale – the system would not westernise Blacks.19 The visual separate development discourse presented literacy as a basic means and Black universities as focal point for national development, propping up the plan to establish independent homelands.20 In other words, if it was the nationalists' plan to cut off homelands from a White South Africa, the literacy training of Blacks, also as a prerequisite for higher education, became another tool to build a White nation. Yet, as pointed out above, in the visual propaganda the alleged cultural differences disappeared, contradicting the separate development rationale.

Among the extant fragments of the former photo library, number 13 of the filing system refers to the various institutions of the education sector, all neatly separated from each other along the colour bar. Photographs of happy students, well-equipped schools, teachers engaged in their work, and newly erected university buildings permeate the collection, bolstering the impression of multiple opportunities – ranging from primary to tertiary education, from artistic to natural scientific instruction, from vocational, teacher and nursing training to university colleges.

# THE ICONOGRAPHY OF LITERACY

A selection of black-and-white photographs from this body of work is a good starting point for approaching the iconography of literacy and tracing back the trajectories of some of the photographs across publications issued by the Department of Information. Showing vivid compositions and skilful lighting, the photographer, who at this point remains anonymous, mostly chose close viewpoints of the subjects. There is nothing disturbing in the pictures that show a variation of scenes from different levels of the educational system. A cheerful group of students, for instance, romps around in the open in what seems to be the usual and spontaneous play of children during break (Fig. 79). Other photographs show a sewing class, a school's

Fig. 79 August Sycholt [?]: Students during break, *c.* 1967.

Fig. 80 August Sycholt [?]: Teacher in front of a blackboard, *c.* 1967.

Fig. 81 August Sycholt [?]: Student writing at his desk, *c.* 1967.

choir with a girl and a silver shimmering trophy dominating the foreground, or a young adult pictured from a low viewpoint gazing at a chemistry flask.21 One of the most graphic photographs among this set of pictures portrays a teacher (Fig. 80). Dressed in a plaid suit and holding a book in one hand, he stands in front of a blackboard on which someone has drawn a map of South Africa. Against the backdrop of the country's contours, the names of its rivers and regions, he enthusiastically looks through his dark-rimmed glasses into the lens of the camera. A portrait of a primary school pupil has a similar quality (Fig. 81). Pictured from a close perspective, the student has lowered his eyes to concentrate on his handwriting. Bright daylight enters the classroom through windows in the background where blurred shadows of other students are visible.

The publication of these photographs in several periodicals illustrates how the Department of Information used them to bolster the Bantu education discourse. In March 1968, the photographs appeared in *South African Digest* to illustrate the article 'Focus on Bantu Education' (Fig. 82).22 One year earlier, in 1967, *South African Panorama* had opened its June issue with a similar photo-essay titled 'Education for Success' (Fig. 83–Fig. 85). It credited the twenty black-and-white pictures to a photographer named August Sycholt (1933–2020).23 As regards style and formal quality they strongly resemble the pictures from the *South African Digest* and some of them even show the same occasions. This time the teacher poses with a more extroverted gesture in front of the blackboard and a choir member holding the trophy is lined up with her fellow singers. In 1969, the German issue of *Panorama* magazine reprinted another selection of ten photographs credited to Sycholt and overlapping with the sets from the *Digest* and *South African Panorama* (Fig. 86).24

After emphasising the importance of literacy and claiming South Africa's unprecedented effort in providing education for Blacks on the African continent, the 1968 article closes by bluntly pointing out the longterm perspective of separate development: 'The future holds out even more opportunities for the Bantu to manage their own educational affairs in their own homelands.'25 Embedded in this context, both the portrait of the teacher and the picture of the student – which is described as '[a] charming study of scholastic application in a typical South African Bantu junior school'26 – become ideologically connotated (Fig. 80, Fig. 81). On the one hand, the nationalists' plan of building a White nation shines through the inconspicuous normality of the photographs. On the other hand, the contextualisation

Fig. 82 'Focus on Bantu Education', article with photographs by August Sycholt [?], *South African Digest*, 1968.

Fig. 83 'Education for Success', article with photographs by August Sycholt, *South African Panorama*, 1967.

Fig. 84 'Education for Success', article with photographs by August Sycholt, *South African Panorama*, 1967.

Fig. 85 August Sycholt: 'The little problems are as old and as familiar as time itself. So is the reaction to them.', *South African Panorama*, 1967.

Fig. 86 'Bantu Erziehung' (Bantu Education), article with photographs by August Sycholt, *Südafrikanisches Panorama*, 1969.

entraps the photographs in the very contradiction identified by Rönty. Not containing any signs of traditional Black cultures, the photographs depict the 'westernisation' of the school system, while the text claims that Bantu education has set an end to '[w]esternising individual Bantu students'.27 This outlining not only suggests Sycholt to be the author of the photographs from the photo library but also points to the national and international reuse of his photographs over a period of at least three years that is indicative of a propaganda practice in which certain narratives did not lose topicality.

August Sycholt's role as part of the propaganda apparatus is interesting to observe. The fact that the editors credited him only in some cases underscores the unclear position which the propaganda machinery attributed to photographers. From a present perspective, the little information that is available on photographers like him seem to corroborate this. Born in Germany, Sycholt emigrated to South Africa in 1966, where he became chief photographer for the magazines of the Republican Press Group. Later he continued to work freelance also in documentary filmmaking.28 Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, he frequently published photographs in *South African Panorama* as well as in *PACE*, the very magazine that the string-pullers of the Information Scandal launched during the late 1970s. For *Panorama,* Sycholt especially covered themes like childcare and education, and travel and nature.29 Similarly, in the book *This is South Africa,* first published in 1981, Sycholt presented the country's scenic beauties, exclusively White beaches, Sun City, bare-breasted African women, African dances, and many other ostensibly harmless scenes in rich colours. In the mid-2010s, Sycholt was still active as photographer in southern Africa. Seemingly concentrating on nature and wildlife photography, he published travel guides.30 Thus, like Jürgen Schadeberg or Ian Berry, Sycholt belongs to a number of transnational photographers and photojournalists of European background who were active in South Africa during apartheid and whose photographs appeared in publications that the information service issued. Sycholt, however, neither gained the same acclaim among the international photo-community as did Schadeberg or Berry – who for a long time were able to keep silent on their published work in *Panorama* – nor did he achieve a comparable position in the country's photo-historiography that evolved after 1994. One might explain this with his immersion in the rather harmless realm of wildlife and nature photography, distancing himself from (politically) more contentious subjects and thereby positioning himself in a more neutral field.

To a general interview request in 2015, Sycholt responded with a short email but did not react to follow-up enquiries,31 because he presumably did not want to be linked to the propaganda activities of the apartheid regime. But to what extent one can draw conclusions about Sycholt's political stance from the fact that he did provide photographs to the propaganda apparatus? Although Sycholt might not have been an employee of the information service, he must have earned money with these photographs. Since they were mostly characterised by the inconspicuousness that created the normality of apartheid, they became valuable for the regime's propaganda. No doubt, at least in this regard, Sycholt – like Schadeberg, Berry, and a squad of now anonymous photographers, who provided images for the regime's publications – can be held accountable for upholding the (visual) system of apartheid.

Returning to the *Panorama* issue of June 1967*,* readers are again confronted with the general narrative that propagated Bantu education, extolling the educational system as being of a higher standard than in any other African country and eliminating illiteracy.32 Accordingly, the photo-essay includes several photographs of students hunched over their books reading and writing. On the first double-spread a photograph taken from an elevated perspective shows a primary school-aged girl sitting in an upright position at a desk (Fig. 83, top right). With her torso slightly turned she is deep in concentration writing in an exercise book with a fountain pen. On the next double page, the trope of literacy reoccurs. For one photograph, which was later also published in *Südafrikanisches Panorama*, Sycholt must have put his camera on a row of tables that spans towards the background of the picture. Students are sitting along both sides of the tables, converging from the right and the left towards the centre. An open book lies in front of every student (Fig. 86, top right). Evoking the impression of continuity, the strong horizontal format chosen for the publication in *South African Panorama* underlines the perspective.33 Another photograph portrays a single student in a thinking pose (Fig. 85). Furrowing his brow and holding a pencil to his lips, he looks at a point beyond the picture's frame. Corroborating what Rönty observed in separate development propaganda, Sycholt's pictures, too, exemplify how the regime used photographs to propagate literacy as an instrument for national development.

In European art the representation of the act of reading and the symbol of the book form part of Christian iconography and symbolise wisdom and learnedness. Due to the book's pivotal significance in both Christian religion and ancient (European) scholarship, and due to the hierarchies that inform the relationship between preacher and audience as well as that between teacher and student, the book has an aura of authoritativeness about it.34 In repressive systems this authoritativeness easily turns into being political. According to Kenney, the Bantu Education Act was less an attempt to exclude Blacks from economic development than 'an effort to indoctrinate black children about the blessings of apartheid'.35 Indeed, in the separate development propaganda the book symbolised the success of Bantu education: 'In the past the Bantu child was portrayed in the role of herd boy tending to his father's sheep, goats and cattle. Today he is seen walking along the road with a book under his arm.'36 If books and especially teaching material in repressive systems tend to be indoctrinatory, books in the separate development propaganda can be interpreted as signifying ideological indoctrination.

In the South African context, the interrelation between Christianity, authoritativeness, education, and knowledge is also crucial. The Protestant evangelisation in southern Africa followed a predominantly logocentric approach. The central piece to be read and listened to was the Bible – the Holy Scripture, the Book, symbolising God's law, knowledge, and power. Consequently, to proselytise people in Africa, not only the Bible had to be translated into African languages but the people also had to be able to read it.37

Visual sources of the nineteenth century and early twentieth century – including photography – reflect this close interrelation between the missionary mandate and literacy. In their examination of the visualisation of the 'reading African' in the periodical *Der Missionsfreund,* Lize Kriel and Natalie Fossey demonstrate how the lack of books represented a pre-Christian time, while scenes including books pointed to the presence of God.38 One of the recurrent visual tropes was the creation of a 'civilised' space within the natural, 'uncivilised' environment by a missionary reading books together with a group of Africans.39 This is not only reminiscent of the books' authoritativeness in the hierarchies of religious and scholarly instructions but also exemplifies how the equation of Christianity with 'civilisation' and modernity attributed a 'civilising' effect to literacy.40 Taking this into account, photographs of children reading and writing carry the connotation of indoctrination and a colonialist 'civilising' process.

The close association of Christianity, literacy, and 'civilisation' also becomes apparent in the practice of before-and-after comparisons. Aiming to portray the contrast between paganism and Christianity and the development from 'savageness' to 'civilisation' allegedly linked to this, two photographs that were said to show the same person or theme before and after the colonial or missionary intervention were juxtaposed.41 In 1897, *Der Missionsfreund* published a depiction of an African adult teaching a child how to read next to a photograph of an African homestead. Adults and children pose for the camera against the backdrop of round houses. Clearly visible to the spectators, pots, baskets, and bowls are placed in front of them. According to Kriel and Fossey, the photograph represents an 'un-Christianised African indigeneity'. Publishing it next to the reading African creates a contrasting juxtaposition that fixes the stereotype of an 'uncivilised' Africa without books.42

The Department of Information applied a similar yet different practice of juxtaposition in its Bantu education propaganda. Among the residues of the former photo library is a black-and-white photograph of a graduation ceremony, dating to the period between 1957 and 1961. A group of graduate students walks along the wall of what appears to be a church building. Dressed for the occasion, they wear dark academic gowns and hats. The stamp on the reverse of the print explains: 'The academic procession at the annual graduation ceremony for non-whites at Kilnerton near Pretoria. This university, which teaches by correspondence, accepts students of all races.'43

Years later, in 1965, the publication *Progress through Separate Development* included a cropped version of this photograph with a new

Fig. 87 Photographer(s) unidentified/South African Information Service [?]: 'Bantu university graduates at the conclusion of a graduation ceremony.' (top), 'The Xhosa also have another graduation ceremony – that of the Abakwetha when young men are initiated into tribal life and responsibility.' (bottom), *Progress through Separate Development. South Africa in Peaceful Transition,* 1965.

caption. Changing the reading of the scene by narrowing it down to Blacks only, the caption ignores the presence of persons who the racist apartheid rationale classified differently.44 The editors subsumed the photograph with a picture of a traditional Xhosa initiation rite under the theme of 'graduation' on the same page (Fig. 87).45

In juxtaposing a photograph of a university graduation to a Xhosa initiation this page is prone to be easily read as a before-and-after comparison similar to the missionary photography tradition.46 Considering that in the wake of the 1953 Bantu Education Act, the government assumed control of the Kilnerton Training Institution, a former missionary school affiliated to the Methodist Church, it becomes clear that the two photos were not intended to exemplify the 'civilising' force of Christianity. Rather, the photographic juxtaposition in the publication is informed by a contradictory contemporaneity in the separate development agenda that had provisions for Blacks to 'progress' while simultaneously fixing them to their specific 'traditional' ethnicity. Thus, different to Rönty's observation on the visual propaganda excluding 'cultural differences', in this case the apartheid propagandists' focus on it being a Xhosa 'tribal' graduation is crucial. It points to their reasoning of separate development that envisaged only a 'tribe' as a group of deindividualised people to 'progress'. Paul S. Landau outlines how the notion of 'tribe' originated from a colonialist grouping of African individuals into types and how it was tightly linked to the idea of an 'authentic' Africa that existed beyond time, de-individualising Africans and distancing them into remoteness. As a 'tool of empire', photography served to define and represent 'tribal' categories in the administrative endeavour of European colonialism.47 Here the normative function of photography and the political dimensions of images come back into play, exemplifying how clusters of images are able to open up a political governable space, a space of administering and ruling. As Landau states: 'Photography affected the practices and institutions that composed empires because of its imagery.' Such imagery established the 'tribesman' as 'the visual manifestation of the phony stasis of custom' and served European colonialism to bolster the idea of a 'tribal' economy that was independent of colonial economy. In fact, the imagery concealed the dependence of the colonial project on inexpensive African labour.48

A prime example of such imagery that reduces the subject to a 'primitive' level and distances Africans both temporally and spatially is Alfred Martin Duggan-Cronin's (1874–1954) *The Bantu Tribes of South Africa*, which comprises eleven volumes of ethnographic photographs dating to the first half of the twentieth century.49 In his analysis of the series' first volume on the Bavenda, Michael Godby unravels the photographs' political connotations against the backdrop of the Native Administration Act of 1927 that retribalised Africans. *The Bantu Tribes of South Africa*, according to Godby, were Duggan-Cronin's 'contribution to the most pressing political issue of his generation', the so-called Native question. Duggan-Cronin's constructed photographic representation conveyed the message of a self-sufficient and autonomous African reserve whose authenticity would be destroyed by external influences. As Godby pointedly remarks, '[t]his is the ideology that led to apartheid.'50 In fact, in South Africa's separate development policy, the antithetical concepts of 'progress' and 'tribe' that were used defined points of reference. According to Landau, separate development marks '[t]he nadir of the confluence between fixed images and malleable, discriminatory policies'.51 Against this backdrop it becomes clear how the apartheid regime used both the practice of juxtaposition and visual articulation of the notion of 'tribe' to sketch the alleged progress of Blacks from 'primitiveness' to 'civilisation' and how in doing so it aimed to legitimate the policy of separate development.52

Considering the ambiguity of photography, photographs from a colonial context nonetheless cannot be automatically interpreted as visual proof of compulsion and repression.53 Instead, as Landau notes: '[t]he forces that marshaled [*sic*] and distributed images were the same ones that propagated the dominant interpretations of what the images were taken to mean … The dominance of an interpretation corresponded with power more generally.'54 Thus, arguing that the crucial point of photography was rather its appropriation into structures of distribution and interpretation, Landau uncouples its role in the colonial project from both its author *and* its graphic content.55 To relate and to apply this to the photography which the apartheid regime used, supports the argument that photographs are not intrinsically propagandistic. Photographs are turned into propaganda by their contextualisation and use within a certain political system dominated by myths that appear to be inconspicuous.

As exemplified by the richly illustrated publication *Education for Success*, the Department of Information also published several graduation photographs without linking them to images of Black customs. The publication set out to '[survey] comprehensively the educational facilities available to South Africa's non-white peoples – and the progress that has already been made'. It presented all this under the overarching objective that '[i]lliteracy will be wiped out within this generation'.56 Sections on the University of South Africa and the university colleges for Blacks comprise photographs of individual students being capped and graduation groups who cheerfully gaze into the camera or listen carefully during the ceremony (Fig. 88). A text offers a straightforward explanation of the intention behind this educational scheme for Blacks that reaches beyond merely providing tertiary education:

There is also another consideration. In 1963 the Xhosas elected their first parliament with considerable legislative power. They have also taken

Fig. 88 Photographer unidentified: 'Graduates of Fort Hare assemble outside the college before a graduation ceremony at which the degrees were conferred by the vice-chancellor of the University of South Africa.', *Education for Success, c.* 1965.

over the civil administration of the Transkei. The demand for skilled manpower will, therefore, increase considerably from this year and will continue to do so.57

In other words, the text does not conceal that tertiary level Bantu education aimed to raise an elite who the regime would eventually install as homeland leaders.

A photograph, which is highlighted by a green frame, sharpens and condenses this rationale (Fig. 89). Three men dressed in academic gowns are photographed in bright sunlight, resulting in unskilled overexposure. The caption identifies the son of Kaiser Matanzima, Chief Minister of the Transkei, as a student who graduated with a degree in Law from the University College of Fort Hare. He is flanked by his father and his uncle G. M. Matanzima, Minister of Justice in the Transkeian cabinet. The student and his uncle look at a piece of paper, possibly his graduation certificate. Thus, the photograph represents two generations of the (possible) leadership elite for the Transkei. Fort Hare, as the caption claims, will be the central institution to educate and raise the Xhosa who will run the Transkei as independent homeland.58 The college is perceived as a machine that produces the personnel required to staff a fully functioning state.

Fig. 89 Photographer(s) unidentified: 'The son of the Chief Minister of the Transkei graduated B.A. Law from the University College of Fort Hare last year. Here he is seen (centre) being congratulated by his uncle, Mr G. M. Matanzima (left), who is Minister of Justice in the first Transkei Cabinet, and by his father, Chief Kaizer [*sic*] Matanzima. The Xhosas of the Transkei are the first of South Africa's distinctive Bantu peoples to be granted selfgovernment. It is policy that they should eventually provide from among their own ranks all the trained manpower in all spheres of their national life. Most of these men and women will no doubt pass through the doors of Fort Hare, their own university college.' (bottom), *Education for Success*, 1965.

In the reasoning of the apartheid regime, the photographs mark the endpoint of the educational endeavour – from a literacy training of the people to the formation of a leading elite. Like Rönty outlines, education, with the university colleges as focal points, is represented as a development towards national independence. Signs of 'tribal' life are however often excluded, contradicting the rationale of separate development.59 The visual representation of Bantu education and the trope of literacy can thus be read as reflections of White nation-building which nevertheless ignored the formation of an African elite opposed to apartheid.

Being a hub for Black higher education, Fort Hare not only bred homeland leaders supporting the apartheid system but also leaders who would work on its demise. The *Education for Success* publication does not mention, for instance, that the university was the *alma mater* of leading ANC personalities like Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo, or Walter Sisulu. Mandela, who received his BA from Fort Hare in 1941, described the institution as 'a beacon for African scholars from all over Southern, Central and Eastern Africa'.60 After the ANC Youth League had set up its main branch at Fort Hare in 1948, students became increasingly politicised and the university became a central node for ANC activities during the 1950s. While student resistance decreased when the PAC and the ANC were banned during the early 1960s, it re-intensified at the end of the decade and, according to Rico Devara Chapman, students protesting academic apartheid throughout the 1970s nurtured the anti-apartheid movement. A decisive moment was the founding of the South African Student Organisation (SASO) in 1968 of which Steve Biko was elected president the following year. Breaking from the White dominated liberal National Union of South African Students (NUSAS), SASO was deeply inspired by and aligned to Black Consciousness. Not only were most Fort Hare students SASO members but at a number of universities across South Africa it influenced student activism and contributed decisively to the politicisation of students. The organisation's activities and Black Consciousness thinking ultimately found their most incisive expression in the 1976 Soweto uprising. These events as well as Biko's death the following year reverberated at Fort Hare in the form of more protests turned against the institution that was seen as a symbol of Bantu education.61 In short, Fort Hare was a place where a political opposition to the regime and to Bantu education was active and where the dragon's teeth, which the regime itself had sowed, could grow.

# IV.2. THE HEALTH CARE SYSTEM

Like other spheres of daily life under apartheid, the health care system became segregated along racial lines and was infused with social inequality. Historian Simonne Horwitz identifies several features that characterised the health care system at the time. She lists an unequal split of resources between White and non-White facilities, ignorance of the health needs of the population, underfunding of health services for Blacks, and capacity overload in the facilities serving the Black population, resulting in long waiting hours and patients being forced to sleep on mattresses on the floor.62 In its final report the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) declared:

Little evidence was found of the direct involvement of health professionals in gross violations of human rights. However, the health sector, through apathy, acceptance of the status quo and acts of omission, allowed the creation of an environment in which the health of millions of South Africans was neglected, even at times actively compromised, and in which violations of moral and ethical codes of practice were frequent, facilitating violations of human rights.63

Tellingly, the TRC furthermore reported that the health care system under apartheid neglected 'to draw attention, amongst other things, to the effects of the socio-economic consequences of apartheid on the health of black South Africans'.64

It is important to note here that the segregation and inequalities in the health care system not only concerned the establishment of separate facilities such as hospitals or the medical treatment of patients but had a wider scope which included the education and training of health workers, nurses, and doctors. At this point, health care linked up with Bantu education. Using the example of the University of the Witwatersrand, Horwitz explains why the graduation numbers of Black doctors remained low. One obstacle was the inferior system of education for Black students that failed to qualify them for medical schools. In the case of the University of the Witwatersrand, students had first to complete a degree at Fort Hare, which meant higher costs, longer periods of study, and increased difficulties in completing medical training. When the Separate Universities Education Bill was enacted in 1959, Black students had to apply for admission approval from the Minister of Education in charge. In the rare instances when admission was granted, they faced social segregation, leading to absurd arrangements: 'Black students were barred from attending post-mortems conducted on white bodies. They would have to wait outside until the organs were removed, as they were allowed to view the organs but not the body of a white person.'65

Yet, none of the administrative bodies of the health care sector was mandated to control racial segregation to the same extent as, for instance, the Department of Bantu Education. According to Horwitz, '[t]he fragmented layers of political responsibility for health had the benefit of providing a space in which the practice of medicine could take priority over segregation.'66

In the former photo library of the information service, pictures of the health care sector were filed under reference number '23. Health and Welfare', with racialising classifications unfolding in the filing system's sub-categories. While most of the pictures from this fragmented collection date to the 1970s and 1980s, two black-and-white photographs provide a good starting point to reconstruct the photographic representation of the health care system during earlier decades.

