PERSPECTIVES

The Marikana Massacre

South Africas Post-Apartheid Dissensus
Suren Pillay

The story of the Marikana workers strife in South Africa suggests that the migrant worker is inadequately theorised as a political subject today. A more appropriate theorisation requires us to think more concretely about the migrant worker as the embodiment of indirect rule and apartheid, and not only as the archetypical gure of capitalism with fetters, or a consciousness waiting to be sublimated through socialist revolution.

The author wishes to thank Riedwaan Moosage for research assistance. Suren Pillay (spillay@uwc.ac.za) is at the Centre for Humanities Research, University of the Western Cape, Cape Town, South Africa.

t is now more than one year since 34 mineworkers were killed at a mine in the town of Marikana in South Africas famed platinum belt on 16 August 2012. Neither the ruling party, nor the government sent any ofcial representation to the rst commemoration of this massacre. In a country that often tells its history as the history of massacres from Sharpeville to Soweto, these non-gestures matter. Marikana symbolises a new struggle of memory and memorialisation that contests the claims of a triumphant national liberation movement to solely represent suffering. We can now make a distinction between an ofcial massacre one that will be recognised, and a subaltern massacre. On the face of it, the violence at Marikana between two unions the dominant National Union of Mineworkers (NUM), and the younger Association of Mineworkers and Construction Union, signals three moments of dissensus. The rst is a breakdown in the postapartheid social contract between the state, labour and capital. This contract has been held together politically by an agreement between the tripartite alliance of the African National Congress (ANC), the Congress of South African Trade Unions (COSATU) and the South African Communist Party (SACP). Secondly, it signals the unravelling of the dominant strategy of union organising in South Africa, historically framed as a choice between political unionism and shop oor unionism. And the thirdly, it recalls a dissensus in the scholarship on labour studies in South Africa. It interrupts the desire in much of this scholarship for a revolutionary worker subject that is fully universal without the particularities of race or ethnicity. In this article I elaborate how these three ruptures are interrelated and the
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questions they raise for a post-apartheid South Africa. The history of trade unions in South Africa dates back to the 1880s, and mirrors the history of colonial segregation and apartheid. While early unions were a whites only affair, by 1917 unions organising African workers began to appear. Black trade unions have always had to dene themselves in relation to anti-apartheid political organisations, with the latter often forming unions that were sympathetic to their ideological orientation. Unions have either been independent, or explicitly aligned to the ANC and its afliates, such as the SACP, or aligned with the Pan-Africanist Congress or later the Black Consciousness Movement. Under severe repression and banning in the 1950s and 1960s black trade unions, along with black political organisations, succumbed, and many leaders and organisations went into exile. Unionism in South Africa The distinction between political unionism and shop oor unionism emerged with the formation of a new independent union movement of African workers in the wake of the 1973 Durban strikes. It took the form of a debate on strategy and tactics but it had a larger ideological import. It was animated by the question of whether unions should take up issues that affect their members at the place of production, in the factory, the mine, the issues of wages and working conditions and safety or whether workers should also take up issues that affect them not only at the point of production but also in the spaces of their reproduction, i e, housing and living conditions, issues of transport, of rents, of passes and inux control (Baskin 1991; Buhlungu 1997; Friedman 1987). The apartheid city was a racial formation, and segregation affected the movement of workers between black areas and white areas, the transport they had access to, and the right to live, and be in the city, which depended on having permanent employment and being able to produce a pass to prove it.1
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Under apartheid, political unionism represented a political challenge because it articulated two terrains of struggle. The rst was for economic rights and the second was for political rights. The latter was potentially explosive because it highlighted the fact that African workers, as black subjects, were denied political rights of representation. Unions that so fused economic rights and political rights, and mobilised around these demands, were in effect targeting not only the employers but also the apartheid state. There were debates in the union movement about the ideological consequences of a choice between shop oor unionism and political unionism. These debates have been commonly cast as a struggle between workerists and populists, or between communists and nationalists. In effect it was less a debate between communists and nationalists than a debate between communists and socialists about their relationship to anti-colonial nationalism. For some socialists and communists, often aligned with a version of Trotskyism, the nationalist demands for black political rights detracted from the real target of struggle, i e, capitalism. For other socialists and communists, often aligned with the SACP, the struggle for socialism would be a two stage struggle; the rst being a national democratic revolution and the second stage a struggle for socialism. The rst stage would be led by the ANC, and the second by the SACP, and its afliated trade union federation known today as the COSATU. As a union federation, COSATUs largest afliates include the NUM, which is aligned more closely to the ANC and the SACP than other more independent-minded afliates like the National Union of Metal Workers of South Africa (NUMSA). When the ANC and the SACP were unbanned, and the ANC won the elections in 1994 and became the ruling party, the ideological vision of the two-stage revolution remained its guiding programme. But the world had of course changed by 1989 with the collapse of the Soviet Union, the end of the Cold War, and the demise of actually existing socialism. Whilst the ideological programme of the ANC-SACP alliance continues to invoke
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the two-stage vision, its content is continually being remade to contend with the normalised hegemony of liberal democracy and capitalism. It is this contention that denes the faultlines in the many tensions within the ANC, the SACP, and within COSATU and its afliates itself. Simplistically, these are playing themselves out in terms of whether the ANC and its supporters in the SACP and COSATU are embracing the global orthodoxy of a business-friendly developmental vision enthusiastically, or whether they hold onto the more redistributive ideological promises that would favour workers.2 On both sides of the debate, between shop oor and political unionism, the category of the worker could be abstracted from history and context, as Karl Marxs gure of abstract labour. Put crudely, the worker here, could be the worker there, could be the worker everywhere. The strategic question was whether to supplement the worker with another identity as part of a community or not. For political unionism, the worker in South Africa was also an African subject ascribed to a community, but stripped of political rights and had to be acknowledged as such. For shop oor unionism, embedding the demands of the union in the community would dilute class-based demands, and bring into the unions the ethnic, racial and political divisions of apartheid. It would therefore further divide a fragmented working class, and prevent it from transitioning from a class in itself to a class for itself. Post-Apartheid Unionism The emergence of AMCU brings to light once more the debate between shop oor unionism and political unionism, but it is repetition with a difference. According to the organisations own biography, AMCUs rise is not aligned to political parties; it speaks to a demand for apolitical unions for workers. It can be traced to the disaffection of mineworkers at certain mines with agreements that facilitated the retrenchment of workers, entered into by the NUM leadership around 2001.3 Its current leader is a former NUM shopsteward Joseph Matunjwa who opposed
