The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid: Liberal Humanitarians and Transnational Activists in Britain and the United States, C.1919-64

The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid Liberal Humanitarians and Transnational Activists in Britain and the United States, c.1919–64

Rob Skinner

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The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

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Liberal Humanitarians and Transnational Activists in Britain and the United States, c.1919–64 Rob Skinner Teaching Fellow, Department of Historical Studies, University of Bristol, UK

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The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

© Rob Skinner 2010

No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2010 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries. ISBN 978–0–230–20366–2 hardback This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Skinner, Rob, 1966– The foundations of anti-apartheid : liberal humanitarians and transnational activists in Britain and the United States, c.1919–64 / Rob Skinner. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references. ISBN 978–0–230–20366–2 (hardback) 1. Apartheid—South Africa. 2. Anti-apartheid movements—Great Britain— History. 3. Anti-apartheid movements—United States—History. 4. Political activists—Great Britain—History—20th century. 5. Political activists— United States—History—20th century. 6. Humanitarianism—Political aspects— Great Britain—History—20th century. 7. Humanitarianism—Political aspects— United States—History—20th century. 8. Great Britain—Relations— South Africa. 9. South Africa—Relations—Great Britain. 10. United States— Relations—South Africa. 11. South Africa—Relations—United States. I. Title. DT1757.S59 2011 320.800968'09041—dc22 2010034460 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne

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All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission.

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For Jake, Jessica and Sam

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Acknowledgements

viii

List of Abbreviations

x

1

1

Introduction

2 Humanitarian Networks and Segregation

12

3 South African Liberalism and ‘Friends of Africa’

31

4 Human Rights and Anti-Colonialism

59

5

81

The Nationalist Challenge

6 Sites of Struggle – the Emerging Anti-Apartheid Network 7 8

118

Sharpeville, Sanctions and the Making of a Transnational Movement

156

Epilogue and Conclusion

196

Notes

203

Bibliography

238

Index

253

vii

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Contents

This book is the product of a long process of research, writing and revision. It has taken me on a journey from the innocence of doctoral research to the more constrained, but equally fulfilling, responsibilities of a teacher in Higher Education. Over the past few years, the enthusiasm and intellectual stimulus from students, particularly those at the University of Bristol, has sustained my own enthusiasm for this project. On a practical level, the research for this book would have been impossible without the support of a three-year Studentship, and a postgraduate Fellowship provided by the Economic and Social Research Council; more recently, the research has been supported by the British Academy, whose award of a Small Research Grant allowed me to extend the scope of the book to American activists. My aim in this book is to provide a sketch of the ways in which anti-apartheid was from the outset a transnational phenomenon, and the material support provided by these grants have allowed me to access a wide range of source material across three continents. There is, of course, further research to be undertaken on the ‘pre-history’ of the anti-apartheid movement, and I do not claim that this is an exhaustive account of that history. I can say, however, that I am grateful for the support and advice given by a number of individuals connected with anti-apartheid – most prominently Christabel Gurney, whose own work on the history of the movement reflects both years of dedication to the cause as well as continued efforts to preserve its history through the work of the AAM archives committee. I would like to thank all those individuals who have helped and supported my work at archives in the UK, South Africa and the US. Lucy McCann at the Bodleian Library of Commonwealth and African Studies at Rhodes House, Oxford deserves particular thanks, but I would also like to thank those who offered generous support during archival research in South Africa and the US, notably Michele Pickover, Carol Archibald and Kate Abbot at the Department of Historical Papers, William Cullen Library, University of the Witwatersrand and Chris Harter at the Amistad Research Center, Tulane University. I am also indebted to the help provided by the staff at the Manuscripts and Archives Department at the University of Cape Town, the Andersen Library at the University viii

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Acknowledgements

of Minnesota, and the Alan Paton Centre, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Pietermaritzburg. I must also thank the staff at the Arts and Social Sciences Library at the University of Bristol, the University of Sussex Library and the Lambeth Palace Library. I would like to acknowledge the time, hospitality and encouragement that has been forthcoming from friends and colleagues. I am deeply indebted to Saul Dubow for his support and incisive commentary on my work, and also to Alan Lester, Robert Bickers, Kirsty Reid and Derek Catsam for scholarly advice and friendship. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the support of my family. It is to them I offer my deepest and most affectionate thanks: to my parents, for their unending support and to Kristin Doern, who has shared the process in its entirety, for her encouragement, thoughtful insight, patience and generosity.

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Acknowledgements ix

AAM

Anti-Apartheid Movement (UK)

ACOA

American Committee on Africa

AEM

African Education Movement

AFSAR

Americans for South African Resistance

AME

American Methodist Episcopal Church

ANC

African National Congress

APS

Aborigines Protection Society

BCC

British Council of Churches

CAA

Council on African Affairs

CAO

Committee of African Organisations

CARDS

Campaign Against Racial Discrimination in Sport

CCIA

Commissions of Churches on International Affairs

CCSA

Christian Council of South Africa

COPAI

Congress of Peoples Against Imperialism

CORE

Congress of Racial Equality

CND

Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament

CRJ

Campaign for Right and Justice

FASA

Football Association of South Africa

FIFA

International Federation of Association Football

FOR

Fellowship of Reconciliation

ICAA

International Committee on African Affairs

ICU

Industrial and Commercial Workers’ Union

IDAF

International Defence and Aid Fund

IMC

International Missionary Conference

LMS

London Missionary Society

MCC

Marylebone Cricket Club

x

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List of Abbreviations

MCF

Movement for Colonial Freedom

NAACP

National Association for the Advancement of Colored People

PAC

Pan-Africanist Congress (South Africa)

PSA

Pleasant Sunday Afternoon Brotherhood

SACC

South African Council of Churches

SACI

South African Church Institute

SAIRR

South African Institute of Race Relations

SALP

South African Labour Party

SANNC

South African Natives National Congress

SATLC

South African Trades and Labour Council

SATUC

South African Trades Union Council

SAUF

South African United Front

SPG

Society for the Propagation of the Gospel

TUC

Trades Union Congress (UK)

UDC

Union of Democratic Control

UN

United Nations

UNIA

United Negro Improvement Association

WARS

Western Areas Removal Scheme

WCC

World Council of Churches

WSCF

World Student Christian Federation

YMCA

Young Men’s Christian Association

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List of Abbreviations xi

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1

The pariah state Twentieth-century South Africa is as rich, engaging and challenging a theme as any comparable field of contemporary history. It has been possible to read the broad sweep of events, the trajectory of deeper social and cultural change, and the subjective histories of individual agency that go to make up this history as emblematic of a wider struggle for human freedom, to re-shape the former world of colonialism and empire into a new era marked by universal values of justice and political liberty. It is no coincidence that the demise of the apartheid regime was a factor in the rightly derided notion that the last decade of the twentieth century constituted the ‘end of history’. What better symbol for the ultimate triumph of liberal democracy than the end of apartheid? Although we can easily set aside such a teleological model of history, an exploration of political developments in South Africa over the course of the past century continues to offer a number of challenges for the historian. Looking back over the debates, discussions and outright quarrelling that have shaped our understanding of the South African past, one is struck by the degree of political engagement and activism that has informed this process; there is almost a sense that ‘doing’ South African history requires a statement of intent, of political values and ideology. Perhaps this is no bad thing. It is sufficient to note, however, that behind all this fire and light has been the ever-present theme of apartheid and racial supremacy. It is this issue that has, in many ways understandably, dominated historical research, to the extent that it appears practically – and possibly morally – impossible to consider writing a history of South Africa that is not framed by the question of apartheid. 1

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Introduction

The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

A similar argument may be applied to the way in which South Africa has been positioned within the broader history of the twentieth-century world. All too often, and not simply in popular history or media discourse, South Africa has been treated as an exceptional case, a counterexample to a generalised history of self-determination, decolonisation and the struggle for liberation. In shorthand, the apartheid regime became the pariah state against which the progressive march of democracy and human rights could be measured. In analytical terms, the position of South Africa in the world after 1945 was one shaped by the growing strength of what has been described as the ‘global norm of racial equality’.1 The rise of a normative standard of racial equality coincided with the elaboration of a discourse of human rights associated with the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and with the declining legitimacy of colonial forms of rule. As the biological definition of race ceased to have positive value for the human sciences, so the belief in systems of differentiated sovereignty, based on racialised notions of capacity to rule, gave way to the universal right of self-determination and democratic representation. As a result, the system of apartheid, and the struggle against it, came to occupy a significant position within the moral framework of Western liberal democracy.

The moral cause The moral dimension of anti-apartheid claims is one that signals the legacy of nineteenth-century humanitarianism. As such, campaigns against apartheid must be understood in relation to a tradition of social protest and activism that may be traced back to the anti-slavery campaigns of the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth century. Shared values of solidarity with ‘distant others’ and shared tactics of consumer boycott allied to the lobbying of officials appear to indicate very real connections between the anti-apartheid and its earlier humanitarian forebears. In both cases, the appeal to moral standards of universal justice was central. However, the moral framework for anti-apartheid campaigns was not a straightforward reflection of global norms, let alone an expression of the natural right of liberty. There are some grounds to argue that the moral dimension of antiapartheid was as much functional as it was expressive. In the British case, the fundamentally moralist tone of anti-apartheid campaigns might be seen as a reflection of a political culture that gives special privilege to ‘morally-inspired protest’.2 In a system of residual rights, protest focussed on the ‘higher’ issue of political and social injustice in South

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Africa is accorded greater legitimacy than more base motives of group interest. In this sense, the condemnation of apartheid was contingent upon the rules of public protest in Britain, rather than constituting a fundamental moral issue in itself. However, while this may provide some degree of explanation for the almost universal acceptance of the immorality of apartheid (which was of course entirely separate from debate around the methods required to bring about the demise of the system), it does not provide a sufficient answer to the powerful moral strand within anti-apartheid discourse around the world. Again, part of the answer returns us to the establishment of human rights as a norm for international relations, neatly illustrated by the text and timing of the Declaration of Conscience in 1957 (see Chapter 5). The moral force of anti-apartheid also derived from the characteristics of the prominent individuals around whom the transnational networks of activists began to coalesce during the 1950s. Anglican priests such as Trevor Huddleston, Canon Collins and Michael Scott, although marginalised figures within the church itself, saw anti-apartheid protest as a moral obligation that was at least partly a consequence of their religious vocation. The public profile of such campaigners was also a consequence of the particular symbolic strength of the missionary figure within the South African political imagination. Hendrik Verwoerd, speaking in a radio broadcast to the South African nation in December 1958, talked of the ‘disturbance of misunderstanding’ that ‘foreign’ missionaries had brought in the nineteenth century to South Africa.3 He was reproducing a central theme of nationalist discourse: that liberal humanitarianism propagated by meddling outsiders had been fundamentally destructive to ‘natural’ social relations in Southern Africa. At the same time, of course, Verwoerd was passing judgement upon those contemporary critics of apartheid who had contributed to tensions between the South African government and the ‘English-speaking’ churches. The missionary, as an icon, was a key element of nationalist rhetoric, identified with the misguided liberal policies rejected by the planners of apartheid and seen as a dangerous and destabilising force that provoked unnecessary resistance to government policy. The nineteenth century missionary, encapsulated in the figure of the ‘notorious’ John Philip, was moulded by ‘settler-nationalist’ histories of South Africa into a central actor in the narrative of South African history, as a symbol of the corrupting influence of the liberal tradition.4 The missionary figure became the template by which to define and decry the activities of later Christian anti-apartheid activists. Alexander

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Introduction 3

The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

Steward, for example, in his apologia for apartheid You are Wrong Father Huddleston,5 presented missionaries in the nineteenth century Cape as the architects of a ‘pattern of interference from abroad’ that had continued through to the mid-twentieth century. There was an alternate mythology, however, in which mission humanitarians became the embodiment of a lost tradition of enlightened liberalism – most extensively developed by social and economic historian W. M. Macmillan,6 who presented Philip as ‘the principal means of vindicating and gaining acceptance for the enlightened principles which underlie the advance towards political and social freedom in the Cape Colony’.7 These notions continued to inform South African liberalism well into the 1950s. Indeed, in 1952 both Trevor Huddleston and Ambrose Reeves had identified themselves with Margaret Ballinger’s public call for a return to ‘the liberal tradition that prevailed for so many years in the Cape Colony’.8 The anti-apartheid priests of the 1950s thus saw themselves among the defenders of the Cape tradition, and found themselves cast in a role pre-determined (if not over-determined) by competing historiographical traditions. They occupied a space in social and political networks that was already a site of conflict between two major and mutually antagonistic white intellectual positions. The activist Christian priests of the late 1940s and 1950s therefore stepped into a role that was in part pre-determined by historical convention and deeply inscribed by conflicting versions of the South African past. The moral force of the anti-apartheid movement might therefore be seen as deriving from the nature of some of its most prominent pioneers, who were themselves cast in symbolic roles determined by the contesting political discourses within South Africa. The centrality of Christian activists in the emergence of anti-apartheid also, however, demonstrates the material importance of religious networks in the shaping and reshaping of the moral debate around racial segregation and apartheid. Church and mission networks provided well-established international channels for the exchange of information, ideas and material resources, as well as enabling the movement of individuals between South Africa and the outside world. This was true of powerful institutions such as the Anglican Church and missionary organisations, which included (at the start of the twentieth century) black institutions such as the American Methodist Episcopalian Church. It was also the case that, in the earliest stages of its formation, the transnational anti-apartheid network was able to draw particular support from Christian pacifist movements, notably the International Fellowship of Reconciliation, whose

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members provided a network of contacts between the US, South Africa and Britain. The anti-apartheid movement was thus provided with both a moral and material framework by Christian and mission networks. The movement was not a development of Christian networks alone, however, for it emerged out of the intersection between the webs of Christian, anti-colonial and the internationalist Left networks. It is clear, however, that the anti-apartheid movement provides an illustration of the ways in which networks of activists contribute to, rather than merely reflect, normative changes.

Anti-apartheid and global networks One of the fundamental aims of the anti-apartheid movement was, of course, the isolation of South Africa, politically, economically and culturally. While the degree to which this was successful, measured in terms of its tangible effect on the apartheid state, will no doubt continue to be a subject for debate,9 the ambition itself demonstrates the extent to which South Africa was (or was felt to be) an integral part of global networks of power. Histories of the British empire have highlighted the strategic, cultural and social significance of South Africa, with much emphasis on the way British imperialism was crucial to the formation of the modern South African state in the years preceding, and in the aftermath of, the South African war of 1899–1902.10 Discussion of Anglo-South African diplomatic relations – from Union in 1910 to the severing of Commonwealth links in 1961 – has likewise testified to the continuing importance of South Africa for British officials.11 For some time now, historians have cast empire in terms of the inter-linked networks of trade, ideas and culture, marked by the movement and interaction of officials, settlers and ‘gentlemanly capitalists’.12 The value of South Africa to these patterns of exchange is evident in its integration within ‘imperial networks’, which developed in the nineteenth century, but maintained their strength through to the years following the Second World War.13 The emergence of the anti-apartheid movement from the 1960s has also tended to be defined in terms of the activities of networks that created space for the development of a new ‘transnational political culture’ in the late-twentieth century.14 It is even possible to argue, as Thörn does by implication, that the development of the anti-apartheid movement demonstrates the link between this new form of political culture and the process of decolonisation. In Britain, then, opposition

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Introduction 5

The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

to apartheid – as an embodiment of the inherent racism and oppression of colonialism – may be seen as one of a series of crucial factors that shaped the emergence of a radical, anti-authoritarian, political culture during the 1960s.15 The transnational connections that were crucial to the development of anti-apartheid were not, however, without precedent. While Thörn argues, following Keck and Sikkink, that the emergence of transnational anti-apartheid networks from the 1960s transformed the power of human rights discourse, it is important to understand that these networks had long historical roots reaching back to nineteenth century humanitarianism. As Klotz has suggested, the ‘experiences of the abolitionists and anti-apartheid activists call into question the novelty of contemporary globalization’.16 This is not to suggest that anti-apartheid was part of a golden thread of activism that stretched from the campaign against slavery, but that a history of the transnational anti-apartheid movement illustrates the transition from imperial networks to global civil society. The transnational connections that helped shape the anti-apartheid movement developed from the array of connections – official and informal, economic and political, material and ideological – that were formed through the elaboration of imperial authority during the nineteenth century. Work on mission humanitarians, for example, suggests that networks ‘distinguishable largely by the centrality of principled ideas or values’ have long played a significant role in mediating South African connections with the outside world.17 Just as Keck and Sikkink suggest that modern ‘advocacy networks’ extend opportunities for access to international systems of power and the mobilisation of resources, so interconnected networks – be they humanitarian reformers, officials, or settlers – provided access to an imperial space in which ideas about power, property and identity were contested and constructed. As Lester has shown, tensions between the ‘competing discourses of colonialism’ that circulated through imperial networks became evident when humanitarian reform and mission Christian universalism were supplanted by settler representations of inherent racial difference. In both cases, we see the intersection of metropolitan and colonial discourses within an imperial frame of reference.18 To an extent, the model of transnational networks provided by Keck and Sikkink offers a conceptual framework within which to understand the historical networks explored by Lester, Hall and others. However, there are key distinctions, not least around the ways in which networks affect notions of sovereignty. For Lester, whose work concludes with a

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discussion of the extension of sovereignty in the eastern Cape, imperial networks were a space in which ideas about the technology of government were forged with reference to a developing sense of ‘Britishness’. For Keck and Sikkink, advocacy networks operate in a space in which notions of sovereignty have begun to be undermined, or at least have become an issue for debate.19 Imperial networks, then, helped shape ideas of ‘Britishness’, strengthening and extending national sovereignty. Transnational networks, meanwhile, operating in what might be called ‘global civil society’, undermine the value of national identities and sovereignty. The intersection between global discourses of rights and national discourses of identity and sovereignty are therefore of some significance for a study of the development of anti-apartheid. As Thörn contends, an examination of the anti-apartheid movement forces us to address the ‘Eurocentrism’ evident in some studies of social movements, in which movements are connected with particular stages of social and economic ‘development’.20 It also requires us to confront the ways in which questions about sovereignty and national identity form critical points of tension in networks that connect activists in the ‘north’ with those in the ‘south’.21

Nationalism and solidarity Thörn asserts that the key principle around which transnational antiapartheid activism formed, the ‘central identity concept’ of the movement, was ‘solidarity’.22 The concept, however, is difficult to define, and Thörn identifies a number of approaches to ‘solidarity’ in the testimonies of activists, ranging from a sense of collective self-interest, through Christian (or humanist) identification with the suffering of others, or a kind of ideological affinity in practice. These multiple meanings signal, for Thörn, a tension between the universalist implications of solidarity as a community of shared ambitions and ideals, and the particularism evident in the sense of solidarity defined as one group of national citizens ‘working for’ South African movements. Behind the assertion of solidarity there was, therefore, the unarticulated but problematic question of national identity. One definition of nationalism sees it as a set of ‘social claims’ articulated in the name of a wider population.23 The claims of anti-colonial nationalism focussed on political rights within particular territories, and international anti-apartheid networks could do no more than support those claims. There was, nevertheless a language of ‘identification’ employed by those outside South Africa who sought to further

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Introduction 7

The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

the democratic and sovereign rights of South Africa’s disenfranchised black population (and those who did so within South Africa). Thus, the transnational anti-apartheid movement incorporated a contradiction between the universalist, moral, democratic rights emphasised by international solidarity movements and the more particularist, ‘people’s right to govern’ emphasis of Congress. One interpretation of this contradiction leads towards an assertion of the fundamental rapacity of Western movements, both official and informal. British groups such as the Africa Bureau, for example, could therefore be seen as part of a wider process by which anti-colonial nationalism was ‘recast’ by a variety of means that ranged from accommodation through to outright suppression.24 This argument takes us to the fringes of credibility, assuming as it does a kind of monolithic colonialist enterprise that enveloped all forms of interaction with the political movements in the south. However, there is some merit in considering the ways in which the nascent anti-apartheid movement was part of a broader metropolitan tendency to discipline anti-colonial movements. Support was, for example, linked to a series of continually monitored measures – the advocacy of non-violent resistance, the emphasis upon liberal rather than socialist internationalism, and the rejection of Communist influence. To a degree, then, anti-apartheid activism during the 1950s was marked by a form of attenuated solidarity, which privileged certain groups and figures over others – the Congress Movement, not the Unity Movement, for example. Of particular importance was the influence of Albert Lutuli, who as President of Congress represented a form of Christian, non-violent resistance to apartheid that was highly attractive to international observers. When Lutuli was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1960, it was for his ‘fearless and incorruptible’ advocacy of non-violent protest in the pursuit of justice.25 As much as it celebrated the force of peaceful resistance, the award also signalled fears of a descent into violent racial conflict. However, for many anti-apartheid activists, the concept of solidarity was defined by identification with the aspirations of anti-colonial nationalism. This was of particular significance in the mid-1950s, when African nationalism was viewed by many as a dangerous phenomenon. Against the example of the non-violent civil disobedience of the Defiance Campaign, for example, could be set the alleged horrors and barbarism of the Mau Mau uprising in Kenya. Solidarity with anti-colonial nationalism in South Africa was, therefore, a radical move that nevertheless sought to make demands of nationalists themselves, as the ‘objects’ of solidarity. Identification with a peoples’ struggle for

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Introduction 9

Channels of influence – the emergence of anti-apartheid networks The structure of this book follows the shifting patterns of influence that shaped the informal networks of political activists that developed between South Africa and the wider world during the twentieth century. The focus is, however, predominantly upon those networks of groups and individuals that connected British and American activists with their South African counterparts. This is, in part, a reflection of the particular significance of the two former countries with regard to channels of political, economic and social influence and exchange. The first two chapters deal with the development of these networks prior to the Second World war, exploring the ways in which activists commented on, and sought to influence, the debate surrounding the system of racial segregation that was established in South Africa in the first half of the century. The early stages of this process saw a transformation in the role of the humanitarian networks in the wake of the South African war. While, as was noted above, the influence of mission humanitarians had diminished over the course of the nineteenth century, they remained a powerful voice in debates on South African affairs. At the turn of the twentieth century, segregationist ideas began to be shaped out of competing discourses on the ‘Native Question’; a set of policies thus emerged that sought to reconcile the humanitarian urge to protect the welfare of indigenous peoples with the need to provide a stable working force for an industrial economy. Imperial ties nevertheless remained an important point of reference for African nationalists, at least until the First World War. The contradictions between this residual faith in the liberal heart of empire and the attraction of segregationist policies for humanitarians resulted in the declining importance of older imperial networks, as the usefulness of the tactics of personal intervention and petition was exhausted. The development of black responses to the emergence of segregation was influenced in part by mission networks, whose institutions provided a wide range of resources for the small but influential body of educated African leaders who provided the foundations of black politics. Ideological influences came also from African American sources, some of which, such

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universal values of freedom and democratic rights was a vital foundation of anti-apartheid, but one that also laid the basis for tension between the solidarity and liberation movements over the form and ideological aims of their struggle.

The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

as the Africanism of Henry Turner and the American Methodist Episcopal church, provided a radical alternative to white mission Christianity. At the same time, the accomodationist stance of Booker T. Washington won the admiration of both paternalist white liberals and more moderate black leaders. While the radical Africanism of Marcus Garvey had a significant impact on the development of nationalist politics in South Africa in the 1920s, the moderate model of social reform embodied in the ‘adapted education’ developed at the Tuskegee Institute, Alabama, was a strong influence on mission-liberal thinking in South Africa. The experiences of YMCA Secretary Max Yergan in South Africa during the 1920s demonstrate how liberal segregationist thought was a powerful influence on international observers, while at the same time showing that the practical manifestation of segregation could effect the radicalisation of moderate African Americans. While some South African liberals were likewise raising concerns regarding the impact of segregation in practice, more conservative figures associated with the Joint Council movement and the South African Institute of Race Relations exerted a considerable influence over groups in both the US and Britain. The inter-war years also saw, however, the emergence of new international networks, notably those associated with an emerging ecumenical movement, but also those associated with the internationalist Left and its developing critique of colonialism. The third chapter discusses the impact of wartime debates around social reconstruction and the emergence of the United Nations (UN) as a forum for the discussion of issues of rights, justice and democracy. During the early 1940s, many began to see the war as an opportunity for broad social and political reconstruction. In the US, radical organisations such as the Council on African Affairs, formed by Yergan and the singer and activist Paul Robeson, sought to link anti-colonial campaigns with those for domestic civil rights. In South Africa, there was widespread debate around the possibilities for change, stimulated by the rhetoric of the Atlantic Charter, and the possible shift in segregationist policy signalled by the relaxation of the Pass Laws. While this liberal moment in South Africa was brief, it did arouse the social and political awareness of individuals who would become prominent and pioneering members of the post-war anti-apartheid network. At the same time, the foundation of the UN, despite the obvious ambiguities of its founding Charter, provided a space for the development of a discourse of human rights. The UN provided the stage for international criticism of South Africa, even before the National Party’s election victory of 1948 brought the policy of apartheid to public attention.

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In the immediate post-war years, as the slogan of apartheid was moulded into a system of racial segregation founded upon the notion of ‘separate development’, a transnational network of activists began to crystallise around the concept of solidarity. While this suggests a reactive process, in which events in South Africa were the stimulus for developments elsewhere, the anti-apartheid movement was also built on the foundations laid by pre-existing networks. There were, nevertheless, significant differences that marked emergent anti-apartheid networks from their forebears, not least the diminishing influence of liberal groups as Western observers aligned themselves with nationalist ambitions. The final three chapters examine the emergence of this network and show how the ideological and tactical framework of anti-apartheid was established in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Starting with the Defiance Campaign of 1952, which mobilised Western activists in support of participants in South Africa’s first mass civil disobedience movement, the discussion turns to the elaboration of the repertoire of action that would characterise the anti-apartheid movement. In addition to an organised policy of publicity generation, in which activists sought to appeal directly to global public opinion, the late 1950s also saw the development of systems of financial assistance, most extensively in response to the mass arrests of Congress activists in late 1956. The period also saw calls for a cultural boycott of South Africa, and then in 1959, the launch of the consumer boycott movement that would metamorphose into the Anti-Apartheid Movement in 1960. The final chapter details the formation of the movement in the wake of the Sharpeville crisis, and how the campaign for government sanctions, the key platform of anti-apartheid activity, was established between 1960 and 1964.

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Introduction 11

Humanitarian Networks and Segregation

Introduction: The Native Question in international context Prior to the establishment of the Union of South Africa in 1910, international organisations and networks played a significant role in the politics of the region. While local elites, settler power and the increasingly marginalised but tangible force of indigenous groups were key to the shaping of modern South Africa, the relationship between these internal forces and the wider international community was also of immense importance. As Alan Lester has shown, the contest between settler opinion and the humanitarian ‘imperial networks’ of the midnineteenth century was a crucial factor in the politics of the Cape, while Martin Legassick long ago highlighted the role played by British imperialism in the development of segregationist policy following the South African War. The imperial factor has, of course long been debated by historians of South Africa, but beyond the boundaries of empire – formal and informal – South Africa has been shaped by, and has helped to shape, the wider world. Most obviously, of course, South African gold provided the impetus for industrialisation and shifted the locus of local power and authority, while ensuring the region remained a focus of imperial attention. Union itself would transform South African relations with the wider world, attenuating British imperial power, while improving opportunities for American trade and business contacts. Even before this, however, the development of racial segregation in South Africa had begun to shape the framework within which international contacts would develop. This chapter explores those networks that facilitated the communication of ideas, mutual support and the forging of political alliances between individuals and organisations in Britain, the US and 12

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Humanitarian Networks and Segregation 13

International views on Native Policy and the South African War One of the three major wars of the era of industrialisation and the first stage of globalisation, its co-incidence with the high-point of late nineteenth-century imperialism serves to make the conflict one of the most widely debated topics in South African history. As an event of apparently climactic importance in the trajectory of empire, it intersected with a range of hopes and fears for Britain’s imperial and national future. For opponents of the war, fought under the glare of modern media publicity, it provided evidence that the malevolent influence of international capitalism lay behind British imperialist expansion; other critics were simply disturbed by the seemingly immoral methods employed by imperial forces in their attempts to subdue Afrikaner resistance after 1900. For some the moral case for war was obvious – Anglicans in both South Africa and Britain held that the central justification for war was that it was in the interest of Africans, a ‘holy war’, as one Anglican missionary put it, to determine whether black South Africans were ‘to be looked upon as beasts of burden or human beings’.1 Speaking in the Lords at the outbreak of war, Lord Salisbury stated that it was the future task of Britain to ensure that ‘due precaution will be taken for the philanthropic and kindly and improving treatment of those countless indigenous races of whose destiny, I fear, we have been too forgetful’.2 British churches (the Anglican Church in particular) and their missionary societies were, as Cuthbertson has argued, deeply involved in the construction of a ‘domestic imperial culture’.3 This was thanks in part due to their structural form, with stable institutional bases in both Britain and South Africa, churches, especially those with strong missionary interests, were well-placed to facilitate the exchange between metropole and periphery. These ‘imperial networks’ had, in the early part of the nineteenth century, promoted a humanitarian impulse within official circles and colonial administration,4 yet were also spaces of contest between metropolitan and settler ideologies. The relative decline of humanitarian influence by the turn of the twentieth century is illustrated by the way in which the Anglican Church in South Africa

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South Africa during the years leading up to, and immediately following, the Union. These early transnational networks appeared to have made a significant contribution to the developing discourse that came to be known as the ‘Native Question’.

The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

found sympathy with colonial racial sentiments and did not press its calls for justice and equal rights on the conclusion of hostilities.5 Recent studies have cast the relationship between mission and empire as complex and ambiguous, one in which retrospective understanding of missionaries as agents of colonialism must be tempered by the knowledge that evangelical Christianity was at times highly suspicious of imperialism.6 Thus, while many Christians supported the war, and indeed embraced the militant culture of late nineteenth-century imperialism (it has been estimated that the number of Wesleyan Methodists in the military increased twofold in the last decade of the century),7 humanitarian sentiment and opposition to the war was to a large extent underpinned by religion. Nonconformist churches in particular have been seen as embodying ‘the conscience of imperialism’ in their responses to the war, although even here the opposition to the war must be seen as relatively weak.8 Nevertheless, religion played a central role in framing debate around imperialism more broadly, as well as critical responses to the war.9 Beyond this, however, lay the perceived moral obligation to monitor the treatment of indigenous peoples subject to political, social and spiritual transformation. The humanitarian lobby, often closely associated with (although not synonymous with) mission circles and Christian opinion, was particularly keen to emphasise the moral responsibilities implied by Salisbury, and took the question of ‘native welfare’ as their primary concern. Groups such as the Aborigines Protection Society (APS) welcomed the rhetoric of a war fought in the interests of Africans, but were less interested in debating the relative merits of British claims of superiority when it came to the actual treatment of the black population. In March 1900, the annual meeting of the APS in London expressed its support for Salisbury’s statement, and warned of the need for metropolitan observers to monitor the drift towards oligarchy in colonial territories lest ‘veiled forms of slavery’ be introduced. A further conference in April discussed plans for securing the ‘just treatment’ of Africans in South Africa, to ensure that ‘there should be no sacrificing of the native to the greed of European traders, or to the mining adventurer or company promoter, and that there should be no surrender to any local colonial Government with regard to the rights of the natives’, while for Samuel Cronwright-Schreiner (Olive Schreiner’s husband and an associate of J. A. Hobson), ‘the native question in South Africa was simply the labour question’.10 One might be tempted to emphasise the continuities between these comments and the rhetoric of sanctions and anti-apartheid campaigns

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some eight decades later, and to argue that late twentieth-century movements merely recycled definitions of colonial injustice. Indeed, the war may be seen as a key factor in the development of an intellectual tradition of anti-imperialism that sought to emphasise the relationship between the expansion of political and economic control with particular sections of business – most notably financiers, ‘the central ganglion of international capitalism’.11 While Hobson’s theoretical understanding of imperialism had roots in Cobdenite liberalism and drew on critiques that pre-dated the war, his own experiences as a journalist in South Africa during the early stages of the war had a powerful influence.12 This sense of a war initiated at the behest of capitalism reflected a trend in British opinion that could be traced back at least as far as the Jameson Raid in 1896,13 colourfully exemplified by Olive Schreiner’s comment to Jan Smuts that the failure of the Raid had been a ‘stab in the vitals of the international capitalist horde’.14 The connection had been made: South Africa had become, in the wake of the mineral revolution, an international battleground, both figuratively and literally. If industry and enterprise were seen as the dominant influence on imperialist intervention in South Africa, it was clear that the indigenous population would be a cornerstone of industrial development. As LMS missionary W. C. Willoughby put it, in his address to the International Student Missionary Conference in London in 1900, the ‘brain of South African industry’ was white, but its ‘brawn is covered in a black skin’ and the ‘problem is to harmonise brain and brawn’.15 As British control became established in the Transvaal, and thoughts turned increasingly to reconstruction, the relationship between ‘native welfare’ and the needs of industry continued to be a central concern of metropolitan humanitarians. In a letter to the Times in London, APS Secretary H. R. Fox Bourne called on the British government to protect the interests of black South Africans or face the accusation that ‘all our pretensions of humanity towards the South African natives as a warrant for the war will be falsified’. He warned of the dangers in a policy that would subordinate indigenous welfare to the material interests of colonial enterprise: The capitalists make no secret of their desire to coerce the natives into supplying them with plenty of cheap labour, and specious talk about the advantage of familiarising savages with ‘the dignity of labour’ and so forth is offered in excuse of schemes for converting the machinery of government into an organisation for the collection and management of all compulsory service that the employers require.16

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Humanitarian Networks and Segregation 15

The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

He suggested that churches should apply pressure so that ‘the interests of the black inhabitants shall be as well-cared for and promoted as those of the whites’, and specifically, that areas of the Transvaal be set aside as reserves, and that Pass controls and other laws in the Transvaal be changed so as to establish civil rights in line with those established in the Cape. The same claims were addressed to Chamberlain in a letter to the Colonial Secretary, calling on the British government to ensure that ‘natives shall enjoy full personal liberty’ and that care be taken to ensure that Africans were not ‘sacrificed to the greed of mine-owners and other employers of labour’.17 The idea of territorial reservation thus emerged as a foundation of the humanitarian lobby’s desire to protect indigenous groups in the wake of the war, although the issue of forced labour continued to be of major interest.18 It seems that this lobbying was indeed powerful enough to have some influence on the debate surrounding reconstruction in South Africa, where plans to rebuild the country on industrial foundations were seen as dependent upon securing a stable black labour force. Plans for the regulation of African workers, laid out in a parliamentary paper in January 1902, showed that Milner, while critical of the Society’s tone, was ‘in general agreement with the principles’ of Fowell Buxton’s letter to Chamberlain.19 The creation of an industrial proletariat, the ways in which ‘the Native’ could be reconstituted as a worker and organised into a disciplined workforce, was a key aspect of an emerging socio-political discourse of ‘Native Affairs’ in post-war South Africa. As Ashforth noted, plans for reconstruction had to avoid any resemblance with forced labour, lest it might arouse the sensitivities of metropolitan humanitarians such as the APS.20 Ashforth regarded the debate on the ‘Native problem’ in the wake of the war as an illustration of the emerging struggle between conflicting discourses on the South African ‘native’ – between missionaries, the historical architects of knowledge about ‘Native Life’, whose intercessory role within the colonial state was embodied in their expression of the need of black welfare, and the emerging secular discourse of the ‘Native Question’, concerned with finding a solution to the labour needs of industry and the state. Key to this solution, it seemed, was a system of ‘differential sovereignty’,21 the parallel organisation of spatial, social and political divisions centred on the construction of ‘Native’ society founded on traditions grounded in ancestral territory. Such was the system that began to emerge in the years leading up to the Union, in official institutions such as the South African Native Affairs Commission (1903–5) and in the ideas espoused by individuals such as the Quaker J. Howard Pim: a segregation policy that came to be

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seen as central to the modernisation of both economy and State in South Africa.22 In terms of the attitudes of British officials, it has been suggested that the emergence of segregationist policy influenced the decision not to hand over control of the Protectorates (of Swaziland, Bechuanaland and Basutoland) at the establishment of the Union in 1910. Continued British control meant that some leverage with regard to policy could be retained in London, but it could also be construed as an attempt to ensure that segregation would be ‘more fully implemented against the class interests of landless whites’.23 Territorial segregation underpinned by ‘reserves’ thus emerged in aftermath of war as a policy that appeared to satisfy the needs of colonial officials, industry and metropolitan humanitarians. It is clear that the war played a crucial role in shaping the course of twentieth-century racial policy in South Africa. Its importance in shaping popular attitudes towards imperialism within Britain has become broadly accepted, although not uncontested. Historians have in the past sought to measure the popularity of the war in terms of its impact on the working class,24 but more recent work has focussed instead on the form in which the public encountered the conflict, publicised through popular entertainment, or even consumed as a market commodity. As Thompson argues, British society was unquestionably affected by the war, whatever its degree of popularity.25 The ‘Boer War’ thus established a place in the British cultural landscape, in which its meanings, while not consistent through time or universally held, did create a symbolic framework around which conceptions of the nature of the South African political, social and economic landscape were constructed. The resolution of the conflict was seen as a triumph of progress – the first ‘New South Africa’ of the twentieth century became a symbol of ‘racial’ reconciliation between Boer and Briton. However, of the other racial fissures in South Africa, little was heard. Moral and humanitarian objections to the war were invariably focussed on proBoer sympathies and horror at the ‘barbarism’ employed to subdue the die-hard Boer guerrillas. The metropolitan humanitarian lobby (and its white American equivalent), seemingly influential in the debate around post-war reconstruction and the ‘Native Question’, remained an established authority with regard to African welfare and ‘rights’. These issues, which might be seen as an expression of the moral responsibility of empire, would, however, need to compete with the demands of industrial interests and the realities of local politics. Meanwhile, black South Africans were developing their own political institutions, drawing international support

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from ‘traditional’ metropolitan circles as well as (often more radical) African American leaders.

The question of ‘Native Labour’ continued to be a concern of the humanitarian lobby in London in the years between the end of the South African war and Union in 1910. In the aftermath of the war, however, popular attention was diverted from South Africa to the character of Belgian colonial administration in central Africa. Formed in 1904, the Congo Reform Association, led by Edmund Morel, was at the forefront of the campaign against forced labour in the Congo that has been seen as filling a ‘political vacuum’, as Britain’s moral authority diminished following the South African war.26 Missionaries played a key role in the mobilisation of public opinion on the Congo issue, and the identification of mission-Christians with a campaign for ‘redemption of “civilisation” on the Congo’ was a critical factor in the popularity of the campaign.27 Moreover, the campaign had broad international appeal, drawing support from continental Europe and the US, visited by Morel in 1904. There, he encouraged the formation of an American Congo Reform Association whose leading supporters included Mark Twain and Booker T. Washington.28 Even before the South African War, American influence on the development of African nationalist ideologies in South Africa was profound. In both America and South Africa, the framework of black political ambitions was shaped by a dominant white supremacy, and the dilemmas faced by black leaders – political rights versus social and economic ‘betterment’, racial solidarity versus a more integrationist approach – were similar.29 Many of the early leaders of African political opinion in South Africa looked to the African American experience and political agendas, while Africa played an increasingly important role in the thinking of African American leaders, as illustrated by the 1895 ‘Congress on Africa and the American Negro’, held in Atlanta. A key theme of this meeting, running through the contributions of black missionaries such as Edward Blyden and Alexander Crummell, was a belief that African-Americans were poised to play a significant role in the world; as one speaker put it, the ‘question now is not what shall be done with the Negro, but what will the Negro do with himself, his privileges and opportunities?’30 As such, speakers tended to see the question of the civilising mission in Africa in terms of its contribution to the improvement of race relations within America; playing a role in the ‘redemption

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African nationalism in international context

of Africa’ was a task in which African-Americans could take their place alongside Christians from across the world, and strengthen their position in American society.31 As Noer notes, increasing interest in Africa gave rise to discussion of the methods by which this task should be undertaken.32 Coming within weeks of Booker T. Washington’s ‘Atlanta Compromise’ (and part of the same Cotton States and International Exposition at which Washington spoke), speakers endorsed the doctrine of self-improvement and industrial education espoused by Washington; as William Taylor put it – ‘teaching industries develops self-support’.33 Another strand of African-American opinion was also present at the Atlanta Congress, represented by Crummell, Blyden and the American Methodist Episcopal (AME) Bishop Henry Turner. His address to the conference outlined his pessimistic view of the possibilities for advancement and equality within the US, and sought to present the feasibility of his scheme for the repatriation of African Americans. In direct contradiction of Washington’s apolitical stance, Turner argued that ‘to stay out of politics is to level himself with a horse or a cow, which is no politician, and the Negro who does it proclaims his inability to take part in political affairs’.34 Turner, Crummell and Blyden can be regarded as icons of black nationalism, whose elaboration of an ‘Africanist’ ideology provided the foundations for the anti-colonial and anti-racist movements of the twentieth century. Their political philosophy was far from straightforward however, and their repudiation of American liberty and democracy for the promise of a mythologised Africa was constrained by the contradictory nature of their desire to engage in a process of ‘civilisation’ in Africa.35 In the year following the ‘Africa and the American Negro’ Congress, the AME Church had established a connection with dissident black Methodist clergy in South Africa, and Turner himself visited South Africa in 1898 in order to establish a South African branch of the AME Church, which rapidly expanded into a large Christian movement that would come to be seen as a distinct challenge to white authority.36 The American influence on the broader development of African organisations in South Africa is undeniable – Pixley Seme, who played a leading role in the establishment of the South African Natives National Congress (SANNC) in 1912, had attended Columbia University, while the first president-general of the Congress was the US-educated American Board Missionary John Dube. However, it was the ‘accomodationist’ self-improvement ideal of Booker T. Washington that inspired the conservative Dube. Washington’s plan for ‘industrial education’, based on the model of the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama, had significant impact

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Humanitarian Networks and Segregation 19

The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid

on those engaged with the ‘Native Question’ in South Africa and in Britain. For officials and white missionaries, the ‘Tuskegee model’ and Washington’s disavowal of political rights offered a programme that could strengthen social control and assist in the formation of a labour force. It was a major influence on the thinking of the missionary and principal of Lovedale School in the Eastern Cape James Henderson, as well as shaping aspects of the educational philosophy of John Tengu Jabavu, pioneering leader of African opinion whose accomodationist approach brought him into conflict with more radical black leaders.37 Similarly, Washington’s ideas were the inspiration for the Ohlange Institute in Natal, established in 1909 by Dube, while D. D. T. Jabavu (the son of John Tengo) and Alfred Xuma were enthusiastic advocates of the Tuskegee philosophy.38 As Walshe suggests, mission Christianity had a dual effect upon African society, acting both as a cohesive force, binding individuals together in a sense of spiritual fraternity, but also in some cases as a disintegrative force, undermining structures of political allegiance.39 It also had the tendency to highlight the limits of white Christian society, as the narrow scope for economic and political participation in colonial society was revealed. From the latter years of the nineteenth century, churches and Christian institutions became ‘sites of struggle’ and the focus of tensions between African ambitions and the instinctive paternalism of white mission Christians. Christian attitudes towards the ‘Native Question’ were, increasingly, influenced by the theology of Social Gospel, which emphasised the need to address social distress as a necessary precursor to individual redemption, and looked to social reform as a tool to build the Kingdom of God. Emerging in the late nineteenth century as a progressive and collectivist response to industrialisation and the rapid expansion of urban areas, Social Gospel at times bordered upon a form of Christian Marxism. One of its main proponents, Walter Rauschenbusch, described how the ‘splendid ideal of a fraternal organisation of society’ required the support of the working class, ‘struggling to secure better conditions of life, an assured status for its class organisations, and ultimately the ownership of the means of production’.40 Social Gospel, with its belief that Christianity could be a facilitator of moral, economic and political renewal in industrial societies, was particularly attractive to missionaries working in urban centres. Seeking to reconcile notions of the ‘civilising mission’ with scientific theories of development, those calling for a greater social activism from missions warned of the need to avoid any tendency to ‘denationalize native races and interfere unnecessarily with social environment’.41 The South African interpretation of Social

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Gospel, rather than being revolutionary, tended to align itself therefore with the ‘Tuskegee Model’. It was Christian separatism rather than Christian socialism that was the greatest concern of South African officials. The emergence of separatist African churches from the 1880s was a clear signal of the disillusionment of African ministers over the limitations upon their advancement in the church hierarchy and the apparent contradiction between Christian brotherhood and the racial prejudice evident within mission circles; the so-called Ethiopian secessions represented a burgeoning discontent among African Christians that can be understood as a form of resistance to both cultural imperialism and material dispossession.42 The establishment of independent ‘Ethiopian’ churches was linked to the work of African American missionaries whose sympathies lay with the Africanist ideas of Turner and the AME Church. The fear of black militancy (particularly in the wake of the Bambata Rebellion in 1906) led to increasing constraints on African American missionaries in the first decade of the century.43 While the presence of African Americans within South Africa was seen as a destabilising force, the Southern States of the US came to be seen as an example of the necessity for segregation within South Africa. The US thus became, in the eyes of white South African observers, a cautionary tale, where repression and violence were the ultimate consequences of an ill-conceived policy of political equality.44 While many white commentators expressed fear that the separatist churches were but one dimension of a general ‘black peril’, their political consciousness displayed enough ambiguity to warrant the South African Native Affairs Commission to declare that it did not view the separatist churches as a subversive social threat.45 The influence of African American missionaries and the danger of separatist churches could easily be exaggerated, however, and the Ethiopian churches have been seen as evincing apolitical and loyalist tendencies that were a product of their ‘cultural insularity in the face of oppression’.46 The ties of racial solidarity between South Africa and America were oftentimes less significant in the early development of black nationalist ideology than the perception of ideals shared with the imperial centre. In the Cape, as with the humanitarian lobby in London, it had been assumed that British victory in the South African war would result in the extension of the political rights across South Africa. The failure of the British government in this regard – first, in the peace terms agreed at the conclusion of the war, and then when responsible government was granted in the Transvaal and Orange River Colony in 1907 – dealt a significant blow to the loyalism of nationalist

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Humanitarian Networks and Segregation 21

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leaders. Nevertheless, appeals to the imperial centre continued to be a central strategy of black politics in the years up to, and after, the Act of Union in 1910. In a series of petitions, reflecting opinion from across South African territories, African leaders expressed their dismay at the direction of imperial policy in the years following the Union, noting that failure to extend the franchise meant that Africans were being left at the mercy of settler injustice and race prejudice, and condemned to the iniquity of taxation without representation.47 A sympathetic interpretation of the British government’s actions was that it was convinced that the Union alone would secure the advancement of black South Africans, and that limitations on the franchise was the price that had to be paid in order to ensure the Union. The retention of control over the Protectorates of Swaziland, Bechuanaland and Basutoland would maintain a degree of leverage over the South African government.48 For Africans and metropolitan humanitarians, the debate surrounding the Union marked a watershed in the relationship between Britain and South Africa. The failure of the multi-racial delegation led by the ex-Prime Minister of the Cape W. P. Schreiner and black political leaders, including Abdullah Abdurahman, J. T. Jabavu and Walter Rubusana (the latter two representing distinct strands of black opinion, and Abdurahman the African Peoples’ Organisation), who petitioned parliament in London in 1909, demonstrated that the political grievances of Africans were to be of secondary importance in the politics of Anglo-South African relations. The creation of the Union of South Africa in 1910 meant that the appeal to the imperial centre, the characteristic mode of nineteenthcentury campaigners, ceased to have any practical purpose in terms of direct impact on the political process. The argument that Britain could and should be both a forum for and an influence upon South African political debate nevertheless retained some strength in the short term. To a degree, this reflected the fact that London was not simply the centre of imperial power, but an increasingly important locus of panAfrican activities – as illustrated by the Pan-Africanist Congresses held in the city in the first decade of the twentieth century. Since the 1890s, London had also seen the emergence of black-led groups, such as the African Association, that had begun to provide an outlet for criticism of South African race policies.49 Most metropolitan interest in South African affairs, however, was centred on humanitarian circles, whose campaigns tended to reflect their paternalist sense of universal moral responsibility and were limited to those territories under the authority of the British government.

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Humanitarian Networks and Segregation 23

The application of segregationist ideas to government policy followed quickly after the Union. Racial segregation in the industrial workplace was given a framework by the Mines and Work Act of 1911, but it was the Natives (Land) Act of 1913 that established a key foundation of twentieth-century South African racial policy. Setting aside approximately 7 per cent of South African land as ‘Native’ reserves, the act established the principle of territorial segregation. As a statement of the political objectives of the new Union, the Act was met with dismay by black leaders on both sides of the Atlantic. In the US, W. E. B. Du Bois was unsurprisingly forthright in his dismissal of the Land Act as ‘civilisation … by means of theft, disenfranchisement, and slavery’.50 As Noer concludes, the differences between the more ‘honest’ segregationist policies of South Africa and the underhand segregation of the American south were, to black observers, merely semantic. In South Africa, the Act prompted a split in the black political elite, as J. T. Jabavu maintained his support for the Act’s main architect, and his own long-term political ally, J. W. Sauer. With some of his own supporters, and with the recently formed Natives National Congress publicly opposed to the Act, Jabavu’s standing as a leader of African opinion ebbed.51 Opposition to the Act was nevertheless qualified, as leaders such as Jabavu made clear that Africans had no objection – in principle – to segregation.52 The notion that segregation was righteous in principle was supported by key figures within the humanitarian lobby in London, a reflection of the ways in which emerging anthropological conceptions of difference were being integrated into the ideology of such groups. One particularly powerful proponent of segregationist thought was the Baptist missionary John Harris, one of Morel’s closest associates in the Congo Campaign, who became Secretary of the merged Anti-Slavery and Aborigines’ Protection Society (ASAPS) in 1909.53 Harris espoused a combination of Kingsleyite cultural relativism and nostalgic paternalism that made him sympathetic to the tenets of segregationist thought, which he saw as insurance against the kind of absolute loss of land he had witnessed in the Congo. Harris was also influenced by South African proponents of segregation, notably Maurice Evans, with whom he had come into contact en route Southern Rhodesia in 1914.54 As such, Harris could support, in principle, the tenets of Botha’s Land Act, in that it appeared to provide for security of tenure for African land. Moreover, as Willan argues, his support for the Land Act must be viewed in the context of the Society’s sensitivity to allegations of ‘interference’

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in South African affairs.55 The belief that any criticism of South African policy from ‘outside’ would inevitably lead to an overreaction from South Africa would become a recurring theme of official discourse over the century. While there was a certain degree of truth in such anxieties, this strong sense of the oversensitivity of white opinion tended to reflect a blindness towards African sentiment. The extent to which British humanitarians were discomfited by black South African opposition to the Land Act was particularly well illustrated by the reception given to the SANNC delegation, led by Dube, who travelled to London in 1914 in an attempt to persuade the imperial government to overturn the Land Act. In their petition to George V, the delegation laid great emphasis upon their loyalty to the Crown, and sought to demonstrate that the Act was at odds with the ‘principles of British policy and justice’ and ran the danger of ‘scandalising … the British name and prestige’.56 While the expressions of loyalism do provide an indication of African attitudes to Britain (or, at least, those of the European-educated elite), the delegation leaders understood that their mission to London was unlikely to succeed, and was necessary only insofar as it fulfilled a responsibility to exhaust all constitutional means of appeal.57 Despite their professions of loyalism, and limited ambitions, the deputation would still perturb metropolitan humanitarians who had, like Harris, seen the Land Act as a progressive measure ensuring the protection of African land.58 Thus, while the Anti-Slavery Society had sent a message of welcome to the SANNC deputation, and assured them of the Society’s willingness to help, Harris was determined to maintain control over the activities of the African delegation. Having convinced them to sign a declaration giving their support to the principle of segregation, Harris then sought to persuade the delegation to focus its attention on the Society’s campaign against British South African Company rule in Southern Rhodesia. Hampered by Harris’ attempts to control their agenda, rebuffed by the Colonial Secretary Lord Harcout and refused an audience with the King, the delegation came to an ignominious end when at the outbreak of war the SANNC in South Africa shelved its campaigns in yet another gesture of imperial loyalty. The delegation was urged to return, and, at Harris’ suggestion, the LMS offered to pay their passage home. Sol Plaatje, unwilling to abide by the stringent conditions imposed on the loan, decided instead to remain in the UK and complete the book on the Land Act that he had been writing.59 This decision prompted a final split with Harris, who Plaatje now saw as a kind of sabateur, rather than an ally. It would be simple enough to see the clash as indicative of the tension

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between liberal paternalism and the emerging voice of African opinion, and the dispute did lead to a fracturing of the alliance between the metropolitan humanitarian ‘establishment’ as represented by Harris and the Aborigines’ Society, and the representatives of bourgeois African opinion. Their disagreement also based upon a fundamental split over the nature of the Land Act. For Harris, it was necessary to focus attention on the principle of segregation, while Plaatje maintained that the practical effects of segregation outweighed cosy debates around principle.60 Plaatje, a journalist as well as the Secretary General of the SANNC, was based in Kimberley and well-acquainted with the impact that the Land Act had had upon African families in rural areas; he felt that an extended stay in Britain could encourage public support for the Congress campaign. He sought, in fact, to build upon the positive response to the deputation that had been evident following their meeting with the Colonial Secretary, including favourable comment in some newspapers, encouragement from MPs, and in particular through speaking at meetings arranged by a variety of religious organisations.61 Financing himself through journalism, he found support from a circle of South African expatriates, most of whom were from prominent Cape Liberal families: Georgiana Solomon, Sophie Colenso and Betty Molteno. Support also came from Jane Cobden Unwin (daughter of Richard Cobden), who, like Solomon, sat on the Anti-Slavery Society committee. This network of friends and acquaintances provided Plaatje with a bedrock of personal support; he was also keen to extend the public interest that had become apparent to the ill-fated delegation, beyond this important but narrow circle of liberals and the paternalist clutches of John Harris. The key platform for Plaatje’s campaign was provided by an interdenominational Christian organisation, the Pleasant Sunday Afternoon Brotherhood (PSA).62 Association with the Brotherhood movement helped Plaatje gain public attention (of the 305 meetings he addressed during his stay in the UK between 1914 and 1917, half were organised by the movement), introduced him to political figures beyond the horizons of colonial ‘specialists’ and established links with the British labour movement (the Labour Party leader Arthur Henderson was President of the movement). With a membership of over half a million, its core support coming from the lower-middle class, it provided, as Willan notes, a national organisation within which Plaatje found an interested and sympathetic audience.63 There were, it appears, strong ideological affinities between Plaatje and the Brotherhood, in particular a shared optimistic vision of empire that laid emphasis not upon the ‘civilising’ potential of imperial expansion, but upon unity underpinned by standards of

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‘justice’ and ‘freedom’. In its reports of the SANNC delegation’s appeal, the Brotherhood journal proclaimed that ‘empire means not only privilege and power and glory, but also responsibility and obligations’.64 It was this vision of empire that Plaatje sought to emphasise in his book Native Life in South Africa, published in 1916. A polemical account of the effects of the Land Act, written in the form of an appeal to the British public, the book was the first full-length articulation of black South African discontent. From its first chapter, which opens with the claim that the Land Act had made a black South African ‘a pariah in the land of his birth’, Native Life provides a powerful indictment of Botha’s segregation policy, as it was interpreted – and experienced – by Africans.65 After outlining the framework of the Act, Plaatje provided a series of portraits showing the toll the Act had taken upon rural Africans. In its tone and structure, which Willan likens to that of Cobbett’s Rural Rides, it sought to impress upon the British public the sense of the destructiveness of segregation in practice.66 As such, it also prefigures the form of later anti-apartheid texts: the presentation of a moral argument alongside evidence of the lived experience under racially segregated conditions. Reviews suggest that Plaatje had some success with his campaign: the Yorkshire Herald, for example, stated that the book would ‘excite sympathy’ with the African cause, while the Booksellers’ Record, noting that Plaatje was ‘no fire-brand’, asserted that his book ‘should attract sympathetic attention’. Even the United Empire acknowledged that the author was ‘fully justified in appealing to the court of public opinion’.67 A notable exception was, unsurprisingly, John Harris, who made detailed criticisms of Plaatje’s work in his own account of the Land Act, published in the Journal of the Royal African Society. He argued that the book demonstrated ‘how little the natives understand General Botha’s policy’, and that Plaatje himself had disingenuously ignored the statement he had signed showing support for the principle of territorial separation.68 In another review, Harris described Native Life as such a grotesque misrepresentation of the Act and General Botha’s policy that it can do the natives of South Africa nothing but harm, whilst it gravely prejudices the efforts of the ever-increasing number of white men, both in South Africa and in this country, who are anxious to assist native races within the Empire to work out their own salvation along sound lines.69 It may well be the case that Plaatje had painted an idealised picture of life in rural South Africa prior to the Land Act, and he certainly

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overplayed its immediate effects; nevertheless Harris’ own account of the Land Act shows just how wide a gap existed between the head of the Anti-Slavery and Aborigines’ Protection Society and black South African opinion. Having convinced the Society to pass a resolution in support of the Land Act in 1916, he continued to speak of Botha’s policy in evangelical terms, seeing it as a first step on the path towards a time in which ‘race prejudice has been stifled by the march of progress, complete franchise and the fullest enjoyment of British citizenship in … The United States of South Africa!’70 Plaatje returned to South Africa in February 1917, in debt from his extended campaign and under no illusions with regard to the difficulties of winning any official British intervention in South African native policy. Despite the ineffectiveness of the campaign, he had, however, succeeded in widening public awareness of the SANNC campaign and arousing interest in South African affairs beyond Colonial circles. In fact, Plaatje had left behind in London a support committee, centred around the middle-class female supporters who had formed the core of his metropolitan network of allies, as well as Brotherhood movement activists. One of these, Sir Richard Winfrey had become a junior Minister in Lloyd-George’s government.71 Thus, while his clash with Harris had alienated the major metropolitan humanitarian organisation, Plaatje had been able to establish a small network of individuals willing to provide support for the Congress. As we shall see, this would set the pattern for British anti-colonial and anti-apartheid activities for much of the next 80 years, with similar networks, based upon close individual relationships, being fundamental to the development of anti-apartheid in the 1950s. In another precursor of future developments, the end of World War I seemed to provide an opportunity for African nationalists to advance their campaigns in an arena of political debate in which ideas of national ‘rights’ and ‘self-determination’ were much in vogue. While Wilsonian internationalism may be criticised for its blindness towards colonialism, black South Africans could use Wilsonian language to their own benefit, as seen in the SANNC’s petition to George V in December 1918, calling for Britain’s ‘war aims and her love for free institutions for all peoples’ to be ‘applied to South Africa so that we may have a voice in the affairs of the country’.72 Perhaps more significantly, given the tone of pre-war appeals, Congress leaders felt that the time had come for wartime imperial loyalty (which Plaatje pointedly contrasted with Boer disloyalty in Native Life), to be repaid with extended political rights. Amidst post-war uncertainty, with fears of African political agitation

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growing in South Africa, the SANNC resolved to send a second deputation to Britain, which convened in London in mid-1919. More than simply a return to the campaign that had been shelved at the outbreak of the war, this delegation was seen by Congress leaders as an opportunity to extend their appeal beyond the British empire and state their case on a wider international stage. To this end, three Congress delegates – Richard Selope Thema, Levi Mvabaza and Henry Ngcayiya – travelled in advance to Europe with the intention of attending both the Versailles Peace Conference and Pan-African Congress in Paris, organised by W. E. B. Du Bois. Arriving too late for the latter, the delegates did manage to travel to Versailles, as (according to Willan) the Colonial Office was keen not to provoke African opinion by treating the Congress delegates differently from an Afrikaner nationalist delegation, led by J. B. M. Hertzog, that had travelled to Europe at the same time.73 Hertzog’s delegation was materially more successful than that of Congress and managed to secure assurances from the British government regarding South African autonomy within the empire – an achievement that, in the face of repeated assertions of African loyalty, is remembered with bitterness to the present day.74 The Congress delegates were, however, able to arrange meetings with the Colonial UnderSecretary, Leopold Amery, and eventually the Prime Minister, David Lloyd George. Amery, unsurprisingly, reiterated the constitutional barriers to British intervention, but the meeting with Lloyd George proved remarkable. Plaatje, at his rhetorical best, impressed the Prime Minister with his appeal to ‘consider us in the land of our fathers’, to the extent that he was prompted to send two letters to General Smuts (who had succeeded Botha as South African Prime Minister). In these letters, Lloyd George described his concern that some ‘effective mode of expression’ was needed for African opinion, whose ability to arouse public opinion in Britain and secure sympathetic hearing in influential circles was seen as a ‘striking’ contrast to Hertzog’s deputation. Smuts’ reply, unsurprisingly, was that Congress was unrepresentative, and their claims gave a false impression of South African native policy. The influential supporters to whom Lloyd George alluded came in part from what Willan describes as ‘London’s liberal drawing-room circles’, and represented the same kind of people (often, in fact, the very same people) that had given Plaatje support during the war.75 Likewise, the 1919 delegation were able to draw upon Plaatje’s Brotherhood contacts, for public speaking platforms as well as their political influence (Arthur Henderson having played a key role in securing the meeting with Lloyd George). In addition, London’s black community provided publicity,

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while a diverse range of groups, from the National Liberal Club to the Free Church Council, gave the Congress delegates a hearing. In many senses, then, the experience of the delegates was similar to that of their compatriots in 1914. However, there were important differences in the reception given to the delegates in 1919, most significantly the interest shown in their cause by the labour movement. Plaatje, who again remained in the country after his fellow delegates returned to South Africa, was interviewed by Fenner Brockway for the Labour Leader, and toured Scotland in December 1919 with the backing of the Independent Labour Party and the Union of Democratic Control (UDC). Both these organisations had begun to take an interest in colonial issues after the war (Edmund Morel having been a founding member of the UDC). What is intriguing is the avowedly socialist orientation of much of this support, given Plaatje’s antipathy towards the left within South Africa. Nationalists such as Plaatje were drawn, therefore, into closer contact with political organisations including the Independent Labour Party and the UDC – and found themselves distanced from the mainstream colonial lobby and metropolitan humanitarians, the traditional ‘friends of the native’, despite Plaatje’s remarkable rapprochement with John Harris, which saw him offer his assistance to Harris’ unsuccessful campaign as a Liberal candidate for Camberwell in the 1922 election.

Conclusion: The limits of the ‘imperial network’ The experiences of the 1919 delegation might be regarded as illustrative of the failure of personal intervention as a method of persuading the imperial government to intercede on the behalf of black South Africans. To an extent, however, the episodes of 1914 and 1919 pre-figured some of the structures of the anti-apartheid network as it came to be established in the 1960s. Plaatje’s experiences between 1919 and 1923 would in many ways mirror those of exiled ANC leaders in the 1960s and later. Like him, they would find a combination of South African ex-patriates, influential liberals, labour leaders and religious groups an attentive and sympathetic audience for African nationalist leaders. This was, then, a break with the nineteenth-century liberal humanitarian network, which appeared ideologically reconciled to what it saw as a benevolent segregation and believed that territorial separation could be a barrier sheltering indigenous groups from the debilitating effects of industrial modernity. Nevertheless, while African leaders had shown that they could take command of their own campaigns in the international arena, metropolitan activists remained convinced of their necessary role

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as mediators, ‘working for the native’ at their imperial centre as their compatriots in liberal and mission circles did in South Africa. Nevertheless, the first decades of the twentieth century saw the diminishing influence of those humanitarian groups that had wielded significant influence over metropolitan attitudes towards South Africa. While public debates around the morality of imperialism continued to be marked by humanitarian principles, the more technical solutions to the requirements of an industrial economy transformed debate. The language of ‘protection’, evident most notably in the ambivalence towards Africanist opposition to the Land Act, meant metropolitan humanitarians found themselves one of a number of voices in the debate surrounding South African racial policy.