The first photograph, which according to its caption was created between 1957 and 1961, shows an interior hospital scene (Fig. 90). A group of five men is standing cross armed or with their hands behind their backs on the right side. Wearing white coats, surgical masks cover the lower half of their faces. They are looking down at a woman seated on a chair on the left. She too is wearing a surgical mask and holds a small baby in her arms but does not return the men's gazes. In the picture the surgical masks seem to function as barriers of communication that hinder any interaction between the woman and the medical staff aside from the male gazes.67

By outlining the complex history of Baragwanath hospital, Simonne Horwitz points to the paradoxical role which the clinic played during apartheid. Underfunded and overcrowded, the hospital on the one hand was not able to provide adequate health care to its patients; on the other hand, Baragwanath was a teaching hospital for the University of the Witwatersrand that came to be appreciated by medical students and doctors for its academic medicine and availability of innovative technologies. Although it treated Black patients exclusively, Baragwanath hospital is an example of where the regime was not able to achieve complete racial segregation among the personnel.68

*South African Panorama* published the picture in September 1961 as part of the photo-essay 'Baragwanath. Healing, Education, Research'.69 The clinic's physician, who is said to have authored the accompanying text, describes which diseases were ostensibly more or less frequent among Bantus compared to Europeans, thus defining the former as the scientific 'Other'. Based on an assumed racial difference it turns them into objects of research. Referring to Foucault's theorising of knowledge, power, and the gaze, Alexander Butchart demonstrates in his study on the European construction of the African body how it was not only the object but also the effect of socio-medical power in South Africa.70 It is this very relation of Whites looking on at Africans in a scientific context that is captured in the photograph from the former photo library. The gazes of the medical students turn the mother with her child into an object of study – not to be approached too closely or even emotionally. Thus, although this photograph does not seem to be a picture that was taken for the purpose of documenting medical phenomena, the interdependencies of colonialism, photography, and medicine resonate strongly in it. If photography was a 'tool of empire', medicine played an equally pivotal role in the colonial endeavour, often providing the scientific backdrop against which to legitimise colonialism. In medical

Fig. 90 Photographer unidentified/South African Information Service: 'Photo no. 3701 issued by the South African Information Service, Pretoria. A premature baby born at Baragwanath Hospital being fed by its mother in a special ward in the hospital's paediatrics department with a group of medical students looking on.', n.d.

photography, the two tools joined forces. Photography helped to map out the colonies as spaces which were open for European medics to scientifically take over to 'civilise' them.71

The second photograph from the former photo library shows a scene of nursing training (Fig. 91). Six women in white uniforms stand on the left. All of them hold notebooks in their hands while looking at a wall chart of human anatomy. A White man in a doctor's coat on the right side is pointing out some detail on the pictorial display. The caption printed on the reverse of the photograph locates the scene in one of the homelands and dates it to the years after 1961 when the Department of Information came into being.72 In 1965, for example, the New York Office of the Department of Information published the photograph in the *Progress through Separate Development* brochure as one puzzle within the broader visual scheme of separate development.73

The two photographs, especially when compared, exemplify the race and gender hierarchies that informed the health care system. The first

Fig. 91 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information: 'Photo No. 3893. Issued by the Dept. of Information, Pretoria. Training of Bantu Nurses in a non-white hospital at Umtata in the Transkei.', n.d.

picture points to the Baragwanath hospital in Soweto as the role model of so-called '[n]on-European hospitals'. The second photograph indicates the establishment of medical services in the homelands and directs attention to the iconography of the Black nurse as a symbol of progress and female emancipation, which the separate development propaganda promulgated as the policy's merit.

# THE BLACK NURSE IN WHITE UNIFORM

Hanna Rönty identifies ways in which the regime propagated the teaching profession as a means of emancipation for Black women. Separate development, according to the regime's rationale, would help Black women to progress from traditional life, to liberate themselves from domestic duties, and it would offer them job opportunities in cities. The fact that this conflicted with the idea of maintaining a 'traditional' Black culture which was situated outside the confines of the White cities in South Africa's rural areas was ignored in the propaganda.74 A similar narrative evolved around the nursing profession, which – apart from teaching – was one of the few job opportunities for Black women during apartheid. Since nurses did not have to pay for accommodation and earned a salary during their training, nursing even had financial advantages over teaching.75

When examining the pictorial representation of nursing in the colonial context, the two pivotal aspects of gender and race need to be considered. Tightly woven into the establishment of Western hospital care, professional nursing developed in South Africa as part of the missionary project during the last three decades of the nineteenth century.76 Before the professionalisation of nursing, only a slight line divided it from domestic service. This closeness contributed to nursing being perceived as a female occupation in Europe and Britain.77 It was closely associated with attributes that were regarded as the 'natural qualities of "womanliness"', like empathy, domestic talents, subordination to forms of discipline and to hierarchies of gender and generation.78

At the turn of the century, with the South African War resulting in an increasing number of British and European nurses coming to the South African colonies, a secularisation process of the profession began. This included a shift from the missionaries' liberal ideology to racist concerns about White female nurses caring for Black male patients.79 As Shula Marks pointedly observes, the origins of Black nursing paradoxically lay in these very anxieties of White society whose industry depended on a Black workforce:

[T]he very process of industrialisation and urbanisation around the turn of the century that created the need for hospital services for blacks fuelled the fears around white female sexuality and racial purity and the angst that the vision of white (female) hands on black (male) bodies and black (female) hands on white (male) bodies roused in the white population. Any expansion of hospital services for blacks was thus seen to necessitate the training of more black nurses.80

Especially Black men who had been employed as domestic workers but who after the South African War were increasingly considered 'threatening', 'unclean', and 'uncivilised' were established as the opposite 'Other' of White femininity in the rationale advocating for and legitimating the training of female Black nurses.81 At the same time, the gender hierarchy of the health care system that overlapped with the race question had to be maintained. Centred around the White male physician, the employment of White male nurses caring for Black patients, for instance, would have led to a collapse of the established order – both with respect to masculinity opposing the notion of domesticity and with respect to race. Catherine Burns argues therefore that '[i]n order to sustain this complex ideology as far as the medical profession was concerned, the aim of public health officials and welfare experts was to train and employ Black women as nurses, and to promote the ideal of the "Bantu" or "Native female" nurse.' On the one hand, this idea ignored the segregationist ideal of barring Black women from the cities.82 On the other hand, it included the notion of 'civilisation' because Black nurses in white uniforms 'would represent the harbingers of progress and healing in black society, a shining light in the midst of its savagery and disease'. As representatives of Western medicine, Black nurses became 'allies' in the Europeans' battle against superstition, bringing 'progress, cleanliness and order to a disordered and diseased African society'.83

By the 1920s nursing had become 'a highly prestigious occupation' for African women from the Black elite and they were increasingly employed.84 In response to the continuing urbanisation of Blacks, the 1950s eventually saw a considerable expansion in Black nursing. Since the apartheid state depended economically on the reproduction of the Black working class, it had to care for the health of the Black workforce. Moreover, the development of White women moving away from nursing in favour of new and better job opportunities required increased employment of Black nurses.85 In 1957, however, the government passed the Nursing Amendment Act No. 69, extending racial segregation into the nursing profession. Based on this law, the South African Nursing Council, for instance, split the training programmes for nurses along colour lines.86 Shula Marks interprets the legislation as

both an attempt to pre-empt the political changes that would follow from the greatly increased number of black nurses whom the National government itself was encouraging to enter the profession (and who were beginning to reach senior positions) – and to mask the extent to which *faute de mieux* the state was having to accept these changes in the position of urban blacks.87

While the increasing urbanisation of Blacks was not intended to be part of the apartheid scheme of White cities, the setting up and infrastructural design of the homelands was a planned aspect, pivotal to the social engineering of separate development. If these territories were to function as independent state-like entities, health care systems had to be established. To realise this, health departments were founded and Black nurses, as members of an African elite, were needed to run the system. At the same time, with teaching and nursing being the only work opportunities for women in the homelands, nurses became financially dependent on the system, fostering loyalties towards its institutions.88

According to Horwitz, significantly, for Black women in apartheid South Africa, the professional prestige of nursing was symbolised by their uniforms: 'In nurses' portrayal of their own identities one of the overwhelming themes was that of cleanliness, dress and style – especially in connection with the nurses' uniform.' This focus on cleanliness stood 'in sharp contrast to the white perception of the African body as diseased and dirty' and can be interpreted as the women's attempt to appear 'the exact opposite of this offensive stereotype'. Horwitz continues by explaining that 'the dignity symbolised by the uniform and the respect nurses gained in the community' attracted women to the profession of nursing.89 Such reading certainly underlines the nurses' agency in identifying themselves as countering racist ideas about Blacks and speaks of how these women have appropriated the colonialist association of the white uniform with 'civilisation' for their own self-esteem.

How central the figure of the Black nurse in white uniform was to the separate development propaganda is exemplified in an issue of the *Bantu* periodical from April 1960. In one of the articles, the journal reports on an orchestrated tour that officials had organised for British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan when he was visiting South Africa at the beginning of the same year. On 28 January – only days before he would give the 'Wind of Change' speech, which the article does not mention – this tour led Macmillan to Baragwanath hospital. In a photograph that appears on the first doublespread page, nurses are lined up on the street, all of them dressed in neat white uniforms (Fig. 92). Placed in the upper part of the page, the layout juxtaposes the photograph with a second picture of Macmillan inspecting a parade of Black policemen on the page's lower part.

That nurses were presented to the British statesman not only epitomises the prestige attributed to the nursing profession at the beginning of the 1960s but, more importantly, it also demonstrates how nurses were deemed to be showpieces of the successful development of Blacks under White tutelage.90 This is reminiscent of how, in the Belgian Congo – where

Fig. 92 Photographer(s) unidentified: 'Mr. Macmillan inspects a parade of Bantu police constables at Meadowlands. Above: Bantu Nurses awaiting the arrival of Mr. Macmillan at Baragwanath Hospital.', *Bantu*, 1960.

African nurses belonged to the constructed cultural category of the 'domesticated savage, a new Christian African' – during a royal visit to the hospital of Yakusu, missionaries had a nurse administer an injection, to demonstrate the colonial domestication of Africans.91 To associate pictures of Black nurses in white uniforms with hygiene and development leads back iconographically to portrayals of missionary sisters in colonial Africa. In their spotless white habits often topped by an equally perfect white pith helmet, colonial discourse staged the nuns as harbingers of 'civilisation', nurturing the dark-light-dichotomy (Fig. 93).92 Similarly, in apartheid South Africa, Black nurses were the embodied symbols of the separate development scheme. Corresponding with the photograph of the policemen, the picture of the nurses resonates the notions of 'civilisation', discipline, and hygiene associated with their profession in the colonial context.

Indeed, the following year *Bantu* spelled out the role of Black nurses in the Whites' fight against the scepticism towards Western medicine:

The major handicap in this task of uplifting the Bantu population is the superstition, suspicion, and fear that still prevail amongst large sections of them in certain areas. Many of the under-developed still regard illness as the result of witchcraft, and live in constant terror that the spirits of ancestors will be offended if white doctors are consulted and modern medicine taken. Trained medical men and *nurses* are, however, gradually overcoming these evils, gaining the upperhand [*sic*], and winning the confidence of the less fortunate Bantu.93

*Bantu,* being the monthly mouthpiece for the separate development propaganda, which was mainly addressed to a White readership, could not miss out on the figure of the Black nurse in white uniform and featured it repeatedly in the years to come.

In May 1960, *Bantu* magazine published the article 'The Economic Transformation of Bantu Life', which describes how Africans had obtained the opportunity to progress economically thanks to the arrival of Whites in southern Africa.94 To illustrate the starting point of this development the first photograph shows a rural scene with a bare-breasted woman pounding grain in front of grain huts (Fig. 94). The following photographs portray people who have set up small businesses or, as the last photograph of the article suggests, have moved on to use modern agricultural technologies. This combination of illustrations to emphasise the degree of economic progress facilitated by White politics was a frequent strategy.95 Although the article mentions women and the nursing profession only tangentially, the sole photograph that spreads over a whole page is, significantly, the blackand-white portrait of a nurse (Fig. 95).

Pictured in front of a neutral background, she wears a white uniform with a small bonnet at the back of her head and a surgical mask that emphasises the trope of hygienic cleanliness. The low viewpoint of the photograph dramatises her presence and frames her in a heroic position. Creating an upward dynamic, this perspective leads the viewer's gaze along her arm to the syringe she is holding in front of her face and on which her eyes are focused.96 On the one hand, being an object of fear for many people, the syringe, on the other hand, can be interpreted as a symbol of rising health standards through vaccinations. Portraying the nurse from a perspective that

Fig. 93 Franciscaine Missionnaires de Marie en Mission: 'Congo - "Annoncez la bonne nouvelle" (Announcing the good news), n.d.

frames her in a heroic position, the photograph's visual language alludes to the New Vision (*Neues Sehen*) style from the 1920s and 1930s.97 Cast in a style, which was originally meant to depict the modern world from new perspectives, the photograph, it seems, was required to reflect the social position and prestige of Black nursing. However, around 1960, New Vision, which had first gained momentum in Europe, was no longer innovative. This also applied to South Africa, where works by photographers like Anne Fischer and Constance Stuart Larrabee, who had both trained in Germany during the heyday of New Vision and then established their careers in South Africa, were very well-known and greatly sought after.98

In *Bantu* the photograph's caption states: 'A Bantu Nurse: Practically unlimited opportunity exists for Bantu eager to serve their own community in the professional field.'99 Although the photograph of the woman in front of a grain hut and the portrait of the nurse are not placed on the same double spread, their combination in one photo-essay is reminiscent of the visual Fig. 94 Photographer unidentified: 'Grain huts of a Bantu family in Abrehenn, Zululand. Note the woman pounding grain with a stamping block and a pestle.', *Bantu*, 1960.

strategy as observed before in the case of Bantu education: by juxtaposing images of a 'modern' Western way of life with traditional 'tribal' life, the editors attempted to emphasise the putative span of development. Thus, *Bantu* magazine chose one of the few and at the same time most prestigious possible jobs for Black women to create the impression of 'unlimited opportunity' in contrast to the rural scene at the beginning of the article. The caption also makes it clear that the nurses' scope of action would not reach beyond her 'own community' and would therefore not cross the colour bar.

The photo-essay 'Die Vrou se Rol in Bantoe-Ontwikkeling' (The role of women for Bantu development), which appeared the following year in *Bantu,* shifted the attention from the general economic progress of Blacks to the specific development of women under separate development.100 Consistently drawing on the trope of 'backwardness', it similarly starts

Fig. 95 Photographer unidentified: 'A Bantu Nurse: Practically unlimited opportunity exists for Bantu eager to serve their own community in the professional field.', *Bantu*, 1960.

#### 190 Building a White Nation

Fig. 96 Photographer unidentified: 'Hier is 'n Zuluvrou in stamdrag besig om mielies voor die deur van haar hut te maal terwyl die opkomende geslag blykbaar op vroeë ouderdom ingelyf raak in die tradisionele kuns, soos blyk uit die belangstelling waarmee die "Ingane" toekyk.' (Here, a Zulu woman in traditional clothing is busy grinding maize in front of her hut while the upcoming generation seems to be introduced to the traditional art at an early age, as exemplified by the interest the 'Ingane' shows.), *Bantu*, 1961.

with a picture of a Zulu woman grinding maize in front of a hut (Fig. 96). The following eight photographs portray women in positions of the alleged 'modern' life, such as chief, shop owner, typist, choirmaster or in a modern kitchen. In this narrative the opportunity of including a photograph of three nurses in white uniforms could not be missed (Fig. 97). The way the narrative of economic progress and service to one's own community contextualises nursing resembles the trope of the teaching profession and how the regime propagated it as a means of emancipation for Black women.101

In September 1965, *Bantu* magazine republished the portrait of the single nurse with an article on the 'New deal for medical services' that discussed the establishment of new hospitals in the homelands and the medical care available to Africans.102 While a caption attached to the photographic

Fig. 97 Photographer unidentified: 'Suid-Afrika het vandag 2,500 opgeleide Bantoeverpleegsters, 114 verpleegsters vir geesteskrankes en 314 vroedvroue, terwyl meer dan 3,000 leerlingverpleegsters tans opleiding ontvang. Hier is drie leerlingverpleegsters wat hulle vir die groot taak bekwaam.' (South Africa today has 2,500 trained Bantu nurses, 114 mental health nurses and 314 midwives, while more than 3,000 student nurses currently receive training. Here are three student nurses who qualify for doing the great job.), *Bantu*, 1961.

print from the Alan Paton Centre & Struggle Archives links the picture to Baragwanath hospital,103 the caption in *Bantu* connects it to the medical services in the homelands:

75 training institutions, 58 of which are situated in the Bantu homelands, have thus far produced 7,700 Bantu nurses and 5,000 auxiliary Bantu nurses. Most of the proposed new homeland hospitals will offer facilities for training Bantu nurses in accordance with the policy of integrating medical institutions into Bantu community life.104

Thus, five years after the photograph of the nurse appeared in the 1960 issue of *Bantu* to promote economic transformation, it now appeared to illustrate how hospitals could be staffed with Black nurses.105

In the September 1961 *Panorama* issue, which included the photograph of the medical students looking at the mother with her newborn child, the figure of the Black nurse plays a prominent role too. In fact, the article about Baragwanath hospital opens with a portrait of a nurse that is spread over an entire page (Fig. 98). Dressed in a neat white uniform and a bonnet fixed to the back of her head, the nurse is sitting in the middle of the metallic bars of cribs. Through her dark-rimmed glasses she looks at a baby on her lap. She is bottle-feeding the child who directs its gaze directly into the camera. Reading this portrait against the backdrop of the picture of the mother with newborn baby, it extends the notion of the womanliness of nurses to that of motherliness in seeming contrast to the rather scientific tone of the article.106

Notably, the photograph was still circulating in the late 1970s. Titled 'Tender loving care at Baragwanath', the *Progress* series published it in July 1978. The Department of Information issued this series of journals regularly and distributed it in nine different languages, targeting a variety of Black readerships.107 According to the department, the series' mandate was to put emphasis 'on general progress and also on new projects to which a particular group's attention has to be drawn. It further aims at a new purpose, namely to keep the Bantu in urban areas fully informed about progress in the homelands.'108

In 1969, eight years after publication in *Panorama,* the photograph reappeared in *Health & Healing. Hospital and Medical Services for South Africa's Developing Nations.*109 The brochure exemplifies the propagandistic importance the regime attributed to health care at a point in time when the information service still deemed '[t]he written word … an indispensable information medium in projecting South Africa's viewpoint, achievements and aspirations'.110 Publications like *Health & Healing* not only targeted private persons but also television offices, educational institutions, and government departments. To reach as many readers as possible, the information service issued the brochure in Afrikaans, English, and six European languages.111 Replete with black-and-white as well as colour photographs, the publication proudly announces that South Africa was close to winning the battle against the Africans' belief in witch doctors in favour of Western medicine. Presenting eleven different hospitals and one medical school, *Health & Healing* names the Baragwanath clinic 'a monument to medical progress'. It moreover identifies it as a place that follows '[t]he principle of Bantu self-help', pursuing the objective of preparing Africans for independence by training 'their own' medical personnel.112

Fig. 98 A. E. Dykman: Nurse feeding a baby at Baragwanath Hospital, *South African Panorama*, 1961.

Unlike *Panorama,* the *Health & Healing* brochure does not give the same prominent display to the photograph of the nurse feeding a child. It is rather one of a series of photographs of Black nurses who appear in nearly every photograph of the brochure, either during work or during training. In addition, it is interesting to observe that the photographs reflect Horwitz's finding that total racial segregation could not be achieved. The only photograph that was reproduced full-page shows an operating theatre. Three White male doctors operate on a patient, who is not visible under the surgical drapes, while two Black nurses in white uniforms look on from a more distant position (Fig. 99). Tubes, cables, medical instruments and apparatuses dominate the foreground of the photograph. Although they deflect attention from the people in the picture, it is still obvious that in this case Black and White medical staff are together caring for the same patient. Yet,

Fig. 99 Photographer unidentified/South African Information Service: 'Skilled Bantu operating theatre sisters and nurses assist at an operation being performed at the hospital.', *Health & Healing*, 1969.

the photograph challenges neither the doctor/nurse nor the male/female hierarchy. The fact that *Bantu* magazine had already published the same photograph six years earlier in September 1963113 suggests that the joint depiction of Blacks and Whites in the medical sector was not perceived as problematic in the separate development discourse. If the professional hierarchical organisation did not contradict the hierarchy of race, Blacks and Whites could be pictured together even in the heyday of racial segregation during Verwoerd's premiership. In fact, the international dissemination of the photograph is indicative for how such images could be used to paste over racial segregation.

The extensive pictorial promotion of the Black nurse in white uniform, complicates the nurses' self-perception as discussed before. Society seems to have internalised the uniform as a symbol of cleanliness and social status, prompting the question to what extent colonialist ideas have nourished and shaped this self-perception over many decades and to what extent it was in itself a result of the apartheid government propaganda. The colonialist idea of domesticity and the nurses' self-perception, it seems, entered a reciprocal relationship that the separate development propaganda could exploit for its own purposes and which in hindsight precludes it from clearly separating one from the other. In other words, one needs to question whether it is not precisely this promise of prestige that exemplifies the perfidious ways in which apartheid ensnared the people and that epitomises how the system naturalised racist myths.

# IV.3. ERNEST COLE'S *HOUSE OF BONDAGE*, 1967

In 1967, the very same year when *South African Panorama* opened its June issue with the 'Education for Success' article, Ernest Cole published the photobook *House of Bondage* with Random House in Toronto and New York.114 Offering an important account of everyday life in South Africa during the 1960s, the photobook also covers Bantu education and health care. As much as the regime photographically propagated these themes, they became visual tropes for photographers to demonstrate the institutional discrimination and inequalities of the apartheid system.

Cole, who had encountered the effects of separate development firsthand, embarked on a career as photographer in the late 1950s and from 1965 onwards concentrated on the project of producing a photobook on life under apartheid.115 Sally Gaule argues that different from the photographs recording the spectacle of apartheid – like the Sharpeville pictures (Fig. 57) or Nzima's photo of Hector Pieterson – Cole's photography pointed out how the system entrapped people. It was Cole's contribution 'to perceive and make visible the ways in which segregation and discrimination was normalized in this period'.116 Similarly, Darren Newbury states that the photobook is 'both a visual record of the oppressive conditions under which the majority population lived in apartheid South Africa, and an analysis of its pervasive and enduring impact'.117 Cole, who used his wits to gain access to situations and institutions, like hospitals, banks, and prisons, is said to have had the ability to become nearly invisible, which helped him to capture scenes the apartheid regime was eager to hide.118 It is this insider perspective, demonstrating how separate development crept into every sphere and aspect of daily life, that made *House of Bondage* dangerous to the regime – and which earned it the label of being 'the first internationally published anti-apartheid photography book.'119

In fact, Cole fled South Africa in May 1966, after he had been involved with the police and feared for his work. While he was in exile, *House of Bondage* was banned in South Africa shortly upon its publication in May 1968, preventing Cole's work from becoming widely known in the country at the time, although copies were circulated underground.120 The banishment exemplifies how apartheid officials were aware of the political dimensions and power which photographs were able to unfold.121 By underlining their exceptional character, singular events like Sharpeville might have been easy for the government to counter. But how could the regime counter everyday life, the 'normal' conditions of apartheid?

In the book, 182 black-and-white photographs that Cole took between 1960 and 1966, follow on a general introduction by Joseph Lelyveld and a second text titled 'The Quality of Repression'.122 The photographs are arranged in fourteen thematic sets each of which is accompanied by a text echoing Cole's personal accounts, more analytical tones of Lelyveld's earlier writings for the *New York Times,* and Thomas Flaherty's editing.123

The section titled 'Hospital Care' comprises Cole's photographs of the health care system.124 What makes these photographs especially valuable for countering the regime's perspective is that Cole *inter alia* pictured conditions at Baragwanath hospital – the very same clinic that the separate development propaganda extolled as the role model of health care and medical training for Blacks.

