Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Series Editors
Editorial Board
volume 11
By
Linda Cooper
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Acknowledgements vii
List of Acronyms viii
2 ‘The Sun Shall Rise for the Workers’: The Contested Political Purposes of
Workers’ Education 26
1 Introduction 26
2 Conceptualising the Purpose of Workers’ Education 27
3 Key Lines of Ideological Contestation in Workers’ Education 30
4 Workers’ Education at the Beginning of the 21st Century: Radical
Resistance, Pragmatic Accommodation 35
5 Gathering Contradictions: A Possible ‘Breakthrough into Learning
Activity’? 39
6 Conclusion 43
References 189
Index 208
Many people contributed to shaping the ideas put forward in this book, and I
mention only a few here. I am grateful to my adult education colleagues at UCT
and DITSELA staff for our rich discussions on workers’ education. Jeanne Gam-
ble, Judy Harris and Alan Ralphs have helped me to think through a wide range
of questions around knowledge. I am deeply indebted to Jonathan Grossman
for very many of the book’s insights into workers’ knowledge and their pro-
cesses of learning. I thank Dinga Sikwebu, Kessie Naidoo and Sheri Hamilton
whose critical reflections on current workers’ education practices continue to
stimulate my thinking. Brenda Cooper helped me to get started on this book
journey, and she and Lucia Thesen’s encouragement helped me to complete it.
I am grateful to D. W. Livingstone for his careful editing and support through-
out the writing. Finally, I could not have written this book without the support
of my life partner and comrade, John Mawbey, whose lifetime of experience in
the labour movement speaks through all of the pages of this book.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the millions of workers whose struggles over the past
50 years gave us hope that another world is possible. Their words and actions
taught me much of what I understand about workers’ education. The book is
also dedicated to those workers educators with whom I had the privilege of
working, and whose memory lives on with those whose lives they enriched:
Zora Mehlamakulu; Edward van Wyk; Moses Mbothwe; Althea McQueen; Tony
Sardien and Mike Louw.
It is 1986 and workers’ and community struggles in South Africa are at a height.
So is the harsh repression of the apartheid state. Despite this, at a church venue
in the south of Johannesburg, a group of about 25 shop-stewards representing
members of the Metal & Allied Workers Union (MAWU), are in a four-day seminar
focused on the theme of ‘What is Socialism?’ Participants are highly motivated,
organisationally experienced and politicised.
The first two days of the seminar include general inputs and discussions on
socialism focusing on issues such as key features of a socialist economy, the mean-
ing of workers control of production, and the relationship between trade unions
and the socialist state. For the next two days, members of a labour service organi-
sation (LSO) researching international labour history and current labour issues,
run a workshop on ‘African Socialism’. On request from this union, the group has
been researching four booklets intended for a worker readership, dealing with
post-colonial developments in Mozambique, Tanzania, Zimbabwe and Kenya
respectively. This is an opportunity for the LSO staff to workshop the materials
collected and get a sense of how workers will engage with the topics and issues.
Inputs are presented on the anti-colonial struggle and post-independence devel-
opments in each country, followed by small group discussion around questions
that draw on workers’ own experiences.
One of the facilitators takes detailed notes on key questions posed by work-
ers during the LSO workshop. A selection of these are: Was there a class struc-
ture in pre-colonial African society? Did Nyerere not rely too heavily on capitalist
countries to build his version of socialism? Why were workers not able to exercise
control over factory production in post-liberation Mozambique? Should there still
be wage differentials under socialism? Are the Zimbabwe trade unions the ‘van-
guard’ of the current struggle or just the labour wing of the new, post-colonial
government? Why did the trade union movement in Kenya not resist its capitalist
path of development after independence?
After the workshop, the LSO facilitators critically evaluate their sessions with
the union organiser. The inputs were too long they feel, and “we all still tend to
pack in too much information, present the material too academically”. They note
that the MAWU organiser is far more willing than they are to take a strong politi-
cal position in answering key questions, and they ponder the question: how to
balance promoting broad, critical debate while at the same time giving partici-
pants political direction?
policies dominant in the rest of the world. In addition, this period saw the
political alignment of the South African labour movement with the post-apart-
heid state, a significant change in its dominant politics and social vision, and
a steady move towards the institutionalisation and de-politicisation of work-
ers’ education. As a recent research report by the labour movements’ research
arm, the National Labour and Economic Development Institute (NALEDI) has
noted, the radical tradition of workers’ education is under threat (Koen et al.,
2018). There has been a strong call by those within and outside of the workers’
movement in South Africa for the renewal of this tradition (see Koen et al.,
2018; Cooper & Hamilton, in press), and for the revitalisation of radical adult
education more broadly (see von Kotze & Walters, 2017), in order to address
issues of poverty and inequality and to re-energise the struggle to build col-
lectivism, solidarity and social justice.
Reflecting on and theorising the historic practices of radical workers’ educa-
tion and understanding how its character has changed over time is an impor-
tant first step towards reclaiming this tradition and re-visioning what it might
mean in the future. This book draws amongst other theoretical traditions on
Cultural Historical Activity Theory (CHAT), an approach which is particularly
suited to tracking changes in social systems over time and their related cultural
and pedagogic practices. It investigates and identifies key features of workers’
education – what may be seen as its ‘systemic logic’ – and explores how these
have been shaped and reshaped over time by its location within wider activity
systems (the labour movement and other social movements, and the local and
global political economies) with their multiple tensions and contradictions.
The case studies in this book are drawn from South Africa in the period
between 1970 and 2012, in other words, the last two decades of a slowly retreat-
ing Apartheid, and the first two decades of the new democracy. This was also
a period of transition to new forms of employment that have led to a new divi-
sions and hierarchies within in the South African working class.
The class structure of South Africa was historically shaped by early colonial
conquest, land dispossession and the ideologies of white supremacy. However,
it was the impact of the mineral revolution in the late 19th century that gener-
ated the particular form of cheap migrant labour regime that lay at the cen-
tre of the country’s economy for much of the 20th century. Deep level mining
necessitated the concentration of capital in large monopoly companies and
demanded a small but crucial supply of skilled labour and large numbers of
cheap, unskilled labour. The key to a cheap labour supply was further land
dispossession and impoverishment of rural areas, and the introduction of a
highly coercive system of influx control for black mineworkers (Marais, 1998).
The white working class comprised a combination of mainly British immi-
grants and poor rural Afrikaners pushed off the land by increasingly capital-
intensive agriculture. Following the Rand Revolt in 1922 where the white
working class was defeated in a major class war, the state acted to avert future
such action with its concomitant danger of white and black workers acting
in combination. While white workers were given union rights2 and benefited
from higher wages, job reservation and social benefits, black migrant work-
ers were excluded from organising and remained highly exploited and disen-
franchised. A pattern for a racial division of labour was entrenched, separating
skilled white workers from unskilled African workers (Davies, 1973).
Over time, the apartheid economy became increasingly unsustainable.
The expanded development of manufacturing industries from the 1930s had
already seen an increased rate of African urbanisation. The rapid expansion
of the economy in the 1950s and 1960s accentuated this trend and saw black
workers moving increasingly into semi-skilled positions. The 1970s saw a major
downturn in the South African economy (aggravated by the global economic
accumulation crisis), the success of liberation movements in other Southern
African countries, a wave of strikes by black workers in Durban in 1973 and the
1976 Soweto youth revolt. By the end of the 1970’s the Apartheid state and capi-
tal knew that they had an economic, political and social crisis on their hands.
The state adopted a ‘total strategy’ of repression and reform, including an
attempt to promote the expansion of a black middle class, particularly in the
apartheid ‘homelands’. However, in the closing years of apartheid, black South
Africans remained overwhelmingly working class, employed in unskilled or
semi-skilled jobs, or unemployed and part of the urban and rural poor. The
black middle class had grown but lacked any distinct class identity (Lodge,
1983; Marais, 1998).
Since the transition to democracy in 1994, the black middle class has grown
in size as a result of black economic empowerment, affirmative action, and
state employment of many more black people. However, three decades into
democracy it remains relatively small although now sharing a more distinct
race/class identity. Post-apartheid, South Africa remains one of the most
unequal societies in the world in terms of wealth and income distribution
(Seekings & Nattrass, 20083), which is still patterned primarily on racial and
gender grounds. This has much to do with the forms of workplace restructur-
ing associated with neo-liberalism, and greater differentiation within the black
working class, that have taken place over the past three decades.
In this book, the working class is viewed as comprising all those who par-
ticipate in Webster’s three ‘worlds of work’. The following chapters will show
that unionised workers make up only a small proportion of the working class,6
they are employed mainly in the ‘first world of work’, and their numbers have
diminished over time. Furthermore, those enjoying access to structured work-
ers’ education programmes comprise an even smaller proportion of workers.
Nevertheless, it will also be shown that a great deal of informal learning and
‘teaching’ takes place in the myriad of spaces where workers gather together,
share experiences, and offer each other support and solidarity. The following
sections proceed to argue the distinctiveness of workers’ education, and to
demarcate the boundaries of the field of workers’ education that forms the
focus of this book.
this relationship with that which characterises both workplace training and
liberal-humanist traditions of adult education. In workplace training the con-
tractual relationship is essentially hierarchical and ‘one-way’ in nature: “the
trainer helps participants in the courses develop the knowledge, skills and
attitudes necessary to achieve the organisation’s (i.e. management’s – LC)
objective” (Newman, 1993, p. 27). In the liberal-humanist tradition of adult
education, the educator and learners relate as equals, collaborating in the
design of the learning programme.
In union education on the other hand, there is a more complex set of three
‘contracts’. In the first of these, the union employs the educator8 and the edu-
cator is accountable to the union’s policies and identified education priorities.
Once into the training room, the second ‘contract’ between union educator
and worker-participants comes into play. Although there is an element of hier-
archy in this relationship, there is relative equality of status between educators
and participants. The most crucial element in union education is however the
Third Contract:
The trainer is not a party to the third in the sets of contracts … yet it could
be argued that this contract has the most profound influence on the way
union training is conducted. The third contract is between the partici-
pants in the course and the union they belong to and is summed up in the
saying: ‘The members are the union’. (Newman, 1993, p. 35)
figure 1.1 The third contract in trade union education (from Newman, 1993, p. 32)
education as well as trade union education. The key, defining feature is that it
is “controlled and determined by working class institutions in workers’ inter-
ests” (Koen et al., 2018, p. 10).
This book draws on examples from a range of workers’ education initiatives
including structured, long-term and short-term education programmes and
one-off workshops, but it shows that the making and sharing of knowledge
amongst workers has also been linked to working class cultural production
and forms of mass media aimed at informing workers and building campaigns.
Equally significant have been the variety of forms of informal and experien-
tial learning: insights and understandings arising from everyday struggles on
the shop-floor, experiences of meeting, organising and taking part in collec-
tive decision-making, and experiences of mass action such as strikes or stay-
aways.9 This rich array of workers’ education practices can be illustrated via a
brief review of the history of workers’ education in South Africa.
or groups that play a role in the activity system, while the community of the
activity system is the wider grouping or constituency in which subjects are
embedded. Tools of mediation describe the range of symbolic, social and mate-
rial artefacts – language in particular – that subjects use to reach their goals.
The rules of an activity system determine what and how subjects perform their
activities or roles within the activity system, while the division of labour speaks
to who does what and who is allowed to do what (Daniels, 2001, pp. 89–94).
At the heart of Vygotsky’s thinking and the theoretical approach of CHAT is
the notion of tensions and contradictions being the motive force for change
within activity systems over time. As Sawchuk et al. note: “all activity is at
heart contested or conflictual; it is … deeply shaped by social as well as indi-
vidual struggle” (2006, p. 4). Each activity system holds the potential for what
Engeström (1987) has called, expansive transformation. The key sources of
change and development are contradictions – historically accumulating struc-
tural tensions within or between elements of an activity system, or between
activity systems. When contradictions are aggravated, participants begin to
question and deviate from the system’s established norms, and this can poten-
tially escalate into a deliberate, collective change effort, what Engeström calls
“breakthrough into learning activity” (Engeström, 1987, p. 41). This ‘imaginative
praxis’ involves thinking outside of the given context and collectively produc-
ing new understandings and new knowledge, the ‘highest’ form of learning
(Engeström, 1987, pp. 8–10). Stetsenko (2008, p. 471) argues that “collabora-
tive purposeful transformation of the world is the core of human nature and
the principled grounding for learning and development” (original emphasis).
These collaborative transformative practices are “contingent on both the past
figure 1.2 The elements of an activity system (adapted from Daniels, 2001, p. 89)
and the vision for the future and therefore are profoundly imbued with ideol-
ogy, ethics and values” (ibid.).
What do all these dimensions of CHAT mean for the conceptual approach
adopted in this book? Sawchuk’s work (2006, 2007, 2011) demonstrates the
value and versatility of this framework for studying workers’ consciousness and
processes of learning. Workers’ education in South Africa, as elsewhere, may be
viewed as an activity system – a collective, systemic formation that has evolved
over a lengthy period of time. This book seeks to unpack some of the key fea-
tures of the radical tradition of workers’ education in the South African con-
text as an activity system. The analytical approach focuses not so much on the
‘mapping’ of constituent elements of workers’ education as an activity system,
but rather on exploring the changing relationship between them over time.
These relationships are complex in that they are not unidirectional but are
reciprocal in character and often characterised by tensions and contradictions
(Fenwick, Edwards, & Sawchuk, 2011, p. 68). The book explores (a) the relation-
ship between the purposes (or ‘objects’) of workers’ education, its ideology,
ethics and values (‘rules’) and its tools of mediation (including language, cul-
ture, mass action, and organisation). (b) It focuses on the relationship between
educators and learners (its subjects) and the corresponding division of labour
between novices and experts, leaders and led, and hierarchies between them.
And (c) it examines the shifting relationship between workers’ education and
broader working class communities, other social and political movements,
the state and capital (i.e. between this activity system and others over time).
It explores how broader historical and current socio-economic and political
power relationships have impacted on workers’ education as a local system.
It will be shown in Chapter 3 that the non-binary, dialectical approach of
CHAT to questions of knowledge proves particularly useful in examining the
practices of workers’ education. As Sawchuk, Duarte and Elloummini (2006,
p. 1) argue:
The use of this approach seeks to understand how changes within and between
key elements of workers’ education as an activity system has led to tensions and
contradictions that have opened up possibilities for change. It will be shown
that recent developments at a local and global level have placed increasing
She points out that the most prestigious genre of work in sociology is that of
general theory, and that while general theory is produced in the metropoles
of the world, it is assumed to have universal relevance. In other words, ques-
tions of place and material context are assumed to be irrelevant in the making
of ‘northern theory’. This results in a cycle of loss and a deletion of experi-
ence and thus of knowledge. Through this, the experiences of the majority
of human kind are erased, culminating “not in minor omissions but in major
incompleteness, and a profound problem about the truthfulness of (general
theory’s) arguments …” (Connell, 2007, p. 226). Homi Bhabha (1994) argues
that we need to re-centre our sources of knowledge-making to an ‘ex-centric
site’, that is, an angle of vision that lies outside of the centre, in order to better
understand both the centre and the periphery. Theory can be locally gener-
ated, while still speaking to a global context, but the specificity of the context
within which it is evolved needs to be acknowledged.
This book acknowledges and makes explicit the historical, social context
of its focus and analyses. At the same time however, the book assumes that
some of the insights drawn from its specific focus on radical traditions of work-
ers’ education in South Africa will have value not only to scholars and radical
educators in other parts of the global south, but more widely. In other words,
it aims to contribute to the development of a locally generated but globally rel-
evant framework for the analysis of radical traditions of adult education, his-
torically and in the current conjuncture. Acknowledging the local context does
not parochialise the analyses or conclusions drawn but makes explicit what
might be required to recontextualise that knowledge within a different locale.
The book does not seek to develop a new ‘grand theory’ out of its study of
workers’ education in the global south. It draws on a range of critical social
theorists many of whom developed their conceptual frameworks in what can
be seen as the global north. However, it aims to broaden the ‘angle of vision’ of
the theoretical lenses that these frameworks offer, and to rework them to take
account of the experiences, perspectives and collective actions of those who
are often not seen as significant social actors in the global scheme of things.
These theoretical resources are brought together in new configurations in
order to illuminate and interpret phenomena particular to the Southern Afri-
can context. However, this is done with the hope that it can also help to extend
the theoretical propositions offered, and their power of ‘analytic generaliza-
tion’ (Burawoy, 1998, p. 16; Babbie & Mouton, 2001, p. 283)18 to a more inclusive
range of variations.
5 Concluding Comments
Some final remarks are required on the presentation of the research material
in the chapters that follow, the use of racial terminology, and some of the limi-
tations of my own positionality.
In a number of places, as in the opening chapter of this book, chapters
present a detailed vignette to provide a descriptive account of ‘pedagogy in
process’ at particular times or in particular places. This is done in order to com-
municate a vivid and holistic picture of selected workers’ education events.
Although the vignettes may have the appearance of narrative realism, they
are by no means pre-analytical. They are carefully selected, constructed narra-
tives designed to foreground particular issues taken up in later analyses. Where
particular people are referred to they have been given pseudonyms to ensure
anonymity.
Given the history of racism in South Africa, it would be preferable to avoid
the continued use of racial categories. However, this is extremely difficult
given that historically constructed racial categories continue to carry impor-
tant social meanings and impact on post-apartheid society in South Africa.
In this book, the term ‘Black’ is used in a generic sense for all South Africans
historically disenfranchised under apartheid. ‘African’ refers to black South
Africans who speak indigenous languages such as isiXhosa, isiZulu or seSotho.
‘Coloured’ refers to South Africans of diverse cultural origins, most of whom
speak Afrikaans as a home language and who were also disenfranchised under
apartheid. ‘White’ refers to South Africans who were classified as ‘of European
ancestry’ and enfranchised under apartheid.
Finally, my own positionality needs to be acknowledged. As Ann Gray has
noted: researchers and writers do not ‘speak from nowhere’ but are always
socially and materially located (Gray, 2003, p. 111). I was part of a group of privi-
leged, white, middle-class and well-educated South Africans who was inspired
by the ideals of the workers’ struggles from the early 1970s onwards, to offer
support to the emerging, non-racial trade union movement in a variety of
roles. My interest and involvement in workers’ education began as a student
activist in the early 1970s and has continued over 40 years in roles such as writ-
ing for a workers’ newspaper, working for a Labour Service Organisation, pub-
lishing workers’ educational booklets, facilitating workers’ literacy classes, and
from my location as an academic, running education programmes for trade
unionists and acting as education advisor for workers’ education organisa-
tions. Between 2001 and 2017, I was part of a team comprised of university
lecturers, DITSELA staff and trade union educators, that developed the cur-
riculum of, and taught, DITSELA’s ‘Advanced Course for Trade Union Educa-
tors’, offered through the University of Cape Town’s (UCT’s) Higher Certificate
in Adult Education.
At no time throughout my working and activist life could I escape my raced,
classed, and gendered position of privilege within a racially divided, capitalist
society. My positionality has set me apart from the lives and experiences of the
workers whose education practices and learning experiences I have sought to
understand and support. Following Gray (2003) I have tried in the analyses
that follow to exercise reflexivity on my own subjectivities in the hope that it
will help me to move beyond them. As she notes:
Notes
1 Tony Brown (2010) shows that critiques of adult education ‘losing its way’ go right
back to the 1980s. Matthias Finger and Jose Asun argued as early as 2001 that adult
education was at a ‘crossroads’.
2 Coloured and Indian workers occupied intermediate skills positions and had some
union rights.
3 They show that the income gap in South Africa has widened considerably since the
end of apartheid.
4 Estimated to be approximately 17,5% of the economically active population
(StatsSA, 2019).
5 The official unemployment rate was put at 37% of the working age population in
mid-2019 (StatsSA, 2019), but is estimated to be much higher than this outside of the
main cities, and particularly amongst youth and women.
6 Approximately 27% – 3 million out of 11 million – employed workers are unionised
(NALEDI, 2018).
7 By ‘contract’ he refers not to the formal employment contract, but rather to the rela-
tions and sets of obligations (formal and informal) that exist between the parties
involved in workers’ education.
8 The educator may also carry other roles or responsibilities or may be elected.
9 Total shut-down involving not only workers staying away from work but closure of
shops, schools etc.
10 More comprehensive reviews of this history may be found in Cooper, Andrews,
Grossman, and Vally (2002) and Vally, Bofelo, and Treat (2013), both of which draw
on theses on the history of workers’ education by Seftel (1983); Maree (1986); Vally
(1994); Ginsberg (1997) and Andrews (2003).
11 Its organisation extended to what is today, Zimbabwe, Malawi and Namibia.
12 Union density fell from 47% in 2000 to 28% in 2017 (Naledi, 2018).
13 See Martin and Peim (2009, p. 133) for a summary of articles that critique some
CHAT approaches for doing so.
14 See Rudin (1996) for a detailed early history of the union.
15 For more detail on its history and education programmes, see Bofelo et al. (2013).
1 Introduction1
What lies at the heart of workers’ education and gives it a distinct identity?