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South African Liberalism and ‘Friends of Africa’

Introduction: Segregation after the First World War During the inter-war years, segregation developed into an ideology of government that managed to be clearly defined, yet was diffuse enough in meaning to attract a wide body of support. It was often conceptualised as a kind of synthesis between older ideas of ‘equality’ (liberal humanitarians and their ‘civilising mission’) and ‘repression’ or ‘subordination’ (slavery and the social relations of the colonial ‘frontier tradition’). On the whole, international attitudes towards South Africa followed the pattern of the years up to Union, with the metropolitan humanitarian lobby concerned in the main to promote ‘welfare’ and to protect African society from the ravages of industrial modernity. After the First World War, a number of international organisations provided a framework for transnational networks of activists engaged with the issue of South African racial politics. By the 1930s, these networks would stretch along a continuum ranging from the paternalism of liberals and missionaries, through to the (superficially at least) more egalitarian connections on the political left. African Americans continued to provide the most sympathetic support to black South Africans, often drawing on ideas of racial solidarity and the shared experience of white domination. The tendency for observers to perceive racial politics in terms of ‘mediation’ between Africans and the South African government remained. Nevertheless, major social and economic changes continued apace, drawing Africans in ever increasing numbers into the wage economy and urban life. One international organisation which (to a degree) went against the grain of white liberal paternalism and black racial solidarity was the Brotherhood, which as we have seen provided the bedrock of public 31

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support for Sol Plaatje during his visits to Britain. It also functioned as a transnational support network that enabled Plaatje to travel to North America between 1920 and 1922. Having attended the first World Brotherhood Congress in London in 1919, Plaatje was able to develop contacts within the international movement, and the Canadian Brotherhood Federation were his hosts at their headquarters in Toronto.1 His Brotherhood contacts were also able to expedite the granting of a passport to enable him to visit the US, a significant success given that the South African High Commission in London had blocked a similar request. In addition to the Brotherhood, Plaatje found strong support from the black community in Toronto, and in particular the branch of the United Negro Improvement Association (UNIA). Having already shared a platform with the UNIA’s founder, Marcus Garvey, in Toronto, Plaatje was able to use this connection to extend support for his own campaign when he travelled to New York in January 1920. Plaatje’s association with Garvey is a little intriguing, given that his general conservatism was somewhat out of step with the rhetorical bombast and radicalism of the founder of the UNIA. However, the influence of Garveyism within the African American population of New York during the early 1920s was such that it provided Plaatje with a ready-made platform. Furthermore, Willan suggests that Plaatje saw the potential to exploit the Africanist focus of Garveyism – hoping that, as an African leader, UNIA supporters would be enthusiastic in their response. It transpired, however, that, while this was the case in terms of attracting an audience, the UNIA was more of a disappointment when it came to financial support.2 In contrast to Garvey, Plaatje appears to have established much more of a rapport with W. E. B. Du Bois, who not only agreed to publish an American edition of Native Life, but also read an address on the South African leader’s behalf at the Pan-African Congress of 1921. Plaatje spent over 18 months in North America, staying in New York, Chicago and Washington and undertaking extensive tours of the eastern and southern States, and he was particularly impressed by the Tuskegee Institute, where he struck up a friendship with the principal, Robert Moton. When Plaatje returned to South Africa in 1923, it was to a country recovering from a wave of post-war discontent, embodied in the uprising of white workers in the 1922 Rand Revolt, a rising militancy among black industrial workers, and the suppression of the separatist Israelites movement in the Bullhoek massacre. Post-war unrest, and the socioeconomic shifts with which it was associated, was also reflected in the changing nature of African political consciousness and the development

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of the first forms of mass political movement among black South Africans. The same international influences that Plaatje had encountered as an individual came to shape the character of more general political beliefs. Encapsulated in the slogan, ‘Africa for the Africans’, the popularity of Garveyite ideas grew rapidly in the years following the war. As Hill and Pirio’s study shows, the growth of Garveyism was stimulated by the ‘coming of the American Negro’ myth, in which the imminent arrival of African Americans would deliver liberation in South Africa.3 This political mythology was perhaps at its most developed in the figure of Wellington Buthelezi, whose Garveyite ‘Wellington movement’ had significant impact in the Transkei in the latter part of the 1920s.4 Such ideas also had an impact on the rhetoric of the Industrial and Commercial Worker’s Union (ICU), established in Cape Town in the early 1920s by Clements Kadalie. Its rapid growth and popularity made it the first genuine mass political movement among black South Africans, blending Garveyite ideas, rural millenarianism and the ‘American negro’ myth in a powerful force.5 Kadalie, as we shall see, was able to attract sympathisers in Britain during the 1920s, but the attention of ICU supporters and leaders tended towards America, rather than the imperial centre. Aside from the obvious links of racial solidarity, this identification with the ‘American Negro’ stereotype demonstrated a new direction within the black South African petit bourgeoisie. This represented a radical ideology explicitly at odds with the imperial loyalism of the older generation of African leaders.6 Garveyism, in its South African forms, replaced the ‘illusion’ of imperial protection with a popular ‘emancipatory vision’,7 gaining widespread support, including within Congress through the efforts of James Thaele.8 Garveyite rhetoric provided a blueprint for radical popular responses to segregation, which in combination with the imagery of the ‘American Negro’, might be regarded as a counter to ‘modernist-inscribed segregationist discourse’ and a rejection of subject status.9 At the very least, the popular radicalism of the 1920s was a clear challenge to the Britishoriented elite leadership of Congress. At the start of the 1920s, then, the image and reputation of Garvey was both inspiration to a new generation of African leaders and a source of real fear for the white authorities. However, against the millennial radicalism of the ICU and the ‘Wellington movement’ in the Transkei can be set a more moderate brand of African-American social thought that continued to exert a strong influence upon both black leaders and white liberals. As with its Ethiopianist antecedents, Garveyism was seen

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as a dangerous influence that tarnished – in the eyes of officials – the image of all African Americans. One victim of this was the AME Bishop William Vernon, whose arrival in South Africa in 1920 was delayed by the authorities, disturbed by the ‘egregious antics’ of Marcus Garvey.10 Vernon would, in fact, become one of the most vociferous critics of Garveyism in South Africa, seeing it as a hindrance to the ameliorative work of Christian missionaries.

Max Yergan and Fort Hare Another victim of the Garveyite scares of the early 1920s was a young African-American YMCA secretary Max Yergan, who would, in time, journey from radical critic of segregation to an apologist for apartheid. Yergan had been appointed following a request from the South African Student Christian Movement to the YMCA, but even this politically benign background did not protect him from the controversies arising from burgeoning black radicalism. Even before his arrival in South Africa, anxieties around Garveyism and the influence of African-American missionaries had begun to shape debate around the decision to despatch Yergan to the country. Some within liberalmission circles welcomed the appointment: Frederick Bridgman, of the American Board Mission, stated that he and Ray Phillips would ‘extend him the warmest welcome’, and suggested that he should look no further than Johannesburg as a site of activities. Bridgman saw the YMCA appointment as ‘providential’, given the American Board’s plans for a ‘Bantu Men’s Social Centre’ in the city, and their enthusiasm was stimulated – in part at least – by the possibility that as powerful an international body as the YMCA might contribute to the costs of setting up the centre.11 The American Board Mission took a particular interest in urban welfare, where workers such as Frederick and Clara Bridgman sought to counter the ‘temptations of the city’ with campaigns against drinking, gambling and prostitution. Drawing on the social gospel, these mission Christians began to view sin and immorality as bound up with the circumstances of life in compounds and ‘locations’ and thus to perceive racial tensions in relation to the development of an African proletariat. For Phillips, the promotion of social gospel through Christian welfare activities was essential for the future standing of the churches among Africans. The energetic Phillips remarked in his book The Bantu are Coming that the Christian missionaries’ objective ‘must be not merely “Transformed men and women” but also “A transformed world for transformed men”.12

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Such developments were an indication of the ways in which advocates of native welfare in mission circles had begun to adapt their approach in the face of dramatic social and economic changes. Elphick has suggested that the shift towards an emphasis upon “social” issues came as a response to ‘converging crises’ in early-twentieth-century South Africa. On one hand, missionaries in rural areas began to witness increasing poverty among African communities. James Henderson (principal of Lovedale, the prominent mission school in the Eastern Cape) spoke at the third General Missionary Conference in 1909 for missions to take on the task of ‘securing and putting upon a stable basis the material prosperity of the Native people’.13 During the 1920s he would go on to publish statistical evidence of diminishing agricultural production and increasing reliance upon wage labour in the Ciskei.14 The question of urban missions was of particular interest to the American Board Mission, whose representatives, such as Herbert Goodenough and Frederick and Clara Bridgman, worked energetically to administer city churches, and to organise efforts to stem the variety of moral dangers they saw confronting African workers. The focus on morality and the need for urban missions as a counter to the moral dangers of city life often coincided with segregationist ideas, particularly the belief that the industrialised urban environment would have a degenerative effect upon the ‘detribalised’ African population. Forced to confront social deprivation in both town and country, inter-war missions thus turned to North American and British ideas of ‘social gospel’.15 In fact, the International Committee had intended that Yergan travel to East Africa, where he had served as a YMCA secretary during the war, but he was blocked by the Governor of Kenya, who argued that it was not ‘advisable to introduce into East Africa negroes of a different calibre from those to be found in East Africa itself’.16 While the YMCA head in South Africa, Oswin Bull, thought it unlikely that there would be similar official impediments to Yergan entering the country, his appointment met with a cool reception from white liberals, specifically the South African educationalist Charles T. Loram, and the Rev. Thomas Jesse Jones, who had recently toured South Africa as a delegate of the PhelpsStokes Commission of Enquiry. Jones, in particular, appeared antagonistic towards African-American YMCA leaders more generally.17 Jones and Loram persuaded Bridgman to temper his earlier enthusiasm and in May 1921, citing the fears aroused by ‘Marcus Garvie [sic] propaganda from New York’, Bridgman suggested that the International Committee might reconsider its decision to send Yergan to South Africa.18

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Jones’ reluctance to support Yergan had, in fact, been largely responsible for the South African government initially refusing permission for Yergan to travel to South Africa.19 Jones’ position was motivated by more than the usual white paternalist niceties, as there was a degree of tension between Jesse Jones and the YMCA, exhibited by the response of E. C. Carter (who had been Yergan’s mentor in mission work), who allegedly confronted Jones over the issue of Yergan’s appointment.20 The Yergan case was also taken up forcefully by W. E. B. Du Bois in The Crisis, where he stated that the episode was further evidence that Jones planned to ‘displace Negro leaders, and gather into his own hands such an amount of information and power as would gradually give him the position of arbiter and patron of the Negro race in America’.21 Yergan also found support from within the Phelps-Stokes Commission delegation, in the shape of James Aggrey who, reportedly, spoke in glowing terms about Yergan to Oswin Bull. Through Aggrey, the Phelps-Stokes Commission delegation became the catalyst for the formation of the first Joint Council of Europeans and Natives in Johannesburg, which developed into a nationwide movement. The Joint Council movement formed a link between African leaders and the developing network of Christian missionaries, liberal professionals and academics, and was a locus for research into various aspects of the ‘Native Question’, social welfare activities, and representations to government authorities.22 The councils could also be viewed as a means by which middle-class Africans were co-opted to support an increasingly conservative white liberalism, which, under Loram’s influence, came to focus their attention on rural areas.23 Aggrey, whose time in South Africa also saw him engage in a prolonged assault on Garveyite ideas, probably saw in Yergan an individual who could assist in his campaign to promote Washingtonian self-help, and his advocacy of Yergan clearly had an impact.24 By mid-1921 Bull found that both Jones and Loram had somewhat warmed to Yergan’s appointment, and Loram was willing to take up the case with the Department of the Interior, and in July, permission was duly granted for an initial six-month period.25 The official change of heart may well have been connected to the fact that, rather than the kind of urban ‘social work’ that Bridgman had envisaged, Yergan’s work as YMCA secretary was to be established at the ‘Native College’ at Fort Hare in the Eastern Cape. There, under the watchful eye of the headmaster, James Henderson, Yergan may have been seen as less likely to engage in any ‘disruptive’ political activities. Thus, despite Bridgman’s appeal for an urban ‘social worker’, Yergan was appointed with the aim of working with black students – a reflection of the YMCA’s own roots

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in Europe and North America. And it seems that Yergan did, in fact, establish himself firmly within the mission-liberal circles at Fort Hare, forging a close relationship with the black professor and political moderate D. D. T. Jabavu. In order to establish connections with Student Christian Associations (SCAs), Yergan embarked on a series of tours of educational establishments across the country, and his impressions suggest a missionary zeal not dissimilar to that of his white counterparts. Writing in 1922, he stated that his work was ‘the greatest opportunity and responsibility I’ve ever had. A whole race is being made in South Africa!’ His own experiences at times matched that of black South Africans: ‘I travel, I talk, I listen, I see, I shed tears, I plan, I am insulted by low bred Whites, I go hungry at times’; nevertheless his reports suggest that he was acutely aware of the differences between himself and other Africans: ‘because I am a black man wearing a collar and tie and talking grammatical English, and withal somewhat modest and unassuming, I am stared at’.26 At the same time, he expressed an acute awareness of the similar challenges for educated blacks – equal in intelligence and ability to their white counterparts, but lacking the ‘unbroken heritage of civilised growth through experience’.27 His correspondence reveals a particular concern with the issue of ‘young men as young men’ who, facing the challenges of modernity, were obliged to ‘suddenly come face to face with a new life and find it necessary to discard a large part of the heritage which generation upon generation has handed down to them’. The task of the missionary, he believed, was to ensure that the youth of Africa was not ‘lost in the quicksand of sullied unChristian personal life or in the destructive atmosphere of an unhealthy discontent and discouragement’.28 Some of his earlier correspondence could be read as the expressions of a man aware of the need to step carefully in the face of official suspicion, yet this ability to move between African and white missionary circles enabled him to establish himself in South Africa. Yergan’s early correspondence nevertheless reveals the somewhat contradictory position he occupied within South Africa’s liberal-mission circles, where, he noted, he ‘had to make myself a sort of “exhibit A”’.29 While there had been, as we have seen, a history of links between black South Africans and African Americans, he was the first black YMCA secretary to travel to the country. As an African American, ties of racial solidarity and the shared experience of casual discrimination and official segregation underpinned his affinity with the students and other Africans he encountered; his initial attitude towards the ‘Native Question’,

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the people are rapidly coming out of the past and meeting something new. That which is going to develop will be a blend of what is good from their past with that which is worth while of what is coming from the outside.30 As an example of the kind of ‘cultural adaptation’ that would come to dominate liberal segregationist thought, Yergan’s words are striking.31 In his reports to the YMCA in the US, it was Edgar Brookes’ History of Native Policy, C. T. Loram’s The Education of the South African Native and the Round Table journal that Yergan recommended as introductory reading on South African racial issues. Thus, despite the clear sense of cultural difference between himself and the white missionary network, he was able to establish himself at the geographical heartland of mission liberalism – at Fort Hare in the eastern Cape, using the ‘Native’ College as a base for his Student Christian Movement activities. Yergan also began to develop a more detailed impression of the prospects for progress in South African race relations. While he shared the religious outlook of the missionary establishment, he was more than aware of the limits of its knowledge, and, while he was without doubt an advocate of the Social Gospel, he also had the dubious benefit of first-hand acquaintance with the depredations of ‘native’ law. As such, he gave prominence to the disparity between segregation-as-theory and the day-to-day experience of race relations, summarising the situation as one in which ‘a race with a heritage which gives it control for the present over a more numerous people is led to take advantage of the temporary weakness of the latter and to seek to perpetuate the circumstances by which the status quo be preserved’.32 Yergan’s reading of the situation in South Africa was, no doubt, shaped in part by the election success of J. B. M. Hertzog’s National Party in 1924, and the momentum it gave to segregationist policy. Despite his continued enthusiasm for his mission in the country, it became impossible for him to ignore the underlying conditions of inequality. And yet, even here, Yergan’s report foreshadows (echoes perhaps?) a developing strand of liberal-Christian thought, for he makes clear that it is white South Africans, ‘weighed down with a sense of moral bankruptcy’, whose eventual sense of their ‘greater need’ would ‘arouse him to a better life’. This narrative of white redemption as pathway to social justice would become a key foundation of both South African liberal-Christian responses to racial tensions, but

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however, seemed often to be in accord with white missionary thinking. Reporting back to Channing Tobias in 1923, he noted that

also, in a more secular tone, would shape the discourse of anti-apartheid as it developed in the 1950s and 1960s. Over the course of his first ten years in South Africa, Yergan came to develop a vision of how progress towards racial justice would be achieved. Driven by the work of small number of individuals committed to the ‘education’ of white opinion and the ‘improvement’ of African life, Yergan’s vision was rooted in interconnected strands of South African liberalism, Tuskegee self-help and social gospel. By 1929, he had begun to oversee plans that would give this vision material form, in the shape of a dedicated building on the Fort Hare campus for student Christian activities. It would be, he asserted, ‘the centre of a social movement which will spread at once in its effect to the surrounding villages and in time all over Southern Africa’.33 Here would be a building that would ‘provide facilities for experimenting with methods of social service’ and a training centre for social workers, which would, in the words of Susan Yergan, ‘raise up ... strong leaders who will give their lives unreservedly to the people’.34 All this would be in addition to its role as headquarters for the SCA and a Christian centre for the college. The building, whose foundations were laid in 1930, has become a centrepiece of the university and is marked by a plaque celebrating the support given to its construction by the donations of African Americans. While it was indeed the case that funds for the building were raised by a number of black YMCA associations in the US, the bulk of the financial support was provided by the Rockefeller Foundation.35 Moreover, Susan Yergan’s visit to the US, and fund-raising efforts more widely, suffered in the immediate aftermath of the Great Crash. In the following years, the YMCA would be forced to make severe cuts in its spending, putting paid to Yergan’s hopes that additional secretaries would be found for South Africa – although his own position appeared secure, as it was difficult to cut his expenses without having to abandon his work entirely. The building would nevertheless become a concrete symbol of Yergan’s work at Fort Hare. His contribution to the debate around race relations in the inter-war years is perhaps most clearly marked by the ‘Bantu-European’ student conference held at the college in 1930. It was a practical expression of the second plank of his ‘social service’ ethos – that of interracial cooperation. The idea of ‘cooperation’ was central to the thinking of white liberals and moderate African leaders in the 1920s and – in pragmatic terms – provided ‘avenues of mobility’ for the politically ambitious.36 As such, Yergan was, in the 1920s, sympathetic towards the Joint Council movement, stating in 1925 that it gave ‘meaning to the word “cooperation”’.37 Yergan’s advocacy of

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cooperation tied, however, moral weight to whatever practical advantages it might provide, and he saw the conference as a way of encouraging genuine common understanding between black and white. It also provided an opportunity to gather together some of the leading members of the Joint Council movement. At the time, the conference was notable primarily for the unsegregated accommodation which was provided for student delegates – allegedly at their own request – and the subsequent satisfaction expressed by the organisers in this obvious illustration of the possibilities of interaction across the ‘colour line’. Nevertheless, extensive press criticism of this turn of events prompted the SCA to state that, while it worked ‘for social justice for all … we do not wish to press for any intimate social intercourse between the two races’. Furthermore, it acknowledged that the ‘unpremeditated’ racial mixing had upset public sensibilities and regretted the subsequent ‘misunderstanding and estrangement’.38 Indeed, some participants were concerned that this resulted in a ‘one-sided’ focus on African issues. The concluding comment of the Star newspaper’s review of the conference illustrates, however, the apparent limitations of ‘inter-racial’ cooperation: despite ‘mutual respect and courtesy’, it was clear that ‘however strongly some of the whites seemed to put the native viewpoint, the native students appeared more drawn to the still stronger utterances made by their own folk’.39 Nevertheless, ‘cooperation’ continued to be a keyword for South African liberals well into the 1930s, although, as the Star hints, it tended to be defined in liberal terms. For Yergan, the conference was a culmination of ‘interracial work’ he had undertaken with both black and white students.40 Success, he argued, would come from ‘ stimulating thought, releasing new forces and giving the necessary courage and direction to such forces’.41 It was not to be an end in itself, however, but a foundation for future efforts centred on a ‘scientific’ study of racial questions. Aware that the SAIRR (which he described as the ‘South African Interracial Institute’), backed by the Carnegie Foundation, was organised with similar aims, he argued that there was a place for a similar project, ‘carried on under religious auspices’, appealing to the ‘Christian idealism’ of youth. Yet, in contrast to the hopeful outlook articulated by Yergan in the wake of the conference, his work would be significantly affected by the international economic crisis of the early 1930s, necessitating his own return to the United States in 1931 for an extended visit. Yergan’s attitude towards South African politics appeared to undergo a gradual transformation following his arrival back in the country in October of that year. While he remained convinced of the value of a Christian

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approach, he began to show increasing awareness of the ways in which critics had begun to judge the effectiveness of the mission Christian message: ‘we are told that we have no effective plan and that while we may have a sense of eternity, we do not appreciate the significance of the present time’.42 It was necessary, he argued, to establish a project that would focus more broadly on ‘the entire range of social life’ and would ‘be identified with the true and real needs of the people whom we serve’. For concrete examples, he cited the establishment of a night school run by Fort Hare students and a Sunday school organised by the SCA. To further this work, Yergan proposed that the SCA support the establishment of a training programme for social workers, and the creation of a new organisation ‘for placing and supervising such workers’.43 Yergan provided a detailed outline of his plans in a formal memorandum to the International Committee in 1932. In it, he drew extensively on the findings of the Native Economic Commission, with its ‘adaptationist’ approach to development. Yergan used the Commission’s emphasis upon African initiative to argue for what he described as ‘popular social education’, centred around the study of social conditions and the training of ‘a new Bantu leadership’ that would be responsible for directing social and economic ‘improvement’.44 The aims of this training would include, inter alia, that students would ‘appreciate the inclusive spiritual and social functions of religion’, ‘correctly observe the break-up of old custom’, and ‘help the community to understand and meet its economic needs’. In essence, Yergan’s plan was for a new form of missionary, drawn from the African community, schooled in ‘scientific’ methods of observation, education, and tasked with the object of effecting social, economic and cultural adaptation to modernity. It differed little, if at all, from the mainstream of missionary and liberal thinking. Yergan’s project demonstrates the extent to which South African liberal segregationism was comparable with moderate, ‘Washingtonian’, African-American social thought. Yergan, as we shall see, was to undergo a dramatic change of ideological direction, but until the early 1930s it is clear that South African liberalism exerted an increasingly powerful influence over the ways in which international observers interpreted South African developments.

‘Friends of Africa’: Metropolitan liberalism and the ‘Native Question’ In Britain, the inter-war years were marked by a tension between humanitarians’ desire to protect ‘native’ interests through a ‘genuine’

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application of segregationist principles, and the inability of liberals in South Africa, and their supporters in Britain, to construct any coherent programme to address the apparent social crisis that was being engendered by the modernisation of the South African economy and society. The example of Harris, both in his earlier relation to the South African delegations and his contacts with African students’ organisations in Britain,45 suggested that the paternalist instincts of the humanitarian lobby were an unstable vehicle for the presentation of African political ambitions, despite continued contacts between the African National Congress and the Anti-Slavery society. While a residual variety of nineteenth century humanitarianism informed notions of ‘trusteeship’ and imperial responsibility, the Exeter Hall tradition represented by Harris diminished in importance just as other groups of metropolitan opinion began to take an interest in South African affairs. Some British observers began to view the South African example as an illustration of the dangers of allowing ‘native’ policies to be determined by ideological principles. While segregation could, in principle, be seen as a method of securing African rights to land, its application in South Africa had revealed the limits of such a policy, if directed to the needs of a settler population. For the Fabian socialist Sydney Olivier, South Africa was ‘still practically dominated and her future endangered by the persistence of the same slave-state mind and practice, elimination of which is one of the most important things that Western civilisation primarily stands for’.46 For Olivier, the ‘repressionist’ tendency in South African social thought had made the tenets of segregation ‘geographically impossible’ and economically ‘unworkable’. Anachronistic master-slave relations, he suggested, had persisted in South Africa into the period of capitalist industrialisation and had come to underpin attitudes towards labour.47 South African segregation was therefore increasingly seen by radical commentators as an ideal flawed in practice; beyond that it was seen as tainted by association with an oppressive settler racism. Secular critics such as Olivier and Dr Norman Leys had concluded that settler interests had come to dominate Colonial Office thinking, and that it was necessary to elaborate a new approach to the advancement of selfsustainable peasant societies. Such ideas also began to make inroads in metropolitan mission circles, most notably through the work of the Secretary of the International Missionary Council, Joseph Houldsworth Oldham. Oldham had close links with the British political elite, especially around the Colonial Office, and had achieved a status of major influence among Christian leaders through his role as a pioneer of the

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ecumenical movement.48 He had also been a key supporter of Max Yergan’s appointment in South Africa. This ‘rather deaf Presbyterian layman’ thus held a somewhat unconventional, but highly influential, position in the world of Anglophone Christianity, forming a connection between metropolitan mission networks, official circles and, to a degree, the small body of critics of empire. In 1925, Oldham had entered into a systematic critique of the scientific basis of racial difference in his Christianity and the Race Problem, in which he argued that emphasis needed to be placed upon the social, economic and political roots of so-called racial problems.49 His main contribution to debates around South African racial policies came, however, in his response to Jan Smuts’ 1929 Rhodes lectures.50 In his book, Oldham disputed Smuts’ claim that South African segregation could be the model for the development of Africa and, drawing upon W. M. Macmillan’s study of rural conditions in the Transkei, contested Smuts’ claims that African social conditions had advanced under white rule.51 In South Africa, Oldham argued that while the conflicting political and social interests of white and black remained unresolved, South African ‘native policy’ was an inappropriate model of enlightened colonial policy. Commentators have noted the influence of Smuts’ lectures, but little acknowledgement is given to the degree to which Oldham’s response was welcomed by sections of South African opinion. In his speech to the Bantu-European student conference the following year, Xuma quoted directly from Oldham – ‘a class excluded from all share in political power is condemned to permanent subordination’ – to explain African protest against the threat to the Cape franchise.52 Similarly, Yergan recommended that the Foreign Committee of the YMCA read Oldham’s ‘considered reply’ to Smuts, whom Yergan believed to be too closely associated with segregation policy to ‘act as the giver of impartial advice’.53 In Oldham’s view, the promotion of racial cooperation, the use of technical expertise in advancing social and economic development, and the conversion of individuals to a ‘spirit of fair-mindedness, goodwill and friendliness’54 were steps on the way to the creation of a ‘universal community of the loyal’ that could contend with the complex problems of modern, mass society. Oldham’s consideration of racial problems, cast in a broad international context, contrasted the short-term and local advantages of segregation with its retrogressive effect upon the advancement of humanity as a whole. For Oldham, then, the ‘race problem’ was at heart an international issue, and when viewed in that context, the South African response was of little benefit. Coinciding

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with the emergence of a policy of colonial development, and written at a time when the activities of the League of Nations could still be viewed with optimism, Oldham’s book exhibited faith in the possibilities of economic development directed from above by scientific expertise. Blending the universal moral values of Christian fellowship with modern technical knowledge, Oldham’s ideas on race have been seen as an important contribution to the debate that led to the creation of Lord Hailey’s African Survey.55 Recent commentators have examined in some detail this change in metropolitan thinking on colonial affairs towards the modern ideology of social progress directed through structural ‘development’. Paul Rich, for example, has regarded the focus upon peasant agriculture in the work of liberal critics of segregation such as the South African historian W. M. Macmillan as a failure to recognise the importance of an emerging proletariat in parts of Africa and the Caribbean. Rich argues that Macmillan’s optimistic belief in the potential for colonial reform based upon development was in part a call for a return to Victorian liberal humanitarianism.56 In contrast, Stephen Howe has argued that for critics of empire among the Labour Party, the inter-war years saw the final demise of this version of ‘romantic anti-capitalism’ that promoted the preservation of ‘traditional’ social structures.57 Colonial policy shifted from concern over how to avert change to what Penelope Hetherington has described as a ‘new form of paternalism’ that sought to direct change through more assertive policies of development and education.58 Allied to this shift in thinking was an increased concern to limit South African influence in central and eastern Africa, articulated perhaps most strongly in Oldham’s critique of Smuts. At the same time, the emergence of the ‘race relations’ paradigm in South African liberalism, increased focus on research into the ‘Native Question’ and the formation of liberal institutions such as the Joint Councils and the Institute of Race Relations (as discussed above), gave rise to new networks of connections between Britain and South Africa. This new strand of metropolitan interest in South Africa, unlike the earlier metropolitan humanitarians, focussed particular attention upon the development of an urban black working-class. Nevertheless, they would never be more than a small metropolitan lobby-group and tended to follow the lead of those South African liberals associated with the Institute of Race Relations. The shift in metropolitan interest began following the 1926 tour of South Africa undertaken by the author Winifred Holtby as a representative of the League of Nations Union. There, she came into contact with

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Clements Kadalie. Impressed by the ICU leader, Holtby saw the potential for an alliance between the ICU and Fabian socialists in the UK; something, she argued in a letter to Prime Minister Hertzog, that would alleviate the danger of an African labour movement being seduced by communism: ‘it is surely better to have Kadalie’ she suggested, ‘on the side of the reasonable trade union ambitions for the black man, than to leave him as a useful catspaw to men of the Moscow type’.59 Holtby’s interest was stimulated in part by her contact with the South African novelist Ethelreda Lewis, who had attempted, unsuccessfully, to convince liberals in Johannesburg that the ICU required backing and advice from mainstream trade unions. Turning instead to overseas for support, Lewis persuaded Holtby to seek assistance from British trade union officials and members of the Independent Labour Party to coordinate metropolitan support for the ICU, arguing that ‘their status as Trade Unionists, and through them the status of all coloured workers, might be made more satisfactory if they would allow her to make friends for them amongst the moderate socialist group in England to which she herself belongs’.60 Lewis has been seen as a remnant of ‘postwar urban settlement liberalism’, motivated by the paternalist desire to protect African society from the influences of the Western economy, but she also acknowledged that the paternalist methods of the past were unsuited to the needs of urban Africans. It was, she argued, ‘impossible to keep them savages or educated mission-natives any longer’.61 Yet Holtby’s interest in African trade unions was clearly underpinned by a deep paternalism, illustrated by her warning to the Independent Labour MP Fenner Brockway that ‘in Africa we have to watch the welfare of a child’ when ensuring that the ‘friend of the native’ took as much care to protect their wards against the ‘unwise influence’ of those ‘from remote countries which know not the native mind’.62 Nevertheless, she played a leading role in establishing a support network for Kadalie when he travelled to the International Labour Conference in Geneva in 1927, including Brockway and the future Colonial Secretary, Arthur Creech Jones. On Kadalie’s request, Holtby and Creech Jones sought out the Scottish trade unionist William Ballinger to act as an advisor to the ICU.63 Ballinger was to act as secretary for the union, to establish an administration that ‘would effectively bind the branches to the centre’, make contacts with white unions, and improve the ICU’s financial position.64 His appointment instead precipitated a split in the ICU, with Kadalie leaving to establish an independent branch soon after Ballinger’s arrival. Back in London, meanwhile, Holtby had begun to canvas support for a ‘non racial body – composed of friends

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of South Africa – which shall undertake to study conditions and their significance, to collate information from all sources, and to disseminate facts without propaganda’.65 The interest shown by the British left in Kadalie coalesced into network of metropolitan activists, drawn from trade unionists, clergy, middle-class professionals and including a number of South African expatriates – a network whose support (or more precisely that of Holtby herself) would be invaluable as a source of Ballinger’s income, funded by the Noel Buxton trust under the watch of John Fletcher, a member of the ASAPS and leading Africanist within the Society of Friends. Fletcher’s own Joint Council to Promote Understanding between White and Coloured People in Great Britain, launched in 1931, signalled a burgeoning interest in racial issues in Britain as well as overseas. The name clearly reveals its South African inspiration, an illustration of the primary direction of influence in the politics of race during the inter-war years. In Britain, it was the South African liberals who led the way. One element of this loose metropolitan network was the London Group on African Affairs, organised by Holtby and the psychologist F. S. Livie-Noble, who had been the founding superintendent of the Bantu Men’s Social Centre in Johannesburg. The Group was established on the suggestion of the President of the South African Institute of Race Relations, J. D. Rheinallt Jones, when he visited Britain in 1930. Rheinallt Jones, perhaps the leading figure of the more conservative group of South African liberals who dominated the SAIRR, called for the formation of an ‘informal group’ which could mobilise British public opinion on South African issues. It was clear, he stated, that ‘the Union Government was unwilling to listen to outside criticism of her Native administration and legislation’, but people in the UK should make themselves aware of ‘Natives in Africa as a whole’, looking to the development of territories under British control and taking the opportunity to ‘meet Africans in England’.66 The group aimed to serve a practical purpose in providing – in true paternalist style – a support network for African students in Britain, although its influence was never close to that of the West African Students Union in inter-war London. Moreover, its limitations can be illustrated by Livie-Noble’s response to a request for financial assistance for Self Mampuru, reportedly described by Ballinger as ‘intelligent and clean living’, who was attending the Cooperative College in Manchester. Livie-Noble replied that the London Group had no funds and that he was ‘personally at a very low ebb’, suggesting John Harris as an alternative benefactor.67 Thus, while Barbara Bush has claimed that the London Group was ‘the

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leading pressure group in Britain on African affairs’, it seems that, in practical matters at least, older humanitarian networks still dominated British efforts at philanthropy.68 Bush questions Ballinger’s reputation as a radical, arguing that he remained essentially under the control of his ‘bourgeois patrons’ in Johannesburg. While Bush ignores the significant American influences on the establishment of liberal multi-racial institutions such as the Joint Councils, she is correct to note the positive impression that British observers had of these initiatives, and the extent to which they supported the more conservative strand of liberalism centred around the SAIRR, while the British imperial establishment saw Smuts as the hope of South Africa.69 Bush also notes the way in which Ballinger’s increasing isolation in South Africa reflected an emerging gap between British and South African commentaries on South Africa. Ballinger, together with his future wife Margaret Hodgson, formed part of a small group of more radical voices within the Johannesburg Joint Council, centred around the historian William Macmillan, whose investigations into the economic failure of the Native Reserves was published in his book Complex South Africa.70 The niceties of relationships within Johannesburg liberal circles were not, however, the key concern of British observers on South Africa during the 1930s. Two distinct areas of interest had developed during the inter-war years, namely, concerns over Afrikaner nationalism, and the question of the status and development of the British Protectorates of Bechuanaland, Basutoland and Swaziland. Concerns over nationalism had underpinned the critical view of segregation expressed by Lord Olivier in The Anatomy of South African Misery. Similar concerns were also expressed by Leonard Barnes, whose Caliban in Africa in 1930 was a sustained polemic against the racial prejudice of ‘Afrikanerism’. For Barnes, Afrikaner attitudes to race were the product of a kind of monomania, ‘logical disputation makes him angry; moral appeals make him laugh’.71 Coupled with this was the concern that South African influence would spread beyond its borders: ‘Afrikanerism is wooing with insidious energy all white settlers between Cape Agulhas and the Nile, encircling them like a mist’.72 For Rich, the message of Caliban in Africa and Barnes’ The New Boer War, published two years later, was that Britain needed to be wary of too close an association with South Africa, and that British influence could be best ensured through the Protectorates.73 By 1933, the main focus of metropolitan attention had become the question of whether the Protectorates should be incorporated into South Africa, as had been envisaged in the Act of Union. For some

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commentators, this was perhaps the key question of Anglo–South African relations between Union and the 1950s.74 The debate represented a focal point for a number of key debates around South Africa, with the advantage of being seen as a legitimate cause for British concern. Coming, as it did, as a response to demands for incorporation led by Hertzog, it could be represented (as per Barnes) as a clash between ‘Boer and Briton’. In Britain, opposition to incorporation came from both mainstream liberal observers such as Margery Perham,75 as well as more radical critics such as Barnes. Broader public interest was aroused when the Bechuanaland Regent, Tshekedi Khama, was deposed by the colonial administration following the public flogging of a white resident of Serowe.76 At the same time, the Protectorates became the focus of efforts to promote economic development as a counter-example to the segregationist policy of adaptation being promoted in South Africa since the Native Economic Commission report of 1932. These efforts focussed on the work of the Ballingers, with Macmillan and Barnes having left South Africa, who saw an opportunity to persuade British officials to support development schemes based on African co-operatives. However, despite the beginnings of a shift towards a developmentalist colonial policy (embodied in the 1929 creation of the Colonial Development Fund), attitudes towards South Africa continued to be determined by a desire to avoid destabilising political and economic relations with the country.77 In 1934, William Ballinger toured Britain, hoping to raise support for his co-operative projects. He was successful in speaking to a variety of organisations, including cooperative groups, trade unions and the Women’s International League and in making contact with individuals such as Walter Citrine and Lord Lugard himself, the grandfather of British colonial administration policy.78 His efforts resulted in the establishment of a new support network which forged a direct link between metropolitan activists and South Africa, although its significance was limited by the marginalisation of Ballinger within South African circles. His continued links with British opinion made him a conduit for metropolitan ideas of ‘development’, yet it became progressively more difficult to elicit support for his attempts to promote British involvement in South African affairs through the ‘rejuvenation’ of the Protectorates, indicating the increasing weakness of British influence upon South African liberal opinion. At the same time, the British public appeared increasingly disinterested. Writing in 1935, Winifred Holtby complained to Ballinger of the difficulties of persuading editors to publish stories based upon information supplied by the Ballingers – ‘the

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fundamental difficulty’ she admitted, ‘is that of lack of interest in the British public for South African affairs’.79 Moreover, British opinion on the Protectorates question was some what ambiguous. The London Group on African Affairs did actively lobby the Dominions Office, urging that no action be taken regarding ‘the request for the transfer of the South African British Protectorates to the Government of the Union until such time as Union legislation (in so far as it affects Natives) shall be deemed by the Parliament of the United Kingdom to be consonant with British ideals and policies of colonial administration’.80 According to Livie-Noble (having become the group’s Director following the death of Holtby), who noted that he ‘did not regard the ultimate transfer of the Protectorates with any great horror’, the main issue of concern was to protect ‘Native lands’ from the impact of industrialisation, ‘until such time as the Native community is socially and psychologically fitted to adapt itself to the transition’. Thus, while Livie-Noble was highly critical of John Harris, ‘whose political methods are planned in the spirit of Joseph Chamberlain rather than Neville’, there appeared to be little difference between the fundamental positions of inter-war metropolitan liberals and the pre-1914 humanitarian establishment. ‘Protection’ was the keyword that motivated liberal opinion in Britain, while ‘development’ remained a vaguely defined aspiration rather than a clear basis for colonial policy. In official circles, the ground had begun to move, notably with those associated with Lord Hailey, whose African Survey of 1938 provided a clear agenda for a thorough-going programme of social and economic development. In South Africa, however, links with metropolitan liberalism were seen as a ‘Victorian anachronism’, as South African liberal thought began to coalesce around a US-influenced ‘race relations’ paradigm in South Africa and the cultural relativism and pluralism of Alfred Hoernlé.81

International organisations, the Left, and South Africa As the previous sections have shown, where there has been an interest in those liberal networks that constituted the international dimension of South Africa’s public sphere during the inter-war years, it has tended to focus on links between South Africa and the imperial metropole, and often this has meant more specifically, links between small groups of individuals based in Johannesburg, Cape Town and London. Meanwhile, historical accounts of African nationalism have paid attention to the relationships between the developing black political voice in South Africa and the influences of African-American political and

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social thought. To a degree, of course, these two ‘publics’ crossed over, not least in the nexus of ‘Tuskegee’ African-American social activism, American philanthropic institutions such as the Carnegie Trust, and South African liberal segregationists (notably C. T. Loram). It is also possible to suggest a third strand of international activity that debated South African race policy during the inter-war period, namely, the international religious organisations developing out of the nascent ecumenist movement that had emerged in the first decade of the century. Again, it is evident that these networks were cross-connected with Anglo-African and trans-Atlantic connections, in the involvement of the International Missionary Conference (IMC) as a sponsor of J. Merle Davis study of industrialisation in Northern Rhodesia, for instance, or the role of IMC executive J. H. Oldham in debate around colonial policy that embraced both official and unofficial Africanist circles in Britain.82 Liberal Christianity rooted in the social gospel also retained strength through the spread of ecumenism during the inter-war period.83 Stemming from the development of more formalised national structures for the co-ordination of missionary effort and the inauguration of the General Missionary Conferences in 1904, ecumenist activity led to the establishment of the Christian Council of South Africa in 1936. The Council, whose foundation was largely inspired by the 1934 tour of South Africa by the International Missionary Conference (IMC) executive John R. Mott, signified the Southern African dimension of an international ecumenist movement. During the 1930s, international missionary organisations such as the IMC played a pioneering role in the elaboration of a discourse of development that integrated an earlier language of moral and social evolution within a ‘scientific’ framework. A significant intervention in this process was provided by the report of J. Merle Davis on the IMC sponsored investigation into rapid industrialisation in the Northern Rhodesian Copper Belt84 but, in relation to South Africa, IMC officials often confined themselves to attempts to understand South African thinking on racial issues. One example of the impressions of South African society gained by international Christian observers were the views of IMC official Kenneth Grubb, who visited South Africa during the heated debate over the passage of Hertzog’s ‘Native Bills’ in 1936. Three main themes stand out from Grubb’s report – firstly, South African ‘race relations’ were determined by the belief in innate superiority, irrational fear, and prejudice of white South Africans; secondly, the ‘Dutch element’ of the white population bore a special responsibility for the development of inharmonious social relations through the ‘quasi-religious pre-Christian

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sentiment’ attached to its sense of being ‘Chosen People’. At the same time, this group provided much of the ‘Christian vitality’ of white South Africa, and as such was open to redemption. Finally, the policy of segregation practised on the ground had to be contrasted with the ideal form of the policy, which saw black and white separated in distinct territorial units. The labour needs of industry, Grubb argued, meant that the former, ‘whole-hearted’ segregation was a practical impossibility.85 Grubb’s conclusion was that a ‘Christian solution’ founded upon renewed evangelisation would transform the question into one of a ‘problem between Christians’, informed by shared values of fellowship and understanding of the ‘true nature of man’. Despite the common features it shared with moderate Christian opinion post-1945, Grubb’s grasp of South African social dynamics was strongly informed by assumptions of innate difference. There were many, Grubb argued, who believed that democracy was in some way a particularly Christian form of political representation. Yet the different workings of ‘the Bantu mind’, which estimated the value of individual opinion purely in terms of its relation to that of the community as a whole, brought Grubb to the conclusion that democracy would ‘never be a suitable form of government for South Africa as a whole’.86 Within a decade, it would be impossible for an international observer to question the universal application of democratic principles, yet as we shall see, the description of South African social structure evident in Grubb’s account would continue to underpin international Christian observations long after their more essentialist elements had been discredited. The establishment of an ecumenical Christian Council in South Africa thus opened a channel of communication with international Christian opinion, yet, as Grubb’s account suggests, the limited involvement of the Dutch Reformed churches, which (save for the Transvaal synod of the Nederduitse Gereformeerde Kerk until 1944)87 remained outside of the council meant that its influence in South Africa was limited to ‘English speaking’ churches (this despite the fact that C. T. Loram was convinced that it was the Reformed churches that would provide the best avenue for ‘native development’). Attempts to encourage dialogue between the churches affiliated to the Christian Council and the Dutch Reformed churches were thus to take up much of the energy of leading ecumenists until the 1960s.88 One example of an early attempt to use religious organisations to bridge racial boundaries had come, of course, with the Fort Hare BantuEuropean student conference, and student movements themselves were closely linked to the development of ecumenism during the first half of

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the century. A leading international student body of this kind was the World Student Christian Federation (WSCF), which counted American YMCA and missionary leader John R. Mott among its founders. Given its historical links with the YMCA, it is perhaps unsurprising that Max Yergan was elected to the WSCF executive committee in 1924. The appointment would, in due course, prove a source of personal and professional turmoil, but in the latter part of the 1920s, it set him within a network of cosmopolitan activists. In 1926, he took part in the Le Zoute conference of the IMC, attended by Thomas Jesse Jones, Anson PhelpsStokes and J. H. Oldham, as well as ANC representatives John Dube and Z. R. Mahabane. The favourable impression Yergan gave at the meeting entrenched his position as a symbol of the potential for success of mission work in Africa.89 His connection with the WSCF thus gave him a degree of mobility that would bring him into contact with a number of individuals who would have significant impact on his personal and political development. Duties with the WSCF and other groups including the International Missionary Conference, meant that from the late 1920s Yergan was often absent from South Africa, travelling to Europe and Palestine, before attending a WSCF meeting in Mysore in 1928 alone. It seems that these regular absences were a contributory factor in the eventual breakdown of Yergan’s marriage – the subject of rumour within contemporary correspondence from the early 1930s.90 At the same time, it is possible to discern an ideological shift within Yergan’s commentaries on South Africa. Returning to South Africa in 1931, Yergan had stopped in London, where he came into contact with those in radical anti-colonialist circles, including the singer Paul Robeson. The influence of these contacts was evident, as exemplified by his comment to Jesse Moorland that he believed ‘that it is a revolution we require in order that a large part of the past may be blotted out forever and a new chance given to man to try again for a life better than the one we live today’.91 As Anthony notes, Yergan’s ‘conversion’ to communism came at a time when the Party in South Africa had begun to articulate the need to support anti-colonial nationalism, in the form of a ‘Native Republic’, as a step towards socialism in the country. This reflected developments in the wider international communist networks, following the establishment of its ‘Negro Commission’ at the end of the 1920s, which led the Comintern to declare black ‘self-determination’ as the goal in both South Africa and the US.92 Writing in 1932, Yergan noted that the social and economic effects of the Depression were prompting many Africans

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to look in new directions for political inspiration, and that the ‘communist appeal is being discussed in almost every village, for the workers from the mines take back with them news of what they have heard, and it is safe to say that the most remote part of Southern Africa … are being affected in thought by these new ideas’. Significantly, he appeared sympathetic to this development, noting that ‘communism offers to Christianity its supreme opportunity as a force for social regeneration, and there is no place in the world where this is more true that here in Africa’.93 In the same report, he spoke, again, with admiration of the night schools that Fort Hare students had set up for local residents. ‘Nothing is helping more than this to give a social vision to our students’, he claimed, in addition to stating that the classes had also begun ‘to provide practical ideas of how to realise that vision’. For David Anthony, these evening classes constituted ‘political education’, and were the channel by which communist ideas began to circulate at Fort Hare.94 In Anthony’s view, Yergan was by this point living a kind of ‘double life’, as both a YMCA secretary and socialist tutor, a powerful influence on students, including the future ANC leader, Govan Mbeki.95 It was in this context that Yergan continued to develop plans for his programme of ‘social training’, seeking funding from his American backers while at the same time becoming increasingly isolated within moderate Christian circles, illustrated by his resignation from the committee of the WSCF after an altercation with the chair.96 Despite this, Yergan seemed to remain on good terms with moderate black activists both in the US and in South Africa – he continued to keep in close contact with Channing Tobias of the International Committee, who reported that D. D. T. Jabavu had been ‘full of praise’ for Yergan during his visit to America in 1931.97 Nevertheless, Yergan returned to the US in mid-1933 for what would become a two-year long furlough, during which time his position in South Africa became significantly weakened. This was, in part a consequence of the visit of John R. Mott to South Africa in 1934, which led to the formation of the Christian Council of South Africa (discussed above). Travelling with Mott was the YMCA secretary, Oliver McCowen (who had overseen YMCA activities in Calcutta in the early 1930s), whose report on South Africa for the YMCA World Alliance presents a stark contrast with the increasingly critical view of Yergan. The ‘general impression’ of South Africa, according to McCowen, was of ‘a country throbbing with life and vitality, pressing forward to a great future and

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facing its many problems with courage and statesmanship’. In contrast, however, was the condition of the YMCA in the country, which they saw as a ‘tragic failure’. They concluded that it was necessary to appoint a secretary to co-ordinate YMCA activities among black South Africans. While acknowledging Yergan’s work at Fort Hare, they argued that this task should be undertaken by ‘a European or Anglo-Saxon who would not be hampered by the difficulties facing a Native secretary’.98 This conclusion was a direct contradiction of the programme that Yergan had been urging the International Committee to adopt since the late 1920s. It seems possible that Yergan’s absence during Mott and McCowen’s tour did not help matters, and their thinking on ‘native’ issues may well have been influenced by contact with Ray Phillips in Johannesburg, who was then identified as the suitable candidate for the role of field secretary proposed by McCowen.99 Nevertheless, when Yergan returned to South Africa in mid-1935, he appeared upbeat with regard to the state of those associations and centres he had helped to establish – activities at Fort Hare and Amanzimoti were, he remarked in a letter to Frank Slack, in a state of ‘healthy vigour’.100 In the same letter, he reiterated his enthusiasm for a training programme for community workers who could ‘serve after the pattern of Jesus’ and, more ambitiously, lead to ‘intelligent and constructive influencing of African leadership in a large and more general sense’. At the same time, his assessment of the political situation in South Africa was bleaker. In a second letter to Slack, Yergan stated that during his absence, South Africa had witnessed the ‘political retrogression and the further economic demoralisation of the African masses’ and that he was ‘arriving at the conviction that the government is insensitive to the moral appeal’. Moreover, he had begun to suspect that churches and missionary organisations were aligned with the political establishment and ‘part of the exploiting minority’. He concluded that the ‘selfish imperialism of Great Britain and the crushing nationalism of South Africa [were] the upper and the lower stones which grind and render almost hopeless the great body of people here’.101 Within months, his anxieties appeared to have deepened significantly. ‘I have come to the point’, he stated, ‘where I am not only carefully examining many existing standards, values and methods but where I quite honestly find it difficult, if not impossible, to subscribe to some that I have accepted in the past’.102 The organised church, he argued, was ‘an organisation paying, very largely, only lip service to certain ideals but effectively crushing the ideals when it comes to giving effect to them’. He had clearly read McCowen’s report, and countered

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Government in South Africa is and has been nothing less than legalized brigandage and repression with regard to the overwhelming majority of the population and there is a very real sense in which cooperation with government on the part of organizations adds to the measure of repression. A stamp of respectability and, at least, partial approval is given by such cooperation, and an organization is acceptable to or tolerated by government only so long as such an organization fits into its scheme.103 He extended his critique of McCowen’s report in a second letter, stating that he was prepared to resign, if the International Committee agreed with the plans that the YMCA World Alliance had outlined following Mott and McCowen’s visit. He took particular exception to the recommendation that a European should direct work in urban centres, declaring that this was ‘the most reactionary and mischievous recommendation I have heard from an Association leader in a long time’.104 For Yergan, then, the world body of his own organisation appeared to be aligning itself with what he had come to regard as ‘retrogressive’ political forces, at a time when political developments – in the form of Hertzog’s ‘Native Bills’ – were moving towards an entrenchment of segregation. Moreover, he made it clear that he was prepared to speak out over these issues, noting to Channing Tobias that he planned to use an invitation to speak to Patrick Duncan (ostensibly in his role as advisor to the Carnegie Commission, but who was also Minister of Mines at the time) to state his views in plain terms.105 His opposition to the Hertzog Bills thus became a spur to open political activism, and it has been suggested that he was active in the establishment of the African body set up to focus opposition, the All-Africa Convention.106 The return to South Africa also had an impact on Yergan’s health – his doctor revealed that he suffered severe headaches, which manifested after discussing ‘the deplorable condition of African people or when he had to see officials and converse with them on racial matters’.107 And, again, rumours began to surface regarding the state of his marriage. Despite these pressures, Yergan continued to press for support for his training programme, compiling a memo that was delivered to the International Committee in March 1936. By this point, the programme had developed an explicitly political character, and Yergan was clear in his hope that it would ‘serve to make the people more intelligently

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aware of the oppressive conditions under which they live, of the responsibility of government for these conditions, and of the absence of any real effort on the part of Government to remedy the conditions’. In so doing, he hoped that black South Africans could develop ‘more intelligent protest to Government’.108 However, the increasingly political tone of Yergan’s correspondence was irreconcilable with his position as a YMCA secretary, as he explained in his resignation letter of March 1936: For me, it seems that any truly constructive work of the International Committee, or any other similar body in South Africa, is inseparable from government policy. If the committee is interested in the development of a character in human beings which will result in the larger spiritual, social and economic good of the people among whom it is at work, there is either inevitable conflict between such work and government policy or the work becomes subservient to government policy.109 It was, he felt, impossible for him as an outsider to develop his work in the directions he saw necessary without arousing the disapproval of the South African government and thus embarrassing the International Committee of the YMCA. Some reacted to Yergan’s decision with a degree of sympathy – Anson Phelps-Stokes felt that there was ‘a good deal of truth’ in his assessment of the situation, and his resignation marked the decline of an individual who had left the ‘impression of being a statesmanlike and constructive worker exemplifying a Christian spirit and much wisdom’.110 Others, however, such as South African YMCA Director Oswin Bull, saw Yergan as ‘a very pathetic figure’, who had ‘close relations with Communist leaders’.111 Frank Slack, who met Yergan in London on his return from South Africa, agreed that his radicalisation reflected an ideological shift: he has unquestionably been influenced by the Communistic point of view and honestly feels that the way to solve the problems of the under-privileged classes in South Africa and elsewhere in the world is through definitely developing conflict rather than by the attempt to create goodwill in the sense in which his work has previously been done.112 Even before Yergan’s resignation was announced publicly, discussion turned to a possible successor, and attention began to focus on Ray

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Phillips, who had submitted his own plans for a training programme for social workers, which further suggested that ‘tacit agreement’ had been given during a meeting between himself, Mabel Emerson, John R. Mott and C. T. Loram that the International Committee would provide funding for this work.113 Slack appeared to support the appointment of Phillips in a supervisory role, while both Oswin Bull and Alexander Kerr, Principal of Fort Hare, concurred with the view that Yergan should be succeeded by a European, rather than an African American.114 Yergan, who described Phillips as ‘an individualist who arouses antagonism in the more able type of African’, did suggest that the work of the International Committee could continue, so long as it was ‘prepared to face the necessity of creating tensions’.115 Yergan’s own connection with the YMCA International Committee would last only until 1937, when he would turn his attentions to the more avowedly political organisation he founded with Paul Robeson, the International Committee on African Affairs. Ultimately, the International Committee of the YMCA appeared to come to similar conclusions regarding its work in South Africa, with Frank Slack stating that the Committee was committed, in principle, to the ‘carrying of responsibility by the people among whom the work is done’, and noting that he was ‘not convinced that the conditions under which the Bantu section of the work would be carried out are in harmony with the general principle’.116 Tellingly, Slack also noted that the International Committee ‘would not be able to contemplate financing a European secretary as successor to Mr. Yergan’.117

Conclusion: Dominant liberalism? The years between Union and the outbreak of the Second World War saw the development of a segregationist discourse in South Africa that dominated ways of thinking about questions of racial and social inequalities and government policy on what was increasingly referred to as the ‘native problem’. In an intellectual landscape largely dominated by discourses of racial and cultural ‘difference’, the logic of segregation as a solution to this perceived ‘problem’ became inescapable. In terms of South African liberalism, the declining influence of the nineteenth century idea of a ‘civilising mission’ interacted with the development of scientific theories of race and rapid industrialisation to promote a reconfiguration of liberal idealism in South Africa. Within South Africa, liberals retained strong links with mission-Christian networks, a ‘benevolent empire’ that was attached to a tradition of

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‘practical’ Christianity and therefore powerless to challenge the more radical settler nationalism that came to dominate South African politics in the 1940s and after. Internationally, South African liberalism was at points both a dominant force and a focus of sharp criticism. For those transnational networks that linked activists in South Africa and Britain, the lines of influence tended to run from south to north, despite the sharp criticism of segregation that was elaborated by Oldham and more radical commentators such as Barnes. The desire to allow South Africans to ‘take the lead’ in debates over racial policy would remain ingrained and continue to be a fundamental precept of more conservative observers, but might also be discerned in the determination of anti-apartheid activists to support, rather than to influence, the strategies of liberation movements. Nevertheless, as ideas of colonial development began to dominate British thinking, some cracks appeared in the accord between South African and British liberal opinion. While more conservative metropolitan thinkers were amenable to segregation, the developmentoriented position of William Ballinger and his London supporters was less well-received by South African liberals. In the US, the powerful philanthropic networks around the Carnegie and Rockefeller Commissions were similarly influenced by South African liberal opinion, most notably through C. T. Loram. While a significant strand of African American opinion concurred with the Washingtonian model of black progress there were, however, significant voices raised in opposition to this more collaborative stance. The support given to Plaatje by W. E. B. Du Bois and by supporters of Marcus Garvey provides one illustration of the way African Americans radicals forged mutual alliance with African nationalists, the case of Max Yergan shows how moderate African Americans, closely aligned with mission networks, could become politicised through exposure to the realities of life in segregationist South Africa. Yergan’s journey also shows how new ideological influences were coming to shape international perspectives on South African race policy, as it came to be viewed within a materialist critique of imperialism, and part of a worldwide struggle.

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Human Rights and Anti-Colonialism

The 1940s saw dramatic social change within South Africa, not least in increasing black urbanisation, a phenomenon that would have a direct impact upon the development of a more activist and radical nationalist politics in the aftermath of the war. Partly as a consequence of these social changes, and partly as a reflection of the way long-held assumptions around race were challenged by the exigencies of war, social reform and reconstruction seemed – for a brief time – to be possible within South Africa. The fact that South Africa’s 1940s are more often remembered for the onset of the hard-line and ambitious racial programme of racial segregation known as apartheid should not obscure the significance of the wartime ‘liberal moment’ – not least in its influence upon several notable individuals who would play important roles in the developing critique of apartheid in the following decades. The years immediately after the war saw the establishment of structures that would become crucial to the functioning of transnational anti-apartheid network. On an official level, the United Nations provided a forum in which South African policies could be, and were, subjected to international scrutiny. At the United Nations, the ‘second great hope for humanity’, the question of South African racial policies became a centrepiece of debate around this new institution’s legal competency and moral mission. It is possible to go so far as to say that the attention and criticism focussed on South Africa over its racial policies provided a context for the emerging language of human rights, the subject of a discursive shift in which ideas of democracy and universal rights became a normative standard for political legitimacy. The question of South African racial policies intersected with attempts to establish a new independent voice in international relations – as exemplified by the efforts of the Indian delegation at the United Nations. It also 59

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provided a testing-ground for the operation of universal rights with regard to ‘primitive’ (indigenous) and ‘dependent’ peoples – as seen in the activities of the Anglican priest Michael Scott with regard to the Herero people of South-West Africa. These efforts brought into being, in nascent form, the networks of activists that would be central to the functioning of anti-apartheid as a form of social movement. Groups engaged in lobbying at the UN, and small groups of individuals around key figures such as Scott, would provide nodes around which international anti-apartheid activity would coalesce. Such activities were, of course, subject to the particularities of their own historical context, and it is important to take account of the way in which anti-apartheid networks began to develop at the onset of the Cold War, and the ways in which ideological struggles shaped the eventual form of anti-apartheid networks. It is instructive in this context to examine the New York-based Council on African Affairs, and to assess the double-edged significance of Communist support for anti-apartheid.

The Council on African Affairs and South Africa Following his resignation from the YMCA, Yergan was appointed as the first black lecturer at City College, New York, where he delivered a number of courses introducing African political and social issues. At the same time, he sought a platform that would enable him to engage in more overtly political work. Together with Paul Robeson, he formed the International Committee on African Affairs (ICAA) in 1937, as a way of fostering public knowledge of the ‘chronic’ problems of Africa. In many ways, the ICAA was characteristic of inter-war anti-colonialism: it was ideologically left of centre, and read the particular concerns of Africa in terms of the exploitative tendencies of imperialism, ‘the wrecker of human welfare’.1 It nevertheless kept a distinct focus on South African issues, in part sustained by the links that Yergan maintained with the country, as international ‘advisor’ to the All African Convention, and provided a platform for South Africans visiting the US. In 1937, D. D. T. Jabavu and Alfred Xuma attended an ICAA-sponsored meeting at International House in New York, and provided their African-American audience with an altogether different picture of life in South Africa than the narrative of progress amidst hardship that was the message of the liberal establishment. Jesse Jones, attending the meeting because of the reputation of the two guests and his admiration for Yergan’s work in South Africa, was unable to suppress his disappointment that the

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African speakers focussed their attention on the ‘injustices and oppressions so lamentably hindering the progress of the Native Africans’ and failed to acknowledge the ‘devoted and really heroic services of many white people for the Africans’.2 The make-up of the ICAA goes some way to explain Jesse Jones’ distress, as this was a group with few connections to the missionary and philanthropic circles that had tended to dominate American links with South Africa during the inter-war years. The ICAA drew instead from field that included academics such as Mordecai Johnson, the first black President of Howard University, Raymond Buell, author of The Native Problem in Africa (1928) and head of the internationalist Foreign Policy Association, as well as future Nobel Peace Prize winner and political scientist, Ralph Bunche. Other members included lawyer and civil rights advocate Hubert Delany, the social reformer Mary von Kleeck, and YMCA officials F. E. Frantz and Channing Tobias. International support was provided by British anti-colonialist Leonard Barnes and Rene Maran, key influence on the ‘negritude’ movement in Paris. Robeson had, of course, spent time in London during the 1930s, and was wellknown to metropolitan activists, while his wife Eslanda had visited South Africa in 1936.3 Despite the role of Robeson in the Committee, its manifesto in 1937 exhibited Yergan’s influence, and included the intention to ‘facilitate the education of … carefully chosen Africans who will take their places of leadership within Africa’. This, together with the desire to promote the cooperative movement in Africa and belief in the need for research into ‘various phases of life and conditions in Africa’, closely parallels the main aims of Yergan’s ill-fated social training programme that he had hoped to persuade the YMCA to adopt. In New York, however, the ICAA sought to cast this within an international context, forging links between Africa and diasporic communities in the US and the Caribbean. By 1941, the Committee had metamorphosed into the Council on African Affairs (CAA), but continued to sponsor events, mainly in New York, on the nature of African social life and development issues. In late 1941, a number of committee members resigned from the ICAA, including Johnson, van Kleeck and, citing discontent with its policy, Ralph Bunche. Its committee members continued to represent leading African-American activists, including Ferdinand Smith of the National Maritime Union, and academics such as Edward Franklin Frazier of Howard University. At the same time the Communist influence within the Council was becoming more obvious, with the presence of Party officials such as Doxey Wilkerson. More moderate CAA activists, such

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as Channing Tobias, came under pressure to disassociate themselves from individuals who were ‘faithful fellow travellers along Communist lines’.4 Nevertheless, such links were not, by 1942, necessarily at odds with the US war effort, and the CAA began to focus its campaigns around ways in which the war could lead to political and social progress in Africa. At public meetings, and through a series of press releases and pamphlets, the CAA sought to promote the mobilisation of African support for the war and for Allied forces to employ African troops in the war. An Axis victory, Yergan argued, ‘would mean the undreamed of exploitation of African people and materials by the fascist forces centred in Berlin’, citing the example of the nationalist Ossewabrandwag in South Africa as evidence of the ‘pro-fascist’ forces already operating within the continent.5 Conversely, support for the Allied powers would ‘bring to bear upon Africa the democratic principles for which America together with Great Britain, the Soviet Union and China are fighting’. The CAA in New York articulated a similar response to the Atlantic Charter as did African nationalist leaders in South Africa (as discussed below). In the US, the Charter has been described as a ‘bible’ for those determined to seek converts to the cause of racial equality, who interpreted the Four Freedoms as a pledge to overturn the segregationist order of the American South.6 For Yergan, however, the war was an opportunity to re-shape the world in much broader terms. As early as January 1942, the CAA adopted a report authored by Yergan, calling for the ‘fuller participation’ of Africa in the war effort.7 The same year, following the arrival of US forces in north Africa, the CAA published a pamphlet calling for a series of reforms, including the ending of all colour bars and other legal restrictions on Africans, and – in the longterm – ‘the end of the colonial system, to assure African peoples of full and equal participation in world relations’.8 This was something of a turnabout for Yergan, who had carefully steered the Soviet line on the war prior to the German invasion of Russia. But, as Anderson notes, he also understood that it would have been a folly to abandon the civil rights cause, despite it being regarded by the Communist Party as a distraction. As leader of the National Negro Congress, he supported the ‘Double V’ campaign for victory over domestic racism and international fascism.9 Within months, public announcements from the CAA began to take on a tone approaching optimism, as they congratulated South African workers for their ‘victory’ in securing the wartime relaxation of the pass laws – Yergan even went so far as to send a personal note to the South African Deputy Prime Minister, Deneys Reitz, describing the move as a

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‘progressive step in keeping with the purpose and spirit of the war effort of the United Nations’.10 CAA Educational Director, Frieda Neugebauer wrote in a pamphlet that developments in South Africa were ‘the beginning of a significant change in the relations of government to the welfare of African people’.11 Thus, while Robeson and Yergan were already under surveillance by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the thrust of CAA activities during the early 1940s was in support of the nation’s war effort. Given the relaxation of urban segregation in South Africa, it did seem possible to read wartime policy shifts as evidence of progressive forces at work. The question of wartime reconstruction in fact became a keynote of public debate during the mid-1940s, not least within South Africa itself.