The chapter starts by laconically stating, '[l]ike everything else in South Africa, medical care is segregated and unequal.' It then describes how the training of Black doctors and nurses differs from that of White medical personnel and how hospitals for Blacks do not have enough capacity to treat the patients. At the end, readers learn about Cole's personal experience after a motorbike accident in Johannesburg. He recounts long hours of waiting, of being transferred from one hospital to another, and recalls being without food for twenty-four hours until he was eventually operated on at Baragwanath hospital six days after the accident. According to Cole, he and his fellow patients 'seldom saw a nurse' and doctors were equally absent.125

This experience prompted Cole to document the health care system, photographing the circumstances with a concealed camera or slipping in after visiting hours.126 The black-and-white photographs of the inhuman conditions he encountered show long queues of waiting, overcrowded rooms, and people needing to rest and sleep on the floor or on chairs converted into beds.

The absence of nurses and doctors mentioned in the text resonates in the pictures. In contrast to the official separate development propaganda, Ernest Cole's account does not feature a single nurse. This becomes especially apparent when comparing the photograph of the nurse feeding the baby on her lap to a double page in Cole's book that features three photographs (Fig. 98, Fig. 100). Children are lying on thin mattresses on the linoleum floor or are three to share one crib. In one photograph waves of blankets and white sheets surround a child who wears a loose hospital shirt. While other children in the background seem to interact with each other, the single child faces the camera. With half-closed eyes and the mouth slightly open the child is leaning exhausted on one arm. The hostile environment emphasises the child's expression of fatigue, on which the caption comments indirectly: 'Child has been judged not "serious" enough to be given a bed.'127 While the widely distributed photograph of the nurse feeding a single baby suggests personal care for individual children, Cole's photograph evinces that children were left on their own and not cared for. One certainly needs to consider the circumstances under which Cole took the photographs. Since he could not photograph openly, he possibly tried to avoid encountering nurses or attracting their attention. The absence of the figure of the nurse in his pictures, however, erases the factor of human caring from the apartheid health system, which the regime had tried to propagate so eagerly in its own imagery. Cole's photographs portray the apathy and acts of omission in the health care sector under apartheid that the TRC reported on.

The chapter 'Education for Servitude'128 begins dramatically with a quote from Verwoerd: '"When I have control of native education," said Dr. Hendrik F. Verwoerd in 1953, "I will reform it so that natives will be taught from childhood to realize that equality with Europeans is not for them."' The chapter then continues to refer to Verwoerd's notorious legitimisation of the Bantu Education Act and dryly comments: 'By now, much of what Dr. Verwoerd promised has come to pass. Each day some two million young Africans … enter segregated Bantu schools to be educated for servitude.'129

The narrative spread by the information service in its own publications by words and images is completely contradicted in the pages that follow. Readers learn about overcrowded classes, shortages of furniture and books, lack of sufficient teaching personnel, and the poor academic quality of 'tribal colleges' that are said to be 'little better than high schools'.130 Cole's portrait of a young teacher sitting on a chair in front of the classroom's blackboard stands in stark contrast to the enthusiastic teacher August Sycholt

Fig. 100 Ernest Cole: 'In children's ward, patients share a corner of floor with blankets scattered over them. New cases have their names written on adhesive tape stuck to their foreheads. Infant patient (above) must often share a bed with two others, and spread of infectious diseases is a common problem. Left: Child has been judged not "serious" enough to be given a bed.', *House of Bondage*, 1967.

photographed against the backdrop of the chalk-drawn map of Africa (Fig. 80, Fig. 101). With a tired expression, the woman rests her head on her hand, while she speaks to one of her students with half-closed eyes. The text informs the readers that the physical effect of fatigue on both students and teachers results from long commutes and a system of teaching in two shifts which was established to handle the huge number of students compared to the small number of staff.131 The divergence of Cole's perspective becomes even more dramatic when one considers that he took many of the thirteen photographs from this section in Mamelodi, the very same township where Sycholt, as the caption reveals, photographed the primary school students during break in about 1968 (Fig. 79).132 Despite this temporal and geographical closeness, Cole's account on the education system does not include any scenes of children playing joyfully or pictures of well-equipped schools.

In Cole's photographic account of Bantu education, the iconography of literacy plays as central a role as it does in the regime's propaganda. In the

Fig. 101 Ernest Cole: 'Teacher toward end of her day in school.', *House of Bondage*, 1967.

first photograph of the education chapter, a little boy who tightly grips a slate between his bent leg and torso, crouches on the floor (Fig. 102). Sweat is running down from his head, along his cheeks and forehead, while his upward looking eyes firmly concentrate on something beyond the photograph's frame. As the caption describes: 'Earnest boy squats on haunches and strains to follow lesson in heat of packed classroom.'133 The picture mirrors Sycholt's photograph of a similarly aged student portrayed in a thinking pose (Fig. 85). In contrast, this boy does not show any signs of fatigue or strain and because of its generalising tone, the caption renders Bantu education inconspicuous: 'The little problems are as old and as familiar as time itself. So is the reaction to them.'134

After the single portrait in *House of Bondage* follow pictures that zoom out to capture more comprehensive views of the classes and that emphasise the insufficient school equipment (Fig. 103). A photograph that shows two students sharing one book points to the poor supply of teaching material: 'Children at right must share tribal-language reader because of shortage of supplies. Principal of this school ordered sixty readers from Government, received two.'135

Fig. 102 Ernest Cole: 'Earnest boy squats on haunches and strains to follow lesson in heat of packed classroom.', *House of Bondage*, 1967.

Some years later, the motif of the joint act of reading from a single book reoccurs in pictures by David Goldblatt. In 1972, Goldblatt embarked on a photographic project of Soweto that would last several months for the magazine *Optima*. 136 The results of this endeavour were published in March 1973, including a photograph of three differently aged schoolboys who share one desk and one book (Fig. 104). According to the caption, the photograph shows an 'Afrikaans lesson ("The witchdoctor's spoon") at a lower primary school'.137 Especially in Cole's photographs, there is no evidence of the well-equipped school libraries seen in Sycholt's photographs (Fig. 82–Fig. 86). Instead, the act of reading symbolises the shortcomings of the education system.

Today, photographs by Cole and Goldblatt of students reading jointly are embedded in the anti-apartheid narratives of two major permanent museum displays in South Africa. In both exhibitions, Bantu education is an integral component in demonstrating the injustices of apartheid. *House of Bondage* is the central piece in the display of Johannesburg's Apartheid Museum, which opened in 2001. While the presentation does not include a physical copy of the book, reproductions of the entire publication – with

Fig. 103 Ernest Cole: 'Teacher above is struggling with one of her two daily sessions of one hundred students each. Children learning to write hardly have elbow room to mark their slates. Children at right must share tribal-language reader because of shortage of supplies. Principal of this school ordered sixty readers from Government, received two.', *House of Bondage*, 1967.

exception of Lelyveld's introduction – are mounted on the museum walls. Included is the picture of the two girls sharing the 'tribal language reader'.138

At only twenty-minutes' drive from the Apartheid Museum, a photograph by David Goldblatt forms part of the Hector Pieterson Museum's display in Soweto. Being a wide-angle version of the one published in *Optima,*  it shows the three students surrounded by their classmates during an Afrikaans lesson.139 The museum is organised and curated around Nzima's photograph of the shot student after whom the museum is named.140 If this picture symbolises the violence caused by Bantu education, Goldblatt's photographs from the early 1970s depict the application of Bantu education – less dramatically however than Cole's account of the apartheid education system. Newbury describes how Goldblatt's photograph at the museum 'derives its power from the tension between the humanism of a shared moment of reading, the oppression represented by the sparsely furnished classroom … and the issue of language, which was the catalyst for the Soweto Uprising'.141 Significantly, the iconography of literacy was used not only to

Fig. 104 David Goldblatt: Afrikaans lesson ('The witchdoctor's spoon') at a lower primary school, *c.* 1972.

demonstrate the benevolent effects of separate development, but also to decry its discriminatory effects. In both cases, the photographs were and are embedded in particular frameworks of interpretation in which texts and captions play(ed) a pivotal role. Contextualised in an anti-apartheid discourse and – this differs from photographs circulated by the Department of Information – not deprived of signs that testify to lack of equipment and to poor supplies, the iconography of literacy gains a different twist. It shifts from representing 'civilisation' and development to symbolise discrimination and suppression. Yet, if Bantu education sowed dragon's teeth into the system, as David Welsh put it, then photographs of Black students reading and writing in educational institutions can be interpreted as the beginning of the end of apartheid, as the first cracks in the system. And indeed, in 1976, the dragon's teeth bit back.

Against this background, swinging the hinge back to Goldblatt's photograph of the Rhodes dismantling, the (mostly) unquestioned naturalness of the diamond magnate's presence on the UCT campus as a symbol of South Africa's social structures, becomes even more graphic and puts the student protests of 2015/16 and their demand for institutional decolonisation into historical perspective. The fact that both health care and Bantu education were used to either depict apartheid's beneficent or discriminatory and oppressive character, indicates how these areas were deemed to reflect the social structures of apartheid society. The natural gloss under which, according to Shula Marks, apartheid attempted to coat its hegemony is mirrored in the photographs by South Africa's information service. Although the visual discourse of separate development contained contradictions and inconsistencies, fissures and frictions, the photographs, both in their graphic content and formally, did not provoke questions. Only a comparison of such photographs with *House of Bondage* sheds light on their distortions and thereby identifies their inconspicuousness. The case of Cole's photobook also underlines how important it was for the propaganda by the apartheid regime to ban counter-images, to regulate the visual realm. Moreover, the strategy by the information service to fall back on long established visual norms and narratives contributed to this inconspicuous appearance. Both the iconography of literacy and that of the Black nurse in white uniform were deeply rooted in colonialist narratives of progress through literacy and Western medicine towards 'civilisation'. Spectators were not given the opportunity to see something new that would attract their attention or that would possibly cause any doubt. To scrutinise these iconographies in greater depth, however, helped to unravel the political dimensions the photographs are able to unfold. Since the regime clearly used both the iconography of literacy on different levels, and the iconography of the Black nurse in white uniform to propagate the establishment of independent homelands, the photographs can be considered to have been part and parcel of the apartheid regime's plan to build a White nation.

# **V. PERFORMING THE STATE**

As Okwui Enwezor phrases it, 'a loud cannon-shot was fired across the bow of the political spectrum, in Africa and around the world', when alone in the year 1960 seventeen former African colonies gained independence and 'the United Nations, upon admitting them en masse into the international body, declared that year to be the year of Africa.'1 Against this backdrop of Africa's decolonisation taking place in the geopolitical constellation of the Cold War and in the face of international political isolation, the Pretoria regime came under increasing pressure to legitimate apartheid. By implementing legislation that would lead, step by step, the homelands into alleged independence, the minority regime wanted to expel these areas from the South African territory until only a White nation state remained. Verwoerd, who was central in this endeavour, presented it as a particularly benevolent form of decolonisation without giving up on apartheid.2 When in October 1976 South Africa granted independence to the Transkei, the regime made it the showpiece of homeland policy and laid a major brick in its project of building a White nation.

During the 2010s, *Rise and Fall of Apartheid* curated by Okwui Enwezor and Rory Bester was probably the most seminal exhibition on South African photography, spotlighting the political imagery of the apartheid years. In the accompanying catalogue, the curators compiled different photographs of the same kind under the title 'Legitimizing Apartheid. Bantustans, Diplomacy, and the Performance of Power'.3 Although the pictures show different occasions and date to different decades, the photograph of State President Swart at the opening of the parliament in Cape Town from the 1960s and the pictures of homeland independence celebrations from the 1970s and early 1980s are both political images, visually affirming and legitimising the apartheid state. By bringing them together in the same compilation, Bester and Enwezor indicate the temporal concurrences, the interlocking and interdependencies of these political events, and highlight how the White South African nation state and the independent homelands constituted two sides of the same coin that formed apartheid.

A more in-depth analysis of such photographs from the 1960s and 1970s epitomise the visual dimensions of politics and how the abstract formal organisation of a state can be visually represented.4 The Pretoria regime performed the White state on different occasions and the Republic celebration on 31 May 1961 and their commemorations in subsequent years were certainly ideologically informed events to display and picture the state. While the inception of the Republic of South Africa is a good starting point that directs attention to the figure of the state president, the more regular and therefore more inconspicuous performance of the apartheid state at the annual openings of parliament in Cape Town promises to give an idea of how tenaciously the regime performed the ceremony, creating a sense of continuity, and therefore perpetuated the White nation state. An examination of how the Pretoria regime photographically presented the Transkei independence celebrations of 1976, exemplifies how the abstract political act of granting independence and the creation of a new state was visually fixed. These pictures reflect the attempt to create an image which lends legitimisation to the Transkei as an independent state. Since both groups of photographs show occasions that are rooted in well-known ceremonial patterns, they are imbued with a sense of inconspicuousness.

# V.1. THE ANNUAL OPENINGS OF PARLIAMENT

The year 1960 was not only the 'year of Africa' as regards the states that became independent from colonial rule, but as outlined above it also marked a pivotal year for the Union of South Africa. Macmillan's 'Wind of Change' speech in Cape Town and the Whites-only referendum on the question whether South Africa should become an independent republic are two of the events that defined the year. After *South African Panorama* reported in May 1961 – slightly time-delayed to the actual events – on Verwoerd's participation in the London Commonwealth conference and his triumphant return to Johannesburg,5 two months later the magazine eventually featured a photo-article titled 'The Birth of a Republic'.6 Photographs of the celebrations that took place on 31 May show parades and the audience on Pretoria's Church Square decorated in the national colours of blue, white, and orange. The Republic of South Africa Constitution Act of 1961 eliminated the British Crown that had been represented in South Africa by a Governor General from the constitution and replaced it with a state president.7 To mark this

Fig. 105 A. E. Dykman: 'The first State President of the Republic of South Africa, Charles Robberts Swart, wearing the Presidential sash', *South African Panorama*, 1961.

political shift visually, *Panorama* included photographs of C. R. Swart, who had previously served as Governor General, greeting the crowd in his new capacity as state president and chose a portrait of him to be published on the cover of the July issue (Fig. 105). Recalling the photographic replacement of political leaders, the magazine made the dissociation from the British Crown even more explicit by combining the portrait with the slogan 'Long live the State President'.8 The slogan directly refers to the proclamation 'The King is dead. Long live the King' and 'Long live the Queen' respectively which usually declares the accession of a new monarch in the event of a death. Although the slogan on the *Panorama* cover does not announce the Queen's passing, it implies her dismissal as head of state and as such therefore heralds the new era of the Republic of South Africa. Significantly, the editors of *Panorama* attempted to position South Africa in a row of African states that had recently gained independence from colonial rule:

As the hour of midnight struck on May 30th, 1961, the chiming of bells throughout the country heralded the birth of the Republic of South Africa. … The Republic of South Africa entered a new era, as the 22nd independent state to be created in Africa during the last few years.9

Fulfilling the long-cherished ideal of an independent republic liberated from British yoke, the dissociation from the British Crown was indeed ideologically highly charged. *Time Magazine* commented: 'In the Afrikaners' eyes, the Boer War was finally won after six bitter decades; no longer would South Africa pay fealty to an alien English-speaking monarch in London.'10

Since the Union of 1910 was based on the Westminster system, South Africa's national parliament during apartheid was (and still is today) officially opened at the beginning of each annual session with a ceremony that was introduced to the country through British imperialism.11 The country's new status as independent republic entailed that from then on not a Governor General but the state president would open parliament. In her research, Shirin M. Rai draws attention to the performance of ceremonies and rituals as a possible point of access to examine such political institutions as parliaments.12 She acts on the assumption that 'invented traditions', as Hobsbawm and Ranger discuss them, 'are critical to stabilising and reproducing the power of institutions'. Emphasising how social relations affect performances and how in turn, performances re-present these social relations, Rai argues – and this is significant for the South Africa context – 'that ceremony and ritual in parliament are deployed both to awe and to put beyond contestation the everyday workings of institutions and in so doing secure the dominant social relations that obtain within it'.13 Ritual and ceremony therefore need to be understood as performances of power. Following Benedict Anderson's definition of nationalism, Rai moreover points out how ceremony and ritual interlace with nationalism and the inherent construction of the 'Other'. Since 'ceremony and ritual provide the fixed points of recognition of that imaginary' they define boundaries and mark in- and exclusions of the everyday as well as public life that help nationalism define itself. The ceremonial in turn serves to achieve the 'stability of imagination' which nationalism requires. In the political realm, ceremony and ritual operate on a spectrum of different visibilities that spans from invisibility to hypervisibility. Regarding invisibility, ceremony and ritual are first able to conceal societal realities like conflict or disruptive moments by establishing a sense of 'appropriate modes of behaviour legitimised by performance and recognition over time'.14 Second, by means of theatricality and ritualisation they become sedimented and create a common-sense which renders power and mechanisms of dominance invisible. At the other end of the spectrum, ceremony and ritual 'by their hypervisibility … enthral those who "must be rendered susceptible"'.15 In other words, despite their

Fig. 106 Photographer unidentified/Len Gallagher [?]: Governor-General E. G. Jansen and his wife at the opening of parliament in Cape Town, *South African Panorama*, 1957.

'hypervisibility' rituals and ceremonies in the political realm can have a veiling effect that may be deliberately deployed because power becomes invisible in this hypervisibility.

The annual opening of parliament ceremony led to a photographic seriality extending over several years. Many of these photographs, which were not necessarily taken by the photographer of the Department of Information, found their way into the ministry's visual network. In 1957, *South African Panorama* featured the short article 'The Opening of Parliament' on the issue's prominent first double spread.16 It mainly consists of photographs that show neat rows of horse guards and members of the South African Navy lined up to salute Swart's predecessor Governor General E. G. Jansen. In one picture, Jansen, who is dressed in a classical dark three-piece suit and flanked by his wife and by a soldier in full dress, takes the salute in front of the House of Parliament (Fig. 106). A canopy and a carpet form a passageway

Fig. 107 Photographer unidentified/*Cape Argus*: 'This was the last time Parliament was opened by a Governor-General as the representative of the Queen of England.', *Fortnightly Digest of South African Affairs*, 1961.

leading up to the entrance of the House of Parliament whose majestic white columns rise in the background of the photograph. Four years later, in 1961, the *Fortnightly Digest of South African Affairs* published a picture, credited to the *Cape Argus,* of C. R. Swart still in his capacity as Governor General. Swart and his wife follow an officer down the stairs of the parliament building through a guard of honour (Fig. 107). The caption makes it clear that '[t]his was the last time Parliament was opened by a Governor-General as the representative of the Queen of England.'17

In subsequent years the opening of parliament ceremonial and the pictures thereof remained indebted to pre-republic times. They only differ in small detail from earlier photographs, like the broad presidential sash that crosses Swart's chest.18 The composition that shows the state president striding down the flight of stairs through a guard of honour that opens towards the spectators reappeared in a number of photographs. In 1963, *South African Panorama* published such a black-and-white picture with an article on the country's parliamentary system that, according to the subtitle, was 'rooted in tradition' (Fig. 110). Almost exactly on the central axis, the photographer chose a low viewpoint, emphasising the strict line-up of soldiers holding their rifles in honour of South Africa's state president. Thus, through repetition the photographic composition also evoked the tradition which the subtitle prominently announced.

One year earlier, in March 1962, *Bantu* magazine published another photograph of the new state president (Fig. 108). Taken from a low viewpoint, the

Fig. 108 Photographer unidentified: 'The State President, Mr. C. R. Swart, takes the salute.', *Bantu*, 1962.

picture shows the head of state stepping out onto a richly ornamented carpet laid out for him in front of the House of Parliament. His wife, who is dressed for the occasion, is standing a few steps behind him beside the soldier who has led the way. Behind the wrought-iron fence the venerable building of parliament is visible in the background. In the journal, the photograph is embedded in extracts from Swart's opening speech advocating separate development: 'To establish peace and tranquillity and good relations, each racial unit must therefore be led, in accordance with a clear pattern, to a form of self-government suited to it.'19 Other black-and-white photographs repeat this composition, again merely varying in detail (Fig. 109). They were taken from a similar perspective and only changes in the uniforms, which point to the deployment of different groups of the military, and the clothing of the Swarts indicate that the subjects of the photographs are distinct opening ceremonies from the 1960s.20

Fig. 109 Photographer unidentified/Hennie van den Berg [?]: State President C. R. Swart and his wife at the opening of Parliament in Cape Town, 1964.

According to the photographs, the following decade nothing much changed, apart from the state president. Photographs from the first half of the 1970s show J. J. Fouché and his wife in similar compositions to the Swarts or even Jansens (Fig. 111).21 In 1972, *South African Panorama* again featured an illustrated article about the opening of parliament. Pointing to the repetitiveness of the annual ceremony, the article significantly notes:

One often hears the remark that one opening of Parliament is just like another, and to some extent, this is true. But all the same there are differences. This year's ceremony had a few important characteristics which distinguished it from other occasions. In the first place, a new car for the State President was brought into service.22

During the presidency of N. J. Diederichs and just a few months before the Soweto uprising would take place, *South African Panorama* printed

Fig. 110 Photographer unidentified/*Cape Times*: Opening of Parliament in Cape Town, *South African Panorama*, 1963.

the article 'Where Democracy Reigns Supreme' in April 1976.23 Under the colours of the South African flag stretching over the double page, a colour photograph pictures the Parliament building during the opening ceremony from an elevated viewpoint (Fig. 112).24 Different from most of the photographs discussed before that bring together the head of state with the symbolism of the building in the background, the emphasis in this photograph clearly lies on the neo-classical architecture, accentuating its size and venerable character. Against this backdrop the presidential couple turns into de-individualised figures, being the endpoint of the human ornament formed by the guard of honour. Because of the high abstraction of parliamentary democracy and the lack of explicit symbols to represent it, the building itself often symbolises the political system and can be read as an expression of its ideas.25 Due to the focus on the architecture and especially in combination with the blunt heading, the photograph in *South African* 

Fig. 111 Photographer unidentified: The State President Mr J. J. Fouché and Mrs Fouché in front of the steps of the parliament building in Cape Town during the opening of parliament, 1972.

*Panorama* particularly underscores the article's claim that South Africa was a democratically ruled country. While this claim might have held true in the regime's own rationale, it was pure mockery to politically informed persons of the time as much it is from a present anti-racist, democratic point of view.

Especially when considering Rai's approach to rituals and ceremonies, these photographs disclose a dimension that reaches beyond mere documentations of an annually performed ceremony. Significantly, not a single iconic image but the seriality is crucial for the photographs' propagandistic potential. Although there might have been minor variations, the ceremony remained relatively constant over the years, resulting in photographs that

Fig. 112 Alf Yssel/Louis Breytenbach: 'The official opening of the South African Parliament is a festive occasion filled with traditional pomp and ceremony. The State President and Mrs. Diederichs acknowledge the salute of the guard of honour at the entrance to Parliament on January 23 this year' (bottom), *South African Panorama*, 1976.

were indebted to the same aesthetic, conveying the impression of continuity and stability. Depicting a ceremony that was rooted in the Westminster system, the photographs were ideologically far more inconspicuous than the celebrations of the Republic in 1961. Yet, the photographs of the ephemeral events offered the Pretoria regime the opportunity visually to fix points of recognition of their national imaginary and to distribute it more widely. Cast in the rigid pattern and hypervisibility of ceremony, the annual opening of parliament and the photographs thereof reached a realm 'beyond contestation', concealing that they were performances of dominance and power.