This chapter begins to unravel the logic that underpins this site of educational
practice and gives it a distinctive character. In doing so, and in keeping with
the methodological approach of Cultural Historical Activity Theory (CHAT),
it focuses as a first step on the purposes or objects of workers’ education as an
activity system. My argument is that it is these purposes that define workers’
education and stamp it with a unique identity, differentiating it from formal
schooling, vocational education, work-based training, higher education, and in
some respects, from some other traditions of popular education.
As noted earlier, in South Africa in recent years, virtually all forms of adult
education and work-related education and training have been drawn into a
globally-referenced, national qualifications framework (NQF) whose domi-
nant measure of value is whether or not education and training contributes
to improving a country’s productivity and global competitiveness. Hundreds
of new qualifications have been registered, including for sites of practice that
previously foregrounded a social purpose, such as community education or
youth development. One exception to this is workers’ education programmes
taking place within or allied to the labour movement, most of which remain
non-accredited and driven primarily by a social purpose.2 In Livingstone and
Sawchuk’s terms (2004, p. 50), such education is primarily aimed at realising
the use-value rather than the exchange-value of knowledge, and this use-value
has a transformative character. Throughout history, what has distinguished
workers’ education is its political and ideological purposes, and more particu-
larly, its goal of achieving social change, often of a fundamental kind. As will
be shown later in this book, it is this moral compass that has shaped the ‘spe-
cialised pedagogy’3 of worker education: its content, its educational methods,
its views on knowledge, and the way it constructs the roles of learners and
educators, and social relations between them.
This chapter will trace continuities and changes in the purposes of workers’
education in South Africa context from the early 1970s to the middle of the
second decade of the 21st century. It will present detailed images of workers’
education at three moments during this 40 year period: firstly, workers’ edu-
cation activities during a period of the re-emergence of a militant workers’
movement in the 1970s and 1980s which played a leading role in the struggle
to end apartheid; secondly, a case study of education within a public sector
trade union approximately 10 years into South Africa’s democracy, after the
labour movement had become involved in the formulation of new education
and training policies; and thirdly, a study of a workers’ college at the beginning
of the third decade into the country’s democracy, in a context where a weak-
ened labour movement is struggling to find new ways to survive and act as
an agent of social change under globalisation. A key focus throughout will be
the different and contesting currents within workers’ education as to what its
purposes should be. First, however, I outline some of the methodological con-
siderations and theoretical resources that have influenced the ensuing analysis
of the object of workers’ education as an activity system.
How have the goals of workers’ education been theorised? Very little work
has been done in terms of educational theory to conceptualise variants of
workers’ education.5 We need to look to political theory and theories of ideol-
ogy on the one hand, and to theories of learning in social movements on the
other hand, to find useful theoretical resources.
Gramsci was arguably the first Marxist theorist to take seriously the ideo-
logical project of the workers’ movement. His most important theoretical con-
tribution lay in his concept of hegemony, and the argument that the modern
capitalist state does not rule by force alone but also via ‘consent’ (Bates, 1975,
p. 353). It achieves hegemony over civil society by presenting the interests of
the dominant class as if they are the interests of all. It follows that the working
class cannot achieve a transition to socialism by simply seizing state power: the
working class needs to build an alternative hegemony that will gather support
across a multi-class civil society (Simon, 1982). Winning hegemony is clearly
an educational task; in Gramsci’s own words, “every relationship of ‘hegem-
ony’ is necessarily an educational relationship” (as cited in Coben, 1995, p. 39).
To achieve hegemony, ‘trade union consciousness’ is not enough; the task of
workers’ education is to develop a ‘political consciousness’ that enables the
working class to envision alternatives to capitalism. For Gramsci, workers’ edu-
cation is necessarily partisan: it must adopt a political position if it is to defend
and promote the interests of the working class. At the same time, the working
class needs to forge alliances and a common vision of the future across diverse
groups of the oppressed. Ideology plays a key role in this process, acting as “…
the cement or cohesive force which binds together a bloc of diverse classes
and social forces” (Simon, 1982, p. 25). Gramsci’s conceptual framework helps
to account for the strong ideological and political orientation of workers’ edu-
cation, a feature which I argue sets it apart from humanist and some popular
education approaches to adult education which advocate a facilitative rather
than a directive educator role.6
Theorists of learning in social action and social movements also offer
some useful ways of conceptualising the distinct features of workers’ educa-
tion, drawing attention in particular to the forward-looking and experimental
nature of such learning (Foley, 1999; Freire, 1970; Newman, 1994; Mayo, 2005;
Choudry & Kapoor, 2010; English & Mayo, 2012). For example, Eyerman and
Jamison (1991, p. 68) argue that social movements by definition have a ‘utopian
mission’, and their case study of nineteenth century labour movements shows
how these movements embodied ‘socially experimental activity’ which ‘speci-
fied the contours of the desirable’ and ‘articulated a vision of a future classless
society’ (ibid., p. 82). Social movements are seen not only as sites of learning
but also as sites of knowledge production – a feature which will be explored in
Chapter 4 of this book (see, for example, Welton, 1995; Holford, 1995; Spencer,
1995; Martin, 1999; Kilgore, 1999).
Some writers have questioned the relevance of theories of social move-
ment learning to understanding the recent or current history of labour move-
ments, particularly in the global north. For example, Holtz (2006, pp. 49–50)
has argued that in the last few decades under conditions of globalisation, the
foundations of historical forms of organisation such as trade unions and social
democratic or labour parties have been undermined. Labour movements have
adapted to neoliberalism to such an extent that they can no longer play a role
as agents of social change. Radical adult educators need rather to recognise the
revolutionary potential of newer movements such as those of the indigenous,
the landless, the homeless, the unemployed and global justice movements that
are particularly prevalent in the global South.
The demobilising impact of globalisation on the South African labour
movement and its impact on workers’ education is a reality and will be consid-
ered later in this chapter and in some detail in Chapter 7. However, we should
be wary of dichotomising ‘old social movements’ (including the labour move-
ment) and ‘new social movements’ too starkly. Von Holdt (2003) argues that
that a ‘radical impulse’ continued to inspire labour movements in the global
South far more recently than for trade unions in the global North. As late as the
1980s in South Africa and in newly industrialised countries such as Brazil, South
Korea and the Philippines, labour movements took the form of ‘social move-
ment unionism’: a “highly mobilized form of unionism based in a substantial
expansion of semi-skilled manufacturing work, which emerged in opposition
to authoritarian regimes and repressive workplaces in the developing world”
(von Holdt, 2003, pp. 8–9). These workers’ movements demonstrated “a com-
mitment to internal democratic practices and to the broader democratic and
socialist transformation of authoritarian societies” (p. 9). Despite the impact of
globalisation on the South African economy and the growing influence of neo-
liberal policies and ideologies from the late 1990s, this chapter will show that
instances of radical workers’ education with transformative intent still flourish
in some pockets of the labour movement today.
Theorists of the ‘everyday’ remind us that we need look not only to height-
ened periods of struggle for evidence of workers’ visions of alternative futures,
but also to the everyday lives of ordinary people. Citing Bakhtin’s notion of
the ‘vitality of the utopian impulse’, Gardiner (2000, p. 17) argues that this
kind of utopianism is not an abstract model of social perfection articulated
by intellectuals and social elites ( the ‘blueprint’ paradigm of utopianism) but
rather: “… a longing for a different, and better way of living, a reconciliation of
thought and life, desire and the real, in a manner that critiques the status quo
without projecting a full-blown image of what a future society should look like”
(Gardiner, 2000, p. 17).
The pages that follow will document the emergence of a strong counter-
hegemonic vision and ‘radical impulse’ in workers’ education in the early years
of the contemporary South African labour movement. They will also show that
the precise meaning of these transformative intentions was strongly contested
in the early years of the labour movement while more recently, these visions
have come to sit alongside – and in increasing tension with – less radical
visions of workers’ education.
often led to fierce contestations over what the main purposes of workers’ edu-
cation should be. Times of upsurge in workers’ self-organisation and militancy
have often coincided with a heightening of contestation – a ‘sharpening of the
blades’ – over what the vision and purpose of workers’ education should be.
This is well illustrated in the historical writings on radical workers’ educa-
tion of London, Tarr and Wilson on the United States (1990); Johnson (1979a),
Lovett (1998) and Philips and Putnam (1980) who wrote about the British
labour movement; and Welton (1991) on Canadian workers’ education. A key
example is the history of the Movement for Independent Working Class Edu-
cation (IWCE) in Britain, and its establishment of a network of Labour Col-
leges in the first part of the 20th century. Within the IWCE, there was intense
conflict over the purpose of the Labour Colleges, reflecting a broader ideo-
logical battle between two, main political groupings for control of the col-
leges and the labour movement as a whole. The ‘plebs’ (the grassroots level
of the workers’ movement) and the ‘tribunes’ (the established trade union
leadership) (Philips & Putnam, 1980, p. 23). The ‘plebs’ view of the colleges –
following the original Marxist character of the IWCE movement – emphasised
their political education role, the importance of retaining autonomy from the
trade union movement, and the need to prioritise rank-and-file education
(MacIntyre, 1980). The ‘tribunes’ saw the college movement as the educational
arm of the trade unions and wanted to give priority to the training of shop-
stewards and officials in techniques of industrial negotiation and union man-
agement. The greatest expansion of the Labour Colleges occurred in the 1920s
in a rhythm that closely followed the growth of the workers’ movement in the
led up to the General Strike of 1926. However, this was a period which saw the
increased centralisation of tendencies within Trades Unions Council (TUC),
and the entry of the Labour Party into parliamentary politics. The defeat of
the 1926 General Strike and its aftermath ‘crystalised and ultimately resolved’
these tensions (MacIntyre, 1980): the TUC and the Labour Party took control
of the labour colleges, and they were ultimately incorporated into the TUC’s
Education department.
Historians of workers’ education generally agree that by the middle of the
last century, the instrumental approach had come to dominate trade union
education in Britain and North America (Field, 1988; Aronowitz, 1990; London,
Tarr, & Wilson, 1990). The later decades of the 20th century saw the grow-
ing importance of a new strand within the reformist tradition – the ‘service’
approach to workers’ education (Aronowitz, 1990; London, Tarr, & Wilson,
1990) – where unions become involved in promoting vocational training
opportunities for their members. This approach to workers’ education was a
response to increased union weakness at the bargaining table (the need to find
benefits other than higher wages to deliver to members), and the desire for
increased career mobility on the part of trade union membership. The service
approach has been criticised for supporting a ‘human capital’ approach to
workers’ education, and as working against union collectivism (see Aronowitz,
1990 and Noble, 1990 on the USA; Fryer, 1990 and Field, 1988 on the UK).
The IAS in Johannesburg also started with a broad but more explicitly political
educational brief. It organised courses on trade unionism, history, economics,
law and politics; ran discussion groups; and published pamphlets and a news-
paper. Echoing the conflicts which took place within the Labour College move-
ment in Britain 60 years earlier, the conflict that emerged here was between
those who wished to link workers’ education closely to the building of trade
union organisation, and those who saw it as primarily aimed at the develop-
ment of working class consciousness for more politically transformative goals.
By 1976, however, both the IIE and IAS had been incorporated into, and subordi-
nated to, the emerging trade unions and education work was primarily focused
on servicing the organisational demands of the unions, with political education
being reserved for a relatively small group of workers in leadership positions.
Erwin7 (2017) argues that a focus on organisational needs does not neces-
sarily imply an a-political approach, and that this focus was a strategic choice
in a climate of state hostility towards, and repression of black trade unions.
Byrne, Ulrich, and van der Walt (2017) in fact show how in the Federation of
South African Trade Unions (FOSATU)8 the emphasis on building strong, shop-
floor organisation was in line with its commitment to workers’ control, and
its radical vision of “worker-run unions as the heart of a larger ‘working-class
movement’ … for radical change” (p. 255). With the rise of popular struggles
against the apartheid state amongst youth, students and community-based
organisations in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the labour movement began to
put forward a clearer and more elaborated political and ideological identity for
workers’ education. It was opposed to employer-led, workplace training on the
one hand and the state’s ‘Bantu Education’ on the other, both of which sought
to domesticate and exploit the black working class, and it openly committed
itself to a set of radical political goals. In a speech to the Congress of South
African Trade Unions’ (COSATU’s) first National Education Conference in 1986,
the General Secretary articulated the purpose of workers’ education:
politicises, mobilises and organises the working class so that they play
the leading role in the liberation of our society and its transformation
into … a system that will serve the needs of those who are now oppressed
and exploited. (ibid.)
Early contestation in South Africa’s emerging labour movement over the pur-
pose and vision of workers’ education therefore gave way by the mid-1980s
to a radical discourse that viewed workers’ education as class-based (with
the emphasis on the majority black working class) and orientated towards
the transformation of society in which apartheid capitalism would give way
to non-racial, democratic socialism. This radical vision had a strong, forma-
tive influence on the broader movement for ‘People’s Education’ within South
Africa at the time (see von Kotze, Ismail, & Cooper, 2016; Cooper & Luckett,
2017). However, this perspective was not dominant across the entire labour
movement (there were more conservative union federations and independent
unions who did not accept this vision of workers’ education), and neither did
it characterise the entire spectrum of education in COSATU. There remained
a great deal of less overt political education such as basic shop-steward train-
ing, training in organising skills and education around labour law that was
pragmatically oriented towards winning incremental gains for workers within
an industrial relations system that was slowly beginning to engage with black
trade unions. Furthermore, the end of apartheid and the transition to democ-
racy in the early 1990s were accompanied by significant economic, political
and ideological policy shifts that reshaped the discourse of workers’ education
in the direction of a more instrumental and service approach.
This brief account of the history of workers’ education in South Africa
shows that it has not been unique. It has reflected international trends in terms
of both its early ideological contestations as well as recent shifts from a more
transformative to a more instrumentalist and service approach. However, the
development of workers’ education in South Africa has been distinctive in two
For a period of four years in the early 2000s, much of my time was spent in
the Athlone offices of the Cape Town branch of the South African Municipal
Workers Union (SAMWU) observing education events and attending shop-
steward council meetings, as well as attending meetings of union members at
city offices, in municipal electricity and cleansing depots, and in a municipal
caravan park among other interesting locations. For a period of three weeks in
2002, I joined groups of workers participating in a nation-wide strike of munic-
ipal workers as they marched and demonstrated at various centres around the
city. Many of the union members knew me as someone involved in trade union
education support work over the previous 15 years, but during this period,
I was wearing a ‘researcher’s hat’. My aim was – through ethnographic observa-
tions and structured and unstructured interviews – to build a ‘thick descrip-
tion’ (Carspecken, 1996, p. 45) of knowledge, pedagogy and learning in the
union (see Cooper, 20059). I tried to develop a portrait not only of the union’s
organised education programmes, but also of the rich learning and knowledge
exchanges that took place in the ‘everyday’ interactions within the unions, and
in the context of workers’ mass action.
SAMWU had, at the beginning of the 2000s, an extensive and relatively
well-organised set of trade union education programmes. One of the union’s
stated education objectives was the ‘building of working class power’, and this
counter-hegemonic ideology permeated almost all the organised education
carry out its counter-hegemonic role was often contested. This was evident, for
example, in one local meeting of shop-stewards, where participants debated
the possibility of a strike over the issue of privatisation, and expressed differ-
ent views on whether to use the law for workers’ benefit, or to challenge it:
Ss110: Management is pushing with this privatisation – because they have this
objective: at the end of office, they will buy into the private companies.
We can’t just sit here – we need to take this thing to the streets! …
Ss2: … SAMWU is affiliated to COSATU – linked to the ANC – how can they [the
ANC government] do this? It’s a huge concern for us in our depot.
Ss3: … We have to find a way to stop them (from privatising) – we have to get
into communities. [Yes …]
Ss3: … To say “Let us take this out to the streets” – we shop-stewards are in
danger of being there on our own – they [union members] don’t want to
support (strike action) … The workers are not willing to go to the streets
even for wages. We need to go back to workers and find out whether
they’re willing …
Ss4: The weapons we have to use have changed. [… Yes …] We have new leg-
islation – we need to use it – use the new laws … we need to rely on the
law – old tactics are no longer effective.
Ss1: I want to disagree … we need to understand: it’s not a matter of wages, it’s
a matter of life and death! We need to go out into the streets … We need to
make clear to members … this new legislation is bringing about privatisa-
tion. This is a matter of life and death! It is our children and grandchil-
dren who will suffer if we privatise ….
(Cooper, 2005, pp. 148–149)
The 2002 strike illustrated the tension that exists between the trade union
movement’s desire for inclusion within the modern, democratic but neverthe-
less capitalist state on the one hand, and its desire to transform that state on
the other. Furthermore, the impact of the political demobilisation amongst
unionised workers in post-apartheid South Africa was also evident. This was
captured in an interview with one shop-steward where she reflected on how
she felt that there was less ‘passion’ in the 2002 strike than in earlier strikes:
People were more … more committed in the past11 to strike, even though
(they had) no food in the house then, compared with now where people
are hesitant, or think twice before they go on strike … there’s that change
of mindset … So it’s this that makes one think – ponder – why was the
It’s definitely the result of the broader context out there. It’s how people’s
value systems have changed since ‘94 and up to now. … along the line that
collectiveness (has) disappeared. And … it’s not only in the union, it’s also
in communities … We used to have that culture of collectivity and that
has disappeared along the line. People become mean individualists …
shop-stewards even have become more individualistic in their approach
to their functions …. (ibid.)
To sum up, this moment in the union’s history demonstrates the continuity of
the radical purpose of workers’ education in South Africa well into the early
2000s. However it also illustrates how globalisation had begun to impact on the
collective traditions of workers’ education as an activity system, creating a ten-
sion between its longstanding commitment to transformation (its ‘object’) and
an emerging, new ideology and value system (the ‘rules’ of this activity system).
This chapter has argued that a paradox lies at the heart of workers’ educa-
tion, and that this gives rise to contestation over what its core purpose should
be. Lines of contestation have clustered around two main trajectories: one
advocating a focus on improving the lives of workers within the existing capi-
talist system, and the other urging organised workers to concentrate their
energies on overthrowing the capitalist system. It is possible to see these con-
tradictions originating from those that are embedded in the broader political
economy of capitalism (Hartley, 1997). The contradictory impulses that these
generate have deepened in the last few decades, exacerbated in South Africa
by the labour movement’s ‘buy-in’ to a new institutional framework for work-
place education and training – one strongly influenced by the discourses of
globalisation, lifelong learning, flexible labour markets and flexible speciali-
sation. These have been associated with new lines of stratification amongst
employed workers, a growing gap in the material living conditions between
those who are ‘insiders’ and those who are ‘outsiders’ to the global economy,
and a new ideology of competitive individualism (Grossman, 1999).
CHAT emphasises the value of multivoicedness within activity systems, and
views tensions and contradictions not simply as ‘problems’ but as moments
which are pregnant with new possibility. In other words, the gathering ten-
sions and contradictions within labour’s vision of workers’ education should
not necessarily be viewed negatively, but rather as harbouring the potential
for something new to emerge. This will not happen automatically, and it will
take serious intellectual work and political will to translate these tensions and
contradictions into the new knowledge and new practices that are required to
effectively challenge the workings and power of global capitalism.
This chapter concludes with a second case study, set approximately 20 years
into a democratic South Africa, of the educational work of the Natal Workers’
College, and explores the way that it has sought to resolve some of the tensions
and contradictions thrown up by the impact of globalisation on workers’ edu-
cation in the ‘south’.
retrenched garment workers, now organised by their union into a workers’ coop-
erative. In a rather tightly spaced set of offices and seminar rooms, there is a lively
bustle as about 50–60 participants make their way to their morning classes. I pass
a well-stocked and smartly displayed resource centre and promise the librarian I
will return and spend some time in it.12
The Workers’ College offers four, non-formal diplomas in Labour Studies,
Labour Economics, Political and Social Development, and Gender and Labour
Studies respectively. The College’s program is aimed at activists in labour and
community organisations. The College sees advantage in combining labour
and community activists in one program so that they can explore the link
between work and the broader social and political environment (Moodley,
Shah, & waBofelo, 2016). Its stated goals are multiple: it aims simultaneously
to build the intellectual and organisational capacities of activists working for
social transformation; to facilitate their self-affirmation and dignity; and to
provide an access route into higher education. The latter acknowledges activ-
ists’ desire for further learning opportunities, as well as their expressed need
for recognition and accreditation.
I observe one of the classes of the Diploma in Political and Social Devel-
opment. Participants are drawn from COSATU and other independent unions;
civic and community organisations, and unemployed workers’ organisa-
tions. The class begins with the facilitator (himself, an accomplished poet;
see waBofelo, 2011, 2013) reciting a ‘rap’, entitled: “Bourgeois economy, day-
light robbery”. A participatory discussion ensues: Who comprises the current
working class under capitalism? How has capitalism evolved today? Is it still
possible to build egalitarian and collective values in the current context? The
facilitator argues that the current education mainstream continues to ‘colo-
nise’ the minds of young people – “Your self is removed from you” he says –
and poses the question to participants: how can the education mainstream be
‘infiltrated’, challenged and transformed?