Hope and a ‘new order’ in South Africa In Johannesburg, the early years of the war stimulated debate around the prospects for a ‘new order’ in South African social and political life. To a degree, this debate tended to reflect the vicissitudes of contemporary concerns, such as the political discussions (and controversy) surrounding Jan Smuts’ suggestion that ‘Native’ servicemen would be armed in the event of invasion, for example. The idea that the era of segregation was over, also suggested by some of Smuts’ political statements, distracts attention away from the wide range of suggestions for social transformation that were current during the early 1940s. Some, such as the relaxation of urban segregation, were to be turned back with the advent of Malan’s nationalist regime after 1948. Others, such as the establishment of centralised planning institutions such as the Economic Development Council, were the harbingers of the extension of State authority that would provide an infrastructure for the establishment of a more thoroughgoing system of racial segregation. Apartheid cannot, of course, be seen as simply a peculiar form of post-war government intervention, but the debates around reconstruction taking place in certain sections of South African society during the 1940s did parallel similar debates taking place elsewhere, notably in Britain.12 One institution in which the question of reconstruction was taken very seriously was the Anglican church, or more specifically, the Diocese of Johannesburg. Under the leadership of the then Bishop, Geoffrey Clayton, the Diocese undertook a serious investigation of the ways in which the church should engage with a processes of social and economic reconstruction, in response to the rapid social transformations taking place in the city. It was, Clayton believed, the church’s task to

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participate in the creation of a social order that would transcend the policy of “fear” that had hitherto dominated white politics.13 In the process, Clayton found himself in a public debate with the liberal intellectual R. A. Hoernlé, who insisted that the war would not be a catalyst for the re-ordering of race relations in South Africa, because there was little chance that white South Africans were willing to allow economic and social equality or end their reliance upon cheap African labour. All that could be achieved, he argued, was ‘slow and partial progress’ in social welfare; such achievements could ‘keep hope alive’ but would not in themselves undermine South Africa’s ‘caste society’. Hoernlé concluded that a ‘new order’ would only come about as a result of Africans ‘taking fate in their own hands’.14 The belief that it was possible to transform society without addressing the fundamental question of racial inequality could, he suggested, ‘flourish only in the atmosphere of an intellectual holiday’.15 Some contemporary observers echoed Hoernlé’s lack of faith in the possibility of significant social change. William Ballinger, in a sardonic report on South Africa’s ‘home front’ to Arthur Creech Jones in London in May 1941, argued that ‘South Africa is not likely to make much of a contribution to any New Order that rests on a real democratic foundation because there are so many of its Europeans who do not want a society based on equality in the truest sense of the word’.16 However, many Christians shared Clayton’s optimism. Drawing some inspiration from the Anglican conference held at Malvern in 1941,17 social transformation was a cornerstone of the 1942 Fort Hare conference on ‘Christian Reconstruction in South Africa’, which probably represented the height of liberal-Christian optimism, encapsulated in Edgar Brookes’ declaration: ‘must we not all be – socialists in some form these days?’18 At the same time, Clayton had set up a Commission to investigate ‘the mind of Christ’ for South Africa, investigating the church’s role in social transformation.19 The resulting report, Church and the Nation, presented to the Episcopal synod of 1943, was imprinted with Clayton’s views of the nature and future of South African society. The Church and the Nation was a theological partner to a series of proposals for social reform made during the early 1940s, most notably in the reports of the van Eck Commission and Inter-Departmental Committee on the Social, Health and Economic Conditions of Urban Areas, chaired by Secretary for Native Affairs, Douglas Smit. This ‘radical moment’ in South African social and welfare policy, influenced by international debates and wartime rhetoric, was short-lived, with progressive solutions for the problems of an industrial society retreating in the face

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of a revitalised programme of segregation after 1948.20 Even during the war, and despite some of the more famous rhetoric of South African officials, the reformist discourse was equivocal when dealing with the legislative framework and lived relations of segregation. Again, this was reflected in the Church and the Nation, which, while strongly critical of segregation in education, land ownership and political representation, accepted that there was ‘no final wrong principle involved in the practice of segregation’; while it urged for the franchise to be extended, it fell short of recommending universal adult suffrage.21 The report therefore presented a somewhat fragmented prescription for social change that veered between two different strands of progressive politics; ‘traditional’ liberalism with its focus on the individual, and what Deborah Posel has recently described as an ‘incipient social reformism, committed to state-driven programmes of economic and moral “upliftment” in African societies’.22 While it acknowledged the material dimension of social inequalities, the report concluded that the church should be chiefly concerned with the need for spiritual growth. In its emphasis upon the transcendent nature of God, the Church and the Nation stripped away much of the legitimacy of materialist analyses of South African social dilemmas; the production of the ‘self-disciplining subject’, which Posel rightly sees as the central aim of welfarist intervention,23 was regarded as a spiritual endeavour. For Clayton, the basis of change was ultimately to be found in the redemptive act of ‘sharing the suffering’ of Christ; it was this individual act, which served as the basis for social reform: Neither a change in human institutions nor intellectual enlightenment, nor the two together, can of themselves save society or its individual members. It is also necessary that the wills of men should be turned away from sin, if any improvement is to be made and maintained.24 For Clayton, then, the catalyst for progress would be ‘a change of heart within the nation’, driven by individual acts of self-sacrifice. The Church and the Nation represented, in a context of increased interest in social and economic welfare, an attempt to marry social intervention with a social model that remained centred upon the individual and the family. Its failure to wholeheartedly embrace welfarist schemes and political reform, however, disappointed a small group of Anglican clergy who believed the church should function as a more assertive and socially active institution.25 Its critics suggested

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that there were serious contradictions in the report’s approach to the question of segregation, noting the contradiction between its condemnation of the colour bar and its failure to call for more that its ‘gradual removal’. Indeed, Clayton himself appears to have understood that the optimism of the early 1940s was already in retreat.26 Conceived as a process of reform driven by individuals’ change of heart, an economic order grounded in a notion of ‘stewardship’ that long predated the kind of industrial economy that prevailed in mid-twentieth century South Africa, and a tacit acceptance of racial segregation in social and political institutions, the report failed to satisfy those who were eager to see the church actively promote the inclusive idealism of the Atlantic Charter.

Pastoral mission and Local activism The debate around social reconstruction may not have affected any kind of momentum for reform, but it did provide a reference-point for a number of key individuals who would become leading voices in the broader anti-apartheid movement. While the scope for Christian reconstruction appeared to narrow as the war drew to its conclusion, Anglican authorities in Johannesburg continued to monitor signs of social crisis, of increasing crime, overcrowding and inadequate housing for the increasing numbers of Africans arriving in the city. A committee established to continue the work of the Bishop’s commission in Johannesburg investigated questions of African education, welfare and housing over the following years. One of the major issues taken up by the committee was the Western Areas Removal Scheme (WARS), defined by its proponents as a programme of ‘slum clearance’, which sought the removal of the suburbs of Sophiatown, Martindale and Newclare, that had become the focal point of African urban culture in the city. 27 Costs and practical difficulties delayed the scheme,28 but it did, however, serve to mobilise progressive opinion, particularly clergy who had regular contacts with Sophiatown and the surrounding areas. One of the foremost opponents of the scheme within the Anglican Church was Trevor Huddleston, who had arrived in South Africa in 1943, having been persuaded by Raymond Raynes to take up the position of Prior of Christ the King in Sophiatown, run since the 1930s by the Anglican monastic order, the Community of the Resurrection. In Johannesburg, Huddleston continued in the mould of Christian liberal activism established by Raynes during the inter-war years.29 He sat on the Church and Nation continuation committee, was a member

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of the Johannesburg Joint Council, and was patron of charitable programmes including an ‘African Children’s Feeding Scheme’. While such activities fit the image of liberal ‘ambulance work’ that sought to ameliorate social conditions without addressing their foundations, Huddleston’s pastoral duties drew him into conflict with the local authorities. Huddleston became involved in protest against the WARS as a member of the Joint Council, joining a deputation to the Municipal Post-War Planning Committee in February 1945 to protest against the plans.30 His involvement in political debate broadened beyond the WARS issue, however, and in 1946, he began to publicly question the racial division of municipal politics. Citing the ‘principle of democracy’ that had underpinned the war effort, and the need to promote the ‘development of democratic government’,31 he called for the city’s black inhabitants to be given ‘the right which any true democracy confers upon its citizen – the right to elect his own representative to the City Council’.32 For Huddleston, such rights were intrinsic to the solution of the ‘Native Problem’ – an issue that he insisted should be interpreted in the context of the everyday lives of the city’s black population. Speaking in 1949, he argued that the so-called Native Problem was not an ‘abstraction’, but rather ‘something which affects human beings … their aspirations, their activities, their talents day by day’.33 By 1949, then, Huddleston had begun to shape some character of his critique of the South African racial order that would underpin his anti-apartheid activism during the 1950s and beyond. His experiences in the Sophiatown ‘slum’ had stimulated a political conscience just as the optimism of the early 1940s was in full retreat. However, aside from his statements on citizenship and political representation, Huddleston’s programme for change differed little from the proposals debated within the Smuts administration before 1948.34 He had nonetheless begun to develop the deep emotional attachment to Sophiatown that was integral to the forthright condemnation of apartheid that he would articulate during the 1950s. While his pronouncements of the late 1940s might be interpreted as a defence of liberalism in decline, they hinted that urbanisation might be seen as a source of creative energy and human community, a contrast to the image of misery and moral degradation portrayed by Alan Paton in his novel Cry, the Beloved Country. The book, whose international impact was such that it provided a primary frame of reference for international observers of South African affairs well into the 1950s, was an embodiment of much of the liberal vision of the 1940s; a vision that was under pressure not only from a radicalised

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‘Rights’, ‘Justice’, African democracy and the Atlantic Charter The Atlantic Charter provided a basis upon which to locate local African political ambitions within an international framework. In 1943, the ANC President, Dr Alfred Xuma, established a committee to create a statement of principles and policy; the resulting document, African Claims in South Africa, mapped the desire for political representation onto the precepts of the Charter.35 The same year saw the emergence of the ANC Youth League, which by the end of the decade was to provide the impetus for a new and more assertive stance from Congress itself. Combined with the adjournment of the Natives Representative Council during the Miners’ Strike of 1946, the emergence of the Youth League and increasing sensitivity to developments in international political discourse, the mid-1940s saw the beginnings of a re-configuration of African politics that seriously undermined the continued efforts of paternalist white liberalism to promote gradualist policies of ‘trusteeship’ and ‘partnership’. There were signs, during the later war years, that some white liberals recognised the need to confront the challenge posed by Christian nationalism and address the relationship between South African ‘native’ policy and international conventions expressed by the Atlantic Charter and embedded in the establishment of the United Nations. One such individual had been one of the voices of dissent when the Johannesburg Synod debated the Church and the Nation in 1943. Having arrived in South Africa only a few months before Huddleston in 1943, the Anglican priest Michael Scott had not taken long to establish himself as a political activist. Long before arriving in South Africa, Scott had begun to develop a highly politicised sense of the social inequalities intrinsic in urban life. Working as a parish priest in London’s East End during the Depression, Scott had gravitated towards the Communist Party, joining a party cell of Hackney busmen, an experience he later recalled as ‘very much like a church guild’.36 His contacts with the Communist Party were, however, deeper than this dismissive comment would suggest, and included the high-ranking official, Emile Burns. During the mid-1930s, he spent time as a chaplain in India, combining his church duties with covert work for the underground Communist movement in the country, before

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Afrikaner nationalism, but also an African politics revitalised by wartime rhetoric of welfare and democracy.

returning to Britain at the outbreak of war.37 In his autobiography, Scott asserted that he began to distance himself from Communism and enlisted in the Air Force, before being discharged and, on medical advice, travelled to South Africa in early 1943. Recently revealed Security Service documents show, however, that his decision to take up a post with the church in Pretoria was made in consultation with Burns and others in the Party, who saw it as an opportunity ‘to get a foothold in South Africa’.38 Thus, while Scott’s experiences in urban South Africa were sharpened by a sense of social justice built in London and India, it was no surprise that he soon became engaged in political activities. After leaving his initial post and taking up work at St Joseph’s mission in Sophiatown, Scott described how he felt it ‘intolerable that we should be turning Christ’s gospel into a vast profit-making institution with the poor, the maimed, the halt and the blind forced out into the cold’.39 By the end of his first year in South Africa, Scott became involved in a series of conferences on ‘Right and Justice’, which developed into the Campaign for Right and Justice (CRJ).40 The movement provides a clear illustration of the breadth and, ultimately, the limits of ‘progressive’ politics in the 1940s. The working party that formed the first committee of the movement included representatives from across the left-liberal spectrum, from Christians such as Scott, William Palmer, the Dean of Johannesburg, and the Methodist leader J. B. Webb, white politicians such as Hyman Basner, Margaret Ballinger and Donald Molteno to black Communists such as Dr Yusuf Dadoo and Edwin Mofutsanyana. Together, they laid out a programme that aimed to secure the ‘fuller representation of Non-Europeans within the legislative framework of the Constitution’, the abolition of racially discriminatory legislation, and, most radical of all, the ‘provision of land for the landless people of South Africa’.41 There is evidence to suggest that the organisers saw the horizons of the campaign stretching beyond Africa, for the CAA bulletin New Africa reported that the founding conference called for support from the US and Britain to ‘help do away with the poverty and degradation in which Africans are forced to live’.42 The ‘Charter of Rights’, which became the manifesto of the CRJ, was nevertheless a product of South African political debate. It had many similarities with the Bill of Rights laid out in the ANC document, African Claims in South Africa, adopted by the ANC annual conference ten days later, and the two developments provide further evidence of the ways in which wartime rhetoric was seen as an agenda for radical changes in race relations.43 Despite this, there was some suspicion aroused by

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the CRJ, with its plan to establish a broad ‘progressive’ front. Scott attempted to persuade ANC President Alfred Xuma that the CRJ would not ‘conflict in any way with the purposes of the African Congress or to usurp any of its functions’, but the ANC nevertheless declined to join the CRJ committee.44 The main support for the CRJ came from trade unions, including the Transvaal Teacher’s Association, the multiracial Garment Workers’ Union, the South African Trades and Labour Council (SATLC) and the Council of Non-European Trade Unions, with additional support from servicemen’s groups and the National Council of Women. Thus, while it may have had some influence upon the language of political opposition,45 the CRJ elicited a degree of scepticism from African and Indian political leaders, who perhaps understandably judged the movement as yet another manifestation of paternalist white liberalism. Over the course of 1944 and 1945, with Scott as Director, the movement did appear to move closer to the mainstream, gaining the attention of government officials including the Director of Army Education, Leo Marquard, who chaired a CRJ conference on the ‘Rehabilitation of African Ex-volunteers’ in September 1945, with contributions from J. D. Rheinallt Jones and Alfred Xuma.46 Much of the activity of the movement followed the standard patterns of a liberal pressure group: organising petitions in support of the Alexandra bus boycott of November 1944 and despatching deputations to ministers over housing and the 1944 Millworkers strike. A CRJ newsletter was published from May 1945, while a Legal Department was established, primarily to support African unions.47 Under the leadership of Scott, the CRJ began operate along lines similar to the SAIRR. Attempts to elaborate a programme of action began to crystallise into a two-pronged campaign that promoted, on the one hand, a plan for a programme of ‘regional’ development and, on the other, a publicity campaign aimed at countering the threat of ‘fascist’ groups.48 Detailed plans for post-war reconstruction were set out in the agenda for a conference on Regional Planning scheduled for December 1945. Influenced in part by the work of Dr Andre Bruwer, inter-war Chair of the Board of Trade and Industries,49 a policy of industrial decentralisation has been shown to have emerged, albeit unevenly, in the latter years of the Smuts government.50 The particular interest shown by the CRJ may well, therefore, be a reflection of a wider curiosity in the efficacy of such measures as a counter to African urbanisation, although for Scott, regional planning offered a ‘rational alternative to the Nationalist doctrine of apartheid’.51 Further inspiration for Scott’s

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‘regionalist’ approach came directly from the US social philosopher, Lewis Mumford.52 When Scott encountered Mumford, through his 1938 book, The Culture of Cities, the idea of regionalism was conceived as an alternative to the modern nation state, a platform for social and moral reconstruction in the face of the ‘psychological metamorphosis’ engendered by modernity.53 It was indeed a utopian vision, but unfortunately one that was doomed to obscurity before it could be discussed at the planned conference in Johannesburg. The conference, and along with it Scott’s plans to promote regional development, became the victim of conflict within the CRJ. Having been careful to play down any party-political affiliations or ambitions, Scott blamed the movement’s demise on rumoured plans to use the Campaign as a base for the formation of a new political party.54 The finger of suspicion, in Scott’s account, falls upon the Communist members of the CRJ executive, who included Brian Bunting and Vincent Berrangé. Scott concluded that their support had been a ‘kiss of death’ for the CRJ.55 Confronted with opposition within the CRJ executive, Scott resigned from the organisation in 1945, cancelling publication of the controversial pamphlet on the Broederbond and the Regional Development conference. Although attempts were made to continue its operation, the Campaign fades from the historical record thereafter. While Scott insisted that a Communist presence in the CRJ was the cause of its demise, the Party was far from marginal in wartime politics. As Frederickson notes, the alliance with the Soviet Union, coupled with a deliberate effort to see the Party involved with official political institutions such as township advisory boards meant that ‘Communism became almost respectable’.56 In an atmosphere that could see the mayor of Johannesburg become a patron of the Friends of the Soviet Union, the presence of Party members on the executive of the CRJ was surely unremarkable. The fact that the movement attracted support from across a broad spectrum of white political opinion, from United Party (UP) ministers to Communists created an almost incomprehensively broad coalition of interests that sowed the seeds of the movement’s ultimate demise. Failure to mediate between the UP and more radical political groups illustrated a growing impotence within South African liberalism during the 1940s. Burgeoning radicalism within Congress politics, the establishment of the Youth League of the ANC and the rise of radicals in the leadership of the South African Indian Congress, resulted in the gradualist liberal policies and strategies of deputations and petitions being treated with increasing hostility from black political leaders.

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As in South Africa, Communist activists played a significant role in the development of American anti-colonialism in the late 1940s. Yergan and Robeson clearly identified themselves with the struggles of international labour, and CAA reports made direct connections between racial segregation, the struggle for workers’ rights and the power of international (and imperial) capital. While it retained some of its more moderate supporters, the Council’s radical character was sharpened with the appointment in August 1943 of William Alphaeus Hunton as Educational Director and editor of its newsletter, New Africa. Hunton, who had links with Yergan going back to their student days, had joined the Communist Party in the late 1930s and was active in the National Negro Congress alongside Yergan.57 Under Hunton’s influence, the CAA was transformed into a radical campaigning enterprise, which sought to present, through New Africa, anti-colonialism as a necessary adjunct to African-American domestic struggles:58 Just as labour and the liberal forces of England recognized 80 years ago that their own interests lay in the overthrow of American slavery, so today it is necessary for Americans and all peoples of the anti-axis world to realize that their future security and peace must ultimately depend upon the abolition of the principle and practice of imperialism in Africa and throughout the world.59 The Council nonetheless maintained its close connections with South Africa – it included among its membership the former headmaster of Ohlange School and participant in the ANC’s African Claims committee, Dr R. T. Bokwe, and made regular mention of contacts with South African leaders. It was, however, the beginning of negotiations towards a new post-war political order that served to provide momentum for the CAA’s anti-colonial campaign. In April 1944, the Council sponsored a conference on ‘Africa – New Perspectives’, that took as its starting point the discussions between the Allied leaders, which demonstrated how ‘collaboration and harmony can and must supplant the former imperialist rivalries and conflicts which have particularly characterised the European penetration and domination of Africa’.60 By late 1944, it was becoming clear that the lofty ideals associated with the concept of the United Nations were being diluted with regard to colonial issues, and the Council registered its disappointment that the preliminary

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Human rights and the birth of the United Nations

discussions at Dumbarton Oaks had failed to tackle colonial issues in any meaningful way.61 The San Francisco conference, at which the final form of the UN Charter was negotiated, saw intense lobbying for the inclusion of colonial issues as a fundamental concern of the new organisation. The US delegation was not, however, minded to pursue a strong position on colonialism, given the need for the support of European colonial powers in order to limit the influence of the Soviet Union. At the same time, both the Soviet Union and the US were concerned to limit the powers of the new organisation with regard to the imposition of a series of ‘rights’ that could as easily be applied to the American South as they could to Soviet justice. Political niceties of this kind were, of course, of particular use to the South African delegation, despite the oft-cited ‘irony’ of Jan Smuts’ inclusion of the term ‘human rights’ into his draft of the preamble to the UN Charter. As Dubow has shown, however, Smuts’ intentions were ambiguous and his conception of ‘rights’ did not extend to political equality.62 Before the San Francisco conference, African-American leaders were already wary of the form of the new organisation as proposed at Dumbarton Oaks. Yet, while Anderson argues that the CAA and National Association for the Advancement of Colored People diverged somewhat over their vision for the UN, both were agreed that San Francisco should be an opportunity to set questions of rights and justice at the heart of the post-war international order. The CAA outlined its hopes for the conference in a pamphlet published in April 1945. It began by arguing that post-war security necessitated the ‘rapid advancement of all dependent peoples’, driven by economic progress that could only be achieved if ‘restrictions upon social development, democratic rights and self-government’ were overturned.63 It was therefore important that the United Nations be given the authority to ensure that the ‘principle of international responsibility for colonial peoples’, as established by the League of Nations, could be put into practice. The key proposal was to establish an ‘International Colonial Commission’, which would supervise all colonial territories, establish a convention outlining the socio-political and labour standards under which such territories would be administered, to oversee economic and social development, and to monitor progress towards political self-determination. W. E. B. Du Bois, meanwhile, noted that people in colonial territories would be forced to rely on mere philanthropy under the Dumbarton Oaks proposals.64 In an attempt to widen public support, the US State Department did invite a number of non-governmental organisations, including the NAACP, to act as consultants during the conference.

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Despite attempts by these ‘consultants’ to persuade the US delegation to follow a strong line on human rights and justice for colonised peoples, the conference ultimately agreed to a United Nations whose Trusteeship Council would have limited authority over a small proportion of colonial territories – a far cry from the CAA’s ambitious Colonial Commission. While equally disappointed with the San Francisco agreement, relations between the CAA and the NAACP were strained by the former’s confidence in the Soviet Union – Yergan’s frustrations resulted in a public and physical attack on the NAACP secretary, Walter White. Yergan’s relations with other leading African Americans continued to deteriorate, with State Department official Ralph Bunche apparently blocking the CAA president’s access to the conference.65 Nevertheless, African-American leaders came away from San Francisco with the shared realisation that the colonial issue and their own domestic rights struggle were parallel. Despite the obvious determination of the major powers to sidestep questions of rights and political freedom, there were a number of attempts to test the authority of the UN in these areas. Within a year, the National Negro Congress had attempted to petition the UN, but its own organisational frailty left it unable to provide evidence of human rights abuses, and Yergan’s increasing distance from African-American leaders, in part a consequence of Cold War suspicion of the Congress’ Communist leanings, meant that the petition campaign came to nothing. As with Yergan, Du Bois also sought to draw the UN into the debate surrounding racial discrimination in the US, culminating in the publication of his Appeal to the World in 1947,66 which exacerbated tensions between him and moderate NAACP leaders. These tensions contributed to his expulsion from the NAACP in 1948, whereupon he became co-chair of the CAA.67 The test of UN authority in the arena of human rights abuses was directed instead against South Africa. Between 1945 and 1946, the CAA maintained a public attack on the UN, which it saw as a failed attempt to establish in Africa the kind of democratic principles that the Allied powers had supposedly supported during the war. Those sections of the UN Charter that dealt with colonial territories was, the Council argued, ‘quite lengthy and filled with unctuous rhetoric’, but ‘failed to establish the means for the United Nations Organization to insure the effective and rapid economic, social and political advancement of colonial peoples’.68 The system of Trusteeship envisaged in the Charter would be applicable only to a small proportion of the colonial world, and even where it could be applied, its authority would be limited. In contrast to the clear sense of lost opportunity, and disappointment at the position taken by the US delegation at San Francisco, the CAA greeted the election of a Labour government in Britain with 10.1057/9780230309081 - The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid, Rob Skinner

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optimism. In a press release, Robeson stated that the election ‘represented a defeat for imperialist and reactionary forces in all countries, opening the way for positive action aimed at the independence of colonial peoples’. Furthermore, it was ‘a repudiation of the manner in which American, British, French and other reactionary imperialist forces were safeguarded by failure of the San Francisco Conference to give real guarantees for colonial advancement and independence’.69 As preparations were made for the first meeting of the UN Trusteeship Committee in London in late 1945, it became obvious that the Attlee government would not usher in a radical new direction in British colonial policy. In New Africa, the outlook for the Trusteeship Committee meeting was described as ‘gloomy’, while Yergan wrote to Secretary of State Edward Stettinius, objecting to the inclusion of South Africa on the Trusteeship Committee – with the addition of Australia, New Zealand and Britain itself, this gave the British empire four votes out of ten on the committee.70 In late 1945, the CAA launched an emergency appeal for South Africa, following reports of deprivation in the reserves as a consequence of drought and the worldwide food shortages following the end of the war. Alongside dramatic quotes from black South Africans – ‘we have lost so many cattle that many Africans will never get milk for the rest of their lives’ – the CAA declared that Africans were ‘chronic victims of poverty, hunger and disease because the land allowed them is inadequate for their needs’, and called for Americans to send either money or canned food.71 The appeal was launched in January 1946 at the Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem, and by February over 70 crates of food aid was en route to South Africa, the largest contributions coming from New York African-American church congregations.72 While the appeal provided an opportunity for African Americans to provide practical support for black South Africans, the CAA took care to maintain a political dimension to the campaign. At its launch, which was attended by over 4000 people, resolutions were passed calling for the UN action against South Africa, and more precisely, that the UN refuse to acknowledge South African authority over South-West Africa. At the same time, Yergan issued a public condemnation of the introduction of legislation intended to extend segregation to Indian South Africans, arguing that it exposed ‘the fascist nature of South African rule’.73 During 1946, the CAA would take a prominent role in coordinated efforts to use the new institution of the UN to force a shift in South African policy. In June 1946, the Indian delegation to the UN made a complaint over the treatment of Indian nationals within South Africa, which India alleged had breached a series of agreements between the 10.1057/9780230309081 - The Foundations of Anti-Apartheid, Rob Skinner

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two countries by introducing a series of discriminatory measures against Indians. In truth, the catalyst for the Indian action appears to have been the passage of the Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Representation Act, which included provisions to ban Indians from buying property within ‘white’ urban districts. At the same time, South African administration of the South-West Africa mandate, which had been ceded by the League of Nations in 1919, became a focus of debate after Smuts informed the UN in June 1945 of plans to formally incorporate the territory into South Africa.74 At the end of 1945, Tshekedi Khama had contacted the UN requesting that South-West Africa remain a separate territory, motivated in part by a desire to protect Bechuanaland against incorporation into the Union. However, Khama’s campaign was also prompted by a personal distaste of South African ‘native policy’, encouraged by his contacts with African leaders within the Union, including ANC President, Alfred Xuma.75 When the African Miners’ Strike of August 1946 heightened a sense of crisis in South Africa, Native Representative Hyman Basner decided to make his own journey to New York in order to confront Smuts on the international stage.76 Arriving in New York in October 1946, Basner met up with Xuma and two Indian National Congress representatives, H. A. Naidoo and S. Rustomjee, and sought to lobby the UN. With support from the CAA, the South Africans attended a series of meetings in New York, while providing advice and information to the Indian delegation at the UN, who had become the primary channel for criticism of the Smuts’ government. Smuts had himself travelled to New York to present in person the case for incorporation, but returned to South Africa without approval. Moreover, he had been subject to censure in the UN Assembly for the South African government’s treatment of Indians, to which he bitterly responded in a broadcast on his return to Pretoria. ‘We found a solid mass prejudice against the colour policies of South Africa’, he complained and, as the Times in London reported, he saw the censure as a blow ‘struck at the very foundations on which the organisation was established’.77 Nevertheless, the criticism of South Africa was mild, and the mandate to administer South-West Africa had not been rescinded. While some international publicity had been forthcoming, little tangible success came from the escapade at Lake Success. As Basner acknowledged in an article on the debate in the Democrat, the position of the South African government hinged on the ambiguous nature of the concept of ‘fundamental human rights’. Smuts had argued that the question of the Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Representation Acts had to be submitted to

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the International Court for a ruling on their legitimacy, but for Basner, human rights were a political, rather than a legal question.78 From the outset, then, the UN ‘Anti-Apartheid regime’ became embroiled in conflict over the boundaries between national and universal human interest; conflicts that were further complicated by the development of the Cold War and the subordination of the idealism of the mid1940s by the realpolitik of Cold War political allegiance. Some residue of post-war optimism remained: in 1949, an article in Democrat Monthly described a ‘new world outlook’ in which South Africa could be perceived as the primary offender against post-war principles of justice.79 Yet, seen in the long-term, the criticism of Smuts at the UN in 1946 represented a fleeting moment between the defeat of European fascism and the rise of an international order dominated by superpower relations. It would be wrong to dismiss these events, however, particularly with regard to the ways in which they represented the process by which the authority – and legal competency – of this post-war experiment in political order was established and contested. Not least, the continued campaign to oppose South African incorporation of the South-West Africa mandate set precedents in relation to the ability of non-governmental organisations and, indeed, indigenous groups, to lobby the commissions of the UN. It was in this highly charged arena that Michael Scott came to be recognised internationally as a pioneer of anti-apartheid. The historical significance of his activities has been located in the way his campaigns at the United Nations contributed to international perceptions of apartheid, and in one account, how they reinforced the association between discredited notions of scientific racism and fascist authoritarianism. For Paul Rich, Scott was significant in that he ‘began to drive a wedge … between English and South African liberals’, breaking down the tendency of British observers to accept the ‘carefully moderate’ rhetoric of South African liberals.80 Activists such as Scott helped to promote a radicalisation of British (and wider international) opinion with regard to the nature of the South African state and its policies. Scott first met Tshekedi Khama and the Herero chief Frederick Mahereru in Bechuanaland in November 1946, through a mutual acquaintance, lawyer Douglas Buchanan. Soon after the meeting, he travelled to Windhoek to meet other Herero leaders and investigate, on Mahereu’s behalf, their complaints against plans for incorporation.81 It was, therefore, as an ‘agent of Tshekedi’ that Scott became active in politics of South-West Africa, and that he followed, rather than instigated, international campaigns against the South African government.82 With the South-West African authorities determined to block any

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attempts by Herero leaders to travel to New York, Scott agreed to present the Herero petition, calling for South-West Africa to be placed under the immediate authority of the UN International Trusteeship Committee, to the British Government and the UN. Having secured a visa following his appointment as an advisor to the Indian delegation to the UN, Scott arrived in New York in the autumn of 1947.83 Scott’s activities at the UN may well be seen as a significant contribution to debate that helped establish a post-war norm of anti-racism and anti-imperialism.84 He was certainly aware of the wider significance of his mission to the UN, noting at the time that although the problems of South-West Africa were considered minor in comparison with the post-war reconstruction of Europe, the South-West African issue was of immense importance to Africa as a whole.85 Scott was, at the same time, determined to use the campaign as a way of placing pressure on South Africa in wider terms. Writing an open letter to the South African Minister of Justice, Scott disputed claims that his actions were disloyal to his country, and asserted a belief that his actions would be seen as ‘in the permanent and deepest interests of our country’.86 While the letter highlighted domestic interests, Scott was also keen to emphasise the global context in which South Africa’s actions would be judged and, stating that the country had ‘existed too long as a semi-feudal backwater of civilisation’, he argued that South Africans needed to be reconciled to the increasing international antipathy to what he called ‘arbitrary race-rule and unreason’.87 And yet, while Scott’s activities at the UN did begin to promote a sense that South Africa was out of step with international opinion, they also provided a lesson in the frustrations and obstructions of the diplomatic process. His activities in New York were circumscribed by visa restrictions arising from his associations with communism, although he did receive support from groups such as the International League for the Rights of Man and the NAACP. He was thus able to establish a base from which to lobby the Trusteeship Committee for a hearing.88 By the time of his third visit to the UN, in 1949, he was increasingly frustrated by attempts to stall his campaign – writing in retrospect that Christian spirit ‘was being tested’ against the ‘delicate diplomatic finesse whereby good causes can so easily be deflected from their course’.89 The idea of an individual being allowed to address a UN committee was unprecedented and bitterly opposed by the South African delegation, which was supported by Britain and France (evidently anxious over the implications for their own colonial territories in Africa). Scott was thus finally able to address the Trusteeship Committee in late 1949 – an hour-long indictment against colonial rule in South-West

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Africa that Scott’s biographers have described as ‘the UN being politely but firmly challenged to do its moral duty’.90 While it marked the start of a long and frustrating campaign, Scott’s appearance at the UN was a remarkable achievement, bringing the claims of indigenous groups to an international forum for the first time. As the News Chronicle in London put it, Scott’s efforts had ‘transformed the atmosphere of debate from arid legal dispute into a moral assize to which black victims have at last contributed their own evidence’.91

Conclusions: Apartheid, decolonisation and the Cold War During the 1940s, political debate both within and about South Africa was transformed. The rising legitimacy of the language of rights and democracy (the contested meaning of such language notwithstanding), contrasted with the re-assertion of segregationist ideology in South Africa, both in the latter years of the Smuts government and with the advent of the Afrikaner nationalist policy of apartheid. At the same time, the broader international debate around the question of fundamental rights and political self-determination resulted in the establishment of new structures, namely the United Nations Organisation, in which apartheid could be contested. With its home in New York, the United Nations would become a significant site of anti-apartheid struggle, although one in which the particularities of South African affairs intersected with the wider politics of the Cold War. In the US, African-American leaders had seen the prospect of the United Nations Organisation as a benefit to their own campaigns for civil and human rights, and a means by which the politics of race in America could be tied to an anti-colonial struggle. As Scott’s experiences demonstrate, however, the contradictions of the United Nations were soon obvious; the Herero petition becoming an illustration of the tensions between the universalist ambition of the UN Charter and its more limited legal competencies. At the same time, the achievement of presenting the Herero case directly to the Trusteeship Committee showed how the UN might be able to provide some kind of global forum. Even without the power to materially affect the decisions being made in London, Pretoria and Windhoek, the UN nevertheless was able to afford the opportunity for public debate in which an older discourse of ‘partnership’ was held in comparison with that of ‘rights’. In the debate surrounding the South-West Africa mandate, we see a contest between the language of trusteeship and the language of democracy. Previous scholarship has, of course, identified the intimate link between

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the question of South African racial discrimination and this process of negotiation and contestation around the post-war discourse of human rights.92 For the disenfranchised African and Indian leaders in South Africa, the emergence of an international language of rights and equality in the form of the UN Charter offered an opportunity to formulate their own political grievances in terms of an appeal to a higher and morally legitimate authority. Debates within South Africa and the involvement of Smuts during the framing of the UN Charter suggest that the liberal segregationist view of rights, tied as it was to a sense of duty, responsibility and (perhaps most importantly) individual capacity, was far less certain at the end of the war than it was at the start. This was, in part, an indication of the changing nature of international conceptions of rights and (some might suggest) of sovereignty itself. The Smutsian vision was in retreat, but within South Africa, it was to be replaced by a ruling ideology of much more rigid racial discrimination. In the wider world, the debate around segregation as an abuse of human rights was caught within the web of Cold War diplomacy – in both the US and South African cases, the reality and rhetoric of Cold War anti-communism was a potent barrier to official condemnation of apartheid. Thus, while a new framework of political norms, founded upon the language of rights and selfdetermination, had begun to be formulated, the practical reality was that international opposition to apartheid was restricted to a network of groups and individuals outside of official politics. These networks nevertheless began to exert influence in a number of important ways. As part of a wider anti-colonial movement, they were able to maintain some kind of international visibility for South African activists. Moreover, the form and rhetoric of anti-apartheid movements, as they developed during the 1950s, were successfully represented as legitimate campaigns that could also be construed as anti-Communist in orientation. In the US, in particular, the taint of Communism was a significant handicap for movements, as the CAA would find increasingly during the 1950s. Ideological tensions were also the stimulus for the retreat of Max Yergan from anti-apartheid activities, following his second (and perhaps most remarkable) ideological about-face that saw him publicly condemn CAA leaders for their Communist sympathies, resulting in his expulsion.93 After 1949, then, the Cold War began to define the boundaries within which anti-apartheid activism could claim legitimacy. It was a highly significant shift in emphasis, therefore, when activists began to define political legitimacy in terms of support for African nationalism.

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5

‘In his biography of Geoffrey Clayton, Alan Paton describes with amused admiration the grand ceremony in 1948 with which ‘Galfridus, Episcopus Johnannesburgensis’ was made an honorary Doctor of Divinity by Cambridge University. Also present were the Archbishop of York, Cyril Garbett, Winston Churchill and the (recently) ex-Prime Minister of South Africa, Jan Smuts, who was to be installed as Chancellor.1 In his installation address, Smuts spoke of aggression between nations, the ‘great ideological bifurcation of our world’, and the battle for the salvation of Europe.2 The future unity of Europe was his theme, yet, of all the establishment figures gathered on that occasion, Smuts served as a potent symbol of the imperial tradition, a character in a grand narrative that would only begin to unravel from the later 1950s as new and multiple cultural influences began to re-shape Britain. Smuts and Churchill’s credentials as pillars of the imperial establishment need little further elaboration. Yet both were defeated figures, swept aside as popular sentiment appeared to demand new forms of political leadership in the wake of war. Under such circumstances, the illustrious gathering at Cambridge appears to presage the ‘closing of the imperial moment’. However, as Bill Schwarz has suggested, Smuts continued to act as a ‘philosopher of race’ for post-war Britain, the progenitor of a discourse of difference that had the capacity to couch racial superiority in terms of ‘the essential liberality’ of the British imperialist past.3 The imperial moment would linger for some while. Bringing down the curtain on empire would require that this liberal imperialism be unpicked, and in its place develop a political discourse of decolonisation. As we saw in the previous chapter, this process had begun (albeit in a somewhat fraught manner) with the debates around the formation of the United Nations, whose charter could be read as 81

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an implicit rejection of colonial status and assertion of the sovereign rights of nations – despite the increasing tolerance of empire on the part of the US. In South Africa, marginalised groups had begun to draw on the language of democratic rights as they rejected ‘liberal’ strategies of cooperation and accommodation: just weeks before Smuts’ installation as Chancellor of Cambridge University, on the eve of the election which would bring the National Party to power, Michael Scott had opened the ‘People’s Assembly for Votes for All’ in Johannesburg, declaring that it was ‘the historic task of the Non-European peoples of South Africa to establish their rights’.4 What seemed obvious to Scott – that colonial subjects would provide the lead in their struggle for political rights – would take many years to percolate into the consciousness of most observers of the colonised world. However, the beginnings of an international critique of South African government policy had begun to emerge, seeking, through the auspices of the UN and the mobilisation of public opinion, to challenge the white supremacist assumptions and racial-determinism that dominated South African political discourse. From the very onset of the Cold War, ‘Third World’ interests in the shape of the newly independent government of India had begun to cast South Africa as the primary offender against a putative system of universal rights and values. Within Britain, or at least within that narrow wedge of society that paid attention to African affairs and interpreted events through the dusty lens of the ‘civilising mission’, the 1950s brought developments that would challenge their own paternalist assumptions and press hard against the convictions of liberal imperialism. From the city streets of the Gold Coast to the mission stations along the shores of Lake Nyasa, claims for increased political representation and opposition to the entrenchment of settler rule were voiced within a single framework – nationalism. Nationalism, a beast to be feared and corralled, through schemes which spoke of ‘partnership’, took centre stage in the political discourse of 1950s colonialism in Africa. For example, British missionary societies, as John Stuart has shown, reluctantly came to change their view of nationalism over the course of the 1950s, and by the final couple of years of the decade missionary opinion had concluded that nationalist claims for self-determination had legitimacy and should be supported – not least in order to protect the future status of churches themselves.5 A similar argument might be made regarding the South African context, but here account must be taken of the country’s more developed and diverse international links, and the particularities of its domestic politics.

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This chapter explores the relationship between the growth of international anti-apartheid and the increasing legitimacy of African nationalism. At its centre is the reaction to the Defiance Campaign of 1952, the first significant mass mobilisation against apartheid within South Africa. The campaign, which drew influence from the passive resistance campaigns employed by the Indian National Congress during the 1920s and 1930s, prompted responses from supporters within Britain and the US. In Britain, the campaign inspired fund-raising efforts centred around Christian Action, while in the US it led to the establishment of the American Committee on Africa (ACOA), a group centred on members of the Congress of Racial Equality. The onset of organised civil disobedience in South Africa forced anti-apartheid activists into an engagement with African nationalism that led them to confront difficult issues surrounding the legitimacy of colonial authority and the moral status of political resistance. Most importantly, the ‘new’ humanitarians of the 1950s were required to understand African issues in terms of the political ambitions and sensibilities of African nationalists. The position, underlined by the tours of South Africa undertaken by Canon Collins and the George Houser of the ACOA in 1954, was increasingly one of emphatic support for the African National Congress in South Africa. Before examining these developments, it is necessary to survey the form and character of the array of groups that had begun to pay close attention to the question of apartheid during the late 1940s and early 1950s.

Michael Scott and the Africa Relations Council British disquiet over the turn of political events in South Africa was predominantly focussed upon the uncertain nature of the new regime’s imperial loyalty, rather than the nature of the new regime’s policy of apartheid. There were, however, deep concerns over the political direction that was signalled by the coming to power of the National Party under Malan. On the eve of the election in 1948, The Guardian editorial stated that a National Party victory would be a ‘disaster’, and that apartheid was ‘not so much a policy as a neurotic fantasy’.6 Radical groups, such as the India League, with close connections to South African activists, equated apartheid unequivocally with fascism.7 The shift in power in South Africa also focussed public attention on Michael Scott, who used the time he spent in the UK in between visits to the UN to seek support for his campaign against the ‘incorporation’ of South-West Africa. During a brief visit to the UK in 1947, for example, Scott found

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time to discharge a salvo of letters to various public figures, including King George VI, the Prime Minister, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, Geoffrey Fisher in the hope of soliciting support for the Herero cause. He requested an interview with the Archbishop, which was swiftly refused , on the lines that ‘if the problem is one in which the Church has a duty it is for the Bishops of the South African Church to consider it, and take any action deemed appropriate’.8 Scott did, however, find one sympathiser in the Church establishment – George Bell, Bishop of Chichester, who had ordained Scott in the 1930s. A leading ecumenist who, along with Joseph Oldham, had organised the Oxford Conference of 1937 that laid the foundations for the World Council of Churches (WCC), Bell had become the first Chair of the Central Committee of the WCC when it was established in 1948. He may well have succeeded Temple as Archbishop of Canterbury if not for his outspoken criticism of the bombing of German towns during the war.9 On his return to the UK in late 1948, Scott approached Bell in the hope of eliciting his support at the WCC as well as improving his chances of getting a hearing within Whitehall. Bell agreed to take part in a deputation, organised by Scott under the auspices of the Anti-Slavery Society, to Philip Noel Baker, Secretary of State for Commonwealth Relations. Scott, somewhat unfortunately, announced in a letter to the Prime Minister that the Bishop was to lead the deputation.10 Kenneth Grubb, of the WCC Commission of Churches on International Affairs (CCIA) wrote to Bell and intimated that Scott was not an individual with whom Bell should be closely associated. While he insisted that he liked Scott, Grubb pointed out that ‘friends in South Africa are very “cagey” about him’ and were concerned that his intervention in the issue of South-West Africa would ‘stiffen the backs of the Union racialists’.11 While he was aware of the reservations being expressed over Scott’s political judgement, Bell attempted to highlight Scott’s more positive characteristics, noting to Fisher that ‘his good will and his self-sacrificing spirit are appreciated’. Moreover, he was sympathetic to the views that the British government did have an interest in the question of South-West Africa as ‘one of the parties to the guaranteeing of the original mandate’.12 Bell’s support for the delegation dimmed only after the intervention of Clayton, who wrote informing him that Scott was no more of a representative of the Diocese of Johannesburg ‘than any other stray clergyman who happened to hold a licence to officiate in the Diocese of Chichester would represent that Diocese if he paid a visit to South Africa’. Clayton observed that Scott had ‘made a considerable

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splash’, but insisted that few in the South African Anglican establishment had ‘any confidence in his judgement’.13 Bell withdrew from the deputation, having concluded that it would be better to pursue the British Government over its stance at the UN rather than attempt to secure its entanglement in an issue that may be ‘not in the interests of the natives’.14 His concern to undertake the best course of action with regard to the British government was, however, a moot point: the Cabinet had long decided that they would support South Africa’s plans for the incorporation of South-West Africa and had already obstructed Tshekedi Khama’s efforts to travel to London to publicise the issue.15 However, Bell had not been persuaded to ignore the issue entirely, and turned his attention to raising the issue within the ecumenist movement. He suggested to Frederick Nolde of the CCIA that the WCC should address the South-West Africa question in an effort to ‘help Christians in South Africa, and the natives in Africa generally’. Bell recommended that the WCC Central Committee consider adding its voice to those wishing to press the South African government to report to the Trusteeship Council on their administration of South-West Africa, and that Africans resident in the territory should be able to petition the Council.16 While such calls were somewhat unadventurous in the context of South African intransigence at the UN and the already de facto incorporation of South-West Africa, they appeared to foreshadow the robust stand taken against apartheid by the WCC in later years. During the 1950s, however, in contrast to later initiatives such as the Programme to Combat Racism, the WCC emphasised the need for greater unity in the face of the developing system of apartheid, and focussed its attention on attracting the Dutch Reformed churches into the ecumenist movement. Like Bell, Basil Roberts, Secretary of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel (SPG) also expressed disquiet over developments in South Africa, and was impressed by Scott’s campaign. In February 1949, the SPG organised a private conference to ascertain the opinion of Scott and two other Anglicans of more radical outlook, Canon Edward Patterson and Father George Norton.17 Scott was unable to attend the conference, but Roberts described how the others articulated a strong critique of the paternalist assumptions of much mission activity. Paterson stressed ‘the importance of working with the African rather than for him’, while Norton was, according to Roberts, ‘disposed to define the long-term objective in the phrase “Africa for the Africans”’.18 While Paterson and Norton could easily be (and were) written off as ‘eccentrics’, Roberts was

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clearly impressed, and he suggested that, while ‘uninvited interference from outside’ may be harmful, ‘there is undoubtedly a feeling that the Church of England has given too little official evidence of its sympathy and concern with the Province in this vital issue’.19 Fisher, having been contacted by Scott, Bell and now Roberts, decided to write to Clayton in Cape Town for advice. His enquiry as to whether Clayton would welcome a debate in the Church Assembly was unlikely to have excited the activists, yet as far as Clayton was concerned even this mild response was potentially damaging to the Church of the Province.20 It threatened to undermine one of Clayton’s prime ambitions as Archbishop: the attempt to establish the Church of the Province as a South African church, rather than an English church in South Africa.21 In an unequivocal response he asserted that ‘We believe that the Church of the Province of South Africa must fight its own battles, and must fight them in South Africa. We believe that anything that looks like an appeal on our part to the Church in England would be a grave mistake’.22 Clayton suggested that public debate in the UK would only exacerbate tensions in South Africa, and ‘spicy extracts’ from Church Assembly debates would only be detrimental to the standing of the church in that country. Within days, Fisher had contacted both Cyril Garbett and Basil Roberts informing them of Clayton’s views. Less than six months after his election as Archbishop, Clayton had established the doctrine that was to guide the Church of England’s official response to South African affairs through the first half of the 1950s. Clayton had made clear his disapproval of Scott’s political activism in South Africa during the 1940s, so when Scott discovered that he had acted to mute support for his activities, he did not disguise his disappointment. Clayton had, Scott suggested, acted to ‘secure withdrawal of Christian support’ for Scott’s campaign, which he argued, ‘had not been found wanting in generosity towards the grievously wronged people’.23 Clayton had, it appeared, effectively suppressed the initially enthusiastic response from figures such as Roberts and Bell. Scott was to find his position further weakened in early 1950 when the newly appointed Bishop of Johannesburg, Ambrose Reeves, who had expressed misgivings over Scott’s ‘judgement’, terminated his licence to preach in the Diocese of Johannesburg.24 Fisher contacted both Clayton and Reeves in order to clarify Scott’s position, and received similar responses from both. Clayton suggested that, as Scott’s interests lay in African rights, it was unlikely that he would reside in Cape Town (where ‘our non-Europeans … are almost entirely Eurafrican’). Reeves, meanwhile,

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argued that he had terminated Scott’s licence because it was ‘unwise for any priest to hold a licence in a Diocese from which he is absent for a rather indefinite period’.25 The Anglican establishment had, it appeared, been successfully mobilised against what it saw as a maverick and potentially destructive campaign. Scott did, however, receive some support from within the church from G. C. Streatfield, the Director of the South African Church Institute (SACI), the London-based body established to promote the work of the Church of the Province and recruit priests to work in Southern Africa. Despite having been appraised of Scott’s employment possibilities by Clayton, Streatfield wrote to Reeves in August 1950 noting that the Institute was ‘much more impressed’ with Scott than it had been previously and suggested that, while ‘it was difficult to see how the Church … can best use his great qualities of selfless service’, he may be suited for mission work in the township of Moroka.26 The debate became moot in any event, as Scott was declared a ‘prohibited immigrant’ by the South African government, making it impossible for him to return to the Union to work. Despite being offered a post in Southern Rhodesia by Streatfield’s successor, C. T. Wood in 1951,27 Scott never held an official church post and his attention increasingly turned to the political classes as a focus for his campaigning efforts. However, despite its lack of success within the highest echelons of the Anglican establishment, Scott’s endeavours did elicit support from Canon John Collins, who had been appointed to the Chapter of St Paul’s Cathedral in the summer of 1948. While Collins shared Scott’s Anglo-Catholic faith, marked differences between the two would underline the often fraught relationship between the two priests. Collins came from a conservative mould, and, unlike Scott, his political convictions were developed more slowly within the cosy framework of the British establishment. Scott’s autobiography depicted a narrative journey through the depressed East End of London and the oppressed townships of Johannesburg. Collins, however, described his own drift to the left as a course through Cambridge University, a mundane curacy at Whitstable, a return to academia in Cambridge, London, and eventually to Oriel College, Oxford, where he was Dean until the outbreak of war. His move away from the kind of relaxed Toryism that saw him toast the Conservative election victory of 1935 in his rooms at Cambridge was in part stimulated by the same social crisis that had led to Scott’s politicisation in the East End, but it was also influenced by his network of establishment contacts. Through a former student, Mervyn Stockwood (later Bishop of Southwark), Collins became acquainted with Stafford

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Cripps and Victor Gollancz, embraced Christian Socialism and became an active member of the Labour Party.28 During the war, he served as a chaplain in the Royal Air Force, courting controversy when he arranged for Stafford Cripps to speak on the ambiguous morality of large-scale bombing at the headquarters of RAF. Bomber Command, an experience that marked Collins’ burgeoning distrust of ‘establishment values’.29 After the war, Collins had briefly returned to Oxford, where he took a leading role in organising a public meeting at the Oxford town hall that proclaimed ‘a call for Christian Action in public affairs’. Chaired by Bell and featuring speeches by Gollancz, Acland and the Roman Catholic writer Barbara Ward, the meeting passed several resolutions that included a plea for increased Christian engagement with public affairs and for the life of the church to ‘become an example of the application of Christian principles to everyday practical problems’.30 After reading Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country in 1948, Collins persuaded Christian Action to establish a Race Relations committee, and began to take an active interest in South African affairs.31 Collins was introduced to Scott by the publisher Victor Gollancz in 1949, and he mobilised Christian Action to sponsor a meeting at Westminster Central Hall in April 1950. It marked the beginning of a complex and often tense relationship between the two priests, but one that nevertheless would provide a basis for the development of the British anti-apartheid movement. By early 1950, Scott was already a figure of some public prominence in Britain. As early as 1947 his activities in South Africa had been reported in the Picture Post, while in January 1948, the News Chronicle described him as ‘a lonely man’ who ‘walks on heights to which few men dare to climb, and he carries burdens which fewer still could shoulder’.32 The Observer published a profile of Scott in December 1949 that described his activities in South Africa and portrayed him as an individual who, like Albert Schweitzer and David Livingstone, was ‘one of the few Europeans who have ever succeeded in crossing the barrier of suspicion that separates Black from White’.33 The Central Hall meeting was thus filled to capacity, and many were forced to listen to his address in an adjacent room. He drew upon his experiences in South Africa and described the contours of racial discrimination in that country, through controlled access to land and political disenfranchisement, as more than ‘merely social sanction’. Scott stressed the need for British people to confront the question of racial injustice in South Africa arguing that the issue was ‘part of the crisis of our age’ and thus neither remote nor partisan. The public had to make the abstract choice between the

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‘civilised order of equal opportunity’ and the colour bar, but had also to take specific responsibility over the Protectorates and resist South African desires for incorporation.34 Scott’s case was built upon the conjunction of specific challenges and demands. He stressed the dangers to mission work from the ‘false theory and practice of race-rule’ and the pressing need for resources to aid development projects. He also drew upon the more intangible notion of a developing rift between material and spiritual forces in the world: Our world is drifting into chaos because there is a loss of direction and a fatal dualism has been developing. It is not only a question of East or West, of Left or Right. It is a question of the material part of the world growing more and more divorced from the spiritual part. And the spiritual part has been losing its faith and power. The material, which knows no moral law, has become a law unto itself, with a fatal dialectic of hatred and power versus hatred and power which it will take an even greater power to break.35 If white domination in South Africa was ignored, Scott warned, this ‘fatal dialectic’ would result in extremes of African nationalism and racism. In the context of a society that denied the majority of the population access to state power or legal protection, it was useless for Christians to cite the injunction to ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s’. ‘Apartheid’, Scott proclaimed, ‘has not the authentic ring of Christ’s gospel’ and, in a comment that both referred back to his own involvement with the resistance to the ‘Ghetto Bills’ and prefigured the multi-racial Defiance Campaign, Scott called for Christians to be prepared to passively resist ‘unjust laws’.36 The church authorities remained aloof from Scott, yet the apparent popularity of his message prompted some to reconsider their position. Freda Troup’s account of Scott’s Herero campaign, In Face of Fear (1950),37 had given further impetus to the public interest in his moral condemnation of South Africa, which contrasted with the seeming unwillingness of the Labour government to challenge its South African counterpart. In August 1950 Streatfield arranged an unofficial meeting between himself, Scott, Norton, Dean William Palmer and the Rev. R. W. Stopford of the SPG, to discuss Christian opinion on South Africa. Streatfield reported that those who concurred with the view that the Church of England should allow the Church of the Province to ‘fight its own battles’ were in a minority and that many, despite acknowledging the need to avoid antagonising opinion in South Africa, felt that

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South African churches were being ‘unnecessarily timid and cautious’. Streatfield concluded that, while Scott had ‘aroused some rather dangerous breeds of indignation’, it was important to promote harmony between the differing factions.38 Clayton interpreted Streatfield’s report on the meeting as a call for the Church of the Province to associate itself with the opinions expressed by Scott, but took the letter seriously enough to circulate it among his fellow bishops. Their replies were unanimous in approval of Clayton’s stance towards Scott. The Bishop of Natal suggested that the Church of the Province should not be ‘swayed by people in England who do not know the facts and swallow anything that Michael Scott says as gospel’. The Bishop of Grahamstown argued that the South African government would be undisturbed by world opinion, even that of the ‘whole United Nations – unless perchance that organisation of peoples was able to impose drastic economic sanctions’. Reeves, in Johannesburg noted that reports of the South African situation in the UK were ‘ill-formed or make a false simplification of the situation’ and that it was impossible for the church to present a single ‘Christian line’. The Bishop of Damaraland admitted that In Face of Fear impressed him, but Scott’s campaigns had been ‘first class ammunition’ for the nationalist party in elections in South West Africa.39 Clayton’s response to Streatfield at the end of September was blunt. He suggested that if the views of the Director of SACI differed significantly from those of the South African bishops, then he ‘would presumably have to resign’. He rebuked Streatfield for appearing to be seduced by Scott’s popularity and asserted that, despite its discriminatory policies, the Union did in fact provide far better education and healthcare for its African population than any of its neighbours. Scott was essentially a ‘free lance’ and as such was doomed to ‘plough … a lonely furrow’.40 Clayton’s message was clear, and it signalled that Scott would not be welcomed back to South Africa. With his licence to preach having been rescinded by the newly appointed Bishop of Johannesburg, Ambrose Reeves, as he waited in New York in late 1949, Scott had been effectively disassociated from the South African church. He was granted a general licence for the Chichester Diocese by George Bell, but increasingly his activities became focussed upon secular channels. Despite the ambivalence and even antipathy with which those in church and mission circles met Scott’s efforts, his stance nevertheless influenced the tone of official Christian debates on race, which would slowly – very slowly – become more open to Africanist ambitions over the course of the decade.41

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Scott’s initial efforts sought to revive campaigns he had developed with the CRJ – in May 1949, he wrote to public figures canvassing support for a conference of ‘representatives of all races’ to discuss regional planning as a ‘long term solution to some of Africa’s present problems’.42 At the same time, Scott began to elicit backing for the formation of ‘an association to promote better understanding … of the problems of race and economic development in Southern Africa’.43 Some organisations, such as the Fabian Colonial Bureau, which had become the established mouthpiece of left-liberal political opinion on African affairs, were wary of Scott’s approach and unconvinced of the necessity for a new organisation; others suggested that ‘more vigorous action on the part of local organisations’ (e.g. SAIRR) rather than an international campaign was required.44 Scott did, however, encounter some enthusiasm for his proposals. Monica Whately, of the South African committee of the India League (who had hosted a meeting on South Africa in March 1949 addressed by Paul Robeson and Yusuf Dadoo),45 offered Scott the use of its offices. Whately had toured South Africa in the wake of Malan’s election victory and produced a pamphlet for the Union of Democratic Control (UDC) that strongly criticised the native policies of both the National Party and the previous Smuts’ government. She reiterated the ‘fascist’ characterisation of Afrikaner nationalists that had marked wartime debate, but argued that such methods could not delay democracy and an Africa government indefinitely.46 In a direct parallel of Clayton’s attitude to Scott’s campaign in the UK, the South African liberal Leo Marquard complained to the UDC that such reports undermined the work of liberals and would be ‘avidly seized upon by the Nationalist press as an example of the ill-informed foreigner who is trying to tell us how to manage our affairs’.47 Basil Davidson, the Secretary of the UDC noted that, while criticisms from South Africa had resulted in the restriction of Whately’s report, a brief outline in the New Statesman had provoked ‘an avalanche of enquiries’, and the UDC therefore planned to commission a pamphlet on South Africa. The following year, the UDC published a pamphlet written by Scott himself, Shadow over Africa, with an introduction by the left-wing Labour MP, Tom Driberg. Driberg cast Scott in the role of eccentric but determined campaigner who ‘lives his cause’ and whose mind had no care for the ‘trivial details of its body’s comfort’. Scott argued that apartheid would create an ‘ossified stratification of the population’, and condemned the legal restrictions and working conditions under which Africans suffered. He singled out the system of migrant

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labour for particular criticism, repeating (as he had with the CRJ) the familiar theme of the system’s destructive effect upon the ‘dignity’ and social order that had characterised ‘tribal social organisation’.48 A further step towards the establishment of an institutional base for Scott’s activities took place following a public meeting and conference on the ‘Human Crisis in Africa’ held in June 1950. The conference welcomed the ‘moral awakening’ demonstrated by the increasing activities of British groups concerned with racial issues in Africa, and pledged its support for continued opposition to the incorporation of South-West Africa and the High Commission Territories into South Africa, and for Scott’s proposals for mutual cooperation in schemes of social and economic development.49 Following the meeting, an ‘African Relations Council’ was established, which appointed a committee (which included George Norton, the Quaker John Fletcher and L. B. Greaves of the Council of British Missionary Societies) to draft a constitution. The Council, which had close links with the Christian pacifist Fellowship of Reconciliation (FOR), sought to ‘promote just and harmonious relations between races’ and ‘to create an informed public opinion’ on matters relating to British responsibilities in Africa.50 The African Relations Council would later form one of the organisations that sponsored the launch of Racial Unity, a liberal co-ordinating organisation concerned to ‘convert’ the liberal-minded towards active ‘partnership’ with groups representing black British opinion.51 It was, primarily, an attempt to formalise the loose and ad hoc network of supporters that had gathered around Scott in London, and in many respects it resembled the somewhat unwieldy coalition of liberals and radicals that comprised the CRJ – its members ranged from UDC stalwarts such as Whately to various churchmen connected with organisations such as the British Council of Churches and the CCIA. Among its more radical members was Leon Szur, a Polish-born physician who had connections with the short-lived Trotskyite movement, the Workers’ Party of South Africa. The majority of its members were, however, drawn from Christian pacifist groups such as the FOR. Scott’s connection with the Council appears to have diminished after mid-1950, when he suffered a serious recurrence of Crohn’s disease, following a series of public meetings and lectures around the UK. In his absence, it seems that more conservative church figures were increasingly influential – Esther Muirhead wrote to Scott in early 1951 noting with some concern that L. B. Greaves of the BCC had declared that the Council would not ‘issue any one-sided propaganda’.52 In fact, the coalition of Christians and pacifists who coalesced around Scott

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sought to deflect support for the South African Congress movement away from left wing groups such as the UDC. Moreover, the network of groups and individuals that orbited around Scott in the early 1950s was indicative of the fragmented and informal nature of metropolitan anti-colonial activities. Within parliament, a small body of Labour MPs began to build a reputation for raising colonial issues in debate, with Fenner Brockway emerging as a central figure in both official and extraparliamentary anti-colonial politics.53 Outside parliament, the Fabian Colonial Bureau remained the intellectual foundation of the labour movement’s approach to colonial questions, but new groups began to form that would provide a focus for metropolitan engagement with the emerging leaders of colonial political opinion.