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NUMs agreement with management, and succeeded via a labour court interdict in halting a process of retrenchments that NUM had agreed to. NUM summarily expelled him, and workers started swelling the ranks of the organisation he formed thereafter. Workers felt that NUM was too closely aligned to the political elites of the ruling ANC, who were also now aligned to business interests. This is symbolised by Cyril Ramaphosa, whose own biography illustrates the knots in the relationship between the liberation movement and new elite formation. A former general secretary of the NUM, Ramaphosa was a key gure in the negotiated political settlement to end apartheid rule. He is currently the deputy president of the ANC, deputy chair of the National Planning Commission, and one of the most important beneciaries of Black Economic Empowerment, the ofcial policy to create a black business elite. Ramaphosa is also a director of Lonmin the company that owns the platinum mine where the massacre took place.4 In emails that have come to light at the ongoing commission of inquiry into the Marikana incident, Ramaphosa allegedly urged police to take drastic action to end the criminal actions of workers, a few days before the massacre. In one of historys musings, the political alliance between the largest black trade union and the ANC was partly forged by Ramaphosa himself in the mid-1980s, when under his leadership, NUM adopted the Freedom Charter the ideological programme of the then exiled ANC. As COSATUs most inuential afliate, NUM persuaded the federation to ofcially adopt the Charter in 1987. When COSATU was launched as the largest federation of organised African labour in South Africa on the 1 December 1985, it replaced shop oor unionism as the dominant organising strategy cultivated by the unions which belonged to its predecessor, the Federation of South African Trade Unions (FOSATU). COSATU marked the triumph then of political unionism over shop oor unionism. When COSATU adopted its Living Wage campaign in 1987, it was effectively saying that the demand for wages must exceed the rationale of the market a
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wage to live on; a m atter of bio-politics rather than a wage that makes economic sense from the point of view of the sustainability of the factory or the mine. By 1987 COSATU had adopted another policy expressed in the hegemonic slogan, One Industry, One Union, One Federation. Each industry would recognise as its negotiating partner one majority union. As a negotiating strategy it successfully countered the attempts of mine owners to divide workers by entering into differentiated agreements at the shop oor level. But what was developed by the labour movement as a successful strategy to further worker interests, is now perceived by some workers as the tie that binds them to managements interests. I believe we are witnessing the unravelling of that policy now as NUMs right to singularly represent the workers at the Lonmin owned mines is displaced by the newer union. It is the same case with political unionism as well. For AMCU workers the policy of One Industry, One Union is no longer the radical strategy it was in the 1970s and 1980s, when fusing economic rights with political rights challenged employers and the apartheid state at the same time. Fusing political questions and economic demands in post-apartheid South Africa for some workers is experienced less as a strategy for expanding rights-based politics, and more as a political tactic to economically straitjacket them. As long as they are bound to the tripartite alliance between NUM-COSATU, the SACP and the ruling ANC they are bound to the social contract between COSATU, capital and the ANC-led state. During the wage dispute that preceded the violence, AMCU demanded an unheard of 150% increase in entry-level wages for mineworkers, where the employers were offering the more usual 5%. Wage negotiations in the collective bargaining councils usually rely on a consensus between NUM and employees and often arrive at an ination related gure. The fact that AMCU demanded the tremendous wage increase that it did and subsequently succeeded in obtaining it, has further enhanced its attraction for some workers. This victory was conceded in wake of the Marikana massacre; there
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were unusual circumstances and political pressures on Lonmin. Nevertheless some workers are attracted to AMCU because of the victories it has earned.5 After much contention by NUM, the mining house of Lonmin has in fact conceded another political victory to AMCU; it has recognised AMCU as the majority union at a number of its platinum mines, breaking the COSATU consensus of One Union, One Industry. There are those who see this break in NUMs monopoly as the sign of a new revolutionary politics.6 These scholars and activists regard the return to shop oor unionism as a way of unmooring the abstract worker from the fetish of nationalism. In their minds the spirit of world history can proceed with shop oor unionism that allows the South African working class to continue the interrupted journey of becoming itself, a journey that had been truncated by the victory of political unionism over shop oor unionism, of nationalism over socialism. We could be content to think then of Marikana as the product of a prosaic and familiar story in South Africas modern past the contest between labour and capital, between mineworker and mine owner, in collusion with a state, particularly in a country where violence has always been a feature of its industrialisation and labour history. In his 1957, study of the Garment Workers Union the late union organiser Solly Sachs (1957) recalls precisely this history of violence that has always attended strikes in South Africa. Sachs recalls that there were few countries in the world where the gun has been employed so freely in labour disputes as in South Africa. As early as 1884 when trade unions began to organise on the diamond elds of Kimberly, workers were shot dead by thugs hired by mine owners. In the famous Rand Revolt of 1913, 21 miners were killed when Jan Smuts called out imperial troops to preserve law and order. In 1919 when 19,000 African railway workers came out in strike, Smuts again sent in the troops, killing six. And of course after the 1922 strikes, which were violently crushed, Smuts had set up special criminal courts to try the
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survivors, sentencing 18 worker organisers to death a sentence later commuted just before the 1924 elections. At the rally organised by the unions to welcome the freed workers, the leaders made speeches along the lines of, and I am quoting from Sachs,
The workers of South Africa have for far too long submitted to the oppression of the mining barons. We should take a leaf out of the book of the Russian workers, and destroy the capitalist system and set up socialism.7

