See You Later, Alligator

P.W. Botha died last night, on All Hallow's Eve, at age 90. If the South Africans were the sort to observe Hallowe'en, they might find that ironic: one more demon coming out to bow before disappearing into the night.

Botha was the South African leader during Apartheid's heyday, and helped to sing the first few bars of its swan song, though not by choice. He came from an Afrikaner background, and had the peculiar Afrikaans accent: not quite English, not quite Dutch, not quite anything. When a person with a heavy Afrikaans accent speaks English, it is impossible to tell if it isn't some warped form of German.

He entered politics at age 20, going on to become defence minister in 1966, and finally Prime Minister in 1978. His run for election that year is notable in that he made promises to alleviate Apartheid, even going so far as to tell whites that they would have to "adapt or die."

It sounded pretty good, but it never amounted to much. Reading about him today, you'll find a lot of blame placed on his cabinet and his National Party, that they wouldn't let him accomplish his anti-Apartheid goals. It's a historical axiom that blame and evil fades with time, until they are more or less painted over with the expression, "Those were the times." Caesar, Khan, Attila, Napoleon, they have great publicists today, but in their "time" they were ruthless men. Stalin's getting better press every day. Hitler may take a while. Botha, for his part, should have a pretty rosy portrait in a few years.

Described as pragmatic nowadays, one looks back and shivers at his major accomplishments. In 1983, Botha pushed through a new constitution (voted on, as always, by whites-only) that turned him from Prime Minister to President. As a sop to the coloreds and Indians, he gave them a House of Representatives, and a House of Delegates, respectively. The whites got the House of Assembly. Matters of "national responsibility" (whatever that might mean) and racial issues were left solely in the hands of the President and his cabinet.

He formed a special forces unit to conduct covert operations against anti-Apartheid groups. He passed anti-freedom of speech legislation to suppress criticism of the government. Under his watch, two thousand people would die, and around twenty-five thousand people would be detained without trial. Many of them were tortured on infamous Robben Island, just off the coast of Cape Town.

During his tenure, Botha came to be known as Die Groot Crocodile (Afrikaans for the Great Crocodile), and had a penchant for finger-wagging when he talked. Depending on which articles you read (again, history beginning to cloud over), the Croc nickname is a tribute to his stubbornness, or an allusion to his ferocity.

It is a laugh to hear of him described as a man who would have done more if only he could, or as any sort of people's man. When it comes to freedom, there is really only one factor that matters: the vote. The fact that he wasn't prepared to give it blacks is really all one needs to know about the man. He took that belief with him to the grave.

If you aren't reading this in South Africa, or have never visited the place, you may be confused about what black means. Black is not black in the North American sense. It is more tribal than racial in meaning. In South Africa, black is considered African. Colored is a mix of anything, whether it be black/white, white/Indian, and so forth (it can even be quite specific: Cape Colored means you're a person of mixed race that comes from the Cape). Indian is, of course, Indian, descendents of people from the sub-continent who came over for jobs in agriculture. In South Africa, the entire population uses terms that would get you punched in the jaw in Canada.

In any event, nobody of any hue beyond white had it good under Botha. I remember talking to a South African who told me that it floored him the first time he sat down next to an Indian man in a movie theater. This was after Apartheid ended. He was shocked not because he didn't like Indians, but rather because he had never seen anyone but white people in a movie theater. He was 60 years old. It was 1994.

Hubris eventually caught up with Botha. The US, the UK, and the Commonwealth passed sanctions against South Africa, and the economic punishment was telling. In the late 80's the rand went through the roof, riots were becoming the norm, the world recoiled at scenes of violence, Artists Against Apartheid made South Africa a rock 'n roll whipping boy.

In 1989 Botha suffered a stroke which would give him a limp for the rest of his life. Then his political side turned against him. He made a statement saying that since his cabinet no longer agreed with him, he would step down as President.

He was succeeded by F.W. de Klerk, the man that would free Mandela and oversee the first real democratic election in South African history. The National Party took a beating at the polls, leaving the African National Congress (ANC) in charge of virtually everything. Overnight, the political landscape of South Africa went from white to black. Botha must have struggled not to have another stroke.

He faded into obscurity after that, bobbing up only a few times in the press. He was called before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. People were to come forward, confess to crimes, give witness to others, and generally expose the truth behind Apartheid. Botha declined the invitation. As President, he had been head of the State Security Council until his resignation. His confession probably would have been a long one.

He never showed up to testify and was cited for contempt. He didn't pay the fine, and the conviction was overturned on appeal, the courts perhaps playing Ford to Botha's Nixon.

It didn't matter much. The Crocodile moved to a town called Wilderness, and lived out the rest of his days in seclusion. The final report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission blamed him for a ton of human rights violations, but he was unapologetic. His last public statement about the Commission was that they merely wanted him to be a symbol of "his people," and that they wanted to humiliate him as that symbol.

Perhaps it never entered his head how lucky he was. The Truth Commission was set up so there would be no punishment. That was Mandela's deal: get the truth out, and move on. New constitution, new flag, new national anthem. They could have hanged Botha, but they let him walk without a fuss. Was that more of a disgrace for him? That he wasn't an enemy worth hanging? That he and his ideals could just be forgotten? He never said.

Married twice, he had two sons and three daughters. When asked for a statement about Botha's death, the ANC decided to think of them: "The ANC wishes his family strength and comfort at this difficult time."

A short statement, but enough.