The politics of anti-colonialism and the formation of the Africa Bureau Scott, having established a reputation as an advocate of the democratic rights of the colonised subject (and having had some success in forcing the United Nations Trusteeship Committee to at least give a hearing to ‘indigenous’ opinion), was unsurprisingly a focus for these developments. His public prominence, and his role in the formation of the Africa Relations Council, would suggest that his main contribution ought to have been in the formation of a large-scale anti-colonial movement aimed at mobilising public opinion in Britain. This was not the case, however, in part because his illness removed him from public attention, but also because Scott himself had come to regard influence over more powerful establishment figures as more effective than an appeal to the masses.54 It was certainly the case that Scott began to make influential connections, most notably that of the Observer editor David Astor, who had secured a meeting between Scott, Lord Packenham and Commonwealth Relations Secretary, Patrick Gordon Walker. According to John Fletcher, who also attended the meeting at the Waldorf, ‘Michael was gentle with [Gordon Walker], and this, according to Astor, made a good impression’.55 It was enough of an impression, in fact, to gain Scott an official meeting with Gordon Walker in July 1950, shortly before he was taken ill. At the meeting, Scott took the opportunity to press the Commonwealth Secretary on what had become the major political cause celebre of the season – the controversy that had blown up around the marriage of Tshekedi Khama’s nephew and Bangwato heir, Seretse Khama to Ruth Williams, an Englishwoman he had met as a student in

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London. The marriage, which had taken place in 1948, soon caught the attention of the public, in part as a reflection of contemporary sensibilities in the UK, but also in the light of South Africa’s Prohibition of Mixed Marriages Act that had passed into law some months previously. White-dominated Southern African governments could thus take up the marriage as a moral issue that defined their sense of isolation in the face of metropolitan policies of racial ‘partnership’. In South Africa, more extreme elements of the nationalist government saw the affair as an opportunity to precipitate a referendum on Commonwealth membership. Such a move would provoke a crisis for British interests, both in terms of attempts to re-forge imperial links to accommodate postwar geopolitical realities and as a blow to British defence arrangements (especially following the discovery of reserves of uranium in South Africa).56 What appeared on the surface to be a conflict over moral standards was in fact a diplomatic exchange of relevance to central issues of national interest. By January 1949, the controversy had aroused the interest of the British press. Seretse’s uncle, Tshekedi Khama had not taken the news of his nephew’s marriage happily, and had attempted to prevent it by mobilising the support of missionary contacts in London.57 In a series of traditional meetings, or kgotlas, in late 1948, it seemed that the Bangwato political classes shared his dim view of Seretse’s actions. But during 1949, however, opposition to Tshekedi’s rule had begun to swing opinion around in support of Seretse’s marriage, and a further kgotla recognised Seretse’s claim to leadership.58 Within a month, the South African government ‘unofficially’ warned the British government against recognising Seretse’s chieftaincy. As a formal recognition of this decision, the British government thus put into practice what Neil Parsons has aptly described as its ‘two-wrongs-make-a-right policy’,59 namely the banishment of both Seretse and Tshekedi Khama from the Bangwato territory. Summoned to London in early 1950, Seretse was informed by the new and ambitious Commonwealth relations minister Patrick Gordon-Walker that he was to be exiled from Bechuanaland for five years. Seretse turned to the British press, which obliged him by condemning Labour’s treatment of him; within a few days cricketer Learie Constantine established a Seretse Khama Fighting Committee. Initial support was rooted in Britain’s Afro-Caribbean and African student communities; a series of protest meetings were organised, and a delegation took Seretse’s case to Gordon Walker and Colonial Minister James Griffiths. Within weeks, the affair had provoked unfavourable headlines around the world, particularly in

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West Africa and South Asia.60 While the British government had acted in order to placate white opinion within South Africa, it was clear that African opinion was adversely affected by the decision, as Freda Troup reported. Africans, she said, who had ‘for years pinned the faith to Britain in whose rather absent minded justice and honesty they had great faith … now say you can’t trust Britain any more’.61 Scott, with his prior connection to Tshekedi Khama, and thanks to his newly developed contacts in the Commonwealth Office, was involved in high-level discussions around the affair, including a further meeting with Gordon Walker, during which the Secretary of State expressed an interest in meeting Tshekedi, if he were to be invited to the UK.62 Tshekedi Khama duly arrived in the UK in early 1951 determined to persuade the government to overturn its decision to exile him from the Bangwato territory. Both Khamas drew support from essentially the same networks that had gathered around Scott in the late 1940s. This network included both associates of Scott from South Africa, such as George Norton, as well as individuals such as Margery Perham, Mary Benson and David Astor. Indeed, the interaction of this close network, illustrated by the elaborate and detailed plans laid by Benson, Astor and Scott to arrange a meeting (and thus, it was hoped, a reconciliation) between Seretse and Tshekedi, suggests that the whole affair could be construed as a ‘family affair’ as much as it was a matter of high politics.63 Commentators have focussed on the geopolitical and public dimensions of the Khama controversy, attention to Scott’s involvement in the affair shifts towards a far more intimate and personalised account. Furthermore, it demonstrates how the Khama controversy became a catalyst for the emergence of a constellation of organisations concerned to publicise colonial issues in Britain. The emergence of these groups during the 1950s corresponded with the fractures that had begun to open up in the imperial edifice, moments of unarticulated revolt against the anachronistic ‘establishment’ and its most powerful symbol of its hierarchical ideology. Yet the anti-colonial lobby was a network that remained tightly bound to the establishment, attracting individuals who both stood out from but were undoubtedly products of the system of power and privilege that characterised the polarised society of post-war Britain that was dissected by commentators such as Hugh Thomas and Anthony Sampson.64 With the patrician (and Anglican) Conservatives back in power after 1951, the established church with its gartered bishops seemed to be back in harmony with the government. The anti-colonial lobby groups that were established in the wake of the

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Khama controversy both reflected and rejected this atmosphere of elitism, hierarchy and tradition. The Khama controversy thus provided a further, if indirect, spur to British anti-apartheid sentiment. For those who had already begun to question the consequences of the racial policies of South Africa, both issues could be seen as a way of exerting pressure upon the Labour government, whose pronouncements on ‘development’ and potential decolonisation seemed to sit uneasily with its unwillingness to confront South Africa. Having failed to convince the British government to overturn the ban, Tshekedi returned to Bechuanaland in mid-1951. Scott visited the territory soon after to investigate the situation.65 His conclusions countered the British government position that if Seretse was allowed to return, opinion in South Africa would be aroused with damaging consequences for Anglo-South African relations, including the possibility of the rapid incorporation of Bechuanaland, Swaziland and Basutoland into the Union. Instead, Scott argued, British policy ‘has owed too much deference to that of the Union … Britain’s true interests in Africa, and those of the inhabitants themselves, have been subordinated to considerations of expediency and fear of reprisals’.66 The UK was, according to Scott, in a far stronger position in relation to South Africa than many believed, and that ‘not even the most sentimental isolationist politician or advocate of a republic’ had suggested that the Union was capable of sustaining an independent defence without British aid. Contrary to official opinion, Scot argued that the UK government had ‘allowed herself to be intimidated and manoeuvred into a wrong position by threats which South Africa was in no position to sustain’.67 Scott argued that there was little point in attempting to placate South African opinion on the issue of the incorporation of the High Commission Territories, given the consensus of opinion in South African politics in favour of incorporation. In fact, it would appear that by 1951 South Africa had begun to turn towards a policy of extending its influence, rather than its territory.68 In an extensive letter to the Times, Scott called for a ‘declaration of policy’ from the British government, one that would reassure African opinion across Central and Southern Africa. Warning of the burgeoning unease over South African expansionism, Scott called for a statement that would attract crossparty agreement and encourage cooperation in Africa ‘to use moderate means towards moderate ends’. Such cooperation, according to Scott could only be achieved through a vigorous and decisive response from Britain, not merely to yield ‘to whoever is most vociferous and uncompromising’.69 Scott’s letter also complained that the British public were

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not being made sufficiently aware of their responsibilities in Africa, and stressed the need for an ‘African Charter’ that would outline the ‘fundamental rights and responsibilities of the respective communities’ and launch a programme of technical and financial aid for social and economic development. His desire to mobilise a policy of development as a challenge to South Africa was not greeted with enthusiasm by British ministers,70 but his aspiration to create a document that could act as a blueprint for British policy in Africa was to come to fruition in the shape of the paperback Attitude to Africa (1951).71 The book was co-authored by Scott, the economist W. Arthur Lewis, African editor of the Observer, Colin Legum (who had left South Africa in late 1949), and the historian Martin Wight, a devout Anglican and one of the founders of the ‘English school’ of International Relations.72 Attitude to Africa endeavoured to outline for the general reader the challenges for policymakers in Africa. The authors described the rapid changes that had occurred in Asia following the Second World War, arguing that the ‘three cornered struggle between nationalism, Communism, and Western interests’ that was at play in Korea and Indo-China would inevitably spread to Africa.73 The British government was thus required to demonstrate to Africa, through its policies, that democracy was a valid and more attractive alternative to communism in Africa. The major challenge to Britain was the tension between two emergent and conflicting nationalisms. On one hand, a ‘rising tide’ of African nationalism (based upon ‘an emotional affinity … on grounds of colour’)74 was spreading across the continent. On the other white settlers watched the emergence of African nationalism with increasing fear and a determination to maintain their hold on political power. The British government, it argued, had vacillated in the face of this ‘dialectic of interdependent fears and antagonisms’, despite the fact that the logic of ‘trusteeship’ and the post-war assertion that British policy was one of movement towards independence suggested that the choice had been made.75 The book had developed out of a series of informal meetings held at Astor’s house, Sutton Courtney, where Scott had recovered from his illness in 1950–1. As well as the authors, the group also included Perham and the former Colonial Secretary, and inter-war associate of Holtby and Ballinger, Arthur Creech Jones. By mid-1951 Scott had begun to think in terms of ‘an organisation in Britain specifically dealing with African matters’, and while he had the Africa Relations Council in mind, it was a new organisation, the Africa Bureau, that was instead established to ‘serve as a receiving, collating and transmitting centre of accurate

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information’.76 During discussions aimed at planning this new organisation, held in London in early 1952, it became clear that Scott’s agenda for the Bureau had developed beyond a simple ‘clearing house’ for information, or the generation of publicity – it was also to seek to facilitate contacts between African leaders and influential individuals within the UK. It was evident that Scott sought to negate any sense of suspicion on the part of Africans – if this was to be a ‘bureaucracy to trade their sufferings’, the Bureau would do more harm than good.77 From this, it is possible to discern a subtle shift in emphasis with the formation of the Bureau, which moved beyond earlier efforts to publicise, or guide, African ambitions to a principle of support for African leaders. In part, this reflected the immediate context in which the Africa Bureau was established, with its attention being given to discussions around plans for the Central African Federation and provision of a London base for African delegations that sought to state their own case. Thus spurred on by the increasing heat of negotiations around the federation issue, the Africa Bureau comprised a small executive committee, chaired by Conservative peer Dennis Herbert, Lord Hemingford (a former master of Achimota College, Ghana), with Scott as Honorary Director. Other members of the committee were Frank Packenham (Lord Longford from 1961) and John MacCallum Scott (one of the founders of Liberal International), while David Astor provided financial support. The committee was also able to draw upon the support of a body of honorary presidents including church people, academics and trade unionists.78 The Bureau’s primary aim was to provide information to the British public on issues relating to Africa, achieved through the production of a vast array of circulars, memos and pamphlets, through the organisation of public meetings, and after 1953 through the monthly publication of the Africa Digest. Its activities also included the establishment of trust funds, two of which were set up within the year. The African Protectorates Trust aimed to fund higher education and technical training for Africans in the High Commission Territories, while the African Development Trust supported various projects in Southern Africa. 79 In April 1952, the Bureau declared that ‘the initiative in the solution of Africa’s problems … lies mainly here in England’,80 and, as part of that initiative, the Bureau began to provide support for representatives of African organisations visiting the UK. Scott recalled in 1958 that African representatives were often attracted to ‘those who shout loudest in their favour’ and it was thus important to establish an organisation with a broad and non-party political base that would ensure that visitors

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would not be ‘used as the weapon of one faction’.81 Only a few weeks after its establishment, the Bureau sponsored a meeting for the African delegates to the summer conference on Central African Federation;82 all subsequent delegations to Federation conferences in London were given practical support by the Africa Bureau. Soon after its launch, the committee of the Africa Bureau made contact with the Fabian Colonial Bureau in order to discuss relations between the two organisations. As Goldsworthy notes, they differed not so much in their principles but in their methodologies. The Fabian Bureau, with its close links with the Labour party, focussed its attention upon parliamentary lobbying, while the Africa Bureau sought to publicise issues and ‘inform’ a wider group of supporters.83 Serving quite different constituencies, the two organisations were able to maintain cordial relations with Fabian Colonial Bureau committee members regularly attending Africa Bureau committee meetings. Less cordial relationships developed, however, between the Africa Bureau and the array of interconnected groups that had emerged in response to the Khama controversy. Scott’s own description of the state of affairs is suggestive. It was ‘in no spirit of contempt or ingratitude’ he stated in 1958, ‘that one speaks in this connection of the stage army of the good’, of which there were all too few who are willing to devote themselves to good causes. The very fact that they are so few, and that they have to keep going off the stage and coming on again for a different scene, renders them less and less effectual. Then again, attracted to every good cause there are the mad the bad and the sad who, when mixed together, are apt to make a motley and undisciplined army to rely on in difficult manoeuvres.84 Scott mentions no names, but a whole array of rival groups had entered the arena of anti-colonial politics during 1950–2. Many of these organisations developed as offshoots of the London Committee of the Congress of Peoples Against Imperialism (COPAI), whose vicechairman was the Tribunite MP Fenner Brockway, who became the focus of anti-colonial activism among the Labour left during the 1950s. In May 1952, COPAI organised a meeting of delegates from various groups, at which a committee had been established to co-ordinate the campaign against Central African Federation. The Africa Bureau executive, irritated by Brockway’s assertion that the Africa Bureau had suggested COPAI take the initiative, agreed that it would ‘take no part’ in

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this new Central Africa Committee.85 In July, Collins announced that there was ‘strong feeling’ that Christian Action should stimulate ‘the Christian conscience … on the many practical problems at the moment in Africa’.86 At an Africa Bureau executive committee meeting later that month, it was agreed that, while Christian Action ‘was an organisation with which the Bureau would always keep in touch’, the Bureau would decline to join in the campaign.87 In his response to Collins, Scott stated that he would ‘find it difficult to belong to an organisation aiming to do the same sort of things, if in a different way’ to the Africa Bureau.88 In November 1952, a Council for the Defence of Seretse Khama and the Protectorates was launched, chaired by Brockway and including Jo Grimond and Collins among its members, which organised public meetings across the country for Seretse and his supporters throughout 1953.89 The Council, along with the London Committee of COPAI, and another of Brockway’s initiatives, the British Guiana Association, would merge in 1954 to form the foundation of the Movement for Colonial Freedom (MCF), the organisation that, by the end of the decade, had become the leading extra-parliamentary Labour pressure group on colonial affairs, overtaking the Fabian Bureau in influence and support.90 The networks of anti-apartheid activists that developed in the years after 1945 nevertheless demonstrated a clear break from the established circles of ‘Friends of Africa’ – both in the US (suppression of radical African-American groups such as the CAA) and in Britain (metropolitan humanitarians such as Anti-slavery society). Over the course of the decade, extra-parliamentary pressure groups in Britain came to see themselves as mediators between African nationalism and colonial authorities, measuring the official policies against the yardstick of ‘trusteeship’ while seeking to guide and restrain nationalism in the hope of maintaining a stable relationship between metropole and its unstable colonial territories. South Africa was an exception, of course, where settler nationalism had muddied the waters of the imperial relationship. In the years immediately following 1948, therefore, anti-apartheid activism took the form of indirect criticism: against the incorporation of SouthWest Africa, where South African ambitions for territorial expansion had supposedly overridden the ‘sacred’ responsibilities of trusteeship, or protest against the clumsy treatment of Seretse Khama following his marriage to a white Englishwoman, Ruth Williams. British critics sought to stimulate pressure on the South African government through issues such as these that were, conceivably, within the competency of other national states and international organisations. Nevertheless, developments within South Africa prompted interested parties in Britain to

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focus their attention on the demands of black nationalists and to articulate some kind of response to these demands.

When he spoke at Westminster City Hall in April 1950, Scott sounded a warning that white supremacy in Africa, if left unchecked, would speed the development of a polarised conflict between the extremes of African and settler nationalisms. ‘Apartheid’, he stated, ‘has not the authentic ring of Christ’s gospel’ and he called for Christians to be prepared to passively resist ‘unjust laws’.91 Scott’s words are intriguing, for they prefigure the exact phraseology used by the African and Indian Congresses when, two years later, they launched the Defiance Campaign, the first nationwide passive resistance movement against apartheid. Nonviolent civil disobedience was not, of course new to South Africa, with the country having been the site of Gandhi’s early experiments with passive resistance before the Fist World War. His role in developing this form of protest as part of the broader anti-colonial struggle in India during the inter-war years had sharpened interest in passive resistance as an effective tactic of anti-colonial protest in other territories, but his influence was particularly marked within South Africa. In part, this reflects the nature of non-violent civil disobedience as a ‘modular’ form of anti-colonial struggle – a strategy aimed at underlining the moral force of campaigns against European control that could be reproduced across a variety of political and social landscapes. Gandhian passive resistance was also, of course, a key component of the US Civil Rights movement, as it developed during the latter 1950s, and there are striking parallels with popular movements in South Africa during the same period.92 Within South Africa, it was the Indian National Congress that (re)introduced passive resistance as a tactic of anti-segregationist protest in the late 1940s. In this, the Congress was led by both the actions of the government (the same legislation that had brought South Africa to the attention of the fledgling United Nations), but also reflected the growing influence of younger, more radical individuals within the movement, notably Yusuf Dadoo, a protégé of Gandhi’s, who had come to prominence in the Transvaal Indian Congress.93 Scott had encountered Dadoo during his activities with the CRJ, but appeared suspicious of his ideological sympathies. Nevertheless, contact with young Indian radicals had influenced Scott’s conclusion, following his resignation from the Campaign, that the only way forward was

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‘the path of passive resistance’.94 While in India, Scott had become acquainted with the Gandhian philosophy of passive resistance; but it was in South Africa that these influences were to become a manifest part of Scott’s own political credo. The catalyst for Scott’s conversion to passive resistance was the launch, in June 1946, of passive resistance campaigns against the so-called Ghetto Bills.95 Scott was asked to observe the protests in Durban on behalf of the newly formed Council for Human Rights, but he eventually joined the protest and was arrested along with the other protestors.96 Sentenced to three months in prison, Scott emerged from jail convinced that he had discovered his own mission in life and that the struggle he had joined in Durban was representative of a worldwide crisis. Interviewed by the psychoanalyst Wulf Sachs on his release from prison, Scott insisted that non-violent protest had worldwide implications and expressed his hope that it would ‘prove also a means by which the peoples of different races can achieve greater unity of thought and action’.97 In a pamphlet published by the Council of Human Rights, Scott elaborated a manifesto for political action that praised the way Gandhian philosophy welded passive resistance to Christian faith, uniting ‘the religious experience of the East with a practical Western application to a particular historical circumstance’.98 This represented a significant shift from the position he had taken during his association with the CRJ, when Scott had been willing to work with the state in order to promote social progress. Following his action in Durban and subsequent incarceration, Scott began to engage in a political (and cognitive) praxis based upon personal intervention, seeking to influential powerful figures on an individual basis, while acting out his moral and political convictions on a public stage. At the heart of Scott’s activism was a philosophy of non-violence that developed as a legacy of his involvement with the Indian Congress campaign, a politics of action that was later characterised by David Astor as the desire to ‘pursue moderate ends by extreme means’.99 When the Congress Movement in South Africa turned to non-violent civil disobedience as its strategy for mass resistance against apartheid, there was no doubt that this offered an opportunity to arouse international sympathy.

International perspectives on the Defiance Campaign The latter part of the Second World War had seen the emergence of a new vitality within the African National Congress (ANC), inspired by the more radical voices within the newly established Youth League.

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The shift in emphasis in ANC policy was marked by the ‘Programme of Action’ adopted by the Congress in late 1949, followed by a national day of protest in June 1950, and increased coordination between the ANC and other political organisations. In mid-1951, the ANC and Indian National Congress established a Joint Planning Council, which discussed options for a campaign of civil disobedience. In the following January, Dr James Moroka and Walter Sisulu delivered an ultimatum to Prime Minister Malan demanding the repeal of six ‘unjust laws’ that constrained the lives of African and Indian people. The appeal was, unsurprisingly, rejected, and the ‘Defiance Campaign against Unjust Laws’ was launched in June 1952. The campaign comprised a series of organised acts of deliberate disobedience of apartheid laws – including entering ‘group’ locations without appropriate permits, breaking curfew or using facilities declared exclusively for use by ‘Europeans’.100 The Congress leaders had, in their communications with the government prior to the Defiance Campaign, declared their ‘supreme satisfaction’ that the campaign drew wide local and international support and that the policy of apartheid was contributing to a decline in South Africa’s standing in the world.101 Their confidence in such worldwide support reflected both the existence of genuine and spontaneous sympathy with the Congress movement’s aims, but also a concerted effort to elicit and maintain overseas backing. In the US, the tenacious anticommunism of the Cold War had undermined the CAA. Suppression of Robeson himself, and the Council more broadly, meant that by early 1951, Du Bois was expressing fear over its long-term survival.102 Its demise was effectively sealed in April 1953, when the US AttorneyGeneral directed the Subversive Activities Control Board to order the CAA to register as a ‘Communist-Front’ organisation.103 Partly as a consequence of the increased pressure on the CAA during the early 1950s, a new generation of liberal activists, associated with the Civil Rights movement, and more specifically the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), came to the forefront of anti-apartheid activity.104 One of these activists was George Houser, son of a Methodist minister and Christian pacifist. Influenced by Henry Thoreau and Gandhi, Houser had been imprisoned as a conscientious objector during the Second World War and was a leading member of the FOR and a founding member of CORE. Actively involved in civil disobedience against racial segregation in the American South, his attention was drawn to a South African campaign that planned to use similar means for similar ends. Houser recalled that he learned of the Defiance Campaign when his friend Bill Sutherland, a pacifist and Gandhian, returned from

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London in early1952, having been informed of the plan to launch a non-violent civil disobedience campaign by the Bantu World editor, Victor Selope-Thema.105 Soon after, Houser wrote to Manilal Gandhi suggesting ‘that something must be done in this country to show our solidarity and our support of what is being done in South Africa’, noting that a non-violent movement in South Africa could provide a template for protest in ‘our terrible racial conflict situations here in the United States’.106 In reply, Gandhi, despite agreeing that the South African ‘struggle’ needed Houser’s sympathy and support, expressed concerns over the depth of commitment to non-violence and the extent of the influence of communism within the leadership of the Congress movement.107 The question of communist influence was, of course, of particular salience for American observers, and precipitated immediate disagreement between Houser and his supporters and the CAA, whose membership included individuals ‘who were not by any means unsympathetic to the basic policies of the Communist Party’.108 But regardless of Gandhi’s misgivings, Houser had already begun to organise a campaign of support. On the advice of Michael Scott, he had written to the ANC President James Moroka announcing plans for a march in New York on 6 April. Professor Z. K. Matthews (himself about to embark to the US to take up an academic post and act as the ANC’s representative) welcomed the planned march as ‘of tremendous significance to the people of this country’’. Overseas support, Matthews continued, was important both as a morale-boost to campaigners in South Africa and also through its potential to embarrass the South African government ‘and to restrain it lest it be tempted to commit excesses against the people’’.109 The march, Houser explained to fellow FOR member Nevin Sayre (who toured South Africa in the 1940s and again from March to May 1952), was organised under the auspices of a new group, Americans for South African Resistance (AFSAR), and would end at the South African consulate in New York.110 The New York protest thus took place on the same day as the van Riebeeck celebrations, when 800 people attended a public meeting hosted by the Rev. Adam Clayton Powell’s Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem, raising nearly $300.111 The organisation of a protest in New York on 6 April in support of the Congress movements suggests that Houser was deliberately signalling his sympathies for the more radical opposition to racial segregation in South Africa. Quintin Whyte, Director of the SAIRR, informed Houser that Manilal Gandhi had urged the ANC to refrain from demonstrations during the tercentenary celebrations, and added his own personal opinion that the protest would be marred by ‘ugly incidents’ as ‘the

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national organisation and the degree of self control needed for such demonstrations is not present’.112 Similarly, Nevin Sayre concluded in the report of his South African tour that the International FOR should be wary of supporting civil disobedience in South Africa without the prior approval of the tiny South African branch of the organisation.113 The New York meeting showed, however, that a small group of Americans were prepared to exhibit their sympathy and support for the Congress movements in South Africa, despite the concerns surrounding Communist influence and the pessimism in South Africa over the likelihood of eventual violent protest issuing from the Defiance Campaign. This endorsement of an emergent popular mass movement in South Africa in the face of ‘informed’ liberal opinion derived from a number of factors. Both Houser, with his background in CORE, and the organisers of the Defiance Campaign employed the repertoire of passive resistance; South African black intellectuals such as Z. K. Matthews, who toured the US during 1952–3, had in may ways closer contacts with the US than Britain. Perhaps most noteworthy was the way in which Houser and the AFSAR were in direct contact with South African nationalist leaders, and (more significantly) they readily forwarded financial assistance without any need for an intermediary – by December 1952, AFSAR had sent $2000 to the ANC. While there were direct contacts between Houser and the network of American supporters of the Defiance Campaign and British anticolonial networks – Michael Scott being the obvious link in what might be regarded as the New York connection – British responses to civil disobedience in South Africa were markedly different. British support for the Defiance Campaign came from Scott and Collins, although the ANC had attempted to garner support from other organisations.114 In early August, Scott contacted Kingsley Martin with a statement on the Defiance Campaign, hoping that it could be published in the New Statesman. Martin replied that a paragraph on the campaign was in hand, and suggested that instead, Scott write a letter that could be published the following week.115 His letter declared the Defiance Campaign to be a ‘moral challenge to the civilised world’ and that the resisters exhibited the ‘dignity and worth of the human person which these laws themselves violate’. In conclusion, he wondered whether ‘something practical’ could be arranged to aid the families of jailed ‘defiers’.116 Canon Collins, in contrast to Scott’s recourse to the letter pages of the left-liberal media, made further use of the platform he had in St Paul’s Cathedral. In early September he preached a sermon, on the theme of ‘unity and equality in Christ’, that provoked a controversy in

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the media in both the UK and South Africa. In his sermon, he called for a charitable attitude to Malan, ‘this poor wretched man, hag-ridden with fear’, who could no more be expected to rid himself of the ‘illusion of white supremacy’ than a drunkard could ‘destroy his illusion of pink elephants’. Christians could no longer remain aloof from opposition to apartheid, Collins argued, and the Malan government should not be allowed to continue to claim that all the state’s enemies were Communists. Communism, stated Collins, ‘has captured the word “peace”’ – he went on to ask whether it should be allowed ‘to capture the words “freedom”, “equality” and “love”?’ Concluding that opposition to ‘unjust laws’ could not be seen as treason, Collins announced the intention of Christian Action to give support to the Defiance Campaign and called for donations to support the dependants of resistors.117 The sermon and its aftermath illustrate Collins’ talent for managing publicity. Responding to the criticisms of South Africa’s UK Director of Information, he reiterated his view that Christians were ‘bound in conscience to oppose’ the policy of apartheid and that they should ‘not allow the Communist bogy [sic] to hinder them from following the dictates of their conscience’.118 In a letter to Alan Paton in the wake of the sermon, Collins explained how he wanted to ‘work up’ sympathy in the UK, and to suggest that people could help by donating ‘to a fund whose purpose will not be to interfere directly in any of the campaigns taking place over there, but to supply relief where needed to those who suffer as a result of such campaigns’.119 Paton sympathised with Collins’ feelings, but suggested that people overseas should oppose, rather than condemn, South Africa: ‘say we will oppose you, we will unite Christian Europe to oppose you, because you’re wrong, and because you’re crazy’, he suggested.120 Maintaining his public assault on South Africa’s Nationalists, Collins followed Paton’s advice to the letter, asserting from St Paul’s the need for Christians to oppose the policy of South Africa, ‘without regard to the material consequences to ourselves’.121 It is significant that Collins, aware of these broader political sensibilities, was prepared to disavow publicly the importance of diplomatic relations with South Africa. For Collins it was a question of balancing the economic and strategic benefits of a cordial relationship with South Africa with the potential dangers that relationship held in terms of Britain’s reputation in Africa as a whole. Sixty million Africans were watching events in South Africa, Collins asserted, ‘and what the Christians and the Christian churches do (more than what they say) will determine their attitude to Christ’.122 Collins’ attention turned to practical ways of supporting anti-apartheid activists in South Africa.

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Unlike Houser, he was careful not to be seen as funding the Congress campaign directly, he nevertheless believed ‘that ordinary people this end need some practical outlets through which to express their sympathy for those who have to suffer under discriminatory laws’.123 The fund was launched in a letter to the Times, whose signatories included Kingsley Martin, Bertrand Russell, James Griffiths and Canon Charles Raven. The letter expressed unqualified support for non-violent resistors in South Africa and called for Britons to pay tribute to their efforts by providing material assistance.124 Collins took steps to establish a committee in South Africa through which funds could be channelled. By November 1952, Collins had approached individuals such as Margaret Ballinger, Alan Paton, Arthur Blaxall and Trevor Huddleston to act as a kind of working party who would distribute funds ‘without regard to the race, colour, creed or political views of the recipients’.125 The Christian Action Defiance Campaign fund established a fund-raising principle based upon support for the ‘victims’ of apartheid, that would be maintained and extended with the Defence and Aid funds of the later 1950s and beyond.126 Despite such worthy aims, the racially exclusive nature of the South African committee struck a discordant note (the Times letter stated explicitly that funds would be distributed ‘strictly according to need’ through a white South African committee). The contradiction did not escape the attention of Collins, however, who explained to Paton that he did not want ‘the Congress people feel that we do not trust them. I have explained to them that for technical reasons it is necessary for us to have a White group of people to handle the fund for us and also that it will safeguard against its being confiscated’.127 Such sensibilities reflect the extent to which white liberal political thinking, while increasingly at odds with South African government policy, retained a strong paternalist character. The contrast with the US fund-raising efforts is clear, although by late 1952 the chair of Collins’ informal South African committee, Anglican priest Arthur Blaxall, was a key correspondent with Houser, one of his main channels of information on developments within South Africa. Collins would later recall that Christian Action’s response to the Defiance Campaign transformed the organisation’s relationship to the ‘establishment’. Support for a civil disobedience campaign meant that it had to confront the ‘incongruity’ of working within the establishment and yet remaining prepared to take principled action over particular events and causes. One side of Christian Action’s ambition called for it to be ‘sedate, cautious and uncontroversial’ in order to retain the

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support of a cross-section of the ‘distinguished and respectable’; its concerns for social action meant, however, that it was likely to encourage controversy and offend ‘Establishment-minded people’. The Defiance Campaign served as something of a watershed for Christian Action and Collins’ own personal standing within and outside the church. The organisation began to lose distinguished sponsors, notably Lord Halifax, who resigned rather than appear to lend his support for a civil disobedience campaign similar to that he had faced as Viceroy of India between the wars.128 More broadly, the Defiance Campaign had shown that mass mobilisation against apartheid was possible; for British and American observers it appeared to be the birth of a genuine popular movement whose efforts were worthy of – indeed demanded – attention and support from the wider world. Importantly, the South African movement’s tactics seemed to mirror the moral force of its demand for political rights – the emphasis upon non-violent resistance maximised international support. For the international pacifist networks around Michael Scott and liberal civil rights campaigners associated with the AFSAR, passive resistance was a mutually shared framework for action that enabled the establishment of a transnational community of activists. For this network to extend beyond its core figures, whose connections with the South African movement were the result of direct experience or particularly strong convictions, a number of ideological hurdles needed to be overcome. Key to these was the question of anti-colonial nationalism, whose precepts were often at odds with widely held assumptions regarding the nature and development of colonial politics. The fear and loathing of violence was, as we have seen, of central importance to developing ideas about anti-colonial movements within Africa, and the conjunction of the Defiance Campaign and the Kenyan Emergency tended to underline the significance of tactics for Western observers. But, aside from this behaviourist reading of South African movements, the legitimacy of anti-colonial nationalism was itself in question. Were sovereign rights applicable in the colonial context? Should international attention be focussed on the establishment of appropriate modes of ‘partnership’, rather than on an unequivocal call for democratic rights? In Britain, on the whole, nationalism was treated with caution until very late in the 1950s – indeed until colonial control was on the verge of collapse. In the US, official concerns over communism combined with a tendency to interpret events in Africa through a European lens. The victory of Malan’s National Party in 1948 was understood in terms of Southern

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US politics, and official attitudes to apartheid bore resemblance to those towards segregation – distaste tempered by a tendency to identify with dominant white elites, rather than the racially oppressed majority. It is telling that it was not until 1956 that responsibility for South Africa was moved from the US State Department’s Bureau of European Affairs.129 Anti-colonial nationalism was, therefore, caught between the apparent principles of the post-war international order and the chosen practicalities of the Cold War – a new era of sovereignty subsumed beneath the contingent usefulness of the European imperial systems. A fundamental element of the emerging anti-apartheid movement was, therefore, its relationship with anti-colonial nationalism. In the aftermath of the Defiance Campaign, the notion of ‘solidarity’ began to develop as the key component of the movement’s identity – an identity centred upon identification itself. The idea of solidarity, on the surface at least, suggests a relationship between a privileged observer and an often vaguely defined distant other – a channel by which the perceived reality of another’s suffering is symbolically re-located as a foundation for action to alleviate that suffering. And yet, the idea of solidarity, for it to have potency as a resource for the development of a social movement, had to be transmitted through actual networks – solidarity was thus a link that bound together particular groups and individuals, not expression of some universal human bond (although the power of universalist rhetoric was essential). In the US, the Defiance Campaign had aroused popular interest in Africa, as Houser noted in a letter to Blaxall in May 1953, stating that ‘a new wave of interest regarding not only South Africa but all other sections of Africa too has spread throughout this country’.130 By mid-1953 ‘the AFSAR gave way to a formal organisation, the ACOA. In its draft manifesto, the ACOA pledged to promote US support for African political ambitions. To a great extent, the manifesto was an American version of the kind of liberal progressivism espoused by the authors of Attitude to Africa – and its characterisation of the trajectory of events in Africa was one in which ‘Africans [were] reaching toward their own place in their world and the world of nations’. The fear of Communist influence was strong, but so was that of the potential for ‘absolutisms of their own devising’. Americans were thus charged with a responsibility to assist Africans to secure democracy, a task which was not being undertaken (save a few exceptional figures) within Europe. Africans, it argued, ‘hope that America will cooperate with them in making Africa truly part of a free world to which she can make her unique cultural contribution.

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So far, America has met this appeal with confusion, ignorance and gross misunderstanding’.131 There was agreement on the need for a new organisation, and initial supporters, aside from the ubiquitous Houser, included churchmen such as George Carpenter of the International Missionary Commission and Donald Harrington, Unitarian Minister and stalwart of the New York Liberal Party. For some months, however, the group remained stuck in discussions over the exact focus and strategy of the new organisation. To an extent, it remained as an offshoot of international Christian pacifist organisations such as the FOR and focussed close attention on the question of perceived (and real) Communist influence on the Congress Movement in South Africa. It was by no means, however, anything other than a small pressure group, with limited contacts and even more limited budget. The emergence of the ACOA did, however, signal further development of a transnational anti-apartheid network, distinct from established imperial networks. British activists would turn to the ACOA when in contact with, or visiting, the US – Scott had of course known Houser for a number of years, while Collins turned to the ACOA when he sought to extend his US contacts during a visit in late 1953.

The challenge of ‘young Africa’ – interpretations of nationalism In their 1952 book, Attitude to Africa, W. Arthur Lewis, Colin Legum, Martin Wight and Michael Scott paint a pointedly equivocal portrait of African nationalism, emphasising its implicit ‘anti-white’ sentiments – ‘the basis of African nationalism’, they argued, was ‘an emotional affinity between Africans on grounds of colour’.132 In what was a paradigm example of modernisation theory, they argued that nationalism gave ‘a new sense of solidarity for detribalized people’. Nationalist leaders were drawn from a new class of professionals, merchants and labour activists whose social status depended on institutions introduced by colonial rule; anti-colonial nationalism was, then, a revolt of an unrepresentative Western-educated elite.133 Nevertheless, it was clear that nationalism – as an indigenous movement – was more likely to garner mass support than colonial rule, and that European critiques of Africa seemed hollow in the face of European complicity in the continued lack of social, economic and political development on the continent. Nationalism, in fact, could be a ‘dynamic force’ and – given that change could not be imposed from without – it was this force that would drive a process through which a progressive synthesis between the ‘traditional’

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and the ‘new’ could be achieved. Social regeneration could only be brought about via cooperation with nationalist forces. Settler nationalism, on the other hand, was seen as a product of increasing fear and a determination to maintain a hold on political power. The authors argued that, while the policy of the British government implied progress towards self-government and independence in African territories, the ‘fears and antagonisms’ of settler nationalism had been able to restrain official policy, despite its progressive logic.134 The crux of the problem was the ‘plural’ societies of East, Central and Southern Africa, where African, Indian and European populations existed without ‘mingling’ in a single territory. While ‘ultimate authority’ should remain with the British government ‘until the Africans are sufficiently well advanced to take their full part in government and so no longer need protection against the threat of domination by a minority’, the authors argued that the numerical superiority of the African population meant that African acquisition of political power was an inevitability. Michael Scott’s contribution to Attitude to Africa paid attention to the particular responsibilities of Britain with regard to Southern Africa. A policy of development that was sensitive to the needs of the African people and committed to an ‘ecological perspective of Africa’s problems’ could, Scott declared, ‘promote a renascence of the social, cultural, and economic life of the respective communities’.135 The greatest obstacle to this process was, however, the policies of the government of South Africa and its determination to maintain white supremacy.136 South Africa, according to this argument, was in the midst of a struggle between two nationalisms. Indeed, as Thomas Hodgkin suggested in 1955, settler nationalism was a spur to the development of pan-African sentiment (as a consequence of white minorities’ tendency to work towards closer union, notably in Central Africa), while apartheid was ‘a symbol of the colonial idea in its most highly developed form’.137 Underlying these arguments was the deeply held fear that nationalist leaders would reject the guiding hand of benevolent European colonialism, and instead be seduced by Soviet Communism. In the words of Colin Legum and Martin Wight, those ‘seeking national liberation have usually preferred … a potential King Stork to the King Log with which they are familiar’.138 As we have seen, the inter-connection between black politics and communism had developed somewhat unevenly since the inter-war period. While Communist internationalism had significant influence on those voicing a critique of South African racial policies from overseas, and was an important strand within African

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politics, it would be wrong to insist that it was the dominant ideological influence on African nationalism. Nevertheless, the spectre of communism loomed large in debates within African nationalist circles, was a key concern of international sympathisers, and was a continuing concern of those who sought, from both partisan and non-partisan positions, to provide a commentary on the development of apartheid. It was, as noted in the previous chapter, the question of Communist influence that divided US activists, and prompted concerns over the Defiance Campaign. By early 1953 the Defiance campaign had run its course, with efforts dwindling in the wake of serious rioting in the Eastern Cape and the imposition of draconian new legislation to punish civil disobedience. In Britain and the US, supporters continued to focus their efforts upon maximising public awareness of South African affairs and maintaining significant levels of fund-raising. In early January 1953, Collins reported to the Christian Action Council that nearly £1500 had been collected for South Africa,139 while plans were in hand for a public meeting on the ‘Africa Crisis’ at Westminster Central Hall. The meeting, held on 2 February, was chaired by Collins and addressed by Michael Scott, his fellow Africa Bureau executive member Lady Packenham, the Labour MP and ex-Colonial Secretary James Griffiths, Victor Gollancz and Nontandu Jabavu, daughter of Professor D. D. T. Jabavu of Fort Hare. The programme for the meeting spoke of the ‘unique opportunity’ for Britons to express their support for those that had taken part, ‘for conscience sake’, in the Defiance Campaign.140 Speaking before an audience predominantly made up of church people, Scott called for Britons to be prepared to engage in resistance against ‘any breach of faith or moral obligation’ to African peoples, while James Griffiths spoke of the challenge of a ‘new emerging national force … this assertion of manhood’ that Europeans could either welcome and guide as ‘partners’ or resent and attempt to overcome as a supposed threat. The second option, he argued, was the course that was being taken by the government of South Africa and it had affected not only that country, but also the rest of Africa, the Commonwealth and the world as a whole. Lady Packenham called upon individuals to feel a sense of personal responsibility towards events in Africa and be prepared to ‘go forward, coloured and white alike, to secure for the African people their human rights’.141 The meeting took place amidst a sharpening of debate surrounding Central African Federation, which Griffiths himself had come to oppose on the grounds of its imposition on an unwilling African population,

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and within a broader context of a developing breakdown of consensus over colonial policy.142 Griffiths and Packenham thus evoked the ‘traditional’ Labour support for indigenous interests. As Goldsworthy notes, these moderate views needed to be set alongside an emergent left-wing strand of thinking on colonial issues within the party. Thus, while Griffiths continued to rely on the language of rights and partnership, more radical voices, such as Brockway, began to address colonial issues in the terms laid out by anti-colonial nationalists themselves.143 The question of apartheid, however, increasingly seemed to be an unequivocal case of the suppression of indigenous rights. Nevertheless, apartheid was invariably regarded as something other than a colonial issue in the strictest sense, and British opinion became alienated when apartheid was viewed as part of a general colonial landscape. This was the controversial contention of Nontandu Jabavu, who had been given the task of representing the views of young Africans. She characterised African sentiments as one of distrust and a lack of faith in British politics, arguing that Conservatives were ‘committed to the theory of white supremacy’, while Labour, despite its rhetoric, had failed to back up its words with action. Her strongest criticism, however, dealt with the ways in which segregation and apartheid were deemed ways of preserving ‘western Christian civilisation’. For Africans, Jabavu noted, ‘western civilisation’ meant laws restricting freedom of movement or employment, casual racial abuse and violence; Africans had been disenfranchised with no hope of obtaining citizenship ‘because western Christian civilisation must be maintained on the basis of our subjection’.144 There should be little surprise that Africans were becoming increasingly hostile towards Christianity, she continued, because the churches often seemed to offer no more than weak opposition and an ‘outlet for troubled consciences’. For Africans, Christian charity was often embodied in ‘the person who descends upon them in their miserable shacks and does good to them on the end of a barge pole’. Instead, she argued, people should answer Christian Action’s call for ‘ordinary people to do something concrete’ in opposition to racial inequality in Africa. She noted that those who criticised Christian Action for supporting the Defiance Campaign were supporting the South African government and asked the critics to recall the shock felt by many that the people of Germany ‘had not resisted the inhuman laws of their Nazi government’. She concluded by arguing that only through action, ‘instead of just talking about democracy, or talking about Christian brotherhood of man’, could faith in ‘western Christian civilisation’ be restored.145

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While, according to Collins’ report on the meeting, the speakers convinced the audience to the extent that nearly £1000 was collected or pledged on the night, reaction to Jabavu’s speech elsewhere was less than sympathetic. One might question the extent to which Jabavu should, in retrospect, be viewed as a voice of nationalism – her background and role in black politics does not suggest that she represented the views of Congress or other groups when she spoke in London in the 1950s. As Mary Benson noted, Jabavu’s critique could be read as a rather straightforward statement of African opinion – ‘one tries to imagine what it must be like for a young person of her education and intelligence to go back to the Union and be subjected to constant humiliation’. Benson also noted that Jabavu had been surrounded by African students at the end of her speech and that, while this group was disillusioned, ‘the great majority have not turned to Communism but are simply developing stronger and stronger nationalism’.146 However, Jabavu’s speech did cause some consternation among church people. Leading the critics was SACI Director Cecil Wood, who wrote to the Church Times protesting at Jabavu’s ‘unjust and unhelpful’ condemnation of mission workers, while that paper’s report on the meeting was headed by her assertion that ‘Africans are tired of sickly patronage’.147 Wood had made clear his own feelings towards African opinion in an article in the Cape to the Zambezi in 1952, in which he criticised pronouncements made by church bodies on Southern African questions, asking mockingly whether observers ‘seriously envisage political enlightenment from a mass of primitive peoples … by the practice of examining the entrails of a goat?’148 In a further response to Jabavu’s criticisms, a meeting was held at Southwark cathedral that aimed to demonstrate that Africans and Europeans were in fact ‘working side by side’ in the Anglican Church in South Africa.149 Collins, meanwhile, wrote in defence of Jabavu, explaining that she had not simply attacked the Church but instead had described the effects of South African race policies upon young Africans. Collins suggested that it was no use protesting against those who explained the feelings of Africans and that people in mission circles should not expect gratitude. It was ‘vital’, Collins asserted, that Christians understood that Africans were beginning to lose faith in ‘the White man, including the White Christian’ and that they needed to base their approach to questions of race upon a sense of humility.150 It is important to remember that activists such as Huddleston would invariably emphasise the religious dimension of their critique of

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apartheid – theirs was a struggle to maintain the strength of the Church in the face of competing cognitive frameworks. Speaking in 1956, after his return to Britain, Huddleston highlighted the role of African priests – ‘it is they’, he argued, ‘who have to try to hold on to young Africa when over and over again it is tempted to renounce the Christian way for the way of nationalism, or of communism’.151 Identification with Congress did not necessarily equate with identification with nationalism per se. Huddleston’s pronouncements on apartheid, in fact, spoke of solidarity with African people more than it did African nationalism. And yet, Huddleston was intimately connected with the African nationalist movement – embodied in his presence at the Congress of the People in 1955 where he was honoured with the Isitwalandwe, the ANC’s highest award. Huddleston’s highly personal identification with African nationalism was distinct from, but ultimately compatible with, the key tenets of liberal thinking on African nationalism encapsulated by Attitude to Africa. Nationalism had the capacity to attract mass support, and thus transform demographic dominance into some form of political power. Development, the lodestone of efficient colonial administration, was required in order to offset the demands for independence that were being heard across key parts of Africa. This was an interpretation of African politics that continued to invoke paternalist notions of guided development and viewed Africa as an unformed and malleable mass that needed to be shaped to face the responsibilities of modernity. Some Christian thinkers, though, began to argue that a resolution to the growing crisis of colonialism in Africa would require identification ‘with African national aspirations, thereby transcending in principle the antagonism between African desires and hopes and the interests of the immigrant communities’.152 By the late 1950s, then, mission Christians were urged to ‘make common cause with Africans in their efforts to achieve responsible citizenship’ – not too far distant from what Jabavu had argued in 1953.153

Conclusions: Nationalism, legitimacy and ‘solidarity’ The onset of organised civil disobedience in South Africa forced antiapartheid activists into an engagement with African nationalism that led them to confront difficult issues surrounding the legitimacy of colonial authority and the moral status of political resistance. Above all, the rise of mass resistance in the 1950s meant that humanitarian sensibilities needed to be cast in the context of African political ambitions.

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In the US, the movement within South Africa was defined in terms of the domestic civil rights struggle, and appeared to represent the kind of moral anti-colonial crusade that had marked the nationalist struggle in India. Within Britain, or at least within that narrow wedge of society that paid attention to African affairs and interpreted events through the dusty lens of the ‘civilising mission’, the 1950s brought developments that would challenge their own paternalist assumptions and press hard against the convictions of liberal imperialism. From the city streets of the Gold Coast to the mission stations along the shores of Lake Nyasa, claims for increased political representation and opposition to the entrenchment of settler rule were voiced within a single framework – nationalism. Nationalism, a beast to be feared and corralled, through schemes which spoke of ‘partnership’, took centre stage in the political discourse of 1950s colonialism in Africa. As John Stuart has shown, British missionary societies reluctantly came to change their view of nationalism over the course of the 1950s, and only by the final couple of years of the decade missionary opinion had concluded that nationalist claims for self-determination had legitimacy and should be supported – not least in order to protect the future status of churches themselves.154 Extra-parliamentary pressure groups in Britain saw themselves as mediators between African nationalism and colonial authorities, measuring the official policies against the yardstick of ‘trusteeship’ while seeking to guide and restrain nationalism in the hope of maintaining a stable relationship between metropole and its colonial territories. It was often the case that African nationalist ambitions were understood in generalised terms, as part of an undifferentiated anti-colonialism, although events in different parts of Africa generated a contrasting range of responses. In Kenya, the violence associated with Mau Mau could be compared unfavourably with the passive resistance movement in South Africa, and while leaders in Central Africa were able to call on the support of the Africa Bureau in their efforts to oppose Federation, it was not until the latter part of the decade that popular political movements began to develop. Thus while initial anti-apartheid protest was expressed in indirect terms, as in the condemnation of the incorporation of South-West Africa, the development of an apparently popular civil disobedience movement forced international activists to develop a response to the demands of African nationalism in South Africa. There is some justification in seeing this as an example of methodological, as opposed to ideological, affinity. Anti-apartheid networks were

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to some extent built upon existing transnational peace movement, such as the FOR, whose network bound together associates of George Houser at the ACOA, Arthur Blaxall in South Africa and Michael Scott. A similar web connected Scott with Quaker networks, although by 1952 he had found a powerful support base through the patronage of David Astor. Anti-apartheid activists were therefore ideologically and morally geared towards a sympathetic response to movements apparently founded upon Gandhian principles of non-violent civil disobedience, and Gandhi’s influence in South Africa was clearly apparent, not least via the efforts of followers in the SAIC such as Yusuf Dadoo. The Defiance Campaign thus became a key moment in part because it fitted easily into a model of moral persuasion that could be aligned with the values of overseas activists. Under these circumstances, it is understandable that initial contacts from the US were with Manilal Gandhi and were initiated by activists, such as Houser, who had begun to apply Gandhian methods to civil rights. In Britain, it was Anglican priests disconnected from the missionary establishment who led public support for the Defiance campaign. From these beginnings, anti-apartheid networks would develop in both the US and Britain, giving more definite shape to the form and values of international solidarity. While the moral appeal of antiapartheid would remain a constant, and would be given impetus by the increasingly authoritarian response of the South African government to internal opposition, the latter part of the 1950s would see the emergence of forms of anti-apartheid activism that, in terms of strategic initiative, would set the framework of the movement for the duration.

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Sites of Struggle – the Emerging Anti-Apartheid Network

Following the Defiance Campaign, activists on both sides of the Atlantic increasingly saw opposition to apartheid as one of the main foci of nationalist struggles in Africa. The core movement groups were centred around Collins and Scott in the UK, as well as the broader anti-colonial campaign promoted by Fenner Brockway. In the US, the coalition of Christian pacifists and civil rights campaigners around the newly formed American Committee on Africa (ACOA) had supplanted the Council on African Affairs (CAA) as the primary organisation concerned with the providing publicity and support for nationalist claims. All these groups were well in advance of mainstream opinion with regard to nationalism (although the ACOA supporters were clearly far less of a radical threat than Hunton, Robeson and Du Bois in the CAA). In Britain, official opinion would not turn in favour of nationalist forces until the final years of the decade, meaning that official approaches to the apartheid issue from both government and other establishment groups remained locked in attempts to persuade – or even ‘convert’ – white South Africans to move, cautiously, towards a more liberal racial policy. However, the contours of a transnational anti-apartheid movement were beginning to emerge in the second half of the 1950s. This chapter will examine the character of this developing movement: how the network of highly motivated individuals in South Africa, Britain and the US began to coalesce into a discernible movement. Håkan Thörn, in his examination of transnational anti-apartheid activism, highlights the importance of movement across borders as a characteristic feature of the movement. He notes how the analysis of anti-apartheid requires an examination of the ‘networks, organisations, identities, action forms and information flows that 118

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transcended borders’.1 As we have already seen, the movement of key individuals between South Africa, Europe and the US was fundamental to the development of attitudes towards South African racial policies. Before the Second World War, international travel was responsible for the dissemination of South African ideas regarding the ‘Native Question’ (see, for example, the influence of Charles Templeman Loram in the US) as much as the production of any form of critique of South Africa in the international arena. Nevertheless, while transnational links forged by nineteenth and early twentieth century humanitarian networks were a long-standing feature of South African political life, Thörn is right to focus on the mobility of activists in the years after 1960, and most significantly, on the role played by South African exiles in the establishment and maintenance of transnational anti-apartheid.2 The next chapter will address the way in which the anti-apartheid movement crystallised around the sanctions campaign, itself developed as a response to the Sharpeville shootings of March 1960. Before this, however, it is necessary to examine some of the key foundations of the anti-apartheid network that had developed during the 1950s. As discussed in the previous chapter, the identity of the movement became increasingly fixed as it became aligned in solidarity (if not always ideologically) with African and Indian nationalist movements within South Africa. It was also the case, of course, that the actions of the South African government themselves played an important role – the imposition of policies such as Bantu Education, and increasingly draconian action, as illustrated by the Treason Trial, are both discussed below as key moments in the development of international opposition to apartheid. In this way, it is possible to see that transnational antiapartheid solidarity networks were able to maximise support beyond those who shared ideological or political affinity with the Congress movement. Similarly, key individuals within these networks began to make deliberate efforts to arouse international opinion as a means of placing the South African government under pressure. Those same individuals also began to co-ordinate efforts to provide material support for South African movements, via a series of fund-raising campaigns, culminating in the establishment of the Defence and Aid Fund, which would become one of the primary institutions of the movement. Before addressing the ways in which the movement’s values and repertoires had begun to develop by the end of the 1950s, it is first necessary to examine how semi-official visitors to South Africa viewed the development of apartheid.

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Following the Defiance Campaign, a number of international visitors were drawn to South Africa, in official and unofficial capacities, attracted by a desire to access the ‘reality’ of apartheid. These visits shaped and re-shaped the transnational networks that linked South Africa with the outside world, and representatives of religious organisations, trades unionists – as well as anti-apartheid activists – encountered both the limitations imposed by apartheid legislation, and the challenge of African nationalism. For some, the effort to understand propelled them towards support for the South African government, while others found their support for the Congress movement reinforced. The country attracted visits from a number of churchmen, particularly those attached to ecumenical and missionary movements. One of the most prominent of these visitors was Willem Visser ‘t Hooft, Secretary of the World Council of Churches – the body that would come to serve as a key co-ordinator of Christian anti-apartheid activism during the 1970s and 1980s. This later radicalism was not, however, evident in ‘t Hooft’s account of the country in 1952, who concluded that visions of ‘total apartheid’ should be seen as ‘constructive’, and a reflection of the ‘separate worlds’ occupied by black and white.3 Other observers were more pessimistic, however. Following a series of protests against the introduction of apartheid legislation, although partly also as a response to Sachs and Collins’ ‘Fund for African Democracy’ (see below), the British Trades Union Congress (TUC) was invited to send its own delegation to the country in late 1953, ‘to ascertain the facts of the situation’. The ‘facts’, as witnessed by Ernest Bell and James Crawford, was of a labour movement divided between those prepared to work within the strictures of industrial apartheid and those who saw resistance to apartheid as part of the wider workers’ struggle. The authors of the report acknowledged the intense difficulties faced by trades unions, their activities circumscribed by the Suppression of Communism Act, while black unionists found rights curtailed by the recent Native Labour Act. Under these circumstances, the TUC delegates found an atmosphere of ‘complacency, indifference, suspicion, personal antagonism or fear’ among South African unionists. They concluded that the very existence of trades unions as independent bodies was under threat. Without unity, built on compromise between the various factions, South African trade unions could be reduced to ‘State controlled organisations with functions which will be restricted very largely to meeting the social and cultural interests’ of white workers.4 Within the year, attempts to restore unity in the South

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Crossing borders – forging transnational connections

African movement had resulted in the formation of the South African Trade Union Council (SATUC), although its racially exclusive character was opposed by a number of former SATLC bodies, who declined to join the new organisation. Contacts between British and South African trade union officials were, in general, limited to the officially recognised SATUC, effectively separating the mainstream of the British trade union movement from African workers until the 1970s.5 As John Major has shown the attitude of the TUC towards apartheid until the 1970s tended to be influenced by anti-Communist instincts and distrust of activists such as Collins and Sachs. Its contacts with South Africa remained largely centred around the ‘mainstream’, white-led union movement.6 Moreover, British labour leaders had little experience of race as a workers’ issue – it is perhaps no coincidence that a more militant position on apartheid did not develop until the 1970s, as black trade union leaders began to establish themselves within the British movement. While trade union organisations – whose effectiveness depended upon the maintenance of a ‘legitimate’ relationship with the state and business – might perhaps be expected to compromise over the question of African representation, anti-apartheid activists saw the promotion of black political ambitions as the central foundation of their struggle. Witnessing events in South Africa at first hand tended to inculcate a sense that African political ambitions were equated with those of the Congress movement. This was the case for Collins, who visited South Africa in July and August 1954 following an invitation from a Durban businessman. He spent the majority of his stay listening to individuals who sought to persuade him of the error of his outspoken anti-apartheid campaign in Britain. Collins also used his visit, however, to strengthen his links with liberals and Congress leaders, spending time as a guest of Ambrose Reeves, who was himself gradually moving towards a position of unequivocal opposition to apartheid. In the final days of his visit, however, Collins revealed his endorsement of the ANC and its allies, and the personal involvement he now felt with their political campaign, announced during a meeting organised by the ANC and chaired by Walter Sisulu. The meeting prompted widespread and angry press coverage in South Africa, with much of the resentment grounded in Collins’ public identification with the Congress cause. Moreover, he represented deeper shifts in British attitudes towards empire. Die Burger outlined how the ‘extreme negrophilistic attitude of Canon Collins’ chimed with growing public opinion in Britain: Slowly but surely there is being made in Britain at this time a fatalistic choice in connection with Africa … Canon Collins and those who feel as he does, do not conceal it. They consider it essential to choose

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between black and white in Africa and they openly choose black. They range themselves on the side of the Native because they believe that right and justice lie on that side and, less consciously, because they believe that it is in Britain’s true interests to seek the friendship of the black masses, even if it has to be done at the expense of the white minorities in Africa.7 On his return to Britain, Collins authored a series of articles for the Daily Herald, describing his impressions of South Africa. He emphasised the depth of white fears and the danger of black resistance slipping from a mode of ‘efficiency, discipline and determination’ into anarchy and extremism, unless there was (in the familiar phrase) a ‘change of heart among the whites’.8 This was not simply an issue for white South Africans, he argued, for if the British authorities did not turn their attention to apartheid, relations with colonial territories in Africa and Asia would deteriorate further. Like Scott (and indeed like Ballinger in the 1930s), Collins argued for the development of the Protectorates in order to counter their economic dependence on South Africa. He suggested that the left in Britain should align itself with the African and Indian Congresses, yet the most essential action required was the eradication of racial discrimination in Britain itself.9 Following a series of letters in the Times, some supportive, but others critical of Collins ‘bigoted interference’ in South Africa, he returned to his call for public support for Congress. His critics were, he argued, ignoring African opinion, which would ‘no longer tolerate benevolent paternalism, let alone blatant domination’. It was time, he concluded, for Christians in general to ‘stand uncompromisingly for equality of status and equality of opportunity for all South Africans’.10 For the more cautious church leaders, this kind of statement was illustrative of the lack of wisdom shown by South Africa’s overseas critics. Norman Goodall, for example, noted that reaction to Huddleston’s appeals to international opinion (see below) were split along racial lines, with few white South Africans willing to endorse his action. While many accepted Huddleston’s right to express his conscience, most were convinced, as Clayton had been in relation to Scott in the late 1940s, that outspoken criticism was bound to obstruct those who sought to influence change in South Africa. While he was sympathetic to the kind of assertive Christianity that could liberate South Africa, Goodall was afraid of ‘a multiplicity of minor prophets, especially in an age of propaganda’.11 Others were even less sympathetic. L. B. Greaves of the BCC, whose attempts to tone down the approach of the Africa Relations

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Council had aroused the concern of Esther Muirhead, travelled to South and Central Africa in February 1954, to ‘get the feel of the human situation’ in the region. His report on that visit, circulated within the Conference of Missionary Societies, presented a series of reflections on racialised social relations in the region.12 Prompted, again, by Huddleston’s letters in the Observer, Greaves attempted to weigh the positive or negative effects of ‘statements made in the United Kingdom’. While he recognised the deep and almost ‘pathological’ nature of racial prejudice among white South Africans, Greaves argued that commentators needed to be more ‘realistic’, and more aware of Africans’ capacity for racial prejudice and unwarranted distrust. Again, the argument ran along the lines that South Africans resented statements critical of their country, but Greaves noted this resentment was unsurprising given the ‘defective’ nature of the criticisms. He observed that publicity in the UK and US focussed on ‘atrocity stories’, which failed to provide a balanced view of the South African situation. Furthermore, the ‘morally indignant’ opponents of apartheid often tended towards ‘censorious’ comments and a ‘self-righteousness’ that alienated many in South Africa. The distance between these opponents of apartheid and mainstream opinion is clearly illustrated by the example of two further reports on South Africa. Two leading US critics of apartheid, George Houser of the ACOA, and George Carpenter, Secretary of the National Council of Churches in the US made separate visits to the country in 1954. Both were more trenchant in their criticism of apartheid than British church officials, yet offered accounts that differed significantly from those of the radical Christian activists. Houser, who arrived in South Africa shortly after the public furore over Collins’ visit, described his impressions of the country on board the Cape Town Castle on his return journey.13 He compared South Africa favourably with other countries he had visited in Africa, noting that African housing was ‘vastly superior’ to that he had encountered in Senegal and Angola, and, more significantly, that there was a ‘residue of democratic liberalism in South Africa’ that served to heighten awareness of events in that country. South Africa was ‘not a police state’, he argued, despite the fact that police in Port Elizabeth and Cape Town shadowed him. He had no hope for constitutional methods of change, contrasting the strength of the Nationalist Party with the weakness of official opposition parties, and the lack of sustained protest among black South Africans suggested that the mid-1950s were an ‘interim period’ rather than the ‘final struggle’ against white supremacy. Lack of unity and discipline among African political organisations and the powerful

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position of the Nationalist party meant that there would be no shortterm solution to racial tension and injustice in South Africa. Houser warned against rash condemnation of white South Africans, and noted that American criticism was only possible because of their distance from the site of the problem. He described several factors that promoted the easy acceptance of the ‘prevailing pattern’ of prejudice among whites, not least the existence of ‘obvious’ differences between African and European populations: To think in terms of “your daughter marrying an African” conjures up the picture of having as a relative an illiterate person, with tribal markings on his body, ornaments bigger than a 50-cent piece hanging in his ear lobes, living in a small hut with no floor, and with a job paying only a few dollars a month. This would be a stereotype in part, but one cannot compare the level which the great mass of Africans have reached with that of the American Negro.14 Houser’s somewhat pessimistic view of South Africa’s future, despite his stated belief that a ‘new social order’ would eventually be achieved, mixed acceptance of the differential nature of South African social groupings with an unenthusiastic summary of organised opposition to apartheid. The pessimism in Houser’s report was also a consequence of his growing awareness of the challenges faced by internal opposition to apartheid. During his trip he consulted with a variety of individuals from across the spectrum of the Congress movement, including Walter Sisulu of the ANC and the radical Indian leaders Yusuf Dadoo and Yusuf Cachalia, as well as the Anglican priest, Arthur Blaxall. From these meetings, Houser concluded that an atmosphere of increasing ‘totalitarianism’ was raising the likelihood of violence, and the challenge facing the ANC leadership was to maintain its commitment to non-violent strategies. There was, he argued, ‘no place on earth where non-violence can be put to the test like here’.15 In his last few days in the country, the reality of life under the scrutiny of the security forces was brought home when, after a meeting with Patrick Duncan and Z. K. Matthews, Houser found himself being followed by Special Branch officers. After being briefly detained while travelling with Matthews’ son, Houser was under constant observation and, unable to continue his meetings with black activists, he was forced to abandon plans to travel north in an attempt to cross secretly into Southern Rhodesia. The experience left Houser with the impression that ‘this little piece of the Earth’s surface is in for very stormy days’.16

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Houser’s ACOA colleague, George Carpenter suggested after his brief tour of the country in September 1954 that ‘mere opposition to apartheid … will avail little’, and argued that Christians needed to promote ‘closer mutual acquaintance among all groups’. Policies had been determined by a confusion of ‘deep-seated’ cultural difference with innate racial difference, Carpenter argued, while apartheid was determined by a ‘hypothetical image of the African, a supine creature which supinely accepts domination’. Communication barriers and historical antipathies made South Africa into a ‘house divided against itself’, Carpenter declared. Christian strategy, he suggested, should be founded upon the promotion of ‘reconciliation and fellowship’ between Christians, and the co-ordination of religious education and inter-church community initiatives.17

Appropriate priestly gestures’ – Bantu education and the church struggle Shortly after these fact-finding tours, one of the key building-blocks of apartheid came into force. The Bantu Education Act of 1953, which followed the recommendations of the Eiselen Commission’s report of 1951, provided for the central control of African education under the Minister of Native Affairs, Hendrik Verwoerd. Many subsequent commentaries have located Bantu education, and responses to the legislation, purely in terms of the grand ideological vision of apartheid planners such as Verwoerd. Trevor Huddleston condemned the system as ‘education for servitude’,18 while Isaac Tabata, a left-wing leader of the Unity movement during the 1940s, wrote in 1960 of Bantu Education as a ‘debasement’ and ‘an instrument for serfdom’ that was bound to fail, based as it was upon the anachronistic ‘outlook of the feudal racialist’.19 Behind the emotive debate, the practical necessity for state control of African education was widely recognised. Until the implementation of Bantu Education in the mid-1950s mission institutions dominated African education, yet were increasingly unable to provide places for more than a minority of children. Few disputed that overcrowded and under-resourced schools necessitated state intervention in African education.20 Yet, for the churches the 1953 Act was an indirect challenge to their authority, a crisis of relations with the state that reverberated as far as London and Canterbury. As one of the major functions of missionary activity, African education was a touchstone for metropolitan Christian philanthropy; the British response to Bantu Education represented the first large-scale public mobilisation against

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apartheid legislation that briefly brought the more cautious into a kind of alliance with those radical voices around the Africa Bureau and Christian Action. As early as May 1954, the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel’s Africa sub-committee came to the conclusion that a national appeal in the UK might be justified, arguing that ‘many might see in this crisis an opportunity to do something of value within the South Africa situation’.21 Church leaders remained cautious however, and Fisher maintained a cautious approach, noting to Archbishop Garbett of York that ‘it is extremely difficult to keep silent’ but that the only course of action was ‘on a suitable occasion … to express our total opposition to the general policy of the South African government’.22 Fisher nevertheless faced increasing pressure to act over Bantu Education. The publicity surrounding Collins’ trip to South Africa had increased public concerns over apartheid, while in early October, the Observer published a savage attack upon Bantu Education written by Huddleston.23 Collins wrote to Fisher requesting an appointment to discuss a plan to raise money to retain Anglican secondary schools and technical colleges in South Africa.24 Having agreed to meet Collins, Fisher addressed the convocation of Canterbury with a speech that, in contrast to earlier pronouncements, was forthright in its condemnation of apartheid. It was, Fisher argued: a grief beyond measure to us that just at this moment when many tensions are relaxing, all the portents in South Africa point to a relentless pursuit of a policy towards the native population which is regarded by almost all Christian opinion outside the Dutch Reformed Church as unChristian in principle and bound in the long run to be catastrophic in its effects.25 Every new ‘detailed application of the policy of apartheid’, he continued, brought a ‘fresh violation of Christian principle and common justice’. Citing the plans for the removal of African occupation in Sophiatown, Bantu Education, and attempts to limit church tenancies in African areas, Fisher characterised the actions of the South African government as akin to totalitarianism, as such no different from those of the Communist states that it condemned. For many, the speech represented a significant rhetorical shift in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s stance on apartheid. Bishop Roberts of the SPG wrote to Clayton telling how the ‘very outspoken address’ had ‘given a new complexion to the responsibility which the home church bears in this matter’.26 Wilfred Parker (the retired Bishop of Pretoria),

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who had supported Collins’ plan, wrote to Fisher thanking him for his statement and despaired that South Africa was ‘living under a Nazi regime’,27 while Huddleston commented that the speech was ‘a pointer in the right direction and long overdue’.28 The Times reported Fisher’s ‘condemnation’ of the South African government, while the South African press reacted with unsurprising disapproval. Die Vaderland stated how Fisher had, ‘with appropriate priestly gestures’ judged apartheid as un-Christian, and that such attacks confirmed the impression that the Dutch Reformed Church was ‘to become the battle field for the combined powers of a meddling world’.29 Clayton, for his part, endorsed Fisher’s words in a broadcast on the BBC’s home service. The broadcast impressed upon its listeners the negative effects of apartheid upon race relations in South Africa, and called for ‘help in men and money’ from Britain.30 With a rapid decline in the recruitment of missionaries for South Africa following the Second World War,31 the provincial church authorities, and their representatives in Britain, thus saw in the surge of public interest in Britain an opportunity to boost mission activity. If Fisher’s words were dangerously radical for the Afrikaans press in South Africa, they remained far too cautious for some in Britain. A leader in the Observer insisted that the challenge of Bantu Education could not ‘be met simply by moral support’ but rather that something material was required. The leader suggested that if Fisher called for funds to support church schools, ‘it would give people an opportunity to contribute to this struggle against tyranny’. Colin Legum further underlined the significance of the Bantu Education Act, stating that the Act had provoked an ‘open breach’ in relations between church and state in South Africa.32 Collins, meanwhile, attempted to provide assurances that his plans to ‘resist some of the ill effects’ of Bantu education would be supported by both the public in Britain and bishops in South Africa. He suggested that an appeal in the UK would raise ‘no unfortunate controversy’, nor would it be ‘regarded as unwarranted interference’. Furthermore, he assured Fisher that he was ready to distance himself from any appeal if his involvement might prejudice opinion.33 Fisher sought the advice of Raymond Raynes, who estimated that the costs of primary school teachers in the Transvaal alone were around £50,000 per annum, while the salary bill at St Peter’s school (the Community’s own school at Rosettenville) was between seven and eight thousand pounds a year. He suggested that one secondary and two or three training colleges per diocese ‘might have a claim to be continued through voluntary assistance’. He was pessimistic

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about the implications of the Act for private schools, however, noting that any such schools required the permission of the Native Affairs Minister and that Verwoerd was determined to use these powers to prevent the registration of private institutions. He concluded, however, that given the public offers of support that the Community had received after it announced the closure of St Peter’s, it would be advisable to raise a ‘kind of fighting fund and defence fund’ for the Church of the Province in anticipation of the collapse of the Bantu education system.34 Roberts, on his part, wrote to Fisher expressing the hope that, if any appeal were launched, the SPG might be made responsible for the collection and distribution of funds.35 Clayton was, however, less enthusiastic about Collins’ plan, noting that his visit to South Africa had created tensions with the Dutch Reformed Church and had upset both clergy and laity around the Province. Moreover, Clayton had conceded that Verwoerd was determined to exert control over African education and, therefore, attempts to establish private schools would be highly problematic.36 Through his position on the executive of the BCC, Fisher invited a number of clergy from various denominations to form a ‘special group to advise the Churches at an early date concerning opportunities for action which would strengthen the Churches in South Africa’.37 In the meantime, Collins had contacted the Africa Bureau, which was planning to issue a statement from Huddleston appealing on behalf of the Community of the Resurrection’s St Peter’s School trust fund.38 With an inter-denominational committee in place, Fisher wrote to Collins asking him to make it known that the churches were actively investigating the issue, that it would be undesirable to make any appeals ‘until one knows what can be appealed for’ and that it was likely that any Anglican appeal would be administered by the SPG.39 One of the BCC committee members, L. B. Greaves (Secretary of the Conference of Missionary Societies), told Fisher that it was important to ‘take full account of those people in the Union … who know quite well that they have been “overtaken in a fault”’. Like Visser ‘t Hooft of the WCC, Greaves saw the development of working relations with moderate Dutch Reformed ministers as the most promising course of action. Action on the part of British churches, Greaves surmised, would thus need to be more indirect, such as paying attention to racial prejudice in Britain and ‘elsewhere where we have direct responsibility’.40 Greaves outlined his views in detail in a letter, to Norman Goodall, which began by noting that the government was unlikely to allow the ‘present tradition’ to continue, and that any new appeal would be in

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danger of undermining the existing income of missionary societies. He urged, however, that some gesture was necessary and that perhaps Clayton’s call for ‘men and money’ would be a useful avenue to explore. Above all he argued the need for a representative of the BCC committee to travel to South Africa to consult with clergy there.41 At its next meeting the BCC group were of the view that any funds raised might be better used not ‘to fight a desperate battle over the educational field’ but ‘to strengthen the Church itself’. It was also agreed that it was essential to ‘get the best possible advice from South Africa’ by appointing a delegation to visit the country. In the meantime, Fisher would announce that ‘the time had not yet come for any appeal’.42 For Fisher, the ‘real need’ was ‘to try to restrain people who are calling for an immediate appeal’, and in an announcement to his Diocesan conference, while conceding that, in the face of the imposition of Bantu education, ‘indignation [was] mounting at this open denial of religious freedom’, he called for patience. People in Britain, he argued, could not have any ‘full or certain understanding of the whole situation’.43 Anti-colonial groups, meanwhile, continued to agitate for precipitate action. Mary Benson wrote to George Bell in Chichester stating that Raynes had told her that he hoped the Africa Bureau and Liberal Party would appeal directly to aid Christian education if the churches decided against such an appeal. She further described how a parish in Wensleydale had called upon the BCC to raise funds for church schools and that the Observer had already begun to receive donations for a similar purpose.44 On the 5 November Huddleston released a press statement formally announcing the establishment of a ‘Save St. Peter’s Fund’, and the Africa Bureau set about quickly to publicise Huddleston’s appeal in Britain.45 Those around the Africa Bureau held out little hope for the BCC delegation, and, in consequence, a committee was established to discuss ways of responding to the crisis in South Africa.46 While Fisher did his best to corral activists in Britain, Anglican Bishops wrestled with the problem of responding to the Native Affairs Department’s demand that school authorities decide whether to relinquish control of their institutions or retain them as privately funded schools. In Johannesburg, the Diocesan synod passed a resolution condemning Bantu Education and called ‘upon Christians to demand and work for the repeal of the Act’.47 In Cape Town, however, Clayton expressed deep misgivings over outright opposition to the Act. He announced to his own diocese that he believed the church should retain control over its school buildings, but that, under the precept that ‘a rotten system of education’ was preferable to none at all, he was

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prepared to lease Anglican schools to state education authorities.48 At the Episcopal Synod, held on 11 November, all but one of the provincial bishops concurred with Clayton. Reeves, the exception, announced his decision to close all church schools in Johannesburg at an extraordinary meeting of the Mission Schools Board. Reeves’ decision highlighted the increasing gap between the critical pragmatism of Clayton and the more radical approach of Reeves and Huddleston. With the latter already engaged in acrimonious debate with officials over the reinvigorated plans for the Western Areas Removal Scheme (WARS), the decision to close church schools was thus both an indication of the opposition to the policy of Bantu Education, but also testimony to an increasing sense of pessimism. Reeves explained that, contrary to the belief of many in Britain, it was simply impractical to consider maintaining private schools. He suggested that in Johannesburg alone the cost of providing private schools would be in the region of half a million pounds per year and that it was inconceivable that Verwoerd, as Minister, would register any schools that sought to teach anything other than the curriculum prescribed by the government. The implementation of Bantu Education, Reeves argued, was the point at which the church had ‘to make it plain beyond all doubt that it will no longer acquiesce in this continued and persistent encroachment on human life and dignity’.49 Such developments in South Africa intensified the pressure for immediate action in the UK. While the BCC put into place arrangements for its delegation, others in Britain were becoming anxious that an opportunity to galvanise public opinion was being lost. The Treasurer of the Liberal Party wrote to Fisher describing his admiration for the ‘vigour’ of Huddleston’s protest and expressed the hope that ‘it is not too much to hope that all the Churches involved can soon join in some effective action’.50 More significant for Fisher, however, was the pressure for action implicit in Basil Roberts’ letter which informed him of the ‘strong feeling’ within the SPG that it ‘should issue an appeal to its supporters without delay … to strengthen the hands of the Church along other lines of spiritual development’.51 While Roberts did not want the SPG to ‘embarrass the Church in the Province’, it was clear that the Society was becoming increasingly impatient. Fisher reported the SPG’s plans and an additional plan for an appeal on the part of the Africa Bureau’s own ad hoc South Africa committee to the BCC group. George Bell had informed Fisher that the Bureau and Christian Action were concerned not to let ‘the wave of public sentiment slip’, and Fisher asked Bell to draft a general appeal that was

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clearly not on the behalf of the churches. While he felt it impossible to restrain the Africa Bureau and Christian Action, Fisher had asked the SPG to wait, fearing that their appeal would render useless any subsequent appeal to Anglicans by himself and the Archbishop of York.52 The three parties that had emerged around the SPG, the BCC and the ‘radicals’ in the Africa Bureau ad hoc committee all saw the crisis around Bantu Education as an opportunity to demonstrate and exploit the strength of British public opinion. With Fisher apparently ready to concede the right of the Africa Bureau and Christian Action to launch their own appeal, the SPG, concerned not to disappoint the ‘impatient expectations of its supporters’, decided at a meeting of its International Department on 24 November to launch their own appeal immediately.53 Collins, in a letter to Ambrose Reeves, expressed wry surprise that he found himself involved in a scheme that appeared to have attracted Fisher’s support. He talked of the possibility of arranging a fund-raising meeting for Reeves on his arrival in the UK in early 1955, ‘providing’ he concluded with irony, ‘that we shall not by then have become corrupted by the hesitancy and apathy of the official church!’54 Collins and Fisher thus appeared to be standing, if not shoulder-to-shoulder, at least in the same room with regard to South Africa. It was ironic, then, that others in the church were able to persuade the Africa Bureau to postpone the appeal. On 25 November, the day following Collins’ letter, Bell stated his agreement with Lord Hemingford’s view that, given the ‘much swifter reactions of the churches’, it was best to postpone the appeal.55 Unaware of this development, Fisher wrote to Basil Roberts on the 27 November stating that, as the Africa Bureau and Christian Action were making an appeal, then he saw no ‘reason now why I should try and restrain SPG … I think we must return to the precedent in which missionary societies do these things on behalf of the Church, and the church as such does nothing’.56 At the same time he wrote to the BCC committee informing them of his message to the SPG and conceding that other churches should, if they wished, launch appeals ‘without feeling that it is breaking any agreement’.57 Thus within two days of Collins’ wry comment, the relative position of the various committees had shifted considerably. The supposedly more ‘radical’ Africa Bureau and Christian Action committee had been persuaded to act with caution, the disappointment of both Collins and Raymond Raynes notwithstanding,58 while it was the Anglican church’s own missionary society, the SPG, that displayed a sense of urgency and independence. Fisher’s annoyance was palpable. He wrote to Roberts in early December, having finally been informed of the withdrawal of

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the Christian Action/Africa Bureau appeal, saying that it was ‘odd that this correspondence began with a letter from you asking me to keep you in the picture and is ending with … me gently pointing out that you have turned everybody out of the picture for the time being except yourself’.59 Fisher’s attempt to mobilise a united response from British churches to Bantu Education had failed.