The opening of parliament by a White head of state celebrated a parliamentary system which was not legitimised by the country's majority. Photographs of the openings of parliament thus reflect the regime's derision towards this majority who were not represented by parliament, visually affirming the dominant social relations. Covering over dissent, the photographs ultimately could be used to present the apartheid state as a democracy.

# V.2. THE TRANSKEI INDEPENDENCE CELEBRATIONS, 1976

In the apartheid regime's separate development rationale, photographs of the independence celebrations of the Transkei form a counterpart to the photographs of the openings of parliament. When analysing them, one needs to consider that the act of granting independence to the Transkei took place in a regional and geopolitical context which had been shaped over many years by South Africa's position in African decolonisation processes during the Cold War. It is momentous that in the same decade when the regime achieved its long-cherished objective of independent homelands, the project of building a White nation imploded. Against the backdrop of a decreasing traditional Afrikaner nationalism since the mid-1960s, signs of a possible fall of the White minority regime in South Africa appeared on the horizon.

In the late 1950s, Britain announced that it would guide the High Commission Territories (HCT) Bechuanaland, Basutoland, and Swaziland into independence. This frustrated Verwoerd's intention to incorporate them into a federation of states with White South Africa and sovereign homelands under Pretoria's hegemony. Integrating the HCTs would have raised the percentage of the so-called 'native reserves' to 50 per cent of the country and would therefore have enabled Verwoerd to present the territorial racial segregation as a fair solution. According to Christoph Marx, Verwoerd could only keep his influence on these territories by now also promising independence to the homelands.26 In 1959, South Africa reacted with the Promotion of Bantu Self-Government Act to the British plans, extending the Bantu Authorities Act of 1951.27 This marked an important step on the road to independent homelands. The bill brought an end to Blacks being represented by White Native Representatives in the central parliament and formalised the existence of eight African ethnic groups based on cultural and linguistic aspects. The South African government assigned each of these groups an ethno-national territory and a Commissioner-General who was responsible for instituting a homeland.28 Pretoria's Department of Information overtly promoted this plan and by calling it a 'commonwealth or community of nations' tried to legitimise the policy of separate development.29

After the Transkei Territorial Authority had demanded complete freedom and independence for the Transkeian territory in April 1961, Verwoerd's government took the opportunity to foster its project of a White nation. In May 1963, it granted partial self-government to the homeland and Chief Kaiser Matanzima was elected Chief Minister of the legislative assembly at the end of the same year.30 Seven years later, in 1970, the Bantu Homelands Citizenship Act No. 26 declared Blacks to be citizens of the self-governing homeland and stripped them of their South African citizenship.31

During the 1950s and 1960s, states of the communist world – especially the Soviet Union and China – tried to fuel the decolonisation processes across Africa to gain influence on the new emerging states. In turn, the Pretoria regime presented South Africa as the continent's last Western bastion against communism.32 In the booklet *The Transkei and the Case for Separate Development,* the Department of Information stated in 1963:

By tradition South Africa has always been Africa's staunchest bulwark against the machinations of international communism. In addition, she would also be communism's greatest prize in Africa, for she is by far the continent's most highly developed country. Her stability, progress and economic power are major obstacles to communism's bid for Africa.33

The revolution in Portugal in April 1974 and the subsequent power vacuum in Angola and Mozambique eventually became a crucial turning point for the apartheid state. Protected from Black nationalisms by the White-ruled states to its North, South Africa during the 1960s had experienced an economically and politically stable decade, providing it with 'a sense of permanency and control'. But Lisbon's coup d'état now directed the attention of the Cold War parties to southern Africa. With the coup, according to Jamie Miller, South Africa's national security, which had relied heavily on Portugal to keep Communist Black nationalism and liberation movements from affecting South Africa, collapsed.34

In the annual report by the Department of Information, Eschel Rhoodie, then Secretary for Information, observed how the media coverage had shifted from being positive the previous year 'to be[ing] very negative' in 1976. To explain why 'South Africa was seen by foreign media as … another hot spot in the world about to go up in flames', Rhoodie mentioned *inter alia* the 'Soweto riots' and the granting of independence to the Transkei and its non-recognition by the international community.35

Against this backdrop, the apartheid state as well as its puppets sold the granting of independence to the homelands as an act of decolonisation. In 1975, Chief Kaiser Matanzima declared in an address to the Congress of the Transkei National Independence Party that the Transkei's

decolonisation from white South Africa – the heirs of the imperialist Britain – should excite every thinking person with common sense. … The free states in Africa which were at one time under the domination of colonial powers enjoy freedom. We want to join them and talk from a position of power and not from a position of subservience … The independence sought for is a free and sovereign status.36

The pressure the Pretoria regime must have felt to legitimise the Transkei also becomes apparent in their attempt to get public enemy number one, Nelson Mandela, involved. According to rumours in 1976, the South African government was considering freeing Mandela who had been imprisoned since 1964, as an expression of its willingness to enter into dialogue with the international community.37 Mandela recalled how in 1976 the regime offered him a considerable reduction in prison sentence if he recognised the Transkei and moved to live there after his release. Unsurprisingly, Mandela declined the offer.38

# SELLING INDEPENDENCE

To be able to sell Transkei's independence as an act of decolonisation, the Pretoria regime had to orchestrate a ceremony which recalled the independence celebrations of the former colonies and which would produce images that could be fed into the propaganda network. Indeed, with respect to the ceremonial, the Transkei's independence celebrations were by no means novel or innovative. They rather resembled a number of other ceremonies for which India's independence in 1947 had set the tone. Referring to ceremonials that marked independence from the British Empire, David Cannadine points out their symbolic power and outlines how they aimed

to give the impression that independence had always been the intention of the British imperial mission; that power was being transferred voluntarily, with dignity and with mutual expressions of esteem and good will; that a member of the British royal family would appear to set a regal seal of approval on the proceedings; that Britain and its former colony would remain on good terms thereafter, with the former still wielding some benevolent influence over the latter; and that the new nation, happy and secure in the annual observance of its independence day, would go on to enjoy freedom, democracy, prosperity, unity and consensus.39

After India had celebrated independence at midnight on 14 August 1947, this time of day became the moment to mark the birth of a new state in subsequent independence festivities.40 The magical moment of midnight, the moment of transition from one day to another underlines the liminality of becoming independent and the shift from one order to another. It also became a tradition in many celebrations arranged according to the Indian model to symbolise this transition by a change of national flags. In a specially built stadium, the flag of the mother state was pulled down while the flag of the new emerging state was raised – even though the British flag was actually not hauled down during India's independence ceremony.41 According to Josiah Brownell,

Transkei and South Africa took pains placing Transkeian independence within this recognizable aesthetico-ideological genre, and everything about the planning of the day went toward promoting the idea that this was an actual transfer of power and a legal transfer of sovereignty.42

For pragmatic rather than ideological or symbolic reasons, it was decided that 26 October would be the Transkei's day of independence.43 To inaugurate and celebrate what South Africa lauded as 'Africa's 50th state'44, official festivities took place between 25 and 27 October.45 If the whole ceremony was meant to serve as a 'seal of approval', to legitimise the Transkei's independence and to stage a transfer of power, South Africa had to ensure that as many eyes as possible would witness the event live as well as cast in images. Indeed, South Africa's government had hoped for a large number of foreigners to attend the celebrations. For the time of the festival a campsite with the capacity to accommodate more than 12,000 people was set up in Mthatha while the five hotels in town were reserved for eminent visitors.46 According to Brownell, South Africa's propaganda apparatus spent more than \$500,000 to promote the independence of the homeland, including the distribution of publications, audio-visual projects, and invitations to politicians, international television teams, foreign journalists, and photographers.47 This corresponds to the report by the Department of Information:

A special project by the Department was the handling of foreign members of parliament, journalists, television and radio personalities – a total of 152 individuals – during Transkei's independence celebrations. The Department invited the visitors, arranged their travelling and accommodation, and provided literature, interpreters etc.48

It is important to recall that all this took place at a time when the Department of Information was deeply ensnared in its secret 'propaganda war' led by Eschel Rhoodie and his fellow combatants, which eventually would bring about the fall of B. J. Vorster in 1978. Shortly before the Soweto uprising, South Africa hired the United States public relations firm Sydney Baron to influence public opinion.49 The Department of Information did not make it a secret and described this new collaboration in the report for the year 1976 as 'an important development in our activities … to assist us in promoting a positive image of South Africa.'50 Pivotal to this arrangement was Andrew T. Hatcher, the company's vice-president of international operations. By collaborating with an African American, the Pretoria regime hoped to refute accusations of racism towards South Africa.51 Hatcher, who was also responsible for checking journalists who planned to travel to South Africa, managed for instance to get the Pulitzer Prize-winner Les Payne on an orchestrated tour through South Africa. In 1976, Payne was one of three African American journalists who had been able to get a visa to enter the country. Significantly, the tour with Hatcher included the attendance of the Transkei independence celebration, to which according to Nixon, he chaperoned a group of fourteen Americans. Yet, Payne's three-month long stay in South Africa resulted in a series of eleven articles on Soweto that appeared in *Newsday* in early 1977.52 In his analysis of South Africa and the international media during the 1970s, James Sanders points out how the Department of Information granted visas to international journalists on the condition that they would report on the Transkeian independence celebrations and how they lured journalists to Mthatha with first class tickets plus a £1,000 in cash.53

'The most prominent Transkei lobbyist' was James Andrew 'Jay' Parker.54 In December 1975, Roloef Frederik 'Pik' Botha, ambassador of the Republic of South Africa to the United States of America at the time, described Parker as 'a rarity in the United States, being a black American of marked conservative persuasion', and argued for South Africa to accept the propaganda campaign he had proposed.55 Parker suggested 'a complete information program … with a view towards building the Transkei's recognition among the U.S. citizens and clearly demonstrating that the Transkei is a "reality" and a viable entity that will be truly independent October 26, 1976'. The plan was to '[a]ggressively seek to have official U.S. representation at the Independence Celebration as well as unofficial and non-establishment U.S. citizens in attendance'. In this context the names of civil rights activist Jesse Jackson and of boxing star Mohammed Ali were also mentioned.56

According to both Nixon and Hull, the Sydney Baron firm managed to place advertisements promoting the Transkei independence in the *Wall Street Journal* and *Ebony* magazine.57 Yet, during the same month the latter, being a American picture magazine of national circulation that targeted a middle-class African American readership, dedicated a special issue to Africa and the wave of decolonisation that swept across the continent during the mid-twentieth century. An article about the 'Heroes of African Freedom' was illustrated with portraits of leaders like Kwame Nkrumah (Ghana) and Patrice Lumumba (Congo).58 In the same issue the author Thomas A. Johnson made the snarky remark that, '[f]rom an African perspective, it is no longer a question of whether blacks will take over in southern Africa, whether *apartheid* will be destroyed, but rather a question of how soon it will happen and will it come with or without violence?'59

Instead of reporting on the independence celebrations, in October 1976 *Ebony* magazine set out to comment on South Africa's propaganda strategies:

From the time Ebony first started selling overseas, the magazine had been banned in South Africa. As a visiting white South African put it some years ago: 'You know, your magazine wasn't banned because it was too political. The government just didn't want South African blacks to see that black people could live well, could be doctors and lawyers and elected officials. Such things would just put ideas in their heads.'60

The article goes on to outline how African Americans were allowed to enter South Africa on tours specially organised by the government and how the regime tried to use such visits to create the impression of a changed South African policy. On the issue of homelands, the article sarcastically comments,

[i]f the white South African could have his way, there would be a black South Africa back in the bush and a white South Africa of modern cities and well-kept farmland. … Blacks would govern their homelands but would have nothing to do with how white South Africa was run. But this is just an impossible dream.61

With respect to images, the Transkei's independence had predecessors as well. In the middle of the twentieth century, images of independence celebrations of former colonies appeared repeatedly on the news of the Western World. David Cannadine describes how two dissimilar types of images characterise his memories of TV experience in Britain during the 1960s. On the one hand, there were the reports on Vietnam presented to the spectators with images of ferocity and, on the other hand, there were images of independence celebrations in former British colonies. According to Cannadine, these images, had in common that they reflected the re-ordering of the worldwide political landscape.62

Similarly, in her book *Bilder der Dekolonisation. Repräsentationen Afrikas im frühen österreichischen TV,* Paula Pfoser analyses Austrian television images of independence celebrations from Sub-Saharan Africa between 1957 and 1965.63 During these years, Austria's state broadcasting corporation ORF (Österreichischer Rundfunk) frequently produced news clips about emerging African political leaders, independence celebrations, and new African states across the continent from Ghana to Kenya, Nigeria, Congo, and Malawi,64 to mention only a handful of the states that attained independence during the 1950s and 1960s.

These images of independence and liberation were spread not only by TV but also in print around the world. Coinciding with the heyday of African independence movements, the post-World War II period was characterised by a growing influence of photojournalism and a great availability of print media. Photography that was indebted to a social realism, according to Lauri Firstenberg, played a pivotal role in 'the construction of modern subjectivity' and in 'the production of idols and martyrs of independence.'65

In March 1957, *Life* magazine, for instance, featured a photo-essay on Ghana's independence celebrations and three years later, in January 1960, it dedicated its front cover to the country. Under the heading 'Democracy Around the World, Part I: Ghana's Leap from Stone Age to Eager New Nationhood' a colour photograph portrays Augustus Molade Akiwumi in a robe that identifies him as a member of Ghana's National Assembly.66 In April 1957, *Drum* also published a portrait of Nkrumah against the backdrop of the new Ghanaian flag on its front page.67

By assembling 234 archival photographs of independence celebrations from Asia, the Middle East, and Africa for the artistic research project *Independence Day 1934–1975* (2009–2019), Maryam Jafri (b. 1972) excavated an impressive visual typology of the ceremonial transition from colonial rule to self-determination. In exhibitions, Jafri displays this typology pinned to the wall in frieze like arrangements and, more recently, she presents them assembled into a photobook.68 Here she groups the photographs into twelve categories, that show for example the ceremonial pattern of swearing in the new leadership, the new flag, the signing of documents, parades and salutes, and of presidential addresses to the new nation across different countries, all staged and orchestrated by the departing colonial powers. On her website the artist remarks how '[t]he photographic material is strikingly similar despite disparate geographical and temporal origins as it reveals a political model exported from Europe and in the process of being cloned throughout the world.'69 Against this background the portrait of Swart on the *Panorama* cover in 1961 appears to be an attempt to keep up with Africa's decolonisation and to claim the nation's place in its narration at least in terms of print photography.

Regarding the days of the Transkeian independence celebration, apart from the international press invited to report on them, the Department of Information's own photographic section was entrusted with picturing the event. The annual reports explicitly refer to the '[f]ull photo-documentation' of the independence celebration as one of the highlights of the year 1976. Photographers employed by the Department of Information took the pictures which were distributed nationally and internationally. The report notes that distribution reached a number of 4,000. Similar to the inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument twenty-seven years earlier when a press office was set up on the site of the Monument, the Department of Information provided a press darkroom in Mthatha for the time of the celebrations and a press centre with capacity for 300 journalists was equipped with telex machines, telephones, and photo transmitter devices.70

The annual report further states that the Department of Information 'donated' all the photographs and their negatives, which had been taken by its staff photographers, to the government of the Transkei following independence.71 This 'donation' is noteworthy for two reasons. First, it indicates the historical value that the Pretoria regime generally attributed to photography as a medium of documentation and more specifically to the photographs as constituting documents of the new state. Second, the 'donation' mirrors the transfer of political power. Since the Department of Information, at least according to the report, not only handed over the prints but also the negatives, it signed over the responsibility and power to preserve or destroy, multiply and use, distribute or withhold the images. As Mbembe noted, 'there is no state without archives'.72

The 'donation' of the photographs resonates with the same beneficent tone as the expression 'to grant independence'. Since South Africa arranged and directed the 'donation' in addition to the visual rhetoric of the images, it deeply inscribed itself in possible future Transkeian archives. Which role photography generally played for the Transkei government and specifically in relation to forming the national archives remains an open question at this point.

Yet, it is not clear from the annual report to which institution the Department of Information handed over the negatives and photographs. According to the report by The Archival Platform, the Transkei Archives Repository was in the Bunga in Mthatha. When the Bunga was renovated in 2000 to house the Nelson Mandela Museum, the records were moved to another building but this new location got vandalised and records of the Mthatha repository were looted and damaged.73 Suggesting that the pictures were lost due to the vandalism, in March 2018, the archives in Mthatha held only a very limited number of independence celebration photographs in its collection, which did not offer a comprehensive account of the festivities. Instead, the National Archives in Pretoria keep a considerable corpus of these photographs, both in the uncatalogued extant fragments of the Department of Information's former photo library and among the archives' catalogued items.74

# OFFICIAL INDEPENDENCE PHOTOGRAPHY

The photographs show the parades and ceremonial acts, the state banquets and receptions for politicians that were all staged to herald the new era of the Transkei. After an independence exhibition and various sports events had been held the previous weeks, 25 October commenced with the official arrival of the South African dignitaries. In the evening South African and Transkeian politicians, official guests, and visitors, gathered in Mthatha's independence stadium to attend the ceremony. After a performance of 'tribal' dancing, South Africa's State President Dr Diederichs presented a copy of the Status of Transkei Act to Paramount Chief Matanzima as a 'symbol of authority and independence'.75 Thereafter, the new era was announced by changing the flags and 101-gun salutes. While bonfires were lit across the new state, nine torch bearers arrived in the independence stadium with each flame representing one of the Transkeian regions. Kaiser Matanzima thereupon gave a speech and South Africa's State President Diederichs handed him the *Order of Good Hope* before the ceremony was concluded with fireworks.76

Fig. 113 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: Independence of the Transkei. The South African flag is lowered while the flag of the Transkei is hoisted at midnight on 25 October, 1976.

One photograph shows the moment of the changing of the flags. The symbolic act was performed in front of the lenses of several photographers and against the backdrop of the audience on the steep ranks of a tribune, only recognisable as intermingling dots (Fig. 113). A floodlight, which appears as a sun-like globe at the upper edge of the photograph, illuminates the dark night and the persons in dress uniforms cast long shadows on the lawn of the stadium. While the flag of the Republic of South Africa is hauled down from the flagpole on the left, the national flag of the Transkei waits to be hoisted up the right pole. According to the celebrations programme, South Africa's national anthem *Die Stem* was played when the state's flag was solemnly lowered and, at midnight, the tones of the Transkeian national salute accompanied the raising of Transkei's flag.77

Considering the highly political symbolism of flags, it seems an important detail that both are visible in the photograph. If the hoisting of the flag in the photographs of the 1952 re-enactment of Jan van Riebeeck's landing marked the colonial practice of land seizure, then the change of flags during the independence ceremony, in accordance with the apartheid government's rationale, symbolised the decolonisation of the Transkei. Although the changing of the flags was one of the central symbolic acts in independence ceremonies across Africa, pictures of them were not always included in the reports on such celebrations. Pfoser points out how the news clips she analysed included images of national flags to symbolise the break with the old colonial order. Yet – and this is remarkable – none of them showed the actual act of changing the national flags, avoiding picturing the flags of the former motherland and the new state in the same frame. Referring to a news clip on Nigeria's independence ceremony from 1960, Pfoser draws attention to the missing presentation of the changing of the flags as a sign that the loss of power should not be made too explicit.78 The picturing of the symbolic act during the Transkeian celebrations thus speaks of a deliberate presentation of the liminal moment of transition. With the joint representation of both flags South Africa claimed its role in this process and the photograph seems to underline that this was a benevolent move by Pretoria.

In the coverage of the independence celebrations by the Department of Information's journals and magazines, the iconography of the changing of the flags played a pivotal role. Only a few days after the independence celebrations, *South African Digest* featured a lavishly illustrated article. Its headline 'The Birth of a State – Transkei' was printed on the symbolic photograph (Fig. 114).79 Following the same narrative and using the same photographs, the prestige periodical *Panorama* could not miss the chance to cover the Transkei celebrations either, and its German edition reported on the festivities in the December/January issue.80 In their combinations, images and texts invoke the 'magical significance' of this moment which, according to Josiah Brownell, is infused with the 'mystical belief that beginnings augur fate'.81 As the article in the *South African Digest* moreover states right at the beginning: 'The peaceful and joyous birth of Africa's 50th independent state was in sharp contrast with the bloodshed that has accompanied the birth of many other African states.'82 By highlighting that the Transkei's becoming independent was, in contrast to what happened in many other African states, a peaceful transition of power, the articles emphasise South Africa's exceptional role on the continent.83

The photographer(s) also pictured the South African state president and Transkeian prime minister together with their wives during the ceremony in

Fig. 114 'The Birth of a State – Transkei', article with photographs by unidentified photographer(s), *South African Digest*, 1976.

the stadium (Fig. 115). Lined up behind a rope that crosses the picture in the foreground, Mrs Diederichs stands at Matanzima's side while his wife is positioned next to State President Diederichs. Photographed from a low viewpoint against the backdrop of the audience on the tribune, Diederichs has raised his gaze with an earnest expression while Matanzima looks into the camera. Mrs Diederichs gazes towards Mrs Matanzima who was captured in an unfavourable moment.

Both *South African Panorama* and the Afrikaans and English editions of *Bantu* magazine published the photograph. *South African Panorama*  offered a rather short coverage of the independence celebrations which moreover differs from the account in the magazine's German edition.84 The article mainly quotes and summarises the speeches which Diederichs and Matanzima gave in the independence stadium. Accordingly, the image selection concentrates on the state presidents and the prime minister, but strikingly does not include the photograph of the changing of the flags. One wonders if its exclusion from *South African Panorama* was a deliberate political decision and, if it was, why it was in turn included in *Südafrikanisches Panorama* and other journals that circulated internationally. In contrast, *Bantu* magazine's extensive selection of twenty-seven photographs lends

Fig. 115 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: Guests during the independence of the Transkei. From left: Mrs Matanzima, Dr N. Diederichs (state president of the Republic of South Africa), Dr K. D. Matanzima (prime minister of the Transkei) and Mrs M. Diederichs, 1976.

additional symbolic weight to the photograph of the Diederichs and Matanzimas. In the layout, the cropped picture is positioned directly below the photograph of the changing of the flags as though the politicians were meant to invest the ritual with a greater credibility (Fig. 116).

The following day, on 26 October, the ceremonial acts continued at the Bunga. The building, which had originally been constructed during the late 1920s to house the council chamber and offices of the Transkeian Territories General Council, would accommodate the parliament of the new republic.85 After the recently constituted National Assembly elected Paramount Chief Botha Sigcau as state president of the Transkei, he was officially sworn in. Then a mounted guard escorted him to the independence stadium, where he delivered an address to the nation.86 In one photograph Chief Justice of the Transkei G. G. A. Munnik swears in the members of the legislature (Fig. 117), demonstrating explicitly how the power of the White man is

Fig. 116 'The Republic of Transkei Independence Celebrations', article with photographs by unidentified photographer(s), *Bantu*, 1976.

allegedly passed on to the Transkeians. Another photograph portrays Botha Sigcau signing the oath after he had been sworn in as state president of the Transkei.87 He is dressed in a dark three-piece suit with a broad presidential sash across his body. Standing at the right of the photograph he looks down to place his signature in a large volume. Such rituals of swearing in and of signing the oath give form to the abstraction and complexity of constitution.88 *Bantu* magazine published both photographs whereas the editors prominently placed the picture of Sigcau at the beginning of the photoessay (Fig. 118). Under the title 'The Republic of Transkei Independence Celebrations'*,* a black frame specifically highlights the picture that transfers the oral act of swearing an oath into a visual dimension. Although the photograph is not printed on the journal's cover, the eminent positioning recalls the editorial decision by both *Panorama* and magazines like *Drum*  to publish a portrait of Swart or the African independence heroes respectively on their front pages. Yet, despite South Africa's propagandistic efforts, Matanzima and Sigcau did not make it into the ranks of heroes in *Ebony*. 89

The National Archives in Pretoria contains another photograph that shows how under the eyes of Kaiser Matanzima and the audience seated in the ranks in the background, a man in military uniform hands over the sword

Fig. 117 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: Chief Justice of the Transkei, Mr Justice G. G. A. Munnik, swears in the 175 members of the Legislative Assembly, 1976.