The College has clearly tried to take into account the increasingly diverse
interests of the poor and working classes, and its programmes are an attempt
to forge solidarity between employed and unionised workers and other mem-
bers of working class communities. It recognises that capitalism – particularly
late capitalism – is grounded in multiple oppressions, and its curricula take up
a range of issues which have propelled into action not only labour movement
activists, but also those from community organisations and social movements.
Issues covered include those of gender violence and homophobia, unemploy-
ment and the need for a ‘solidarity economy’, inadequate access to housing
and basic services, ethnic discrimination and xenophobia, access to land and
problems of environmental degradation.
A discussion amongst the staff of the College at the end of my visit revealed
a more detailed picture of the College’s goals. A key purpose of the Workers’
College programmes is “developing critical and informed activists in civil
society” (Tillman, 2012, p. 4), and the notion of activism is (in its own words)
the ‘golden thread’ that holds together the different curricula. Facilitators are
themselves selected not only on the basis of their advanced, formal learning,
but also on the basis of their experience of activism. I am told that the Worker’s
College facilitator is “an activist first before he’s (sic) an educator”.
It will be shown in the following chapter that the College curriculum also
has a strong theoretical component, and this dovetails with its explicit aim of
exposing activists “to the systemic, institutional and structural issues respon-
sible for their suffering, and therefore … to conceptual and ideological entities
such as capitalism, socialism, racism, sexism and democracy”. It views these as
important in order to build understanding not only of social structure but also
of agency, so that the students learn how they can act as agents in their organi-
sations, which in turn, further ‘heightens their consciousness’.
Also of importance is that participants learn to think critically and reflex-
ively, and to ‘turn the lens on themselves’. An emphasis on the ‘personal as
political’ reflects the influence of feminist thinking and more recent social
movements on the Workers’ College’s sense of its purpose. It is viewed as
important in strengthening an activist identity: ‘If you can’t transform yourself
you cannot transform broader society’. The College’s goals also include a theme
of ‘healing’: it aims to restore to participants a sense of their own humanity and
help them to overcome feelings of ‘internalised subordination’ on account of
their educational backgrounds and perceived lack of cultural capital.
Alongside promoting collectivist values and socialist perspectives, the
Workers College emphasises the importance of working with diversity. Accord-
ing to one of the facilitators, it recognises that there are “different forms of
trade unions, those that want to bring about social change and those that con-
fine their work to addressing ‘bread and butter issues’ within the work place,
working within the system”. It makes concerted efforts to make everyone feel
respected and accepted irrespective of their political affiliation, sexual orien-
tation, age, position in their organisation, or status in society.
Facilitators argued that the Workers’ College is itself an ‘experiment’: an
experiment in combining the roles of educational institution and activist
organisation; an experiment in taking a principled, political position but com-
bining this with encouraging the expression of ‘dissident’ views; and an experi-
ment in forging new forms of educational practice and attempting to develop
a ‘home-grown’ theory of critical pedagogy. But staff were also circumspect
about the power of education to bring about significant social change. As one
staff member put it:
Workers College is a little square in a big circle; students go back into the
real world. Workers’ College can either be a little island of difference, or
its principles must be taken out beyond the College. We mustn’t expect
that the Workers’ College can resolve these (society’s) contradictions on
our own, but we can start ….
6 Conclusion
Following the methodological principles of CHAT, this chapter has argued that
the key to understanding the particular logic underpinning different sites of
workers’ educational practice, is to uncover and analyse its purpose or ‘object’.
It has shown that that there are significant continuities in the purposes of radi-
cal workers’ education in South Africa, evident not only in organised educa-
tion programs but also in ‘everyday’ interactions within the trade union as well
as in instances of mass action. The ‘radical impulse’ of this strand of workers’
education offers an alternative vision of a transformed future and leads to an
approach to workers’ education that is strongly aligned politically and ideo-
logically. There has frequently been contestation over the precise nature of the
alternative future to be achieved, and these contestations have in turn been
influenced by broader political struggles and conflicts both within and outside
of the workers’ movement.
In the last two decades, the contradictory impulses within workers’ educa-
tion have intensified under the pressures of globalisation and the influence of
new political ideologies of competitive individualism. This is evidence of the
power of global capital to reconfigure its hegemonic hold over society through
what Gramsci might have termed a ‘passive revolution’ (Simon, 1982, p. 25)
where social reforms are introduced ‘from above’ in order to contain popular
struggles. In South Africa, the transition to democracy has involved the main-
tenance of the power of an elite that is no longer defined in racially exclusive
ways. It continues to govern and to benefit economically, while sustaining a
popular belief that upward mobility is possible and can be widely enjoyed, if
only workers would uplift their levels of skill and education.
I have argued that the tensions and contradictions in workers’ education
may be viewed as holding the potential for change. The chapter has pointed
to ‘experiments’ under way – such as that of the Workers College – that seek
Notes
1 The Sun Shall Rise for the Workers is the title of a biography of the trade union activ-
ist, Mandlenkosi Makhoba, a ‘popular’ booklet published as part of Ravan Press’
Worker Series in 1984.
2 Chapter 7 will focus on some examples of workers’ education which has opted for
formal accreditation.
3 I borrow this term from Cooper and Ralphs (2016), where we describe Recognition
of Prior Learning (RPL) as ‘specialised pedagogy’ because of its distinctive features.
4 See Chapter 4 for further discussion on ‘really useful knowledge’.
5 An exception to this is Michael Newman’s ‘Third Contract’ (1993).
6 A point which will be explored further in Chapter 5.
7 A trade union organiser in the 1970s and 1980s, later to become a deputy minister in
the new, ANC government post-1994.
8 The federation that pre-dated the establishment of COSATU.
9 The empirical examples that follow are all drawn from this source.
10 Ss = shop-steward; square brackets denote collective responses.
11 She was referring to a 1990 strike of Cape Town municipal workers, and numerous
work stoppages in the late 1980s and early 1990s.
12 Unless otherwise indicated, much of the detailed descriptions and quotes that fol-
low are drawn from my notes of that visit.
The last few decades have also seen an increasingly influential body of work
aimed at theorising workplace and/or vocational knowledge (Knorr-Cetina,
1999; Barnett, 2006; Guile, 2010; Winch, 2010,), but little comparable theorisa-
tion of the nature of knowledge generated or recruited in non-formal or infor-
mal education contexts such as the workers’ or other social movements has
taken place. Why has this knowledge been so neglected and under-theorised?
The answer must lie, in part at least, in the fact that the knowledge of those
most excluded socially, economically and educationally, has always remained
‘hidden’ or unrecognised. For example, in their book on Hidden Knowledge in
the Information Age, Livingstone and Sawchuk argue that “… one of the most
striking facts of working-class knowledge in capitalist societies appears to be
the multiple barriers to its recognition and legitimate use in dominant insti-
tutional settings” (2004, p. 49). This is particularly true of workers’ knowledge,
but also of (what is seen as) ‘women’s knowledge’, the indigenous knowledge
of colonised people, and others who have occupied spaces on the margins of
society. Furthermore, those on the social and economic margins are not seen
as capable of thinking about knowledge; that is, they are not regarded as hav-
ing an epistemology – a theory of what constitutes knowledge and how such
knowledge is produced.
The following chapter will focus on the content and forms of knowledge
actually drawn on in practice in workers’ education, while this chapter exam-
ines its views on knowledge. The chapter will argue that in order to do justice
to workers’ knowledge and to the knowledge drawn on in workers’ education,
it is first necessary to understand something of the epistemology of workers’
education – its views on how we come to know what we know, as well as its
ontology – its assumptions about the nature of the world of which we seek
knowledge. Drawing on historical and contemporary case studies of work-
ers’ education in South Africa, this chapter will show that the workers’ move-
ment may be seen as an ‘epistemological community’ (Nelson, 1993) that
shares views not only on what constitutes ‘really useful knowledge’ for workers
(Johnson, 1979a), but also where this knowledge comes from and how it can be
generated. In other words, there is both a history and current project within
the workers’ movement of thinking about, and theorising, knowledge.
The chapter begins by locating the origins of the obscuring of workers’
knowledge within what Guile (2010) has referred to as the ‘two worlds of
knowledge’, that is, the division between intellectual and manual labour. The
division between intellectual and manual labour represents one of the most
enduring ways in which knowledge is implicated in power relations. This
divide has translated over time into hierarchies of knowledge associated with
the social power hierarchies of class, gender, ‘race’ and coloniality. The task
of bridging the divide between ‘thinking’ and ‘doing’ has been central to criti-
cal theorists from a range of different perspectives, and integral to the ideals
of democratising knowledge. It is also key to understanding a central feature
of the epistemology of workers education: its orientation towards ‘healing
the breach’ between intellectual and manual labour, and between knowledge
‘from above’ and knowledge ‘from below’.
While there may be some validity in von Holdt’s typologies, I would argue that
they oversimplify and over-dichotomise the differences between the two theo-
rists. In fact, a key feature of the history of radical thought, and of traditions of
workers’ education, has been the ideal of bridging the divide between theoreti-
cal knowledge and workers’ experiential knowledge.
Lenin is not known for his theorising of knowledge or workers’ education,
but he did address questions about the development of working class con-
sciousness. A comprehensive political biography (Harding, 1983) shows that
while Lenin distinguished between ‘theory’ and ‘practice’, his views on the
relationship between them evolved over time alongside his own revolution-
ary activity. As a young, radical intellectual, he was part of a movement in the
1880s to reach out to Russian workers by establishing study circles, where intel-
lectuals tutored workers via a “strong diet” of philosophy, economics and his-
tory (Harding, 1983, p. 71). However, following a wave of worker militancy in
the late 1890s and early 1900s, Lenin evolved his ideas around the development
of political consciousness and on ‘who’ or ‘what’ teaches workers. He began
to place greater importance on the role of political experience and struggle
in developing a revolutionary consciousness. He argued that “… proletarian
consciousness arose not out of theoretical induction and the educational work
of intellectuals and worker-intellectuals: it had its origins, and was refined and
developed, in the course of the very struggle for existence of the working mass”
(as cited in Harding, 1983, p. 112). Following the 1905 revolution, he referred to
‘compressed education through action’:
Holst (1999) has argued that there are close affinities between Lenin’s and
Gramsci’s views on the crucial educational role of the party. While I agree with
this, I would argue that Gramsci held a less hierarchical view than Lenin of
the relationship between workers’ knowledge and intellectuals’ knowledge,
and between the party leadership and the masses (see Cooper, 2007). Gramsci
argued that the working class needed to create its own organic intellectuals
whose knowledge would be superior not only in the intellectual sense, but also
because it would be based on ‘feeling and passion’:
By the mid-1980s, the labour movement had evolved a more explicit position
on education and a more elaborated position on what forms of knowledge
should be drawn on in workers’ education. COSATU “… advocated a form of
workers’ education that promoted respect for workers’ knowledge and their
experience. It believed educators should facilitate the collective and partici-
patory sharing of knowledge amongst workers” (Andrews, 2003, p. 68). The
labour movement placed strong value on the collective experiences of the
working class as a source of knowledge. This distinguished it from the focus
on individual experience of the humanist, experiential learning theories that
had gained influence educationally in North America and the UK in the 1960s
and 70s (see Knowles, 1987; Kolb, 1984), prioritising instead the collective expe-
riences of the working class as a source of knowledge. Unions were seen not
only as educative spaces but also as ‘laboratories for democracy’, where work-
ers could ‘test out’ new ideas, arrive at new understandings, and develop and
enrich collective practices (Cooper et al., 2002, p. 121).
We can gain some insight into how workers at this time viewed their own
knowledge through biographies and autobiographies of workers produced at that
time (see for example, Tom, 1985; Barrett, 1985; Qabula, 1989). The production of
these books themselves was a statement of belief in the value of workers’ experi-
ences – captured in the form of life-stories – as a source of knowledge. For exam-
ple in a workers’ biography published by FOSATU in 1984, what comes across is
the worker-author’s strong self-confidence in the validity of his own knowledge
and that of the workers whom he clearly viewed as his main readership:
There are many things to tell. But before I begin there are two things you
must know. I tell this story to remind you of your life. I tell you this so
you will remember your struggle and the story of the struggle we fight.
AMANDLA9!
The other thing is this. I am not an educated man … I tell you this so
you will know not only those who are educated can write books.
But if you worked in the foundries and factories you would know
these things. If you lived in the hostels you would be aware. And as you
read you will understand how one day the sun shall rise for the workers.
(Makhoba, 1984, p. 1)
His words reflect a belief that formally ‘uneducated’ workers are knowledge-
able, and that their knowledge is derived from their experiences of life in the
factories, foundries and hostels.
Formal, codified knowledge was also highly valued however, as indicated
in a 1985 evaluation of the booklets of the International Labour, Research and
Information Group (ILRIG):
What was perhaps more noteworthy was the importance which those
interviewed simultaneously attached to the broader social and politi-
cal education of the trade union members. This impression emerged
particularly strongly through their answers as to why they viewed read-
ing materials on international issues as important for their members.
(Cooper, 1985, p. 8)
… always respect the knowledge that people already have. Do not make
the mistake of believing that in education the teacher has the knowledge
and the pupil is blank. In fact both teacher and pupil have knowledge.
We must mix this knowledge through discussion. It is this mixture of knowl-
edge that makes new knowledge and advances our understanding. (Erwin,
1987/1991, p. 297, emphasis added)
A CHAT analysis helps to illuminate the fact that in workers’ education, knowl-
edge acquisition is not simply the ‘object’ of the system, as it is in formal educa-
tion but more significantly, it is seen as a tool of mediation. In other words, in
workers’ education knowledge has traditionally been viewed not primarily as
end in itself but as a means to achieve the economic and political emancipa-
tion of workers. While drawing on knowledge of a more abstract, theoretical
and codified kind, knowledge has not been valued ‘for its own sake’ but as a
tool for building organisation, developing campaigns, and in the longer term, a
means of developing an alternative vision of a future society:
The history of the South African Municipal Workers’ Union (SAMWU) illus-
trates vividly how the mental/manual division of labour in the municipal
workplace impacted on its early politics. As noted in Chapter 1, this union’s
history as a black trade union was a-typical in South Africa. Whereas African
migrant workers constituted the core of ‘unskilled’ workers in most parts of
the country, the Western Cape was a ‘coloured labour-preference area’11 where
municipal labour was undertaken primarily by an urbanised, coloured work-
ing class. The CTMWA had been founded in the 1920s, and for much of the next
60 years, a conservative leadership elite drawn predominantly from the more
educated and higher paid, ‘white-collar’ staff in the municipality, controlled
the union.12 As one grassroots activist of the 1980s recalled:
… when I came in, you know, people (wore) ties and suits when they
came to meetings, and you know, I’m not used to those things, attending
meetings with a suit and a tie. I felt out of place … and even the language
which they spoke was a very high English, it wasn’t a level which every-
body could understand. (as cited in Cooper, 2005, p. 141)
In the 1980s, under the influence of growing popular mobilisation and wide-
spread strikes by workers in other sectors, this local government trade union
underwent a process of radical change. Grassroots activists managed to unseat
their elitist and conservative leadership, leading to a process of democratisa-
tion where unskilled and semi-skilled workers carried far greater weight within
the organisation. After the formation of COSATU in 1985, the CTMWA merged
with other unions of black municipal workers to form SAMWU.
By the time I began my research in the union in the early 2000s, these pro-
cesses were reflected in an emerging education philosophy where experiential
knowledge was widely valued and ordinary workers were viewed by the union
as a valuable source of knowledge. Workers were frequently referred to as ‘the
real experts’; for example, one shopfloor leader expressed the view in an inter-
view that:
… people have the answer, if one can understand that, the people actually
have the answer, and it’s a matter of drawing out those answers from the
people. And then adding your own to it, and then putting it into perspec-
tive and summarising it to them – it makes magic. So – you don’t have to
come there with all the answers. If you let them speak, speak, speak, you
know, and – the more they can speak and the less you speak at the outset,
it’s so much better. You can actually see where they’re coming from, what
it is that they’re wanting, what it is that they’re actually expecting … They
have all of the answers, you know. (as cited in Cooper, 2005, p. 175)
Another example of how the union elaborated its views on knowledge was in
the union’s 2002/2003 Political Education Book. It posed a question around
‘tools of analysis’ and proposed answers which set out the respective roles of
‘experience’ and ‘theory’:
Unionists also valued knowledge from outside workers’ experiences. This was
evident in the emphasis placed on the need for worker representatives to read
Labour, trade unions, are in such a dilemma. This is the age we are in …
the high-tech age … it becomes more and more demanding for people to
be able to read and write, although we say we don’t want to make it a pre-
requisite or a criteria when you are elected (as a worker representative) …
But it does afterwards become a need that you … have that literacy level. …
His colleague countered this with an argument that requiring all shop-stew-
ards to be literate would rob the union of its essential purpose:
But I still think that we take away the nature of trade unions if … the
trade union puts the condition that in order to become a shop-steward
you must be able to read and write. I believe that would be [against] the
nature of the trade union. … To me it’s important that shop-stewards
are elected on the basis that they are committed to the trade union, that
they’re committed to improving workers’ conditions, that they’re com-
mitted to contribute to the working [class] struggle … generally. (ibid.)
Taken together, these two quotes capture the complex and contradictory
social purpose of the trade union outlined in Chapter 2 – an organisation
that is caught between conflict with, and pragmatic accommodation to, the
dominant social order. Parallel to this is the tension between valuing experi-
ential knowledge and the need for more and more specialised expertise. My
research into the Workers’ College a decade later allowed me to explore how an
organisation dedicated to workers’ education was attempting to resolve some
of these contradictions.
As noted in an earlier chapter, the Workers’ College does not offer formal quali-
fications but has an access agreement with a local university into which Col-
lege ‘graduates’ can gain entry through Recognition of Prior Learning (RPL).
The College articulated a more elaborated and sophisticated epistemology
than SAMWU, aimed not only at bridging the intellectual divide between those
who ‘think’ and those who ‘do’, but also critically challenging the privileged
status of academic knowledge.
For the Workers’ College, recognising and affirming workers’ experiential
knowledge was core. It viewed the recognition of prior, experiential learning
not simply as a means of access into formal education, but as a central part of
its curriculum:
As the College sees it, learning best takes place by connecting learn-
ers’ experiential knowledge with broader theoretical concepts as well
as academic knowledge. This pedagogy is rooted in an adult education
approach, in this case with a specific focus on equipping trade union
and community activists with the practical and theoretical capacities
to strengthen their activism and their organizational practices. (Vally,
waBofelo, & Treat, 2013, p. 514)
My first encounter with the Workers’ College curriculum was through its writ-
ten materials – its course readers and its learner guides. As part of a national
RPL research project (see Cooper & Ralphs, 2016), a colleague and I had been
asked to observe one, week-long block of classes in order to contribute an ‘out-
sider’ perspective to the case study research that the College was undertak-
ing, and my perusal of the text-based teaching materials was in preparation
for this visit. In the light of the College’s views on the value of prior, experien-
tial knowledge, I was perplexed to find the readers based almost entirely on
academic texts that were theoretically dense and conceptually complex. The
exercises outlined in the learner guides seemed only to draw on participants’
experiences in order to explain a number of abstract concepts. Why was there
such a strong emphasis on theory and specialised concepts?
The College’s political philosophy was firmly rooted within critical Marxist
theory. Each of its courses has a strong theoretical component, based on the
assumption that the task of bringing about radical social change is best served
by providing participants with a strong set of conceptual resources. The Col-
lege viewed the conceptual knowledge in its curriculum as essential to ena-
bling trade union and community workers to become better activists in their
sites of practice (Vally et al., 2013, p. 518). Staff argued that elements of criti-
cal social theory, and the specialised language associated with it, are already
circulating within civil society organisations and are not the sole preserve of
the academy. They viewed the building of theoretical and conceptual capacity
as integral to the development of well informed, thoughtful, critical and well-
rounded activists.
The view was that individual experience should not simply be drawn upon
but should also be interrogated through exposure to, and critical engagement
with texts, concepts, theories and debates. In other words, experiential knowl-
edge should be critically assessed and validated through its interaction with
conceptual knowledge. One staff member described it as “taking the learners
from where they are and developing them further”:
Staff argued that they were not asking participants to ‘dissolve’ their experi-
ences into concepts, but rather to use their experience to review and challenge
concepts, and even come up with new concepts. They emphasised that the
College’s courses did not aim to teach disciplinary knowledge per se but rather
to equip activists to use Marxist methodology as a ‘a way of interrogating the
world’ and to critique established academic discourses.
It is clear that the epistemology of the Workers’ College was in line with
a dialectical approach to conceptual development, with an emphasis on the
complementary roles of ‘theory’ and ‘practice’, following Gramsci, Freire and
Vygotsky. At the same time, it was clearly influenced by critical feminist cri-
tiques of dualist epistemologies that separate knowledge of the personal from
knowledge of the political. It placed emphasis on the ‘personal as political’, and
linked to this, on personal reflexivity as an important source of knowledge and
a tool for strengthening activist identity: “If you can’t transform yourself you
cannot transform broader society” (Vally et al., 2013, p. 522). Of key importance
was that participants learn to think critically not only about the world, but
about themselves – to “turn the lens on themselves”. A theme of ‘healing’ was
also prominent: the College aimed to ‘give voice’ to individual and collective
stories of pain and struggle, thereby restoring to participants a sense of their
own humanity.