Hybrid Consciousness I am however less persuaded by this narration of the relationship between labour and capital as a universal history of violence between labour and capital, and by the radical hopes being placed on the emergence of AMCU. And it is here that I wish to depart somewhat from the account I have given above, which is largely derived from studies on the politics of South African working life. While I think that the distinction between political unionism and shop oor unionism describes the terms in which the debate about that working life took place among many scholars and activists, these terms have limitations and may not be taken as given. In a 2010 volume on trade unions in Africa, the South African sociologist Sakhela Buhlungu8 urged us to go beyond the partisan ideological frames of debates that require us to choose between political unionism and shop oor unions as a choice between nationalism and socialism. Buhlungu observed that in fact to be a political union or not, was a misnomer. For him the history of the formation of unions in South Africa emerged from a particular history of

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capitalism and had no choice but to be political as such:

Trade Unions in Africa, due to colonialism co-present with the inauguration of capitalism, were born with a political character the struggle for political rights was there at the outset of unionisation.something many scholarly analysis missed as they sought to pigeonhole African unions as either class-based or nationalist (Beckmann et al 2006: 198).

Yet even the more careful theorisation by Buhlungu is prone to a problem I wish to draw attention to. As he put it:
The question that arises at this juncture is: what are the prospects of the emergence of class politics that transcends the legacy and limits that national liberation politics has imposed on union mobilisation. To put the question differently, is it possible for trade unions in Africa to transcend the hybrid consciousness that contains strong elements of both class and national liberation politics? (ibid: 204).

