Like most South Africans I was shattered when the news broke about the assassination of Chris Hani on Easter Saturday, April 10, 1993. It was a sad day for the country. There were jitters amongst many people, whites mostly, that civil war would or could ensue, especially since the assassin was believed to be a member of the extreme Afrikaner right wing organisation, the AWB.

On Monday morning, April 12, on my way to work, I bought a camera, a little Olympus, fully automatic; with a zoom lens. I planned to walk around during my lunch hour and take pictures of anything or anybody I found interesting. Cape Town is a colourful, fascinating place with a striking contrast of people: buskers, street kids, ‘bergies’ and the rest. At this time I was working for an advertising agency.

At about 11.00 am that morning the company receptionist announced that there was huge trouble brewing in town. A protest march had begun and word was spreading like wildfire amongst businesses that serious rioting looked imminent. The office would be closed. We were advised to get home immediately. I walked to the station to catch a train. As I approached Adderley Street I saw a couple of armoured cars leading a heaving procession of marching, toyi-toying protestors and khaki-clad marshals with horse-hide whips on the fringes of the crowd. I instinctively started taking pictures.

I moved alongside the marchers, keeping a safe distance. I walked ahead of the crowd to the Parade, where the bulk of protestors had gathered and where the rioting began. In the ensuing chaos I shakily snapped away. I took shots of looters and injured policemen. Shots of a burning delivery motorcycle: a long shot, a medium shot and an extreme close-up. I took three shots of a post office van that had just been set alight: one, smoke billowing from the bonnet; two, flames shooting forth; three, the van enveloped in fire. I took a scary shot of a looter as he stood before a broken shop window. He was smiling at me, a sort of ‘…. who’s the boss now?’ smile. I initially kept close to groups of policemen. But when an assortment of missiles rained down on them – and me, because I was standing with them – I thought it safer to join the crowd.

Which was a little safer, for a while. When my film was finished I searched frenetically in the area close by for a chemist or photographic shop to buy another spool. The adrenalin had so overcome me I felt no fear, or at least not enough to make me quit and go home. I was recording a momentous incident in our history. I felt I had to see it through.

 

I had to walk quite a long way to find an open chemist. I returned to the Parade, where I headed straight into the crowd. At one stage a few men started throwing bits of brick and concrete at me. An elderly woman came to my assistance, shouting loudly at them: ‘Los hom, hy’s van die pers,’ (‘Leave him; he’s from the press’). I didn't have any authorisation or press identity. It was the last thing on my mind. In the prevailing chaos it did not really matter to anyone.

The mood deepened; the looting and plunder increased, the fires were started in dirt bins and vehicles and in and around shop fronts. The whole area became engulfed in smoke. The police started using teargas and rubber bullets. I did what everyone else did. I fell to the ground, eyes watering and burning from the teargas. I was momentarily blinded. I lay, protecting my head with my hands.

I held on to my camera.

I heard people screaming, shouting, and cursing. The sounds of gunfire. Running footsteps. Then the firing stopped. When I was able to see again I got up and hurried, half running, to a group of policemen standing alongside an armoured car. I had two or three photographs left in the camera, and as I moved warily to the station, across Strand Street, I took the last shots of the group of policemen. There was a look of resignation on a few of their faces, and behind them, a desolate scene of smoke and little burning fires. One of the policemen had a swathe of white bandage about his head. The white of the bandage was reddening.

When friends and colleagues saw the photographs a few days later, they urged me to send them to the newspapers.

But by then, of course, they were old news.

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