Outside interference – the weapon of international opinion Despite the limited material success of the Bantu Education campaign in Britain, it marked a significant development. For the first time, international activists had sought to initiate a public campaign against South African government policies, moving beyond the attempts to lobby the United Nations, or demonstrate humanitarian support for resistance movements within South Africa. Raising public awareness of apartheid around the world became one of the key objectives of the movement; it was, moreover, a tactic deliberately fostered by prominent activists in the wake of the Defiance Campaign. Again, the move came as a response to events within South Africa: in April 1953, in the lead-up to the South African general election, Justice Minister C. R. Swart introduced the Public Safety and Criminal Laws Amendment Bills, whose provisions included the use of the lash as a punishment for civil disobedience – a provision which Swart chose to illustrate by carrying a whip on the floor of parliament. The new Bills, and the Justice Minister’s antics, elicited a critical response around the world, with a protest letter to the Times in London, signed by an array of establishment figures, including Collins, Lord Packenham, Victor Gollancz, Donald Soper and Sybil Thorndike.60 Perhaps most significant, however, was the impact of these developments on the political activities of Trevor Huddleston. Huddleston wrote to Collins, giving a gloomy account of the implications of the new Bills, and concluded that ‘intervention in a big way from outside will be the only hope for South Africa.’61 Unless the Church expressed stronger opposition to apartheid, both Huddleston and Collins saw that church leaders would be subject to increasing attacks from both Africans and the South African government.62 Opening a Congress-sponsored conference on the Bills, Huddleston argued that the legislation would ‘make citizenship meaningless’, and that by placing the rights of the citizen ‘at the mercy of the Government of the day’, they were witnessing ‘the nemesis of European complacency’. Stating bluntly that a totalitarian state was being formed in

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South Africa, he reminded the Congress delegates that the ‘eyes of the world’ were on them and the movement needed courage, patience and restraint in its struggle, with which, he concluded, he was identifying himself.63 At the same time, he felt that criticism of the government from within South Africa would be increasingly difficult. He suggested to Collins that ‘we have reached the point in South Africa where we must depend on outside help ... I believe that the only thing which might shake our Government is determined hostility from the rest of the world’.64 Given his activities, he surmised that his own arrest was ‘an ever-present probability’, and he suggested to Collins that he should build up certain publicity not in general terms only, but with direct reference to myself and others involved in this crisis. It seems to me this is an obvious step to take, for if we are arrested in the long or the short run it will strengthen your hand enormously that our attitude should already have been familiar to the public.65 Collins responded to Huddleston’s request by agreeing that he would do all he could to increase public awareness of South African issues. He was, however, pessimistic about his potential for success – ‘most of the vested interests over here,’ he asserted, ‘including, I regret to say, Lambeth Palace, are concerned that the general public should not really know what is happening and that the Defiance Campaign should be regarded either as something that is insignificant or as a dangerous anarchical movement by Africans against the white man.’66 The Church Times did, however, publish a report of Huddleston’s protest against the new Bills,67 yet, the national press seemed more reticent. The Observer had requested that Collins put his statements in the form of a letter to the Editor, and other papers had promised to comment upon material that Collins had supplied, but that, to judge from the silence in the national press following the Central Hall meeting, there was ‘a great deal of caution being displayed by editors’.68 By mid-1953, then, Huddleston had publicly identified himself with the Congress movement and had come to the decision to continue to call for international criticism of apartheid, even at the cost of his own freedom.69 Having become chair of the Western Areas Protest Committee, Huddleston witnessed the increasingly authoritarian nature of the South African government’s response to popular resistance at first hand. In July 1953, he was set to speak at a public meeting organised by the Committee, when police stormed into the building and

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arrested his fellow speaker Yusuf Cachalia. It took intervention from Huddleston and the recently elected President of the Transvaal ANC, Nelson Mandela, to calm the crowd in attendance. For Huddleston, the event was a turning-point in his attitude towards the authorities, for it seemed, he later recalled, ‘all too much like Nazi Germany at its beginning.’70 His association with the campaign against the Western Areas scheme brought Huddleston to the forefront of political activities in Johannesburg in the mid-1950s. He had already become closely identified with Sophiatown and the students at St Peter’s school, but his heightened political profile after early 1953 made him one of the principle figures in the social landscape. Over the following months, he also engaged in efforts to arouse public opinion in Britain, with an almost non-stop correspondence with the press. In the Church Times, he found himself in heated debate with Eric Trapp, the Bishop of Zululand, who had complained that British attitudes to apartheid were little more than ‘over-simplification and facile condemnation’.71 The correspondence carried through until August, with letters published reflecting support for both Huddleston and the Bishop of Zululand. M. Beauchamp, the vicar of Cowley asserted that it was a duty to condemn the ‘un-Christian policy of Malan and his regime’,72 while C. T. Wood noted disparagingly that Huddleston and Collins appeared to ‘equate modern western democracy as equal to the Kingdom of God’.73 At the end of August the Observer published a missive from Huddleston under the headline – ‘For God’s Sake, Wake Up!’ Since the election, Huddleston argued, the South African government were unlikely to pay heed to gentle criticism. Given that ‘the whip now falls on black shoulders’, he stated, it was necessary to act in solidarity with Africans, ‘sharing in their suffering as far as this is possible.’ It was not up to South Africans to ‘fight this evil alone’, he concluded.74 The following week, Collins gave another sermon at St Paul’s, making explicit reference to Huddleston’s Observer letter. Collins argued that Christians could not ‘hide behind arguments based upon expediency but rooted in cowardice’, and went on to attack the Anglican Church for its ‘poor record’ in race relations. He finished with a call for Christians to write to the Archbishop of Canterbury demanding that he proclaim his support for Huddleston and for each South African diocese to set up a ‘multiracial’ church with no colour-bar.75 Many did, indeed, write to Fisher, but not all in support of Collins: one correspondent suggested that the Archbishop ‘would be a very wise ruler … if you instructed your clergy to mind their own business’.76

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For Huddleston, the repercussions of his criticisms of the Anglican Church were far more serious. As head of the Community of the Resurrection in South Africa, he was responsible for one of the largest networks of mission institutions in the region, and more particularly the predominant mission centre of the country’s industrial heartland. Furthermore, Archbishop Clayton himself held the post of Deputy Visitor to the Community, acting as an external arbiter of its activities. Clayton’s disapproval was, thus, not unexpected. Huddleston wrote to Clayton in mid-October, apologising for any embarrassment that may have been caused by his words, but reiterating his belief that events in South Africa had reached the point that ‘Christendom as a whole should raise its voice in protest’.77 Clayton responded by repeating his own position, namely that any pronouncements from the church in Britain were unlikely to influence the South African government. He then went on to state bluntly that Huddleston’s call to British Christians was ‘a mistake’, and, further, questioned the moral authority of Nontandu Jabavu, ‘whose matrimonial activities would certainly not make her well-disposed to the Church’.78 In reply, Huddleston reiterated his belief that some in the church had gone ‘too far … in the direction of appeasement’ and that he remained ‘convinced that only world opinion can shake this government’. Moreover, Huddleston was clearly beginning to think beyond shaping public attitudes and had begun to consider the potential material effects of his criticism of South Africa, that might, he surmised, have ‘some effect at least on the flow of capital’ to the country.79 By mid-1954, Huddleston was not only becoming isolated within his own church, but was increasingly under attack from the government itself. In the debate over the WARS in March 1954, both Huddleston and Reeves were cited as the source ‘of all that slandering propaganda in the English newspapers overseas’.80 During 1953–4, Huddleston had positioned himself as a leading opponent of apartheid, both within South Africa and, most pertinently for this study, internationally. His letter writing campaigns and press articles had not endeared him to the church authorities, especially through the clash of personalities with Archbishop Clayton. To an extent, Huddleston’s position as head of a religious community, primarily concerned with mission work, meant he was somewhat insulated from the church hierarchy. Over the next year, however, his continued protests and closer ties with the Congress alliance were to place him under increasing personal pressure, both from within the church and from state institutions. While Huddleston’s international reputation as an

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anti-apartheid campaigner was based on his broad statements of moral principle, his political role within South Africa remained very much an extension of his pastoral mission. As a leading member of the Western Areas Protection Committee since the 1940s, Huddleston became increasingly focussed on political activities in South Africa as efforts to move forward with the Removal Scheme accelerated during 1955. Captured in Jurgen Schaderburg’s iconic photographs of Sophiatown, Huddleston has become symbolically entwined with the political fate of that community. In Britain, the removals were given publicity by Ambrose Reeves, who had arrived in the country on sabbatical in the wake of his isolated resistance to Bantu Education. The removals, Reeves argued, were ‘an affront to the Christian conscience’, but it was Huddleston who faced the most vicious opprobrium of the South African state.81 Huddleston’s opposition to Bantu Education, which saw him become chair of the African Education Movement, was again as much an attempt to protect institutions under his pastoral care – in this case St Peter’s School – as it was a broad statement of principle. Given his prominence in both these campaigns, it is tempting to see the actions of the state as a kind of personal battle with Huddleston, and it was clear that the security services did see him as a target, as the Special Branch raided his Sophiatown offices in September 1955. Given his profile, it was seen as highly significant when the Community of the Resurrection announced its intention to recall Huddleston from South Africa. A number of theories concerning the decision to remove Huddleston from Johannesburg have been put forward, and some have detected an aroma of conspiracy between Canterbury and Cape Town, and there is clear evidence that the relationship between Huddleston and Clayton had broken down by mid-1955. For Huddleston’s biographer, however, the blame lay solidly with Raymond Raynes,82 while Alan Wilkinson, in his history of the Community of the Resurrection, suggests that Huddleston’s campaigns were seen by Raynes as a drift away from the values of the Community, which he re-iterated in a speech just before the recall of Huddleston was announced. Raynes warned that attitudes towards apartheid should be founded upon a ‘spirit of humility, charity and service’ not the ‘sentimental mottoes … of Western humanism’.83 Huddleston, as Wilkinson notes, had meanwhile aligned himself with atheists and Communists and was ‘finding both Christ and Truth outside the church’.84 What, then, was the political character of Huddleston’s campaign against apartheid? Did Huddleston tend towards the liberal humanitarian ‘tradition’, or did he articulate a novel approach to the ‘race

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question’ that transcended, or at least circumvented, the dilemmas of inter-war liberals? Part of the answer may be found in his passionate narrative of life in Sophiatown amidst apartheid, Naught for Your Comfort. Publication of the book coincided with his return to Britain in April 1956, and, selling over 100,000 copies, it almost immediately became a central statement of anti-apartheid principles.85 It was, rather than an extended discussion of the nature of the ‘Native Problem’, a rich personal testimony that presented his case with an immediacy that few other opponents of apartheid (or critics of Huddleston) could match. Crime, delinquency, the justice system, education, poor housing, and the frustrations of negotiating the complexities of apartheid legislation were presented through a series of portraits of life in Johannesburg’s African suburbs. Alongside this personalised account of the human experience of apartheid in Johannesburg was a forthright statement of the theological principles that underpinned Huddleston’s impassioned opposition to the policy. For Huddleston, proclamations on political questions were the duty of the kind of prophetic Christianity that was required in South Africa. His activism was thus a function of his own faith. His critique of apartheid was framed within a Christian commitment to individual human relations; the incarnation, he argued, meant that ‘human nature in itself has a dignity and a value which is infinite’. Racialism, he continued, was ‘therefore an affront to human dignity and “ipso facto” an insult to God himself.’86 Apartheid legislation resulted in the ‘depersonalisation of man’ and it was in South Africa that the ‘most characteristic modern phenomenon’ of the ‘submerging of the individual in the mass’ was most clearly evident.87 For Huddleston, support for the ANC was an extension of the spirit of identification that led priests to wash the feet of parishioners on Maundy Thursday.88 Such sentiments would in themselves arouse little controversy within the church, hostility towards Huddleston resulted rather from his conviction that, on the one hand, the church had failed to act decisively to oppose apartheid, and, on the other, that most effective method of opposition was to stimulate external pressures upon the South African government. At its heart, Huddleston’s vision lay close to the long-standing liberal Christian faith in the transformative power of faith; the belief that social and racial progress would result from a ‘change of heart’ in South Africa. As such, it resonated with mainstream ideas of Christian duty and responsibility; it was also a radical agenda for action: the ‘Christian conscience’, he argued, ‘should be so aroused as to find expression in the isolation of South Africa – until she repents’.89 The fulcrum of

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Huddleston’s argument, as he had explained to Collins in 1953, was that South Africa had become a police state, demonstrated (in his eyes) by the arrest of Yusuf Cachalia at the Odin Cinema in 1953. Both poles of his philosophy of action – the appeal to international opinion and identification with the African people – stemmed from this belief. The recall of Huddleston was, then, an important stimulus to the continued development of metropolitan anti-apartheid sensibilities. The most influential white opponent of apartheid had arrived back in Britain, where public opinion appeared highly amenable to his message. The Africa Bureau and Christian Action recognised immediately that Huddleston’s return would provoke interest in South African affairs. Unfortunately, the tensions and rivalry that had emerged during the abortive attempts to launch a joint appeal in early 1955 rose to the surface again. Within a month of announcing his recall, Huddleston became the object of rivalry between the two organisations as both set about independently arranging meetings. Collins wrote to Huddleston and noted wryly that the two organisations were ‘rather like two dogs sitting and looking at the bone put down between us’.90 The public interest in Huddleston’s return to Britain was, however, sufficient to overshadow (for the moment) the problematic relationships within the British anti-apartheid network. A joint Africa Bureau and Christian Action sponsored meeting filled Central Hall and raised over £1000 for the Community of the Resurrection, meetings at Cambridge attracted a total audience of 2000 and were reported as ‘the biggest thing to hit Cambridge since Billy Graham’, and Huddleston spoke to mass meetings at Rugby, Coventry, Bristol, Oxford and Exeter.91 Huddleston appeared to offer a peculiar resonance with public opinion in Britain; both an older generation who retained faith in the righteousness of Britain’s ‘imperial mission’ and a younger generation beginning to question that faith found a focus in Huddleston and his campaign for the international isolation of South Africa. What stimulated public interest was not the message of Christian redemption articulated in his News Chronicle article, but its straightforward moral condemnation of apartheid. The meeting at Central Hall in April 1956 was of ‘special interest’, one observer remarked, because of the ‘list of practical suggestions by which people over here could help to fight apartheid in South Africa’.92 Huddleston sought to engage with, and in turn provided moral legitimacy for, a reconfiguration of the idea of imperial mission in terms of ordered development towards independence. While Huddleston’s powerful advocacy of African opinion was clearly in the vanguard of a ‘post-imperial’ outlook, his arguments strengthened the sense that the

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imposition of apartheid in South Africa could be viewed as the antithesis of enlightened British colonial authority. Anti-apartheid campaigners such as Huddleston were not, however, interested in merely shifting public sentiment. In addition to stimulating post-war thought regarding decolonisation and the nature of imperial authority, anti-apartheid campaigns also brought political engagement into daily life.

Money for Africa – fund-raising and the genesis of Defence and Aid The precedent of fund-raising on behalf of South African anti-apartheid campaigners had been established by Michael Scott’s letter in the New Statesman in mid-1952 and the subsequent efforts by Canon Collins to establish a system for the dispersal of funds through a South African committee. In the case of Bantu Education, the concept of fund-raising was considered to be a potentially neutral form of action in response to events in South Africa, yet appeals nevertheless had the potential to provoke tension between the various organisations that formed the loose anti-apartheid alliance, as was shown by the withdrawal of Christian Action from the ‘Justice in South Africa’ fund in early 1955. The fragmentation of appeals raised the danger of minimising the potential level of funds raised, as well as producing confusion among the public, yet a number of appeals for South Africa were made during the 1950s, with varying degrees of success. In early 1953, E. S. ‘Solly’ Sachs arrived in London under self-imposed exile following his banning in 1952. A leading trade unionist, who had radicalised the Garment Worker’s Union during the 1930s Sachs had been expelled from the Communist Party in 1931, but had become Treasurer of the South African Labour Party in 1952. Soon after his arrival in the UK, he contacted Collins with an outline plan for a ‘Fund for African Democracy’. The fund aimed to finance non-racial trades unions in South Africa and support those who had been victimised ‘because they champion free and constitutional democracy’.93 As such, it seemed the fund would combine the existing Christian Action appeal with Sachs’ interests in trade union affairs, and the outline suggested that the appeal would be aimed at unions and ‘other labour organisations’. While Collins was clearly sympathetic to Sachs, support for his plan was somewhat tentative. The Council of Christian Action declined to provide official assistance to Sachs, but hoped that individual members would give it their backing.94 Collins did in fact send £100 to Sachs (half of which went to cover Sachs’ own expenses) in July,

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and became Treasurer of the Fund, with Sachs as the Honorary General Secretary.95 The Trustees included two Labour MPs: the Unitarian minister Reginald Sorensen (who had chaired the Indian League’s South Africa Committee)96 and Christian Socialist (and future Colonial Secretary) Anthony Greenwood. The Trustees agreed to direct their appeal at unions, local Labour and Cooperative societies, churches, peace organisations and ‘all other organisations and persons who are sympathetic to the cause of African democracy’.97 Despite such lofty ideals, the fund was not greeted with universal enthusiasm. A South African supporter of the newly formed Liberal Party who was staying in the UK wrote to Jock Isacowitz stating that the Fund for African Democracy ‘disturbs me very much’ and that she saw little point in promoting any labour organisation that would fail to gain the recognition of the South African government. The fund, she suggested was ‘like any other money fritterer’, but the public sympathy that had been aroused by Huddleston’s letters in the Observer suggested that there were possibilities to raise funds for the Liberal Party in both the UK and the US.98 More damaging was the response of the TUC, whose support was crucial to the Trustee’s plans. It appeared that Sachs was not regarded highly by some in the Trades Union movement, who directly questioned his ‘political honesty’. Sachs nevertheless contacted Vincent Tewson, the General Secretary of the TUC, canvassing support for the Fund. The TUC were at that time making arrangements for a delegation to visit South Africa and declined to consider any issues regarding that country until the delegation had returned.99 Moreover, Tewson wrote to the Secretaries of affiliated unions informing them of his decision to defer any action on the Fund for African Democracy, thus presumably forestalling any independent action on the part of any individual union.100 By February 1954, the Fund had raised nearly £500. The largest income came from National Unions, which together with individual donations and those from Ward Labour Parties and Trade Union Branches, made up over 75 per cent of the fund.101 One early recipient of money from the fund was the trade union newspaper Saamtrek,102 which, published in both English and Afrikaans, sought to promote unity among the (white) working-class. When the newspaper began to face financial difficulties in early 1954, officials of the South African Trades and Labour Council approached Ambrose Reeves requesting his help to raise £5000 for the newspaper. Reeves was willing to support a journal that he saw as beneficial to the creation of ‘organised and disciplined’ labour as well as a potential force for the promotion of class-based, rather than nationalist, interests.103

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Saamtrek was not, moreover, radical in its politics, which served as a further recommendation to Reeves. In what was his first contact with the British activist, Reeves wrote to Collins asking whether it was possible for him to make a ‘substantial grant’ to Saamtrek.104 Collins replied that, while Christian Action had no funds immediately available, he would attempt to raise money for the journal in the UK, making a public call for donations in the Church Times.105 While Reeves was apparently unaware of Collins’ public appeal until it was reported in the Star, he became the focus of criticism both in South Africa and the UK. Die Transvaler described his action in contacting Collins as ‘sickening’ and ‘an ugly thing’, and claimed that collecting funds in the UK was ‘like a declaration of war on the workers of South Africa’.106 Cecil Wood wrote of his anguish at Reeves’ appeal, which he saw as potentially distracting the attention of British Christians away from ‘a better object of Christian giving … this kind of thing makes me see red but perhaps in this context I ought to say black’.107 Sachs criticised the TUC for its failure to recognise the problems of African Trade Unions and alleged that the ‘unity’ movement had effectively introduced apartheid into the South African union movement.108 Collins was, however, wary not to provoke ‘open conflict’ between the Fund and the TUC.109 He showed increasing sensitivity to critics of Sachs, assuring the TUC General Secretary Vincent Tewson that funds for Saamtrek would be channelled through Christian Action and ‘definitely not through the Fund being run by Solly Sachs’.110 The TUC continued, however, to advise against supporting Saamtrek and, while he had managed to send £400 to Reeves, Collins complained that the TUC had been ‘behaving disgracefully, and deliberately ruining my efforts’.111 In a stark illustration of the gulf between British and US attitudes, Collins received $1000 from the President of the US Automobile, Aircraft and Agricultural Implement workers’ union, who noted that his members were ‘pleased to be able to make a small contribution in the fight against the immorality of segregation and racial bigotry’.112 Collins’ apparent unease over Sachs was further strengthened when he arrived in South Africa at the beginning of June 1954 and met officials from Saamtrek who accused Sachs of ‘running away’ from South Africa and using the Fund for African Democracy for his own ends. Collins, while remaining cautious of such criticisms, determined that if the accusations against Sachs appeared to be true, then he would consider removing the Fund from Sachs control or possibly to close the fund and persuade the TUC to establish a similar body.113 Sachs continued to impress upon Collins his view that the Fund for African

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Democracy was the only fund ‘which is in a position to render practical support in many ways to the people fighting against Malan’s tyranny’.114 Sachs maintained that the only obstacle to the success of the Fund was opposition from the TUC, while Collins argued that publicity should be avoided until the Trustees had concluded negotiations with unions and Cooperative societies.115 Hampered initially by opposition from the TUC, then dampened down by its own Treasurer, the Fund for African Democracy vanished into obscurity after mid-1955. Sachs began a research project at the University of Manchester, but remained convinced that he could rally support for anti-apartheid forces in South Africa. He wrote to Collins in 1956 of his regret that he was being neglected, arguing that he was the ‘only one who can unify the antiNationalist forces in a scrap’.116 It would seem that Sachs’ combative nature contributed to the failure of the Fund for African Democracy, yet it is important, nevertheless, to consider his own conclusion, that opposition from British Trade Unions had been the major obstruction to the Fund. Links between British and South African Trades Unions were limited to those unions that had exclusively white membership, and the TUC’s (understandable) desire to support ‘unity’ among such unions did distract from the development of any meaningful relationship with black workers. In many ways, the position of the TUC was remarkably similar to the official Anglican view of the mid-1950s, with a focus upon relations between ‘Englishspeaking’ and ‘Afrikaans-speaking’ institutions rather than the interests of emergent African movements. Most significant, however, was the lack of direct links between the Fund itself and any South African organisation. While Sachs maintained that he had strong and wide support in South Africa, the Fund had no ‘partner’ in the country, unlike Christian Action’s committee of 1952 or indeed the ACOA’s direct relationship with the ANC. Without such links, it was very difficult to argue that the Fund had any coherent plan of action. Other appeals launched in the mid-1950s were more successful than the Fund for African Democracy, if less political in nature. The failed attempt to set up a co-ordinated response to Bantu Education, discussed above, did result in the establishment of long-running fund-raising efforts – and at the same time served to further highlight the tensions within the British anti-apartheid network. In late 1954, while the BCC was considering its response to Bantu Education and the SPG launched its own appeal, the Africa Bureau and Christian Action had not abandoned plans for their own fund-raising effort. With Collins hospitalised with tuberculosis (contracted during his visit to South Africa), the ad

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hoc group took the decision to launch an appeal in January 1955 whose aims included supporting schools that had lost their government subsidy, providing funds for Reeves’ new ‘family centres’ and ‘for any other purpose decided on by a responsible group in South Africa’.117 Collins received the news of the plan with some enthusiasm, declaring that he was ‘delighted’ to learn that the Africa Bureau planned to launch a joint appeal with Christian Action. He did suggest, however, that the terms of reference of the appeal should be re-drafted to include ‘support of resistance on non-violent terms of the oppressed’ and more specifically ‘to support bona-fide non-violent resistance especially through the Congresses’.118 Unfortunately, the Africa Bureau did not receive Collins letter until after a press statement had been released (to coincide with that of the BCC) with the original terms of reference. Benson wrote to Collins explaining that the statement was intended merely to express the feeling that the BCC statement was inadequate and that, while the concept of resistance was implicit in the appeal, ‘there was little doubt that the education situation has aroused people here as very little else has done’.119 Collins responded with an ardent call for a more ‘bold’ appeal for passive resisters in South Africa, remarking that there would be ‘no vital spirit if we bring ourselves down to the level of “compromises” or if we fear the wrath’ of ecclesiastical authorities.120 Collins’ call for a ‘bold’ appeal was questioned both by members of the Africa Bureau and others unconnected with that organisation. The writer Christopher Gell, whom Collins had met in South Africa, commented that it was an inopportune moment to appeal on behalf of passive resisters, nor was it true that ‘anyone who needs assistance is on the verge of “resisting”’.121 The ad hoc group met in mid-January and discussed the differences between the statements drafted by the two organisations which, it was noted, were not merely ‘in wording but in principle’. Collins’ representatives reported that he had promised to aid the ANC, particularly in its preparations for the Congress of the People in mid-1955, and was therefore determined to make the appeal cover ‘those suffering as a result of passive resistance’. Lord Hemingford pointed out that Collins had not mentioned this promise in previous discussions, and that in fact he seemed keen to work on an appeal specifically geared towards Bantu Education. Gilmore Lee and Colin Legum both agreed that it would be wrong to launch an appeal to finance political movements in other countries. Scott asked Christian Action ‘not to put forward issues which would limit what could be done in this country for the Africans’, but John Fletcher suggested that

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a broader appeal would raise more money. Despite such wide differences, the group did agree to re-draft the appeal incorporating some of Christian Action’s concerns to highlight human rights, to prioritise African organisations in the list of beneficiaries, and to include some kind of ‘elasticity clause’.122 Tensions between the Africa Bureau and Christian Action ran far deeper than differences over the emphasis of appeal statements, however, reflecting the contrasting nature of the two organisations. Christian Action maintained a deliberately ‘open’ constitution and was shy of becoming bound by legal instruments such as Trust Deeds, while the Africa Bureau appeared increasingly concerned to maintain strict control over the distribution of any funds raised. Michael Scott wrote to Collins’ secretary, Freda Nuell, having become distressed by remarks made by Reeves in relation to the distribution of funds following the defiance Campaign appeal two years previously.123 Nuell replied that Christian Action was equally concerned to maintain joint control over funds, but questioned Reeves’ remarks. She explained that funds from the Defiance Campaign appeal had been channelled through an advisory group in South Africa and they had ‘no reason to doubt that the money was used in accordance with the terms for which it was raised’.124 Collins later alleged that the Africa Bureau had been unwilling to give money directly to Africans or African organisations, and their methods had conflicted with Christian Action’s desire to maintain ‘free and flexible’ arrangements.125 The divergence of views and methods appears, fundamentally, to have led to a struggle to control the agenda of public opposition to apartheid. The specific question of the distribution of funds thus revealed deeper divisions over the direction of British anti-apartheid campaigns. For some, the increasingly political orientation of the appeal was disquieting: the Tory Lord Hailsham had already withdrawn his support, and George Bell noted that he shared Hailsham’s misgivings over the decidedly partisan connotations of an appeal that called for ‘Justice in South Africa’.126 Tensions came to a head on 1 February, when Christian Action withdrew from the appeal, suggesting that the move ‘would enable the Africa Bureau to retain complete freedom so far as the scope of the appeal is concerned’, and meanwhile allow ‘Christian Action to continue along its own distinctive line and propaganda for its own racial fund when a suitable time offers’.127 The SPG’s appeal for South Africa and the African Schools and Families Fund (which was born out of the ‘Justice for South Africa’ appeal), described in the previous chapter, both raised significant amounts of

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money. Was their success in part related to their very lack of any political agenda? Both appeals emerged as a response to Bantu Education and as such could be regarded as political ‘interference’ from overseas. Each appeal, to a varying extent, was carefully worded in order to limit such accusations, in the hope of maximising the funds raised. The SPG fund, whose genesis was described in the previous chapter, was launched in early December 1954 and was aimed at the Society’s own supporters, rather than Christians as a whole. While the Society had been impatient enough to precipitate an early appeal, it was not clear exactly at the outset what the aims of the appeal were, save for a response to ‘urgent need’ that had been communicated from South Africa and an increasing number of enquiries from its supporters in the UK.128 By the end of December, however, some confusion over the aims of the appeal was reported, with one parish priest apparently refusing to collect money until the objectives were clarified.129 The arrival of Ambrose Reeves in the UK was thus a boost to the SPG (as it was to the Africa Bureau’s appeal). Reeves’ actions in Johannesburg had been widely publicised in the UK; the SPG had thus a public personality who could ‘arouse emotional response and to unloose the purses of many’.130 In addition to using Reeves’ name, the SPG arranged an exhibition at St Martin in the Fields of work by photographer Brian Heseltine. The photographs, showing housing conditions in the Cape Flats, were intended to illustrate the circumstances in which the Church carried out its work.131 The exhibition, together with a briefing document on ‘the South African situation’ aimed at church youth clubs,132 provided an important source of public knowledge of apartheid that underlined the moral dimension of the issue and emphasised the need for a Christian response. The presence of Reeves also gave the SPG one clear objective for its appeal: to support his plan to provide ‘Family Centres’ to replace church schools in Johannesburg. The Society had also set up a committee in South Africa, whose members included Archbishop Clayton and other provincial bishops, to determine the needs of each diocese. The SPG outlined some of these needs at a meeting of its selection and reference and finance sub-committees in early 1955. In addition to Reeves’ ‘Johannesburg Scheme’, the meeting examined the costs of more general needs that included Sunday schools and teachers, increased numbers of African priests, and youth workers.133 On the 12 January, the SPG announced its intention to grant £6,000 immediately to Reeves for Johannesburg, and further funds to cover the costs of recruitment across all Southern African dioceses.134 The fund at that point stood at

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over £11,000, while it had been agreed to add a further £25,000 from SPG general funds.135 A year after the launch of the appeal a total of £14,884 had been granted, covering salary costs at Family Centres in Johannesburg; Religious Education posts in Kimberley, Pretoria and Bloemfontein; the costs of Grace Dieu School in Pretoria and the training of ordinands in Zululand.136 A further grant of $5,000 was made to St Hilda’s College in Natal, following a donation from the Episcopal Church of the US after the closure of the appeal in early 1956.137 The African Schools and Families Fund, the Africa Bureau’s response to Bantu Education, was established following the launch of its ‘Justice in South Africa’ appeal in early February 1955. A meeting at Central Hall addressed by Reeves later that month added further momentum, attracting over 3000 people and raising £1700.138 By April 1955, the fund stood at over £3500.139 Attempts were made to establish regional appeals, although with only limited success. It was deemed that the regional Africa Councils were ‘not competent fully to implement the appeal’,140 while in Reeves’ old diocese, Liverpool, a local campaign sparked heated debate over the use of religion as a ‘political counter’.141 Nevertheless, the Bureau turned to its own panel of South African advisors who had been recruited to direct the distribution of funds. The group comprised a small group of white liberal intellectuals, including Alan Paton, Professor E. E Harris and Justice Lucas. Some leading figures, such as Edgar Brookes and Leo Marquard, had however declined to become advisers, the former citing ‘differences in approach’,142 while the latter suggested that Bantu Education was perhaps not the ‘education for servitude’ it was alleged and that the dangers posed by Verwoerd ‘must be met on the political field and not in the school room’.143 While it failed to establish a nationwide appeal, or attract unequivocal support in South Africa, the Africa Bureau appeal raised over £7000 between 1955 and 1958, making a number of grants. The primary recipients of funds were Reeves’ Family Centres, which received nearly £2000. After an initial donation of £1000 to Huddleston’s ‘Save St. Peter’s’ campaign, the second largest donations were made to the Community of the Resurrection, while other grants were made to individual schools and colleges.144 Potentially more controversial were the additional funds given to the AEM, whose left-wing orientation made the fund’s trustees anxious that their South African contacts closely monitored the use of funds. E. E. Harris was initially enthusiastic about the movement, writing to Mary Benson in June 1955 how the ‘organisation has newly sprung into being and seems to me to be a sincere effort to co-ordinate the efforts of the various bodies attempting to promote African education beyond

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what official policy undertakes’.145 Yet, within six months, the influence of the Congress of Democrats within the AEM prompted Harris to revise his opinion, informing Benson that he was ‘unable to recommend confidently that the Africa Bureau should support’ the movement.146 By mid1956 it was becoming apparent that AEM finances were largely bound up with paying bail and fines imposed on members accused of providing ‘illegal education’, which the South Africa advisers did not view as a worthy object for African Schools and Families fund grants.147 In 1958 after the fund was closed, the Africa Bureau established the African Education Trust, which has continued to provide funds for schools and scholarships for individual students across Africa. By far the most successful appeal launched during the 1950s was the Treason Trial Defence fund, which would later become the well-known Defence and Aid Fund for South Africa, the primary channel for British, and later international, funding for South African opposition and ‘liberation’ movements. As with the more successful of earlier funds, the Defence fund was a response to widely publicised events in South Africa. On the morning of 5 December 1956, 140 individuals with links to the Congress movement were arrested across South Africa on charges of high treason. This dramatic event, which followed the raids on the Congress of the People and various Congress leaders (including Huddleston) in September 1955, was reported widely around the world and, as the shockwave of the arrests spread, preparations began for the legal defence of the accused. Within South Africa, arrangements were quickly made to establish a defence fund. While the fund was conceived in part by the South African Labour Party leader, Alex Hepple, and drew together notables such as Alan Paton, Arthur Blaxall and Ellen Hellman as trustees, the efforts of Ambrose Reeves, who became the chair of the trustees, led to it becoming known as the ‘Bishop’s Fund’.148 In Cape Town, Archbishop Clayton agreed to join the local defence fund committee and wrote to the SACI director in London stating that ‘there is clearly no reason why people in England should not say anything they like’.149 Huddleston had already begun, writing in the Times of his belief that the arrests were ‘designed first to discredit, then to intimidate … all those who dare publicly to identify themselves with resistance to racial policies’.150 Still coming to terms with life in Britain, the arrests prompted Huddleston to express a wish to return and that he was ‘deeply concerned that I should not be there to bear my witness at this crucial time’,151 a statement that prompted Clayton to warn Huddleston not ‘to seek martyrdom’.152 In London, Canon Collins had responded by sending an immediate contribution of £100 to Reeves and by launching a Christian Action

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appeal, while a protest at South Africa House in London was arranged to coincide with the opening of preliminary hearings in Johannesburg on 19 December. By early 1957, Collins had sent £1000 to Reeves and arranged a meeting at Central Hall for the barrister Gerald Gardiner, who had attended the hearings as an observer.153 Collins was able to send another £2900 by the end of February, and Collins announced at a meeting of the Christian Action Council that the British defence fund stood at £7000, including £1300 raised following the Gardiner meeting. Funds continued to accumulate, albeit at a slower rate, as it became clear that the trial was unlikely to reach a rapid conclusion with a consequent increase in the sums required. By the end of April, the British fund had reached £12,000, but it was deemed necessary to authorise the spending of £500 to further advertise the appeal.154 In early May Collins, remitted £1000 to Reeves but noted that ‘without much hard news coming from your end it isn’t easy to keep the press interested’.155 Parallel to Collins’ efforts were those of the British Labour Party, whose main contacts with South Africa were, like those of the TUC, centred on a mainstream, whites-only counterpart, the South African Labour Party (SALP). Under the leadership of Alex Hepple after 1953, the SALP had taken a more assertive stance in support of the Congress movement, despite its historical association with white labour, and had sent representatives to the Congress of the People in 1955. In Britain, the Labour party maintained links with Hepple through the Secretary of its Commonwealth Department, John Hatch, whose interest in South African politics was signalled by his book, The Dilemma of South Africa.156 Within days of the arrests, Hatch had contacted Hepple with an urgent request for information on the SALP’s response. Noting Collins and Brockway’s fund-raising efforts, Hatch nevertheless felt ‘it would be more appropriate’ for funds raised by the Labour party to be channelled via its South African counterpart. At its next meeting, the National Executive Committee agreed to establish a ‘South Africa Defence Fund’, and the appeal was launched in January 1957. By late March, the fund had accumulated £4000, reaching close to £6000 by July. Despite Hatch’s initial reservations, the fund was closed, as the party threw its weight behind Collins’ Defence and Aid Fund by the end of 1957. Labour’s ‘South Africa Defence Fund’ reflected a widening interest in African issues within the party, which had previous been a focus only for a minority on the left of the party, such as Tom Driberg and Fenner Brockway, or those associated with the Fabian Colonial Bureau, whose influence had faded during the first half of the 1950s. Significantly, both groups were key contributors to the policy document, ‘The Plural

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Society’, which was introduced to the Party at its 1956 conference in the presence of the future Tanzanian President, Julius Nyerere.157 The document, which argued for universal adult suffrage for all colonial territories, has been described – with some justification – as a ‘radical step forward’ for the party on colonial issues, although conference resolutions calling for more assertive action at the United Nations, and the expulsion of South Africa from the Commonwealth were defeated.158 Nevertheless, African issues generally, and apartheid in particular, were becoming central concerns for figures within the party, including Barbara Castle, who travelled to South Africa to report on the Treason Trial for the Sunday Pictorial in 1958. The Treason Trial arrests had also had immediate impact in America, where George Houser reacted quickly with plans for a ‘South Africa Defence Fund’. In fact, correspondence reveals that Houser had been made aware of the possibility of a Treason Trial as early as July 1956 (the South African Justice Minister having hinted at mass arrests during parliamentary exchanges). Plans for a response were discussed by Houser and Mary-Louise Hooper, an NAACP worker from California who remained in South Africa following an educational visit in 1955 and forged close links with Albert Lutuli. Hooper, who had met Huddleston and Collins in London en route to Africa, noted that Collins was ‘the logical one to raise a Defence Fund for us’, while Fenner Brockway suggested in early 1957 that any funds raised in the US should be channelled via London as the London anti-apartheid network had the means to ensure that financial assistance would reach Congress supporters in South Africa.159 While one might read the tone of Houser’s British correspondents as merely illustrative of the practical issues faced by international anti-apartheid activists, it is difficult not to perceive a note of condescension, although Collins, already aware of the potential value of American financial contributions, may well simply have been keen to maximise the support being channelled through his connections with Reeves in Johannesburg. What is clear is that the ACOA had established a well-connected network of contacts in South Africa, notably Hooper and the Anglican priest, Arthur Blaxall. Blaxall’s links to the ACOA derived from his Christian pacifist activities; in particular his membership of the FOR, as one of the leading figures in its international branch, Nevin Sayre, was a member of the ACOA committee. Blaxall had hosted Houser during his visit to South Africa in 1954, and the two had maintained frequent correspondence thereafter. Blaxall sent reports on his attendance of Congress meetings, notably the Congress of the People in 1955. It was through Blaxall

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that Hooper had been introduced to Houser, and her return to South Africa in September 1956 reinforced the ACOA links with the country. While Hooper, who Blaxall described as ‘excitable’ had a tendency to over-dramatise the cloak-and-dagger aspect of her South African activities (she wrote to Houser under the pseudonym of ‘S. H. Norris’), her work with Lutuli gave Houser a strong sense of developments within Congress.160 Thus, when the news of the Treason Trial arrests broke, Houser was able to confirm, through his own contacts, that plans for a South African Defence Fund were underway. Blaxall suggested that any assistance from the US could be channelled through him or via Sayre under the guise of the ‘Episcopal Pacifist Fellowship’.161 The ACOA executive committee unanimously agreed to establish a defence fund at its December 1956 meeting, and by early 1957 both Collins and Brockway had been informed of the ACOA plans. While Houser took note of warnings from Collins regarding the possibility that the South African authorities might seek to ban fund-raising activities within the country, he made it clear that the ACOA had good contacts in South Africa, but would channel money through the UK if problems arose.162 With a major fund-raising initiative launched in April with an appeal by leading churchmen, Houser was able by early May to send $5000 to Reeves. Reeves was receiving increasing amounts of funds, with Houser estimating that a total of $15,000 had been donated by the end of November 1957,163 while the estimated costs of the defence continued to rise. In its official statement to the US Department of Commerce, the ACOA stated that $17,500 had been sent to South Africa during 1957.164 Furthermore, Reeves and Collins were beginning to receive requests for assistance that lay outside of the official remit of their Defence Funds, but nevertheless could claim to be worthy of attention. One example was the request from Oliver Tambo for a loan of £1000 to help rebuild his legal business after his release from the trial. With the South African Defence Fund unable to provide loans, Reeves asked Collins if he was able to provide the sum from Christian Action funds. Collins was concerned that some critics had accused him of raising money to ‘line the pockets of South African barristers’, but suggested that the loan could be taken from the 10 per cent of the fund that had been earmarked ‘to help ensure that the conscience of the world is kept alive to the issues at stake’.165 In addition to Tambo’s loan, the Treason Trial Fund provided assistance to the journal Africa South, covered legal costs associated with the disturbances at Zeerust, and bail costs for women arrested following pass-protests. By the latter part of 1958 it was becoming clear to Collins

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that the terms of reference of the British Defence Fund required alteration, so that it was able to help ‘any trial where freedom of speech and freedom of association [were] at stake’.166 The importance of the Christian Action Defence Fund had been enhanced by the decision of the Labour Party to amalgamate its own South African appeal into Collins’ fund. Over the next two years, it was to attract over £150,000 worth of donations and would in 1964 become the central co-ordinating fund for all international donations to aid those facing prosecution for their anti-apartheid activities. Moves to expand the Christian Action fund did, however, provoke lasting conflict between Collins and Scott. Scott had begun to question what he described as the ‘centralisation of funds’ following a Defence Fund sponsors’ meeting in July 1958.167 He declined to become a member of the management committee of any new Defence and Aid Fund and suggested that the Africa Bureau should not advise the fund’s committee, as ‘it would become associated in peoples minds with the decisions of your committee without having any direct part in the decisions aken’.168 Scott took particular exception to Collins’ plans to expand the geographical scope of the fund to include Central Africa, and wrote requesting that Christian Action should use the mechanisms established by the Africa Bureau to disperse funds, but then went ahead and launched a new Africa Bureau Defence Fund.169 Plans were made for a meeting between the two organisations, and Scott authored a memorandum suggesting the need, in the light of the various appeals for African causes, for an ‘African Appeals Board’, which would facilitate ‘maximum cooperation … without destroying or stultifying the initiative of [the] various organizations.’ The Board, Scott suggested, would attempt ‘to arrive at some scale of priorities and relative proportions for the allocation of funds to the many needs and claims that are being made’.170 Attempts to resolve the differences between the two organisations would continue through to the early 1960s, but would ultimately fail to bring about a rapprochement between Collins and Scott.

The Declaration of Conscience, 1957 The fund-raising efforts that were prompted by the Treason Trial represented the first major co-ordinated international response to apartheid, although the tendency towards fracture and conflict within the campaign presented an obstacle to the development of an international movement. Inter-group and international rivalries also had an impact on the first real attempt to launch a global anti-apartheid campaign, the

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1957 Declaration of Conscience. In April of that year, American antiapartheid campaigners begin to discuss plans for a worldwide protest to mark the anniversary of the Treason Trial arrests. Writing to Michael Scott, Houser suggested that a ‘special day of protest’ would provide the opportunity for groups around to world to organise events to highlight what he called the ‘tragic turn of events in South Africa’.171 The plan developed from a proposal by US journalist John Gunther to use United Nations Day as a focus for a renewed fund-raising campaign for the Treason Trial defence, although the date was shifted to 10 December (Human Rights Day), in order to avoid conflict with any official UN events.172 In June, having secured the agreement of Eleanor Roosevelt to be primary signatory to the Declaration, a draft was sent to a range of dignitaries across the globe, hoping to enlist their support for the protest. The dignitaries included Huddleston, Scott, Martin Luther King, Fenner Brockway, Carl Jung, Tom Mboya and Julius Nyerere. Several South Africans added their names to the list of signatories, including Reeves and Alan Paton, despite the fact that both had initially declined to sign.173 The ambivalent reaction of South African supporters was due to the objection by some (notably Paton) to the references to the Freedom Charter in the draft Declaration. Paton had refused to support a document that appeared to endorse a political statement that the party he led had disowned. It was only after the intervention of Houser, and the eventual re-wording of the Declaration on the advice of Reeves and Ellen Hellman (who was visiting the US), that Paton was placated. In its final wording, the Declaration made reference only to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, noting how apartheid was in contradiction to the principles of non-discrimination, legal equality, freedom of movement, freedom of opinion and the right to political participation that were enshrined in that document.174 While Reeves and Paton had been persuaded to lend their support, others were unwilling to add their names to any statement opposing apartheid. Winston Churchill explained to Roosevelt that he had determined ‘to involve myself as little as possible with these extremely difficult problems’; while Geoffrey Fisher upbraided her for failing to appreciate that the South African government was ‘actuated by a perfectly understandable fear lest their culture … should be swamped by an unredeemed Bantu culture’. He went on to suggest that activists in the US needed to ‘recognise that until you have solved your Negro problem you are disqualified from trying to lead a worldwide protest against South Africa’.175 One name was, however, notably absent from

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the Declaration. In an indication of the increasingly confused nature of international anti-apartheid protest, Canon Collins had refused to sign, having been advised to do so by Reeves and Ellen Hellman, prior to their intervention in the wording of the document. Further problems of communication between the Movement for Colonial Freedom, Christian Action and the Africa Bureau led to the collapse of plans for a nationwide ‘South Africa Day’.176 Thus, while supporters in the US marked the 10 December with a ‘Freedom Day Rally’ held at the Manhattan Centre, and addressed by Roosevelt, Houser and Roy Wilkins of the NAACP, no event of significance was held in the UK – Collins having cancelled a planned meeting jointly sponsored by Christian Action and the MCF. The Africa Bureau, with its attention focussed on its own campaign to persuade prominent individuals to make a public stand against apartheid (see the following chapter), saw the Declaration as little more than a useful database of sympathisers.177 The ACOA were heartened by the response within South Africa itself, where among other events, the Declaration had been read on the steps of the Johannesburg City Hall.178 The campaign was greeted with less enthusiasm by the South African government, whose External Affairs Minster, the ubiquitous Eric Louw, protested that the Declaration had levelled ‘false and spurious charges’ against the country.179 The South African Liberal Party, at its convention, in turn condemned Louw’s protest, which Patrick van Rensburg described as ‘vulgar and illogical’.180 As Blaxall noted, ‘the very reaction produced shows how deeply the arrow went here’, while Patrick Duncan suggested that Houser thank Louw for the additional publicity his outburst had provided.181

Conclusions: Moral and material dimensions of struggle The US Declaration stood alongside the British Art and Sport Manifesto as one of a number of public anti-apartheid initiatives launched in late 1957, and while some remained wary of public opposition to apartheid, it was clear that anti-apartheid sentiment was increasing across the globe. Anti-apartheid protest was being prompted by the actions of the South African government; these protests were expressions of moral principle as much as they were attempts to provide practical assistance to South African resistance movements. The sense of moral struggle was given symbolic expression by the death of Archbishop Clayton, who had a heart attack just hours after signing a letter pledging his opposition to the so-called Church Clause of the proposed Native Laws Amendment Bill of 1957. The new regulation

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provided a means by which Ministers could bar Africans from attending any institution, including churches, if they lay outside of segregated areas. Clayton, whose position on apartheid had been steadfast in its adherence to the Biblical call to ‘render unto Caesar the things which be Caesar’s’, was finally persuaded to risk his own liberty. The fact that his resolve was never tested did not diminish the power of his statement and, when it became clear that the Dutch Reformed Churches shared the anxieties regarding the threat to the freedom of worship, Verwoerd made modifications to the Bill. More broadly, the controversy, together with opposition to Bantu Education, marked the beginning of a process whereby the churches became a key ‘site of struggle’ within South Africa. For anti-apartheid campaigners, especially those outside the country, the events of 1954–5 deepened the sense that the opposition to apartheid was a moral struggle, one that transcended the profane world of ideological conflict and political manoeuvre and could be interpreted as an ethical issue that began to encapsulate the de-legitimisation of systems of racial discrimination and colonialism. At the same time, the launch of the Treason Trial Defence Fund, as well as the more diffuse forms of cultural boycott embodied in the ACOA and Africa Bureau campaigns sought to generate a more practical form of action against apartheid. These campaigns demonstrate that, in addition to its moral force, the anti-apartheid movement was beginning to crystallise the forms of action that would come to define its character over the following decades. One might, again, look to the church to discover examples of the practical edge that protest was starting to exhibit. This was evident in the replacement of Clayton – a pietist heavyweight, but with no inclination to lead the church into confrontation with the State – with Joost de Blank, who demonstrated a flamboyant disregard for political niceties and was prepared to declare white supremacy to be an ‘open sore’ in Africa.182 With frequent appearances on British television and radio, de Blank became everything that Clayton was not. As a focus of public attention and open supporter of anti-apartheid campaigns, he became President of the Campaign Against Racial Discrimination in Sport in 1959.183 Reeves, meanwhile, drew on his experiences in Liverpool as a mediator of industrial disputes in his role as chair of the Johannesburg-based Consultation Committee that sought to provide a forum of communication between political organisations. At the same time, Reeves became the central figure in the Treason Trial Defence Fund, who co-ordinated the disbursement of cash sent from both Collins and Houser. By the end of the decade, then,

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international anti-apartheid activities had developed into a co-ordinated set of campaigns that interlocked with South African opposition networks. This connection, and the underlying sense that overseas supporters were acting in solidarity with their South African counterparts, would continue into the 1960s. Events at the start of the decade would, however, shift the geographical locus of the campaign away from South Africa itself.

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Sharpeville, Sanctions and the Making of a Transnational Movement

Can Sharpeville be regarded as the definitive moment in the formation of international anti-apartheid? There appears strong evidence to suggest that it was: in diplomatic terms South Africa shifted from difficult cousin to what the soon-to-retire High Commissioner described as ‘halfally, half-untouchable’; from significant member of the Commonwealth to exile, from stalwart of the Cold War to subject of an international arms embargo. After March 1960, the establishment of a permanent Anti-Apartheid Movement and the regularisation of fund-raising through Defence and Aid would seem an indictment of the event’s significance – a watershed in the process by which apartheid was rendered one of the fundamental issues of late twentieth century socio-political action, a primary contravention of the principles and values that (purportedly) determined relations between states, and between a State and its people. Such an argument is, of course, open to dispute; the problematic being both one of chronology and of interpretation. Chronologically, the development of anti-apartheid pre-dated, and lagged behind, the events of March 1960 (see, for example, the gradual emergence of a coherent and unified call for sanctions discussed below). In terms of interpretation, it is necessary to examine comparatively the trajectories of antiapartheid campaigns within and external to South Africa. As Hyam and Henshaw argue, British responses to apartheid were characterised by ebb and flow, not by inexorable rising opposition to apartheid, nor a continuous conflict between an anti-apartheid Left and a pro-apartheid Right.1 The pattern of protest was not, however, as straightforward a reflection of events within South Africa, as they suggest, but was shaped instead by the interplay between those international organisations most interested in South African affairs, and domestic agendas. In the 156

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US, where events in South Africa sharpened a growing awareness of developments in the continent more broadly, the trajectory of domestic civil rights campaigns, and the changing priorities of the new Kennedy administration played a significant role in shaping the ways in which apartheid was understood. Nevertheless Sharpeville did have particular significance for the development of international anti-apartheid in two ways. First, the dramatic visual images of the massacre were propelled around the globe at a velocity unprecedented in the previous decade of political struggle in South Africa. As a media event, Sharpeville provided a strong, simple narrative. Second, the political upheaval within South Africa, and in particular the State’s swift and draconian response, resulted in an accelerated internationalisation of anti-apartheid, via a wave of political refugees and exiles who became central figures in the establishment of anti-apartheid networks and organisations in Europe, in North America and in Africa.