Fig. 118 Photographer unidentified: 'Paramount Chief Botha Sigcau signs the oath after his inauguration as the first State President of Transkei', *Bantu*, 1976.

to Sigcau who is still dressed in the classic dark three-piece suit with the broad presidential sash crossing his chest (Fig. 119). Taking place on the lawn of the stadium, a photographer is seen hunkering down in the left of the picture to capture the scene from an opposite perspective. The offering of the sword as a symbolic object recalls the presentation of insignia of sovereignty in European monarchies. Often conducted personally by the reigning king or queen, such acts symbolise the transfer of power from one sovereign to another.90 Thus, in the photograph from the Transkei, which was published in the *South African Digest*, 91 for instance, yet another ritual portrays the abstract political act, aiming to legitimise the Transkei as an independent state.

Official guests of the festivities were further entertained with state banquets hosted by the South African state president on 25 October and by the Transkeian president on 26 October, both taking place at Mthatha's town hall. To conclude the celebrations, Prime Minister Matanzima gave a 'men-only' farewell luncheon on 27 October and, in the evening, the Transkei's Minister of Foreign Affairs invited guests to a reception at the Holiday Inn Hotel.92 A photograph shows the official state banquet catered for by President Sigcau (Fig. 120). Taken from a frontal perspective, the Sigcau couple is pictured together with the South African State President Diederichs and his wife posing behind a long table covered in white tablecloths and set for dinner. An opulent flower arrangement spills over the front edge of the table, while a

Fig. 119 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: Transkeian President Chief Botha Sigcau receives a ceremonial sword after his inauguration as first president of the independent Transkei, 1976.

row of waiters is positioned behind the officials waiting to serve them. On a stage in the background, barely visible, sits a live band. For the Transkei independence celebrations Josiah Brownell states that there was 'minimal public involvement' and a 'lack of enthusiasm' from the public.93 The photograph of the state banquet also appears to document the lack of enthusiasm in the ranks of the highest politicians involved. State President Diederichs is pictured very stony-faced and Mrs Sigcau is portrayed with an unfortunate dull expression, the corners of her mouth dropping down wearily. Not picturing the state banquet as a joyful event, the photograph rather counteracts the Department of Information's propaganda activities that aimed to present the Transkei independence in the same light as the decolonisation of other African states. One can only speculate whether the editors of *Panorama*, *South African Digest,* and *Bantu* realised this and therefore did not publish the photograph of the Sigcau couple but only slightly more favourable photographs of Diederichs's state banquet with the Matanzimas.94

Since the attendance of international guests was a major concern of the festivities' organisers, it is worth taking a closer look at how they were pictured. Notably, the articles which were published in *Bantu* and *South African Digest* included two differing but similar photographs showing

Fig. 120 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: The President of the Transkei, Chief Captain Botha Sigcau, and Mrs Sigcau with the State President of South Africa Diederichs and Mrs Diederichs during the state banquet presented by President Sigcau during the Transkei independence celebrations, 1976.

Matanzima together with General Boscan Hontou from Uruguay (Fig. 121).95 Picturing the conventional diplomatic ritual of exchanging gifts at official state visits, according to the captions, the photograph in the *South African Digest* shows how Hontou hands over a replica of the Uruguayan crest to Matanzima, while in the other picture Hontou receives a golden medallion from Matanzima in turn. Although one of the captions describes the Uruguayan general as '[o]ne of the many foreign guests',96 Hontou is the only international guest, besides South African officials, who appears in the photographs to shake hands with the Transkei's new leadership. This reflects the poor attendance which South Africa had to face despite the considerable efforts it had undertaken to invite international politicians.97 By late September 1976 only Pretoria's own delegation – including the state presidential couple the Diederichs, the Minister of Foreign Affairs Muller, and the Minister of Bantu Administration M. C. Botha with their wives – and Rhodesia's Minister of Foreign Affairs P. K. van de Byl, had accepted

Fig. 121 Photographer unidentified: 'Gen. Boscan Hontou of Uruguay receives one of the 18 golden medallions presented by the Prime Minister of Transkei to prominent people who have aided the Transkei. The South African Mint issued 200 of these medallions on Transkei's independence.', *Bantu*, 1976.

the invitation.98 In the end, Van de Byl did not come to Mthatha and the group of South Africans remained the only official representatives to attend the independence celebrations.99 Besides them, according to Brownell, only '[a] couple dozen parliamentarians from Europe and South America were … there in their private capacities'.100

Within the body of work, a few photographs seemingly attempt to balance out this impression of lacking approval. They are characterised by the clothing of the people they depict and show scenes which are not part of the official ceremony. One of the photographs portrays seven women in front of the Bunga (Fig. 122). Lined up against this backdrop of colonial architecture and facing the camera, the women occupy the whole width of the picture. Contrasting the black Western-style suits of the male politicians who participated the independence celebrations, all the women are wearing traditional Zulu and Xhosa clothing which they combine with opulent beadwork necklaces and headdresses.101 Such attire are signs of identity and convey a sense of belonging to a certain polity, functioning similarly to flags or languages. The beadwork patterns and colours are indicators of a person's gender, age, social, or spiritual status.102 Yet, the medium of black-and-white photography deprives the picture of the meanings linked to the colours and, at times, the women's handbags and shoes break the all traditional pattern, with the platform shoes of the woman in the centre reflecting the fashion dictum of the 1970s. The interplay of traditional African attire with symbols of colonialism and modernity induces an interesting tension. Unlike the ethnographic photography of earlier years that placed Africans in a timeless

Fig. 122 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: Transkeian women in traditional clothes in front of the Bunga during the Transkei independence celebrations, 1976.

and remote space, for example, Alfred Martin Duggan-Cronin's series discussed above, this photograph situates the women in an environment of the twentieth century. At the same time, it marks the Transkei's alleged ethnicity, thus the very parameter that had been at the core of apartheid ideology for creating the homelands.103 In the Pretoria scripted visual discourse of the independence celebrations, the Zulu and Xhosa clothing acted as symbols not only of a specific ethnicity and belonging, but possibly even of a Transkeian nationalism that allowed South Africa to bolster the rationale of granting independence.

Another photograph portrays two men dressed in eye-catching clothing while engaged in a conversation (Fig. 123). They have wrapped tasselled shawls around their heads and both wear beadwork necklaces. Most striking are their long-sleeved shirts of two different colours specially designed for the Transkei's independence celebration. On the front in the centre the Transkei crest emblazons, surrounded by '1976' and 'Transkei Independence' letterings. Apart from the shirt-design, the lapel pins that both persons have

Fig. 123 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: Two men dressed in shirts specially designed for the Transkei independence celebrations, 1976.

attached to their clothing possibly also point to the Transkei independence celebrations. Two men visible in the background that instead speaks of an off-site where cars are parked and the ground is littered, also seem to wear such lapel pins on their dark suits.

Thinking of the great efforts undertaken by the Department of Information and its stooges to have guests attend the celebrations, one wonders if the men belong to one of the delegations that were meant to create the impression of consent. While *Bantu* printed the picture, a similar portrait of the man in the light shirt was published, for instance, in *Südafrikanisches Panorama*. 104 Apart from in these two pictures, the specially designed shirts do not appear in any other photograph distributed by the Department of Information.

The Department of Information's journals repeatedly published, moreover, a half-figure portrait of a young woman holding a chequered umbrella (Fig. 124).105 Wearing a light dress combined with a beadwork-necklace and round earrings, her eyes are hidden behind big stylish sunglasses. *South* 

Fig. 124 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: 'An elegant visitor to the independence celebrations.', *Südafrikanisches Panorama*, 1976.

*African Digest* described the photograph as '[a]n elegant visitor to the independence celebrations.'106 Nothing in the picture recalls the Transkei's rural and poor infrastructure and from the graphic content alone one cannot tell where or in which context it was taken. In fact, the photograph would have also fitted into lifestyle magazines like *Drum*. Reading the three photographs on the basis of clothing, demonstrates how the regime presented the Transkei's becoming independent as a transition between tradition and modernity.

The previously analysed photographs and the tracing of their trajectories epitomise how the apartheid state tried to propagate the image of a successful granting of independence to the Transkei, transmitting a sense of this political endeavour's ideological positioning. Okwui Enwezor describes such photographs of homeland independence celebrations as 'less than convincing images' that aimed to portray South Africa's benevolence and 'civilising' effect on the Transkei transforming from rural, 'native' to modern statecraft.107

To a certain extent, this is also true of the 1976 photographs of the Transkei celebrations. Both markers of tradition as well as signs of modern statecraft and life characterise these photographs, reflecting that granting independence – in the Pretoria regime's rationale – was a moment of transition from 'backwardness' and tradition to modernity. This is clear from the photographs of the women in front of the Bunga and the other festival participants dressed for the occasion. Not least this moment of transition is played out in the figure of the state president dressed in a Western threepiece suit with a presidential sash similar to South African state presidents during the openings of parliament in Cape Town. But as the photographs also show, this transition was only made possible by the presence and under the eye of South Africa's White officials. Photographs of these acts which symbolise the transfer of power, like the changing of flags, the relinquishing the ceremonial sword, and the swearing the oath, played an important role in the photographic documentation of the celebrations by the Department of Information. They convey to viewers how, by mimicking the independence celebrations of other states, the regime tried to create the impression of mutual goodwill between White South Africa and the (former) homeland that Cannadine described for the context of British Imperialism. Thus, the pictures reflect the great propagandistic efforts that the Pretoria regime undertook to stage the Transkei independence as 'an actual transfer of power and a legal transfer of sovereignty'.108 At the same time, the photographs clearly mark the boundaries of separate development. This becomes especially apparent by relating them to Rai's theorising of ceremony and ritual in the parliamentary context, thus in juxtaposition with pictures of the annual openings of parliament. To understand separate development as the outcome of Afrikaner nationalist mythology characterised by racist and binary frontier thinking, highlights how Afrikaner myths permeated the hypervisibility of the patterns of ritual and ceremonial performance fixed in the photographs. Social realities, power, and dominance were once again hidden in the theatricality and hypervisibility of the ceremonial acts. Both the photographs of the annual openings of parliament and of the Transkei independence celebration show political events but are also political in the sense that they express political power relations. Moreover, they are both political and public because they could be used to create a public image, functioning similarly to public opinion. Seeing the photographs in the broader visual network of the apartheid regime intent on preserving the regime's power and making it less vulnerable, one can read them as the regime's recurrent and consistent affirmations of the political system and as part of the White nation-building.

Especially when reading the photographs against documents from the National Archives of Pretoria and contemporary accounts of the events, it becomes apparent how the photographs were used to conceal the shortcomings of the celebrations and the lack of political support for the Transkei's independence. In other words, there were cracks in the image of an allegedly successful decolonisation that the regime was careful to hide. Scenes that could disrupt this constructed image of a peaceful transition to independence did not occur in the narrative. Brownell describes how on the occasion of the Transkei independence the Pretoria regime organised festivals in townships across the country, aiming to attract as many people as possible with free beer and ox meat. Instead of consent and enthusiasm, these celebrations provoked protests and violence. The Department of Information excluded such scenes from its photographic account of the festivities, masking, as Brownell states, that 'Transkei's big show was a bust.'109

In addition, the Transkei photographs were especially unconvincing against the backdrop of the politically and graphically strong photographs of the Soweto uprising that Sam Nzima, Peter Magubane, and others had taken only four months earlier. Their immediate circulation in international media had a lasting effect on public opinion about the apartheid state and had kindled condemnation.110 Referring to Nzima's Hector Pieterson photograph, John Peffer observes that '[t]he iconic image of an innocent child savagely killed helped shock the global public into an awareness of the bloody repression that was being committed in the name of racial segregation.'111 The Pretoria regime was perfectly aware of the explosive force such photographs were able to develop. The police not only put Nzima under house arrest and banned him from taking photographs, but also arrested Tselito Percy Peter Qoboza, the editor of *The World* newspaper who had published the picture of the dying Hector Pieterson on the front page on 16 June.112 Compared to these pictures of state violence but also of Black Consciousness inspired action and resistance against the state, the photographs of the Transkei celebrations appeared as no more than a hollow attempt to sell independence.

# **VI. THE HENDRIK VERWOERD DAM**

In early 2018, South Africa was hit by a severe drought and all eyes were on the dams that provide the city of Cape Town with water. Countering the scenic views of Table Mountain and Campsbay, images of people with canisters queuing at natural springs and dystopic views of dried out water reservoirs in the Western Cape province circulated on the news.1 On 17 January, Cape Town's mayor, Patricia de Lille, announced it to be very likely that the city and its inhabitants would reach Day Zero – the day when Cape Town would run out of water – on 21 April 2018.2 To prevent this scenario, the municipality restricted the use of water to 50 litres per person per day as from 1 February.3 Droughts certainly are no novel threats and do not occur only in southern Africa but the extreme aridity in South Africa in 2018 affected one of the world's major cities and a famous tourist destination. The *National Geographic* called it 'one of the world's most dramatic urban water crises'.4 In the end, Cape Town managed to evade 'Day Zero' – at least for the year 2018. Yet, the drought's effects and the water-saving measures vividly underscored South Africa's strong dependence on water collected in dams.

The apartheid regime was aware of the significance of dams to secure the existence of the White nation at the southern tip of Africa and it frequently disseminated images of them in its propaganda network. Especially the Orange River Project, one of the apartheid state's prestige infrastructure construction works, with the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam (now called Gariep Dam) as its main structure, featured prominently in the visual discourse. The photographs were valuable for the regime first because they depicted constructions that supply the most basic resource of water to the people, necessary to keep a nation alive; second, because they pictured engineering achievements that are intrinsically tied to the promise of modernity a nation can be proud of. These photographs unfold their ideological-political dimensions that span between the subjugation of nature and the striving for modernity, between White land claim and the technological sublime, between engineering achievement and tourism.

# VI.1. SYMBOL OF MODERNITY AND NATIONAL PRIDE

In March 1962, Minister of Water Affairs P. K. Le Roux announced the commencement of the construction of the Orange River Project in Parliament.5 Being South Africa's first multi-purpose water resource scheme, it was planned to consist of storage and diversion dams, tunnels, a pumping project, and canal systems.6 While the idea of diverting water from the Orange River to the Fish River valley dates back to the 1920s, it was only after investigations in 1959 that the possibility of storage was considered. Eventually, Ruigte Valley, on the border between the Orange Free State and the Eastern Province, 5 kilometres from Norvalspont, was selected as the site for the main storage dam.7 In a report from 1962, then secretary for Water Affairs J. M. Jordaan lists the Orange River Project's objectives and expected benefits. While he names irrigation and urban and industrial water supply as primary purposes, he also mentions the development of hydroelectric power as a by-product, the creation of settlement possibilities, flood control, industrial development, employment, provision of public services, and the origination of recreation facilities.8

On 18 November 1966, just a few weeks after Prime Minister Verwoerd was stabbed to death, the construction of the Orange River Project's main storage dam officially started.9 According to a brochure published in 1968, the dam was 'named after the late Premier whose vision and energy were responsible for taking the project off the drawing board and placing it into the realm of established fact.'10 In January 1967, *South African Panorama* reported on the commencement of the works under the heading 'Explosive Start to O.R.P.'. Black-and-white photographs show the construction site and Prime Minister Vorster pressing the button to activate the dynamite explosion (Fig. 125). As the short text comments, '[a] giant cloud of dust and sand mushrooms on the opposite shore. The earth trembles. Three-quarters of a ton of exploding dynamite rips tons of rock and sand out of the mountainside. The work on the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam has begun officially.'11

When the dam was completed in 1972, it reached a maximum height of 90.5 metres above foundation level. The dam crest stretched over a length of 947.5 metres and the reservoir had a capacity of 5,960,000,000 cubic metres.12 Although by world standards the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam was 'not an exceptional engineering feat', its dimensions lifted it into the ranks of the world's large dams.13

Across national borders and across the boundaries of (often opposing) political systems, the massive dam constructions of the twentieth century

Fig. 125 'Explosive Start to O.R.P', article with photographs by unidentified photographer(s)/ Department of Information, *South African Panorama,* 1967.

were considered to be prestige projects of technological achievement, fostering national development. Hydroelectricity was often the main purpose of dam constructions, promising development and modernisation through electrification. In 1927, the Soviet Union started to build a dam with an hydroelectrical power station at the Dnieper river. Lenin, who had set in motion the project in 1920, had tightly tied the success of communism – and in turn the defeat of capitalism – to the electrification of the Soviet Union that would lift the economy and agriculture to a new technological level. Electrification became the crucial instrument to ensure the revolution. To proclaim this, pictures showing the construction works were circulated in photobooks, journals, and newspapers. A tourist brochure, which was published in German under the title *Der gefesselte Dnjepr* (The harnessed Dnieper), described how human will had succeeded in subjugating the river and how it would from then on serve the people by supplying them with energy.14

In the 1930s and 1940s, the United States of America, too, demonstrating its ingenuity, prowess, and modernity, constructed several dams. When Hoover Dam on the Colorado River between Arizona and Nevada was completed in 1936, it stood as one of the most famous examples of dam building

Fig. 126 Margaret Bourke-White: Fort Peck Dam, Montana, *Life*, 1936.

at the time.15 Photographers were commissioned to document the construction, capturing in black-and-white photographs its impressive dimensions which become especially apparent in those pictures where construction workers appear as points of reference.16 That the editors of *Life* in 1936 chose a photograph of the Fort Peck Dam in Montana for the cover of the magazine's very first issue demonstrates the interlocking of technology and lifestyle of the 1930s (Fig. 126).17 Margaret Bourke-White spelled out the brutalist architecture in a sharp visual language that matches the modernist aspirations of such dam constructions. In the photograph, the dam's concrete shape nearly reaches abstraction while two persons barely visible at the bottom of the picture bring in a human dimension. As Lichtenstein points out, Bourke-White included them 'in order to dramatize the colossal scale of the industrial infrastructure that formed her true subject at the time'.18 In doing so, she not only highlighted the workers' achievement but also humanity's power over nature which they barred in a frontier-like approach.

On the African continent, South Africa's Orange River Project was by no means a singularity during the 1950s and 1960s. The decades which were shaped by the emergence of new independent states, saw the Kariba Dam on the Zambezi River in the Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland19 and the Akosombo Dam on the Volta River in Ghana take form. Promoted to foster economic expansion and development through hydroelectricity, both constructions were closely tied to the nation-building narratives of the transforming states. The authorities in the federation presented the Kariba Dam that was conceptualised during the second half of the 1950s to bind together the White settler communities of the North and the South. They saw it as a symbol of the federation's future-orientated aspirations that would moreover lead out of the multiracial dilemma thanks to economic development. Similarly, the hydroelectric Akosombo Dam, which was inaugurated in 1966 and which promised to bring industrialisation and light to the country, had become pivotal in Kwame Nkrumah's vision of modernising independent Ghana. The forced eviction of people from the areas to be flooded in both countries were similarly sold as a necessity in the campaign for modernity and contributing to the nation-building processes.20 Being interested in this very formation of national identity coupled with industrialisation, Paul Strand (1890–1976) photographed the Akosombo Dam construction when he travelled through Ghana in 1963 and 1964. The black-and-white pictures became part of the photobook *Ghana: An African Portrait* that Strand compiled in cooperation with writer Basil Davidson on the invitation of President Nkrumah. Acknowledging the country's rich cultural past, the book presents at once the newly independent state's industrialisation progressing towards an economically independent future.21

This selective series exemplifies how dam constructions are expressions of the human modernist quest to master nature instead of being controlled by it. Subjugating, utilising, and optimising the environment became paramount to turn it into a productive nature.22 Maria Kaika argues that technological achievements and especially water engineering projects were regarded as prime national accomplishments 'through which the geography of the fatherland could be "enhanced" and a nation could realize its full economic, social, and cultural potential'. Dams became 'an exemplary symbol around which national ideologies could congeal'.23 Therefore, dams were often ideologically charged symbols of modernisation which the respective nation could be proud of. They 'assumed the status of modern shrines', becoming points of attraction for touristic and pilgrimage-like travels. While in the nineteenth century European urban dwellers had travelled to the countryside to experience 'wild nature', in the twentieth century they chose 'a man-made, transmuted socionature' over the beauty of the divine and pristine landscape. Here the subjugation of nature facilitating the modern cities the spectators were living in was demonstrated and the visitors could 'oversee the conquered land'.24

Based on the sublime as described by Peter Burke and Immanuel Kant, the concept of the technological sublime explains this fascination with immense dams and the attraction it had for people. According to historian David Nye, any sublime experience has a sense of astonishment at its core25 and shows a basic structure:

An object, natural or man-made, disrupts ordinary perception and astonishes the senses, forcing the observer to grapple mentally with its immensity and power. This amazement occurs most easily when the observer is not prepared for it; however, … it can also occur over a period of days as internal resistance melts away.26

Nye understands the sublime as a socially constructed category which changes over time and differs according to the socio-political context from which it emerges.27 In other words, different social and political systems can generate new forms of the sublime. During the nineteenth century, Nye argues, the American society, for instance, unified in awe of technological achievements despite its diversity and lack of a long tradition: '[T]he American sublime transformed the individual's experience of immensity and awe into a belief in national greatness'. Nye not only describes how by the 1820s technological achievements and their inventors, standing for national development and progress, formed part of the narratives of Independence Day celebrations, but he also describes, similar to Kaika, how sites of both the natural and the technological sublime started to attract great numbers of people and continued to do so into the late twentieth century. They became destinations of pilgrimage-like travels that would strengthen visitors in their patriotic belief in American technology and the nation.28 Nye stresses two aspects that seem pivotal in discussing the technological sublime in the context of apartheid South Africa. First, the potentially nationalist dimension of the sublime – whether natural or technological – and second, its unifying and community creating ability which links the technological sublime to the notion of pilgrimage in Benedict Anderson's concept of nationalism.29 Constructions like the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam are predicted to become destinations of national pilgrimage and they are prone to becoming part of nationalist narratives of achievement and development. In other words, they function similarly to national monuments like the Voortrekker Monument, yet in the guise of technological architecture.