The Workers’ College had also evolved an approach to the growing demands
for formalisation and accreditation of workers’ education. It did not reject the
need for workers to access formal education opportunities, but it did ‘reject the
values of commodifying education’. It also aimed to explore and where neces-
sary challenge the relationship between the formal knowledge of the academy
and the experiential knowledge born of activism in workers’ and community
organisations. Staff argued that important new knowledge is produced in the
process of social action and social struggles, and it sought to engage critically
with academic curricula and challenge the hierarchies that lead to experi-
ential forms of knowledge being undervalued and unrecognised within the
academy.
7 Conclusion
This chapter has attempted to show that there is coherence and considerable
continuity in both the implicit and explicit epistemology of workers’ education
internationally, over a long period of time. The chapter began by noting the
relative absence of theorising in regard to knowledge generated or shared in
non-formal and informal collective, social learning contexts, including work-
ers’ education. There is also a lack of recognition that there exists a distinct
epistemology underpinning workers’ educational practices. As Visvanathan
(2001, p. 4) has argued, ordinary people do not only produce new knowledge;
they also produce new epistemologies, that is, “new rules or methods for mak-
ing of knowledge”.
I argue that a key feature that distinguishes radical workers’ education
from some other traditions of popular education is the value it places on codi-
fied knowledge, including critical theory, knowledge of history, and scientific
knowledge itself. At the same time, the value of these more abstract, systema-
tised bodies of knowledge is not seen as fully realised until they are linked
to workers’ experiences and to organisational needs. Workers’ experiences are
seen as a key source of knowledge in their own right, and capable of yielding
generalisations of their own, of acting as a means of validating ‘theory’, and of
proving the usefulness or otherwise of concepts.
Another central feature that lies at the heart of this epistemology is the ideal
of ‘healing the breach’ between intellectual and manual labour – between
conception and execution, between theory and experiential knowledge. This
division has its origins in the development of capitalism, but also bears the
marks of patriarchy and the legacies of colonialism. The ideal of overcoming
this divide is reflected in the history of radical thought and educational theo-
ries that view both theory and experiential knowledge as essential to learning
with each playing a complementary role. A review of historical perspectives on
knowledge within the South African labour movement shows that these epis-
temological assumptions have guided approaches to workers’ education over a
lengthy period of time and continue to do so. In the words of one, longstanding
South African worker educator:
Notes
1 There have been critiques of Sohn-Rethel for an overly mechanistic view of the
relationship between mode of production and mode of thought (Jappe, 2013); and
for ignoring the question of reproduction, and the sexual division of labour (Rose,
1983).
2 There is an interesting echo in Vygotsky’s use of this term, and Lenin and Gramsci’s
notions of the ‘limits of spontaneity’ in terms of the development of working class
consciousness (see Holst, 1999, p. 413).
3 My earliest experiences as a practitioner in the adult literacy movement in South
Africa was strongly influenced by Freirian pedagogy.
4 And some traditions of political education common within the Communist move-
ment (see Samoff, 1991).
5 Black workers had begun to move into semi-skilled positions from the 1960s
onwards.
6 See for example the South African Institute for Race Relations’ literacy work, and
Operation Upgrade (also in Bird, 1984).
7 The emergence of ‘New Left’ thinking is seen as a response to the crisis of social
democracy on the one hand, and Stalinism of the Communist Left, on the other.
See Holst (1999) for a critique of the way in which Gramsci was interpreted in some
of the social movement literature that emerged from this new wave of neo-Marxist
thinking.
8 Braverman (1974), Johnson (1979) and MacIntyre (1980) each detail the long and
rich history of how workers, and members of the working class more generally, have
demonstrated a ‘thirst’ for knowledge of their world and beyond, seeking ‘enlight-
enment’ mainly through non-accredited forms such as lectures, study groups, and
self-study.
9 Power!
10 There were efforts by NGOs however, to address more basic educational needs.
These NGOs included Learn and Teach In Johannesburg, Using Spoken and Written
English (USWE) in Johnnesburg and Cape Town, the Adult Learning Project in Cape
Town and Port Elizabeth, and Umtapo Centre in Durban. See www.sahistory.org.za
and www.populareducation.co.za for further information.
11 Under apartheid, those workers classified as ‘coloured’ did not have to carry passes,
and in the Western Cape where ‘coloured’ communities were concentrated, they
had preferential access to jobs in some sectors of the economy.
12 See Rudin (1996) for a comprehensive early history of the union and its anteced-
ents.
13 General Agreement on Trade in Services – a treaty of the WTO which came into
force in 1995.
14 For example, when Coetzee’s (2003) research report on the union’s organised
education programme was delivered to provincial education forum, participants
probed the representivity of her sampling methods and the language in which she
conducted interviews with shop-stewards.
15 The decline of democracy within the labour movement has been aggravated by
a range of other organisational and social factors such as increased bureaucrati-
sation, corruption and deliberate closing down of spaces for democratic debate,
elaborated further in Chapter 7.
Mechanics Institutes (are) not intended to teach the most useful knowl-
edge but to teach only as might be profitable to the unproductive ….
Johnson (1979a, p. 85)
∵
The idea of ‘really useful knowledge’ developed among radical working class
organisations in England in the 19th century. At the time, the British industrial
bourgeoisie set up ‘Useful Knowledge Societies’ to teach workers the basic sci-
ence needed to participate in new technologies of production. The working
class Chartist movement1 responded by calling for ‘Really Useful Knowledge’,
‘the knowledge we need to get ourselves out of our present troubles’. The Char-
tists were not opposed to ‘useful knowledge’ in the form of technical knowl-
edge or workplace skills, but their position was that workers’ education should
not be restricted to that (Boughton, 2007).
The question is posed: what is ‘Really Useful Knowledge’ for workers? Where
is it drawn from or how is it produced? While the previous chapter focused
on the epistemology underpinning workers’ education practices, this chapter
focuses on the forms of knowledge that are shared in workers’ education. It was
noted in the previous chapter that while there has been extensive theorisation
of formal, codified knowledge as well as a growing body of research literature
on different forms of workplace knowledge, there have been few attempts to
conceptualise or theorise the forms of knowledge in use in social action or
social movement contexts. How might we conceptualise the form and content
of this ‘counter-hegemonic’ knowledge?2 Does it have a unique structure or
specific logic of its own? Does it have its own systematicity or coherence, and
if so, what forms do these assume?
Like the epistemology of workers’ education, while there are distinctive
features of the forms of knowledge in use, the question of how such forms
of knowledge are produced or shared in workers education requires historical
and empirical grounding. This chapter draws on a number of detailed descrip-
tive accounts of workers’ education ‘in action’, based on case study research
in the South African context. The knowledge practices described have been
shaped by local, social and material realities, and clearly cannot be general-
ised to workers’ education in all other contexts. Nevertheless, I will argue that
Gramsci’s theorisation of the role of organic intellectuals in forging a relation-
ship between ‘common sense’ and ‘good sense’, illuminates and provides a
means for more inclusive ‘analytical generalisations’ to be made about knowl-
edge produced and shared within radical workers’ education more generally.
It should be noted that the question of ‘what is really useful knowledge?’
is not peculiar to workers’ education but has been debated widely in the field
of education studies, particularly at this juncture in the development of the
world economy and society. The issue of ‘knowledge’ is a key one under glo-
balisation and is related to current debates around the ‘Fourth Industrial
Revolution’ (Schwab, 2016), and the emergence of the so-called ‘knowledge
society’, ‘knowledge economy’ and new stratum of ‘knowledge workers’ (Guile,
2010; Livingstone & Guile, 2012). These debates have been accompanied by
increased interest in the question of knowledge production outside of tradi-
tional sites of the academy (see Gibbons et al., 1994; Knorr-Cetina, 1999). What
is ‘really useful knowledge’ in workers’ education is also not solely a theoreti-
cal or conceptual question; it is deeply implicated in a much broader debate
around the ‘politics of knowledge’, and the question of how we recognise and
value – or fail to recognise and value – diverse forms of knowledge. Since South
Africa’s transition to democracy in 1994, there has been an ongoing debate
about what knowledge should form the basis of the formal curriculum in the
post-apartheid education system. Until recently this debate has focused pri-
marily on schooling but in the last few years, with the upsurge of university
student struggles, the focus has increasingly shifted to the question of how to
‘decolonise curriculum’ in higher education (Connell, 2017). The question in
this chapter of how to conceptualise the forms of knowledge in use in workers’
education therefore has broader relevance to broader sociological and educa-
tional debates.
The chapter begins by briefly sketching the contours of these sometimes-
acrimonious debates around what knowledge should form the basis of the for-
mal curriculum in order to illustrate the charged and deeply politicised nature
of these debates in the post-colonial context of South Africa. It will then pro-
vide some answers to the question of what forms of knowledge constitute the
‘curriculum’ in workers’ education and will argue that an understanding of this
might contribute to and enrich the debate around what knowledge is of most
value to society, and what should or should not be included in a ‘decolonised’
curriculum.
in nature, and that valuing knowledge in relation to its life-world based use-
values ensures that we take account of ethical judgements about societal need
(p. 24).
This brief synopsis of what was a complex debate is intended to highlight
the politically charged nature of the question of what is ‘the most useful
knowledge’ in the context of South Africa, a country which is emerging from
a past where the knowledge of the majority of people was marginalised and
devalued, while at the same time entering a global ‘knowledge economy’ heav-
ily based on technological innovation. How can the knowledge practices of
workers’ education contribute to the debate about what is ‘really useful knowl-
edge’ in today’s world?
In the following section, I return to research conducted in the early 2000s in
the Cape Town branch of the local government trade union, SAMWU, and draw
on this to explore some of the forms of knowledge that comprise ‘really useful
knowledge’ within the trade union context, as an illustrative case of workers’
education in the global South. In doing so, I argue that an understanding of
the different forms of knowledge in use in workers’ education can inform our
understandings of what knowledge is of most worth in the 21st century.
workplaces and their living conditions within poor communities. Most often
however, these experiences were used as their starting point to explain pre-
determined, broader contextual or conceptual points. Frequently, this took
the form of a successive ‘layering’ of experiential and conceptual knowledge,
where the ‘anecdotal’ was repeatedly recontextualised and renamed via the
language of abstract concepts. In other words, ‘experience’ was used to scaffold
a dialectical movement from the particular example to broader concepts, and
to make conceptual connections between different issues.
One example (already pointed to in Chapter 2) drawn from an introductory
shop-steward training workshop illustrates this. The full-time union educator
was dealing with the issue of ‘What is the union?’, and drew on new shop-stew-
ards’ experiences to introduce them to some specialised political vocabulary
and concepts:
On the first day of the strike, an estimated nine thousand SAMWU workers
marched on the local government offices in the centre of Cape Town. An air
of festivity surrounded the march, and the heightened emotions of thousands
of toyi-toying7 workers communicated a sense of confidence and their abso-
lute conviction that justice was on their side. Moving with this huge body of
workers, I was struck by its almost festive character which reminded me of
the annual carnival that takes place through the streets of Cape Town each
new year (with its origins in 18th and early 19th century slavery), led by colour-
ful, working class troupes. Many marchers carried posters, some clearly mass-
produced by the union’s head office, while others were homemade. They bore
slogans such as:
Phantsi (down with) managers and councillors eating themselves fat while
the workers starve!
Down with Gear,8 Starvation wages
To Hell! It’s War!
Privatisation equals Retrenchments equals Poverty
Forward to R2200 minimum wage
Rate payers note: while workers struggle to stay alive, top managers get
R62000!
Seen as ‘knowledge’ being widely disseminated, these slogans were deeply con-
textualised in the experiences of the strikers, but they also operated at a high
level of generality and abstraction, making links between the state’s economic
policies, the emergence of a new, black elite, widespread poverty, and ‘class
war’. The union’s strike pamphlet also made links between workers’ wages, the
government’s macro-economic policy, the ‘apartheid wage gap’ and privatisa-
tion, while the speeches on the march linked workers’ struggles to history, a
class analysis and the goal of socialism. This mass action was a time of ‘theoris-
ing the world’ at a very broad level and presented opportunities not only for
a critique of the current order, but also to articulate a vision of what might be
possible in the future.
What then can we conclude about what constitutes ‘really useful knowl-
edge’ in the context of workers’ education, and by inference, the nature of
knowledge more generally within social action or social movement contexts?
I will argue that running through the descriptions presented above are a num-
ber of key themes. These are most usefully illuminated by Gramsci’s notions of
‘good sense’ emerging out of ‘common sense’, and his conceptualisation of the
role of organic intellectuals in building an alternative hegemony and a political
the Italian Marxist’s goal was never simply to grasp the subaltern view,
to see the world through subaltern eyes: his goal was social transforma-
tion. And this required not only the mapping of common sense and the
identification of the good sense he saw as embedded within it, but its
translation (within the context of the political party) into effective politi-
cal narratives capable of mobilizing large masses. (ibid., p. 13)
In other words, popular knowledge – while being “confused and chaotic, laden
with superstition and governed by emotion rather than reason” – nevertheless
contains ‘nuggets of good sense’ and is “the ultimate source of genuinely new
they act as a guide to strategic action. In Gramsci’s terms however, these can-
not remain fragmentary in form and will need to coalesce into a new, coherent
political narrative that offers a powerful counterweight and alternative to the
dominant discourse.
As noted earlier, it is important not to conflate site of knowledge with form
of knowledge; although the case study of workers’ education within the union
comprises a site outside of the formal education system, it does not follow that
this is a site of experiential knowledge only, or that elements of formal, codified
knowledge cannot be found here. Harris (2004, p. 115) describes this phenom-
enon as ‘vertical discourse circulating in the everyday’. Writing about a South
African research project on RPL and drawing on Bernstein’s (2000) notions of
vertical and horizontal discourse,10 she found that some RPL applicants had a
head start in acquiring academic discourse because of their history of politi-
cal activism during the 1980s struggles against apartheid. She argued that in
such ‘struggle contexts’ “… vertical discourse was the possession not only of the
intellectual-academic elite but also of the intellectual-political elite” (Harris,
2004, pp. 74–75).
This section has argued that knowledge in the non-formal education set-
ting of the trade union is far from undifferentiated, and a distinctive feature
of knowledge in this context is its hybridity. Knowledge recruited in radical
workers’ education is multi-faceted, comprising a range of complex articula-
tions of different forms of knowledge. Workers’ experiential knowledge itself
ranges from the concrete to the abstract, from the local to the general, and
from the rational to the emotional. During the strike, workers engaged in theo-
rising their world even when they did not ‘name’ concepts or deploy special-
ised language.
This does not invalidate the need for a way of distinguishing analytically
between different forms of knowledge in use in workers’ education. One rea-
son for doing so is that it makes it possible to identify how different constel-
lations of knowledge reflect shifting power relations across different sites
within the organisation. It will be shown in more detail in Chapters 5 and 6
that conceptual or contextual knowledge predominated over experiential
knowledge in union workshops, while contextual and experiential knowledge
were equally fore-grounded in union meetings (where an understanding of
the context was used to plan action). In the strike however, it was ‘action’ that
predominated, with ‘knowledge’ being embedded in that action. During the
strike – where ordinary workers exercised their agency most strongly – the
languaged discourse of union workshops and meetings gave way to the more
universal ‘language of the body’, a form which was concrete as well as abstract,
specific to immediate context as well as generalisable. The question of how
There was a range of actors that took to the stage of the workers’ education
events described earlier in this chapter, who could be seen as playing the role
of organic intellectuals in Gramsci’s terms, or “whose role is the production
and distribution of knowledge” (Crehan, 2016, p. 19). In meetings, it was often
The union saw the question of access to information and knowledge as a site of
struggle. For example, its shop-steward training manual argued:
We live in the information age. Control over information and the manip-
ulation of knowledge has become a central tool in the hands of those
who hold power in the economy and society. Knowledge and information
At the same time, as seen from quotes towards the end of the previous chapter,
unionists felt in a weakened position to fight this struggle. Trade unions are
increasingly caught between their long-standing traditions of workers democ-
racy, at the heart of which is the recognition and valuing of the experiential
knowledge that workers bring on the one hand, and on the other, growing
demands for knowledge specialisation and for the professionalisation of those
who have historically played the role of organic intellectuals in the working
class movement. There are increasing pressures that have led to the increased
formalisation of trade union education, and in some cases, partnerships with
universities to provide ‘advanced’ professional training for trade unionists in
specialised areas.
The question needs to be posed: if the distance between organic intellectu-
als and ordinary union members widens, as it seems to have done in the post-
apartheid era (see Buhlungu & Tshoaedi, 2012; Bezuidenhout & Tshoaedi, 2017;
Webster, 2018b), what implications does this have for the ‘organicity’ of these
intellectuals (in Gramscian terms), for their ability to recognise and draw on
the experiential knowledge of workers and thus act as ‘midwives who help to
bring forth a shared philosophy and culture gestated in the womb of subaltern
experience’?
At the heart of this problem lies a further, more organic11 contradiction in
workers’ education. Crehan emphasises that Gramsci’s focus was always on the
social relations within which knowledge is produced, rather than on individual
knowledge producers (ibid., p. 41). She argues that for Gramsci, “Marxism is a
philosophy still struggling to be born … Yet to be coherently articulated” (2016,
p. 39) and that workers’ education is “a new hegemony in gestation” (ibid.,
p. xiii). Workers’ education needs to generate the kind of radical alternative
necessary to supplant the existing hegemony. At the same time however, as
noted in the previous chapter, workers education and its processes of knowl-
edge production take place in a space subjected to the material and social
realities of capitalism. A key challenge that workers’ education faces therefore
is how to create a new hegemony when the material/social conditions for the
realisation of that hegemony do not yet exist? This is perhaps the reason why
trade unions in general, and workers’ education initiatives within the labour
movement particularly, are engaged in a ‘dance’ of resistance and accom-
modation. They are caught between challenging and subverting dominant
power relations on the one hand, and pragmatic accommodation to dominant
social relations on the other. This is reflected in the ambivalences expressed
7 Conclusion
Notes
1 Chartism was a British working class movement, which emerged in the early 19th
century with the aim of winning rights and influence for the working classes. Chart-
ism got its name from the formal petition, or People’s Charter, that listed the six
main aims of the movement.
2 Or a nascent ‘alternative hegemony’. Holst (1999) points out that Gramsci himself
never coined the term ‘counter-hegemony’.
3 See Young and Muller (2013) for an elaboration of what they understand by the
notion of ‘powerful knowledge’.
4 This elicited a critical response from Michael Young in a subsequent issue of the
journal (see Young, 2005).
5 Some parts of this section of the chapter have previously been published in Cooper
(2006).
6 It also published a quarterly newspaper, Workers News, printed in three languages,
and aimed at ‘mass education’ of the unions’ general membership.
7 A militant dance mimicking that performed by guerrilla soldiers during the strug-
gle against apartheid, which in turn drew on older, pre-colonial forms of military
‘performance art’.
8 In 1996 the ANC government under President Mbeki adopted GEAR (Growth,
Employment and Redistribution), a macro-economic policy promoting privatisa-
1 Introduction
It is 2012 and a colleague and I are on a research visit to the Workers’ College in
Durban. We are observing the classes of the College’s four diplomas, in order to see
its education ‘in action’. The first class focuses on Gender and Labour Studies; it
starts with participants viewing a video clip on ‘Freedom Park’, an ironic name for
a poverty-stricken, informal settlement outside of the town of Rustenberg. This is
close to the Marikana mine where earlier that year, South African police had shot
dead 34 striking miners and wounded 74 more. Of the 20000 residents of Freedom
Park, a large proportion are women. Following the video, the facilitator asks partic-
ipants how they felt about the documentary, followed by more specific contextual
questions. Drawing on inputs from the class, she links their responses back to what
they learnt about different forms of oppression in a previous lesson: sexual oppres-
sion, oppression of migrant workers, gender oppression. One participant raises
her concerns about the impending legalisation of sex work. This leads to a heated
debate on the pros and cons of such legislation, with students frankly expressing
their prejudices. The facilitator unpacks the logic of their different arguments and
offers her own opinion, stressing it is merely one amongst other perspectives.
Next door, a second class is focusing on Political and Social Development. The
facilitator is far more directive. He consistently exerts control over what is dis-
cussed and in what order and keeps a tight hold on time. He checks that partici-
pants have correctly understood concepts by asking them to give examples from
their own experience, and then summarises their responses using specialised con-
ceptual language. He then sets a group task to draw a mind map showing how
all the different topics and concepts covered in the past week – political economy,
post-colonialism, imperialism, modernisation – fit together in a coherent way. He
continuously emphasises the importance of critical thinking, and that as activ-
ists, participants must learn to make coherent arguments rather than espouse
empty rhetoric.
These are clearly two different styles of pedagogy, and yet both are com-
fortably located within an institution committed to radical, inclusive workers’
education. How do we account for both within a model of workers’ education
practice?