The background to the boycott Perhaps the most prominent of post-1960 anti-apartheid activities was the long-running campaign to promote the imposition of sanctions against South Africa and the promotion of a consumer boycott of South African produce. As Stuart Hall suggests, the boycott, enacted through ‘staged every day encounters’, had a significant capacity to transform the political consciousness of its supporters.2 Again, the familiar radical Christian voices were instrumental in raising the issue in appeals to the public in Britain. Collins concluded his series of Daily Herald articles in 1954 with the suggestion that people in Britain ‘may have to consider a personal boycott of South Africa goods’, but it was Huddleston who, only months later, called explicitly for a ‘cultural boycott of South Africa’.3 Huddleston had, however, been privately advocating not only a cultural boycott, but also more wide-ranging sanctions for at least a year prior to this. The Africa Bureau executive discussed Huddleston’s proposal that the UN should co-ordinate sanctions against South Africa. Many of the Bureau’s executive were taken aback by the proposition, with Creech Jones sure that the policy ‘would not commend itself to people in Britain’, while MacCallum Scott was ‘shocked that such a policy should be advocated by a priest’. Raymond Raynes was also wary of Huddleston’s proposals, suggesting that the ‘public conscience’ had not been sufficiently aroused and that any who called for sanctions at

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that time would ‘be considered fanatics and warmongers by the unenlightened public’.4 Michael Scott was more sympathetic to the idea of sanctions, explaining how difficult it was for those outside South Africa to understand Huddleston’s desperation. He noted that the only response to South Africa had been ‘words and debates’, and that it was important to begin to take some kind of action that may avert disaster. Alongside ‘negative’ sanctions, Scott proposed a positive and ‘coordinated programme of assistance’ that would enable UN agencies to become involved in encouraging South African government policies that would be ‘in accordance with the principles of the UN Charter.5 Scott would go on to develop these ideas further, suggesting in 1956 that sanctions imposed by ‘voluntary organisations’ could complement technical and financial assistance, co-ordinated through the United Nations, with the aim of developing South Africa’s ‘reserves’ along the lines envisaged by the Tomlinson Commission.6 Scott’s optimistic reading of the Commission report was perhaps coloured by his continued faith in the potential of regional development as an instrument for social and political change and reflected a desire to stimulate an international solution to regional issues with which he had been concerned since the late 1940s. By 1957, he was encouraging African leaders to initiate economic and social sanctions against South Africa as part of a strategy ‘which will achieve what moral persuasion and ten years of debates and attempted conciliation in the United Nations have failed to achieve’.7 Similar sentiments were being expressed within South Africa by Ronald Segal, editor of the anti-apartheid magazine Africa South. Frustrated by the lack of momentum in UN actions over South-West Africa, Segal wrote that the organisation ‘must either contemplate economic sanctions … or succumb once and for all to South African intransigence’. With his words having little impact – other than eliciting the usual public condemnation from Eric Louw – Segal nonetheless took up the issue when he visited New York in late 1958. Like Scott some years earlier, Segal found that the high-minded ambition of the UN Charter belied an organisation subject to political calculation and pragmatism much as any other. Krishna Menon, head of the Indian delegation rebuffed Segal, asserting that the Indians had ‘taken the initiative too long in African affairs. Let the African states demand sanctions, and I think I can promise you at least that the Indian delegation will abstain’.8 Within the year, newly independent African states did begin to take a lead in calls for international action against South Africa, with the All-African People’s Conference in Accra calling for an extensive boycott of South African

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goods. Nevertheless until Sharpeville – and even afterwards, as we shall see – there was little enthusiasm for a sanctions campaign. It was Huddleston’s call for a ‘cultural boycott’ of South Africa that had most impact, in part perhaps because it did not rely on support from official sources in government. In Britain, the Africa Bureau began enquiries into the level of support for such a boycott, while others in the entertainment industry were moved to solicit advice as to how to begin a campaign. The actor Paul Eddington wrote to Benson explaining how members of the actor’s union Equity at the Ipswich Theatre had drafted a resolution rejecting segregated performances,9 while Monica Whately (Chair of the South African Committee of the Movement for Colonial Freedom) wrote to theatre director Benn W. Levy in an attempt to muster support for a ‘social boycott’. Levy agreed to contact Equity but was less than enthusiastic about plans for a ban, which would only result in ‘the odd idealist … sacrificing himself or herself to the advantage of somebody else’.10 In April 1955, Mary Benson mentioned in a letter to Huddleston that Equity was about to meet to consider a resolution put forward by Ipswich and Colchester theatres calling for members to refuse contracts that forced them to perform before ‘racially exclusive’ audiences.11 A year later, with Huddleston back in the UK, plans for the ban appeared to have gained momentum. The Africa Bureau had inaugurated a Working Party on South Africa, whose members included exiled South Africans: the writer Peter Abrahams and lawyer Harry Bloom, as well as the former editor of Drum magazine, Anthony Sampson. In May 1956, the group discussed the question of an official boycott and progress towards official sanctions being implemented by Equity (the Musicians’ Union had already imposed a ban on contracts with ‘discriminatory clauses’)12. Three resolutions were placed before the Equity council: one that would in effect shelve the question, a second presented by a young actor, Hugh Forbes, which encouraged a ban on performances in countries that barred multi-racial theatre companies, and a third by actor and proponent of workers’ theatre, Howard Goomey, who proposed a complete boycott.13 More famous names such as Sybil Thorndike, Irene Worth and Yehudi Menuhin (all of whom had performed in South Africa) were against a total boycott, but instead wished to ensure that no contract would insist upon racially exclusive performances (preferably, but not necessarily, in mixed audiences). Menuhin argued that ‘the attitude should be to concentrate on positive contact’ and that a complete boycott of South Africa would be ‘cutting your nose to spite your face’.14

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Following consultations with Huddleston, it was agreed that a compromise amendment should be drafted, in order to retain the support of those such as Thorndike for the ‘general principle’.15 At the end of June, Huddleston and Scott chaired a private meeting in the House of Lords with a group of individuals connected with the arts, entertainment and sport. Huddleston argued that protests against apartheid were a fundamental prerequisite for Commonwealth solidarity and spoke of the need ‘to seek “converts” to the anti-apartheid cause’.16 By the end of 1957 there were indeed a significant number of converts and an array of over 100 notable individuals from the arts added their signatures to an ‘Art and Sport Manifesto’ which condemned apartheid as a practice which ‘restricts arbitrarily, even prohibits, the enjoyment and use of human talent’.17 In Naught for Your Comfort, Huddleston paid particular attention to the place of sport in the cultural life of white South Africans and suggested that isolation from international sport would have a significant effect upon their ‘self-assurance’, noting that ‘it might even make the English-speaking South African wake up to the fact that you can’t play with a straight bat if you have no opponents’.18 In fact, South Africa’s position in international sport had shown signs of vulnerability before the Second World War, when the 1934 Empire Games was shifted from Johannesburg to London amidst concerns over the treatment of African and Asian competitors. In the years following the war, the International Table Tennis Federation had refused to acknowledge the white South African Table Tennis Union and had banned a British player following his visit to South Africa at the invitation of the South African body.19 It was almost inevitable, therefore, that, upon his return to Britain, Huddleston promoted plans for a campaign to impose sporting sanctions alongside those for a boycott in entertainment, writing in an (unpublished) letter to the Times of his hope that ‘all those who are prominent in the field of culture and sport will seize the present moment to demonstrate unmistakably in word and act that they care about the citizenship of the non-Europeans in South Africa’.20 The moment did, indeed, appear appropriate, as the debate within Equity coincided with discussions within the international governing body of football, FIFA. The white Football Association of South Africa (FASA), which had been recognised by FIFA in 1952, had reached deadlock in negotiations with the non-racial South African Soccer Federation over the latter’s affiliation to the international body. A FIFA delegation, sent to South Africa in early 1956, had been unable to resolve the dispute, and the question of

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the relations between South Africa and FIFA remained unresolved until 1964, when FASA was finally suspended from FIFA.21 Other sports were also the subject of faltering moves towards sanctions during the 1950s. The Reverend David Sheppard, whose intermittent career as an international cricketer took second place to his religious vocation (he would later become Bishop of Liverpool), personified the link between Christian morality and a sporting boycott; Sheppard spoke on race and sport at the private meeting arranged by the Africa Bureau at the House of Lords in June 1956 and made himself unavailable for the 1956–7 Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC) tour of South Africa after failing to persuade the MCC secretary to organise a fixture against a black team.22 Sheppard’s protests at sporting links with South Africa would continue with his refusal to play against the South African touring team in 1960 following the Sharpeville massacre, and he would take a leading role in the protest against the exclusion of Basil D’Oliveira from the MCC party to tour South Africa in 1968, the controversy that ultimately led to South African exclusion from international cricket until the 1990s. Athletics, too, came into question with the organisation of protests against South African participation in the 1958 Commonwealth Games, held at Cardiff.23 It would be in the following decade that the sports boycott would take centre stage in the international campaigns against apartheid, but the 1950s did see the beginnings of this movement. In his 1954 call for a ‘cultural boycott’ of South Africa, Huddleston had advocated the international counterpart to a tactic that had been employed with some success by the Congress movement within South Africa.24 The cultural boycott would form the central means of symbolising international opposition to apartheid through to the 1990s and was one highly effective way of lodging anti-apartheid campaigns deep within the public consciousness. It was, however, the boycott of South African consumer goods, launched in 1959, that has had perhaps the deepest public impact. A precursor of more recent campaigns centred around ‘ethical consumption’, the boycott imbued day-to-day activities with political meaning; ‘the fact that you could construct a political conversation with the greengrocer’, as Stuart Hall observed in 1998, ‘was one of the most pertinent objects of political discourse throughout this whole period’.25 A number of attempts were made during the 1950s to organise boycotts of South African goods, including one launched by an Anglican priest in Paddington in 195526 and a failed attempt to propose a resolution calling for a boycott at the Labour Party conference of 1957.27 It was the ANC’s renewed call for a boycott in mid-1959 that was

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to generate a full-fledged boycott campaign in Britain. The background to the campaign, and its subsequent metamorphosis into the British Anti-Apartheid Movement (AAM), has been detailed by Christabel Gurney, who has shown how the nexus of South African activists and their British supporters spawned an independent organisation capable of mobilising popular support for the international campaign against apartheid. While it drew inspiration from charismatic individuals such as Huddleston and Scott, both of whom spoke at the meeting in Holborn Hall, which launched the boycott movement, the expansion of the campaign was catalysed by the interest of the Labour Party following its election defeat in late 1959 and the focus of world attention on South Africa by the tragic events at Sharpeville in March 1960.28

The Boycott Movement The various boycott campaigns that were launched in 1959 can be directly attributed to the direct call from the ANC conference of 26 April that year, when Lutuli called for an overseas counterpart to the ANC’s own domestic boycott campaign against ‘Nationalist’ products.29 The ‘devastating weapon’ of combined local and international consumer action was to launch a new phase of the Congress movement’s passive resistance against apartheid – in retrospect, of course, it became the final attempt to establish effective non-violent protest before the turn to armed struggle. The internationalisation of struggle, implicit in this call for an external boycott campaign, was a reflection as much of developing pan-Africanist anti-colonialism as it was a desire to encourage the support of sympathetic Westerners. The ANC had successfully lobbied at the All-Africa People’s Conference in Accra in December 1958 for African support for an economic boycott, while the campaign was prominently featured in the early campaign propaganda of the newly launched Pan-Africanist Congress.30 The importance of Western support was nevertheless recognised by the ANC, who despatched Tennison Makiwane to Europe in early 1959 with a mission to promote and assist the co-ordination of an international boycott. Support was forthcoming, if initially from left-wing groups that had become the traditional bedrock of more radical anti-apartheid protest. In April 1959, Tribune published an appeal to boycott South African goods – shortly before the ANC conference at which Lutuli appealed for overseas support, in fact.31 The lead role in the initial organisation of the boycott was taken, however, by the Committee of African Organisations (CAO), the London-based umbrella-organisation for African nationalist

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movements.32 The launch of the boycott campaign, at Holborn Hall on 26 June 1959, was thus a collaboration between Congress activists, African anti-colonial groups and those already closely associated with protest against South Africa’s racial politics. There is little evidence, however, of the degree to which the CAO-sponsored campaign managed to inspire public interest, outside of narrow metropolitan circles. British supporters of the boycott comprised prominent individuals such as Huddleston (although he did not, in the end, attend the Holborn Hall meeting) and Scott, Labour parliamentarians, including Brockway and John Stonehouse, and a series of local cooperative societies, trades councils and Labour Parties, mainly in London and the South East.33 There were key dissenters, however – the Co-Operative Society, for example, argued that a boycott of South Africa was neither ‘practicable or advisable’.34 The CAO was nevertheless able to exploit the support of local groups to circulate their boycott leaflets, creating a core network of activists who were able to provide a basis for the campaign. It was, in essence, a grassroots campaign of metropolitan activists, drawn in the main from the political left. In the US, the ACOA were less convinced of the benefits of a boycott campaign. To a degree, this seemed a rational response in a country whose trade with South Africa was dominated by metal ores, wool and precious stones. The only consumer product that seemed vulnerable to a boycott was that of shellfish (whose 1959 imports were estimated at just under $10 million), predominantly frozen rock lobster tails. As Houser wrote in September 1959, ‘this is a pretty specialised kind of boycott and we will have to see how practical it is’.35 South African contacts nevertheless emphasised the symbolic importance of such boycotts: Patrick Duncan noted that precedent had been set by the US Treasury boycott of Russian crabmeat, while Ronald Segal noted that a ‘fuss is often worth making for the sake of the fuss itself’, citing the experience in Britain.36 Away from this crustacean-oriented approach, other South Africa contacts articulated what would become the standard critique of the consumer boycott. Julius Lewin noted that boycotts were ‘apt to hurt friends and opponents alike’, although he did then note the US import of Namibian karakul pelts (ironically, perhaps, the raw material for the Africanist headgear popular among AfricanAmericans in the 1960s).37 If a US consumer boycott appeared hampered by the somewhat obscure nature of South African consumer products in that country, British campaigners had a much greater range of targets. The CAO Boycott committee organised a number of successful public demonstrations,

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beginning with ‘poster parades’ at shopping centres on the day after the Holborn Hall meeting, Saturday 27 June. ‘Don’t but slavery. Don’t buy South African’, the campaign leaflets urged, listing a series of products that the discerning shopper should avoid. ‘Outspan’ branded oranges and ‘Cape’ apples were prominent in the list – and would continue to symbolise the links between South Africa and the UK over subsequent decades. Other items included avocado pears, wines (with sherries being the mainstay of imports, rather than the now familiar Pinotage), and cigarettes, notably the ‘Craven A’ brand.38 The list is instructive, for it demonstrates both the strength and the limitations of a consumer boycott as a form of anti-apartheid strategy. On the one hand, the tactic meant that the movement had the potential to engage with the politically disengaged. It became possible, as Stuart Hall has noted, ‘to construct a political conversation with a greengrocer’, making antiapartheid one of the first movements of the late twentieth century to interweave political discourse into the web of ordinary life.39 On the other hand, however, the range of boycotted goods was limited – one might argue that, while the greengrocer’s store became a site of antiapartheid struggle, the consumer boycott was unable to break out into a wider terrain of political action. Britain would remain a key market for South African produce (estimated at 35% of total food and animal exports in 1968), but activists began to see that it was necessary to target broader economic links, especially capital investment.40 The 1959 consumer boycott was, nevertheless, effective as a focalpoint for British anti-apartheid campaigners. A rally in Trafalgar Square in July saw Makiwane speak alongside Julius Nyerere, Johsua Nkomo and the then Shadow Colonial Secretary, James Callaghan. However, despite a series of demonstrations, mostly in north London, over the summer of 1959, the CAO felt unable to extend the movement beyond its initial supporters. With the British general election dominating the political agenda until October, the Boycott movement was effectively suspended until the autumn. The boycott campaign had, however, gained some momentum outside of Britain, and while many of the countries involved were unlikely to damage the South African economy, the issue was becoming one of broader Commonwealth relations. In Kenya, union leader Tom Mboya announced plans for a workers’ boycott of South African products, while the Jamaican government launched its own embargo on South African goods, prompting the ubiquitous Eric Louw to express official concerns and seek assurances that the British government would act to ensure that all cargo would reach its destination.41 Thus, while the British government recognised

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South African anxieties, it rejected calls to impose new powers to deal specifically with a boycott of South Africa, noting that ‘as long as any unofficial boycott does not contravene existing law, it is not a matter in which H.M. Government … could properly intervene’.42 Nor, it was made clear, would the British or other governments be held ‘responsible’ for any such boycott. This brief exchange highlights the delicate nature of British policy in Africa at what was a highly sensitive moment. In Kenya, the fraught progress towards self-government required a degree of caution on the part of the British government, unwilling (and unable) to introduce sweeping new powers in East Africa in order to protect South Africa. In Uganda, a boycott of all non-African goods by the Buganda could only be addressed through public order legislation, and it was politically undesirable that the UK showed greater willingness to act to suppress a boycott against South Africa.43 British officials nevertheless monitored the situation, as East African nationalist leaders met in September at the Pan-African Freedom Movement of East and Central Africa, where Uganda, Kenyan and Tanganyikan labour leaders called for a trade boycott of South Africa.44 Attention focussed on Mboya as he sought support from international labour organisations, including the antiCommunist International Confederation of Free Trade Unions, the American Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial Organization, and the British TUC. TUC General Secretary Vincent Tewson, meanwhile, advised Mboya against a boycott, as it would ‘rebound on the African workers’.45 Thus, while the boycott movement stalled in Britain itself, the momentum of a worldwide campaign was maintained, raising official concerns both in Pretoria and in London. In London, the Boycott committee was revitalised following reorganisation in November 1959. A new recruit was the South African Liberal Party member Patrick van Rensburg, who began to play a leading role in the development of future plans and its organisation. In September, van Rensburg and Makiwane had co-authored a memo on an ‘intensified boycott of South Africa’, which had some coverage in the national press in the latter part of the year. Under van Rensburg’s influence, the emphasis now lay on a short campaign with clearly defined aims, which developed into plans for a boycott month in early 1960, timed to coincide with the height of South African fruit imports. Between Christmas and early summer, South African fruit was the main source of supply for the UK, which meant that the boycott could be carefully targeted, but at the same time would, potentially, undermine support, given that consumers had no real alternative. A second key decision taken in late

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1959 was to accept an offer of financial and administrative support from Christian Action, where van Rensburg had been given a London base. While there was some dissent over this, van Rensburg argued that the organisation of the campaign was irrelevant, as it took its lead from South African political movements. Makiwane noted that direct control from South Africa was ‘impractical and inefficient’, yet other committee members argued that the Boycott was, de facto, a British campaign, and as such should be a democratic body controlled by representative of those UK organisations who supported the boycott.46 Such disagreements over the control of anti-apartheid campaigns would be a marked characteristic of the movement as it took form in subsequent years, and while Christian Action assured the Boycott committee that it would remain independent, it was to be allowed to nominate its own committee members, would be publicly acknowledged as the main sponsor, and retained the right to veto the movement’s support for aims that conflicted with those of Christian Action, specifically, ‘advocating a violent solution to South Africa’s problems’.47 Other boycotts had been launched, focussing the support of key groups such as students – in October, the Times reported the spread of a boycott organised by students at Oxford University.48 Similar moves were underway at Cambridge, and in November, the National Union of Students voted in favour of a motion to support the boycott.49 For British students, anti-apartheid emerged alongside the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (CND) as a second plank of a new wave of political radicalism – the two issues would form the bedrock of student politics until the latter part of the 1960s, when this first phase of radicalism would develop into a broader ‘counter-culture’, with opposition to the Vietnam War as the primary international ‘cause’. As Adam Lent has argued, anti-apartheid – and by extension, a wider critique of empire and racial discrimination – played a central role in what he described as the ‘rise of a rebellious youth culture’ during the late 1960s.50 Comparisons between anti-apartheid and CND are instructive, and the intimate relationship between the two movements (represented by Collins’ executive role in both movements), their ‘establishment’ character and the focus on values rather than material interests, would suggest that anti-apartheid was an integral part of a shift in British civil society. While there is no empirical survey equivalent to that of Parkin’s study of CND supporters in the mid-1960s, it is reasonable to assume that anti-apartheid activism could also be characterised as a form of ‘middleclass radicalism.51 The distinction was that anti-apartheid continued to provide a focus for the small body of black students in Britain, including

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South Africans (notably Thabo Mbeki, who studied at the University of Sussex), as well as being a ‘natural’ focus of black community politics. It was at this point that the anti-apartheid movement began to develop a layered structure – the broader movement comprising a loose coalition of supporters motivated by moral and religious sentiment, ideological affinity and racial solidarity, and a metropolitan ‘executive’, with some degree of institutional formality, connected to the established activist networks, and part of a transnational community that included increasing numbers of South African exiles. At this level, the Boycott campaign drew support from mainstream political organisations and institutions, pre-figuring the broad base of support that would eventually develop during the 1980s. In the latter part of 1959, and early 1960, a series of bodies announced support for the boycott, including the London Co-Operative Party and the Liberal Party.52 In December, the MCF journal Colonial Freedom News confidently announced that the ‘campaign has ballooned in the last few weeks into a national movement’,53 while the TUC General Council issued an appeal for all trade union members to boycott South African goods so as to express ‘personal revulsion against the racial policies being pursued by the South African Government’.54 The move followed the decision, two weeks earlier, by the International Confederation of Free Trade Unions (ICFTU) to support a global boycott campaign, and the Labour Party’s call for its members to support the proposed boycott month. While such evidence points to burgeoning public awareness of the campaign well before the Sharpeville crisis brought the issue to an intensified focus, the broad support for the boycott did not imply a deep-seated radical position on apartheid in Britain. The TUC, which had been highly equivocal over its position on South Africa, supported a call for individual members to join in a consumer boycott; it did not appear to support organised industrial action to halt the movement of South African goods, as suggested by the ICFTU.55 It took a further month of negotiations between the TUC, the Co-Operative Union and the Labour Party before the National Council of Labour could announce its support for the boycott. The resolution, again, sidestepped the question of institutional action, speaking of the boycott as a ‘personal demonstration’, calling on the labour movement ‘to abstain as individuals from the purchase of South African goods’.56 The Boycott campaign did draw upon the support of figures within the Labour Party – notably David Ennals, Secretary of the International Department – but the institutional facilities they could provide was moderated by the more ambiguous support for the boycott in the

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broader Labour movement. The Co-Operative Union, in particular, seemed anxious to discourage further action from its own affiliated societies and had persuaded the Labour Party to step back from calling for pickets of stores. This was, of course, a delicate act of balancing on the part of an organisation that had the potential to be both participant and target in a boycott campaign – as the Times noted, the paradox of the movement urging the boycott of goods sold in its own shops was obvious. Discussions included the suggestion that South African goods on sale in Co-Operative stores should be clearly marked, although others noted that shoppers could be misled into ‘thinking a nice new line was being advertised and buying all the more’.57 The position of the Co-Operative Union underlines the extent to which, despite the apparent support for a boycott, its actual application in practice was less than straightforward. Moreover, the principle itself had been subject to a series of criticisms since the campaign launch in June. In July, Eric Louw had blamed the entire campaign on Huddleston (who replied that he was ‘grateful for the compliment’) and suggested that Africans would be the primary victims of any international boycott. Some voices in Britain had, however, sounded a note of caution over what was seen as over-emotive excoriation of South Africa. In a Times editorial, concerns were raised over the portrayal of Verwoerd in the British press – as a bloody-handed dictator in a cartoon in the Evening Standard, or in the Guardian a leader expressing horror at the thought of the British Prime Minister engaging in civil conversation with his South African counterpart. It is certainly the case that Macmillan’s tour in early 1960 was portrayed (in certain sections of the press at least) as a struggle to maintain integrity in the face of the injustice of settler colonialism. A cartoon in the Daily Herald showed Macmillan as a stage performer, attempting to balance ‘Freedom’, ‘Co-Partnership’ and ‘Federation’, while an African audience member, holding a placard marked ‘Apartheid’, calls out: ‘Let’s see you juggle this one’.58 Nevertheless the earlier Times editorial had little sympathy for a campaign against apartheid. The boycott, it argued, was ‘reckless and ill-thought-out’ and would inevitably lead to greater hardship for black South Africans, either as a direct result of the effects of a boycott or because of the deterioration in race relations that would follow.59 This would become one of the central counter-arguments against boycott and sanctions proposals, but concerns were also raised about the potential effect upon the British economy, especially if South Africa decided to impose its own ban on those involved in any boycott. The

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issue came to the fore in early January, when the Labour-controlled Liverpool City Council voted to impose an indefinite ban on South African goods. In the aftermath of a stormy council meeting, in which Labour council members were reported to have yelled out a roll-call of imperial atrocities – ‘Suez’, ‘Nyasaland’, ‘Hola’, the Chamber of Commerce and other trade organisations raised fears of reprisals against the City, which had significant seaborne trade with South Africa. This, despite the fact that the Council’s actions were clearly more symbolic than materially significant, given that South African goods amounted to only £2000 of the corporation’s annual spending – almost entirely on tinned fruit.60 In the first two months of 1960, the Boycott campaign gained momentum, with a series of public meetings and marches, culminating in a demonstration in Trafalgar Square on 28 February to mark the start of Boycott Month. The weeks preceding had, of course, seen the British Prime Minister embark on a tour of Africa, ending with his speech to the South African parliament. In fact, a series of significant events had taken place in these same weeks: Verwoerd announced a planned vote on South Africa becoming a republic, one of the long-term ambitions of the Afrikaner nationalist movement, while in late January, ongoing tensions at the Cato Manor transit camp near Durban broke out into serious rioting that led to the death of nine police officers (later seen as a partial explanation for the actions of the police at Sharpeville). In Nyasaland, following Macmillan’s visit, the British press corps witnessed security services beating protestors. As the Liverpool City councillors had shown, images of a colonial enterprise dependent upon draconian measures fuelled public perceptions of a continent in crisis well before Sharpeville. The boycott campaign was stimulated by Macmillan’s tour, but was also a reflection of a wider sense of crisis in colonial Africa. Contrary to Hyam and Henshaw’s assertions, there was a polarisation of opinion in Britain, evident in the announcement by fascist leader Oswald Mosely that he planned to organise ‘counter-pickets’ against the Boycott campaigners. It is important not to exaggerate the extent to which the campaign either reflected or promoted serious political polarisation in Britain; however, newspaper accounts of the Trafalgar Square rally to launch Boycott Month were dominated by clashes between anti-apartheid campaigners, the police, and members of the Union Movement, which had resulted in a series of skirmishes in Whitehall.61 Some did, eventually, report the earlier mass demonstration (with reports of attendance ranging from 6000–12,000), addressed by Huddleston and Labour leader

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Don’t buy goods from South Africa Till they drop their wicked plan; Tell your neighbour when you can, Don’t buy goods South African.62 The Times noted, and contemporary photographs verify, that the march and rally was attended by significant numbers of black Britons. While the organisation of anti-apartheid activity began, and remained, a white (and often clearly middle-class) movement, public demonstrations did provide some kind of space for multi-racial political action.

Sharpeville and its aftermath The campaign had thus attracted a significant level of support and public awareness some weeks before the tragic events at Sharpeville on 21 March 1960. The shooting of over 60 Pan Africanist Congress protestors outside the township’s police station was nevertheless a moment of transformation – apartheid was no longer merely another moral and political ‘cause’, it became part of global media discourse, a term that implied the existence of brutal state authority as well as a structure of racial inequality that seemed at best an anathema to the tenets of international diplomacy in a decolonising world. In the wake of Sharpeville, and the associated images of dead protestors that were widely disseminated by print and broadcast media, public condemnation of apartheid was universal. Public opinion in Britain was galvanised – a Gallup poll reported that 80 per cent of respondents were ‘appalled’ by apartheid after the massacre.63 To a certain degree, this was a reflection of very real disquiet, but it must also reflect the way in which the event was communicated by the media. The significance of media reaction was not in its intensity, but, it has been suggested, by the way it prompted a discursive shift in media representations of apartheid, now conceived as both impractical and ethically unjustifiable. The BBC, whose popular television news magazine programme Panorama covered South African affairs in a series of reports in early 1960, shed its policy of neutral impartiality with regard to apartheid.64 As we saw in the previous chapter, the BBC had provided a platform for prominent critics of the apartheid regime since the mid-1950s, but Sharpeville does appear to have been a kind of watershed, after which the media consensus was one of antipathy to

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Hugh Gaitskell. The march from Oxford Street included a Musician’s Union band, and a steel band, while the crowd sang:

apartheid – although this would not, of course, imply sympathy with the anti-apartheid movement. Similarly, Sharpeville itself received universal condemnation within the political arena. When the question of South African policies was debated in the Commons in the immediate aftermath of the massacre, apartheid itself became a focus of attack from some. John Stonehouse, moving a motion to condemn South African race policy, described apartheid as ‘thinly disguised slavery’ and suggested that the issue was not ‘party political’, but one ‘which unites all men of decency’.65 However, while the sentiments were widely shared, others opposed any unequivocal statement against South Africa. The debate revealed the extent to which the problem of apartheid was equated with Afrikaner nationalism, and that racial inequality was the product of a Calvinist sense of predestination – apartheid was a ‘religious doctrine which has been instilled into them from their infancy’, argued Godfrey Nicolson.66 The debate was suffused with familiar ideas – that South Africa should not be condemned from ‘outside’ for fear of antagonising the nationalist government, or that people in Britain could not conceive of the difficulties faced by those in a ‘multi-racial’ society – but a sense that South Africa was on the verge of dictatorship was palpable.67 Opinion was more clearly divided, however, over practical responses to apartheid. Many stood opposed to the boycott, a ‘mistake’ that would drive moderates into support for the nationalist government, although supporters of the boycott campaign noted that it was not a policy borne ‘out of recklessness but also out of judgement’.68 Particular attention was given to the question of demonstrations against the forthcoming cricket tour (the South African cricket team were due to arrive in the country within a month of the debate), highlighted by the announcement by the England cricketer the Rev. David Sheppard that he would refuse to play against the South African team. While some deplored Sheppard’s stand, Fenner Brockway argued that it was ‘not the Rev. David Sheppard who brought politics into cricket. It is the policy of the South African Government and of the South African Cricket Association’.69 Divisions over the appropriate response to apartheid were also apparent in the reaction to the way critics of apartheid were treated by the South African state in the aftermath of Sharpeville. During the brief State of Emergency, many numbers of South Africans were detained by a government genuinely fearful of popular unrest. Included within this group were a small number of British citizens, including Elias Letele, who had been Treasurer-General of Congress and one of the initial defendants at the Treason Trial, but whose Basuto citizenship afforded

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him the protection of the UK. Public attention was focussed, however, upon the case of Hannah Stanton, the Warden at Tumelong Mission in Pretoria, when she was arrested on 30 March. For some days, British officials were unable to make contact with Stanton, much to their disquiet, and Alexander Douglas-Home was moved to suggest on 3 April that Louw be passed a message noting that it would be a ‘tragedy’ if international debate were to be aroused by the Stanton case. In fact, John Maud, the British High Commissioner (brother of the prominent inter-war missionary Dorothy Maud), met Verwoerd the following day and received assurances that officials would be given access.70 It soon became clear that no cause had been cited to justify Stanton’s arrest, and public calls for the British government to intervene to secure her release began to intensify. During Prime Minister’s Questions on the 14 April, Macmillan was pressed by a number of members to ‘speak out now as Prime Minister in the name of the whole country’.71 Maud reported on a prickly interview with Louw that same day, and it did indeed seem as if Stanton’s imprisonment had the potential to provoke a public clash with South Africa.72 While British officials had been successful in securing an improvement in both Letele and Stanton’s conditions, pressure was maintained during the (perhaps fortuitous) Easter recess of parliament in London, for the release of Stanton. By 22 April, the South African Police had begun to outline their case against Stanton, which revolved around accusations that Tumelong Mission had been used for meetings of the ANC and PAC, and that Stanton herself had actively encouraged political dissent among African women. Louw declared that, while he was confident that charges could be brought against Stanton, the government would sanction her release if she agreed to leave the country.73 At a meeting in Downing Street on 25 April, Macmillan and Douglas-Home agreed that steps be taken to persuade Stanton to accept the offer, but the following day she made it clear that she was determined not to accede to Louw’s demands.74 Maud, while disappointed, made it clear that Britain should maintain pressure on South Africa to either press charges or release Stanton. He surmised, correctly, that the most likely course would be for South Africa to release, and then deport her.75 Macmillan reported developments to Parliament and noted that he would raise the matter with Louw, who was attending the Commonwealth Prime Minister’s conference in place of Verwoerd. By early May it was confirmed that the South African government planned to deport Stanton, despite a warning from Macmillian that this would prompt ‘very strong criticism’. Louw, in fact, reiterated his belief

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that there was a case against Stanton, and, while Maud was minded to continue the debate, opinion within the Commonwealth Relations Office was that to continue would simply be ‘flogging a dead horse’.76 Stanton, as Gaitskell has shown convincingly, represented a new generation of Christian missionary whose more ‘collegiate’ approach drew on a recognition that traditional white liberal approaches were outmoded under apartheid; the politicisation of her mission through contact with African women – and sharing a prison cell with Helen Joseph – demonstrated that humanitarians were being pushed into a more directly political stance in the context of the apartheid state. Her deportation, however, serves as a reminder that the state would no longer tolerate this kind of personal political trajectory.77 Similarly, Ambrose Reeves found himself, in the aftermath of Sharpeville, under intensified pressure from the authorities, resulting in his ultimate departure from South Africa. Following the massacre, Reeves took a leading role in securing legal assistance for the victims, as well as providing a detailed account of the injuries suffered by those who had been to Baragwanath Hospital in Soweto following the shooting. His findings were gathered together into a report, subsequently published in the book Shooting at Sharpeville, which sought to provide a full and independent account of the events of 21 March. In addition, Reeves compiled a portfolio of witness statements that were circulated among UN delegates by Allard Lowenstein in New York.78 The Consultative Committee met in Johannesburg and launched an appeal for financial assistance for the victims, and called for the authorities to address serious questions regarding the role and nature of the police, their training and the lack of communication between officials and protest leaders.79 It was at this juncture that rumours of Reeves’ impending arrest began to circulate, leaving the Bishop with a dilemma – should he remain in Johannesburg and run the risk of being silenced, although his arrest would undoubtedly be seen as a highly symbolic gesture of solidarity with black protest leaders? Or, should he leave South Africa (he was already set to embark on a six-month sabbatical during April), where he could continue to oversee the administration of the Defence Fund and generate further publicity for the anti-apartheid cause? Using the rationale that his arrest would prove dangerous for those with whom he had been associated, Reeves decided to leave South Africa, travelling incognito overnight to Swaziland. While in Swaziland, Reeves had sought clarification of his position from the South African authorities, although no assurances as to his ability to return to the country

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were forthcoming.80 He thus decided to travel onwards to London for his planned UK leave, and wrote to Collins urging him to stop sending money for the time being, and to organise a press conference in London.81 It was clear, however, that Reeves’ capacity to irritate South African officials was evident at the highest diplomatic levels – John Maud had been urged to time a meeting with Louw on Hannah Stanton’s arrest so that it took place before the Bishop gave his press conference in London on 22 April.82 At the conference, held in Church House, Reeves stated his fear of arrest, while C. T. Wood (whose lack of sympathy with Michael Scott in the early 1950s was detailed in a previous chapter) described South Africa as a ‘police state’.83 During his stay in London, Reeves was kept busy with a series of meetings, and interviews – his agenda no doubt intensified by the fact that he stayed at the home of Collins in Amen Court. On 11 May, he addressed a meeting at Westminster Central Hall, alongside Oliver Tambo and Yusuf Dadoo, where he called for pressure to be maintained on South Africa so that activists within the country knew ‘that they were not deserted by the outside world in their hour of grievous trial’. Despite being heckled by a woman who described him as the ‘Right Reverend Runaway Reeves’, the meeting was successful, reportedly raising £1500 for the Defence Fund.84 Behind the apparent success, however, it was clear that the network of anti-apartheid supporters that had developed through the latter part of the 1950s was undergoing dramatic changes. As a key figure in Johannesburg, connecting the internal opposition with its international supporters, it was important that Reeves returned to South Africa, which he did in early September, cutting short his leave. Met by a crowd of supporters at Johannesburg airport, Reeves made it clear to the press that he intended to continue both his ecclesiastical and his political activities. After a weekend during which his every move was monitored by officers of the Special Branch, Reeves was served with a deportation order, and was to leave the country immediately, via Durban. In the event, Reeves was instead spirited away by the police and deposited directly onto a London-bound aircraft, giving him no time to consult either lawyers or Diocesan officials.85 British officials, who had considered the possibility of Reeves’ deportation even before he left the UK in September, vacillated somewhat in their approach to the issue. While there were clear concerns that the manner of Reeves’ departure would have a negative impact on Anglo-South African relations, the Commonwealth Relations Minister, Cuthbert Alport, resolved to ascertain the nature of the public reaction before making an official statement; ultimately the new Secretary of

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State, Duncan Sandys, instructed Maud to point out that the deportation had merely ‘created a most unfavourable impression’ in Britain.86 On an incidental note, Sandys’ statement prompted Louw to comment publicly that Verwoerd had discussed Reeves with John Maud in late 1959, hinting that his replacement would be welcome. Reeves cited this comment as evidence that the South African authorities were set on removing him before Sharpeville, but official correspondence shows that Maud was adamant that both Louw and Verwoerd were wrong. It was, Maud recalled, the Archbishop of Cape Town, Joost de Blank, that Verwoerd had seemed intent on removing. As with Stanton, Maud was keen to contest the issue with Louw, but was deterred by Whitehall.87 As for Reeves, his deportation left him in a de facto state of unemployment, although he did not officially resign from Johannesburg until the following year. It was not until mid-1962 that Reeves was found a new post, the somewhat farcical position (for a man of over 60) of General Secretary of the Student Christian Movement. Finally, in 1966, Reeves became Rector of St Michael’s in Lewes, East Sussex which, while affording the undoubted delights of a quiet Sussex parish, was a somewhat downbeat end to a career that had seen him tackle one of the most complex and politically sensitive Dioceses in the Anglican Communion through a period of unrest. Reeves was not alone in choosing to depart from South Africa, rather than face arrest. On 29 March, the Resident Commissioner in Mafeking reported that Ronald Segal and Oliver Tambo had travelled to Lobatsi in Bechuanaland. Tambo, who had brought a suitcase full of documents relating to the ANC, sought political asylum on the grounds that Congress was about to be proscribed by the South African authorities – he had in fact been tasked to establish a structure for the ANC to operate in exile. Segal, meanwhile, stated that he aimed to observe developments in South Africa before travelling to the US.88 Having originally returned to Johannesburg after depositing Tambo, Segal had gone back following the mass arrests of Congress supporters that followed the imposition of a State of Emergency.89 His plan was, ostensibly, to continue to edit the publication Africa South, which had been running for some time with financial support from Britain and the US. Tambo’s arrival created a dilemma for British officials – having technically entered the territory illegally, the Bechuanaland authorities were, in theory, obliged to prosecute him. However, given his asylum claim, it was clear that such a prosecution would cause ‘serious embarrassment with both domestic and overseas public opinion’. Yet again, to appear to condone Tambo’s action would set an unwelcome precedent, given

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the instability in South Africa. As a compromise, High Commission officials proposed that Tambo be given a summons to return in 48 hours, in the hope that he would interpret this as an opportunity to ‘return quickly to the Union and stay there’.90 However, officials in Whitehall, having learned of Tambo’s plan to travel to New York to lobby delegates at the UN (where the Security Council was debating a draft resolution condemning South African actions over Sharpeville), ordered the Bechuanaland authorities to issue Tambo with a temporary permit to remain in the territory, on the understanding that he would ‘not engage in political activity’.91 Later that same day, John Stonehouse tabled a private notice question in parliament, asking Alport to grant the pair asylum. In heated exchanges, the Minister attempted to stall as a series of members, led by Hugh Gaitskell, pressed him to give assurances that they would not be sent back to the Union, arguing that ‘this is a very serious matter involving the honour of our country … These two citizens of the Commonwealth have escaped from the Union of South Africa, where a wave of persecution is taking place at present. They are in British territory’. Under pressure, Alport relented and made it clear that Tambo and Segal would not be forcibly removed from the Protectorate.92 Unsurprisingly, Eric Louw took a somewhat different view, and summoned John Maud to suggest – ‘from one good neighbour to another’ – that the authorities return the two ‘dangerous agitators’ to the Union.93 South Africa did have legal grounds, under the British Fugitive Offenders Act of 1881, to extradite the pair, and British officials in South Africa began to outline a potential course of action. At the same time, discussions at the UN added a further layer of diplomatic complexity. Henry Cabot Lodge, the US Ambassador to the UN, was willing to allow the draft resolution to be put to the vote in the Security Council, anxious that delay would allow enough time for Tambo and Segal to arrive in New York and ‘afford the Russians an opportunity for mischief making’.94 At the same time, British officials were concerned that any attempt to ‘detain or delay’ their arrival in New York would be damaging to Britain.95 It became clear that Britain would not be able to modify or veto the proposed Security Council Resolution without forcing the issue back to the General Assembly, where the UK would be forced into an apparent alliance with South Africa, and unable to block petitions from Tambo and others.96 Security Council Resolution 134, passed on 1 April 1960 with only two abstentions – from France and Britain – called on the South Africa government to ‘abandon its policies of apartheid and racial discrimination’.

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In Bechuanaland and Southern Rhodesia, rumours began to circulate of aircraft being chartered to spirit Tambo and Segal to Tanganyika. In the Rhodesian press, Segal threatened ‘the biggest constitutional row on your hands you can imagine’ if he was barred from travelling, while the South African government meanwhile issued arrest warrants for contravention of Departure from the Union regulations.97 While South Africa continued to refrain from invoking the Fugitive Offenders Act, others, including the government of Ghana, were pressing the British to expedite Tambo and Segal’s departure from the Protectorate. Eventually, on 16 April, the pair (accompanied by Yusuf Dadoo, who had, unknown to the British authorities, also travelled to Bechuanaland) flew from Palapye to Blantyre in Nyasaland, whereupon they travelled on to Dar-es-Salaam.98 Segal, Tambo and Dadoo pioneered a route out of South Africa that became, within two years, an established ‘underground railway’ for South African activists seeking to escape from the country. The compromise solution that British officials had directed in the case of Tambo and Segal was translated into an unofficial policy of ensuring that exiles moved through the Protectorate as quickly as possible, going so far as to provide covert support from MI6 for an air link from Bechuanaland. It halted only when it became clear that Nelson Mandela had used the service both in and out of South Africa during 1962.99

Alliance, conflict and the birth of the AAM From Tanganyika, Segal travelled to London, while Tambo flew to Tunis via Rome. During April, a number of South Africans found their way to Tanganyika, including PAC activists Nana Mohomo and Peter Molotsi. These five, along with Tennyson Makiwane, became the key architects of an agreement to establish a South African United Front, discussed at a series of meetings in Africa and London during June 1960. Although the Front would break-up in 1962, its formation illustrates the belief that public unity was essential in order to maintain and extend international support.100 In London, support for the United Front was provided by anti-apartheid groups, including the AAM, which was itself born in the weeks of intense activity that followed Sharpeville. To a degree, the movement was a continuation of the Boycott campaign – a permanent body established as a response to the transformation of the landscape of anti-apartheid protest after the banning of the ANC and PAC. Having resolved to continue its campaign in the wake of the shootings at Sharpeville, the Boycott Committee agreed to re-name the organisation the Anti-Apartheid Movement in April 1960, while plans were made to

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co-ordinate protests against the upcoming South African cricket tour and to arrange pickets to follow Louw during the Commonwealth Prime Minister’s conference.101 On 30 April, the AAM organised a ‘re-call conference’, attended by 130 delegates, who discussed a range of issues from relations with the Co-Operative Society through to the drafting of a broad ‘positive’ policy document along the lines of the Freedom Charter. Significantly, the delegates noted the need to press government to impose economic sanctions, a decision that, as Fieldhouse notes, marked a distinct shift in policy from popular direct action to political lobbying. The shift of focus towards political circles, together with the alliance with South African exiles, meant that the new organisation would be metropolitan in character, focussed on a small number of activists, rather than the kind of mass movement that might have emerged out of the Boycott campaign.102 For Fieldhouse, this stemmed from recognition of the difficulties of maintaining a mass campaign, but it also reflected the shift in emphasis necessitated by the post-Sharpeville political crisis in South Africa. Activists, particularly those newly arrived South African exiles, understood anti-apartheid in terms of action at the level of governments, rather than appeals to public opinion. As the possibility of popular campaigns against apartheid within South Africa receded with the imposition of emergency regulations, activists began to see sanctions, disinvestment and action at bodies such as the United Nations and Commonwealth as the primary focus of international anti-apartheid activity. The April conference also discussed the need for greater cooperation between the various groups that sought to promote anti-apartheid activity at that time. It is important to recognise that the very existence of the AAM was due in part to the willingness of groups to provide resources – the CAO continued to provide office space, while Christian Action agreed to provide funds to support the movement. Anti-apartheid campaigns clearly continued to rely on the support of movements such as the MCF, while specific campaigns such as the sports boycott were mobilised by the Campaign Against Racial Discrimination in Sport (CARDS); the Africa Bureau retained influence through its establishment contacts. For some, the diffuse nature of anti-apartheid groups was a concern – not least that almost all money donated to the antiapartheid cause was channelled through Collins in Amen Court. During mid-1960, attempts were made to establish a co-ordinating committee to oversee all anti-apartheid activities. At a meeting held in May, it was noted that some groups – notably the Africa Bureau – felt they were

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‘being treated by some of the others as if they were intruders’; David Astor wrote that ‘the anti-apartheid sentiment in this country could achieve a new unity or could be divided irrevocably according to what we do now’.103 As discussions over the co-ordinating committee proceeded over the following months, the position of the AAM became unclear, as its own function appeared identical to that of the ‘high-level’ committee being proposed by Astor and John Grigg, the Tory Lord Altrincham, who sat on the London Anti-Apartheid Committee.104 In September, following the launch of the AAM ‘Penny Pledge’ Campaign, the Movement was accused by Altrincham of attempting to ‘go it alone’,105 acting independently of the groups engaged in the Astor-Altrincham discussions. For David Ennals, at least, the AAM was not determined ‘to retain our sovereignty, providing we were confident that the co-ordinating committee would assume a dynamic role’. However, he was also clear that no changes to the AAM would be contemplated unless ‘we were quite confident that the alternative proposals would work more effectively’.106 It seems likely, as Fieldhouse surmises, that the willingness of the AAM to contemplate such changes was a reflection of uncertainty within the movement – but the co-ordinating committee proposal was more directly a symptom of the tensions between Christian Action and the Africa Bureau. In a sense, the plan to establish a national co-ordinating committee was an attempt to dampen the long-held animosities between Collins and Scott, who had increasing concerns over the control that Collins had over anti-apartheid activities. The spark of this latest confrontation was a dispute that had arisen in the previous year over potential overlap between appeals launched by Christian Action, the MCF and the Africa Bureau, to support nationalist opponents of the Central African Federation, which Scott may well have seen as within the sphere of interest of the Africa Bureau. Writing to Collins in June 1959, Scott complained that it was ‘not unreasonable to ask you to support what we are trying to do for Central Africa’.107 Collins replied that it was his understanding that arrangements for funds aimed at supporting those in Central Africa had been agreed in consultation with the Africa Bureau, and proposed that further procedures would be set up in order to formally channel such funds through the Bureau, and that a member of the Bureau join the Defence and Aid Sponsors Committee.108 The discontent felt by the Africa Bureau is revealed by a letter sent by Jane Symonds to Jock Campbell, in which she described the genesis of the current dispute – the ‘fundamental issue behind all this wrangle’,

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she argued, was ‘that, from experience, we have learnt not to trust Collins’ political judgement’.109 Whether this judgement was justified is clearly a matter for debate, but the tone of Symonds’ letter betrays the extent to which tensions between the two priests had become institutionalised. With attention turning instead to the Boycott campaign, the dispute receded somewhat – this might also be explained by Scott’s absence from the UK due to his involvement in the Sahara anti-nuclear protest team that set out from Accra in an attempt to reach the site of French atomic tests in southern Algeria.110 Before he left, however, Scott had outlined a proposal for an ‘African Appeals Board’ that would oversee the array of fund-raising appeals that were being set up in Britain.111 While meetings between the Bureau and Christian Action took place, it was not until after Sharpeville that the principle that there should be some form of co-ordinating committee providing oversight for British anti-apartheid activities was revived. In July 1960, Lord Hemingford wrote to Collins suggesting that an alliance of organisations be formed, all of whom would be represented on the board of Defence and Aid, and all of whom would undertake not to launch independent fund-raising campaigns.112 Collins, in reply, attempted to reassure Hemingford, noting that he felt some progress was being made in the cross-party discussions. He argued, nevertheless, that Defence and Aid had been successful, enjoyed international support, and might be hampered by representatives who might find it necessary to refer issues back to their own organisation before any decisions be taken, thus slowing down the flow of funds into South Africa.113 Meanwhile, the Africa Bureau had received complaints that the PAC was not receiving funds from Defence and Aid, which Scott passed on in an angry telephone call to Collins following the latter’s non-attendance of a further meeting between the two bodies.114 The debate continued through to the end of October, by which point the Africa Bureau withdrew support for Defence and Aid, and Scott resigned as a sponsor, alleging that it was impossible to ensure that funds would not be employed ‘for purposes which might not have the support, and indeed might have the disapproval, of those who have given so generously’.115 Reeves, back in London after his deportation, expressed his puzzlement at Scott’s accusations, noting that whoever controlled Defence and Aid funds was ‘bound to be guided largely in its decisions by the advice it receives from people in South Africa’.116 It is worthwhile noting that Scott’s animosity towards Collins was so strong at this point that he was simultaneously mounting a campaign against his involvement in the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament,

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working with Bertrand Russell for the formation of the radical antinuclear protest group the Committee of 100, and claiming that Collins had acted in a disingenuous manner in his dealings with the press over Russell’s resignation from CND.117 As Denis Herbstein notes in his recent account of Defence and Aid, the two conflicts were interconnected, illustrations of Scott’s righteous disregard for Collins as a campaign organiser – but also, perhaps of Collins’ reluctance to take the Africa Bureau and its patrons fully into his confidence. Given that the Bureau received (according to recent accounts) significant funds from a CIA-front organisation, the Fairfield Foundation, Collins was perhaps correct in his determination to keep control of Defence and Aid, but it was at the cost of long-term damage to his relationship not just with the Bureau, but also with Scott and his mentor, David Astor.118 The formation of the AAM thus coincided with the fragmentation of the anti-apartheid network that had evolved in Britain during the 1950s. Just as important, however, was the influence of an influx of South African exiles who had begun to arrive in London after the imposition of the State of Emergency in South Africa. It was these two factors, allied with the ambitions of its executive, that led the AAM to become the formal co-ordinating committee for anti-apartheid in Britain. The kind of tensions and fractures in the anti-apartheid alliance that became apparent in the latter half of 1960 would, nonetheless, continue to mark the broader movement. To a degree, these reflected wider political and ideological struggles, such as the place of the Communist Party, which would continue to dog relations, not just between groups in Britain, but also with South African organisations. While the United Front managed to hold together until 1962, the support it gained from British sources aroused the envy of others in South Africa, not least the Liberal Party, who complained in April 1961 that the resources available to the Front enabled them to secure ‘support, press contacts, political entrees and many things which are denied to White South Africans’.119 While the attempt to create an anti-apartheid co-ordinating committee failed, efforts did continue to be made to provide multi-lateral support for the SAUF. In early 1961, a proposal was circulated for the creation of a political fund for the SAUF, in place of existing ad hoc arrangements with Defence and Aid. The new fund would ‘give material assistance to political organisations carrying on the struggle inside and outside South Africa’, would promote the international boycott and seek to ‘influence the policy of governments around the world’.120 Again, the disunity between British anti-colonial groups threatened to scupper the plan, when Collins unilaterally launched a political fund

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for South Africa – under the remit of Defence and Aid – in June, prompting a furious response in the Observer newspaper and an apologetic circular letter from the Canon to the sponsors of Defence and Aid.121 Despite his penitence, it was clear that Collins had reservations about proposals for a broader fund to cover a wider region including the ailing Central African Federation, Angola and the Congo.122 The scope of its ambition prompted a sceptical response from some – Fenner Brockway suggested that the proposal would ‘involve the rather dangerous principle that a body of people in Britain should decide between one African movement and another’. Moreover, the focus on ‘peaceful action’ in the proposed Fund’s objectives left it a hostage to the fortunes of Gandhian non-violence, and any impression of aid being contingent upon the priorities of British supporters ‘would destroy the very principle of selfdetermination’.123 Such issues were debated back and forth into 1962, when plans were made to announce the Fund at the AAM-sponsored conference in late January, only to be put on hold on the insistence of the AAM itself and the MCF.124 By late 1962 a Southern African Freedom Group had been formed with Dingle Foot as Chair and Lord Listowel as Treasurer alongside David Ennals. The Group would oversee a Southern African Freedom Fund, whose resources would be distributed within Africa through the offices of the Pan-African Movement for East, Central and Southern Africa.125 Even at this advanced stage, questions remained over the relationship between the fund and African groups, and discussions continued regarding the launch of a fund to support South African organisations. The Freedom Fund did manage to raise over £4000 by 1963, and £500 was provided for the Zimbabwe African People’s Union (ZAPU) in Southern Rhodesia.126 Overall, however, the drawn-out process of its formation and the continued fissures that the process revealed were far more significant than any material contribution to African movements. Outside of Southern Rhodesia and South Africa, the momentum of decolonisation rendered the Fund almost irrelevant; for South African movements, meanwhile, the collapse of the SAUF and the turn to armed struggle had begun to transform the relationship between liberation movements and their overseas supporters.

Sanctions – the case for and against The Boycott campaign, despite the rhetoric of the ‘devastating weapon’, was seen by many of the ‘elite’ activists as a symbolic device to arouse and maintain public awareness of apartheid. Following Sharpeville,

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therefore, when the international arena became an increasingly significant space of political struggle against apartheid, serious attention began to turn towards sanctions, which promised, for some, a more effective form of economic and political action against the apartheid state. Ronald Segal, writing in Tribune in May 1960, suggested that, in the post-Sharpeville emergency, ‘the economic body of the Union is vulnerable as never before to the slightest assault on its overseas trade’.127 The AAM, concluding that ‘Moral gestures and protest are not enough’, began to move towards establishing the call for sanctions as the central plank of its campaign. The uncertainty over the status of the AAM during the ill-fated coordinating committee discussions and the trajectory of events themselves forced sanctions into the background, however. By early 1961, anti-apartheid campaigns centred around the Commonwealth Prime Minister’s Conference, scheduled to be held at Lancaster House in March. In January, the AAM organised a conference to discuss the position of South Africa within the Commonwealth, inviting a number of speakers across the political spectrum. At a meeting shortly before the conference, chaired by Ambrose Reeves and attended by a number of influential figures including Michael Scott, David Ennals, Rita Hinden and Jo Grimond, activists agreed that they should instigate a campaign in support of South Africa’s expulsion from the Commonwealth.128 The AAM itself endorsed the call from Oliver Tambo that South Africa be excluded from the Commonwealth, and set up plans for demonstrations during the Lancaster House talks. Verwoerd, who had intended to follow the bureaucratic process of re-admission to the Commonwealth after the Union became a republic, was confronted by a series of demands from African and Asian Commonwealth leaders to change South African policy, and instead declared the intention to withdraw the Commonwealth. The ‘parting of the ways’ between Britain and South Africa, which Verwoerd calculated would be of minimal impact to South African economic links, was greeted with grief by Macmillan who perhaps saw the withdrawal as – in part at least – a consequence of his ‘wind of change’ speech a year earlier.129 For the anti-apartheid movement, however, South African withdrawal from the Commonwealth meant that attention turned more directly to the country’s economic links, and the question of sanctions. Some argued that the withdrawal from the Commonwealth marked a natural end of the AAM, as South Africa was no longer the ‘special’ responsibility of Britain. However, the AAM leadership, aware of the continuing importance of Anglo-South African relations, notwithstanding

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the change in official status, were determined to keep the issue of apartheid alive.130 It was clear that a sanctions campaign would not meet with universal support – when AAM executives met with Jack Bailey of the Co-Operative Union, his key concern was that sanctions would have a detrimental effect on the British economy. Bailey even went so far as to suggest that the use of prison labour on South African farms ‘might be said to be an example of penal reform’.131 Leaving aside Bailey’s somewhat contestable claims, it is worth noting that the long-standing expose of prison labour, dating back to the campaign of Sibande, Scott and First in the 1940s, was seen as significant – Bailey did agree to initiate a study of cooperative farms in South Africa. Given Bailey’s response, it was perhaps unsurprising that the AAM noted in July 1962 that the call for sanctions was something ‘we have found difficult to express in concrete terms meaningful to the public’.132 In an attempt to clarify the aims of the campaign, Patrick van Rensburg prepared a briefing document, which was presented to the AAM Executive in March 1962. A private conference was mooted, bringing together invited delegates from unions and others, including the centre-right Bow Group, to discuss the political arguments for and against sanctions, and their practicality.133 The development of the AAM sanctions campaign was an extension of the symbolic and moral protest embodied in the Boycott; it represented a sharpening of the critique of apartheid and a re-working of the narrative of international responsibility in the wake of South Africa’s withdrawal from Commonwealth. For British activists, apartheid was no longer a moral question of empire – although it is clear that efforts were underway to maintain relations with South Africa, despite having lost the Commonwealth connection. In 1961, a Cabinet Committee had been established on ‘Future Relations with South Africa’, whose objective seems to have been to maintain close association, particularly with regard to defence and arms supplies.134 It was in an atmosphere of increasing economic anxieties that the South Africa Bill was introduced to parliament in February 1962: earlier that month it was reported that the trade gap had jumped to around £68 million.135 There may be little surprise, then, that Edward Heath sought to describe the legislation as a straightforward matter, providing for the preservation of the ‘closely woven links, both human and material, which have developed between the two countries’.136 Beyond the immediate economic expediencies, however, little had changed in official attitudes towards South Africa since the 1940s. A key tenet of the argument was that it would be dangerous to ‘do anything vindictive which would antagonise opinion in South Africa’; despite the

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fact that the Act had also to demonstrate that the loss of Commonwealth membership would have some impact on the country. It is significant to note, however, that strategic and defence relations were touched on only lightly by the Act, as the government argued that ‘no significant changes in the existing pattern of defence relations’ were implied by the change in South African status.137 There was spirited opposition to the Bill – John Strachey suggested that the government wanted to give the impression that it was akin to regulating ‘relations between the Middlesex County Council and a refractory water works’,138 while Joe Grimond stated simply that what was being discussed was no less than the way in which a ‘Commonwealth founded on freedom, justice and democracy is going to deal with a country which has denied all those principles, both as ideals and in practice’.139 The South Africa Act was thus a further catalyst for calls from the AAM to impose sanctions, and as plans for the private conference progressed, the AAM made a public call for the British government to ‘give immediate and serious consideration’ to economic sanctions and an arms embargo.140 The movement co-organised a meeting in the House of Commons on military relations with South Africa and Portugal, and a rally in Trafalgar Square, and stated in its Executive Committee Report that ‘all our propaganda should now be geared towards the idea of sanctions’.141 A private conference, held in July 1962, and chaired by Ambrose Reeves, heard contributions from James Skinner of the Economist Intelligence Unit and Anthony de Crespigny (a former University of Natal lecturer who had connections with the ill-fated African Resistance Movement).142 At around the same time, the ANC had begun to discuss plans for an international conference on South Africa, ‘to decide on forms of concerted action that could be taken on a global scale and might be an appropriate follow-up on the present campaigns’.143 By late 1962, then, leading anti-apartheid organisations – both inside and outside of South Africa – were looking to the international arena as the locus of efforts to exert pressure on the South African government, which was showing resilience in the aftermath of the Sharpeville and Commonwealth crises. On the international stage, a key development was the establishment in late 1962 of the UN Special Committee on Apartheid, following a General Assembly resolution which also called for sanctions against South Africa. As a result, the Western powers declined to participate in the body, which became an active and highly significant cog in international campaigns against apartheid – effectively a lobby group for the South African liberation movements. Despite their attempts to

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forestall action at the UN, British officials nevertheless began to explore the implications of sanctions against South Africa. In his final report from South Africa before retirement as High Commissioner and British Ambassador, Sir John Maud wrote pessimistically of the possibilities for change within the country. As the government of Verwoerd became more entrenched, the resistance movements more militant, and international pressures for action more intense, he argued that Britain would find it ‘increasingly difficult to continue treating South Africa as halfally and half-untouchable at the same time’. While British commercial and strategic interests required stability in South Africa, Maud noted that stability could not last without political change, which would, he thought, be likely to arrive following some kind of ‘convulsion’. Under these circumstances, Britain needed to ‘frequently and critically … reconsider where the balance of our interest lies and how much support of any kind we should continue to give the Government of South Africa’.144 In his response to Maud’s despatch, Edward Heath asked a series of questions that would be relevant in the event of Britain considering any kind of sanctions against South Africa. While the seriousness of official interest in a sanctions policy is significant, there was no real support for sanctions – suggestions for a Whitehall study to be established were seen as an opportunity to accumulate evidence ‘to show that the application of economic sanctions on South Africa would have a very deleterious effect on the British economy’.145 Heath’s inclination was, furthermore, that Britain should be prepared to veto any UN sanctions resolution, so as to protect the country’s southern African defence interests, and to circumvent the possibility of breaking any mandatory boycott.146 The Foreign Office responses to Heath’s questions underlined this position, arguing that Western states were more likely to follow Britain’s lead with regard to sanctions, and estimating the loss of export trade to South Africa at £150 million. While decolonisation meant that sanctions against South Africa were less likely to set a precedent that could be applied to Britain, although it would probably lead to calls for sanctions against Southern Rhodesia. Furthermore it was argued that South Africa would be able to survive a sustained sanctions campaign.147 The belief that South Africa could withstand sanctions had been outlined in a report produced by the Commercial Section of the British Embassy in Cape Town in May 1963. The report concluded that the South African economy would continue to function, even with a complete cessation of import and export trade. This provided British officials, particularly those engaged in debate at the United Nations,

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with evidence to argue against sanctions. In his letter to the Foreign Office accompanying the report, Hilary Young remarked that ‘sanctions would not, by their economic effects alone, produce a decisive result’.148 However, his following comment, that the socio-political consequences of sanctions would be ‘unpredictable’, points to the nuanced quality of the brief report. A lack of export trade would, the report suggested, result in significant increases in unemployment, particularly for unskilled black and Coloured workers. The political impact of such a development was not assessed, but the report’s authors did note that their conclusions relied upon on three assumptions: first, that black South Africans would ‘remain passive’ in the event of sanctions; second, that white South Africans would ‘be prepared to suffer great inconvenience and some hardship for an indefinite period’; third, the boycott would remain firmly in place despite commercial pressure. As Young remarked, all three of these assumptions were open to debate, yet the official analysis was that a breakdown in sanctions was as likely as civil unrest. As confirmation of the increasing international concern over South Africa’s actions, particularly the major increases in military spending between 1960 and 1962, the UN Security Council passed in August 1963 a resolution setting in place a voluntary arms embargo on the country (although an initial call for widespread economic boycott was blocked). Significantly, the US voted in favour, with France and Britain abstaining, although American support for the resolution came in the context of the Kennedy administration’s own partial arms embargo, which sought to simultaneously condemn apartheid and prevent the UN from imposing a tighter set of restrictions.149 The UK explanation for the abstention veered from affectations of affront to legal pedantry. Firstly, a phrase in the resolution referring to those States that were ‘indirectly providing encouragement’ to South Africa was taken as a direct criticism of the UK; the UK delegation strongly repudiated this ‘insinuation’, and therefore felt unable to support it. Secondly, the ban on all arms supplies to South Africa was seen as contrary to that country’s right to self-defence, and potentially harmful to her international defence obligations.150 During his statement to the Security Council, Patrick Dean had outlined the ‘special obligations’ that the UK felt when considering South Africa: the country’s strategic geographical position, responsibility towards the High Commission Territories, significant levels of trade and investment, and ‘ties of kith and kin forged in times of danger’.151 In the months preceding the Security Council vote, South African officials had sought assurances

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that existing arms agreements would be honoured. In particular, concerns were raised over the outstanding contract for Buccaneer fighter aircraft, and the continuing supply of parts and maintenance equipment. Alexander Douglas-Home, as Foreign Secretary, gave tentative assurances, but noted that it was not possible to ‘bind’ any future government into any agreement. The main aim, according to DouglasHome, was to negotiate the Security Council discussions ‘with the least damage possible to Anglo-South African relations’.152 Despite the increasing international condemnation of apartheid, then, the fundamentals of British policy had changed little since 1948. However, the British political landscape was shifting as a result of the growing sense of disillusionment and decadence surrounding Macmillan’s administration, reeling from the public scandal of the Profumo affair. The Labour Party, now under the leadership of Harold Wilson, seemed prepared to go further in its public pronouncements than it had hitherto. In March 1963, Wilson, addressing an anti-apartheid rally in Trafalgar Square, gave a pledge that a Labour government would ‘stop the supply of arms to South Africa’ – a promise that would be broken in the face of the economic crisis of the late 1960s. But he also implied that a Labour administration would go further, stating that ‘we will consider what other steps can be taken to bring pressure to bear on the government of South Africa to respect human rights, human decencies, and the principles of the United Nations Charter’.153 Although he promised nothing, his audience would have been likely to have interpreted his words as an indication that a Wilson government would, at the least, be prepared to support criticism of South Africa at the UN. International anti-apartheid networks thus came to see the extension of support for sanctions as their primary aim. Efforts to provide a clear and rational case for sanctions led to suggestions for a larger, international conference, and in June 1963, the AAM executive heard a proposal for a conference that would ‘obtain vigorous support for the UN decisions on sanctions and further the campaign for a boycott of South African goods’, bringing together representatives from an array of British and international organisations.154 A steering committee, convened by Ronald Segal, was established to discuss practical options for such a conference, which had by September, despite some misgivings (concerns were raised that the AAM should focus on its primary aim of maintaining British public support for the South African movements), sketched a conference framework and secured an agreement with Penguin to publish the papers.155 For Segal, the aim of the conference

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was to ‘confront West and East alike with a detailed programme for sanctions and the support for such action of the Afro-Asian world’.156 While it was set up under the auspices of the AAM, the steering committee under Segal had operated with a degree of independence. Vella Pillay, in particular, addressed a series of concerns to Segal in November, particularly over the extent to which the content of the expert papers could be controlled, and whether the AAM could effectively vet any papers before publication with Penguin.157 The AAM, understandably, did not wish to set in motion a process that would result in the dismissal of a sanctions campaign by its own expert panel. Beyond this, Pillay and Ainslie were concerned that Segal’s plans for the conference had become more ‘exploratory’ in nature, rather than an opportunity to discuss the implementation of a sanctions campaign.158 As plans for the conference developed, it drew support from a series of figures associated with both the emerging transnational anti-apartheid network and a broader alliance of African figures. The conference was, reportedly, given financial backing by several African states, notably Algeria and Tunisia, although British government sources suggested that promised funds were slow to materialise.159 There also appeared a degree of reticence on the part of American activists – Houser regretted that the ACOA would only be able to provide ‘limited’ assistance in securing interest in the US.160 To an extent, this was an indictment of the lack of resources available to the ACOA and the level of public interest in the issue of apartheid within the US, where domestic civil rights continued, understandably, to dominate the agenda. Houser also seemed to exhibit a degree of caution over Segal’s plans, writing to representatives of the PAC and ANC to seek advice on how the ACOA should respond.161 Nevertheless, the conference patrons were high-level political figures, including Jawaharlal Nehru, Tunku Putra, Ahmed Ben Bella, Kwame Nkrumah, Jomo Kenyatta, Julius Nyerere, Sekou Toure and Leopold Senghor.162 To a degree, then, the event illustrates how anti-apartheid campaigns became an expression of Afro-Asian solidarity and a key theme of ‘Third World’ discourse. It is possible to suggest that anti-apartheid was mobilised to generate power for newly independent African states; certainly, the conference sought to affect the findings of the UN committee on sanctions and was taken seriously enough by Britain’s Cabinet Working Party on Sanctions. The International Conference on Economic Sanctions against South Africa was held at Friends House in London on during 14–17 April 1964, and was attended by an array of delegates drawn from around the world. The list of delegates included many official representatives

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of the newly decolonised Afro-Asian states, with Malaysia, Indonesia and Ghana sending large groups of embassy and UN officials. The Chinese delegation comprised of academics and members of various official bodies, including the Afro-Asian Solidarity Committee and the Chinese People’s Committee for World Peace, while their Soviet counterparts were also drawn from academics and non-governmental bodies, although embassy staff did attend as observers. Unofficial delegations from Canada, Scandinavia and western European countries also attended, so did a series of ‘experts’, the largest contingent being from Sweden, in a demonstration of the extent to which anti-apartheid networks had developed within the country.163 Faced with such a high-profile set of delegates, the South African government complained that the UK had failed to take a public stance against the conference, but were given reassurances that the UK position on sanctions had not changed, and while it was not deemed appropriate to comment on what was described as an ‘entirely private conference’, it also noted that delegates would receive no diplomatic privileges during the conference.164 The South African contingent drew from a cross-section of the political spectrum (with the obvious exception of the PAC, save for Barney Desai, who would subsequently join the organisation), and included key figures from the Left – Yusuf Dadoo, Ruth First and Brian Bunting – as well as liberal opinion in the form of social scientist Leo Kuper. The large British delegation to the conference provides a sketch of the key constituents of the wider anti-apartheid movement in 1964, including as it did members of established groups, such as the Fabian Society and the Africa Bureau, as well as the AAM itself and several local anti-apartheid committees. The only political party to send a delegation was the Communist Party, represented by Rajani Palme Dutt and Jack Woodis (although soon-to-be Labour MPs David Ennals and Shirley Williams were in attendance). The large American contingent included representatives of the ACOA as well as delegates from the NAACP, the Students’ National Co-Coordinating Committee and a group of academics including Thomas Karis and Gwendolyn Carter. Given the background to the conference, the agenda of its organisers and the make-up of the delegations, it is unsurprising that, despite the fears of the AAM executive, the main findings were that sanctions would be ‘feasible and practical’, and that effects on the economies of countries imposing sanctions would be ‘small and marginal’.165 The conference organisers’ fundamental arguments in favour of sanctions were outlined in their paper on ‘Sanctions and World Peace’. The point of departure for the steering committee was that apartheid, contrary to

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the claims of the South African government, was an issue of international concern – the imposition of sanctions was, therefore ‘a necessary international policy for the maintenance of world peace and good relations between states’.166 After outlining the nature of the debates on South African racial policies at the UN since 1946, the paper went on to argue that the point had been reached for ‘the condemnation of South Africa as an international delinquent’.167 Commissions I and II of the conference examined the feasibility and potential effectiveness of sanctions, and their possible impact upon the domestic economies of participants. Their report suggested that the costs of sanctions, which would by necessity result in severe disruption of the South African economy, would nevertheless be less severe than those of long-term violent racial conflict. For sanctions to be effective, however, it was imperative that both the US and Great Britain were ‘active participants’ and that all other nations were in support.168 The conclusions were drawn in part from the study provided by economist Alfred Maizels, at that time a Research Officer at the National Institute for Economic and Social Research. In addition, Maizels argued that targeted sanctions aimed at the key commodities of petrol, capital equipment and gold would exert pressure on South Africa without enforcing ‘siege’ conditions in the country.169 The Commission report concluded that there were sufficient international gold reserves to offset any halt in the supply of South African gold, and that oil sanctions, though not sufficient in themselves, would have a significant economic impact. It was accepted that Britain would feel the effect of sanctions against South Africa, due to its significant levels of trade and investment; such effects would, however, be temporary.170 Interestingly, David Worswick, the Oxford economist who provided a detailed study of the impact of sanctions on Britain, differentiated between the effects of unilateral sanctions – which might amount to as much as 2.5 per cent of gross national product – and a broader sanctions regime, in which it would be in participants’ interests to find a universal solution to any economic consequences of a sanctions regime.171 The fear of the loss of economic advantage if sanctions were not imposed in a uniform manner was, the Commission argued, one of the key reasons behind developed nations’ antipathy to sanctions. What was implicit in the conclusions was that some form of international agreement was necessary in order to impose and police sanctions, as well as to establish a system that would mitigate the detrimental impact of sanctions on those involved. It was argued by the Legal and Political Commission of the conference that the political situation in South Africa constituted a threat to

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international peace, in violation of a series of international charters, and ‘flies in the face of international standards and fundamental freedoms’. As such, sanctions were both a legal and political necessity. It concluded that the country ‘was in a crisis which amounts to a state of race war’; sanctions were, therefore, the ‘only effective means of intervention short of military intervention’.172 However, it was also clear that a successful campaign of sanctions would require a united international effort centred around the UN declaring the South African situation a threat to world peace, and imposing mandatory sanctions following a resolution by the Security Council. The focus of pressure would need to aim at the UK, the US and France, through co-ordinated efforts to lobby Heads of State, trades union bodies, youth groups and religious organisations. Britain would be, the report suggested, the least likely to support radical measures, even in the eventuality of a Labour government. Thus, while it was important that the AAM campaign in Britain should continue, the Commission argued that particular attention be given to changing the position in the US. Intriguingly, the final conclusion of the conference was that there was a need for ‘the establishment of a permanent body to further the movement for economic sanctions’, presumably some kind of international anti-apartheid body. It was clear that, although sanctions could be effective, their success depended on the support of a key nations, effective United Nations oversight and universal support. The British government had paid close attention to the Sanctions Conference, and the Cabinet Working Party on Sanctions sought to address some of its key arguments in their own report. Its first meeting was two months after the conference but, like the earlier event, was focussed upon the United Nations Sanctions Committee that was to report later in the year. In addition to briefing the UK representative on the UN committee, the Working Party’s other tasks were to exchange findings with US counterparts (in the hope of maintaining a united front in the debate), and to provide public justification for UK policy on sanctions. While Britain had voted in favour of the establishment of the UN committee and had agreed to participate, officials were clear that this was purely to demonstrate the ineffectiveness of international sanctions, rather than any indication of equivocation over policy. This was, therefore, an exercise in providing evidence to support existing position on policy.173 The official position in June 1964 was that sanctions could only be effective if supported by a naval blockade, which ‘would be tantamount to acts of war’.174 Given their diametrically opposed agendas, it comes as no surprise that the report of the Cabinet Working Party differed from that of the

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International Sanctions Conference. Perhaps the most fundamental distinction between the two documents is found in their conclusions regarding the effectiveness of sanctions. While the architects of the sanctions conference were confident that sanctions would, if effectively applied, exert considerable pressure on South Africa, the Cabinet Working Party was convinced that South Africa could withstand sanctions, even if they did impart some long-term economic damage. In fact, the Working Party criticised Alfred Maizels’ findings, arguing that they did not ‘follow from purely economic arguments’.175 Still, the conclusions were based on some broad assumptions – on continuing black passivity and white stoicism in the face of economic deprivation in particular. Thus, while agricultural products such as tea, coffee and wheat would be in short supply under sanctions, it was argued that South Africa ‘would have no difficulty in maintaining herself well above subsistence level’. The paper makes no mention of the well-understood levels of social and economic inequality in South Africa, however. Again, while it was accepted that sanctions would have a significant impact on the import of machinery and spare parts, it was argued that South Africa had the resources to maintain ‘continued existence as a mechanised and highly organised state’. Petrol products, again, could be found from local resources (through a coal conversion process), although the replacement of imported lubricants might, they suggested, pose a problem to a degree. The Working Party did, however, outline one product that would be very difficult to produce within South Africa. Unless South Africa had been able to stockpile ball-bearings, officials concluded, a ban on their import ‘would probably sabotage the South African economy more effectively than any other single step’.176 The Working Party also contended that the impact on the British economy would be greater than that suggested by the conference. By taking invisible trade into account, for example, it was suggested that an additional £100m would be lost to Britain’s balance of payments, taking the total to around £300m per year. As Worswick had argued, if this were to happen as a result of unilateral sanctions, the effects would be substantial. However, officials were dismissive of Worswick’s contention that some form of international development loan could create new markets for those commodities no longer being traded with South Africa. While there were ‘difficulties ensuring that Britain obtained an appropriate share of the resulting business’, the Working Party concluded that participating in any loan would itself have a detrimental effect on balance of payments.177 As such arguments were shared with both American counterparts and the British UN delegation,

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the challenge facing any attempt to establish the kind of international agreement on sanctions was clear. In June 1964, Britain voted in favour of the establishment of a Security Council Expert Committee to examine the question of sanctions. While British officials had accumulated a large body of material with which to support the case against sanctions at the United Nations, there was a degree of frustration over the position of the US delegation. In July 1964, John Killick, of the British embassy in Washington, complained that ‘more smoking out is needed’ regarding the drift of attitudes towards sanctions in the State Department, although he expressed real concern that American participation in the UN Sanctions Committee was – in part at least – ‘genuine contingency planning’. In Killick’s mind, it was therefore necessary to establish the best way of convincing US officials that any form of sanctions would be unworkable.178 With the Security Council Committee on Sanctions set to meet at the start of the 1964 session, the British policy on sanctions was shaped by a determination to prove the ‘difficulty, cost and ineffectiveness of sanctions’, which would have limited impact on the policy of apartheid ‘as long as they consisted of measures short of war’.179 1964 may be viewed as a transitional moment for the anti-apartheid movement. After the months of instability that followed the Sharpeville crisis, the South African state had reasserted its authority, with the National Party under Verwoerd in a position of strength. The determination of the British government to preserve relations with South Africa following the country’s departure from the Commonwealth appeared to show that there was little that the international community could do that would have an influence over the direction of apartheid policy. Despite John Maud’s formulation, relations during 1961–3 do little to suggest that the Verwoerd regime was even partially seen as a pariah by British officials. The Rivonia trial and the subsequent imprisonment of leading ANC figures marked the effective suppression of internal resistance, while nonetheless bringing the movement further public attention around the world and prompting a degree of diplomatic distaste. As a consequence, international opposition became, for a short time, the primary site of anti-apartheid, with the sanctions coming to represent, for anti-apartheid campaigners, the best hope for an effective method of placing the apartheid regime under pressure. Within Britain, this development was also shaped by political change, as Labour under Harold Wilson was elected into power in October. One other consequence of the 1964 conference was that it saw the near-resignation of Barbara Castle as AAM President. As head of the

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AAM delegation that met the members of the UN Special Committee on Apartheid during the conference, Castle had vetoed Vella Pillay’s participation, following a Sunday Telegraph article accusing Pillay of being a member of the Communist Party. Castle had urged Pillay to write disputing the article, which had been written by Harold Soref, co-author of the ‘exposé’ of Communist involvement in anti-colonial movements, The Puppeteers.180 When no letter had been forthcoming, Castle made it clear that she felt the need to ‘consider her position’ in the AAM. It is noteworthy that this brief controversy prefigured Castle’s eventual resignation from the AAM when becoming a Cabinet Minister following Labour’s election victory – the uneasy relationship between social movement and a mainstream political career had clearly been in evidence prior to the election.