The Orange River Project was no exception and its ideological backdrop cannot be dismissed. Verwoerd was not only the eponym of the irrigation scheme's main dam, but the project was intrinsically tied to his political acting and that of his fellow like-minded politicians. The narratives that evolved around the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam first reflect how the nationalists sought to ensure the existence of the White nation in southern Africa and second, how they strove to rank the Republic of South Africa among the world's 'modern, civilised, Western' states. This two-part ideological grounding of the project becomes obvious in a speech Verwoerd gave at the Cape Midlands Association in Port Elizabeth in October 1963. According to the late prime minister, the Orange River Project symbolised faith in South Africa and its future. Starting from outlining the impact of water on the development of societies and how efficient and sophisticated use of water would indicate a community's advanced state of development, Verwoerd postulated, that '[a]ll our hopes for not only self[-]preservation but for the building of a greater nation, and for the increase in our standards of living, must be based on our readiness – not only our preparedness, but our capability – to utilise and re-utilise the water at our disposal.'30 Exploiting South Africa's water resources more efficiently, according to Verwoerd, was also directed towards future generations.31 He boldly expressed the (temporal) scale of his thinking by stating: 'When we build a dam on the Orange River, we speak of it having a capacity for 1,000 years and more.'32 The prime minister referred to the region, which would be affected by the Orange River Project, as the 'heartland' of White South Africa and he made it very clear that this area should not fall into the hands of Blacks: 'The Bantu was never attached to that part, the heartland that the Orange River must serve, and we will have to ensure that the Orange River's development is not used in such a way that the heartland is abandoned by the Whites.'33 Concluding the speech, Verwoerd again emphasised the national significance of the Orange River Project:

It is a symbol of our will to continue to exist as a volk, and of our will to develop this land as much as possible before we bequeath it to future generations. So, what we are dealing with here is something that is meant to increase the prestige and prosperity of our Fatherland and at the same time proclaim to the world the will of this White nation to retain its land, to make its land fruitful and in so doing to ensure peace and prosperity for all who depend on it.34

The *Report on the Proposed Orange River Development Project* from 1962 conveys an idea of the extent of planned White settlement. Of the 360,000 morgen of soil estimated to be irrigated, 230,000 morgen were planned to be used for government settlement.35 The White depopulation of the rural *platteland*  (countryside) since 1910, the pivot to the 'White civilisation' in South Africa, had first been increasingly seen from an ideological perspective as a threat to the perpetuation of Western 'civilisation', and, second, it was regarded an existential threat to the White nation because it would leave food production in the hands of Coloureds and Blacks. The provision of land for White settlement was thus an attempt to counter the Whites' 'townward "drift"', ensuring White, Western 'civilisation' in the heartland. In other words, the Orange River Project was regarded as a means of ensuring White supremacy.36

Understanding technopolitics as 'hybrids of technical systems and political practices', Paul N. Edwards and Gabrielle Hecht indicate the interrelations of technological development with the nationalist agenda that aimed at claiming the apartheid state's position on the international political stage as regards development and modernity. In the geopolitical constellation of the Cold War, as they describe, both the Eastern and the Western blocs, which the rhetoric of the time played out as 'underdeveloped' versus 'developed', 'routinely displayed technological sophistication, abundance, and power as a principal index of virtue'.37 Afrikaner nationalists wove themselves into this pattern as a Western developed nation, simultaneously insisting on their own Africanness, which according to their self-concept they had acquired through their suffering and service for the land and through history.38 Edwards and Hecht further argue

that the entanglement of technology with narratives of national and social identity had concrete political dimensions and material outcomes. Like other nations during the Cold War, the apartheid South African state used technopolitical strategies – the embedding of policy choices in engineering projects and infrastructure development – to simultaneously conceal and legitimate its agendas. Large-scale technological projects expanded the apartheid state's apparatus and displayed its power. As Dubow has argued, apartheid leaders used them to articulate a nationalist modernism that appealed to universal principles while maintaining a distinctive South African identity.39

Edwards and Hecht exemplify this with the first uranium-producing plant. Opened in 1952, the 'narratives of metallurgical nationalism' made clear how the production of uranium contributed to the formation of South Africa as a modern nation and presented it as historically as important to the history of the Union of South Africa as the discovery of gold.40

Against this backdrop of the broader geopolitical constellation of the Cold War and in the context of the international technopolitics of dam constructions, it becomes evident that the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam was another engineering project concealing and legitimating the apartheid state's nationalist agenda. It was not only part and parcel of building a 'civilised' White nation but also – tightly linked to land claim – a way to ensure the White nation's existence in South Africa. Therefore, an examination of photographs of the Orange River Project and the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, in particular, promises to lay bare their propagandistic potential and becomes relevant for exploring how the visual discourse mediated the building of a White nation.

# VI.2. THE DAM IN THE REGIME'S VISUAL NETWORK

Being an engineering work of national importance, the Orange River Project like other water schemes was portrayed, photographically documented, and promoted through publications.41 Since the Minister of Water Affairs P. K. Le Roux had announced the commencement of the project in March 1962, the Department of Information handled the publicity campaign. The campaign included the compilation of press kits that consisted of maps and photographs. During the first half of the 1960s, the Department of Information ranked the Orange River Project equally important in the propaganda to the self-government of the Transkei.42 The report for the year 1965/66 mentioned, for instance, that 'buying space in the press to draw attention to significant developments such as the Transkei, the Orange River Project, international trade, etc.' was one of the methods used by the Department of Information to influence public opinion about South Africa abroad. An advertisement that had been placed, according to the report, in various newspapers in the United Kingdom exemplifies this.43 Illustrated with a map of South Africa, the advertisement names the ORP as the 'Ocean-to-Ocean Symbol of South Africa's Vision and Determination' and enters the powerplay of world nations by stating: 'In size, the O.R.P. will exceed America's Tennessee Valley Authority Scheme – it will bring water and power to thousands of farms, new industries, cities and towns over a tract of country virtually twice the size of the United Kingdom.' The advertisement ends by praising South Africa as 'an important market for British exports' and trade partner.44 The strengthening of economic relations had become more pressing after the Sharpeville massacre and the economic recession which followed. In this situation the ORP became an asset for the regime to re-gain investor confidence in South Africa.45

The Department of Information regularly published photo-articles on the ORP in its periodicals and issued several lavishly illustrated brochures in different languages. By using expressions like 'taming', 'harnessing', and 'mighty Orange River', the wording in the text-image-combinations underscored the project's dimension and suggested that South Africa was able to manage this immense task. According to David Blackbourn, such rhetoric reflects how dam projects were perceived as the human fight against nature, aiming to subjugate and control it so that it would serve the people.46 In its publications the Department of Information used black-and-white as well as colour photographs to depict the land's aridity, the newly built residential areas and, most importantly, the brutalist dam architecture. The brochure *Taming a River Giant. The Story of South Africa's Orange River Project* describes the Great Karoo, the region where the water scheme was situated, as

an austere land of flat-topped ironstone koppies [hillocks], stunted vegetation, and whirling dust storms. 'The Place of Great Dryness' the Hottentots called it. … It is a brown land, a land of thorn and succulent, of aloe and of saltbush. … Its vast horizons flame with unforgettable dawns and sunsets. Its distances have strange, powerful fascination for all who live and work there, and who love its peace and tranquillity.47

Similarly, the German brochure *ORP. Südafrika bändigt einen Riesenfluss*  (ORP. South Africa tames a river giant) reads:

It is a harsh land, this land of the Great Karru [*sic*], which has attracted engineers and technicians, water scientists and canal builders. Nevertheless, the Karru [*sic*] offers a rough, indefinable beauty – a beauty that one can rather feel more than perceive.48

# FROM PRISTINE LAND TO UTOPIAN TECHNOLOGICAL LANDSCAPE

In this same brochure, a photograph depicts the landscape of the Great Karoo from a slightly elevated viewpoint (Fig. 127). It is dominated by the brown-reddish colour of the soil, which is crossed by the pale blue of the river. Only some green bushes interrupt 'the brown land'. In the foreground a road that has been bulldozed into the rough terrain zigzags up the hill, while in the distance tapered hills peak into the pale sky. As the caption explains, the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam would 'swallow' the area on the right bank.49 In the visual narrative spun around the Orange River Project such photographs function as a starting point, situating the project in the land and marking the original conditions in which it was planned to be realised. They designate the void that is open to host utopia. By highlighting the austerity of the land, they add to the perception of the Orange River Project as a

Fig. 127 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: 'Die gesamte Fläche, die auf der rechten Uferseite zu sehen ist, und einen grossen Teil des linken Ufergebietes wird der Hendrik-Verwoerd-Staudamm verschlucken.' (The Hendrik Verwoerd Dam will swallow the whole area on the right river bank and large parts of the left riverbank), *ORP. Südafrika bändigt einen Riesenfluss, c.* 1967–1970.

Fig. 128 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: 'Das Oviston-Wohngebiet am Eingang des Orange-Vis-Tunnels. Rechts ein Schwimmbad, daneben liegen Tennisplätze.' (The Oviston living area at the entrance to the Orange-Vis tunnel. On the right is a swimming pool, next to it are tennis courts.), *ORP. Südafrika bändigt einen Riesenfluss, c.* 1967–1970.

hard and demanding task which in an encounter reminiscent of the frontier experience, opposes the people to nature.

To provide accommodation for the employed workforce and their families at the construction sites, six new villages and towns were erected between 1965 and 1967, of which Oranjekrag, Oviston, and Van der Kloof were planned to be also maintained after the completion of the project.50 A photograph in *ORP. Südafrika bändigt einen Riesenfluss* pictures the newly built Oviston under a cloudless blue sky (Fig. 128). Again, dominated by the reddish colour of the earth, in this picture signs of human settlement interrupt the landscape's vast dreary monotony. While houses disperse in the back- and middle ground of the photograph, a barely visible fence crosses the foreground, marking a property. On the rocky, irregular soil on the one side of the fence some bushes and stones are visible, whereas the area on the other side looks plain and even. It is this quiet zone of the image that contrasts the dense centre of the photograph. Apart from a tennis court, two other details stand out, the green lawn and the blue shape of the swimming pool, the latter being further accentuated by the light grey roads encircling it. In the photograph, Oviston looks like a loose and isolated arrangement of houses. Still alien to its environment, the settlement has not yet merged with its surroundings to form an

Fig. 129 Photographer unidentified: 'Der Hendrik-Verwoerd-Damm am Oranjefluss bei Oranjekrag.' (The Hendrik Verwoerd Dam on the Oranje River near Oranjekrag), *Südafrikanisches Panorama*, 1970.

integrated landscape. In this composition the green lawn and the blue swimming pool become signals of 'civilisation'. Especially the confinement of the pool speaks of taming and harnessing the natural element of water, highlighting it as a luxury in the semi-desert. The photograph suggests that aridity is being fought and the heartland of South Africa has been (re-)settled.

The progress of the construction works of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam was continuously documented. In 1970, *Südafrikanisches Panorama* published the photo-article 'Neues vom ORP' (News from the ORP),51 presenting the construction site in large black-and-white photographs. One of the pictures, which the photographer took from an elevated perspective on the slopes of the riverbed, spreads over an entire double-page (Fig. 129). In the foreground a bridge crosses the river that leads the viewer's gaze in a diagonal movement from the lower left corner to the dam wall in the middle ground. Like uneven teeth, the curved concrete blocks rise against the backdrop of the Great Karoo, not damming the water of the Orange River yet.

In *Taming a River Giant,* the Department of Information included a colour photograph which was taken from a closer perspective (Fig. 130).

Fig. 130 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: 'General view of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam under construction.', *Taming a River Giant. The Story of South Africa's Orange River Project, c.* 1967–1970.

The '[g]eneral view of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam under construction',52 as the picture is captioned, shows the grey-brownish concrete blocks growing out of a similarly coloured stony soil. Construction cranes tower above the scene. Only on close meticulous observation do little details become visible. In the lower left corner of the photograph workers appear as tiny figures at the foot of the rising dam wall. Like the photograph by Margaret Bourke-White, their presence dramatises the colossal scale of the architectural construction, but the photograph is not characterised by the same visual language of abstraction.

Looking at these photographs of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam during its erection in the tradition of construction site photography, throws their propagandistic potential into relief. As early as the mid-nineteenth century building sites became a trope in photography. Henry Fox Talbot's photographs *Nelson's Column under construction* and *Houses under construction with scaffolding, Sussex Gardens, London* from the 1840s are two early albeit very different examples.53 In states like France and the United States of America photography became the accomplice to the Industrial Revolution during the second half of the nineteenth century. In the international competition for industrial supremacy that found expression in ambitious architectural ventures, engineers had their building sites photographed. Picturing the progress of work, but even more importantly the mastery, audacity, and virtuosity, the pictures were compiled in albums, distributed across national borders and displayed at world exhibitions.54 As François Soulages writes:

There is a project behind every construction site, always a story, … thus a dream and a utopia; for a construction site is an operation that transforms and often magnifies a place, a topos; therefore, a construction site is always governed by a utopia; though it is not as easy to photograph a utopian desire …55

The photographs of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam under construction that were internationally distributed function as a demonstration of South Africa's engineering skills and know-how. Characterised by an aesthetic of the unfinished, they epitomise the *work in progress* and how utopia becomes real. By picturing a brutal rift in nature, they propagate the engineering achievement of subjugating nature56 and thus illustrate a quite long lasting, ephemeral moment of transformation: from the pristine land to a utopian technological landscape.

# BETWEEN TOURISM AND WHITE LAND CLAIM

A black-and-white photograph from the extant fragments of the former photo library shows an impressive perspective at a later stage of the construction process (Fig. 131). The photographer took the picture from a boat on the dam water. Two persons sitting in the same boat are looking towards the concrete structure which is rising out of the man-made lake. *Südafrikanisches Panorama* published the picture in 1971 as part of a photoarticle on the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, while the brochure *Taming a River Giant* included a colour photograph that was presumably taken by the same photographer from an identical perspective.57 Both photographs point to a sort of fascination that people seemed to have for the dam, to a two-fold attraction which emanated from the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam. They suggest that people came to see the construction, that the dam attracted the gaze and they allude to the region as recreational area. From an early stage the planners expected the Orange River Project area to entice people, not only because of 'an increased population density' in the region but also because of national and international tourism:

The construction of major dams on the Orange River and the provision of assured supplies of water to certain existing dams will offer facilities for open-air recreation, not only to the local population, but also to visitors and tourists from other areas of the Republic and from abroad. Angling will be popular, while boats on dams amid naturally beautiful surroundings, such as are found in the basin of the Van der Kloof Dam, will provide a major attraction for tourists.58

Already in 1972, *Südafrikanisches Panorama* reported around 600 visitors per day to the lake59 and the dam was soon incorporated into the repertoire of South African tourist photography. A series of large format colour negatives of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, from the holdings of the Transnet Heritage Library in Johannesburg, bring into play the South African Railways & Harbours Corporation, which, in the guise of tourism, contributed to the department's endeavour of creating a positive image of South Africa. One of

Fig. 131 Photographer unidentified/Department of Information [?]: The Hendrik Verwoerd Dam during construction seen from a upstream position, *c.* 1970.

Fig. 132 S. Matthysen: Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, 1972, large format colour negative.

them shows the whole dimension of the construction in January 1972 (Fig. 132). The strong diagonal of the river guides the viewer's gaze to the centre of the photograph, where the dam wall joins the slopes. The contrast between the narrow stream of water in front of the concrete wall and the sprawling lake behind it graphically illustrates the human impact on nature. A couple in the lower right corner of the photograph looks towards the dam wall and watches the scene from an elevated standpoint. The blond woman, dressed in long dark trousers, a striped t-shirt, and light sandals sits on a rock while her companion stands next to her. With his hands on the hips, he is turned away from the extra pictorial viewer. The combination of leather shoes, socks pulled up to his calves, and beige short pants is reminiscent of what has become the stereotype of the Afrikaner – and especially the Afrikaans farmer – since the 1970s.60 According to Lize van Robbroeck, this stereotype in its 'less flattering' articulations 'of the Afrikaner as a thick-necked, khaki-clad, brutal racist' emanated from the nationalist establishment of the Voortrekker as 'a national emblem' since the elections of 1948, which was implemented through 'cultural violation' into the minds of South Africans.61

Fig. 133 Photographer unidentified: 'Trekkers werp 'n vergesig oor die landskap' (Trekkers cast an eye over the landscape), *Volksblad,* 1938.

If the project's objective was to develop the region for White settlement, the presence of the couple in the photograph evokes the question of land claim. This becomes even more cogent when reading the photograph in the tradition of landscape representations. Although the woman's shoes are not made for a hike through rough terrain, the couple brings to mind the trope of the wanderer gazing over the land, which in the context of Afrikaner nationalism relates to the national myth of the Great Trek.62 On 30 November 1938, a photograph was published in a supplement to the newspaper *Volksblad* on the same page as Gustav Preller's article 'Die Boer as Krygsman' (The Boer as Warrior).63 It shows men and women dressed in Voortrekker clothing on a ledge looking out over the landscape (Fig. 133). Taken during the reenactment of the Great Trek, the picture functions – like the photographs of the re-enactment of Van Riebeeck's landing – as a visual documentation of an event which originally could not be photographed, bolstered by the belief in the veracity of photography.64 Still in 1980, an illustrated and anonymously written article about the Great Trek, which was published in *Südafrikanisches Panorama*, lamented that no photographs of the Great Trek existed.65 As Beningfield describes the photograph, the landscape in it is 'subject to the gaze' of the figures, it 'is laid out before the viewer as a newly revealed territory, which is simultaneously unknown and recognised as the home of the nation that claims it.' Beningfield identifies the persons in the photograph as 'aggressors' and 'conquerors' of the land.66

W. J. T. Mitchell explored the interdependencies between landscape representations and imperialism, acting on the assumption that there is a morally, politically, and ideologically dark side to landscape which disguises itself in innocence. Central to Mitchell's approach is his understanding of landscape as 'a medium of cultural expression'. Landscape is not neutral, not 'raw material', but it is culturally encoded, representing cultural values. Thus, as he explains further, a representation of landscape – a landscape painting or photograph, for instance – is 'a representation of something that is already a representation in its own right'. Consequently, a 'double semiotic structure' is at work in landscape representations that articulates the differences between nature and convention, while simultaneously disarticulating them.67 Mitchell moreover points out the double role of landscape as cultural symbol and commodity, whereas the latter becomes pivotal for tourism as for instance with postcards of natural sights.68 Regarding the interdependencies of landscape and imperialism it is central, that

[t]hese semiotic features of landscape, and the historical narratives they generate, are tailor-made for the discourse of imperialism, which conceives itself precisely (and simultaneously) as an expansion of landscape understood as an inevitable, progressive development in history, and expansion of 'culture' and 'civilization' into a 'natural' space in a progress that is itself narrated as 'natural'. Empires move outward in space as a way of moving forward in time; the 'prospect' that opens up is not just a spatial scene but a projected future of 'development' and exploitation.69

Against this background, Mitchell concludes that an appreciation of landscape as a merely aesthetic object is not possible. Instead, one needs to consider historically, politically, and aesthetically the violence and evil that the gazing eye – which is inseparably connected to imperialism and nationalism – has written in and projected onto the land. According to Mitchell, 'landscape itself is the medium by which this evil is veiled and naturalized'.70

Mitchell's approach to the representation of landscape resonates strongly with Roland Barthes's *Mythologies*. If, as Barthes stipulates, everything can turn into myth and if myth is a value, then photography can turn into myth and land turns into myth when it becomes landscape, the moment it becomes an expression of cultural value. In other words, myth conquers the land usurping and deforming it for a specific social use. Mythology therefore can study landscape as an idea-in-form. In the case of landscape photography, myth consequently settles at two different levels: first, at the land(scape) level itself and second, at the level of the photograph. Since the photograph from the *Volksblad* supplement depicts a scene which was explicitly created to revive the conquest of the hinterland by the Voortrekkers, the picture and the landscape it shows possibly contained, at least for nationalist Afrikaner spectators, the Great Trek myth. In this case, as Christoph Marx writes, referring to Roland Barthes: '[p]olitical mythology makes use of history to present power relationships or the claim to power as the natural order of things.'71

During apartheid, the trope of Whites gazing out over the empty land continued to appear regularly in photographs distributed by the regime and its collaborators. Jeanne van Eeden discusses picture postcards of this trope that the South African Railways Publicity and Travel Department (SARPTD) published between the 1940s and 1970s.72 Understanding landscape as a 'carrier of ideological propositions regarding ownership, class formation and entitlement to leisure', Van Eeden – referring neither to Mitchell nor to Barthes – demonstrates how such picture postcards reflect ideologies that are prevalent in society and how landscapes and ideologies interweave.73

Jeremy Foster observes how in earlier decades, between the South African War and World War I, when the postcard was the prime medium for disseminating images of South Africa, local buildings, streetscapes and views of towns were the predominant subjects in SAR&H photography. Landscape photographs that were mostly focused on specific attributes like lakes or waterfalls included people, cattle or vehicles as referents. During the 1920s, when defining the 'typically South African landscape' was underway, the photographic gaze shifted away from human-made signs. Photographers now captured the emptiness of the land, highlighting its vastness as one of South Africa's peculiarities and simultaneously emptying it from the presence of Africans.74

Following Jeremy Foster, Van Eeden argues that the corpus of landscape photographs produced by the SARPTD 'formed a conceptual space through which the contemporary constructions of identity and nationhood and the notion of South Africa as a "white man's country" were read'.75 Perpetuating colonialist narratives and racially discriminating Blacks by excluding them from the landscape, the myth of Africa as 'empty land' resonated in the tourist photography by the railways corporation. The tourism narratives of South Africa as a land of natural beauty presented the country as 'exclusively white'. If they included Black cultures it was only to advertise them as 'stereotypical exotic commodities'. In the panoramic views of such landscape postcards, a (White) *Rückenfigur*, like in Caspar David Friedrich's *Wanderer*  *above the Sea of Mist* from *c.* 1817, allowed White spectators to identify with it and to imagine themselves on this very spot depicted in the photograph, gaining a sense of entitlement to the land. The postcards by the SARPTD, which were also distributed in postcard calendars, did not necessarily function as souvenirs of a place that had been visited, as Van Eeden argues, but also as a tool to promote future visits to the very depicted place.76 They established them as national sites.

It is important to add here that this trope was not exclusively reserved for the representation of Whites but Blacks were also pictured gazing over the pristine land. In February 1970, *Bantu* magazine published such a photograph on the cover with a caption that locates the scene at the 'Tsitsa Falls near Umtata in the Transkei' (Fig. 134).77 If, in the visual network by the apartheid regime, photographs of Whites looking over the landscape symbolise their claim to the land, then photographs like the one on the *Bantu* cover, mirror the homeland policy, designating certain areas such as the Transkei to Blacks. In other words, the simultaneous employment of the same photographic trope for differently categorised population groups reflects the rationale of separate development.

The Department of Information indeed related the Orange River Project to the Great Trek, stating in brochures that it was at Norvalspont where the Voortrekkers had crossed the Orange River 'to open up the dark interior of southern Africa'.78 As *Taming a River Giant* underlined, '[f]ew spots richer in history could have been found at which to launch South Africa's greatest civil engineering project, an enterprise that will benefit all the people of the Republic and which will be a source of national pride for centuries to come.'79 The couple in the Transnet Library photograph (Fig. 132), seems to be advertising the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam as one of South Africa's sights to be visited, even though it looks unfinished. The greyish and brownish colour of the rocky slopes to the left and right of the river are not suggestive of sufficient irrigation and fertile land yet, and since the reservoir is not overflowing, there is no water cascading down into the riverbed. While the dam structure might already cause awe, the scene has not unfolded its full beauty yet.