That he sees this as a hybrid consciousness implies that he still aspires to the possibility of an abstracted universal class-based consciousness devoid of the particularities that colonialism introduces. While Buhlungu usefully prompts us to think of capitalism in South Africa within a colonial genealogy, he is asking us to think along with him so that we might transcend the fetter or as he calls it, the limit that colonialism places on the emancipation that class promises. How do we, as he says, transcend these limits? It is my contention that we might have to ask a different question than the historicist-one of how we can transcend the limit. It might be a question of how we can think of capital, labour and politics within that limit. The limit then is a constitutive part of the story of how capitalism emerges in Southern Africa as a history of settler colonialism. This is the question I wish to explore below by briey giving the gure of the worker, and the mineworker, a contextual elaboration as also being a migrant worker. In the days after the shootings at Marikana, and in the course of the ongoing commission of inquiry, a gure emerged in the debate about what happened and why it happened. This was the gure of the sangoma9 a traditional African healer who was said to have
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administered muti, traditional medicine and performed ritual cleansing ceremonies for the mineworkers who had gathered on the ridge, or koppie. The gure of the sangoma was invoked by the police and mine management, as the agent who imbued the workers with a misplaced sense of invincibleness, encouraging them to confront the bullets and armoured vehicles of the police and mine security with their assegais, spears and knobkierries. If there was blame to be apportioned, they suggested, then the spiritual agent must bear some responsibility, and so too the workers for believing in practices considered anti-modern, archaic and simply superstitious.10 There was a critical response to this (by scholars such as the sociologist Peter Alexander (2013: 172)) who argued that this focus on the sangoma is typical of a strategy to cast the mineworkers as backward automatons under the sway of superstitious belief. It detracted from contending with them as workers with legitimate grievances that issue less from a pre-colonial consciousness than from a modern worker consciousness. Cultural Artefacts of the Worker The debate over what to do with the gure of the sangoma in this story of mobilisation and violence is symptomatic of the dissensus in the scholarship that Marikana brings to the fore. On one side of the barricades, the police and mine management seek to blame a mob in the grip of culture, while on the other side, the leftist radical scholar will declare a denial: no, thats not true, but remains reticent and unable to contend with that gure. Both sides accept a modernist sensibility that divides the traditional and modern into a past and a future, each the sign of a regressive and a progressive political consciousness.11 Both struggle to think of the worker subject here as someone who inhabits a world that Partha Chatterjee has called heterogeneous time. The mineworker can be abstracted into the time of universal history, and so too the sangoma, but only as gures of either the past (sangoma), or the future (worker), but not so readily as belonging to a heterogeneous time of the present and of becoming.
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Why does this matter? It seems to me that what is at stake here is how we consider the relationship between capital and community between identities that derive from capital, and identities that derive from a conception of community, in a cultural-political sense. It requires historicising both capital and community. In most reections on Marikana, the sangoma is consigned to the sphere of the community, and the worker to capital, each embedded in discrete ideological worlds. The gure of the sangoma, along with other cultural insignia that adorn the bodies of the workers, disturbs the sensibilities of the mainstream liberal press and the left intelligentsia in South Africa. We should problematise the idea that culture explains the actions of workers, but we should also problematise left thinking that cognitively erases the cultural artefacts that workers bring with them into a strike. These gures and artefacts are not reminders of a precolonial past, as much as they are signs of a present history that we are yet to come to terms with in the discursive and concrete worlds of embodied practices of African modernity. The mineworker has been, along with the students of Soweto 1976, the archetypical political gure of apartheid resistance. The mineworker allows us to historicise both capital and community, because as the Ugandan scholar Mahmood Mamdani so usefully pointed out, it is the link between the two, neither fully rural nor fully urban.12 As a gure that traverses the two domains, it illuminates not only how capitalism exploited Africans as workers, but also how apartheid ruled over Africans as political subjects. In other words, it sheds light on how power responded to both the labour question and the native question. Its centrality derives from the authorising force of mining in South African history since the late 19th century, acknowledged by the fact that South Africa remains one of the worlds largest gold producers, and indeed its largest platinum supplier.13 Even as, in real terms, it is manufacturing, and secondary and tertiary industries like tourism, the service sector and nance that now employ more workers, it is still the mineworker that
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symbolises both the might of the South African economy, and its shame. The violence that resides in the forms and practices of its labour procurement processes and the violence that resides in the reproduction of its labour force continue to symbolise a continuing legacy of apartheid. Mining might then be the symbol of South African economic hubris, but it is also its Achilles heel. It is after all that means of production where since 1922, the largest strikes and the largest unions have organised successfully. Migration and the Political Subject There is that other sense in which the mineworker is an archetypical gure of apartheid. It is in the realisation that the history of mines in South Africa is a history that can only be thought regionally and interregionally due to the centrality of migrant labour to the evolution, organisation and protability of mining in the country. The mineworker has by and large almost always also been a migrant worker a migrant from various regions of South Africa and other southern African countries. Away from