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8

1964 – Year of transition In October 1963, a group of ACOA activists held a demonstration outside the South African consulate, timed to coincide with the opening in South Africa of the Rivonia trial, named after northern Johannesburg suburb in which the leadership of the armed wing of the ANC had based their operations, and where they had been arrested earlier that year. The protestors, who included Michael Scott, Bill Sutherland and a group of schoolchildren who were, apparently, persuaded to cancel their visit to Consulate officials and join the protest. Plans to launch a large helium balloon carrying a sign saying ‘End Apartheid’ over Madison Avenue were foiled when it burst, greeted ‘by a chorus of ‘Ahs’ and ‘Ohs’’.1 To an extent, the metaphor is apt, for the following year saw the suppression of internal resistance in South Africa, and a deflation of morale across the international anti-apartheid movement. In January 1964, Ellen Hellman noted in correspondence to Houser that the South African economy was strengthening and immigration from Europe was on the increase – it was these trends, she argued, that would undermine apartheid in the long term, not a campaign of sanctions. The moment of crisis for the apartheid state had, it seemed, passed. As we saw in the previous chapter, the efforts to promote a sanctions campaign were being pursued with vigour, as illustrated by the international conference held in London, as well as the continued efforts on the part of British officials to mount a compelling case against sanctions. The time and attention paid to the topic by those on the Cabinet Office Working Party demonstrates that UN-endorsed sanctions were seen as a very real possibility. However, the course of action recommended by the UN Expert Committee – for a fully representative convention that would establish a new political direction in South Africa – merely deepened the frustration of anti-apartheid activists and was simply ignored 196

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Epilogue and Conclusion

by the South African government.2 While the Labour Party had pledged its support for an arms embargo, and included this pledge in its 1964 election manifesto, the Party made clear it did not support a wider sanctions policy. Indeed, thanks to the long-term contract for Buccaneer aircraft agreed in the final months of the Conservative administration under Alec Douglas-Home, and the subsequent decision by Harold Wilson to honour that contract, Britain continued to supply arms to South Africa throughout the 1960s and beyond. In terms of its effect on policy, the sanctions campaign mounted by the anti-apartheid movement was far from a success. As the Rivonia trial reached its conclusion in June 1964, the UN Security Council published a Resolution calling for it to be halted and for amnesty to be granted for anti-apartheid campaigners.3 Two days later, the defendants were found guilty and subsequently sentenced to life imprisonment on Robben Island, prompting a second and much weaker resolution that reiterated previous calls for South Africa to abandon its authoritarian response to opposition, to comply with requests to establish a process of national consultation, and to establish a new Expert Committee to undertake ‘technical and practical study’ of possible Security Council measures.4 The shift in emphasis between the two resolutions is further illustrated by the states that abstained – in the first case, Brazil, the US and Britain, in the second, Czechoslovakia and the USSR. Only France abstained from voting for either resolution. Despite the apparent weakness of the UN in the face of South African intransigence, and the reluctance of Western governments to move beyond symbolic gestures against apartheid, the Special Committee on Apartheid did begin to provide an unprecedented international forum for the co-ordination of opposition to apartheid. In late 1964, the UN also provided an official framework for the systems of financial support that had been set by anti-apartheid activists. In particular, Collins’ Defence and Aid Fund (now reconstituted as International Defence and Aid) gained recognition from the UN Special Committee as one of three accredited organisation for the dispersal of funds to South African liberation movements. The decision effectively silenced the criticism of Collins from Scott and his associates, and resulted in a significant increase in the funds available to the organisation.5 Thus, while the limitations on the ability of the UN to direct pressure on South Africa at the level of the nation state became apparent, the Special Committee illustrated the way in which the organisation might function as a semi-official point of interaction between the anti-apartheid movement and sympathetic governments. Nevertheless, the weakening international response, the strong efforts to rebut the arguments of the proponents of sanctions, and the

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near-normalisation of relations with South Africa provide some justification for stating that 1964 represented the closing of a moment – the end point of the anti-apartheid movement that had developed since the latter half of the 1950s. Again, some parallels might be drawn with the first phase of CND in Britain, whose initial surge of public support declined in the early 1960s, as fears surrounding impending nuclear conflict receded in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Yet, while antiapartheid did not mobilise public opinion in the way that it had hoped, it remained (as did the campaign against nuclear weapons) a major element of radical politics in both Britain and the US. In the British case, the often-exaggerated but nevertheless significant phenomenon of ‘sixties radicalism’ positioned anti-apartheid, among other anti-colonial and anti-racist issues, as a central foundation of opposition to ‘establishment’ norms and values. Issues of racial discrimination and the attempt to suppress African nationalist political ambitions were, in fact, at the forefront of youth politics in Britain during the 1960s. One of the main spurs for the disputes at the London School of Economics (LSE) was provided by the 1966 appointment of Walter Adams, former Principal of the University College of Rhodesia, as Director of the LSE. In the case of student politics, the presence of African students, both black and white, was a major stimulus to such campaigns. In the case of Sussex University, the fact that Thabo Mbeki, the son of one of the Rivonia trial defendants, was a prominent member of the student body in 1964 made apartheid a significant point of reference for politically active students.6 In the US, a similar process of continuing, but weakened, anti-apartheid activity was evident in 1964. Here, though, attention had turned more forcefully towards domestic race relations, and opposition to apartheid was seen as aligned with, but also subordinate to, the Civil Rights Movement. Like Britain, officials in the US tended to view relations with South Africa in terms of a balance between, on the one hand, the need to protect strategic and economic interests and, on the other, the desire to maintain sufficient distance from the apartheid regime in order to secure the support of what was becoming known as the ‘Third World’. During the Kennedy administration, the balance shifted towards a more guarded and neutral stance on South Africa, while the development of a crisis in race relations in the American South forced domestic issues to the fore. While Kennedy had come to office with little in the way of a Civil Rights agenda, the increasing viciousness of the racial conflict in the southern States began to sharpen the focus of those in Washington.7 During 1964, anti-apartheid groups in the US maintained an ongoing public campaign in support of sanctions, and, with the Rivonia trial

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adding to the public awareness of apartheid, attracted increasing numbers to demonstrations. In June, several hundred demonstrators, including a large number of African American trade unionists demonstrated outside the South African UN Mission in New York, and several demonstrators were arrested following a sit-in.8 Houser wrote with satisfaction following the demonstration, noting that the level of support suggested that ‘various groups are now realizing the importance of the South African issue’. He also felt that even greater participation could be achieved, so long as protest did not ‘run into direct competition with something in the civil-rights field’.9 At the same time, American activists had established a Consultative Council on South Africa, drawing together representatives of ACOA, the NAACP and ANCLA in an effort at co-ordination that bore similarities to the proposals that ultimately failed to get off the ground in Britain three years previously.10 With plans for a conference in Washington on ‘South African crisis and US Policy’, that would be held in 1965, the Consultative Council appeared to be successfully mobilising a measure of public support for anti-apartheid.11 While the Civil Rights struggle remained the primary focus, the issue of apartheid was therefore of increasing significance for African American leaders. In December 1964, en route to accept the Nobel Peace Prize, Martin Luther King addressed a meeting in London, during which he drew parallels between the situations in South Africa and the US: In our struggle for freedom and justice in the United States, which has also been so long and arduous, we feel a powerful sense of identification with those in the far more deadly struggle for freedom in South Africa. … We have honoured Chief Lutuli for his leadership, and we know how this non-violence was only met by increasing violence from the state, increasing repression, culminating in the shootings of Sharpeville and all that has happened since.12 There is a sense of transition in the speech: King noted with understanding the turn away from non-violent action, the apparent silencing of internal opposition and the reluctance of the governments in Britain and the US to act against apartheid. His address, which was partly written by Mary Benson, was a summation of some of the key themes of anti-apartheid discourse over the preceding years – of identification with the people of South Africa, and of a moral, non-violent struggle for human rights. Most significantly, however, was the call to support a ‘massive movement for economic sanctions’ and his pledge that African Americans, in the process of discovering their power as voters and

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citizens, would seek to influence policy on South Africa. For Nesbitt, this was a ‘landmark speech’ that signalled a shift from non-violence, at least in the South African case.13 Nevertheless, both his London address and his Nobel acceptance address gave prominence to Albert Lutuli, demonstrating that the older generation of moderate leaders, advocates of non-violent civil disobedience, were still powerful symbols of hope. As Nesbitt shows, though, the tours of Africa taken by Malcolm X in 1964 presaged the conjoining of pan-Africanism and radical civil rights activism over the following years.14 This was a moment of transition, then, when anti-apartheid discourse began to be inflected by reference to the particularism of black power and liberation struggle.

Conclusion – solidarity and the moral dilemma of modernity Over the course of the twentieth century, transnational networks provided a vital space in which ideas regarding the politics of race in South Africa were contested, shaped and re-shaped. These networks, whose compass ranged from liberal humanitarians and mission Christians through to pan-Africanists, Communists and radical anti-colonialists, were also powerful channels of influence, the means by which these dominant and counter-hegemonic discourses were communicated. The flow of influence was, moreover, multi-directional – they did not simply ferry ideas into South Africa from the wider world, or vice-versa. The struggle for liberation in South Africa was thus a powerful symbol for civil rights campaigners in the US, a frame of reference through which African Americans might interpret their own experiences in an international context. Likewise, ideas forged in response to segregation in the US, from the radical political activism of Du Bois, or the Left-wing internationalism of the Council on African Affairs, through to the accommodationist social reform of the ‘Tuskegee model’, were themselves points of reference for South African activists and thinkers. Similar trajectories of influence were at work between South Africa and Britain – from the influence that South African liberals had in shaping British ideas about race and segregation in the first half of the century to the adoption of the campaigns and ideas of Congress by anti-apartheid campaigners. At no point, therefore, was there a single transnational network of activists, and the anti-apartheid movement must therefore be understood both as a ‘movement of movements’ which encompassed a variety of forms of social and political organisation, but also as a series of intertwined, but often disconnected, strands of activism. Black scholars

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have, for example, posed questions about the lack of integration between the anti-apartheid movement and black communities in Britain,15 but this is an observation that is equally applicable to international solidarity movements and transnational networks. Anti-apartheid provided a point of intersection, but for much of the time the networks that connected South African, British and American activists were racially defined – a situation that served to emphasise the problematic meaning of ‘solidarity’.16 Although it was the case that, by the early 1960s, white anti-apartheid activists had come to regard the nationalist movements within South Africa as the embodiment of the struggle against white supremacy, black activists had long regarded nationalist groups in Africa as the legitimate expression of both popular opinion within the country and broader pan-African values. It is possible to read the development of the anti-apartheid movement in terms of the way in which transnational networks shifted from being an ‘imperial network’ of white humanitarians to become an alliance between indigenous political movements and cosmopolitan sympathisers. However, the structural inequalities that shaped the social and political experiences of black and white, in both national and global contexts, exerted considerable influence over the nature of this relationship. While it is thus difficult to define anti-apartheid networks other than in loose terms, it is possible to argue that many of the broad contours of the movement had been established by 1964. The anti-apartheid movement did not remain static after the mid-1960s, yet it retained many of the characteristics that were set in place during the late 1950s and early 1960s. Of course, the movement continued to adapt to and reflect changes in the wider context in which it operated – for example, developments within South Africa, such as the resurgence of internal opposition from the mid-1970s, or the way in which it was embedded within national movements that sought to counter the neo-liberal ‘consensus’ of the 1980s. During the 1980s, at the height of its popular appeal, antiapartheid was one of a broad array of causes that defined opposition to the Thatcher administration, just as it also reflected a reaction to the draconian measures of state repression employed by the Botha government during the State of Emergency in South Africa. However, even during this period, the key modes of anti-apartheid activity, and its organisational forms, were in many ways more intensified versions of the patterns of activity developed between 1952 and 1964. As Thörn has argued, the boycott ‘continued to be the most important form of activism and mobilisation’, the central mode of popular participation in the movement, as well as the most prominent method

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of raising public consciousness.17 Both the practical and symbolic value of consumer, economic and cultural boycotts were well understood by activists before 1964, while the main targets of boycott activity, from sporting, cultural and professional contacts to those primary objects of the discourse of ethical consumption – the Cape apple, and Outspan orange – had been identified by the early 1960s. The sanctions campaign involved a particular understanding of the nature of economic relationships between South Africa and the wider world, as well as a sense that political influence would be effected through the agency of state institutions, rather than popular consciousness. While the sanctions campaign was notable in its development of a sophisticated and detailed analysis of the South African economy, it relied, fundamentally, on the kind of old-fashioned lobbying that had long been adopted as a mode of protest. In a sense, the anti-apartheid movement was perpetually pulled in two directions simultaneously: towards interaction with political institutions and popular mobilisation. Again, it is possible to discern this process in the activism that developed during the 1950s. One might be tempted to suggest that the internal dilemmas of a complex activist such as Michael Scott can be seen as an illustration of this broader phenomenon, in which anti-apartheid could be characterised as a movement that looked both backwards, towards the liberal humanitarianism of the past, as well as forwards, towards the direct action and consciousness-raising orientation of new social movements. While there remains much left untouched by this study, there seems to be sufficient evidence to suggest that some of the general contours of international anti-apartheid activity may be drawn. Above all, throughout the twentieth century, there was a moral dimension to debates around South African policy, be it focussed on ‘Native welfare’, segregation or apartheid. The thread that bound together the various networks and individuals that have been the focus of this study was a fundamental contradiction between universalist ambitions and the differentiated and unequal conditions of modern society. From debates around the rectitude of the South African war to the legitimacy of armed struggle, the language of overseas observers was marked by a tension between racial difference and universal values of justice and liberty. The moral dilemma of solidarity – the distinction between the concept of a transnational relationship between equals and the practice of support for distant ‘others’ in South Africa – was a constant presence. Without seeking to draw equivalence between the varied strands of activism, it can be said that it was the ongoing struggle to negotiate the fault line of race that remained constant, drawing liberal segregationists, Africanists and anti-apartheid activists into a common historical process.

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1

Introduction

1. H. Thörn (2006) Anti-Apartheid and the Emergence of a Global Civil Society (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan), p. 6; see also A. Klotz (1995) Norms in International Relations: The Struggle Against Apartheid (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). 2. P. Byrne (1997) Social Movements in Britain (London: Routledge), p. 174. 3. Quoted in A. Bank (1999) ‘The Politics of Mythology: The Genealogy of the Philip Myth’, Journal of Southern African Studies, 25, 3, 474. 4. See, for example, G. E. Cory (1913) The Rise of South Africa – A History of the Origin of South African Colonisation and of Its Development towards the East from the Earliest Times to 1857, Vol II (London: Longmans, Green and Co.), pp. 403–04. 5. A. Steward (1956) You are Wrong Father Huddleston (London: Bodley Head). 6. Macmillan self-consciously attempted to resuscitate the reputation of Philip in two books, based upon Philip’s own papers: W. M. Macmillan (1927) The Cape Colour Question – A Historical Survey (London: Faber & Gwyer); W. M. Macmillan (1963) Bantu, Boer, Britain – The Making of a South African Native Problem (London: Clarendon Press). 7. Macmillan The Cape Colour Question, p. 283. 8. Times, 29 November 1952. 9. N. C. Crawford and A. Klotz (1999) How Sanctions Work – Lessons From South Africa (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). For an overview of debate from the 1980s, see M. Orkin (1989) Sanctions Against Apartheid (Cape Town: David Philip), while the US perspective is provided by D. Marmelstein (1987) The Anti-Apartheid Reader (New York: Grove Press), pp. 334–420. 10. Andrew Thompson, ‘Publicity, Philanthropy and Commemoration: British Society and the War’, in Omissi and Thompson (2002) The Impact of the South African War (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan), pp. 99–123. 11. R. Hyam (1972) The Failure of South African Expansion, 1908–1948 (London: Macmillan); see also R. Hyam and P. Henshaw (2003) The Lion and the Springbok – Britain and South Africa since the Boer War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). 12. See for example, S. Marks (1990) ‘History, the Nation and Empire: Sniping from the Periphery’ History Workshop Journal, 29, 1, 111–19. The reference to ‘gentlemanly capitalists’ is, of course from P. J. Cain and A. G. Hopkins (1993) British Imperialism – 1688–2000 (London: Longman). 13. A. Lester (2001) Imperial Networks – Creating Identities in Nineteenth-Century South Africa and Britain (London: Rouledge). 14. Thörn Anti-Apartheid, p. 8. 15. A. Lent (2001) British Social Movements since 1945 – Sex, Colour, Peace and Power (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan).

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Notes

Notes

16. A. Klotz (2002) ‘Transnational Activism and Global Transformations: The Anti-Apartheid and Abolitionist Experiences’, European Journal of International Relations, 8, 1, 69. Emphasis in original. 17. M. E. Keck and K. Sikkink (1998) Activists beyond Borders – Advocacy Networks in International Politcs (Ithaca: Cornell University Press), p. 1; on mission humanitarians see Lester, Imperial Networks; E. Elbourne (2002) Blood Ground: Colonialism, Missions and the Contest for Christianity in the Cape Colony and Britain, 1799–1853 (Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press); see also C. Hall (2002) Civilising Subjects: Metropole and Colony in the English Imagination, 1830–1867 (Cambridge: Polity). 18. Lester Imperial Networks, pp. 189–91. 19. Keck and Sikkink Activists beyond Borders, pp. 214–15. 20. Thörn Anti-Apartheid, pp. 9–11. 21. Keck and Sikkink Activists beyond Borders, p. 215. 22. Thörn Anti-Apartheid, p. 207. 23. J. Hearn (2006) Rethinking Nationalism: A Critical Introduction (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). 24. F. Furedi (1994) Colonial Wars and the Politics of Third World Nationalism (London: IB Tauris). 25. Gunnar Jahn, Nobel Peace Prize Presentation Speech, 10 December 1961, Nobel Foundation, available at http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/peace/ laureates/1960/press.html, accessed 1 February 2010.

2 Humanitarian Networks and Segregation 1. Foreign Mission Chronicle, January 1900, p. 21. 2. Hansard, House of Lords Debates, 17 October 1899 Vol. 77, Cols. 3–39. 3. G. Cuthbertson (2002) ‘Preaching Imperialism: Wesleyan Methodism and the War’, in Omissi and Thompson, The Impact of the South African War (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan), pp. 157–72. 4. Lester, Imperial Networks – Creating Identities in Nineteenth-Century South Africa and Britain (London: Rouledge), pp. 105–30; T. Keegan (1996) Colonial South Africa and the Origins of the Racial Order (London: Leicester University Press), pp. 75–128. 5. M. Blunden (1980) ‘The Anglican Church during the War’, in P. Warwick (ed.) The South African War – The Anglo-Boer War 1899–1902 (Harlow: Longman), pp. 279–92. 6. A. Porter (2004) Religion versus Empire? British Protestant Missionaries and Overseas Expansion, 1700–1914 (Manchester: Manchester University Press), pp. 12–13. 7. J. A. Munson, cited in G. Cuthbertson (2000) ‘Pricking the “nonconformist conscience”: Religion against the South African War’, in D. Lowry, The South African War Reappraised (Manchester: Manchester University Press), p. 172. 8. Ibid. 9. H. H. Hewison (1989) Hedge of Wild Almonds – South Africa, the Pro-Boers and the Quaker Conscience, 1890–1910 (Portsmouth, NH: Heinemann), pp. 178–80. 10. Times, 11 April 1900; Times, 4 July 1900. 11. J. A. Hobson (1902) Imperialism: A Study (London: Allen and Unwin), p. 56.

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12. See P. J. Cain (2002) Hobson and Imperialism: Radicalism, New Liberalism and Finance 1887–1938 (Oxford: Oxford University Press); P. J. Cain (2002) ‘British Radicalism, the South African Crisis, and the Origins of the Theory of Financial Imperialism’, in Omissi and Thompson, The Impact of the South African War (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan), pp. 173–93; N. Etherington (1984) Theories of Imperialism (Beckenham: Croom Helm); S. Edgell and J. Townshend (1992) ‘John Hobson, Thorstein Veblen and the Phenomenon of Imperialism: Finance Capital, Patriotism and War’, American Journal of Economics and Sociology, 51, 4, 401–20. 13. B. Porter (1980) ‘The Pro-Boers in Britain’, in Warwick, The South African War, the Anglo-Boer War 1899–1902 (London: Longman), pp. 242–4. 14. Oliver Schreiner to Jan Smuts, 23 January 1899, in K. Hancock (1966) Selections from the Smuts Papers, Vol I (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 215–17. 15. W. C. Willoughby (1900) ‘Some Phases of the South African Native Question from a Missionary Standpoint’, in Students and the Missionary Problem (London: SVMU), pp. 297–8. 16. Times, 26 August 1901. 17. Thomas Fowell Buxton (1900) ‘The Native Question in South Africa’, The Anti-Slavery Reporter and Aborigine’s Friend, 20, 5, 155. 18. Anon (1903) ‘Native Labour in South Africa’, The Anti-Slavery Reporter and Aborigines’ Friend, 23, 1, 13–19. 19. Anon (1902) ‘The Native Question in South Africa’, The Anti-Slavery Reporter and Aborigines’ Friend, 22, 1, 3–7. 20. A. Ashforth (1990) The Politics of Official Discourse in Twentieth Century South Africa (Oxford: Clarendon Press), pp. 25–9. 21. Ibid., p. 53. 22. See, for example, M. Legassick (1995) ‘British Hegemony and the Origins of Segregation in South Africa, 1901–14’, in Beinart and Dubow, Segregation and Apartheid in Twentieth Century South Africa (London: Routledge), pp. 43–59; S. Dubow (1989) Racial Segregation and the Origins of Apartheid in South Africa, 1919–36 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). The influence of Pim is also outlined in Hewison Hedge of Wild Almonds, pp. 287–88. 23. Legassick, ‘British Hegemony’, p. 55; see also Hyam and Henshaw, The Lion and the Springbok, pp. 76–101. 24. G. Stedman Jones (1974) ‘Working-Class Culture and Working-Class Politics in London, 1870–1900’, Journal of Social History, 7, 4, 460–508; R. Price (1972) An Imperial War and the British Working Class (London: Routledge). 25. Thompson, ‘Publicity, Philanthropy and Commemoration’. 26. P. B. Rich (1990) Race and Empire in British Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 36–7. 27. K. Grant (2001) ‘Christian Critics of Empire: Missionaries, Lantern Lectures, and the Congo Reform Campaign in Britain’, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 29, 2, 28–9. 28. A. Hochschild (1999) King Leopold’s Ghost (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan), p. 241. 29. G. Fredrickson (1995) Black Liberation – A Comparative History of Black Ideologies in the United States and Africa (Oxford: Oxford University Press).

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30. M. C. B. Mason (1896) ‘The Methodist Episcopal Church and the Evangelization of Africa’, in J. W. E. Bowen, Africa and the American Negro – Addresses and Proceedings of the Congress on Africa (Atlanta: Franklin Press), p. 148. 31. H. K. Carroll (1896) ‘The Negro in the Twentieth Century’, in J. W. Bowen, Africa and the American Negro, pp. 161–2. 32. Noer, Briton, Boer and Yankee, p. 41. 33. William Taylor (1896) ‘Self-Supporting Missions in Africa’, in Bowen (ed.) Africa and the American Negro, p. 157. 34. Bishop Henry Turner (1896) ‘The American Negro and the Fatherland’, in Bowen (ed), Africa and the American Negro, p. 198. 35. T. Adeleke (1998) UnAfrican Americans: Nineteenth-Century Black Nationalists and the Civilizing Mission (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press). 36. On the establishment of the AME Church, see James T. Campbell (1998) Songs of Zion: The African Methodist Episcopal Church in the United States and South Africa (Chapel Hill & London: University of North Carolina Press). On his visit to South Africa, Turner was introduced to Paul Kruger, who did not appear to share the concerns of white missionaries regarding the independent church – Noer, Briton, Boer and Yankee, p. 59. 37. On Henderson, see P. B. Rich (1987) ‘The Appeals of Tuskegee: James Henderson, Lovedale, and the Fortunes of South African Liberalism, 1906–1930’, The International Journal of African Historical Studies, 20, 2, 271–92. 38. R. Elphick (1997) ‘The Benevolent Empire and the Social Gospel: Missionaries and South African Christians in the Age of Segregation’, in Elphick and Davenport, Christianity in South Africa: A Political, Social and Cultural History (Cape Town: David Philip), p. 355. 39. P. Walshe (1970) The Rise of African Nationalism in South Africa: The African National Congress, 1912–1952 (London: Hurst), pp. 9–10. 40. W. Rauschenbusch (1912) Christianity and the Social Crisis (London: Macmillan), p. 414. 41. J. S. Dennis (1897) Christian Missions and Social Progress – A Sociological Study of Foreign Missions, Vol I (Edinburgh: Oliphant Anderson and Ferrier), pp. 25–6. 42. H. Pretorius and L. Jafta (1997) ‘“A Branch Springs Out”: African Initiated Churches’, in Elphick and Davenport, Christianity in South Africa. 43. Noer, Briton, Boer and Yankee, pp. 114–15. 44. Maurice Evans (1915) Black and White in the Southern States (London: Longman). 45. See the testimonies of Samuel, Brander, Joshua Mphela and Stephen Nguato in T. Karis and G. M. Carter (1987) From Protest to Challenge – A Documentary History of African Politics in South Africa 1882–1964 Vol. I (Stanford: Hoover Institution Press), pp. 39–42. 46. G. M. Fredrickson (1995) Black Liberation (Oxford: Oxford University Press), p. 92; the apolitical nature of separatist churches was identified in the seminal study by B. Sundkler (1961) Bantu Prophets in South Africa (Oxford: Oxford University Press). 47. Karis and Carter, From Protest to Challenge Vol I, pp. 45–52. 48. Ronald Hyam (1970) ‘African Interests and the South Africa Act, 1908–1910’, The Historical Journal, 13, 1, 85–105; see also R. Hyam (1968) Elgin and

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49. 50. 51. 52. 53.

54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72.

73. 74.

Churchill at the Colonial Office 1905–1908: The Watershed of the EmpireCommonwealth (London: Macmillan). D. Killingray (2009) ‘Rights, Land and Labour: Black British Critics of South African Policies before 1948’, Journal of Southern African Studies, 35, 2, 375–98. Cited in Noer, Briton, Boer and Yankee, p. 133. Karis and Carter, From Protest to Challenge Vol. I, pp. 62–3. Ibid. Harris later left the Baptist Church to become a Quaker, see B. Willan (1979) ‘The Anti-Slavery and Aborigines’ Protection Society and the South African Natives’ Land Act of 1913’, Journal of African History, 20, 1. B. Willan, ‘The Aborigines’ Protection and Anti-Slavery Society’, p. 95. Ibid., pp. 86–7. SANNC Petition to King George V, 20 July 1914, Karis and Carter, From Protest to Challenge, Vol. I, pp. 125–33. B. Willan (1984) Sol Plaatje – South African Nationalist, 1876–1932 (London: Heinemann), p. 173. Willan, ‘Anti-Slavery and Aborigines’ Protection Society’, pp. 85–6; see also Rich, Race and Empire, p. 39. Willan, Sol Plaatje, pp. 177–82. Willan, ‘Anti-Slavery’, p. 39. Ibid, p. 92. Somewhat overlooked in historical research, the Brotherhood movement was founded in 1875 by the Congregationalist John Blackham, with its roots in late-nineteenth century evangelism. Inspired by the American preacher Dwight Moody, Blackham began to organise Bible classes for young men that became the ‘Pleasant Sunday Afternoon’ meetings that characterised his movement. A National Union of PSA Brotherhoods was formed in 1906. The only extensive histories are A. E. H. Gregory (1975) Romance and Revolution: The Story of the Brotherhood Movement (Sevenoaks: Grammer and Co); J. Tuffley (1935) Grain from Galilee – The Romance of the Brotherhood Movement (London: Headley Brothers). Willan, Sol Plaatje, p. 202. Ibid., p. 226. S. Plaatje (1917) Native Life in South Africa Before and Since the European War and the Boer Rebellion (London: P.S. King), p. 17. Willan, Sol Plaatje, p. 197. Reprinted in Plaatje, Native Life. John Harris (1916) ‘General Botha’s Native Land Policy’, Journal of the Royal African Society, 16, 61, 7–15. John Harris (1917) ‘General Botha – Statesman’, Fortnightly Review, 101, 654. Ibid., p. 660. Willan, Sol Plaatje, pp. 203–4. ‘Petition to King George V, from the South African Native National Congress’, 16 December 1918, in Karis and Carter, Protest to Challenge Vol I, pp. 137–42. Willan, Sol Plaatje, p. 234. Pallo Jordan has recently stated that the Afrikaner delegation, ‘with the skeleton of De Wet’s Rebellion rattling in their cupboard, were the

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Notes 207

208

Notes

3 South African Liberalism and ‘Friends of Africa’ 1. Willan, Sol Plaatje, pp. 259–61. 2. Ibid., pp. 267–8. 3. R. Hill and G. Pirio (1987) ‘“Africa for the Africans”: The Garvey movement in South Africa, 1920–1940’, in Marks and Trapido The Politics of Race, Class and Nationalism in Twentieth Century South Africa (London: Longman). 4. Walshe, The Rise of African Nationalism in South Africa, p. 92. 5. H. Bradford (1987) A Taste of Freedom: The ICU in Rural South Africa, 1924–1930 (New Haven & London: Yale University Press). 6. Hill and Pirio ‘Africa for the Africans’, p. 216. 7. Ibid., p. 210. 8. Walshe The Rise of African Nationalism in South Africa, p. 166. 9. A. D. Kemp and R. T. Vinson (2000) ‘“Poking Holes in the Sky”: Professor James Thaele, American Negroes, and Modernity in 1920s Segregationist South Africa’, African Studies Review, 43, 1, 141–59. 10. Oswin Bull, quoted in Hill and Pirio, ‘Africa for the Africans’, p. 225. 11. F. Bridgman to Dr Patton, 1 February, 1921, Andersen Library, University of Minnesota, Kautz YMCA Archives (hereafter YMCA), Yergan papers, South Africa/Max Yergan, 1915–38; see also F. Bridgman to J. R. Mott, 10 November 1922, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3/Correspondence, 1922. 12. R. E. Phillips (1930) The Bantu are Coming – Phases of South Africa’s Race Problem (London: SCM Press), pp. 53–4. 13. General Missionary Conference (1909) Proceedings of the Third General Missionary Conference (Cape Town: GMC), pp. 104–5. 14. S. Dubow, Racial Segregation, pp. 67–8. 15. R. Elphick, ‘The Benevolent Empire’, pp. 353–55. 16. O. McCowen to W. Lyon, 27 May 1920,YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1919–1920. 17. O. Bull to J. R. Mott, 18 February 1921, YMCA, Yergan papers, South Africa/ MaxYergan, 1915–38. 18. Bridgman, quoted in C. H. Patton to E. C. Jenkins, 7 May 1921, YMCA, Yergan papers, South Africa/MaxYergan, 1915–38. 19. E. C. Carter to E. C. Jenkins, 27 July 1921, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1921. 20. C. H. Tobias to [Moorland], 29 July 1921, YMCA, Yergan papers, South Africa/MaxYergan, 1915–38. 21. W. E. B. DuBois (1921) ‘Thomas Jesse Jones’, The Crisis, 22, 6. 22. J. W. Horton (1972) ‘South Africa’s Joint Councils: Black White Co-Operation between the two World Wars’, South African Historical Journal, 4, 29–44.

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only ones to come away with any sort of reward’, Pallo Jordan (2009) ‘Viewpoint: Whom do you think you are fooling Mr. Mbeki?’, ANC Today, 9, 26. Available at http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/anctoday/2009/at26.htm, accessed September 2009. 75. Willan, Sol Plaatje, p. 235.

23. P. B. Rich (1984) White Power and the Liberal Conscience – Racial Segregation and South African Liberalism (Manchester: Manchester University Press), pp. 26–7. 24. On Aggrey’s campaign against Garvey, see Hill and Pirio, ‘Africa for the Africans’, pp. 226–9. 25. O. Bull to J. R. Mott, 15 July 192, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1921. 26. M. Yergan to J. Moorland, 25 May 1922, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1922. 27. M. Yergan to E. C. Jenkins, 4 August 1922, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1922. 28. M. Yergan to F. De Frantz, 26 October 1922, YMCA, International Work/ South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1922. 29. M. Yergan, ‘Resume of 1924 Developments in South Africa’ July 1925, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1925. 30. ‘Statement on Work of Max Yergan in South Africa’ [n.d., 1923], YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/Restricted World Service Files, Reports, 1922–34. 31. Note, for example, the similarity between Yergan’s phrase and that of the ethnologist G. P. Lestrade, who spoke in 1931 of an ‘adaptationist’ approach taking ‘out of the Bantu past what was good … and together with what is good of European culture for the Bantu, build up a Bantu future’, quoted in Dubow, Racial Segregation, p. 36. 32. M. Yergan, ‘Memorandum on Political and Social conditions in South Africa as they bear upon the Native Population’, 25 June 1925, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1925. 33. M. Yergan to C. H. Tobias, 16 July 1929, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/ Restricted World Service Files, Correspondence, 1925–9. 34. S. W. Yergan, ‘Africa – Our Challenge’, October 1929, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/Restricted World Service Files, Reports, Restricted, 1923–34. 35. F. V. Slack, Memorandum, 26 December 1929, YMCA, International Work/ South Africa, Box 6, Yergan Building Fund Correspondence, Oct–Dec 1929. 36. P. B. Rich, White Power and the Liberal Conscience, p. 21. 37. M. Yergan, ‘Resume of 1924 Developments in South Africa’, July 1925, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1925. 38. Student Christian Association of South Africa News-Letter, September 1931. 39. Star, 2 July 1930. 40. M. Yergan, ‘Resport for the Year 1929’, YMCA, South Africa, World Service Files, Reports, 1923–34. 41. Ibid., p. 22. 42. M. Yergan to F. W. Ramsey, 2 November 1931, YMCA, International Work/ South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1931–2. 43. M. Yergan, ‘Report for the Year 1931’, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1931–2. 44. M. Yergan, Memorandum – Social Service Project, 10 April 1932, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3, Correspondence, 1931–2. 45. Rich, Race and Empire, pp. 156–7. 46. S. Olivier (1927) The Anatomy of African Misery (London: Hogath Press), p. 230. 47. bid., pp. 227, 60–7.

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Notes

48. P. Hetherington (1978) British Paternalism and Africa 1920–1940 (London: Frank Cass), pp. 10–12. Adrian Hastings described Oldham as ‘the spider at the heart of almost every non-Roman missionary web’. A. Hastings (1987) A History of English Christianity, 1920–1985 (London: Collins), p. 95. 49. J. H. Oldham (1925) Christianity and the Race Problem (London: SCM Press), p. 175. 50. J. H. Oldham, (1930) White and Black in Africa – A Critical Examination of the Rhodes Lectures of General Smuts (London: Longman). 51. Ibid., pp. 7–19. 52. Xuma, ‘Bridging the Gap’, pp. 195–6. 53. M. Yergan, ‘Resport for the Year 1929’, YMCA, South Africa, World Service Files, Reports, 1923–34. 54. Oldham, Christianity and the Race Problem, p. 232. 55. Rich, Race and Empire, p. 69; W. M. Hailey (1938) An African Survey (London: Oxford University Press). 56. Rich, Race and Empire, pp. 78–80. 57. S. Howe (1993) Anticolonialism in British Politics – The Left and the End of Empire, 1918–1964 (Oxford: Clarendon Press), p. 51. 58. Hetherington, British Paternalism, p. 20. 59. E. Lewis to J. B. M. Hertzog, 3 January 1927, Archives and Manuscripts, University of Cape Town (hereafter UCT), Ballinger Papers, BC 347/D2.I.1.1. 60. Ibid. 61. E. Lewis to E. P. Keppel and J. Bertram, 8 August 1927, UCT, Ballinger Papers, BC 347/D2.I.1.6. 62. W. Holtby to F. Brockway, 26 April 1929, UCT, Ballinger Papers, BC 347/ D1.I.2.2. 63. ‘William Ballinger: A Crusader for Freedom’ (1930), University of Witwatersrand, Historical Papers (hereafter WITS) Ballinger Papers, A 410/C2.7.1 (1); see also V. Brittain (1940) Testament of Friendship (London: Macmillan), pp. 234–57. 64. A. Creech Jones to W. Ballinger, 14 March 1928, UCT, Ballinger Papers, A 410/C.27.1 (1). 65. W. Holtby to Livie-Noble, 17 July 1930, WITS, Joint Council of Africans and Europeans, AD1433/Db. 66. Minutes of meeting held at Lincoln’s Inn, London, 7 August 1930, Bodleian Library of Commonwealth and African Studies at Rhodes House (hereafter BLCAS), Papers of the London Group on African Affairs, MSS Afr.s 1427 MSS Afr.s 1427. 67. F. S. Livie-Noble to C. Johnson, 5 June 1938, BLCAS, Papers of the London Group on African Affairs, MSS Afr.s 1427 MSS Afr.s 1427. Mampuru would later go on to become a ‘consultant’ to Ballinger’s ‘Friends of Africa’, in Johannesburg, advising on trade union and legal issues. His name also appears in connection with material relating to Michael Scott’s work in the Tobruk shanty town in the late 1940s. 68. B. Bush (1999) Imperialism, Race and Resistance – Africa and Britain, 1919–1945 (London & New York: Rouledge), p. 187. 69. Bush, Imperialism, pp. 187–9. 70. W. M. Macmillan (1930) Complex South Africa (London: Faber and Faber). 71. L. Barnes (1930) Caliban in Africa (London: Gollancz), pp. 231–2. 72. Ibid., p. 238.

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73. Rich, White Power, p. 39. 74. Hyam, Failure of South African Expansion. 75. M. Perham and L. Curtis (1935) Transfer of the Protectorates (Oxford: Oxford University Press). 76. M. Crowder (1988) The Flogging of Phinehas McIntosh – A Tale of Colonial Folly and Injustice (New Haven & London: Yale University Press). 77. Rich, White Power, pp. 46–7. 78. W. Ballinger, ‘Friends of Africa Report’, 20 March 1935, UCT, Ballinger Papers, BC 347/A3.II.1. 79. W. Holtby to W. Ballinger, 6 August 1935, UCT, Ballinger Papers, BC 347/ D1.I.8.1.13. 80. Minutes of meeting of London Group on African Affairs, 20 March 1936, BLCAS, Papers of the London Group on African Affairs, MSS Afr.s 1427 3, f. 50. 81. Rich, White Power, Chapters 2 and 3. 82. J. M. Davis (1933) Modern Industry and the African (London: Macmillan). 83. For an introduction to the formative stages of the ecumenist movement, see D. Carter (1998) ‘The Ecumenical Movement in its Early Years’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 49, 3. 84. The IMC commission included Ray Phillips and the South African liberal Leo Marquard, Davis, Modern Industry. 85. A Report of a visit to South Africa, 1936, UCT, International Missionary Conference Papers, BZB 78/194/Fiche Nos 130–1. 86. Ibid. 87. During the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s, ecumenical contacts were made between ‘English Speaking’ churches and the Transvaal synod of Nederduitse Gereformeerde Kerk and the Nederduitsch Hervormde Kerk. ‘Dutch Reformed churches’ is used for brevity. 88. Elphick, ‘Benevolent Empire’, pp. 362–3. 89. D. Anthony (2006) Max Yergan: Race Man, Internationalist, Cold Warrior (New York: NYU Press), p. 37. 90. See, for example, J. R. Mott to F. V. Slack, 5 September 1931, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 3/Correspondence, 1931–2, in which Mott states that ‘it will be far better for him to stay very closely with his family and concentrate on the intensive aspects of his work’. 91. Quoted in Anthony, Max Yergan, p. 39. 92. Frederickson, Black Liberation, pp. 194–5. 93. Max Yergan, ‘Report to the International Committee of the YMCAs of the United States and Canada’, 30 June 1932, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/ Restricted World Service Files, Reports, Restricted, 1923–34. 94. D. H. Anthony (1991) ‘Max Yergan in South Africa: From Evangelical PanAfricanist to Revolutionary Socialist’, African Studies Review, 34, 2, 27–55. 95. Ibid., p. 43. 96. M. Yergan to F. Henson, 1 November 1932, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/Restricted World Service Files, Correspondence, 1930–5. 97. C. H. Tobias to M. Yergan, 5 April 1932, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/ Restricted World Service Files, Correspondence, 1930–5. 98. O. McCowen, ‘Notes on the Visit of Dr. Mott and Mr. Oliver McCowen to South Africa’, 1934, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 6/ Correspondence, 1933–5.

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Notes 211

Notes

99. ‘Report on South Africa’, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/Restricted World Service Files, Correspondence, 1930–5. 100. M. Yergan to F. V. Slack, 5 June 1935 (a), YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/ Restricted World Service Files, Correspondence, 1930–5. 101. M. Yergan to F. V. Slack, 5 June 1935 (b), YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/ Restricted World Service Files, Correspondence, 1930–5. 102. M. Yergan to F. V. Slack, 11 September 1935, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/Restricted World Service Files, Correspondence, 1930–5. 103. Ibid. 104. M. Yergan to F. V. Slack, 11 September 1935(b), YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/Restricted World Service Files, Correspondence, 1930–5. 105. M. Yergan to C. H. Tobias, 17 September 1935, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/Restricted World Service Files, Correspondence, 1930–5. 106. D. H Anthony, ‘Max Yergan in South Africa’, p. 45. 107. J. G. Vaughan to T. K. Davis, 2 December 1935, YMCA, International Work/ South Africa, Box 6/Correspondence, 1933–5. 108. M. Yergan to F. V. Slack, 6 March 1936, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 4/Correspondence, February–April 1936; also Max Yergan, ‘Interracial and Community Service Work of Y.M.C.A. in South Africa [n.d. c.1936]. 109. M. Yergan to F. V. Slack, 6 March 1936, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/ Restricted World Service Files/Biographical. 110. A. Phelps-Stokes to F. V. Slack, 2 April 1936, YMCA, International Work/ South Africa, Box 4/Correspondence, February–April 1936. 111. Oswin Bull to Frank V. Slack, 18 July 1936, YMCA, International Work/ South Africa, Box 4/Correspondence, February–April 1936. 112. F. V. Slack to F. Harmon, 28 August 1936, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/ Restricted World Service Files/Biographical. 113. R. E. Phillips, ‘Memorandum – regarding Training of Social Workers in Johannesburg’, May 1936, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 4/Correspondence, May–December 1936. 114. F. V. Slack to J. R. Mott, 27 April, 1936, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 4/Correspondence, February–April 1936; O. Bull to F. V. Slack, 18 July 1936, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 4/Correspondence, February–April 1936. 115. F. V. Slack to F. Harmon, 28 August 1936, YMCA, Max Yergan, South Africa/ Restricted World Service Files/Biographical. 116. F. V. Slack to A. Kerr, 28 June 1939, YMCA, International Work/South Africa, Box 4/Correspondence, 1939–40. 117. F. V. Slack to F. J. Liebenberg, 18 July, 1938, YMCA, International Work/ South Africa, Box 4/Correspondence, 1938.

4 Human Rights and Anti-Colonialism 1. International Committee on African Affairs, ‘Announcing an Important Meeting’, 31 August, 1937, YMCA, International Work/South Africa. 2. T. Jesse Jones to C. Tobias, 8 September 1937, YMCA, International Work/ South Africa.

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3. E. G. Robeson (1945) African Journey (New York: The John Day Company). 4. A. B. Lewis to C. Tobias, 9 April 1942, YMCA, Yergan Papers, Council on African Affairs/Correspondence, 1937–42. 5. CAA Press Release, 31 January 1942, YMCA, Yergan Papers, Council on African Affairs/Correspondence, 1937–42. 6. Carol Anderson (2003) Eyes off the Prize – The United Nations and the African American Struggle for Human Rights, 1944–1955 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 16–17. 7. CAA Press Release, 31 January 1942, YMCA, Yergan Papers, Council on African Affairs/Correspondence, 1937–42. 8. M. Yergan, ‘Africa and the War’, Council for African Affairs (n.d., c.1942), YMCA, Yergan Papers, Council on African Affairs/Correspondence, 1937–42. 9. Anderson Eyes off the Prize, pp. 24–25. 10. M. Yergan to D. Reitz, 1 July 1942, YMCA, Yergan Papers, Council on African Affairs/Correspondence, 1937–42. 11. F. Neugebauer, ‘Freedom Needs No Passport – The People’s War Extends African Civil Rights’, YMCA, Yergan Papers, CAA Publicity 1942–44. Neugebauer was a South African who travelled to the US in 1937 to work as Yergan’s personal assistant – see Brian Urquhart (1998) Ralph Bunche: An American Oddyessy (New York: W.W. Norton), pp. 66–7. 12. J. Seekings (2005) ‘Visions, Hopes and Views About the Future: The Radical Moment of South African Welfare Reform’, in Jeeves and Dubow South Africa’s 1940s – Worlds of Possibilities (Cape Town: Double Storey), pp. 44–63. 13. The Watchman, October 1940. 14. Common Sense, February 1941. 15. Race Relations, March 1941. 16. W. Ballinger to Creech Jones, 21 May 1941, UCT, Ballinger Papers, BC 347/ F3.III.2. 17. Under the influence of the Christian socialist Richard Acland, the conference delegates went so far as to suggest that private ownership of property and resources could be at odds with natural justice. See A. Hastings, English Christianity, 1920–1985, p. 397. 18. Christian Council of South Africa (1942) Christian Reconstruction in South Africa (Fort Hare: CCSA), p. 25. 19. A. Paton (1974) Apartheid and the Archbishop – The Life and Times of Geoffrey Clayton (London: Jonathan Cape), p. 103. 20. Seekings, ‘The Radical Moment’. 21. G. Clayton (1943) The Church and the Nation (Johannesburg: Diocese of Johannesburg), Clause E par. 5. 22. D. Posel (2005) ‘The Case for a Welfare State: Poverty and the Politics of the Urban African Family in South Africa in the 1930s and 1940s’, in Jeeves and Dubow South Africa’s 1940s – Worlds of Possibilities (Cape Town: Double Storey), pp. 64–86. 23. D. Posel, ‘The Case for a Welfare State’. 24. The Church and the Nation, Clause B par. 12. 25. A. Paton, Apartheid and the Archbishop, p. 121. 26. The Watchman, February 1944.

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Notes

27. Minutes, 5 February 1945, WITS, Church and Nation Papers, AB 397; on Sophiatown, see D. Goodhew (1991) ‘A History of the Western Areas of Johannesburg, c1930–55’ (D.Phil. Thesis, Oxford University), D. Goodhew (2000) ‘Working-Class Respectability: The Example of the Western Areas of Johannesburg, 1930–55’, Journal of African History, 41, 241–66. 28. D. van Tonder (1993) ‘“First win the war, then clear the slums” – The Genesis of the Western Areas Removal Scheme, 1940–1949’, in Bonner, Delius and Posel Apartheid’s Genesis (Braamfontein: Ravan Press), pp. 316–40. 29. N. Mosley (1961) The Life of Raymond Raynes (London: Faith Press). 30. Minutes, 12 February 1945, WITS, Joint Council of Africans and Europeans, AD 1433/Cj2.4.2. 31. The Watchman, April 1946. 32. Community of the Resurrection Quarterly Review, 1946. 33. T. Huddleston, ‘The Urban African – Whither?’ (lecture at the Independent Cultural Association), 4 July 1949, Lambeth Palace Library (hereafter Lambeth), Bell Papers. 34. P. Lewsen (1987) ‘Liberals in Politics and Administration’, in Butler, Elphick and Welsh Democratic Liberalism in South Africa (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press), pp. 98–115. 35. T. Karis and G. M. Carter (1973) From Protest to Challenge – A Documentary History of African Politics in South Africa 1882–1964, Vol. II (Stanford: Hoover Institution Press), pp. 209–23. 36. G. M. Scott (1958) A Time To Speak (London: Faber & Faber), p. 65. 37. A. Yates and L. Chester (2006) The Troublemaker: Michael Scott and His Lonely Struggle Against Injustice (London: Aurum Press), pp. 17–30. 38. Surveillance extract, 13 January 1943, The National Archives, Kew (hereafter TNA), KV 2/2052; see also Scott, Time To Speak, pp. 87–95. 39. Ibid., pp. 102–3. 40. Ibid., p. 112; Karis and Carter From Protest to Challenge II, p. 115; A. P. Hare and H. H. Blumberg (1980) A Search for Peace and Justice (London: Rex Collings), pp. 35–43. 41. Campaign Committee Conference for Right and Justice, 23 October 1943, WITS, SAIRR Papers, AD 843/RJ/Pc1 (file 1). 42. New Africa, 2, 5, December 1943. 43. Mofutsanyana was also a member of the Atlantic Charter Committee that drafted African Claims – see Karis and Carter Protest to Challenge II, pp. 217–22. 44. G. M. Scott to A. Xuma, 3 September 1943, WITS, Xuma Papers, AD 8843/(H). 45. Karis and Carter Protest to Challenge II, p. 129, note 92. 46. Campaign for Right and Justice Fortnightly Newsletter, 15 September 1945. 47. Campaign for Right and Justice – Record of Activities, December 1945, pp. 8–18. 48. CRJ Against Fascism, September 1944, pp. 1–4. The pamphlet was delivered to 3000 organisations across South Africa. 49. W. G. Martin (1990) ‘The Making of an Industrial South Africa: Trade and Tariffs in the Interwar Period’, International Journal of African Historical Studies, 23, 1, 59–85. 50. In particular following the establishment of the Industrial Development Corporation in 1940 under van Eck. See for example, M. Legassick (1974)

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51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56. 57.

58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

67. 68.

69. 70. 71. 72.

‘Legislation, Ideology and Economy in Post-1948 South Africa’, Journal of Southern African Studies, 1, 1, 16–18; D. Glaser (1987) ‘A Periodisation of South Africa’s Dispersal Policies’, in Tomlinson and Addleson Regional Restructuring Under Apartheid (Johannesburg: Ravan Press), p. 31. Scott, Time to Speak, p. 124. Mumford (1895–1990) wrote extensively on art, architecture, the history of technology, and urban and social planning. Influenced by the Scottish pioneer of town planning, Patrick Geddes, Mumford promoted an ‘ecological’ understanding of urban and social development – see in particular, L. Mumford (1938) The Culture of Cities (London: Secker and Warburg). J. L. Thomas (1988) ‘Lewis Mumford: Regionalist Historian’, Reviews in American History, 16, 1, 158–72. Scott, Time to Speak, pp. 117, 120–1. Ibid., p. 121. Frederickson, Black Liberation, p. 219. Anderson, Eyes off the Prize, pp. 20–2; on Yergan’s earlier connections with Hunton, see Channing Tobias, ‘Max Yergan’, 26 March 1927, YMCA, Yergan Papers South Africa/Biographical. James Meriweather (2002) Proudly We Can Be Africans (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press), pp. 61–2. News Release, 6 August 1943: ‘Alphaeus Hunton Joins Council on African Affairs’, YMCA, Yergan Papers, CAA Publicity 1942–4. Conference resolutions, 14 April 1944, YMCA, Yergan Papers, CAA Publicity 1942–4. Press release, 15 December April 1944, YMCA, Yergan Papers, CAA Publicity 1942–4; see also Anderson, Eyes Off the Prize, pp. 38–9. S. Dubow (2008) ‘Smuts, the United Nations and the Rhetoric of Race and Rights’, Journal of Contemporary History, 43, 1, pp. 45–74. CAA, ‘The San Francisco Conference and the Colonial Issue’, April 1945, YMCA, Yergan Papers, CAA Publicity 1942–4. C. Anderson, Eyes off the Prize, p. 38. Ibid., pp. 51–2. Bunche attacked Yergan for havng ‘abandoned his fine Negro wife and children’ for a white South African. W. E. B. Du Bois (1947) An Appeal to the World – A Statement on the Denial of Human Rights to Minorities in the Case of Citizens of Negro Descent in the United States of America and an Appeal to the United Nations for Redress (New York: NAACP). F. Njubi Nesbitt (2004) Race for Sanctions: African Americans Against Apartheid, 1946–1994 (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press), p. 11. Council on African Affairs, ‘Text and Analysis of the Colonial Provisions of the United Nations Charter’ [June] 1945, YMCA, Yergan Papers, Council on African Affairs, Publicity 1945–6. CAA News release, 27 July 1945, YMCA Archives, Yergan Papers, Council on African Affairs, Publicity 1945–6. New Africa, 4, 10, November 1945. CAA, ‘Urgent Appeal for Your Help’, December 1945, YMCA, Yergan Papers, Council on African Affairs, Publicity 1945–6. New Africa, 5, 3, March 1946.

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Notes

73. CAA News Release: ‘Yergan Condemns South Africa’s Anti-Indian Discrimination’, 16 March 1946, YMCA, Yergan Papers, Council on African Affairs, Publicity 1945–6. 74. R. Hyam (1975) ‘The Politics of Partition in Southern Africa, 1908–61’, in Hyam and Martin (eds) Reappraisals in British Imperial History (London: Macmillan). 75. Karis and Carter, Protest to Challenge II. 76. M. Basner (1993) Am I an African? (Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press), pp. 181–4. 77. Times, 19 December 1946. 78. The Democrat, March 1947. 79. Democrat Monthly, December 1949. 80. Rich, White Power and the Liberal Conscience, pp. 120–2. 81. F. Troup (1950) In Face of Fear – Michael Scott’s Challenge to South Africa (London: Faber & Faber), pp. 137–53; Scott, Time To Speak, pp. 216–33. 82. M. Crowder (1987) ‘Tshekedi Khama, Smuts and South West Africa’, Journal of Modern African Studies, 25, 1, 25–42. See also C. Saunders (2007) ‘Michael Scott and Namibia’, African Historical Review 39, 2, 25–40. 83. Troup, In Face of Fear, pp. 154–5; Scott, Time To Speak, pp. 230–1. 84. N. M. Schultz (1991) ‘Evolution of the UN Anti-Apartheid Regime’, Human Rights Quarterly, 13, 1, 1–23. 85. Troup, In Face of Fear, p. 156. 86. Ibid., pp. 162–4. 87. Ibid., p. 165. 88. On Scott’s connection with the NAACP, see C. Anderson (2008) ‘International Conscience, the Cold War, and Apartheid: The NAACP’s Alliance with the Reverend Michael Scott for South West Africa’s Liberation, 1946–1951’, Journal of World History 19, 3, 297–325. 89. Scott, Time to Speak, 252–3. 90. Yates and Chester, The Troublemaker, 110. 91. News Chronicle, 29 November 1949. 92. Schultz, ‘Evolution of the UN Anti-Apartheid Regime’; C. G. Haines (2001) ‘The United Nations Challenge to Racial Discrimination in South Africa, 1946–1950’, African Studies, 60, 2, 185–204. 93. Anthony, Max Yergan.

5 The Nationalist Challenge 1. A. Paton (1974) Apartheid and the Archbishop – The Life and Times of Geoffrey Clayton (London: Jonathan Cape), pp. 165–6. 2. Times, 11 June 1948. 3. B. Schwartz (1999) ‘Reveries of Race: The Closing of the Imperial Moment’, in B. Conekin, F. Mort and C. Waters (eds) Moments of Modernity – Reconstructing Britain, 1945–1964 (London: Rivers Oram Press). 4. The Passive Resister, 28 May 1948, pp. 4–5. 5. J. Stuart (2004) ‘British Missionary Societies and African Nationalism’, in Brian Stanley (ed.) Missions, Nationalism, and the End of Empire (Grand Rapids, MN: Eerdmans), pp. 183–93. 6. Guardian, 26 May 1948.

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7. Y. Dadoo and C. Jadwat (1948) South Africa – on the Road to Fascism (London: India League); Historical Documents, South African Communist Party, available at http://www.sacp.org.za/, accessed 30 August 2009. 8. S. Eley to G. M. Scott, 10 October 1947, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 36, f. 189. 9. R. C. D. Jasper (1967) George Bell – Bishop of Chichester (London: Oxford University Press), pp. 246–87; Hastings, English Christianity, 1920–1985, pp. 375–9. 10. G. M. Scott to C. Attlee, 6 February 1949, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 65, ff. 101–3. 11. K. G. Grubb to G. Bell, 8 February 1949, Lambeth, Bell Papers, Vol. 99, ff. 7–8. 12. G. Bell to G. Fisher, 12 February 1949, Lambeth, Bell Papers, Vol. 99, f. 9. 13. G. Clayton to G. Bell, 19 February 1949, Lambeth, Bell Papers, Vol. 99, f. 12. 14. G. Bell to G. Greenidge, 2 March 1949, Lambeth, Bell Papers, Vol. 99, ff. 26–7. 15. R. Dreyer (1994) Namibia and Southern Africa – Regional Dynamics of Decolonization, 1945–90 (London: Kegan Paul International), p. 18; Crowder, ‘Tshekedi Khama’. 16. Bell to F. Nolde, 9 March 1949, Lambeth, Bell Papers, Vol. 99, ff. 32–4. 17. anon Paterson had grown up in Noupoort and trained at the Central School of Arts and Crafts in London before his ordination. He studied theology at St Paul’s College, Grahamstown, where he was a contemporary of Michael Scott. In 1939, he founded the Cyrene mission near Bulawayo in S. Rhodesia whereupon he began to teach and promote a Christianised African art. He visited Britain in 1949 with an exhibition sponsored by the SPG. George Norton deputised for Scott at the 1948 UN session in Paris. He was born in Natal but had studied at Leeds University in the 1930s where he wrote an MA dissertation on ‘A study of religion under culture contact conditions’. After 1949, he returned to his parish in Natal, but his career ended prematurely when he drowned while swimming in Durban in 1953. 18. B. Roberts to G. Fisher, 16 February 1949, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 65, f. 107. 19. Ibid. 20. G. Fisher to G. Clayton, 17 February 1949, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 65, f. 109. 21. Paton, Apartheid and the Archbishop, p. 41. 22. G. Clayton to G. Fisher, 4 March 1949, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 65, f. 113. 23. G. M. Scott to G. Clayton, 11 April 1949, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 65, f. 126. 24. A. Reeves to G. Bell, 30 January 1950, WITS, Reeves Papers, AB 388/(5). 25. G. Fisher to A. Reeves, 30 May 1950, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 77, f. 235; G. Clayton to G. Fisher, 10 May 1950, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 77, f. 232; A. Reeves to G. Fisher, 19 May 1950, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 77, f. 234. 26. G. Clayton to G. Streatfield, 10 May 1950, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bd1(b); G. Streatfield to A. Reeves, 17 August 1950, WITS, Scott Papers, AB 702.

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27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

32. 33. 34.

35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45.