This book is concerned with unravelling the ‘logic’ of radical workers’ educa-
tion. Earlier chapters have shown that this logic is driven, first, by the distinct
purposes of this strand of workers’ education, and secondly, by its epistemol-
ogy – its theories of knowledge. They have noted some of the key features of
workers’ education: its strong ideological purpose or object (even though it is
often a contested one), its efforts to bridge the intellectual/manual divide, and
the hybrid forms of knowledge that it draws upon. Given these features, how
is such knowledge passed on, who or what ‘teaches’ workers, and where does
significant learning take place? What lies at the heart of its pedagogy and how
do its education methods compare with other traditions of critical or radical
pedagogy?
This chapter is the first of two that identify some of the central features
of workers’ education practices in the South African context. It focuses on
non-formal but organised education programmes while the following chapter
focuses on informal learning through day-to-day organisational involvement
and mass action.
There is an intriguing conundrum that lies at the heart of non-formal but
structured education programmes. Despite worker education’s commitment
to democratic traditions and its valuing of workers’ experiential knowledge,
as a form of pedagogic practice it is often didactic and almost always politi-
cally and ideologically directive in character. This sets it apart from some of
the more humanist traditions of adult education (Kolb, 1984; Mezirow, 1990),
as well as from some interpretations of Popular Education.
The strongly normative character of workers’ education (and the ‘radical
tradition’ of adult education more generally) has been a key theme in the writ-
ings of Marxists and neo-Marxists. As noted earlier, it is captured most often
via the concepts of hegemony and counter-hegemony. Raymond Williams
argued that under capitalism, most of society’s modes of cultural production
are directly or indirectly under capitalist control:
A forceful counter move is therefore required to challenge the cultural and ide-
ological hegemony of the ruling class. This was theorised by Gramsci when he
argued that ruling class hegemony has to be countered by the development of
a critical understanding amongst the working classes “through a massive effort
of political education of a genuinely popular kind, through its own schools,
exist outside of power relations of one sort or another. For Bernstein, power
is also exercised in invisible pedagogy – often associated with experiential
learning and some Freirian traditions of Popular Education – where learners
appear to be driving the curriculum and in control of their own learning. Here,
hierarchical relationships are not absent but are rather implicit or covert. In
other words, while in visible pedagogy, the relationship of authority of the edu-
cator over learner is overt, in invisible pedagogy ‘power is masked or hidden’
(Bernstein, 2000) by the facilitative style of the educator and by the egalitarian
norms of the pedagogy.3
It will be shown below via an exploration of a number of historical case
studies of workers’ education in South Africa that these two models of peda-
gogy offer a useful way of conceptualising radical pedagogy, and of illuminat-
ing traditions of workers’ education in South Africa in pedagogic terms.
It was shown earlier that in the 1970s, with the resurgence of the black trade
union movement, there was intense political contestation over what the
focus and priorities of worker education should be. Later, in the early 1980s,
there was contestation between ‘general unionism’ and ‘industrial unionism’
(Baskin, 1991), while in the late 1980s, there was conflict over which political
organisation – and, indeed, which class – would lead the transition to democ-
racy (Grossman, 1995).
As noted in Chapter 2, Welton (1991) has argued that this kind of contesta-
tion between different political groupings over which ideological orientations,
political analyses and strategic choices would lead ‘the struggle’ has been a
constant factor shaping workers’ education across time and space. I argue
that this explains – at least in part – the fact that throughout the period under
apartheid, ideologically directive forms of pedagogy with their didactic meth-
ods, overt authority of the educator, and explicit criteria for what should be
learnt, was the dominant form of much workers’ education practice.4 The fol-
lowing pages will add detailed content to these assertions, but they will also
show that important political and ideological messages were imparted not
only through visible pedagogy, but also through a range of less ‘visible’, but
equally politically/ideologically directive pedagogy.
the 1950s. The intention was to impart lessons from history about the dangers
of populism, viewed as “the type of unionism which emphasised national-
ism over class, (relying) heavily on mobilisation rather than organisation”
(Ginsberg, 1997, p. 86).
A number of scholars have argued that approaches to workers’ education
at this time reflected the race and class background of the intellectuals who
played leading educational roles in the emerging trade union movement. For
example, Seftel’s study of trade union education in the 1970s argues that educa-
tion programmes at the time were overly theoretical, abstract and ‘top-down’
in approach, with ‘an overemphasis on ‘ideas’ and an under-emphasis on
‘method’ (Seftel, 1983, p. 91), reflecting the class origins of the white intellectual
leadership. Ginsberg’s (1997) study of the Metal and Allied Workers’ Union/
National Union of Metalworkers of South Africa (MAWU/NUMSA) on the Wit-
watersrand in the 1970s and 1980s also illustrates the ideologically directive
nature of much workers’ education practice throughout this period. He argues
that the didactic approaches to education on the part of FOSATU leadership –
who were largely, but not exclusively from white, middle-class backgrounds –
may be accounted for by both their educational and class backgrounds as well
the nature of political contestation at the time.
Ginsberg distinguishes between what he calls the ‘professional’ intellectuals
who played key organising and educational roles in the early years of build-
ing an independent trade union movement, and ‘organic’, worker intellectuals.
I draw on a slightly different typology in order to capture the roles of differ-
ent groups of intellectuals who played an educational role within the workers’
movement. I reserve the term ‘professional’ intellectuals for those university-
based intellectuals who did work on occasion for the union movement. The
term ‘organiser intellectuals’ on the other hand will be used to refer to those
well-educated intellectuals (often but not always white and middle-class) who
were employed directly by the unions as organisers. The term ‘organic intellec-
tuals’ is used in a manner close to that of C. Wright Mills’ (1971) ‘union-made
intellectuals’; in other words, to refer to workers leaders who played key ideo-
logical roles.7 In the early years of rebuilding the union movement in South
Africa, these organic, worker intellectuals were predominantly migrant work-
ers with low levels of schooled literacy, but who assumed key leadership roles
in the labour movement.
It has been argued that the didactic approaches of organiser intellectuals in
FOSATU was not only a reflection of their educational and class backgrounds,
but also a function of the ideological contestation at the time. How can the
political orientation of this group of intellectuals at the time be understood?
Byrne challenges the labelling of FOSATU’s intellectual leaders by some of
The particular brand of Marxism that influenced the Tuacc9 and Fosatu
union leadership in the 1970s and 1980s was something quite different to
the SACP brand. It was largely free of the trappings of party-building, it
was shaped by Western Marxism and radical social history, and it oper-
ated as part of an eclectic New Left that had many libertarian, even anar-
chist and syndicalist tendencies. (Byrne, 2012, pp. 100–101)
workers’ control and democracy. It will be argued below that in the very pro-
cess of realising this goal, the organiser intellectuals ignited the development
of a new layer of organic, worker intellectuals who would ultimately challenge
their hegemony within the union movement.
The siyalala’s were often linked to instances of workers taking mass action. For
example, in 1987, workers belonging to the Chemical Workers Industrial Union
decided to take control of their factory. They were in dispute with management
over the racist attitudes of one of their personnel managers, whom they saw as
“intransigent, anti-workers, anti-everything” (CWIU, 1994, p. 68). They organ-
ised a sleep-in as a way of blocking the use of scab labour. A worker reported
how their spirits were high: “The whole night we were discussing … it just gave
that spirit of unity, you could see we were all together in this …” (ibid.).
In response to workers’ evident thirst for new knowledge, this period also
saw the mushrooming of a range of union media, particularly trade union
newspapers, aimed at a worker readership. FOSATU’s Worker News and the
Council of Unions of South Africa’s (CUSA’s) Iswelethu ran articles on labour
history, global events, unions elsewhere in the world and general political
issues, and provided news not available from mainstream press.11 These were
eagerly appropriated by workers, seeking to extend their knowledge and
understanding of the world about them.
And the methodology was also such that, you know, people really built on
people’s experiences and then tried to link the theory to peoples’ experi-
ence … Everyone was seen as both learner and teacher and there was a
shared understanding that important learning takes place in struggle and
in daily activities.
At the same time, their methods were “not just purely experiential and let
things flow” but connected to “a vision of socialist society – an alternative soci-
ety to the capital(ist) society”. Educators in LACOM “really wanted to build the
working class – (that is), not only … the union movement”. Some of their work
focused on political economy and history, but much of it was on ‘basic skills’
(such as bookkeeping skills, ‘how to use a phone’, ‘how to use a calculator’).
These skills were viewed not simply as technical but also political in nature –
“… (we provided) organisational skills like bookkeeping and report writing,
but in a political way …” – and as supporting the building of democratic and
accountable working class organisations.
LSO activists were keenly aware of their political vulnerability and avoided
openly contesting the politics of union leaders:
One way to get around the ‘gatekeepers’ and reach a wide layer of workers
was through the production of popular education materials that could be dis-
tributed and shared amongst workers. As part of a larger study of SACHED’s
publications, Trimbur (2009) argues that such popular texts pose interesting
political and ethical questions about how “people are represented, in the dou-
ble sense of being figured as a political force and of being spoken on behalf of”
(p. 88).
LACOM was one of the first LSOs to adopt the rhetorical technique of the
“embedded narrator”.18 For example, in its history of South Africa workers’
struggles, Freedom from Below (1989), a cartoon figure, Thami, speaks directly
to readers, serving as a point of identification of the intended worker read-
ership, and acting as a guide as well as providing commentary from a work-
ers’ perspective. He poses questions and provides answers to: what are trade
unions, and why should workers join trade unions? Trimbur argues that “… the
figure of Thami is meant to enable the rhetorical formation of an audience
with its own class interests, a collective ‘we’ in search of knowledge”. However,
he is critical of the way it was deployed in this instance:
While Thami’s initial uncertainly about joining the union and his ques-
tions are offered as a matter of credibility, he quickly becomes a rather
monological figure, delivering colloquial versions of Durban LACOM’s
workerist history that simply recapitulate the account in the text and
thereby reduce the multimodal potentialities of an embedded narrator
… to offer a counterpoint or space to think about history. (Trimbur, 2009,
p. 96)
Trimbur’s case study of popular literacy and print cultures in South Africa in
the 1980s brings us back to the complex question of the role of the radical edu-
cator. For Trimbur, this role involves not simply a choice for individuals with
expertise to either facilitate popular expression or propagate ‘correct’ political
ideas:
This section has shown that while ‘visible’ pedagogy predominated in work-
ers’ education historically, ‘invisible’ forms of pedagogy have also flourished
as one important strand of workers’ education in South Africa. This was true
not only within workers’ organisations but in the forms of pedagogy adopted
by a wide range of LSOs that sought, during the 1970s and 1980s, to nurture
the growth of workers’ organisations in such a way as to strengthen workers’
democracy and control. However, because of the close articulation of these
popular education projects with the workers’ movement, they were actors on
a terrain that remained politically and ideologically contested, and therefore
their pedagogic interventions could not be anything other than ideologically
partisan to some extent. Creative methodologies and textual genres were
invented in attempts (in Trimbur’s words above) to ‘rearticulate expertise to
popular aspirations’, in order to give workers agency and voice. Nevertheless
the inevitable power hierarchies between educator and learner remained in
place, albeit hidden.
The ideologically-aligned character of workers’ education practices –
whether ‘visible’ or ‘invisible’ – historically served to achieve two things. It
enabled workers’ education to act as a tool in the struggle between different,
contending political currents for political/ideological leadership of the work-
ers’ movement. In addition, it served as a vehicle to cement amongst organ-
ised workers a distinct, black working class identity in their collective struggle
against capital. Trimbur (2009) argues persuasively that the more progressive
workers’ education initiatives during the 1970s and 1980s did not conceive of
their work as “simply liberating the people from ignorance”; “unleashing a
spontaneous revolutionary will on the part of the people” or as “having van-
guard cadre correct their false consciousness” (p. 102). What worker educators
recognised was that “the unity that is required for liberation cannot be the
presumed starting point”. The ravages of apartheid had included the crea-
tion of ‘racially’-based identities which – along with other factors such as lan-
guage or skill differentials – acted to divide workers and pit them against one
another. In Trimbur’s view, “the people are more like a molecular process of
bonding and division than a unified entity. The unity of the people, rather,
is a political horizon, and rhetorical negotiation provides a means to reach
it” (p. 103). Workers’ education programmes and projects invented a range
of pedagogic strategies in order to realise this ‘political horizon’ of worker
unity, but in order to achieve this, they tended towards more didactic forms of
pedagogy.
The second half of this chapter returns to the case study of SAMWU in the
early 2000s, at a time when this public sector union was struggling to find effec-
tive strategies to counter the effects of the neo-liberal policies of privatisation
and sub-contracting that had been brought in under the ANC in government
in the late 1990s. It looks at continuities and discontinuities in the features of
workers’ education in the post-apartheid period. It examines how, in differ-
ent ways, trade union education has continued to reproduce both visible and
invisible modes of pedagogy, seeking to forge workers’ unity in new ways and
in the context of growing diversity within the working class. While ideologi-
cally directive, it will be shown how different strategies are drawn upon in an
The 1990s and early 2000s was a time when the labour movement needed to
expand and diversify its knowledge, capabilities and expertise. The transi-
tion to democracy required trade unions – many of whom had traditionally
operated defensively – to play an increasingly proactive role in a wide range
of policy forums which demanded a range of specialised knowledge and
expertise. Economic policy debates focused on macro-economic issues such
as labour markets and industrial restructuring. New initiatives around partici-
pative management and new labour legislation required unionists to engage
in an unprecedented range of management and bargaining issues. The area
of education and training policy alone required unions to retool intellectually
on a wide range of issues which had not previously fallen within their areas of
concern or expertise, including Adult Basic Education and Training (ABET),
the relationship between training and job grading, and issues relating to the
development of a national qualifications system.
Ironically, this was a period when many unions actually lost intellectual
capacity. This was a result of a number of factors, not least of which was the
exodus of key leadership – often those with the most experience and exper-
tise – out of the union movement into government. Affirmative action poli-
cies also moved many experienced worker leaders from the shop floor into
management (see Cooper & Qotole, 1996, pp. 12–14). According to one labour
observer at the time:
It is therefore significant that in the early 2000s, SAMWU still retained an unu-
sually well organised and elaborate system of education programmes, sup-
ported by a range of education materials and by full-time educational staff at
national, provincial and local level (Cooper, 2005, p. 102). As noted earlier, it
ran Foundation Shop-Steward Training (FSST) on a consistent basis as well as
a range of special issue courses. It placed strong emphasis on political edu-
cation and increasing priority was given to staff training in this period. This
section of the chapter draws on observations of three of the union’s planned
and structured education programmes, as part of the research conducted at
the time. Each was directed at a different target audience and with a different
educational focus: a Foundation Shop-steward Training (FSST) programme,
a political education programme for branch-level leadership, and a national,
organiser training programme focusing on wage talks and planning for an
imminent strike.
Earlier research on SAMWU’s Cape Town branch had found that educators
described their education practices as fitting “within Freirian principles of
problem-posing education, where teachers and learners are ‘critical co-inves-
tigators’” (Coetzee, 2002, p. 24). This participatory, learner-centred approach
to pedagogy was enacted in a number of the education events that I observed,
particularly in the extensive use made of small group work involving problem-
solving exercises centred around scenarios crafted from real life events. The
design of the union’s written materials supporting its programmes reflected a
learner-centred approach that foregrounded group work and learning activi-
ties. For example, the FSST training manual’s notes for facilitators included
a section entitled ‘Adult Education’, which contained a wide variety of ‘ice-
breakers’ and ‘energisers’, an extract on ‘How Adults Learn’ and the ‘Experien-
tial Learning Cycle’. Suggestions for methods included role-plays, simulation
games, case studies, ‘sculpturing’ and buzz groups. A section dealing with ‘The
Learning Climate’ emphasised that the facilitator should avoid letting partici-
pants ‘sit in straight rows’ as this would have a negative effect on participation
and provided guidelines for promoting participation in groups. Another sec-
tion on ‘facilitation skills’ promoted a radical humanist approach to education
which emphasised that the facilitator should ‘encourage democracy and be
non-directive’, be as ‘invisible’ as possible, and ‘ensure an equal power relation-
ship between all the participants and the facilitator’ (as cited in Cooper, 2005,
pp. 116–117).
There are a number of key points that need to be made during this ses-
sion. You can make some of the points through an input, and you can
make some of them through activities. The best would be to use a combi-
nation of inputs, activities, and summarising key points after the activi-
ties, to make sure the important points are made. (ibid.)
Observations of education events in the union showed that the more predomi-
nant form of pedagogy in practice was far from invisible or non-directive, and
took the form of traditional, didactic styles of teaching (visible pedagogy), usu-
ally involving the delivery of inputs followed by questions. Didactic forms of
pedagogy might have conservative origins but in the educational events of this
union, they were clearly radical in intent. For example, in the FSST workshop,
the facilitator urged workers to take control of their organisation:
The union is not that building over there … It is you and the workers …
What we want is a union where workers are involved in the decision-
making …
Don’t open your books. I want to talk to you about workers’ control. The
union official doesn’t have power. You must tell me what to do … You
have to take control of the situation, both at the (union) office and at the
workplace. Power is not in the trade union office … (it lies in your) ability
to take responsibility for union affairs …. (as cited in Cooper, 2005, p. 120)
Once again, this points to attempts to achieve a ‘balancing act’ between defin-
ing a particular ideological orientation on the one hand and constructing a
spirit of broad inclusivity on the other.
As already noted, there was a tension between the union’s stated commit-
ment to ‘popular education methodology’ on the one hand, and its actual ped-
agogic practices on the other. However, the union’s strong ideological message
was not simply imposed in a ‘top-down’ manner. There existed a commitment
to reciprocal learning between educators and learners, and the role of educa-
tor was clearly a fluid one, with worker leaders often stepping into this role.
Furthermore, significant attempts were made by educators to reach the expe-
riences of workers and to integrate their experiences into the union’s political
ideology. One way of doing this was through the use of participatory, learning
activities. However, an equally significant way was through the deployment of
a range of culturally-embedded, symbolic tools of mediation, drawn from the
culture and life-world of the participants. Their use enabled ordinary union
members to contribute to the form and content of the pedagogic message. The
issue of tools of mediation will be elaborated in some detail in the following
chapter. However, the next subsection focuses briefly on the tools of mediation
which acted to ‘soften’ and democratise the ideologically-directive nature of
the union’s structured education programmes.
events observed and were notably more prevalent and denser in nature in the
two leadership-oriented workshops. This was despite the union’s acknowl-
edgement in one of its organisational reviews that there was a general absence
of a ‘reading culture’ amongst its members:
This chapter has shown that historically, two contrasting models of peda-
gogy have been enacted within the South African labour movement. A mode
of visible pedagogy with its overt ideological messages being transmitted via
quite conventional, didactic methods such as lectures followed by discussion,
has predominated. But alongside it, a mode of invisible pedagogy – ‘invisible’
highly skilled facilitator. A key condition for holding this tension lies outside
of worker pedagogy itself and is embedded in the nature of workers’ organisa-
tion as an activity system. By way of conclusion, this chapter will illustrate this
point by drawing on Mike Newman’s notion of ‘The Third Contract” in trade
union education.
As noted in Chapter 1, the ‘Third Contract’ (Newman, 1993) in trade union
education comes into being because the worker participants in education
events are not only ‘learners’; they also constitute part of the general mem-
bership of the union that elects representatives that determine union educa-
tion policy, and to whom the educator is accountable. Newman (1993) makes
the point that the third contract represents one of the key lines of democracy
within the union, and that if this line of accountability and workers’ control is
‘broken’, this has serious consequences not only for the organisation in general,
but for workers’ education in particular. More specifically in the light of the
discussion above, if this Third Contract is weakened or broken, it makes the
‘holding of the tension’ between the two modes of pedagogy impossible and
renders it more likely that education will slide into a form of propaganda or
indoctrination.
The consequences of what happens when this Third Contract ‘snaps’ will
be discussed in more detail in Chapter 7 of this book. However, events within
SAMWU which came to a head two decades into South Africa’s democracy, pro-
vide a poignant illustration. In 2009, a new layer of leadership was elected to
high office within the union. In the following years, in retaliation for numer-
ous allegations of corruption against them, the new leadership embarked on
widespread expulsions of dissenting worker leaders and staff. Factional fight-
ing led to the fragmentation of the union and the establishment of two rival
unions. This was not an isolated phenomenon; the period witnessed similar
developments in a number of other COSATU affiliates, as well as the splitting
of the federation itself. Worker education has inevitably been the victim of
this organisational fragmentation and its tasks of building worker unity in the
future have been made significantly more difficult.
The ‘balancing act’ between an ideologically directed pedagogy and a more
dialogical, problematising pedagogy can therefore only be held in a context
where there is a robust internal democracy with the workers’ organisation,
where members – through representative structures as well as cultural activ-
ity and organisational engagement more broadly (illustrated in the following
chapter) – retain the ability to express their own voice and exercise agency in
key decision-making structures.
Notes
1 See for example, Swope (1992) who researched the pedagogy of Christian base com-
munities in Chile.
2 Daniels (2012) (see Chapter 3) has proposed a way of integrating some of Bernstein’s
concepts with CHAT, and I have also attempted to do so in earlier work (Cooper,
2005, pp. 251–256).