wives and children, and husbands, migrant workers were housed in single sex hostels. These were organised along tribal or ethnic lines and hierarchies. While hostels were designed to reproduce indirect rule and docility, they also provided a fertile ground for the organisation of labour. In the 1960s and 1970s southern Africa had the largest proportion of ablebodied men working outside their own countries in the world. Since the 1980s South Africa has reduced its dependence on migrant labour from its neighbouring states like Angola, Namibia and Mozambique; but mining continues to deeply depend on internal migrants. Many Marikana workers, especially the rock drill operators who led last years strike, travel from destitute areas of the Eastern Cape such as Pondoland. The migrant mineworker is a generational norm in the history of many black African families in South Africa. This generational character is underscored by agreements secured by unions with some mining houses that a mineworker, upon injury, could be replaced by a

family member from his rural homestead. But there are important processes of change underway in the organisation of migrant labour over the last decade. For example, Lonmin had recently changed the policy of guaranteed employment to a migrant mineworkers family member, towards favouring the local populations of Marikana. Lonmin has also dismantled hostels, giving workers live out cash allowances, and this has changed the housing arrangements of the mostly Xhosa-speaking migrants, placing them within an existing township of permanent residents of a different dominant ethnic character. Migrant workers at Marikana now mostly live in ethnically divided informal settlements or shacks, alongside formal township residents. Before that the hostel and the townships were spatially separated, even though entwined socially. Where hostels were ofcially single-sex, housing or shacks now allow a mineworker to live with a family, but these are increasingly with a second wife and family from an urban area, a dinyatso. And introducing cash expenditures into

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social reproduction has also introduced a credit economy of moneylenders. Since hostels are seen as part of an apartheid legacy, mines have been urged to either reform or dismantle them, which some have done. The modalities of capital and community are changing in important ways, both reproducing old distinctions and introducing new ones, in ways that we still need to fully understand. There is a long and complicated history to how apartheid conceptions of community are reproduced in the mines, both at the level of production and social arrangements. The mineworkers, as migrants, came from ethnically dened labour reserves, and these divisions were reproduced inside hostels. It is migrant labour that renders apartheid irreducible to the logic of capital and calls for it to be understood within the logic of indirect rule and colonial governmentality (Mamdani 1996). Where capital has provided the ideologically privileged turnkey for locating unions in a universal history of capitalism, the worker as a migrant in a community resides within a subaltern history of colonialism and apartheid. We then need to think of the worker as simultaneously the product of a particular history of capital and of a colonial and apartheid dened community undergoing dynamic changes. When the mineworkers seek succour in their sangoma or their assegais, and display the markers of an ethnic consciousness and community on their bodies, we lament them and announce that the struggle to transcend these particularities continues. In this script, a properly emancipated political subject eludes us. In an older language we might say that the process of proleterianisation remains incomplete. The Marikana tragedy encourages us to recast our thinking and to revisit our theories about how we are becoming post-apartheid. The starting point for that should not be what we are not becoming but what we are becoming. If we are to give up on the idea that history is moving us all towards the same horizon but we are on different time tracks towards that common horizon a story we might now more commonly agree is Eurocentric then the work of political theorisation is
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to risk an answer rather than a negative lament. It would require a theorisation of the concrete embodiments of the abstractions of class, of capital, and of community. In that sense, the political subject that remains inadequately theorised here is the migrant worker. A more appropriate theorisation calls upon us to think more concretely about the migrant worker as the embodiment of indirect rule and apartheid, and not only as the archetypical gure of capitalism with fetters, or a consciousness waiting to be sublimated. The migrant worker has always already conditioned South African politics even if it is not always a politics we like.
Notes
1 I have called this a condition of anxious urbanity, see Pillay (2013). 2 The debate is symbolised by shift between two policy framework documents, the Reconstruction and Development Programme (RDP), adopted on Mandelas presidency, and the Growth, Employment and Redistribution (GEAR) policy adopted under Mbekis presidency. The former emphasised social welfare, the latter macroeconomic stability. Critics see GEAR as conrming the ANCs drift towards neoliberalism. The recourse to neo-liberalism as an explanation is made too hastily in my view, given that the ANC in government is not as ideologically coherent as it projects itself to be, nor as coherent as its critics sometimes project onto it. 3 I am drawing this account from the very insightful research report by Crispen Chinguno (2013), Marikana and the Post Apartheid Workplace Order, Society, Work and Development Institute Working Paper, 1 April, http:// www.academia.edu/4018791/Marikana_and_ the_post-apartheid_workplace_order 4 Lonmin emerged from the mining component of the conglomerate Lonrho, and is listed on the London Stock Exchange, with its operational headquarters in Johannesburg. Lonrho was formed in 1909 as the London and Rhodesian Mining Company Limited, with mining interests across Africa, and was led in the 1960s by the controversial British businessman with Conservative political ties, Tiny Rowland. 5 http://www.academia.edu/4018791/Marikana_and_the_post-apartheid_workplace_order 6 The most hyperbolically optimistic must be the sentiment expressed by sociologist Peter Alexander: We cannot afford to sleep through the revolution. Soon it will be in the townships and suburbs...no one will control it once it goes there. http://www.news24.com/SouthAfrica/ News/Marikana-inquiry-not-neutral-author20121206: See also, for example, http://www. amandla.org.za/amandla-magazine/currentissue/1628-embryos-of-working-class-powerand-grassroots-democracy-in-marikana, and http://www.polity.org.za/article/sa-statementby-the-democratic-lef t-f ront-salutes-thevol xlviii no 50