The photograph transfers the visual trope of the wanderer gazing at the landscape from the natural to the technological landscape, from the natural sublime to the technological sublime. If the picture postcards discussed by Jeanne van Eeden were meant to create an identification with the beauty of the 'empty land' and a sort of entitlement, this photograph, if it was

Fig. 134 Photographer unidentified: 'Tsitsa Falls near Umtata in the Transkei, This year is water year', *Bantu*, 1970.

distributed, would establish the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam as a site of the human-made technological landscape.

After the dam was completed in early July 1971, the reservoir was only filled with water four days prior to the official inauguration on 4 March 197280 and the central spillways overflowed just on time. The *South African Digest* recalled how

[s]pecial trains and nearly fifty military and civilian aircraft from Pretoria, Johannesburg, Cape Town, and elsewhere in the Republic, converged on Donkerpoort station and airport a few kilometres from the dam. Hundreds of Pressmen, photographers, and TV cameramen recorded the scene for local and foreign consumption*.* 81

A negative from the Transnet collection shows how impressive masses of water crash down the dam wall, producing clouds of mist (Fig. 135). Epitomising the people's pilgrimage to this new landmark of the nation, the

Fig. 135 S. Matthysen: Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, 1972, large format colour negative.

road running over the dam is packed with people attracted by the technological sublime.82

While it remains uncertain if and where this photograph was circulated, the English and German editions of *Panorama* magazine as well as *South African Digest* published articles for the inauguration that were illustrated with similar pictures. The articles are commonly interwoven with tones resonating with the narrative of national power and pride, and underscore how nature had been subjugated.83 A black-and-white photograph credited to the *Hoofstad* newspaper on the front page of *South African Digest* from 10 March 1972 shows Betsie Verwoerd at the official inauguration of the dam (Fig. 136). Prominently placed in the foreground and photographed in profile, she looks down at the people strolling on the dam wall. According to the caption, 15,000 people came for the inauguration. For Betsie this was 'one of the most memorable moments of her life. She saw in the completed dam the realization of one of her late husband's most cherished dreams, the harnessing of the mighty Orange River'.84 The articles repeat that '[t]he Hendrik

Fig. 136 Photographer unidentified/*Hoofstad*: 'The official opening of South Africa's greatest single construction work – the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam – was for Mrs Betsie Verwoerd, widow of the former Prime Minister, Dr H. F. Verwoerd, one of the most memorable moments of her life. She saw in the complete dam the realization of one of her late husband's most cherished dreams, the harnessing of the mighty Orange River. Here, Mrs Verwoerd looks out over South Africa's greatest man-made lake, while about 15 000 people from all over the Republic throng the wall of the overflowing dam at the opening last week by the State President.', *South African Digest*, 1972.

Verwoerd Dam has been built to last a thousand years'85 and tellingly, according to the *South African Digest*, '[t]he dam stands as his [Verwoerd's] monument and as a memorial to the men who built it.'86 To contemporaries the dam was not only a technological achievement but quite genuinely a monument.

A negative from the collection of the Transnet Library, in which various aspects evolving around the Orange River Project converge, exemplifies how these pictures were circulated and possibly used. Busses belonging to the South African Railways Tourist Service are parked on the road that leads up to the crest of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam (Fig. 137). The smart outfits of a group of people walking towards the crest speak of a special occasion and a dense crowd on the dam wall in the background also suggests that this photograph was taken on inauguration day. Not only the massive dam in the background alludes to the trope of modernity but also the shiny silver coaches. They belong to the corporation whose railways network would be

Fig. 137 Photographer unidentified: Silver Eagle motor coaches of the S.A. Railways at the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, *c.* 1972, large format colour negative.

supplied with electricity produced by the dam87 and they point to tourism, marking the dam as a new destination of touristic travelling.

The photograph was published in a postcard calendar produced by the Publicity Department of the South African Railways. Each page of these calendars consisted of a date sheet and a picture postcard which could be detached. Another calendar postcard shows the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam from a similar standpoint as the photo with the couple discussed before (Fig. 138). Water is cascading from the full reservoir through the central spillways into the riverbed that is flanked by green slopes. Now unfolding a brutalist beauty, it suggests that the task of taming the Orange River and irrigating the land had been successful.

Jeanne van Eeden groups the photographs of these calendars into three thematic clusters: the natural world; the world of culture; and the world of technology, modernity, and progress.88 The Railways Corporation distributed the calendars free of charge to its employees, to recipients of the South

Fig. 138 W. v. d. Walt: The Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, 1975. Postcard from a postcard calendar published by the Publicity Department of the South African Railways.

African Railways Magazine, and to clients at the corporation's national and international bureaux. Since their main purpose was to encourage and promote tourism in South Africa,89 the calendars formed part of the endeavour to create a positive image of South Africa. That the Verwoerd Dam, symbolising technology, modernity, and progress, was included in the calendars' canon established it as one of South Africa's national scenic sights and ranked it as being as important as the country's pristine nature.

How this pristine nature had been modified by human impact becomes imposingly evident in aerial photographs. Unlike the photographs of the construction site, which highlighted the rift in nature, the aerial perspective makes the dam appear to be an integral part of the landscape. In an aerial black-and-white photograph from the collection of the National Archives, the dam divides the artificially created, man-made lake on the one side of the dam wall from the straight river on the other side, emphasising the amount of water stored in the reservoir (Fig. 139). In the catchment area, water cuts off the base of hills and some of their tops peak out of the new

Fig. 139 Photographer unidentified: Aerial view of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, 1977.

lake like islands. This landscape of water meandering around slopes reaches into the far background of the photograph, creating the impression of an endlessly large reservoir.

These aerial views that were circulated in the propaganda publications issued by the Department of Information during the 1970s (Fig. 140), again invoke the possessive gaze over the land.90 Early aerial photography, according to Patricia Hayes, was indebted to facticity, veering away from the landscape genre. Serving instead as a tool of 'reconnaissance' used to map out the world, it 'enabled forms of spatial domination reminiscent of the earliest maps of Africa in which sections of the continent were represented as a *terra nulli[u]s*'.91 Under the guise of mapping the land, the gaze was again conquering it. During the 1920s and 1930s, in 'an internal process of "colonisation"' as Hayes calls it, South Africa produced huge bodies of aerial photographs surveying topography for possible irrigation schemes in the Kalahari as well as in Zululand areas. The Union's Photographic Reconnaissance group, moreover, photographed newly constructed dams. These endeavours

Fig. 140 Photographer unidentified: 'Luftansicht des Hendrik-Verwoerd-Stauwerks mit Blick gegen Bethulie im Süden des Oranje-Freistaates.' (Aerial view of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam with view towards Bethulie in the South of the Orange Free State), *Südafrikanisches Panorama*, 1972.

were part of a generally increased use of aerial photography for state activities by at least nine ministries.92 The surveying gaze of aerial photography, according to Hayes,

offered new ways of knowing the land through its abstraction of detailed form. Sheer distance makes rivers stand out like veins and arteries, reminiscent of the medical view of tissue through a micro-lens. The contours of the land – its forests and hills – are laid bare, new and unfamiliar patterns emerge which only become familiar with the emergence of new disciplines.93

Although aviation had become more common by the early 1970s, aerial photography still offered a distinct perspective on the land. When the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam impounded the water to form a lake, the topographically modified land had to be mapped out again by a surveying gaze. Embedded in the propagandistic narrative that evolved around the Orange River Project, the aerial photographs of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, especially those published in the Department of Information's magazines, reverted to the landscape genre. In other words, while the photographs discussed above placed emphasis on the dam as a constructed architecture, the aerial views highlight the human impact on nature presenting it as socionature, as a technological landscape. Ideologically encoded, the landscape in this case is literally an idea-in-form in Barthes's sense of myth, naturalising the myths of apartheid ideologies.

When the apartheid state inaugurated the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam, more than twenty years had passed since the inauguration of the Voortrekker Monument in 1949 – the prime symbol of Afrikaner nationalism and literally the landmark of White migration and settlement in the hinterland. The dam is one of the built examples by the apartheid regime that, similar to the cases from David Goldblatt's photographic series *The Structures of Things Then*, express the ruling social values of its time. In contrast to the Voortrekker Monument, the regime could celebrate it as a technological achievement not openly linked to the racist policies of apartheid during a time when the apartheid state was under severe pressure. Here one needs only think of the Soweto uprising in 1976, the murder or Steve Biko in 1977 and Muldergate in the same decade – all events that followed in rapid succession after the completion of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam. Looking at the dam and the photographs of it in retrospect, it seems ironic that the structure which was meant to ensure the existence and development of the White nation, the structure which was built – like the Voortrekker Monument – for a thousand years, was completed in the same decade when the apartheid system, including its propaganda apparatus, began to crumble.

# **CONCLUSION**

The awareness among White apartheid rulers of the political dimensions which photographs might unfold found most prominent expression in repressive measures against the portrait of Nelson Mandela and against photographers who pictured the conditions in South Africa from a critical stance. The regime's use of photography to visually articulate political messages and to consolidate its power ultimately indicates the interplay between photography and state propaganda. Remnants of the former photo library, built up by the information service in its various incarnations, allowed charting at least parts of the visual network this institution created.

In the archive the visual network's materiality becomes palpable. The photographs are the extant physical residues of the visual practices by the regime that through their use opened a space of political action and power relations. Marks of handling, indexing, and categorisation on the photographic prints reflect the institutional character of the photographic production and the apartheid state's bureaucracy, while pointing to the photographs' instrumentality. That the photographic prints were later absorbed into the structures of the national archives further underscores their existence as material results of the regime's exercise of power and official documents.

As the information service's annual reports and files of ministry documents reveal, the information service, in the attempt to meet the changing political international situation, continuously redefined its self-concept and strategies. Steadily broadening its geographical scope of action, it never denied following a propagandistic endeavour in which photography played a critical role. The information service, however, not only produced photographs but also actively provided the infrastructures for external photographers to take pictures of the country, its people, and special events. As a result, the ministry at times prioritised photographs by other actors over those by its own employees.

Being the central propaganda apparatus, the information service presented in the photographs the officially approved view of apartheid South Africa that encompassed a highly varied field of iconographies. Circulating nationally as well as internationally and targeting different readerships, the plethora of publications mirrored the photo library's stock to a large extent. Against the background of a photograph's ability to contribute to fostering a national sense of belonging and an 'imagined community', the visual re-articulations of nationalist Afrikaner myths become salient. The information service weaved the diverse images into the colonial-nationalist narrative of the Great Trek, which stylised the Voortrekkers to have saved the allegedly empty hinterland from 'barbarism' by bringing European 'civilisation'. This frontier myth set the tone for the employment of colonialist binary oppositions like 'civilised' versus 'uncivilised', 'modern' versus 'primitive', and us versus them. Thus, especially elicited by combining pictures into series or even photobooks and by their textual framing, the photographs perpetuated and re-stated colonialist representation patterns and tropes. Visually spelling out frontiers to the 'Other', the photographs marked the points of reference for members of the White nation that the apartheid regime was busy building. This becomes particularly apparent in photographs of the Voortrekker Monument inauguration and the Jan van Riebeeck festival (chapter II). These two major festivals in the early years of apartheid offered the regime the opportunity to celebrate the White nation. The photographs and the way the information service used them shed light on how Afrikaners imagined themselves as a *volk* and as a modern society who had saved South Africa by introducing development and 'civilisation'. Photographs of the Voortrekker Monument inauguration demonstrate this most bluntly through national symbols being redolent of the Great Trek myth. In photographs of the tercentenary celebrations of 1952, the figure of Jan van Riebeeck was played out against the Khoisan who served the regime to depict the 'primitive Other'. In some cases, the photographer(s) of the State Information Office fell short of exploiting the events visually and turning them into aesthetically strong pictures. At times it seems that the State Information Office banked on pictures by other photographers published in magazines and newspapers playing into its hands.

The trope of 'civilisation' reoccurred in early photographs of H. F. Verwoerd (chapter III). In his capacity as Minister of Native Affairs he was pictured on his mission to 'civilise' Africans in the campaign for modernity, while later, during his premiership and after his death, the photographic representation stylised him as the leader who had guided the *volk* out of the 'house of bondage' of British imperialism into an independent republic.

#### Conclusion 271

Notably, this stylisation glossed over Verwoerd's political rigour using the photographs' inconspicuous nature.

The iconographies of literacy and of the Black nurse in white uniform exemplify the broader scheme of separate development that Verwoerd advocated so fiercely (chapter IV). Deeply anchored in the colonialist narrative of progress towards 'civilisation', these iconographies became markers of the White potentates' 'civilising' mission and served the regime – despite inherent contradictions – in propagating the expulsion of Blacks from the White nation state to the homelands.

Photographs of the annual openings of parliament in juxtaposition to images of the Transkei independence celebrations elucidate how the regime used photography to delineate the boundaries between the White nation state and the homelands (chapter V). By fixing rituals and ceremonies that performed the state and that reproduced patterns of previous independence celebrations by other states, they represented White South Africa as a democratic state, while they ranked the Transkei among African states which had gained independence from colonial rule. Through the hypervisibility of ritual and ceremony the regime not only attempted to lend credibility and legitimisation to the apartheid state but obscured the frontier myth.

The information service reiterated the trope of the frontier in terms of White land claim in photographs of the Hendrik Verwoerd Dam and of the greater Orange River Project (chapter VI). Playing out ideas like the subjugation of nature, the technological sublime, and the striving for modernity, they do so by picturing an engineering monument that was meant to ensure the existence of the White nation and to symbolise power and national greatness.

Being an integral part of the White South African nation-building project after 1948, which was located between sentiments of anti-British imperialism and internal colonialism, the propaganda photography by the apartheid regime thus was not revolutionary but confirmative. In the photographs the apartheid regime used, the myths of Afrikaner nationalism naturalised colonialist binary oppositions as the ruling norm, presenting them as naturally given, even as God willed. The battle against the 'uncivilised' and the linked goal of ensuring White survival, legitimised according to the supremacists' rationale, racism and consequently apartheid rule. The understanding that there is a genre of neither political images nor propaganda images elucidates how the information service was able to exploit the fact that every photograph could be turned into propaganda. This also explains, at least to a certain extent, why the information service's photographic section did not have to develop an original and distinct style or visual rhetoric and was able, instead, to position the photographs that were often innocuous in the grey area of inconspicuousness. Veiled, for instance, in the hypervisibility of ritual and ceremony or sugarcoating harsh racist policies, the photographs, I argue, entered a realm beyond contestation. The lack of a particular style and the wide range of themes liberated the regime from being dependent on specific photographers. In the visual network of the apartheid regime the individual photographer as author became insignificant. At the same time, this allowed photographers easily to cross the lines between ostensible proand anti-apartheid photographies as established by photo historians. Yet, photographers must be held accountable for providing images – even the allegedly innocuous ones – to the apartheid's 'regime of representation'.

That great numbers of the photographs that emerged from South Africa's information service had not been catalogued more than twenty years after the first democratic elections has been indicative of the lack of academic interest in these photographs and reflects the political change of 1994. However, to carve out the political complexities of the apartheid years, a South African photo historiography of the twentieth century, I suggest, is unthinkable without considering the propaganda photography which the regime produced, used, and circulated. To include it in the photo historiography adds to a more nuanced multi-perspective and reveals the complexities of photography during apartheid. At stake is how this period will be remembered and what kind of image people will gain, who have not experienced it personally. The Hector Pieterson photograph by Sam Nzima has become a photographic icon to symbolise an important moment in history. Representing the struggle against the violent state but not the normality of everyday life, it pictures, however, only a tiny sliver of apartheid history. This is not to say that there is one true image of apartheid that would cover all different kinds of realities and experiences, nor is it to say that any photo history will ever be able to give a comprehensive view of photographic cultures in South Africa during the twentieth century. The above chapters are also not a definitive history of South African propaganda photography during apartheid and cover only a specific part of the country's uncountable photographic practices of which many are still unknown and hidden. Like the propaganda photography of the apartheid regime many of these practices will be deeply contested, yet others will turn out to be very beautiful.

#### Conclusion 273

This lays emphasis again on archives as unfixed and instable entities which are dependent on the researcher to acquire relevance. What will surface from private collections and what will be added to the archives will have a decisive impact on what scholars are able to find and what they will weave into the photo histories of South Africa in the future. This also affects the issue of what kind of images of apartheid will come into public view, concerning the broader photographic practices in South Africa but also the propaganda photography of the regime in a more general sense. While the *Rise and Fall of Apartheid* exhibition by Okwui Enwezor and Rory Bester included a few photographs that had emerged from the governmental photographic production, the question of how future exhibitions will handle photographs from the institutional context of apartheid remains open. This touches on the more general issue of how photographs should be presented to viewers without reproducing stereotypes and violating the people represented in the photographs.

Covering a period from the late 1940s to the mid-1970s, the analyses in this book focus on photographs that broadly emanated from or related to the institutional context of the information service. Yet, the information service did not operate alone but collaborated with numerous institutions, clubs, organisations, and people of different cultural, economic, and political backgrounds. The secret *Afrikaner Broederbond*, the *Voortrekkers* youth movement, the *Federasie van Afrikaanse Kultuurvereniginge,* and the front organisations established under the aegis of Eschel Rhoodie are only a few such groups. To map out this widely ramified web completely, which saw uncountable changes throughout the apartheid era, requires more research.

In 1977, *Südafrikanisches Panorama* published two double-spreads with photographs of a student exchange between West Germany and South Africa arranged by an organisation called *Deutsch-Südafrikanische-Gesellschaft* (DSAG, German-South African Association).1 In the mid-1960s, the annual report by South Africa's information service names the organisation as one of the 'non-official societies' that had

the aim of encouraging a more objective appraisal of development in South Africa and countering the wild anti-South African propaganda, ignorance and prejudice. While most of them have a core of dedicated South Africans or people with direct South African affiliations, many of the members are ordinary citizens of the particular country who have either visited the Republic, studied its affairs, or have had their interest otherwise aroused.2

Fig. 141 'Jugendaustausch' (youth exchange), article with photographs by unidentified photographer(s), *Südafrikanisches Panorama*, 1977.

Founded in 1965, the *Deutsch-Südafrikanische Gesellschaft* gained considerable influence on relations between South Africa and West Germany. Apart from student exchange programmes, it was involved in economic cooperation, exhibitions, travel services, and the invitation of journalists.3 One year after the Soweto uprising, the pictures in *Südafrikanisches Panorama* show young Germans in private surroundings with their hosts in South Africa, presenting it as an open and friendly country (Fig. 141). One can imagine that these photographs are only the institutional tip of an iceberg of photographs that were taken during such student exchange programmes and other private encounters.

Acknowledging the context from which comparable photographs emerged and understanding the organisations as branches of the White minority regime, illustrates how ordinary citizens became, at times unwittingly, rack-wheels in the apartheid system. Beyond the confines of the institutionally published and controlled magazines, photographs of happy visits circulated through private hands and found their place in family albums many of which have by now possibly been destroyed or are stored in dusty attics. If understanding apartheid South Africa as a state which infused

#### Conclusion 275

every sphere of daily life, it becomes clear how photographs of the private became political and could be turned into propaganda. It therefore remains to research more deeply how the institutional and the private contexts interrelated as regards propaganda photography.4

At the same time, returning to the control of images through the regime, it seems imperative to consider the limits of the apartheid regime's range of action. While the regime doubtlessly established a visual network and pieced together a visual discourse, it could regulate and oversee the production and distribution of photographs only to a certain extent. The case of the proscription of Mandela's picture backfired on the regime when, fuelled by his visual absence, he became the icon of the anti-apartheid movement, exemplifying the unpredictable consequences of censorship.5 When Eli Weinberg's photobook *Portrait of a People: A Personal Photographic Record of the South African Liberation Struggle* was published in 1981 in London, it was immediately banned in South Africa. Nonetheless, containing portraits of political leaders, it became an important source of images for antiapartheid activists. In the book the full-page portrait of Mandela is indicative of his international prominence and his symbolic importance for the anti-apartheid movement at the time.6 Thus, the ambiguity of photography which the regime used for its own ends could also turn against it. Since the White supremacists could not fully determine how people saw and read photographs, pictures could slip from their control, laying bare the fissures in the apartheid construct.

# **NOTES**

# NOTES ON TERMINOLOGY AND FIGURES

1. Appiah 2020, online.

# INTRODUCTION


2015, p. 17. On the iconicity of the Hector Pieterson photograph see also, e.g., Peffer 2009, pp. 53–56; Kerkham Simbao 2007; and chapter IV.


cultures in South Africa. Spanning from missionary photography to photography as artistic medium, they accounted for the colonial context and the political circumstances in which photographs were produced. Among the most recent publications that exclusively, or to a considerable extent, discuss South African photography are Morton/Newbury 2015; Thomas/Green 2016; Kesting 2017; Rizzo 2020. Concurrently, an increased curatorial engagement with South African photography resulted in several exhibitions that lent it greater international visibility. These shows not only outlined contemporary developments but also considered more historical manifestations of photographic practices. Such seminal volumes as Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum 1996, Enwezor 2006, and Garb 2013 discuss South African photography in the broader context of photography from the African continent. Grundlingh 1999 and Garb 2011 are two examples that focus on South African photography, reflecting how it entered the white cube.


PLAN. After the United Nations (UN) declared South African rule in Namibia illegal and after an increase in guerrilla infiltration by the PLAN, apartheid South Africa deployed the SADF (South African Defence Force) into the Caprivi Strip. Shortly thereafter, with Portugal's Carnation Revolution of 1974, Angola gained independence in 1975. In this power vacuum the rivalling parties of the Cold War set out to seek control over Angola. The war intensified when Cuban forces arrived in Angola to support the MPLA (Movimento Popular de Libertação de Angola) and South Africa intervened in a full-scale military invasion into Angola known as operation Savannah. The war only came to an end after the notorious battle of Cuito Cuanavale in 1987–88. On 21 March 1990, Namibia officially became independent. For an account on the war see e.g. Giliomee 2011, pp. 571–574, 589–593, 615–616.

# I. SOUTH AFRICA'S INFORMATION SERVICE


Buitelandse Sake en Inligting). To split the domestic information function from the information task abroad, a new Bureau for Information (Bureau vir Inligting) again spun off from the Department for Foreign Affairs in 1985. See Geldenhuys 1984, p. 269; Information Service 1979, p. 4; Horwitz 2001, p. 287. According to the annual report, 1986 was the first year that the Bureau for Information was operating, Bureau for Information 1987, p. 2. According to Johan Muller, the Bureau for Information had already been established in 1983, Muller 1989, p. 251.


photographs after independence and how today copies of the same images can still be found in archives both in Kinshasa and Brussels, Colard 2018, pp. 124–126.


numbers divided into 14,000 Afrikaans and 8,400 English editions in 1963/64. In 1976, there were 54,000 English and 17,000 Afrikaans issues.


<sup>169.</sup> SIO 1956, p. 17; SAIS 1961, p. 3.

# II. CELEBRATING THE WHITE NATION


circular stamps on the reverse. Linking this to the fact that the book does not offer any details about the sources of the photographs, their copyrights or even the names of the photographer(s), I assume that most of the series published in *Die Gelofte* was originally issued by the State Information Office. The photographs on pp. 25 and 41 can be ascribed to the *Rand Daily Mail* newspaper, compared to Botha 1952, pp. 19, 312. On the State Information Office photographs of the Voortrekker Monument inauguration see also Jörder 2020. Since the mid-2000s, the medium of the photobook or photographic book has increasingly gained attention among collectors, scholars, and exhibiting institutions. Martin Parr and Gerry Badger offered one of the most widely quoted, however generic, definitions of the photobook: 'A photobook is a book – with or without text – where the work's primary message is carried by photographs. It is a book authored by a photographer or by someone editing and sequencing the work of a photographer, or even a number of photographers.' Moreover, they underline firstly the specificity of the photobook to bind together a number of photographs, which as a sum gain a greater meaning; and secondly, they define a photobook as being dedicated to a particular subject and theme. What is important for the context of *Die Gelofte* is that the medium of the photobook encompasses not only artistic photobooks but also, for instance, commissioned works for companies and governments. Parr/Badger 2004, pp. 6–7, 9. In turn, Patrizia di Bello and Shamoon Zamir criticised the predominant role that this definition gives to the image and underlined the 'dialectical relationship' between image and text, Di Bello/Zamir 2012, p. 4. On photobook research, see also e.g. Dogramaci et al. 2016; Siegel 2016.