3 There is no suggestion that this is done in a conspiratorial way; the argument is
rather that power relations are inevitably structured into all human relationships,
including educational ones.
4 This is supported by a number of sources; see Friedman (1987, pp. 91–92 and 185);
Cooper and Qotole (1996, p. 56); Ginsberg (1997, chapter 6); and Andrews (2003,
pp. 99–100).
5 The energy invested in these courses was considerable. For example, by 1984, there
were 10 residential national courses catering for 200 people, weekend seminars
regionally at least once a month involving 20–100 people, and regional training of
400–500 shop-stewards per year, in addition to regular parallel courses run by each
affiliate (Byrne, 2012, p. 253).
6 They followed in the footsteps of key writings by Wolpe (1972) and Legassick (1974).
7 Webster (1992) cites C. Wright Mills’ identification of four types of intellectuals
involved in the American labour movement: (1) Professionally trained intellectu-
als (e.g. lawyers, economists) who were sometimes employed by unions; (2) ‘party’
intellectuals who followed the ‘line’ of the party’; (3) free-lance research intellectu-
als with no foothold in the labour movement; and (4) union made intellectuals who
were crucially “the link between ideas and action” (Mills, as cited in Webster, 1992,
p. 88). I argue that these roles are slightly differently constructed in the South
African context where the race/class nature of educational privilege has played a
significant role.
8 Erwin (2017), a leading figure in FOSATU at the time, argues that the emphasis on
building worker leadership at a factory floor level was a form of ‘guerrilla unionism’,
a tactical move in an era of widespread repression. The stress on ‘training, study
and debate’ amongst worker leaders would ensure that workers’ organisation could
survive in the face of widespread detentions and banning of union and other politi-
cal leaders. He argues also that behind this “was a strategic intent to build a lasting
working class organisation as opposed to a purely trade union organisation” (Erwin,
2017, p. 238).
9 Trade Union Advisory and Coordinating Council – the predecessor to FOSATU.
10 It is perhaps worth noting that Gramsci did not see any contradiction between a
process of developing grassroots intellectuals and the need for a vanguard leader-
ship (Holst, 1999).
11 FOSATU News had a far larger circulation than many smaller commercial newspa-
pers (Friedman, 1987, p. 503, notes).
12 These included the National Literacy Cooperation (NLC), Learn & Teach, English
Language/Literacy Project (ELP), Eastern Cape Adult Literacy Project (ECALP) and
the Adult Literacy Project (ALP) in Cape Town.
13 One leading FOSATU educator commented: “… the intellectual comes in as a per-
manent part. We are not there to facilitate anything. The intellectual is in a leader-
ship position. He (sic) plays that part whatever it might be” (as cited in Maree, 1986,
p. 331).
14 The work of some of these organisations has been documented in a series of inter-
views, as part of a recent research project on Popular Education in South Africa.
The 3 year research project was entitled ’Traditions of Popular Education in South
Africa’ and sponsored by the National Institute for the Humanities and Social Sci-
ences (NIHSS); some links are available on the Popular Education Programme’s
website: http://www.populareducation.co.za/
15 SACHED was an NGO that offered black South African students access to tertiary
education.
16 All quotes in this sub-section are taken from a focus group interview with ex-LACOM
staff, conducted on 08/10/2014 in Cape Town, and available on the Popular Educa-
tion Program website.
17 The majority of whom were black African or Coloured intellectuals.
18 This technique was borrowed by other SACHED books (see Christie, 1988), as well
as by ILRIG; see for example, its book on the revolution and workers’ control in
Mozambique.
19 Coetzee’s evaluation of the Cape Metro branch FSST programme found that the pro-
gramme was in fact not very successful in communicating ‘content’ (e.g. the details
of the union’s structure and constitution) but was far more successful in imparting
to shop-stewards an “understanding of their role” (Coetzee, 2002, pp. 10–12).
20 This subsection draws on Cooper (2006).
21 Slabbert and Finlayson (2002, p. 235) define code-switching as “Switching lan-
guages or linguistic varieties within the same conversation”. The majority of union
members in this branch were Afrikaans-speaking.
… education can take place anywhere, at any time and involves people of
all ages … Any meeting, any strike, any wage negotiation, and any lunch
break can be used as places where education takes place.
speech at cosatu’s first education conference (as cited in Baskin, 1991,
p. 244)
…
The strength of Gramsci’s notion of education lies in the culture of praxis.
Education is established in action rather than in theory … [I]f the culture
of praxis is the final goal of Gramsci’s political project, a culture of acting
not as a prerogative of the elite, but of all the people, is the task to which
education must contribute.
Pagano (2017, p. 58)
∵
While the previous chapter focused on organised worker education pro-
grammes, it is commonly understood that workers’ learning extends well
beyond the walls of seminar rooms or education workshops. In his work on the
history of Canadian workers’ education, Welton argues that there are “notori-
ous difficulties in delineating the boundaries of worker education” (1991, p. 25)
and that workers’ education needs to be seen as a dimension of workers’ cul-
ture and politics. Sawchuk (2001, p. 364), too, urges that we adopt ‘an expansive
view of learning in the labour movement’.
Workers’ education takes place within and across a rich variety of sites
linked to organising, mobilising and social action, including: recruiting new
members, meetings and congresses, participating in wage bargaining or policy
forums, running campaigns, protest marches and strike action. Historically,
in South Africa under apartheid, in the absence of state recognition of black
trade unions, routine organising was never ‘routine’. It was a constant, bitter
struggle to win even small, tangible gains and so organising, mobilising and
social action were by far the more significant sites of learning for the mass of
black workers for much of the 20th century. It is this informal learning in social
practice that is the focus of this chapter.
The question of informal learning in social practice is one that has occupied
centre stage for the last two decades in two fields of research: that of workplace
learning, and that of learning in social movements. In the context of recent
debates around the knowledge economy (Guile, 2010; Livingston & Guile,
2012) and lifelong learning (Jarvis, 2007; Preece, 2009), there has been a steady
growth of interest in theorising learning at work as ‘learning in social practice’
(Wenger, 1998; Barnett, 2001; Guile & Griffiths, 2001; Billet, 2004; Engeström,
2004, 2008). At the same time there has been a growing body of work theo-
rising learning in social action and social movements (Newman, 1999; Foley,
1999; Crowther, Martin, & Shaw, 1999; Holst, 2002; Mayo, 2005; Hall, Clover, &
Crowther, 2013). I argue that we need to conceptualise learning within the
workers’ movement as straddling both these sites of learning – the workplace
and the terrain of social movements – and that an understanding of workers’
education not only has something to draw from these two fields of research,
but also has something to contribute to both these fields of scholarship.
The chapter is divided into three parts. The first part focuses on learning
within the processes of the routine organising activities of a trade union. It
begins with an overview of the origins in radical social theory of notions of
learning through organisation and social action and shows how some of these
principles found expression in the historical praxis of the trade union move-
ment in South Africa. Then, drawing on selected analytical frameworks used to
theorise learning at work, notably CHAT and some additional conceptual tools
from Lave and Wenger’s (1991) situated learning theory, this section argues that
historically, unions can be seen as ‘learning organisations’ of a special kind.
Drawing once again on SAMWU at the end of the first decade of democracy
in South Africa, it explores the features that have contributed to making this
organisational environment conducive to learning, in other words, an ‘expan-
sive’ learning environment (Fuller & Unwin, 2004).
The second part of the chapter focuses on the important role that work-
ing class culture plays in informal learning within the workers’ movement.
It returns to the period of the 1980s and points to the rich array of cultural
resources that have historically been drawn on in the process of mediating
knowledge within the South African workers’ movement. The third part of the
chapter considers the role of workers’ mass action as a tool of mediation and
as a site of new knowledge making.
Although trade union organising, cultural activism and mass action have
been separated out for consideration in this chapter, these sites of interac-
tion/collective action within the workers’ movement should be regarded as a
continuum. The chapter shows how workers’ culture – as a key tool of media-
tion in the Activity Theory sense – is threaded through these different sites
of social action, acting as a ‘glue’ that binds together processes of informal
learning and teaching, and stamping them with a unique, local texture. It also
seeks to show that while labour movements might be regarded as examples of
‘old’ social movements (Spencer, 1995), their relevance to and impact on recent
social struggles – certainly in ‘southern’ contexts such as that of South Africa –
and their importance as sites of learning as well as knowledge-making, remain
significant.
[he] never taught me … but I used to watch him very closely, you know …
His style, and the manner in which he speaks, and the manner in which
he treats people, and all of those things …
‘Participation’ also takes more active forms. One shop-steward who had been
involved in the union’s Women’s Forum emphasised the value of what she
learnt from participating in meetings of this structure:
We really learnt a lot there. And we did a lot of things … The women
in the Women’s Forum developed to the extent that they could open up
their mouths and challenge the men … For me, in terms of not getting
formal training within the union, a lot of my training I got through the
Forum.
When asked what she had learnt from her involvement in meetings of this
structure, she described how it taught her not only practical skills, but also
general, analytical skills as well as broader dispositions:
Public speaking … The ability to read and analyse documents … The abil-
ity to be able to develop policy … Debate, develop positions … Chairing
meetings … Also the practical skills … learning to listen to others … It
taught me that you’ve got to do your research, you’ve got to prepare, then
you’ll be able to speak to people at whatever level … whatever qualifica-
tion you have … And then the ability to guide others and give direction.
So quite a lot of things …
I was a shop-steward … didn’t go for formal training for a long time. But
the minute I was elected I was told: alright, you’re going to learn on the
job. And I was taught by the cleaner – the shop-steward … I had to do
cases, and he was there with me. He had to give me information and I
would wonder: how does he know what I want? But he used to come with
exactly what I wanted. Every time I picked up the phone … he’d come
with exactly what I wanted.
mentoring and modelling, induct workers into their trade unionist roles and
identities. Collective spaces offered by the union provide workers with oppor-
tunities to share and compare experiences and develop new understandings.
In this context, boundary workers play key re-contextualising roles by helping
fellow workers to locate their local experiences within a broader context.
at all” (Garrick, 1999, p. 129). Mojab and Gorman (2003) have argued that the
learning organisation as described in the literature would benefit only a small,
elite part of the workforce; the majority of workers would gain little benefit and
would be given little opportunity to contribute their knowledge. This model of
the learning organisation seeks to extend capital’s social control of workers by
appropriating their ‘social capital’ to its own ends, thereby “separating workers
from themselves” (Mojab & Gorman, 2001, pp. 235–236). They conclude that
rather than embracing the learning organisation model: “… the educational
legacies of feminism, trade unionism, antiracism, and revolutionary struggle
are better places to seek the learning interests of the workers that make up the
learning organisation” (Mojab & Gorman, 2001, p. 228).
Taking these critiques as its point of departure, this section argues that if we
want to capture a glimpse of what an ‘ideal’ learning organisation might look
like in practice, it would be worth focusing on the trade union as an activity
system and seeking to understand the contextual or cultural conditions that
frame learning in such an organisation. The trade union is an activity system
where people labour collaboratively not for profit maximisation but for a col-
lective, transformational goal. The ‘rules of practice’ of the trade union pro-
mote learning by prioritising social interaction and solidarity between social
equals, thus creating the potential for widespread participation and multi-
voiced interaction. In addition to this, there are two other significant features
of the trade union’s organisational culture which promote inclusion and par-
ticipation, and thus possibilities for learning. The first of these is the widely
distributed nature of the educator role, and the part played by ordinary work-
ers as educators. The second is the significant role that culturally-embedded,
symbolic tools of mediation – oral-performativity in particular – play in medi-
ating knowledge. This can be illustrated by drawing once again on examples of
everyday organisational involvement within SAMWU in the early 2000s.
How should these distinctive forms of language use and performance be under-
stood pedagogically? All tools of mediation embody power relations (Daniels,
2001, p. 80), and thus the forms of mediation used in any pedagogic situation
can act as a kind of barometer of the power relations embedded in that situa-
tion and may reflect shifting power relations across contexts. It is notable that
the use of oral performative modes of communication was far more prevalent
in those sites within the union (such as meetings) that allowed widespread,
As noted earlier, orality and performance – acting together in the form of ‘oral
performativity’ – are deeply embedded in the historical experiences of black
people in Southern Africa and constitute “the central resources of African cul-
ture” (Gunner, 1999, p. 50). The forms of oral performativity described earlier
as taking place in SAMWU workshops and meetings were specific, local rein-
ventions of a long-standing cultural tradition within the South African labour
movement.
Sitas was one of the first, South African labour sociologists to explore the
interconnection between two areas of working class life, production and
reproduction, and to use culture as concept “to explain the supportive social
networks that form the bedrock on which workers’ collectively resisted their
oppressive work and living conditions” (Webster, 2018a, p. 164). Sitas’ early
study of cultural formations amongst migrant workers housed in hostels (Sitas,
1985) recognised that far from being a barrier to modernisation, workers’ cul-
ture – as a re-invention of ‘traditional’ culture – acted as a crucial affordance
in the building of defensive combinations. It was also a carrier of “public class
knowledge” (public knowledge built from the experience of migrant workers
in hostels; Webster, 2018a, p. 165).
As the South African labour movement developed and consolidated itself
in the late 1970s and 1980s, workers’ culture became not only a support for
defensive organisation, but a powerful resource for the development of work-
ing class identity and the expansion of the labour movements’ ideological
influence. Organising and recruitment within the movement acquired a grow-
ing cultural dimension through the emergence of worker plays, poetry and
choirs which together provided “a storehouse for powerful imaginings and
recreations” (Sitas, 1990, p. 2). These creative practices formed the basis of a
remarkable re-awakening and blossoming of workers’ cultural activities and
led to the increased blurring of boundaries between education, culture and
mobilisation.
Supported by groupings of cultural activists, the period saw the emergence
of a number of worker plays. These acted as a vehicle for worker activists to
give voice to their bitter experiences of the alienation in factory conditions
where racism and arbitrary dismissals were rife. They also celebrated the
emergence of worker self-organisation and action, and numerous plays were
produced by groups of workers on strike with the express purpose of winning
support from other workers and from the wider community (Baskin, 1991,
p. 246). For example, the Dunlop Play developed by striking workers of MAWU,
depicted changes in one worker’s consciousness from the time of his entering
employment, through to the turmoil created by the 1973 strikes and to the rec-
ognition agreement later won by MAWU. This was seen by hundreds of work-
ers and influenced later productions, including The Long March, produced by
striking workers of SARMCOL, a subsidiary of a major British, rubber and tire
multinational company.
Sitas (2016, p. 80) describes these worker theatre initiatives as allowing
workers the cultural space to exercise a sense of community on the basis of
their universally-held ‘shock experience’ of proletarianisation. Von Kotze4
wrote at the time that these plays served not only a practical function of build-
ing solidarity for striking workers, but also helped the performing workers to
regain a sense of self-worth and self-confidence as “men and women with crea-
tive potential” (1984, p. 92). Workers’ plays aimed to build solidarity for striking
workers through entertainment, but they also contained analysis and critique.
As Sitas noted in a recent interview, their pedagogical approach was “… not
[to] arrive at cathartic moments at the end of the performance, but to create,
to scratch people’s brains to make them think about what their situation was”.5
The educative role of other cultural forms such as songs and worker choirs
was also important. Khosi Maseko, the convenor of one workers’ choir,
recounted their wide repertoire: “We sing international songs like ‘Solidarity
Forever’, ‘Ballad of Joe Hill’ … We also compose our own songs, sometimes using
old tunes … One is a greeting song where we sing: ‘Even if I die I will remember
Fosatu’” (South African Labour Bulletin, 1984, pp. 113–114). She described her
own understanding of the educational purpose of these choirs:
Von Kotze captured the close relationship between workers’ cultural activities
and union organising at the time:
At any union meeting – and this was the framework of most of the per-
formances of the Dunlop play – songs serve as an introduction as much
as commentary on speeches. The call and response technique inherent
to many of the worker songs – where one singer will introduce the song
and ad lib any number of new verses, while the rest of the gathering falls
in as a chorus – could be easily utilised by a play to achieve audience
participation, and indeed, the Dunlop play closed with such a song. This
song which had a strong rhythmic quality was taken from the play into
the meeting, connecting the two and thus integrating the play into the
larger context of the gathering. (von Kotze, 1984, p. 110)
A poet in his own right, Sitas (2016) also made a number of detailed studies of
worker poets or izimbongi.6 Of particular note were poets like Alfred Temba
Qabula and Mi S’dumo Hlatswayo who utilised the traditional form of the
praise poem (isibongo) to mobilise support for the union movement.7 Sitas
describes how Qabula, originally a fork-lift driver in a large rubber factory, sur-
vived his working day by composing songs in his head. After he joined MAWU
and got involved in producing songs for worker plays, he embarked on the cre-
ation of his own ‘plays’ in order to perform his compositions.
Both Qabula and Hlatswayo drew on what Sitas called ‘the politics of meta-
phor’ to stir up age-old symbols of resistance. These included “the moving
Black forest of Africa” in Qabula’s Praise Poem to FOSATU, and Hlatswayo’s
“Black Mamba8 Rising” which aimed to stir workers into action. Mi Hlatshwayo
combined the fiery preaching of the African independent churches where “he
got his baptism in words of fire” with a creative, new symbolism that sought
to capture “the common experiences of his class and his people” (Sitas, 2016,
pp. 148–150). His poems showed a ‘mastery of local history’ and attempted to
“deny the popular mythologies that were bandied around as a foundation for
a Zulu independent National State, a Bantustan”. He announced the ‘rolling
ahead’ of the ‘workers’ freedom train’ which would ‘settle accounts with the
oppressor’ and dismantle exploitation. (ibid., pp. 151–152)
These worker poets “… represent[ed] a grassroots response that use[d] well-
rooted forms, organically linked to working class culture and infuse[d] them
with new contents of the factory experience and that of a worker militant’s
beliefs” (Sitas, 2016, p. 77). Alongside the more formally elected leadership of
the trade unions, these cultural workers performed the function of organic
intellectuals as they “captured the spontaneous cultural energies of the masses
and directed them to serve the interests of the working class” and provide new
visions (Ngoasheng, 1989, as cited in Sitas, 2016, p. 189).
Sitas (2016, p. 144) notes that trade union organisers in the 1980s encour-
aged cultural activities for education purposes, using them as “a small
I would say that the cultural dimension has come into it [worker educa-
tion] because in FOSATU’s eyes, education is class-based: it is designed to
reinforce the sense of working class identity, to reinforce working class
confidence and counter the kind of anti-worker propaganda that prevails
in general education and the media. (SALB, 1984, p. 116)
By 1987, the newly established federation, COSATU, had begun to establish cul-
tural ‘locals’ across the country, and its national Education Conference passed
a detailed set of resolutions on the importance of ‘Culture’ (COSATU, 1987,
pp. 25–28). These included seeing working class culture as a means to “resur-
face, consolidate and popularise our worker experiences of exploitation and
oppression …”. The resolutions saw culture as having to do with “workers con-
trolling their own cultural power and creativity … for the benefit of our unions,
federation and national democratic struggle”, and with “projecting future
glimpses of a new South Africa” (ibid., p. 26). What these resolutions essen-
tially did was to codify in writing those practices which a vibrant, grassroots-
driven, workers’ cultural movement had already achieved in practice during
the previous few years.
The third and concluding part of this chapter focuses on the educative role
of mass action within the workers’ movement. As noted earlier, there is a con-
tinuum between the ‘everyday’ activities of organisational work and the more
dramatic struggles that take the form of mass action and announce themselves
loudly on the public stage. Mass action includes forms of shop-floor action
such as ‘go-slows’ or work-stoppages; boycotts or stay-aways involving commu-
nity members beyond the workplace; local or national campaigns (for example,
for a minimum wage, or maternity rights), and lastly, full-blown strike action.
One history of the South African labour movement, entitled ‘Building Tomor-
row Today’, begins with these words:
The 1970s began for South African employers early on the morning of Jan-
uary 9, 1973, when 200 workers at the Coronation Brick and Tile works on
the outskirts of Durban gathered at a football field and demanded a pay
rise … The next day, scores of employers opened their morning papers to
behold, beneath banner headlines, a photograph of hundreds of African
workers marching down a busy street behind a man with a red flag. The
flag was meant to keep the early morning traffic away, not to proclaim the
strikers’ political sympathies, but the effect was no less dramatic: a new
power was abroad in the factories and few employers were prepared for
its coming. (Friedman, 1987, p. 39)
The immediate years following the strikes were exceptionally difficult how-
ever, as workers and union organisers battled in a hostile climate to estab-
lish and stabilise union organisation – to “shelter the flame” that had been lit
(MacShane, Plaut, & Ward, 1984). However, by the late 1970s even the state had
accepted that black trade unions were here to stay.10 In the early 1980s, there
was a resurgence of worker militancy expressed in “countless confrontations
between capital and labour” (Sitas, 2016, p. 38), including a strike by 10,000
municipal workers’ in Johannesburg – the largest strike ever faced by a single
employer in South Africa to date (Keenan, 1981, cited in Southall, 1986, p. 174).