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marikana-and-all-fighting-mineworkers10112012-2012-11-10 Sachs observed an important lament: Five out of the six speakers on the podium that day, ended with the slogan, Long Live White South Africa. For those familiar with the history of the erstwhile Communist Party of South Africa (CPSA) (later transformed into the SACP), the slogan of Workers of the World Unite for a White South Africa, will not be a surprising historical anachronism. In Beckmann et al (2006). Sadly this man, Alton Ndzabe Joja was killed by gunmen at his hometown of Bizana in the Eastern Cape a few days before he could testify at the commission. It remains disputed whether his death was directly linked to the Marikana events or to another dispute between rival taxi associations. http://www.salabournews. co.za/index.php/press-releases/10184-marikana-sangoma-killed-in-taxi-war-report.html As an editorial in the liberal Business Day put it, the mineworkers are driven by antiquated beliefs in witchcraft and sorcery and believing in the powers of sangomas (witchdoctors) to make them invincible. Try reasoning with that. http://www.bdlive.co.zaopinion/editorials/? articleId=176017 There is some afnity here to an argument that the anthropologists Jean and John Comaroff (2013) discuss in their description of the claim by an individual to be the returned deceased South African musician, Khulekani Khumalo. They contend that modern western constitutional law is unable to verify the authenticity of the claim made in the cultural realm. But I am also interested in a dimension that they are generally less curious to explore in their work: the political histories out of which these present cultural subjectivities emerge. See Chapter Six, Rural in the Urban in Mamdani (1996). While gold has declined, platinum mines now employ the most number of mineworkers in the mining sector.

References
Alexander, Peter, ed. (2013): Marikana: A View from the Mountain (Johannesburg: Jacana Press). Baskin, Jeremy (1991): Striking Back: A History of COSATU (UK: Routledge). Beckmann, Bjrn, Sakhela Buhlungu and Lloyd Sachikonye, ed. (2006): Trade Unions and Party Politics: Labour Movements in Africa (Pretoria: HSRC Press). Buhlungu, S (1997): Flogging a Dying Horse: COSATU and the Alliance, South African Labour Bulletin, 21, 1, pp 71-78. Comaroff, Jean and John (2013): The Return of Khulekani Khumalo, Zombie Captive: Imposture, Law, and the Paradoxes of Personhood in South Africa, paper presented at the Centre for Humanities Research, University of the Western Cape, July. Friedman, Steven (1987): Building Tomorrow Today (Johannesburg: Raven Press). Mamdani, Mahmood (1996): Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism (New Jersey: Princeton University Press). Pillay, Suren (2013): Anxious Urbanity: Xenophobia, the Native Subject and the Refugee Camp, Social Dynamics, Vol 39, No 1. Sachs, Emile Solomon (1957): Rebels Daughters (London: Macgibbon and Kee).

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