ES, F39/4, 39.6.69k, 1949. Apart from ES, F39/4 39.6.135k, 1949, they are all marked with the State Information Office stamp. There are ten more photographs in the collection to this series: ES, F39/4, 39.6.123k, 1949; ES, F39/4, 39.6.52k, 1949; ES, F39/4, 39.6.88k, 1949; ES, F39/4, 39.6.125k, 1949; ES, F39/4, 39.6.126k, 1949; ES, F39/4, 39.6.128k, 1949; ES, F39/4, 39.6.129k, 1949; ES, F39/4, 39.6.131k, 1949; ES, F39/4, 39.6.132k, 1949; ES, 3F9/4, 39.6.134k, 1949.


provoked, for instance, the question '[d]oes documenting an event glorify it?'. On the series and the debate around it, see Bester 2013, pp. 510–513.


# III. H. F. VERWOERD: 'MASTER-BUILDER' OF THE WHITE NATION


30 (1950), were passed shortly before Verwoerd assumed office as Minister of Native Affairs on 19 October 1950. Among the laws that followed are the Bantu Authorities Bill (1951), the Native Laws Amendment Act (1952), the Native Resettlement Act (1954) and the Bantu Education Act (1954).


19334 were donated to the archives by the Department of Information. For the rest of the series, see *Spesiale Bylae tot Die Beeld*, 11 September 1966, p. 4; Grobbelaar 1966, pp. 77, 125, nos. 63–64, 155; Hefer/Basson 1966, p. 82; *South African Panorama,* vol. 11, no. 11, 1966, p. 2.


word 'n groot diens gelewer aan die volk, want wie vir skoonheid voel, op watter gebied ook al, het 'n bydrae te lewer tot die kulturele ontwikkeling van die volk. Die gebied wat in dié boek betree word, is 'n spesifiek vroulike en dra daardeur by tot die verfyning en verfraaiing van die huislike atmosfeer. So 'n atmosfeer onderskei die kultuurbewuste volk van die onbeskaafde.', Verwoerd 1975, n. pag. The book was reprinted several times. The edition of 1975 still includes the very same foreword by Betsie Verwoerd.


# IV. PROPAGATING SEPARATE DEVELOPMENT


Dept. Information 1962b, pp. 27–52; *South African Digest*, 01 March 1968, pp. 8–10; Hanna Rönty summarised the general narrative, Rönty 2011, n. pag. [pp. 14–16].


ethnographic photographs. From 1928, he published a selection from these photographs as *The Bantu Tribes of South Africa*, see e.g. Duggan-Cronin 1928. For a biography and more information on Alfred Martin Duggan-Cronin, see e.g. Bester 2001, p. 220; Godby 2010, pp. 55–57; Newbury 2009, pp. 15–17; Hart 2009.


the South African Department of Justice prove that the security police closely monitored Cole's activities prior to his emigration. Since government officials and the security police assessed *House of Bondage* to fuel communist propaganda against South Africa, they tried to find a way to control the book's distribution, Newbury 2011, pp. 77–78. John Peffer mentions the underground circulation and how Cole's work influenced South African photography, Peffer 2009, p. 252; see also Onabanjo 2022, p. 14.


the period 1958/1959, mentions how the Information Service incorporated material from *Optima* in its own publications, SAIS 1960b, p. 12.


# V. PERFORMING THE STATE


a self-governing and independent dominion in the British Commonwealth. At this point the ties with Britain were only symbolic. With the withdrawal from the Commonwealth and the foundation of the Republic of South Africa in 1961 Queen Elizabeth II was replaced by a South African state president as head of state. The state president was elected for a period of seven years, holding both executive and legislative powers. Together with the Senate and the House of Assembly he constituted the country's national legislature (Parliament). As a nominal head of state, he had little actual legislative power. That South Africa's state presidents paid only eight official visits to foreign countries between 1961 and the early 1980s – including the Transkei and other homelands – reflects South Africa's isolated position on the international political stage and indicates the state president's predominantly ceremonial role in foreign politics. Being supported by the majority of members in the Assembly, the office of prime minister developed into a particularly powerful position during the ministries of H. F. Verwoerd, J. B. Vorster, and P. W. Botha. Due to a constitutional amendment in 1984 that ousted the previous Westminster model, P. W. Botha's position changed from prime minister to state president with strong executive powers. In 1989, F. W. de Klerk succeeded Botha as state president. Geldenhuys 1984, pp. 43–44; Olivier/Van Wyk 1978, pp. 3, 5; Thompson 2001, pp. 225–226; Venter 1989a, pp. 37–43.


their services in promoting South Africa's international relations and who had earned the respect and gratitude of South Africa.', Fourie 2007, p. 451. Thus, when Diederichs presented the *Order of Good Hope* to Matanzima this was another symbolic act underlining the expulsion of the Transkei from the South African territory as an independent state. This becomes especially clear in a confidential document from the Department of Bantu Administration and Development from 14 September 1976. As the Secretary of Bantu Administration and Development informs, the *Order of Good Hope* could only be awarded to Matanzima *after* independence when he had become a foreigner. 'Transkei: Onafhanklikheid', SAB BTS 1, 1/226/1/1, part 3, National Archives of South Africa.


# VI. THE HENDRIK VERWOERD DAM


# 320 Building a White Nation


# CONCLUSION


# **BIBLIOGRAPHY**

# ARCHIVAL SOURCES

*Alan Paton Centre & Struggle Archives, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Pietermaritzburg:* AP-XPE1-604-22 AP-XPE1-605-23

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**ES, FA 1A, 1/3, 1949** FA vol. 1A, 1/3, *Voortrekkermonument Inwyding,* 1949.

# **ES, FA 1A, 1/4, 1949**

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#### **ES, FA 1A, 1/5, 1949**

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Reeves, A. (1960). *Shooting at Sharpeville. The Agony of South Africa*. London: Victor Gollancz.

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Republic of South Africa, Department of Water Affairs (1962). *Report on the Proposed Orange River Development Project, 1962–1963*. [W.P. X–'62.] Pretoria: Government Printer.

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Rhoodie, E. M. (1983). *The Real Information Scandal*. Pretoria: Orbis.

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Richards, C. (2013). Retouching Apartheid. Intimacy, Interiority, and Photography. In O. Enwezor, & R. Bester (Eds.), *Rise and Fall of Apartheid. Photography and the Bureaucracy of Everyday Life* (pp. 234–247), New York/Munich: International Center of Photography/ Prestel.

# **Rimmele/Stiegler 2012**

Rimmele, M., & Stiegler, B. (2012). *Visuelle Kulturen/Visual Culture zur Einführung*. Hamburg: Junius.

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Rizzo, L. (2020). *Photography and History in Colonial Southern Africa. Shades of Empire*. London: Routledge.

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Robertson, S. (2010). Ernest Cole in the House of Bondage. In G. Knape (Ed.), *Ernest Cole. Photographer* (pp. 21–36), Göttingen: Steidl.

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Rosenberg, S., & Weisfelder, R. F. (2013). *Historical Dictionary of Lesotho*. Lanham: Scarecrow Press.

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Rönty, H. (2011). Urban Blacks in the Separate Development Propaganda of the South African Government in 1958–1966. Paper presented at *African Engagements: On Whose Terms? 4th European Conference on African Studies*, Uppsala, Sweden 15–18 June 2011.

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Saayman-Hattingh, H. (2011). Visually Representing Social Change. The South African Social Documentary Photographer and the Struggle. *Communitas*, 16, 191–206.

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Saint Léon, P. M. (Ed.) (1999). *Anthology of African and Indian Ocean Photography*. Paris: Revue Noir.

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Sampson, A. (1966). A Violent End for the Apostle of 'Apartheid'. *Life*, 61 (12), 42–43.

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Sanders, J. (2000). *South Africa and the International Media, 1972–1979. A Struggle for Representation*. London: Routledge.

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Sanders, J. (2022). The Spearpoint Pivoted: The Rise of Ernest Cole. In D. Wolff (Ed.), *House of Bondage by Ernest Cole* (pp. 21–28), New York: Aperture.

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Sanner, P. L. (1999). Comrades and Cameras. In P. M. Saint Léon (Ed.), *Anthology of African and Indian Ocean Photography* (pp. 252–263), Paris: Revue Noir.

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Schade, S., & Wenk, S. (2011). *Studien zur visuellen Kultur. Einführung in ein transdisziplinäres Forschungsfeld*. Bielefeld: Transcript.

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Schadeberg, J. (1982). *The Kalahari Bushmen Dance*. London: Wildwood House.

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Schadeberg, J. (2002). *The San of the Kalahari. 1959*. Menlo Park: Protea Book House.

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Schadeberg, J. (2017). *The Way I See It. A Memoir*. Johannesburg: Picador Africa.

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Scherf, A. (2017). David Goldblatt. In S. Pagé, & A. Scherf (Eds.), *Being There. South Africa, a Contemporary Art Scene* (p. 61), Paris: Éditions Dilecta.

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Schindelegger, M. (2016). Das Fotobuch als Medium autonomer Kriegsberichterstattung. Margaret Bourke-Whites Buchpublikationen zum Zweiten Weltkrieg. In B. Dogramaci, D. Düdder, S. Dufhues et al. (Eds.), *Gedruckt und erblättert. Das Fotobuch als Medium ästhetischer Artikulation seit den 1940er Jahren* (pp. 156–173) Cologne: Walther König.

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Schmahmann, B. (2013). *Picturing Change. Curating Visual Culture at Post-apartheid Universities*. Johannesburg: Wits University Press.

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Schmahmann, B. (2016). The Fall of Rhodes. The Removal of a Sculpture from the University of Cape Town. *Public Art Dialogue*, 6 (1), 90–115.

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Schmahmann, B., van Robbroeck, L., & Freschi, F. (Eds.) (2020). *Troubling Images. Visual Culture and the Politics of Afrikaner Nationalism*. Johannesburg: Wits University Press.

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Schmidt-Linsenhoff, V. (2010). *Ästhetik der Differenz. Postkoloniale Perspektiven vom 16. bis 21. Jahrhundert. 15 Fallstudien. 1, Texte*. Marburg: Jonas.

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Schrafstetter, S. (2010). A Nazi Diplomat Turned Apologist for Apartheid. Gustav Sonnenhol, Vergangenheitsbewältigung and West German Foreign Policy towards South Africa. *German History*, 28 (1), 44–66.

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Schwartz, J. M. (2015). Photographic Archives and the Idea of Nation. Images, Imaginings, and Imagined Community. In C. Caraffa, & T. Serena (Eds.), *Photo Archives and the Idea of Nation* (pp. 17–40), Berlin: De Gruyter.

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Schweizer, S. (2007). *'Unserer Weltanschauung sichtbaren Ausdruck geben'. Nationalsozialistische Geschichtsbilder in historischen Festzügen*. Göttingen: Wallstein.

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Sekula, A. (1986). The Body and the Archive. *October*, 39, 3–64.

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Siegel, S. (2016). Drucksachen. Vorbemerkungen zu einer künftigen Fotobuch-Forschung. In B. Dogramaci, D. Düdder, S. Dufhues et al. (Eds.), *Gedruckt und erblättert. Das Fotobuch als Medium ästhetischer Artikulation seit den 1940er Jahren* (pp. 21–33), Cologne: Walther König.

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Simons, H. J. (1968). Harnessing the Orange River. In N. Rubin, & W. M. Warren (Eds.), *Dams in Africa. An Inter-Disciplinary Study of Man-Made Lakes in Africa* (pp. 128–145), London: Frank Cass.

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Siopis, P. (2012). The Hooks of History. Three Films. In M. H. Gutberlet, & C. Snyman (Eds.), *Shoe Shop* (pp. 45–57), Auckland Park: Jacana.

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Smith, I. (2008). *Bitter Harvest. Zimbabwe and the Aftermath of its Independence. The Memoirs of Africa's Most Controversial Leader*. London: John Blake.

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Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum (Ed.), *In/sight: African Photographers, 1940 to the Present*, New York: Abrams/Guggenheim Museum.

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Soudien, C. (2002). Teachers' Responses to the Introduction of Apartheid Education. In P. Kallaway (Ed.), *The History of Education under Apartheid 1948–1994. The Doors of Learning and Culture Shall be Opened* (pp. 211–223), New York: Peter Lang.

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Soulages, F. (2017). Pour une esthétique du devenir. La photographie de chantier. In F. Soulages, & A. Ferrere (Eds.), *Esthétique de la photographie de chantier* (pp. 11–28), Paris: L'Harmattan.

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# **SAIS 1960a**

South African Information Service (n.d. [*c.* 1960]). *South Africa 1910–1960*. Pretoria: Government Printer.

# **SAIS 1960b**

South African Information Service (n.d. [*c.* 1960]). *Annual Report 1958–1959*. N.p.

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South African Information Service (n.d. [*c.* 1961]). *Annual Report 1959–1960*. N.p.

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[State Information Office] (1950). *Annual Report of the State Information Office 1949*. Pretoria: Government Printer.

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State Information Office (n.d. [*c.* 1950]). *Speeches at the Inaugural Ceremony of the Voortrekker Monument. Pretoria, December 1949*. Pretoria.

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[State Information Office] (n.d. [*c.* 1951]). *Annual Report of the State Information Office 1950*. Pretoria: Government Printer.

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State Information Office (n.d. [*c.* 1951]). *South Africa's Heritage (1652–1952). The Story of White Civilisation in South Africa from the Landing of the First Dutch Settlers with Jan van Riebeeck to the Present Day*. Pretoria: State Information Office.

# **SIO 1952a**

State Information Office (n.d. [*c.* 1952]). *A Nation and its Leader. Life and Policy of Dr. D. F. Malan, Prime Minister of the Union of South Africa*. Pretoria.

# **SIO 1952b**

[State Information Office] (n.d. [*c.* 1952]). *Annual Report of the State Information Office 1951*. Pretoria: Government Printer.

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[State Information Office] (n.d. [*c.* 1953]). *Annual Report of the State Information Office 1952*. Pretoria: Government Printer.

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[State Information Office] (n.d. [*c.* 1954]). *Annual Report of the State Information Office 1953*. Pretoria: Government Printer.

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State Information Office (n.d. [*c.* 1954]). *South Africa 1954*. Pretoria.

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[State Information Office] (n.d. [*c.* 1955]). *State Information 1954–55*. Pretoria: Government Printer.

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[State Information Office] (n.d. [*c.* 1956]). *State Information 1955–56*. Pretoria: Government Printer.

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Stultz, N. M. (1979). *Transkei's Half Loaf. Race Separatism in South Africa*. New Haven: Yale University Press.

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Sturken, M., & Cartwright, L. (2001). *Practices of Looking. An Introduction to Visual Culture*. Oxford: University Press.

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Südafrikanisches Informationsamt (1960). *Goldenes Jubiläum. Die ersten fünfzig Jahre der Südafrikanischen Union*. Johannesburg: Afrikaanse Pers.

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Sycholt, A. (1986). *Journey Across the Thirstland*. Windhoek: John Meinert.

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Sycholt, A. (2013). *Namibia*. Steinfurt: Tecklenborg.

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Sycholt, A., & Schirmer, P. (1988). *This is South Africa*. Cape Town: C. Struik.

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Sykora, K. (2009). *Die Tode der Fotografie. Totenfotografie und ihr sozialer Gebrauch*. Paderborn: Fink.

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The Cape Times (Ed.) (1952). *The Festival in Pictures/Die Fees in Beeld – Jan van Riebeeck Festival – Fees 1952*. Cape Town: Central News Agency.

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Thomas, K. (2012). Wounding Apertures. Violence, Affect and Photography during and after Apartheid. *Kronos*, (38), 204–218.

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Thomas, K. (2018). Decolonisation Is Now. Photography and Student-Social Movements in South Africa. *Visual Studies*, 33 (1), 98–110.

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Thomas, K., & Green, L. (Eds.) (2016). *Photography in and out of Africa. Iterations with Difference*. London: Routledge.

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Thompson, D. A. (2021). *Filtering Histories. The Photographic Bureaucracy in Mozambique, 1960 to Recent Times*. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

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Thompson, L. (1985). *The Political Mythology of Apartheid*. New Haven: Yale University Press.

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Timm Knudsen, B., & Andersen, C. (2018). Affective Politics and Colonial Heritage, Rhodes Must Fall at UCT and Oxford. *International Journal of Heritage Studies*, 25 (3), 239–258.

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Tomaselli, K. (1986). Capitalism and Culture in South African Cinema. Jingoism, Nationalism and the Historic Epic. *Wide Angle*, 8 (2), 33–43.

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Tomaselli, K., Tomaselli, R., Williams, A. et al. (1986). *Myth, Race and Power. South Africans Imaged on Film and TV*. Belleville: Anthropos.

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Viljoen, S., & Viljoen, L. (2005). Constructing Femininity in 'Huisgenoot'. In J. van Eeden, & A. du Preez (Eds.), *South African Visual Culture* (pp. 90–118), Pretoria: Van Schaik.

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Welch, D. (2003). Propaganda, Definitions of. In D. Welch, N. J. Cull, & D. Culbert (Eds.), *Propaganda and Mass Persuasion. A Historical Encyclopedia, 1500 to the Present* (pp. 317– 323), Oxford: ABC Clio.

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Wendl, T. (2019). From Cape Town to Timbuktu: Iconoclastic Testimonies in the Age of Social Media. In K. Schankweiler, V. Straub, & T. Wendl (Eds.), *Image Testimonies. Witnessing in Times of Social Media* (pp. 165–180), New York: Routledge.

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Williams, J. R. (2020). A Pariah Among Parvenus: Anne Fischer and the Politics of South Africa's New Realism(s). *October,* 173, 143–175.

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Williams, J. R. (2021). A Working Woman's Eye. Anne Fischer and the South African Photography of Weimar Women in Exile. In D. Newbury, L. Rizzo, K. Thomas (Eds.), *Women and Photography in Africa. Creative Practices and Feminist Challenges*, (pp. 23–44), New York: Routledge.

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Williams, S., Holland, R., & Barringer, T. (2010). Preface. 'The Midnight Hour'. In R. Holland, S. Williams, & T. Barringer (Eds.), *The Iconography of Independence. 'Freedoms at Midnight'* (pp. ix–xix), London: Routledge.

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Wilson, R. G. (1985). Machine-Age Iconography in the American West. The Design of Hoover Dam. *Pacific Historical Review*, 54 (4), 463–493.

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Witz, L. (2003). *Apartheid's Festival. Contesting South Africa's National Pasts*. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

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Wolff, D. (Ed.) (2022). *House of Bondage by Ernest Cole*. New York: Aperture.

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Ziebinska-Lewandowska, K. (Ed.) (2018). *David Goldblatt. Structures of Dominion and Democracy*. Göttingen/Paris: Steidl/Éditions du Centre Pompidou.

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Ziebinska-Lewandowska, K. (2018). Photography as an Act of Thinking. In K. Ziebinska-Lewandowska (Ed.), *David Goldblatt. Structures of Dominion and Democracy* (pp. 20–27), Göttingen/Paris: Steidl/Éditions du Centre Pompidou.

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Zitzlsperger, P. (2013). Distanz und Präsenz. Das Porträt der Frühneuzeit zwischen Repräsentation und Realpräsenz. In M. Hengerer (Ed.), *Abwesenheit beobachten. Zu Kommunikation auf Distanz in der frühen Neuzeit* (pp. 41–78), Münster: LIT.

# PERIODICALS AND NEWSPAPERS

*Bantu Cape Argus Dagbreek en Sondagnuus Der Missionsfreund Der Spiegel Die Huisgenoot Die Volksblad Drum Ebony Egyptian Gazette Fortnightly Digest of South African Affairs La Revue Française Life New York Amsterdam News Optima Pace Progress South African Digest South African Panorama Spesiale Bylae tot Die Beeld Südafrikanischer Digest Südafrikanisches Panorama Sunday News. New York's Picture Newspaper Sunday Times The Illustrated London News The New York Times The Wall Street Journal Time Magazine*

# FILM

**Schadeberg 1999**

Schadeberg, J. (1999). *Ernest Cole*. Johannesburg: The Schadeberg Movie Company. 53:41 min.

# ONLINE SOURCES

#### **abcNews n.d.**

abcNwes (n.d.). *Martin Luther King Jr.: A Life in Pictures*. https://abcnews.go.com/US/photos/ history-martin-luther-king-jr-20052713/image-44808463, accessed 24 May 2023.

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Appiah, K. A. (2020). The Case for Capitalizing the B in Black. *The Atlantic*, https://www. theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2020/06/time-to-capitalize-blackand-white/613159/, accessed 07 August 2023.

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Bernhardt, P., & Drechsel, B. (2013). Bildpolitik. *Glossar der Bildphilosophie*, http://www.gib. uni-tuebingen.de/netzwerk/glossar/index.php?title=Bildpolitik&oldid=21343, accessed 25 April 2020.

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Bourke-White, M. (1949/1950). [Bourke-White's Photographs of Southern Africa]. *Getty Images*, http://www.gettyimages.de/fotos/margaret-bourke-white-south-africa?excludenudity=tru e&family=editorial&mediatype=photography&page=1&phrase=margaret%20bourke%20 white%20south%20africa&sort=mostpopular, accessed 25 August 2017.

#### **City of Cape Town 2018**

City of Cape Town, Media Office (17 January 2018). Day Zero Now Likely to Happen – New Emergency Measures*. City of Cape Town*, http://www.capetown.gov.za/Media-and-news/ Day%20Zero%20now%20likely%20to%20happen%20%E2%80%93%20new%20 emergency%20measures, accessed 14 June 2019.

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Ebeling, K. (19 March 2019). Mal D'Archives Revisited or Archive Evils from a Postcolonial Perspective. An Obstructed View. *How to Move on with Humboldt's Legacy? Rethinking Ethnographic Collections*, https://blog.uni-koeln.de/gssc-humboldt/en/mal-darchivesrevisited/, accessed 18 March 2020.

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Encyclopædia Britannica (17 August 2017). Ebony (American Magazine). *Encyclopædia Britannica,* https://www.britannica.com/topic/Ebony-American-magazine, accessed 26 April 2020.

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# EMAIL COMMUNICATION AND INTERVIEWS

#### **Gaia 2018** Gaia. Email to the author, 03 June 2018.

**Luus 2018** Luus, Petra. Email to the author, 02 May 2018. **Mulaudzi 2016** Mulaudzi, Lufuno. Email to the author, 19 December 2016.

# **Schadeberg 2014**

Schadeberg, Jürgen. Interview with the author, 15 November 2014.

# **Sycholt 2015**

Sycholt, August. Email to the author, 11 December 2015.

# **Venter 2016**

Venter, Quinten. Interview with the author, 31 August 2016.

# **ILLUSTRATION CREDITS**