This period also saw the emergence of militant civic, youth, student and wom-
en’s organisations, and in a number of strikes, workers enjoyed widespread
solidarity action from students and the community at large. In certain areas
There is therefore a very long tradition within the South African labour move-
ment of engaging in mass action as an innovative, creative, knowledge-making
activity. At the same time, it is important not to over-romanticise mass action:
the ‘lessons of struggle’ are not always positive or progressive. There is ample
evidence that when workers’ actions were met with brutal oppression (the
three massive strikes mentioned above were all brutally suppressed), or where
their efforts to gain wider support failed, it sometimes took years for those
same workers to regain sufficient confidence to take action again – or even to
… not only do people learn through their engagement with social move-
ments but … these movements actually make and disseminate new
knowledge and understanding through their activity. It is in this sense
that they constitute ‘epistemological communities’ …. (Martin, 1999, p. 12)
Holford goes further and argues that: “The forms of knowledge which exist in
any society are … the products in part of the social movements which have
emerged in, or had an impact on, that society” (Holford, 1995, p. 101). He, in
turn, draws on the work of Eyerman and Jamison (1991) who view the process
whereby a movement is formed and establishes an identity for itself as ‘cogni-
tive praxis’, in which ‘movement intellectuals’ play a crucial role.
There has been a ‘second generation’ of social movement literature in recent
years which makes a further theoretical contribution by presenting a range of
case studies of more contemporary social movements (see for example Holst,
2002; Mayo, 2005; Borg & Mayo, 2007; Choudry & Kapoor, 2010; Hall, Clover,
Crowther, & Scandrett, 2012). Choudry and Kapoor make the case for a study
of social movements that avoids being over-theorised and abstract, and which
talks more about “movements as practice on the ground with tensions and
contradiction, bumping up against the structures and processes of neoliberal
capitalism” (2010, p. 5). Chapters in Hall et al. (2012) achieve this via a series of
rich case studies and extend earlier approaches to social movement learning
by drawing on theories of political ecology, feminist aesthetics, activist arts
and the role of social media in youth movements. This body of literature, too,
stresses the ‘utopian’ dimension of social movement learning. As Hall et al. put
it, the most important role of such learning is:
“brings together, unifies, weds, and combines the sacred with the profane, the
lofty with the low, the great with the insignificant, the wise with the stupid”
(Bakhtin, as cited in Gardiner, 2000, p. 65). With its singular qualities such as
‘grotesque aesthetic’, infringement of boundaries and culture of ambivalence,
carnival is an enactment of ‘the world turned upside down’ (Gardiner, 2000,
p. 61) and underscores the inevitability of change and transformation.
Some CHAT theorists, in particular Stetsenko (2008, 2010), have fore-
grounded the transformative potential of activity systems and their collabora-
tive practices. Stetsenko argues that “collaborative purposeful transformation of
the world is the core of human nature and the principled grounding for learn-
ing and development” (emphasis in the original) and is something to which
all human activities contribute (Stetsenko, 2008, p. 471). The following section
analyses in a more detailed way the educational dimensions of strike action
by municipal workers in Cape Town in 2002 – almost 30 years after the Natal
strikes. In order to do so, it draws on Stetsenko’s notion of ‘collaborative, trans-
formative practices’ and Bakhtinian notions of ‘carnival’ as subversive, and the
significance of corporeal experiencing of the body in the ‘molten lava of events’.
It is day one of the strike in Cape Town. Busloads of workers are beginning
to arrive at a meeting point, ready to march to the Civic Centre. There is a
strong sense of heightened emotion, an air of festivity, and a celebratory
atmosphere. Workers are toyi-toying; one worker wearing white gloves is
playing on a homemade plastic drum, reminiscent of the annual carnival
held each year just after New Year, and there is some open consumption of
alcohol. Workers’ sense of confidence – their absolute certainty that justice
is on their side – is palpable.
The march makes its way to the centre of the city, led by a large truck with
a stage on the back, on which leaders stand and lead the singing or call
instructions through a megaphone. Eventually workers gather outside the
Civic Centre, which they find surrounded by razor wire and a large contin-
gent of police.
Rousing speeches are delivered from the stage on the back of the truck now
parked in front of the Civic Centre. First a speaker from the South Afri-
can Communist Party (SACP) addresses the crowd, followed by a SAMWU
speaker, a COSATU speaker, and finally by the SAMWU General Secretary:
The march had an instrumental purpose – the handing over of the memoran-
dum of the strikers’ demands – but far more powerful was its symbolic, and
thus educational, dimension. In performing this symbolic function, there was
a decisive shift from the languaged discourse of workshops and meetings to
‘embodied symbolism’ and use of oral performative tools of mediation, indica-
tive of ‘grassroots creativity’ and ‘grassroots energy’ (Sitas, 1990).
Firstly, the march played a collective, identity-building role. Many of the rit-
uals during the march – ranging from ‘Amandla’s’ and ‘Viva’s’ to ‘impassioned’
speeches – were key means of identity construction not only for those who
participated, but also for others looking on. The use of these modes of commu-
nication also acted to transform the meaning of the spaces in which the mass
action took place: SAMWU’s march through the city was symbolically a decla-
ration of the city ‘belonging’ to those that have built and who maintained it.
Secondly, the march had embedded in it not only symbolic but also rational
capital. In fact, the symbolic action of workers during the strike served to
impart a form of ‘embodied knowledge’ that was perhaps more analytical and
abstract, and more universal in its intent, than any of the knowledge drawn on
in other union settings. The union’s strike pamphlet made links between work-
ers’ wages, the government’s macro-economic policy, the ‘apartheid wage gap’
and privatisation. Speeches on the march linked workers’ struggles with class
analysis, history and the goal of socialism, while slogans on placards carried by
workers made links between the state’s economic policies, the emergence of a
new, black elite, poverty, and ‘class war’. In a fundamental way, the strike ques-
tioned hegemonic assumptions about the progress achieved in South Africa’s
post-apartheid, non-racial democracy. It was not only about wages, but also
about poor communities’ socio-economic rights to housing, employment and
basic services. The public message of the strike challenged the unequal wage
structure within the municipal sector, but it also critiqued the unequal dis-
tribution of wealth more broadly as well as the ideology of ‘black economic
empowerment’ promoted by government. This mass action seemed to consti-
tute a ‘theorising the world’ at a very broad level.
Thirdly, the march and other occasions of mass action during the strike
brought workers into direct confrontation with the repressive arm of the state,
and thus played a central role in deepening their understanding of the nature
of power relations. As one worker said after the march:
… they’ve got bullets, guns, batons … And our strikers go there with bare
hands … With bare hands. And empty stomach. (as cited in Cooper, 2005,
p. 195)
Finally, the strike illustrates most clearly what Eyerman and Jamison have
described as the symbolic, or expressive significance of social movements (1991,
p. 48). The march – and more broadly, the strike within which it was embed-
ded – was not only a learning experience for workers who took part but also
carried a pedagogic dimension. The ‘carnivalesque’ nature of the march acted
as a means for workers to celebrate their collective power, but it also enabled
them to assume the role of ‘collective educator’, mediating their experiences,
their critique of the current order and their vision for the future outwards to
other workers as well as to the community at large. Workers’ mass action –
as a form of embodied knowledge and a tool of mediation – thus played a
counter-hegemonic, ‘public education’ role. Echoing Bakhtin’s notion of the
‘everyday’ being a source of ‘utopian impulse’ (as cited in Gardiner, 2000, p. 17),
the strike presented an opportunity not only for a critique of the current order,
but also acted as a vehicle for workers to “specify the contours of the desirable”
(Eyerman & Jamison, 1991, p. 82), imagine alternatives and articulate a vision
of ‘what might be possible’.
For example, the widespread ‘trashing’ of the city streets by some of the
marchers aroused much public indignation. However, the upending of gar-
bage bins was not simply an act of vandalism; it was also a deliberate act of
defiance with a symbolic aim. One of the union’s officials commented to me
that this was an historic tactic of refuse workers who went on strike: “Why
should they wait for two weeks for rubbish to become a real problem …?” In
one interview following the strike, a shop-steward emphasised the anger and
combativity of the refuse workers, referring to “their frustration with the com-
munity, [because of] the menial jobs they’re doing” and their resentment of
their status as “dirt cart boys”. Trashing the streets may be seen as intentionally
pedagogic in that workers aimed to communicate – literally as well as meta-
phorically – the enactment of a world ‘turned upside down’, a world where the
work of refuse workers would be more visible, and where the value of their
work would be appreciated by society.
Once again, this section needs to end on a sobering note. The strike acted
as a significant evaluative moment of the union’s organisational strength,
as well as the effectiveness of its organised education programs. Despite the
show of unity and militancy on the march, the strike enjoyed uneven support
from members and this support waned over time. One full-time shop-stew-
ard felt that there was generally less ‘passion’ in this strike than in previous
strikes:
People were more … more committed in the past to strike, even though
(they had) no food in the house then, compared with now where people
are hesitant, or think twice before they go on strike … there’s that change
of mindset ….
It’s definitely the result of the broader context out there. It’s how people’s
value systems have changed since ‘94 and up to now. … along the line
that collectiveness disappeared, and … it’s not only in the union, it’s also
in communities … We used to have that culture of collectivity and that
has disappeared along the line. People become mean individualists …
shop-stewards even have become more individualistic in their approach
to their functions ….
4 Conclusion
Notes
1 All quotes and descriptive details are drawn from Cooper (2005).
2 For example, representative committees at branch, regional or national level; union
women’s structures; health and safety committees, and so on.
…
… one of the abiding strengths of capitalism is its ability to adapt and
colonise radical forces or initiatives and use them for its own ends ….
David Harvey (as cited in Cosatu, 1997, p. 39)
∵
In 1991, the National Union of Metalworkers, NUMSA,1 published a set of basic
principles that had emerged out of its Vocational Training Project, established
to come up with proposals for a trade union perspective on post-apartheid
education and training reform. These principles laid the basis for a set of edu-
cation and training policies adopted at COSATU’s 4th National Congress later
that year. The policies were strongly influenced by the Australian and New
Zealand models of competency-based education and training, and proposed
that a new system of education and training should:
– provide paid education and training leave
– be financed by employers and the state
– give access to lifelong education and training for all workers
– provide a broad education foundation
– ensure delivery of flexible, transferable skills
– provide horizontal and vertical occupational mobility
– be linked to broad bands of skills categories and to formal certification and
career paths
– incorporate Recognition of Prior Learning (RPL) to facilitate further learn-
ing and better job opportunities
– be linked to new forms of participatory work organisation and a flattening
of management hierarchies (COSATU, 1992).
The appeal of these principles and policies to the majority of black workers in
South Africa who had suffered the indignities of apartheid is undeniable. How-
ever, some of the principles outlined above draw on ‘global market’ discourses
of worker education and training and bear a remarkable resemblance to the
language of capital’s proposals for reforming workplace training at the time.
The shift from the radical education discourse of the labour movement in the
1970s and 1980s as outlined in previous chapters, to a discourse more closely
related to human capital theory and expressed through the language of post-
Fordism, is startling.
Up until the late 1980s, the issue of workplace training barely featured on
the education agenda of the democratic trade union movement in South
Africa. In fact, workplace training was viewed with suspicion by many trade
unionists, being seen as a potential means of diluting class consciousness and
as a tool of co-opting workers. Furthermore, the absence in these new policy
proposals of the counter-hegemonic ideals that had infused workers’ educa-
tion over the previous few decades is striking. How did this shift come about,
and what did it signify? What implications has it had for the continuation of
traditions of emancipatory education created and nurtured in the past in the
workers’ movement in South Africa? It is these questions that this chapter will
address.
The chapter will focus on the labour movement’s post-apartheid strategies
of engagement with workplace training and the impact of these on the labour
movement’s own traditions of workers’ education. In line with the historical
materialist approach of CHAT, it begins by locating these strategies against
the backdrop of the history of skills development within the evolving politi-
cal economy of 20th century South Africa. It also locates trade union training
policies within the context of the labour movement’s attempts to influence the
broader trajectory of economic development of South Africa in the post-1994
democratic era. It shows how these strategies were influenced by the selective
‘taking on board’ of some of the dominant thinking about workplace training
amongst trade unions globally, and the ‘muting’ of other, more critical voices
from within labour movements internationally and locally.
The chapter then goes on to show that little has actually been achieved over
the past two decades in terms of transforming workplace education and train-
ing in the interests of workers or poor communities, and it critically assesses
how this can be accounted for. The argument is that a key factor is the weaken-
ing of organised labour not only in South Africa but globally during this period,
and that this is dialectically linked to the undermining of critical traditions
of workers’ education within labour movements. The final part of the chapter
takes a look at attempts by labour educators in South Africa to rebuild the edu-
cation capacity of worker organisations via – amongst other things – different
approaches to formalising and accrediting worker education.
McGrath (2004, pp. 16–17) sums up the deeply problematic nature of skills
development in South Africa and subsequent legacies inherited by the first
democratic government in 1994:
McGrath (2004, p. 12) details some of the historical factors that shaped this
model of a highly polarised, racialised and gendered system of skills develop-
ment. Early industrialisation (particularly that linked to the mining industry)
relied on the craft skills of white immigrant workers, thus disincentivising
indigenous skills formation. An early 20th century strand of skills training
focused on the political incorporation of ‘poor whites’, with the result that the
notion of skill became associated with notions of social control and the value
of industriousness, rather than with economic development. The political
need of a racially constituted state (dependent as it was on the ‘white vote’)
to protect white, semi-skilled labour from being replaced by African labour
also meant the ruthless enforcement of a migrant, cheap labour system, where
‘unskilled’ African workers were viewed as homogenous and interchangeable.
By the 1960s, there were growing contradictions between this system and
the growing need of employers for more highly skilled workers. This – together
with growing internal resistance and struggle – led to attempts by the apartheid
state to relax job reservation and reform the education, training and labour
market nexus. Already by the 1980s, there were increasing numbers of black
skilled operatives, and a new stratum of black apprentices and artisans was
emerging (von Holdt, 2003, p. 48). At the same time however, this period saw
the increased abdication by the state for responsibility for skills development:
“A unique South African version of neo-liberalism emerged in which market
forces were lauded but were shaped profoundly by attempts to maintain racial
privilege” (McGrath, 2004, p. 16). In other words, the impact of globalisation
and neo-liberal economic policies was being felt in South Africa a considerable
time before it began its transition to democracy in the early 1990s.
view favoured an export-led growth path. This position argued that South Afri-
ca’s economic growth depended on its ability to re-enter and compete success-
fully on the international market after years of isolation of the apartheid state.
The wealth thus generated would ‘trickle down’ to the majority (Kraak, 1992).
It was the second growth model that also advocated the introduction of post-
Fordist forms of work organisation. This would require ‘multi-skilling’, team
work, ‘flexible specialisation’ and opportunities for recurrent training, all of
which would put education and training at the centre of efforts to restructure
the economy. Economic advisors to the trade union movement urged labour
to accept some elements of the export-led growth model, but to take the offen-
sive and ensure that this strategy and its consequent economic restructuring
would happen on terms favourable to workers (ibid.).
The Reconstruction and Development Program (RDP) that emerged as
a labour-led national development strategy, foregrounded ‘growth through
redistribution’ but also incorporated some elements of the export-led growth
model. The RDP was short-lived however, and in 1996, it was replaced by the
Growth, Employment and Redistribution (GEAR) strategy. GEAR was a far more
neoliberal-oriented, macro-economic policy that placed primary emphasis on
economic growth and global competitiveness (Lehulere, 1997). The ANC gov-
ernment’s unilateral adoption of GEAR,4 its subsequent moves to privatise key
parastatals and its partial privatisation of water services, were all an indication
to many that by the late 1990s, COSATU had lost influence within the ruling
alliance (Marais, 2011; Pillay, 2006).
Despite its neo-liberal orientation, the policy of GEAR was also accompa-
nied by plans for an expansionary infrastructure program that aimed at creat-
ing jobs and addressing the service delivery needs of poor communities. From
2001 onwards, there were substantial increases in government expenditure
to manage poverty. Hart (2013, p. 4) argues that “these moves represent sig-
nificant departures from the harsh, home-grown structural adjustment in the
first phase of the post-apartheid era (1994–2000)”. She cautions that “While it
may be tempting to dismiss such efforts as sheep’s clothing draped over a neo-
liberal capitalist wolf, we do so at our peril because they represent part of an
ongoing official battle to contain and control popular discontent”.
This ‘two track policy’ of the ANC (Pillay, 2006, p. 190) of integration into
the global economy while increasing social expenditure, failed to prevent the
growth of popular discontent during the first decade of the 2000s. This period
saw the emergence of new social movements such as the Anti-Privatisation
Forum, the Treatment Action Campaign, the Soweto Electricity Crisis Com-
mittee, and the shack-dwellers’ movement, Abahlali Basemjondolo. Tensions
intensified within the ANC as well as within its alliance partner, COSATU,
with growing workers’ disaffection over the political affiliation of their union
The Marikana massacre was the single most traumatic event of the post-
apartheid era, evoking images and memories of police brutality at Sharp-
eville in 1960 and the Soweto uprising in 1976. Along with the corpses,
hopeful visions of a new South Africa lay shattered on the killing fields
of Marikana.
These political struggles were not yet on the horizon in the early 1990s how-
ever, when South Africans looked forward with hope to a new, post-apartheid
future, including access to education and training for the majority.
This being the case, significant state intervention was required to put pressure
on employers to engage in skills development.
A new National Qualifications Framework (NQF) based on Outcomes Based
Education (OBE) was introduced in the mid-1990s. Under the auspices of the
South African Qualifications Authority (SAQA), an ambitious project of ‘stand-
ard setting’ for a host of new qualifications took off, in which trade unionists
became heavily involved (Allais, 2018). The Skills Development Act of 1998,
the Skills Development Levies Act of 1999 and subsequent regulations were
aimed at establishing a new institutional framework, expanding delivery of
workplace training, and ensuring that such training would enjoy an adequate
financial base. New legislation also established Sector Education and Training
Authorities (SETAs), a National Skills Authority and Skills Development Com-
mittees at the enterprise level and institutionalised the right of worker repre-
sentatives to participate in each of these levels of decision-making.
At the enterprise level, legislation required workers to be involved in the
development of a Workplace Skills Plan. To provide a financial incentive for
training, organisations were required to pay a Skills Levy of 1% of payroll that
could be reclaimed in part for training purposes if employers complied with
requirements. ‘Learnerships’ were intended to broaden access to apprentice-
ships, tarnished by their exclusionary nature and historical association with
the apartheid division of labour. The Employment Equity Act (1998) was aimed
at further reforming the racial job structure and ensuring greater gender equity
(Jones, 2013, p. 74).
Many of these policy interventions were led by ex-trade unionists who had
now entered government. There was a genuine intention that these policies
should provide access to skills development for workers, but it soon became
clear that most of these measures had limited impact at shop-floor level, and
that new skills policies were not benefitting workers.
This first emerged in a research report produced by COSATU in 1997 (sub-
sequently published by Lugg, Mabitla, Louw, & Angelis, 1998) that focused on
two pilot RPL projects in which unions were actively involved. One involved
NUMSA and employers in the auto industry while the other involving NUM
and the assessment of mineworkers’ literacy and numeracy capabilities. Both
unions started out as strongly in favour of RPL, but their experiences of the
pilot projects led to disappointment, anger and frustration. In the auto industry,
workers were assessed against adapted, Australian unit standards which were
oriented towards multi-skilled work processes, and which bore little resem-
blance to their own work practices. Methods of assessment were regarded by
workers with deep mistrust because they felt “that they were unable to show
what they (workers) really know” (COSATU, 1997, p. 19). In the case of literacy
and numeracy tests in the mining industry, many workers felt that the test was
loaded against them because it advantaged formal school-based literacy and
numeracy skills. They concluded that the test was intended to “find out who
is clever and who is stupid, so they can identify who is not clever and retrench
them …” (COSATU, 1997, p. 24).
A decade into the post-apartheid era, a document circulated at COSATU’s
2003 Education Conference outlined key problems from the perspective of
workers:
– Control of education and training remained in the hands of big business;
– Workplace education and training had itself become ‘big business’ (rather
than a social good), and skills priorities were set by the demands of com-
petitiveness at a local and global level rather than social needs;
– Education and training issues had been removed from bargaining forums at
workplaces (where workers are a large, organised force) and transferred to
SETAs. Here organised labour had little capacity to engage in the bureaucratic
and technical processes involved in standard-setting and quality assurance;
– Workplace Skills Plans and Employment Equity plans were not being imple-
mented;
– RPL remained ‘weak and poorly defined’ and was unable to assess non-tra-
ditional forms of knowledge;
– There was little monitoring of SETA learnerships, resulting in the exploita-
tion of learners as ‘cheap labour’.
Within the labour movement itself, there was inadequate co-ordination
between structures engaging with broader economic policy, and those dealing
with skills development or education and training policies.