46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

Notes C. T. Wood to G. M. Scott, 19 December 1951, BLCAS, Scott Papers, Box 22. L. J. Collins (1966) Faith under Fire (London: Leslie Frewin), pp. 63–5. Ibid., pp. 87–8. Ibid., pp. 114–17. Collins was given clear details of Archbishop Clayton’s stance at this time, as was Basil Roberts of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, H. Waddams to J. Collins, 9 March 1949, Lambeth Fisher Papers, Vol. 65, f. 114; see also Collins Faith under Fire, p. 180. Picture Post, 22 March 1947; News Chronicle, 11 January 1948. Observer, 4 December 1949. As Ronald Hyam has demonstrated, the Protectorates issue was a central preoccupation of Anglo–South African relations over the first half of the twentieth century. Hyam, ‘The politics of partition’. G. M. Scott (1950) Christian Action and the Racial Problem (London: Christian Action). Ibid. Troup, In Face of Fear. G. Streatfield to G. Clayton, 22 August 1950, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bd1(b). L. Fisher to G. Clayton, 4 September 1950; A. Cullen to G. Clayton, 6 September 1950; T. Gibson to G. Clayton, 6 September 1950; W. Parker to G. Clayton, 6 September 1950; E. Trapp to G. Clayton, 6 September 1950; A. Reeves to G. Clayton, 8 September 1950; C. Alderson to G. Clayton, 12 September 1950, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bd1(b). G. Clayton to G. Streatfield, 10 May 1950, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bd1(b). J. Stuart (2004) ‘Missions and Decolonisation: Race, Politics and African Colonial Affairs, 1939–64’ (Ph.D. thesis, King’s College, London). G. M. Scott to K. Martin, 5 May 1949, University of Sussex Special Collections (herafter Sussex), Kingsley Martin Papers, SxMs 11, 15/1. G. M. Scott, 4 May 1949, BLCAS, Anti-Slavery Society Papers, MSS Brit Emp S22 G613. R. Hinden to G. M. Scott, 6 May 1949, BLCAS, Anti-Slavery Society Papers, MSS Brit Emp S22 G613; A. Richards to G. M. Scott, 10 May 1949, BLCAS, Anti-Slavery Society Papers, MSS Brit Emp S22 G613. C. Gurney (2000) ‘“A Great Cause”: The Origins of the Anti-Apartheid Movement, June 1959–March 1960’, Journal of Southern African Studies, 26, 1, p. 10; see also Peter Fryer (1984) Staying Power – The History of Black People in Britain (London: Pluto Press), pp. 353–5. M. Whately, ‘Report on a visit to South Africa’, August 1949, UCT, Marquard Papers, BC 587/E29.3. L. Marquard to B. Davidson, 19 September 1949, Marquard Papers, BC 587/ E29.2. G. M. Scott (1950) Shadow over Africa (London: Union of Democratic Control). G. M. Scott, ‘Human Crisis in Africa’, 10 June 1950, BLCAS, Scott Papers, Box 22. African Relations Council minutes, 25 October 1950, British Library for Politics and Economic Science (hereafter BLPES), Fellowship of Reconciliation

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51.

52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57.

58.

59.

60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65.

66. 67. 68. 69. 70.

London Council Papers; African Relations Council – Constitution and Rules, 22 November 1950, BLPES, Fellowship of Reconciliation London Council Papers. Christians were strongly represented in the organisation, with John Fletcher as one of its leading proponents, while John Collins became Treasurer; C. M. Turnbull, ‘Racial Unity’, January 1952 , WITS, Scott Papers; see also Rich, Race and Empire, pp. 177–82; P. B. Rich (1994) Prospero’s Return? Historical Essays on Race, Culture and British Society (London: Hansib Publishing), Ch 5. E. Muirhead to G. M. Scott, 7 February 1951, BLCAS, Scott Papers, Box 40. Howe, Anticolonialism. C. Dunn to A. Yates, 19 February 1987, BLCAS, Scott Papers, Box 82. J. Fletcher to F. Troup, 14 May 1950, BLCAS, Scott Papers, Box 71. G. Berridge (1992) South Africa, the Colonial Powers and ‘African Defence’ – The Rise and Fall of the White Entente, 1948–60 (London: Macmillan). For an entertaining account of the affair, in which LMS representatives intervened to persuade the Bishop of London to withhold permission for the marriage, see M. Dutfield (1990) A Marriage of Inconvenience – The Persecution of Ruth and Seretse Khama (London: Unwin), pp. 31–4. R. Hyam (1986) ‘The Political Consequences of Seretse Khama: Britain, the Bangwato and South Africa, 1948–1952’, The Historical Journal 29, 4, 921–47. N. Parsons (1994) ‘The Impact of Seretse Khama on British Public Opinion, 1948–56 and 1978’, in Killingray (ed) Africans in Britain (London: Frank Cass), p. 200. Ibid., pp. 198–9. F. Troup to J. Fletcher, 16 April 1950, BLCAS, Scott Papers, Box 71. G. M. Scott to T. Khama, 19 July 1950, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 225/1. D. Astor to Benson, 20 March 1951, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 225/6, f. 12. H. Thomas (1959) The Establishment (London: Anthony Blond); A. Sampson (1962) Anatomy of Britain (London: Hodder and Stoughton). Gordon Walker had already despatched a team of observers, including William Macmillan, to investigate Bangwato attitudes towards the continued exile of Tshekedi. Their report confirmed the government assertion that the return of Tshekedi would promote division within the Bangwato polity, a verdict vociferously challenged by Colin Legum in the Observer. M. Crowder (1989) ‘Professor Macmillan Goes on Safari: The British Government Observer Team and the Crisis of the Seretse Khama Marriage, 1951’, in Macmillam and Marks (eds) Africa and Empire (London: Temple Smith). G. M. Scott to P. Gordon Walker, 5 September 1951, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 226/1, ff. 24–6. ‘Note on Michael Scott’s Visit to Bechuanaland’, September 1951, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 226/1. Berridge, South Africa, the Colonial Powers and ‘African Defence’. Times, 5 October 1951. Scott had, in private, announced plans for a document that would ‘play the same sort of role in UK thinking on policy in this area that the Beveridge

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Notes 219

71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85.

86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100.

Notes Report played in thinking on our domestic social policy’, G. M. Scott, ‘Memo on meeting with Gordon Walker’, 19 September 1950, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 226/1, ff. 7–8. W. A. Lewis, G. M. Scott, M. Wight and C. Legum (1951) Attitude to Africa (London: Penguin). S. M. Thomas (2001) ‘Faith, History and Martin Wight: The Role of Religion in the Historical Sociology of the English School of International Relations’, International Affairs, 77, 4. Lewis, Scott, Wight and Legum, Attitude to Africa, pp. 11–16. Ibid., p. 31. Ibid., p. 44. G. M. Scott to D. Foot, 8 July 1951, BLCAS, Scott Papers, Box 22. ‘Meeting held at Chester Place, London’, 25 February 1952, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 1/1. D. Goldsworthy (1971) Colonial Issues in British Politics, 1945–1961 (Oxford: Clarendon Press). Ibid., pp. 267–9. G. M. Scott, ‘Notes on Africa’, 14 April 1952, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 226/1, ff. 84–5. Scott, Time to Speak, pp. 267–8. Times, 29 April 1952. Goldsworthy, Colonial Issues, p. 270; Howe, Anticolonialism. Scott, Time to Speak, p. 268. ‘Minutes of meeting of Executive Committee’, 12 June 1952, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 1/1, ff. 61–3; see also Goldsworthy, Colonial Issues, pp. 273–4. L. J. Collins to G. M. Scott, 10 July 1952, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 29/7, f. 24. Minutes of Executive Committee Meeting, 14 July 1952, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 1/1, ff. 72–3. G. M. Scott to L. J. Collins, 18 July 1952, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 29/7, f. 26. ‘News Sheet’, 1953, Sussex, Benn W. Levy Papers, SxMs 37 6/9. Goldsworthy, Colonial Issues, pp. 277–8; Gurney, ‘A Great Cause’, p. 129. G. M. Scott (1950) Christian Action (London: Christian Action). D. Catsam (2009) Freedom’s Main Line: The Journey of Reconciliation and the Freedom Rides (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky). P. Raman (2005) ‘Yusuf Dadoo: A Son of South Africa’, in Dubow and Jeeves (eds) South Africa in the 1940s. Scott, Time To Speak, p. 121. Karis and Carter, From Protest to Challenge II, p. 114. Scott, Time To Speak, pp. 134–9. The Democrat, 5 October 1946. G. M. Scott (1946) Non-Violence – Law-Makers – Law-Breakers (Durban: Council for Human Rights). Quoted in Hare and Blumberg, A Search for Peace and Justice, p. 24. Karis and Carter, From Protest to Challenge II, pp. 412–28; T. Lodge (1993) Black politics in South Africa since 1945 (London: Longman), pp. 40–5.

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101. Karis and Carter, From Protest to Challenge II, pp. 477, 80. 102. W. E. B. Du Bois to C. Dover, 14 February 1951, in H. Aptheker (1978) The Correspondence of W.E.B. Du Bois, Vol. III 1943–1963 (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press), p. 296. 103. New York Times, 23 April 1953. 104. Culverson, Contesting Apartheid, pp. 28–30. 105. George Houser, ‘statement at a meeting of the United Nations Special Committee against Apartheid on June 25, 1982’, ANC Historical Documents, available at http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/history/campaigns/houser. html, accessed 31 May 2008; see also ‘Two Voices: Charlene Mitchell and Bill Sutherland’, in Minter, Hovey and Cobb (2008) No Easy Victories – African Liberation and American Activists over a Half Century, 1950–2000 (Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press). 106. G. Houser to M. Gandhi, 19 February 1952, Amistad Research Center, Tulane University (herafter Amistad), ACOA Papers 001/0002. 107. M. Gandhi to G. Houser, 10 March 1952, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 001/ 0006–7. 108. G. Houser to W. A. Hunton, 28 March 1952, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 008/1. 109. Z. K. Matthews to G. Houser, 13 March 1952, UCT, ACOA Papers, BCZA 94/5029. 110. G. M. Houser to Sisulu, 11 April 1952, UCT, ACOA Papers, BCZA 94/5029. 111. Ibid.; Culverson, Contesting Apartheid, p. 30. 112. Q. Whyte to G. Houser, 28 March 1952, WITS, ANC papers, AD 2186/ Ga47; D. Everatt (1990) ‘The Politics of Nonracialism: White Opposition to Apartheid, 1945–1960’ (D.Phil., Lincoln College, Oxford), pp. 40–1. 113. ‘Reconciliation Tour’, 4 August 1952, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 30/12 Item 2. 114. W. Sisulu to G. Greenidge, 18 June 1952, BLCAS, Anti-Slavery Society Papers, MSS Brit Emp S22 G601. 115. G. M. Scott to K. Martin, 5 August 1952; K. Martin to Scott, 7 August 1952, Sussex, New Statesman Papers, SxMs 60, Box 9. 116. New Statesman and Nation, 16 August 1952. The New Statesman received some £150 in response to Scott’s letter, which was subsequently passed to Christian Action. 117. ‘Sermon preached in St Paul’s’, 7 September 1952, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3302, ff. 84–7. 118. Times, 12 September 1952. 119. L. J. Collins to A. Paton, 23 September 1952, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3301, f. 18. 120. Ibid. 121. ‘Sermon preached in St Paul’s’, 28 September 1952, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3299, ff. 88–93. 122. Ibid. 123. L. J. Collins to A. Paton, 2 October 1952, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3301, f. 20. 124. Times, 28 October 1952. 125. L. J. Collins to K. Martin, 17 October 1952, Sussex, New Statesman Papers, SxMs 60, 13/5.

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126. D. Herbstein (2004) White Lies – Canon Collins and the Secret War against Apartheid (London: James Currey). 127. L. J. Collins to A. Paton, 25 November 1952, Collins Papers, MS 3301, f. 23. 128. Collins, Faith under Fire, pp. 189–90. 129. T. Borstelmann (2001) The Cold War and the Color Line: American Race Relations in the Global Arena (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press), p. 116. 130. G. Houser to A. Blaxall, 1 May 1953, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 001/0141. 131. ‘Draft call for the formation of the American Committee on Africa’, Amistad, ACOA papers, 004/00591–2. 132. Lewis, Scott, Legum, Wight, Attitude to Africa, 31. 133. Ibid, p. 36. 134. Ibid. p. 44. 135. Ibid. p. 110. 136. Ibid. p. 114. 137. T. Hodgkin (1956) Nationalism in Colonial Africa (London: Frederick Muller), p. 188. 138. Lewis, Scott, Legum, Wight, Attitude to Africa, 34. 139. ‘Minutes of Christian Action Council’, 14 January 195, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3312, ff. 44–5. 140. ‘Christian Action Meeting, Central Hall, Westminster’, 2 February 1953, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 29/7, f. 32. 141. Ibid. 142. Goldsworthy, Colonial Issues, pp. 214–30. 143. Ibid, p. 250. 144. ‘Christian Action Meeting, Central Hall, Westminster’, 2 February 1953, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 29/7, f. 32. 145. Ibid. 146. M. Benson to A. Blaxall, 6 March 1953, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 190/3. 147. Church Times, 6 February 1953. 148. Cape to Zambezi, February 1952. 149. Church Times, 20 February 1953. 150. Ibid. 151. T. Huddleston, ‘Sermon preached in St. Stephen’s, Rochester Row’, 24 May 1956, WITS, SACI Papers, Ba4. 152. J. Oldham (1955) A New Hope in Africa (London: Longmans), p. 89. 153. J. Taylor (1957) Christianity and Politics in Africa (London: Penguin), p. 98. 154. Stuart, ‘British missionary societies’.

6 Sites of Struggle – the Emerging Anti-Apartheid Network 1. Thörn, Anti-Apartheid, p. 4. 2. Mark Israel (1999) South African Political Exile in the United Kingdom (London: St. Martin’s Press). 3. W. Visser ‘t Hooft (1953) ‘A Visit to the South African Churches’, Ecumenical Review, V, 2, 176.

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4. James Crawford and Ernest Bell, ‘Report of TUC Delegation to South Africa’, 19 March 1954, Labour History Archive and Study Centre (hereafter LHASC) Labour Party Papers, International Department, LP/ID 64. 5. The British Communist Party regarded the formation of the SATUC as being ‘in line with the reactionary approach’ of the Crawford and Bell report. Africa Bulletin, 1, 3, September 1954. 6. John Major (2005), ‘The Trades Union Congress and Apartheid, 1948–1970’, Journal of Southern African Studies, 31, 3, 477–93. 7. Die Burger, 20 July 1954. 8. Daily Herald, 28 July 1954. 9. Daily Herald, 29 July 1954. 10. Times, 26 August 1954. 11. N. Goodall, ‘Some Reflections on the Racial Situation in South Africa’, December 1953, WITS, South African Council of Churches, AC 623/10.6. 12. L. B. Greaves (1954) Report on a Visit to South and Central Africa (London: Conference of Missionary Societies). 13. G. M. Houser, circular letter, 1 October 1954, UCT, ACOA Papers, BCZA 94/5029. 14. Ibid. 15. G. M. Houser to C. Raymond, 11 September 1954, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 001/0220–1. 16. G. M. Houser to C. Raymond, 27 September 1954, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 001/0231–2. 17. G. Carpenter, ‘Report on South Africa’, 28 December 1954, WITS, Records of South African Council of Churches, AC 623/10.6. 18. T. Huddleston (1956) Naught for Your Comfort (London: Collins), p. 178. 19. I. B. Tabata (1960) Education for Barbarism in South Africa (London: Pall Mall Press), pp. 54, 89. 20. J. Hyslop (1993) ‘“A destruction coming in” – Bantu Education as Response to Social Crisis’, in Bonner, Delius and Posel (eds) Apartheid’s Genesis, pp. 396–400; J. Hyslop (1999) The Classroom Struggle: Policy and Resistance in South Africa 1940–1990 (Pietermaritzburg: University of Natal Press); T. Lodge, Black Politics in South Africa, pp. 114–16. 21. Minutes, Africa Sub-Committee, 11 May 1954, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212. 22. G. Fisher to C. Garbett, 14 July 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 146. 23. Observer, 3 October 1954. 24. L. J. Collins to G. Fisher, 14 October 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 153. 25. Extract from Archbishop’s Speech to Convocation of Canterbury, 19 October 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, ff. 155–6. 26. B. Roberts to Clayton, 20 October 1954, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H12. 27. W. Parker to Fisher, 21 October 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 161. 28. T. Huddleston to Benson, 21 October 1954, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 196/1, f. 1. 29. Die Vaderland, 21 October 1954. 30. The Apartheid Issue, 29 October 1954, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bd1(b).

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31. According to Cecil Wood, only five priests had been placed in missionary training with the SPG in 1951, compared with 67 in 1939; C. T. Wood to G. Clayton, 27 May 1952, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bd1(b). 32. Observer, 24 October 1954. 33. L. J. Collins, ‘Proposal for Assisting the Anglican Church in South Africa to Resist Some of the Ill Effects of the Bantu Education Act’, 20 October 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, ff. 158–9. 34. R. Raynes to G. Fisher, 26 October 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, ff. 171–2. 35. B. Roberts to G. Fisher, 26 October 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 185. 36. G. Clayton to G. Fisher, 27 October 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, ff. 190–1. 37. G. Fisher to L. B. Greaves, 27 October 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 189. 38. L. J. Collins to M. Benson, 27 October 1954, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 201/1, f. 4. 39. G. Fisher to L. J. Collins, 28 October 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3299, f. 3061. 40. L. B. Greaves to G. Fisher, 28 October 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, ff. 199–200. 41. L. B. Greaves to N. Goodall, 30 October, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, ff. 203–4. 42. ‘South Africa’, 1 November 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, ff. 209–13. 43. G. Fisher, ‘Address to Canterbury Diocesan Conference’, 3 November 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, ff. 221–5. 44. M. Benson to G. Bell, 3 November 1954, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 2. 45. ‘Press Statement – Bantu Education Act’, 5 November 1954, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/1, f. 5. 46. M. Benson to Bell, 12 November, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 3. 47. J. S. Peart-Binns (1973) Ambrose Reeves (London: Victor Gollancz), p. 120. 48. Paton, Apartheid and the Archbishop, p. 235. 49. A. Reeves to G. Fisher, 15 November 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 279. 50. P. Fothergill to G. Fisher, 17 November 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 282. 51. B. Roberts to G. Fisher, 17 November 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 283. 52. G. Fisher to BCC Special Committee, 19 November 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, ff. 287–9. 53. B. Roberts to R. Raynes, 19 November 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 294. 54. L. J. Collins to A. Reeves, 24 November 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3294, f. 29. 55. G. Bell to M. Benson, 25 November 1954, Lambeth, Bell Papers, Vol. 99, f. 316.

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56. G. Fisher to B. Roberts, 27 November 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 322. 57. G. Fisher to BCC Committee, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, f. 323. 58. ‘Bantu Education and Church/State Crisis in South Africa’, 8 December 1954, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/3, ff. 3–4. 59. G. Fisher to B. Roberts, 3 December 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, f. 338. 60. Times, 8 April 1953. 61. T. Huddleston to L. J. Collins, 3 February 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS3300, f 110. 62. T. Huddleston to C. T. Wood, 7 February 1953, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bb3. 63. ‘Notes of Father Huddleston’s speech at Congress protest’, 18 February 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3300, ff. 115–18. 64. T. Huddleston to L. J. Collins, 20 February 1953, Collins Papers, MS 3300, f. 112. 65. Ibid. 66. L. J. Collins to Huddleston, 27 February 1953, Collins Papers, MS 3300, f. 114. 67. Church Times, 6 March 1953. 68. L. J. Collins to T. Huddleston, 12 March 1953, Collins Papers, MS 3300, f. 119. 69. R. G. Clarke (1983) ‘“For God or Caesar?” An Historical study of Christian resistance to apartheid by the Church of the Province of South Africa, 1946–1957’ (D.Phil., University of Natal), p. 480. 70. Huddleston, Naught for Your Comfort, p. 73. 71. Church Times, 19 June 1953. 72. M. Beachamp to C. T. Wood, 25 July 1953, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bc5. 73. C. T. Wood to M. Beauchamp, 28 July 1953, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bc5. 74. Observer, 30 August 1953. 75. L. J. Collins, ‘Sermon preached at St Paul’s’, 6 September 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3302, ff. 137–8. 76. T. Guthrie to G. Fisher, 8 September 1953, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 126, ff. 380–1. 77. T. Huddleston to G. Clayton, 15 October 1953, WITS, Papers of the Archbishops of Cape Town, AB 1363/C68 (file 2). 78. She had married the English film director Michael Crosfield in 1939, but Clayton was probably referring to the fact that she was divorced, which had made Canon Roseveare suggest to Collins that, ‘having broken Christian marriage laws, she probably had some grudge against the Church’ and was thus less than a ‘dependable critic’; G. Clayton to T. Huddleston, 29 October 1953, WITS, Papers of the Archbishops of Cape Town, AB 1363/C68 (file 1); Roseveare, ‘Memo of conversation with Canon Collins’, 22 September 1953, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bb3. 79. T. Huddleston to G. Clayton, 31 October 1953, WITS, Papers of the Archbishops of Cape Town, AB 1363/C68 (file 1). 80. Hansard (South Africa), House of Assembly Debates, 24 March 1954, cols. 2709–10.

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81. Times, 14 February 1955. 82. R. Denniston (1999) Trevor Huddleston: A Life (London: Macmillan), pp. 57–66. 83. R. Raynes (1955) Christian Liberalism and the Racial Policy of South Africa (Mirfield: Mirfield Publications). 84. A. Wilkinson (1992) The Community of the Resurrection – a Centenary History (London: SCM Press), p. 311. 85. Sales of over 100,000 copies are cited in Gurney, ‘“A Great Cause”, p. 129. 86. Huddleston, Naught for Your Comfort, p. 18. 87. Ibid., p. 35. 88. Ibid., pp. 74–5. 89. T. Huddleston, ‘Don’t Let’s be Beastly to South Africa’, 19 May 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 190/1 Item 2. 90. L. J. Collins to T. Huddleston, 5 March 1956, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3300, ff. 122–3. 91. Africa Digest, July–August 1956; Cambridge Independent Press, 27 April 1956. 92. Africa Digest, July–August 1956. 93. E. S. Sachs, ‘Draft outline of Fund for African Democracy’, March 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, ff. 13–14. 94. Minutes of Christian Action Council, 10 June 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3294, ff. 48–9. 95. E. S. Sachs to L. J. Collins, 16 July 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, f. 50; Minutes, inaugural meeting of Trustees of Fund for African Democracy, 2 September 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, ff. 63–5. 96. E. S. Reddy (1987) ‘Parliaments and the Struggle Against Apartheid’, ANC Historical Documents, available at http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/history/ aam/parliaments.html, accessed 29 November 2002. 97. Minutes, inaugural meeting of Trustees of Fund for African Democracy, 2 September 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, ff. 63–5. 98. M. M. Perkins to J. Isacowitz, 19 September 1953, Alan Paton Centre, Univeristy of KwaZulu Natal (hereafter Paton), Liberal Party papers, PC 2/3/3; supporters of the South African Liberal Party were, however, wary of raising funds overseas, see J. Isacowitz to Marquard, 14 October 1953, Paton, Liberal Party papers, PC 2/3/3. 99. V. Feather to E. S. Sachs, 5 November 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, f. 68. 100. V. Tewson, 29 October 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, f. 69. 101. ‘General Secretary’s Report to Trustees of Fund for African Democracy’, 23 February 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, f. 77. 102. E. S. Sachs to L. J. Collins, 16 July 1953, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, f. 50. 103. Peart-Binns, Reeves, pp. 170–3. 104. A. Reeves to L. J. Collins, 22 February 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3294, f. 1. 105. Church Times, 12 March 1954. 106. Die Transvaler, 16 March 1954. 107. C. T. Wood to J. Eaton, 19 March 1954, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bb3.

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108. E. Sachs to Doughty, 27 March 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, ff. 150–2. 109. ‘Minutes of 3rd Meeting of Trustees of Fund for African Democracy’, 5 April 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, ff. 92–3. 110. L. J. Collins to V. Tewson, 27 April 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, f. 170. 111. L. J. Collins to A. Reeves, 13 May 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3294, f. 20. 112. W. P. Reuther to L. J. Collins, 14 May 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, f. 181. 113. L. J. Collins, ‘South African Travel Journal’, June–July 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3293. 114. E. S. Sachs to L. J. Collins, 16 September 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, f. 119. 115. L. J. Collins to E. S. Sachs, 1 October 1954, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, f. 99. 116. E. S. Sachs to L. J. Collins, 26 May 1956, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3295, ff. 126–7. 117. ‘Meeting of ad hoc group to consider Church/State crisis in South Africa’, 23 December 1954, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/3, f. 5. 118. L. J. Collins to M. Benson, 25 December 1954, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 7. 119. M. Benson to L. J. Collins, 31 December 1954, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 8. 120. L. J. Collins to M. Benson, 1 January 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, ff. 9–10. 121. C. Gell to F. Nuell, 4 January 1955, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3300, f. 24. 122. ‘Minutes of a meeting of ad hoc group on South African appeal’, 14 January 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/3, ff. 6–7. 123. G. M. Scott to F. Nuell, 17 January 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 16. 124. F. Nuell to G. M. Scott, 21 January 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 17. 125. Collins, Faith under Fire, p. 217. 126. G. Bell to M. Benson, 29 January 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, ff. 4–5. 127. E. Carpenter to M. Benson, 1 February 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 19. 128. J. Hubback to G. Fisher, 9 December 1954, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 148, ff. 346–7. 129. Private Memo, 31 December 1954, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212. 130. A. Sulston to G. Clayton, 6 January 1955, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212. 131. J. Dixon to A. Sulston, 10 January 1955, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212. 132. SPG (1955) Brief on the South African Situation (London: Society for the Propagation of the Gospel). 133. South Africa Emergency Appeal, 7 January 1955, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212. 134. SPG and the Province of South Africa, 12 January 1955, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212.

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135. A. Sulston to G. Clayton, 6 January 1955, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212. 136. South African Grant, 1 November 1955, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212. 137. B. Bentley to B. Roberts, 25 January 1956, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212; B. Roberts to Bishop of Natal, 27 April 1956, BLCAS, USPG Papers, H212. 138. M. Benson to T. Huddleston, 24 February 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 190/1, f. 4. 139. Letter to Trustees, 1 April, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/3, f. 9. 140. African Schools and Families Appeal, 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/2, ff. 20–2. 141. Memorandum to Mr Scott, 12 May 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/5, f. 10; Draft reply, 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/5, f. 11. 142. E. Brookes to M. Benson, 21 February 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 86. 143. L. Marquard to M. Benson, 8 March 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 126. 144. African Schools and Families Fund – Accounts, 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 195/3 Item 1; African Schools and Families Fund – Accounts, 1957, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 195/3 Item 2; African Schools and Families Fund – Accounts, 1959, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 195/3 Item 3. 145. E. Harris to M. Benson, 28 June 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 94. 146. E. Harris to M. Benson, 15 December 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 39. 147. M. Benson to Loads, 24 February 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 73; M. Jarret-Kerr to J. Symonds, 22 April 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 194/10, f. 69. 148. Peart-Binns, Reeves, pp. 188–9. 149. G. Clayton to R. Jeffrey, 18 December 1956, WITS, South African Church Institute Papers, AB 707/Bd1(b). 150. Times, 10 December 1956. 151. T. Huddleston to G. Clayton, 17 December 1956, WITS, Clayton Papers, AB 191. 152. G. Clayton to T. Huddleston, 26 December 1956, WITS, Clayton Papers, AB 191. 153. T. Huddleston to M. Benson, 21 December 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 16/6, f. 65; L. J. Collins to A. Reeves, 31 January 1957, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3294, f. 61. 154. Minutes of Christian Action Council, 29 April 1957, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3312, f. 97. 155. L. J. Collins to Reeves, 7 May 1957, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3294, f. 70. 156. J. Hatch (1952) The Dilemma of South Africa (London: Dobson); see also J. Hatch (1959) Everyman’s Africa (London: Dobson). 157. Labour Party Conference Report, 1956. 158. Gurney, ‘A Greate Cause’, 130; Labour Party Conference Report, 1956, 158.

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159. Mary-Louise Hooper to G. M. Houser, 30 July 1956, Amistad, ACOA Papers 161/33; F. Brockway to G. M. Houser, 4 January 1957, Amistad, ACOA papers 161/34. 160. A. Blaxall to G. M. Houser, 9 March 1956, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 01/0400–1. 161. A. Blaxall to G. M. Houser, 13 December 1956, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 001/0510–11. 162. G. M. Houser to F. Brockway, 8 January 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 161/34. 163. G. M. Houser to A. Reeves, 6 November 1957, UCT, ACOA Papers, BCZA 94/5029. 164. ACOA memo, ‘Institutional Remittances to Foreign Countries’, 10 December 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers, US Correspondence, 011/39. 165. A. Reeves to L. J. Collins, 7 February 1958, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3294, f. 112; L. J. Collins to A. Reeves, 13th February 1958, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3294, ff. 113–14. 166. L. J. Collins to A. Reeves, 25 September 1958, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3294, f. 164. 167. G. M. Scott to L. J. Collins, 1 July 1958, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 201/3, f. 8. 168. G. M. Scott to L. J. Collins, 21 November 1958, BLCAS, Collins Papers, MS 3296, f. 15. 169. G. M. Scott to L. J. Collins, 17 March 1959, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3296, f. 16. 170. ‘An African Appeals Board – a Suggestion’, 1959, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 200/3, ff. 9–12. 171. G. M. Houser to G. M. Scott, 28 May 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 161/34. 172. T. Smith to G. M. Houser, 3 May 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers 010/43; G. M. Houser to ACOA executive, 27 May 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 010/50. 173. A. Paton to G. M. Houser, 27 June 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 001/0712. 174. Declaration of Conscience on South Africa, New York, 1957. 175. G. Fisher to E. Roosevelt, 24 August 1957, Lambeth, Fisher Papers, Vol. 193, ff. 87–9. 176. L. J. Collins to F. Brockway, 15 November 1957, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3299, ff. 85–6. 177. J. Symonds to G. M. Houser, 26 November 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 161/36. 178. A. Reeves to Houser, 30 December 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 001/0859. 179. New York Times, 13 December 1957. 180. Times, 16 December 1957. 181. A. Blaxall to G. M. Houser, 15 December 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 001/0849–50; P. Duncan to G. M. Houser, 19 December 1957, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 001/0856. 182. Times, 26 September 1959. 183. J. S. Peart-Binns (1987) Archbishop Joost de Blank – Scourge of Apartheid (London: Muller, Blond and White) p. 145.

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230

Notes

1. Hyam and Henshaw, Lion and Springbok, pp. 307–8. 2. S. Hall (1999) ‘The AAM and the Race-ing of Britain’. Paper presented at symposium on the Anti-Apartheid Movement: A 40-year Perspective, South Africa House, London, 25–26 June. 3. Daily Herald, 29 July 1954; Observer, 10 October 1954. 4. R. Raynes, 24 October 1953, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 190/1, ff. 1–2. 5. Minutes of Executive Committee meeting, 1 October 1953, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 1/2, ff. 43–6. 6. ‘Policy for Africa’, 5 May 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 25/7, ff. 16–22; ‘South Africa versus the conscience of the world’, 22 March 1957, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 20/16, ff. 48–52. 7. Scott, Time To Speak, pp. 340–3. 8. R. Segal (1963) Into Exile (London: Jonathan Cape), pp. 186–7. 9. P. Eddington to M. Benson, 5 December 1954, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 196/1, ff. 33–5. 10. B. W. Levy to M. Whatley, 18 January 1955, Sussex, Benn W Levy Papers, SxMs 37, 8/11. 11. M. Benson to T. Huddleston, 21 April 1955, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 190/1, f. 13. 12. T. Huddleston to Editor, 3 June 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 16/6, ff. 43–4. 13. M. Benson to T. Huddleston, 23 May 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 16/6, f. 39; H. Goomey to Benson, 3 June 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 196/1, f. 43; Goomey had been one of the founding members of Manchester’s Theatre Workshop alongside Ewan MacColl and Joan Littlewood. 14. South African Outlook, 1 December 1956. 15. T. Huddleston to M. Benson, 16 June 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 196/1, f. 45. 16. ‘Private Meeting in the House of Lords’, 26 June 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 196/4, ff. 5–7. 17. ‘Art & Sport Manifesto’, 7 October 1957, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 196/5, f. 1; the signatories included Peggy Ashcroft, Benjamin Britten, John Betjeman, John Gielgud, Graham Greene, Irene Handl, Julian Huxley, Henry Moore, Emeric Pressburger, Michael Redgrave, AJP Taylor, and Peter Ustinov; ‘List of signatories’, 8 October 1957, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 196/5, f. 33. 18. Huddleston, Naught for Your Comfort, p. 202. 19. M. Keech (2001) ‘The Ties that Bind: South Africa and Sports Diplomacy, 1958–1963’, The Sports Historian, 21, 71–93. 20. T. Huddleston to Editor, 3 June 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 16/6, ff. 43–4. 21. One of the leading supporters of FASA’s membership of FIFA was Stanley Rous, the international body’s President from 1961–74. Rous was concerned

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7 Sharpeville, Sanctions and the Making of a Transnational Movement

22. 23.

24.

25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.

33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46.

over the potential power of the African Football Federation in an era of decolonisation and was amenable to a number of suggestions from South Africans, including the fielding of all-white and all-black national teams at alternate World Cup Championships! See M. Keech, ‘The Ties that Bind’. D. Sheppard to G. M. Scott, 16 August 1956, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 196/4, ff. 178–9. Fenner Brockway wrote to Collins in early 1958 requesting support for an international campaign against apartheid in sport, F. Brockway to L. J. Collins, 27 February 1958, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3299, ff. 92–3. Gurney, ‘A Great Cause’, pp. 124–5; T. Karis, G. M. Carter and G. M. Gerhart (1977) From Protest to Challenge – A Documentary History of African Politics in South Africa 1882–1964 Vol III (Stanford: Hoover Institution Press), p. 153. S. Hall, ‘The AAM and the Race-ing of Britain’. Daily Mail, 10 January 1955. C. Gurney, ‘A Great Cause’, p. 134. Ibid. S. Thomas (1995) The Diplomacy of Liberation: Foreign Relations of the ANC Since 1960 (London: I.B. Tauris), p. 181. Karis, Carter and Gerhart, From Protest to Challenge III, p. 552. Tribune, 24 April 1959. Elizabeth Williams (2009) ‘We Shall Not Be Free Until South Africa is Free! The Anti-Apartheid Activity of Black Britons’ (Ph.D. Thesis, Birkbeck College, London). ‘Supporters and Sponsors of Boycott’, 20 July 1959, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1, see also T. Huddleston to B. Bashorun, 2 July 1959, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1. Huddleston stated that he was ‘overloaded with engagements’ in the week the campaign was launched. Bailey to Okunnu, 14 July 1959, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1. G. M. Houser to J. Longmore, 23 September 1959, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 161/40. P. Duncan to G. M. Houser, 20 October 1959, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 2/28; R. Segal to G. M. Houser, 26 October 1959, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 2/30. J. Lewin to G. M. Houser, 30 October 1959, Amistad, ACOA 2/31. ‘Boycott Slave-Drivers Goods’, n.d. [1959], BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1; see also Gurney, ‘A Great Cause’. Stuart Hall, ‘The AAM and the Race-ing of Britain’. For the 1968 trade estimates, see Barbara Rogers (1971) South Africa’s Stake in Britain (London: Africa Bureau); for a wider discussion of economic relations between South Africa and the West, see R. First, J. Steele and C. Gurney (1972) The South African Connection (London: Penguin). Telegram, UK High Commission, Pretoria, 28 July 1959, TNA, CO 822/1844. Butterfield to Buist, 8 August 1959, TNA, CO 822/1844. Webber to Butterfield, 14 August 1959, TNA, CO 822/1844. Times, 9 September 1959. Kenya Intelligence Committee, Monthly Appreciation 9/59, TNA, CO 822/1844. Boycott Movement Minutes, 16 December 1959, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 2.

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Notes 231

Notes

47. Boycott Movement Minutes, 25 November 1959, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 2. 48. Times, 28 October 1959. 49. Times, 23 November 1959. 50. Lent, British Social Movements, pp. 32–3. 51. F. Parkin (1968) Middle-Class Radicalism – The Social Bases of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament (Manchester: Manchester University Press). 52. Times, 21 December 1959. 53. Colonial Freedom News, December 1959. 54. Times, 24 December 1959. 55. Times, 23 December 1959. 56. Times, 20 January 1960. 57. Ibid. 58. Daily Herald, 4 February 1960. 59. Times, 26 November 1959. 60. Times, 12 January 1960. 61. Daily Herald, 29 February 1960. 62. Times, 29 February 1960. 63. Howard Smith (1993) ‘Apartheid, Sharpeville and “Impartiality”: The Reporting of South Africa on BBC Television 1948–61’, in Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, 13, 3, 251–98. 64. Ibid. 65. Hansard, House of Commons Debates, vol. 621, cols 775, 781, John Stonehouse, 8 April 1960. 66. Hansard, House of Commons Debates, vol. 621, col. 764, Sir Godfrey Nicolson, 8 April 1960. 67. Hansard, House of Commons Debates, vol. 621, col. 842, John Dugdale, 8 April 1960. 68. Hansard, House of Commons Debates, vol. 621, col. 801, Michael Stewart, 8 April 1960. 69. Hansard, House of Commons Debates, vol. 621, cols 795–6, Fenner Brockway, 8 April 1960. 70. CRO Telegram, No 318, 3 April 1960; No. 238, 4 April 1960, TNA, DO 35/10595. 71. Hansard, House of Commons Debates, vol. 621, col. 1474, H. A. Marquand, 14 April 1960. 72. SA High Commission, telegram no. 326, 14 April 1960, TNA, DO 35/10595. 73. CRO Telegram, No. 381, 22 April 1960, TNA, DO 35/10595. 74. ‘Conclusions of Meeting in Downing Street’, 25 April 1960, TNA PREM 11/3113; CRO Telegram, No. 351, 26 April 1960, TNA, DO 35/10595. 75. SA High Commission, Telegram no. 383, 27 April 1960, TNA, DO 35/10595. 76. Macmillan to Louw, 12 May 1960, TNA PREM 11/3113; Louw to Macmillan, 14 May 1960, TNA, DO 35/10595; Maud to Godfrey Shannon, 23 May 1960, TNA PREM 11/3113; Bligh to Mills, 17 June 1960, TNA PREM 11/3113. 77. Deborah Gaitskell (2000) ‘Female Faith and the Politics of the Personal: Five Mission Encounters in Twentieth-Century South Africa’, Feminist Review, 65, 68–91. 78. Times, 11 April 1960.

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232

79. Peart-Binns, Reeves, pp. 213–15. 80. Ambrose Reeves (1962) South Africa: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow (London: Gollancz), pp. 35–45. 81. A. Reeves to L. J. Collins, 16 April 1960, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS3294. 82. CRO Telegram, No. 449, 21 April 1960, TNA, DO 35/10595. 83. Times, 23 April 1960. 84. Times, 12 May 1960. 85. Reeves, South Africa, pp. 49–51. 86. CRO Telegram No 901, 13 September 1960, TNA DO 35/10594; Hansard, House of Commons Debates, 24 November 1960, Vol. 630, Col. 124W. 87. Clutterbuck to Maud, 14 December 1960, TNA DO 35/10594. 88. SA High Commission telegram no. 222, 29 March 1960, TNA, DO 35/7423. 89. Segal, Into Exile, pp. 282–4. 90. SA High Commission telegram no. 223, 30 March 1960, TNA, DO 35/7423. 91. CRO telegram no. 256, 31 March 1960, TNA, DO 35/7423. 92. Hansard, House of Commons Debates, 31 March 1960 vol. 620, cols 1511–6. 93. SA High Commission telegram no. 211, 31 March 1960, TNA, DO 35/7423. 94. UK Mission to UN telegram no. 191, 31 March 1960 TNA, DO 35/7423. 95. UK Mission to UN telegram no. 193, 1 April 1960 TNA, DO 35/7423. 96. UK Mission to UN telegram no. 189, 1 April 1960 TNA, DO 35/7423. 97. Sunday Mail, 3 April 1960; N. Rhodesia High Commission telegram no. 130, 7 April 1960, TNA, DO 35/7423. 98. SA High Commission telegram no. 290, 14 April 1960, TNA, DO 35/7423. 99. Neil Parsons (2008) ‘The Pipeline: Botswana’s Reception of Refugees, 1956–68’, Social Dynamics, 34, 1, 17–32. 100. Thomas, The Diplomacy of Liberation, pp. 35–7. 101. Boycott Movement Minutes, 20 April 1960, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 2. 102. Boycott Movement Minutes, 30 April Recall Conference, 1960, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 2; see also Fieldhouse, Anti-Apartheid, pp. 29–30. 103. Notes of a ‘Summit’ meeting, 25 May 1960, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 200/3, f.6; D. Astor to L. J. Collins, 28 May 1960, Lambeth, Collins Papers MS 3296, ff. 43–4. 104. Fieldhouse, Anti-Apartheid, pp. 34–5. 105. Lord Altrincham, ‘Notes on an Anti-Apartheid Co-Ordinating Committee’, [n.d. 1960], LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, Correspondence, 1960–1. 106. D. Ennals to D. Phombeah, 28 September 1960, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, Correspondence, 1960–1. 107. G. M. Scott to L. J. Collins, 23 June 1959, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3296. 108. L. J. Collins to G. M. Scott, 3 July 1959, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3296. 109. J. Symonds to Campbell, 11 September 1959, BLCAS, Africa Burea Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 201/4, f. 45. 110. M. Randle (1994) Civil Resistance (London: Fontana), pp. 81–3.

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Notes 233

Notes

111. Michael Scott, ‘An African Appeals Board – a Suggestion’, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, Mss Afr s 1681 200/3, ff. 9–12. 112. Hemingford to L. J. Collins, 22 July 1960, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3296, ff. 50–1. 113. L. J. Collins to Hemingford, 27 July 1960, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3296, ff. 52–4. 114. N. Mohomo to J. Symonds, 9 August 1960, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 201/5, f. 39; memo of telephone call from Michael Scott, 18 August 1960, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3296, ff. 72–3. 115. G. M. Scott to L. J. Collins, 20 October 1960, Lambeth, Collins Papers, MS 3296, f. 111. 116. A. Reeves to G. M. Scott, 2 November 1960, BLCAS, Africa Bureau Papers, MSS Afr s 1681 201/5, f. 99. 117. G. M. Scott to B. W. Levy, 19 October 1960, Sussex, Benn W. Levy Papers, SxMs 37 3/5. 118. D. Herbstein, White Lies, pp. 52–60. 119. J. Shingler to E. White, 24 April 1961, Paton, Liberal Party Papers, PC 2/3/8. 120. ‘On the Proposed Formation of a Political Fund for the South African United Front’, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, Correspondence, 1960–1. 121. L. J. Collins, 2 June 1961, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, Correspondence, 1960–1. 122. L. J. Collins to D. Ennals, 14 September 1961, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, Correspondence, 1960–1. 123. F. Brockway to D. Ennals, 20 September 1961, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, Correspondence, 1960–1. 124. J. Eber to D. Ennals, 19 January 1962, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, SA Freedom Fund Correspondence, 1962–3. 125. Minutes, South African Political Appeal – Meeting, 18 June 1963, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, SA Freedom Fund Correspondence, 1962–3. 126. Southern African Freedom Group, Periodical Report, Jule 1963, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, SA Freedom Fund Correspondence, 1962–3. 127. Segal, quoted in ‘Draft Memorandum on Sanctions on South Africa’ [nd. 1960], LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, Correspondence, 1960–1. 128. Notes on a Meeting to Discuss South Africa and the Commonwealth, 26 January 1961, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, Correspondence, 1960–1. 129. Hyam and Henshaw, The Lion and the Springbok, pp. 268–72. 130. Fieldhouse, Anti-Apartheid, pp. 38–40. 131. Executive Committee Minutes, 17 July 1961, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 66. 132. Executive Committee Report, 24 July 1962, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 70; see also Fieldhouse, Anti-Apartheid, pp. 40–1. 133. Executive Committee Minutes, 19 March 1962, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 66.

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134. Committee on Future Relations with South Africa, minutes, March 1961, TNA, CAB 134/2493. 135. Times, 15 February 1962. 136. Hansard, House of Commons Debate, Vol. 654, Col. 939, 26 February 1962, Edward Heath. 137. Hansard, House of Commons Debate, Vol. 654, Col. 943, 26 February 1962, Edward Heath. 138. Hansard, House of Commons Debate, Vol. 654, Col. 956, 26 February 1962, John Strachey. 139. Hansard, House of Commons Debate, Vol. 654, Col. 978, 26 February 1962, Joe Grimond. 140. Press Statement, 10 May 1962, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1700. 141. Executive Committee Report, 24 July 1962, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 70. 142. on de Crespigny, see J. Sanders (2006) Apartheid’s Friends (London: John Murray), pp. 175–82. 143. O. Tambo to G. M. Houser, 28 August 1962, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 161/45. 144. Sir John Maud, Valedictory Despatch, 20 May 1963, TNA, FO 371/167512. 145. Stevens Minute, 26 June 1963, TNA, FO 371/167512. 146. Cary memo on ‘South Africa and the United Nations’, 3 April 1963, TNA, CAB 21/5070. 147. Memo on Economic Sanctions, 24 June 1963, TNA, FO 371/167512. 148. Young to Millard, 12 June 1963, TNA, FO 371/167512. 149. Borstelmann, The Cold War and the Color Line, pp. 154–5. 150. Telegram, UK Mission to UN to Foreign Office, 7 August 1963, TNA, CAB 21/4910. 151. Foreign Office Telegram 457, 7 August 1963, TNA, CAB 21/4910. 152. Record of a Conversation between the Foreign Secretary and the South African Minister, 9 July 1963, CAB 21/5070. 153. Anti-Apartheid rally – notes for Harold Wilson, 17 March 1963, LHASC, Labour Party, International Department, LP ID 63, Correspondence, 1962–3. 154. Executive Committee Minutes, 20 June 1963, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 66. 155. Sanctions Meeting, 26 September 1963, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1700. 156. R. Segal to G. M. Houser, 5 September 1963, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 161/47. 157. Sanctions Meeting, 18 November 1963, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1700. 158. Executive Committee Minutes, 25 November 1963, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 66. 159. Times, 6 March 1964; John Wilson, Memo, 18 March 1964, TNA FO 371/177167; this is confirmed by the minutes of the AAM sanctions committee. 160. G. M. Houser to R. Segal, 7 October 1963, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 161/47. 161. G. M. Houser to N. Mohomo, 23 September 1963, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 161/47. 162. Segal to R. A. Butler, 12 March 1964, TNA FO 371/177167.

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Notes 235

Notes

163. International Conference on Economic Sanctions Against South Africa, List of Delegates, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1700. 164. Foreign Office Telegram, 26 March 1964, TNA, FO 371/177167. 165. Findings and Recommendations of Commissions I and II, 1 May 1964, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1700. 166. ‘Sanctions and World Peace’, draft, 1964, TNA, FO 371/177167. 167. Ibid., p. 5. 168. Findings and Recommendations of Commissions I and II, 1 May 1964, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1700. 169. A. Maizels (1964) ‘Economic Sanctions and South Africa’s Trade’, in Segal (ed.) Sanctions Against South Africa (Penguin: London), pp. 120–34. 170. Findings and Recommendations of Commissions I and II, 1 May 1964, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1700. 171. G. D. N. Worswick (1964) ‘The Impact of Sanctions on the British Economy’, in Segal (ed.) Sanctions Against South Africa (Penguin: London), pp. 167–85. 172. Findings and Recommendations of Commissions III, 1 May 1964, BLCAS, AAM Papers, MSS AAM 1700. 173. Working Party on Sanctions Against South Africa, Minutes, 25 June 1964, TNA, CAB 148/11. 174. Millard to Wilkinson, 19 June 1964, TNA, CAB 148/11. 175. Ziegler to Wilson, 11 June 1964, TNA, CAB 148/11 – emphasis in original. 176. ‘Could South Africa Survive Without Imports?’, TNA, CAB 148/11. 177. ‘Effects of Sanctions on South Africa on the British Balance of Payments’ – note by the Board of Trade, 23 July 1964, TNA, CAB 148/12. 178. John Killick, note, July 31, 1964, TNA, CAB 148/13. 179. ‘United Kingdom Policy on Sanctions Against South Africa’, TNA, CAB 148/13. 180. MSS AAM 66, Executive Committee minutes, 27 April 1964; H. Soref and I. Greig (1965) The Puppeteers (London: Tandem Books).

8 Epilogue and Conclusion 1. ACOA report, ‘Free South African Prisoners’, 29 October 1963, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 003/0377. 2. Mary Benson (1996) A Far Cry (Randburg: Ravan), pp. 154–5. 3. UN Security Council Resolution 190, 9 June 1964. 4. UN Security Council Resolution 191, 18 June 1964. 5. Herbstein, White Lies, p. 104. 6. M. Gevisser (2007) Thabo Mbeki: The Dream Deferred (Cape Town: Jonathan Ball). 7. T. Borstelmann, The Cold War and the Color Line, pp. 169–71. 8. Nesbitt, Race for Sanctions, p. 52; Nesbitt dates the protest to July, but the earlier date seems more likely based on evidence in the ACOA Papers; see also New York Times, 5 June 1964. 9. G. M. Houser to M. Benson, 17 June 1964, Amistad,ACOA Papers, 161/49. 10. Nesbitt, Race for Sanctions, pp. 54–5. 11. Minutes, Consultative Council on South Africa, 11 June 1964, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 004/1016.

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12. Address by Martin Luther King, 7 December 1964, Amistad, ACOA Papers, 007/0545–6. 13. Nesbitt, Race for Sanctions, p. 61. 14. Ibid., pp. 57–60. 15. Williams, ‘We Shall Not Be Free’, Hall, ‘The AAM and the Race-ing of Britain’. 16. Thörn, Anti-Apartheid, pp. 207–11. 17. Ibid., p. 202.

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Notes 237

Manuscript sources Amistad Research Center, Tulane University American Committee on Africa archive

Alan Paton Centre, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Pietermaritzburg PC 1 PC 2

Alan Paton papers Liberal Party papers

Archives and Manuscripts, University of Cape Town BC 347 BC 587 BC 653 BCZA 94 BCZA 204–77 BZB 78/194

Ballinger papers Marquard papers Civil Rights League papers American Committee on Africa papers Joost de Blank papers International Missionary Conference papers

British Library for Politics and Economic Science, London Coll Miss 456

Fellowship of Reconciliation papers

Dept. of Historical Papers, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg A 394 A 410 AB 191 AB 388 AB 397 AB 702 AB 707 AB 1363 AC 623 AD 843 AD 1169 AD 1433 AD 1646 AD 2186 AH 646

Rheinallt Jones papers Ballinger papers Clayton papers Reeves papers Church and Nation papers Scott papers South African Church Institute papers Papers of the Archbishops of Cape Town Records of the South African Council of Churches South African Institute of Race Relations/Xuma Papers Paton papers Joint Council of Africans and Europeans South African Institute of Race Relations ANC papers Trades Union Council of South Africa 238

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Labour History Archive and Study Centre, People’s History Museum, Manchester

Lambeth Palace Library Bishop Bell papers Canon Collins papers Archbishop Fisher papers

The National Archives, London Papers relating to the Dominions Office, Commonwealth Relations, Foreign and Commonwealth Offices, Cabinet Office papers and Records of the Prime Minister’s Office.

Bodleian Library of Commonwealth and African Studies at Rhodes House MSS MSS MSS MSS H12

Afr.s 1427 Afr s 1681 Brit Emp Afr s 1603

Papers of the London Group on African Affairs Africa Bureau papers Anti-Slavery Society papers British Council of Churches in South Africa United Society for the Propagation of the Gospel papers Michael Scott papers

University of Sussex Manuscripts SxMs 37 SxMs 11 SxMs 60

Benn W Levy Papers Kingsley Martin Papers New Statesman Papers

Andersen Library, University of Minnesota Kautz YMCA Archives, Yergan papers.

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Anti-Slavery and Aborigines Protection Society 14, 15, 16, 23, 27, 46, 84, 100 Actors’ Equity Association (Equity) 159–60 Africa Bureau formation 93, 97–100 relationships with other organisations 128, 129, 138, 143–4, 151, 153, 178–9, 180–1 and boycott 157, 159, 161, 178 ‘Africa Crisis’ meeting (1953) 112–14 African Education Movement 136 African Independent Churches 19, 21 African National Congress 23–27, 103–104, 137, 143, 162, 172, 175, 177, 185, 189, 194, 196 African Relations Council 92–3 African Schools and Families Fund 146–7 Aggrey, James 36 Alport, Cuthbert 174, 176 American Board Mission 34 American Committee on Africa 109–10, 117, 118, 123, 142, 149–50, 163, 189–90, 196, 199 American Methodist Episcopal Church 4, 10, 19, 21 Americans for South African Resistance 104–5, 108–9 Anglican Church 4, 13, 63–7, 85, 87, 95, 114, 128–32, 134–5, 175 Anti-Apartheid Movement (UK) 177–9, 181–2, 183–5, 188–90, 192, 194–5 anti-apartheid co–ordinating committee 178–82 apartheid 1–4, 63, 77, 83, 111, 113, 120–5, 126, 138–9, 184, 190–1, 194 Art and Sport Manifesto 153, 160

Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Representation Act (‘Ghetto Act’) 76, 102 Astor, David 93, 95, 98, 102, 117, 179, 181 Attitude to Africa 97, 110–11 Atlanta Congress 19 Atlantic Charter, The 10, 66, 68 Ballinger, Margaret 4, 69, 107 Ballinger, William 45–8, 58, 64, 97 Bantu Education Act 125, 127–30, 142–7 Basner, Hyman 69, 76–7 Bechuanaland see Botswana Bell, Ernest 120 Bell, George 84–5, 90, 129–31, 144 Benson, Mary 95, 114, 129, 143, 146–7, 159, 199 Blaxall, Arthur 107, 109, 117, 124, 147, 149–50, 153 Botswana 17, 22, 47, 76, 94–6, 175–6 boycott, tactic 2, 11, 70, 135, 157–62, 164, 171, 178, 181, 182, 184, 186–7, 201–2 Boycott Movement, The 162–70, 177–8, 180, 182 Bridgman, Frederick 34–6 British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) 127, 170 British Council of Churches (BCC) 92, 122, 128–31, 143 Brockway, Fenner 29, 45, 93, 99–100, 113, 118, 148–50, 152, 163, 171, 182 Bull, Oswin 35–6, 56–7 Burns, Emile 68–9 Cabinet Working Party on Sanctions 189, 192–3 Cachalia, Yusuf 124, 134, 138

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Campaign Against Racial Discrimination in Sport 154, 178 Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament 166, 180–1, 198 Campaign for Right and Justice 69–71, 91–2, 101–2 Carpenter, George 110, 123, 125 Castle, Barbara 149, 194–5 Christian Action interest in African affairs 88, 100, 113 fundraising 106–7, 112, 139–44, 147–8, 150 relationship with other organisations 108, 130–2, 138, 139, 151, 153, 166, 179–80 Christian Council of South Africa 50, 53 Christian liberalism see liberalism Church and the Nation 64–5, 68 Clayton, Geoffrey 63–6, 81, 84, 86–7, 90–1, 104, 122, 126–30, 135–6, 145, 147, 153–4 civil disobedience 8, 11, 83, 101–5, 107, 112, 115, 117, 154, 200 Civil Rights movement (USA) 62, 101, 108, 116–7, 118, 157, 198–200 Collins, Lewis John criticism of South African government 105–6, 132–3, 134, 153 and Establishment 87–8, 108, 126, 131 Fund-raising 107, 112, 114, 127–8, 139, 141–4, 147–51, 178, 182, 197 relationship with Michael Scott 88, 100, 131, 138, 151, 179–82 support for African nationalism 83, 88, 100, 112, 114, 121–2, 132, 157 colonial policy, British 13–14, 28, 42–4, 48–50, 75, 113 Commission of Churches on International Affairs 78, 84–5, 92

Committee of African Organisations 162–4, 178 communism 45, 52–3, 68–9, 71, 78, 80, 97, 103, 106, 108, 111–12, 114, 115 Community of the Resurrection 66, 128, 136, 138 Congo Reform Association 18 Congress of Peoples Against Imperialism 99–100 Congress of Racial Equality 83, 103, 105 Congress of the People (1955) 115, 148, 149 Conservative Party (Britain) 87, 98, 184–5, 197 Consultative Council on South Africa 199 Co-Operative Society, The 163, 167–8, 178, 184 Council on African Affairs 10, 60–3, 72–6, 80, 100, 103–4 Crawford, James 120 Creech Jones, Arthur 45, 64, 97, 157 Dadoo, Yusuf 69, 91, 101, 117, 124, 174, 177, 190 Davidson, Basil 91 de Blank, Joost 154, 175 Declaration of Conscience 3, 151–3 Defence and Aid Fund 107, 119, 147–51, 156, 179, 180, 182 Defiance Campaign 8, 83, 89, 101–3, 105–10, 112–13, 117, 120, 132, 133, 144 Douglas-Home, Alexander 172, 188, 197 Driberg, Tom 91, 148 Du Bois, W.E.B. 23, 28, 32, 36, 58, 73, 74, 103, 118, 200 Duncan, Patrick 55, 124, 153, 163 ecumenism 50–1 Ennals, David 167, 179, 182–3, 190 Fabian Colonial Bureau 91, 99, 148 Fellowship of Reconciliation 4, 92, 103–5, 110, 117, 149

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First, Ruth 184, 190 Fisher, Geoffrey 84, 86, 126–9, 131–2, 152 Fletcher, John 46, 92, 93, 143 Football Association of South Africa 160–1 Fort Hare College 34, 37–9, 41, 51, 53–4, 64, 112 Fund for African Democracy 139–42 fund-raising see Defence and Aid Fund; Fund for African Democracy; Justice in South Africa appeal; African Schools and Families Fund; SPG Appeal for Africa; South Africa Defence Fund; Treason Trial Defence Fund Gandhi, influence of 101–3, 117, 182 Gandhi, Manilal 104, 117 Garvey, Marcus 10, 32–4, 36, 58 ‘Ghetto Bills’, The see Asiatic Land Tenure and Indian Representation Act Gollancz, Victor 88, 112, 132 Goodall, Norman 122, 128 Gordon Walker, Patrick 93, 95 Greaves, L.B. 92, 122–3, 128 Grigg, John (Lord Altrincham) 179 Grubb, Kenneth 50–1, 84 Gunther, John 152 Harris, John 23–7, 29, 42, 46, 49 Hellman, Ellen 147, 152–3, 196 Henderson, Arthur 25, 28 Henderson, James 20, 35–6 Hepple, Alex 147–8 Herbert, Dennis (Lord Hemingford) 98, 131, 143, 180 Herero see also South-West Africa and United Nations 77–79, 84 Hertzog, J.B.M. 28, 38, 45, 48, 50, 55 Hoernlé, R.A. 49, 64 Holtby, Winifred 44–6, 48–9 Hooper, Mary-Louise 149–50 Houser, George 12–5, 103–5, 107, 109–10, 117, 149–50, 152–4, 163, 189, 196, 199

Huddleston, Trevor activities in UK 138–40, 159–60, 163, 168, 169 call for boycott 157–8 and Church authorities 135–6, 147 international opposition to aparthed 122–3, 126, 129, 132–5, 138 politics and pastoral mission 66–7, 125, 128–9, 136–7 support for African nationalism 107, 114, 133–4, 137 and Western Areas Removal Scheme 66–7, 135 humanitarianism 2–4, 6, 9, 12–17, 21–5, 27, 29–30, 31, 41–2, 44, 47, 83, 100, 115, 119, 132, 173, 200, 202 human rights 2–3, 6, 59, 73–4, 76–80, 112, 144, 152, 188, 199 Hunton, W.A. 72, 118 indigenous rights 9, 12–16, 29, 59–60, 77, 79, 93, 110, 113 Industrial and Commercial Workers’ Union 33, 45 International Committee on African Affairs see Committee on Africa Affairs International Conference on Economic Sanctions against South Africa 188–92 International Federation of Association Football (FIFA) 160–61 International Missionary Conference 50, 52 Jabavu, D.D.T. 37, 53, 60 Jabavu, John Tengo 20, 22, 23 Jabavu, Nontandu 112–5, 135 Joint Council movement 36, 39–40, 44, 46, 47, 67 Jones, Thomas Jesse 35–6, 52, 60–1 Justice in South Africa appeal 139, 146–7 Kadalie, Clements 33, 45–6 Khama, Seretse 93–6, 100

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Khama, Tshekedi 48, 76–7, 85, 93–6 King, Martin Luther 152, 199 Labour Party (Britain) 25, 29, 44–5, 74, 88, 93, 96, 99, 113, 140, 148, 151, 161–3, 167–8, 188, 192, 194, 197 Liberal Party (South Africa) 140, 153, 181 liberalism and anti-apartheid 82, 91, 103, 107–8, 115–16, 123, 136–7, 173, 202 Christian 3–4, 34, 37, 50, 57, 64–8 and segregation 25, 35, 38–41, 45–6, 48–9 Livie-Noble, F.S. 46, 49 London Anti-Apartheid Committee 179 London Group on African Affairs 49 London Missionary Society 4, 15, 24 Loram, C.T. 35–6, 38, 50–1, 57, 58, 119 Louw, Eric 153, 158, 164, 168, 172, 174–6, 178 Lutuli, Albert 8, 149–50, 162, 199, 200 Macmillan, Harold 168, 169, 172, 183, 188 Macmillan, W.M. 4, 43–4, 47–8 Mahereru, Frederick 77 Makiwane, Tennyson 162, 164–6, 177 Malan, D.F. 63, 83, 91, 103, 106, 108, 134, 142 Mandela, Nelson 134, 177 Marquard, Leo 70, 91, 146 Marylebone Cricket Club 161 Maud, John 172–3, 175–6, 186, 194 Matthews, Z.K. 104–5, 124 Mboya, Tom 152, 164–5 missionaries 3–4, 14, 16, 18, 20–1, 31, 34–6, 127 moral protest 2–5, 47, 54, 79, 105, 115–7, 123, 138, 153–4, 158, 170, 183–4, 200–2 Moroka, James 103–4

Mott, John R. 50, 52–5, 57 Movement for Colonial Freedom 100, 153, 167, 178–9, 182 Muirhead, Esther 92, 123 Namibia 60, 75–9, 83–5, 92, 116, 158 National Association for the Advancement of Colored People 73–4, 78, 149, 153, 190, 199 nationalism 7–8, 18–19, 49, 52, 54, 58, 68, 80, 82–3, 89, 97, 100, 108–9, 110–12, 114–16, 118, 120 ‘Native Question’, the 9, 13–14, 16, 17, 20, 36–7, 44, 119 Naught for Your Comfort 137–8, 160 Neugebauer, Frieda 63 Norton, George 85, 89, 92, 95 Oldham, J.H. 42–4, 50, 52, 58, 84 Packenham, Elizabeth 112–13 Packenham, Frank (Lord Longford) 93, 98, 132 Pan-African Freedom Movement of East and Central Africa 165, 182 Pan-Africanist Congress (South Africa) 162, 170, 172, 177, 180, 189, 190 Panorama 170 Paton, Alan 67, 81, 88, 106–7, 146–7, 152 passive resistance 101–102, 105, 143 Phelps-Stokes Commission 36 Phillips, Ray 34, 54, 57 Pillay, Vella 189, 195 Plaatje, S. 23–9, 32–3, 58 Pleasant Sunday Afternoon Brotherhood 25–8, 31–2 Raynes, Raymond 66, 127, 129, 131, 136, 157 Reeves, Ambrose 86–7, 90, 121, 135, 136, 140, 180, 183, 185 and Bantu Education 130–1, 143, 145–6

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and Treason Trial Defence Fund 147–50, 152 aftermath of Sharpeville 173–5 Rheinallt Jones, J.D. 46, 70 Roberts, Basil 85–6, 126, 128, 130–1 Robeson, Paul 52, 57, 60–1, 63, 72, 75, 91, 103, 118 sanctions 11, 14, 90, 157–9, 168, 178, 182–94, 196–9, 202 Sayre, Nevin 104–5, 149–50 Scott, Michael activities in Britain and US 83, 88–9, 91–3, 96–8, 104, 105, 111– 12, 158, 160, 196 and Anglican Church 68, 84–7, 89–90 and Campaign for Right and Justice 69–71 and passive resistance 101–2, 108 relationship with Collins 87–8, 100, 143–4, 151, 179–81 and United Nations 77–9 views on communism 68–9, 71 Segal, Ronald 158, 163, 175–7, 183, 188–9 Seme, Pixley 19 Sharpeville Crisis 156–7, 159, 161, 167, 169, 170–1, 173, 175, 177–8, 182–3, 194 Sheppard, Rev. David 161, 171 Sisulu, Walter 103, 121, 124 Slack, Frank 54, 56–7 Smuts, Jan 15, 28, 43–4, 47, 63, 67, 70, 73, 76–7, 80, 81–2, 91 Social Gospel 20, 34, 38–9, 50 Society for the Propagation of the Gospel 85, 89, 126, 128, 130–1 Appeal for South Africa 142, 144–6 solidarity 2, 7–9, 11, 104, 109–10, 115, 117, 119, 134, 155, 201–2 Sophiatown 66–7, 69, 126, 134, 136–7 South Africa Act (1962) 184–5 South Africa Defence Fund 148 South African Labour Party 139, 147–8

South African Church Institute 87, 90, 114, 147 South African Institute of Race Relations 10, 40, 46–7, 70, 91, 104 South African Natives National Congress see African National Congress South African Trades and Labour Council 70, 121, 140 South African Trades Union Council 121 South African United Front 177, 181 South African War 5, 9, 12–15 South-West Africa see Namibia Soviet Union 62, 71, 73–4 Stanton, Hannah 172–5 Steward, Alexander 4 Streatfield, G.C. 87, 89–90 Tambo, Oliver 150, 174–7, 183 Tewson, Vincent 140–1, 165 Tobias, Channing 38, 53, 55, 61–2 Trades Union Congress (UK) 120–1, 140–2, 148, 165, 167 Treason Trial Defence Fund 147, 154 Troup, Freda 89, 95 Turner, Henry 10, 19, 21 Union of Democratic Control 29, 91 United Nations 10, 59, 72–4, 75–7, 79, 81, 90, 93, 101, 132, 149, 158, 178, 186, 188, 192, 194 van Rensburg, Patrick 165–6, 184 Verwoerd, Hendrik 3, 125, 128, 130, 146, 154, 168–9, 172, 175, 183, 186, 194 Visser ‘t Hooft, W.A. 120, 128 Washington, Booker T. 10, 18–20, 32, 36, 41, 58 Western Areas Removal Scheme 66, 130, 135 Whately, Monica 91–2, 159 Whyte, Quintin 104 Wilson, Harold 188, 194, 197

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World Council of Churches 84–5, 128 World Student Christian Federation 52–3 Wood, C.T. 87, 114, 134, 141, 174

Xuma, Alfred 20, 43, 60, 68, 70, 76 Yergan, Max 34–41, 43, 52–63, 72, 74–5, 80 Young Men’s Christian Association 34–9, 43, 52–7, 60–1

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