Research carried out five years later in 2008–9 amongst union skills represent-
atives in the Cape Town metropolitan area echoed these concerns (Cooper &
Nkomo, 2009). The research critically assessed representatives’ views on who
was benefiting from the new skills dispensation. It also probed their under-
standing of workplace structures established for the purposes of skills devel-
opment, and the degree to which they actively participated at shop-floor level
in shaping the content and direction of enterprise skills development. The
findings indicated that most of these union representatives who carried spe-
cific responsibility to promote education and training in the workplace had
little or no understanding of the legislation, the shop-floor structures that
were supposed to be in place, their own role in such structures, or the extent
of workers’ rights to training. In short, trade unions seemed to lack the capac-
ity or political will to equip representatives with the necessary understand-
ing and skills to carry out their skills development roles. More recent research
on the state of workers education within the labour movement (Jones, 2013;
Koen et al., 2018) confirms that this picture has not changed much in the
last decade.
South African trade unions are not unique in their difficulties of promot-
ing workplace education and training opportunities for their members. Weak-
nesses in this respect have been common internationally, as seen from Stroud’s
(2012) account of worker engagement within the European Union steel indus-
try, and Scully-Russ and Chiera’s (2005) account of American trade unions.
However, we need to understand the particular, conjunctural nature of the
weaknesses of South Africa’s labour movement in this regard.
Writing about the British labour movement in the early 2000s, Forrester
pointed to the increased casualisation and informalisation of work in order
to account for the “minimal practice and commitment towards (training)
activities ‘on the shop floor’ by local managers and frontline supervisors” (2001,
p. 8). He cautioned that the ‘shared partnership’ perspective underpinning the
TUC’s skill strategy risked “subsuming union aims and objectives with those
of the employers” (2001, p. 324). Writing on Canada at about the same time,
Cruikshank (2002) and Livingstone (2004) both argued that globalisation had
led to the spread of part-time, low-paid and casualised work which simply did
not require high levels of education, education credentials nor experience.
Samson (1999) and Mojab (2009) have pointed to the feminisation of work
under globalisation and argued that since women formed the majority in the
most insecure, exploited areas of work, they are the most excluded from access
to training.
Perhaps the most telling argument is that of Brown (2006) who critiques
the Australian labour movement’s approach from which South African unions
borrowed so heavily. He argues that while Australian unions provided the
driving force behind Australia’s reform of its vocational education and train-
ing system, by the early 1990s they had lost the initiative and their original
expectations were undermined by the shift towards training ‘for the needs of
the enterprise’ and for the market (Brown, 2006, p. 498). He concludes that
labour’s expectations could not be realised without confronting more funda-
mental relations of power. At the heart of the Australian labour movement’s
failure to drive forward training reform lay the union movement’s consensus
politics, and their failure to confront more fundamental inequalities:
The idea that workers’ earnings, job security and work satisfaction could
be substantially improved by establishing a new training system without
also tackling economic inequality and power in the workplace was illu-
sory … Suggestions that sustained advances could be achieved without
confronting the issues of ownership and power and by avoiding conflict
with the employing class were fundamentally flawed, and gradually con-
tributed to the movements’ weakened position. (Brown, 2006, p. 503)
The central problem with the human capital approach is that it misdiag-
noses the problem of unemployment as related to a skills shortage, rather
than due to the structural nature of capitalism. It further implies that
the individual unemployed workers are themselves at fault for not being
skilled enough, rather than identifying the real cause of the problem.
This narrow approach sees education as a mere instrument for economic
growth. The solution then becomes the skilling of individuals, which in
itself further disempowers the working class from finding collective solu-
tions to the real problem, which is the nature of the exploitative, profit-
based economic system. (NALEDI, 2018, p. 262)
and cultural capital are extremely unequally distributed, and where inequal-
ity has been amplified by automation and other new technologies. In South
Africa, this has meant massive retrenchments particularly in the mining and
manufacturing sectors that constituted the heartland of the union movement
from the 1970s onwards, and the relative growth of white-collar occupations in
the finance, service and state sectors. Alongside that, there has been a mush-
rooming of outsourcing and casualisation of labour, and rising unemployment
(Webster & Buhlungu, 2004; Webster, 2006; Buhlungu & Tsoaedi, 2012).11
As noted in Chapter 1 of this book, Webster (2005) has described three
‘worlds of work’ which have merged in post-apartheid South Africa, but which
are characteristic of other countries in the global South. Of those who ‘earn a
living’, the ‘salariat’ constitutes a diminishing core in the first world of work,
while alongside this is a growing ‘precariat’. In the informal economy of the
second world of work, increasing numbers struggle to ‘make a living’,12 while
in the subsistence economy of the third world of work, there are burgeon-
ing numbers who simply struggle to survive from hand to mouth (and are
uncounted in official, labour force statistics).
These structural changes in the labour market have had a significant influ-
ence on the composition of the membership of trade unions in South Africa.
Unions have experienced an overall drop in membership, and union density
has fallen (NALEDI, 2018).13 At the same time there has been increased strati-
fication amongst union members, and a significant shift in the location and
character of the majority of union members. The past two decades has seen
a significant increase in the numbers and levels of remuneration of state-
employed workers, and along with this, the increasing dominance of public
sector unions within the trade union movement (Bezuidenhout & Tshoaedi,
2017).14 This period has also seen a growing weight within the labour move-
ment of more urbanised, highly educated workers and those in professional
or semi-professional areas of employment such as teaching, health care or
policing15 (Sitas, 2012). While the union movement’s traditional base amongst
semi-skilled migrant workers has shrunk, unions have failed to engage with the
realities of emerging forms of work or extend organisation to workers in the
informal economy, casual and contract workers, or migrant workers from else-
where in Africa (Hlatshwayo, 2012). In recent years, there have emerged some
organisations amongst self-employed women (for example, the Self-Employed
Women’s Union, SEWU; and Women in Informal Employment: Globalising and
Organising, WIEGO), and amongst casualised or contract workers (the Casual
Workers’ Advice Office, CWAO), but their efforts to join up with mainstream,
organised labour have so far achieved limited success.
Sitas has argued that the “elastic band that held the horizontal comradeships
of the labour movement together in the past has not snapped” – but has come
under tremendous strain (in Webster, 2018a, p. 171).
What implications have all these developments had for worker education?
It was noted earlier that changes since the 1990s required unions to signifi-
cantly expand and diversify the knowledge, capabilities and expertise of their
members. Economic policy debates, new labour legislation and initiatives
around ‘participative management’ required unionists to engage in an unprec-
edented range of issues. The area of education and training policy alone
required unions to engage in a wide range of issues that did not previously
fall within their areas of concern or expertise. From the early 1990s, internal
education within trade unions began to shift its emphasis from ‘consciousness-
raising’ to expanding and diversifying the knowledge, capabilities and exper-
tise of worker leaders.
It was in this context that the trade union movement began to make serious
moves towards the institutionalisation, formalisation and professionalisation
of trade union education. The establishment at the end of 1996 of a national
Development Institute for the Training, Support and Education of Labour
(DITSELA) which was to offer more systematic training programs with the
future possibility of formal accreditation, was illustrative of some of the for-
malising and professionalising moves being made in trade union education.
Other worker organisations which began to offer formal qualifications were
the National Union of Mineworkers’ (NUM) College16 and the Natal Workers’
College, which will be dealt with in further detail later in this chapter.
Final steps towards accreditation took place after a very longstanding and
contentious debate around the pros and cons of formally accrediting a trade
union qualification. What were some of the main contours of this debate?
Those trade unionists pressing for formal accreditation made the argument
that accreditation would enhance both the quality of union training and the
value placed on it and would help to build organisational capacity. It would
also provide recognition of the skills and knowledge which workers already
Its founding principles included playing a “dynamic part in the building and
maintenance of a strong, independent labour movement” and making a criti-
cal contribution to the development of trade union members and staff “into
creative, critical and effective trade unionists and citizens who transform soci-
ety with other organs of civil society” (DITSELA, 1997, p. 8). These aims ech-
oed some of the values of earlier, radical traditions of worker education, but
also reflected the political and identity shifts taking place within the labour
movement in post-apartheid South Africa. Over the years, DITSELA has pro-
vided research and education programs (mainly non accredited) for unions
from three federations, created forums – including national conferences – for
worker educators to exchange ideas, and acted as a support for trade unions in
developing their own internal education programs.18 It has also formed part-
nerships with a number of universities to offer ‘advanced’ courses with univer-
sity qualifications (considered in the next section).
In 2010, a new, Level 4,19 qualification was developed by a group of trade
union educators and registered on the South African NQF: the Trade Union
Practices Qualification (TUPQ).20 It is interesting how the stated aims of the
qualification attempt to retain the ideological flavour of earlier, radical dis-
courses of workers’ education. The registered qualification aims to enhance
the ability learners to: organise strategies to advance trade unionism; under-
stand and advance the rights of workers; understand the relationship between
the economy and political power and formation of social classes; and under-
stand the history and impact of the trade union movement in South Africa.21
The qualification has thus far been delivered by DITSELA to two successive
cohorts (in 2010 and again in 2014) with a combined intake of 90 union organ-
isers and shop-stewards (Webster, 2018b). Delivery takes the form of a learn-
ership involving some structured, classroom learning but with the bulk the
learning taking place on-the-job (i.e. in the union) under the guidance of a
mentor (for further detail, see Allais, 2018).
Unions around the world have generally not sought formal accreditation for
their own educational offerings, viewing it as neither necessary nor desirable
(Cooper, 2014). A research survey entitled Labour Education in Canada Today
(CWCS, 2001) suggests that trade unions elsewhere have come under some
pressure to do so, but there have been concerns that if union courses were to
seek formal accreditation, “this would shift the emphasis of labour education
from social to individual purposes. Labour education is one of the few remain-
ing adult education practices that challenge the notion that the purpose of
education is to serve individualized economic objectives” (CWCS, 2001, p. 4).
It is interesting to note that in recent research on the TUPQ, Allais (2018)
found that most of the concerns put forward by those opposed to accredita-
tion of workers’ education do not seem to have materialised. She set out to
Allais’ article recounts how problems with the competency-based and unit
standard-based approaches to occupational qualifications have led to the post-
schooling and higher education sector in South Africa opting for a different,
whole-qualification approach. The following section explores two different
initiatives on the part of trade unions to partner with higher education insti-
tutions to deliver advanced training through whole qualifications, and criti-
cally assesses the consequences of these features of higher education for such
initiatives.
A whole-qualification approach is more in harmony with a holistic perspec-
tive on knowledge and learning and may be more appropriate way to formalise
workers’ education. However, higher education tends to transmit knowledge
that is generalised or abstract in character, and that is not particularly sensi-
tive to particular social contexts or to learners’ cultural histories. The latter are
important principles of learning in CHAT and have been important features of
6 Conclusion
This chapter has located trade union training policies within the context of the
labour movement’s attempts to influence the broader trajectory of economic
development of South Africa in the post-1994 democratic era. It has shown
Notes
8 Central to the Swedish model of educational reforms was the idea of ‘active labour
market policies’ as a solution for the employment-inflation dilemma, as well as an
emphasis on tripartism where unions became ‘social partners’ with representation
on central policy bodies, industry training boards, regional bodies, and the councils
of tertiary institutions – not unlike South Africa in the post-apartheid era.
9 See for example Nancy Jackson’s edited collection: Training for What: Labour per-
spectives on skill training, 1992; and an excellent collection of critical essays, edited
by Dunk, McBride and Nelsen – The training trap: Ideology, training and the labour
market – published by the Canadian-based Society for Socialist Studies in 1996.
10 Human Capital Theory which views investment in education as a key source of
capitalist economic growth, is generally seen as originating in the ideas of econo-
mists Schultz (1971) and Becker (1962). For critiques of this approach, see Livingston
(2012) and Vally and Motala (2014, p. 29).
11 In 2019, according to official statistics (StatsSA, 2019), unemployment had risen to
round about 37%, but the real figure was much higher, particularly amongst youth,
women and outside of major cities.
12 Estimated to be about 17.5% of the South African working age population (StatsSA,
2019).
13 As noted in Chapter 1, union density fell from 47% in 2000 to 28% in 2017. While
28% density of unionised workers amongst those in formal employment is not
small by international standards, it represents a dramatic contraction of union
membership in South Africa since the turn of the millennium.
14 Between 2005 and 2012, the number of state employees in central and provin-
cial government rose by 27%, and their average per capita remuneration doubled
(Satgar & Southall, 2015, p. 11).
15 Under apartheid black professionals were excluded from the established, white-
dominated professional associations. Contrary to trends in the rest of the world,
black professionals first sought unionisation to protect their positions, and only
later joined professional associations.
16 This has become a state recognised Further Education and Training institution
(Jones/HRDC, 2013, p. 25).
17 See COSATU discussion document, circulated at the DITSELA Education Confer-
ence, November 1996; see also Cooper (1998, 2002, 2014).
18 For more detail, see http://www.ditsela.org.za/
19 Equivalent to a senior secondary school qualification.
20 A second, Level 5 (first year of higher education) qualification was also registered
but to date has not yet been offered.
21 See http://regqs.saqa.org.za/showQualification.php?id=58337
22 See http://regqs.saqa.org.za/showQualification.php?id=58337 for the full list of unit
standards.
23 Institutions that have afforded access to workers include Ruskin College and
the Northern College (established by the Trades Unions Council) in the UK; the
National Labour College (NLC) of the American AFL-CIO, Athabasca University in
Alberta which grants advanced credit in a Labour Studies programmes for those
who have completed some union education programmes; the State University of
New York’s Empire State College which offers credit-bearing programmes to meet
the specific needs of trade unions; and the European TULIP (Trade union and Uni-
versity Lifelong learning Partnership) network aimed at widening access of trade
union members to higher education (Cooper, 2014).
24 The National Education, Health and Allied Workers Union (NEHAWU).
25 Personal communication with the College’s director, as well as one of the workers’
who had gone on to study at the university, in 2012.
Given the current times we live in, critical pedagogy needs to reflexively
engage its own premises, to challenge its own decidability, and to be self
conscious of its own constructed character.
McClaren (2001, p. 121)
∵
This book has attempted to engage reflexively on the premises underpinning
the radical tradition of workers’ education in South Africa. It has explored how
this ‘southern’ context has historically constructed workers’ education as one
strand of the broader radical tradition of adult education – a tradition that has
been characterised by collective social purposes, criticality and transformative
vision. By identifying its historic practices and how its character has changed
over time, it has aimed to contribute to the reclaiming and revitalisation of
workers’ education.
Drawing on the theoretical resources of Cultural Historical Activity Theory,
combined with selected conceptual tools from other frameworks that seem
compatible with the socio-material approach of CHAT, the book has identified
some of the distinctive features of workers’ education. These features char-
acterise workers’ education as it developed in the historical context of South
Africa, but they both echo and recreate features of workers’ education else-
where in the world.
The argument derived from CHAT, and made in this book, is that an analysis of
radical workers’ education must begin with an understanding of its transform-
ative purpose, as the key to understanding its other features. The strong, ideo-
logical purpose of radical workers’ education and its commitment to social
justice, which it shares with other forms of radical pedagogy, distinguishes it
and shapes and guides its epistemology and pedagogy. The ‘why’ of workers’
education is almost synonymous with the ‘what’. In other words its critique
of the current order, its vision of an alternative future and the building of col-
lective identities needed to achieve these goals are the curriculum of workers’
education.
Chapter 2 tracked continuity and change in the purposes of workers’ educa-
tion in South Africa from the 1970s to the second decade of the 21st century. It
showed that despite a shared purpose, like elsewhere in the world, there has
been considerable political and ideological contestation over time between
different role-players in workers’ education over what the precise nature of
an alternative future should be and how to get there. Contestations over the
purposes of workers’ education can be distilled into two main ideological cur-
rents, linked to the dual role of workers’ organisations under capitalism. One
adopts a radical position that seeks to challenge and overthrow the current
order, while the other adopts a more reformist view that seeks to win gains for
workers within the current order.
In practice, workers’ education has always needed to engage with both of
these goals, although one or the other has been dominant at any one time or
place. This dual ‘object’ of workers education as an activity system has been a
source of tensions and contradictions that cannot easily be resolved by edu-
cators nor even within the sphere of education. The chapter showed how a
radical transformative purpose was dominant within South African work-
ers’ education from the 1970s through to the late 1980s. To some extent, this
counter-hegemonic character continued well into the post-apartheid era as
illustrated by the case studies of SAMWU in the early 2000s and the Workers’
College a decade later. However, from the early 1990s onwards, a significant new
thread within the reformist tradition – that of a ‘human capital’ discourse –
had begun to influence the ideology of workers’ education. As it began to shift
the purpose of workers’ education towards expanding access for workers to
workplace education and training and formal qualifications, this intensified
the tensions and contradictions already embedded in its ideology and prac-
tices. The Workers’ College can be seen as an experiment in trying to engage
productively with these tensions and contradictions. Alongside efforts to act as
a vehicle for the political conscientisation, it has also acknowledged the need
of trade union and community activists as individuals to gain recognition of
their experiential knowledge and access to on-going learning opportunities.
The radical, transformative purpose that predominated in South Africa
workers’ education has helped to shape its approach to knowledge – seen as
an ‘object’ in itself as well as a key tool of mediation for securing the work-
ers’ movement’s longer term goals. Chapters 3 and 4 of the book showed that
workers’ education constitutes an ‘epistemological community’ in that it not
only has distinctive knowledge practices (ways of drawing on and combining
different forms of knowledge), but it also has its own epistemology, views on
what ‘counts’ as knowledge and how knowledge is generated. Chapter 3 argued
that workers’ education is deeply invested in overcoming the intellectual/man-
ual divide that has underpinned the dominant ‘epistemology of binaries’ of
the past 400 years, through a process conceptualised by Gramsci and Freire
as ‘praxis’. In contrast to more humanist traditions of adult education, radical
traditions such as that of workers’ education have acknowledged the differ-
entiation of knowledge. They have placed value not only on the experiential
knowledge of workers but also on the more systematically organised bodies
of theoretical and historical knowledge (seen by some as a body of collective
wisdom with its origins in workers’ experiences but codified and passed down
over time).
Embedded in many of the pedagogic practices described in this book,
but also explicitly articulated on occasions, is the view that it is the dialecti-
cal interplay between these two, broad categories of knowledge that leads to
political conscientisation and produces new knowledge. This understanding
of knowledge making was illustrated in Chapter 3 in the educational philoso-
phy of the emerging labour movement in the 1970s and 1980s, as well as that
of the Workers’ College more than 25 years later. This process was illustrated
in Chapter 4 in the evidence of the hybrid forms of knowledge drawn upon in
workers’ education. The dialectical movement between ‘experience’ and ‘the-
ory’ was particularly vividly demonstrated in the case of those worker lead-
ers in SAMWU who play the role of organic intellectuals. These ‘midwives of
a shared philosophy and culture’ (Crehan, 2016, p. 76) were seen to engage in
a process of identifying elements of (Gramsci’s) ‘good sense’ within workers’
‘common sense’ and relocating or recontextualising this experiential knowl-
edge within a broader context. In this process they afforded ‘subaltern experi-
ence’ a new, collective meaning that might, potentially, form the basis of an
alternative hegemony. Following theorists of social movement learning, this
dialectical ‘braiding’ or ‘interweaving’ of different forms of knowledge can be
viewed as the making of new knowledge.
What is the relationship between the purpose (or ‘object’) and epistemol-
ogy of workers’ education, and its pedagogy? Answering this question has
revealed a number of paradoxes that lie at the heart of workers’ education.
One such paradox is that workers’ education has most often assumed quite
didactic forms, despite the strong value that it places on workers’ experien-
tial knowledge and in contrast to more humanist, ‘experiential learning’ tradi-
tions of adult education. Drawing on Bernstein’s (2000) concepts of ‘visible’
and ‘invisible’ pedagogy, Chapter 5 presented examples ranging from FOSATU
in the 1970s/1980s to SAMWU in the early 2000s, and to the Workers’ College
a decade later, to show that the pedagogy of workers’ education has tended
generally to be overt and directive (visible pedagogy). Even where worker edu-
cation projects such as UTP or LACOM adopted more facilitative, participatory
and experiential methodologies (invisible pedagogy), they were nevertheless
ideologically positioned and guided by a politically transformative vision of
the future. This chapter argued that the ideological directedness of workers’
education is related to two other features. First, it is related to the strong,
counter-hegemonic thrust of this radical pedagogy tradition and its need to
construct a collective, working class identity in opposition to capitalism and
its competitive, individualistic ideology. And second, this ideologically direc-
tive pedagogy is an outcome of the internal political contestation that has
always characterised workers’ education. Most practical instances of workers’
education will comprise a mix of visible and invisible modes of pedagogy, and
there will inevitably be tensions and contradictions between them. While not
fully able to resolve these, efforts to address them have the potential to give rise
to new, creative forms of pedagogy.
A key maxim of all radical education is that education cannot be politically
neutral. However, this gives rise to a second paradox that lies at the heart of
workers’ education and radical pedagogy more generally. Education within
working class organisations has always sought to support the egalitarian and
democratic principles espoused by these organisations. So how is it possible to
reconcile these egalitarian, democratic principles with a pedagogy that seeks
to shape – and according to its own goals, needs to shape – the identity and ide-
ology of its participants? Or following the way this question has been posed to
critical pedagogy more generally: “how is it possible to teach for social justice
without engaging in indoctrination?” (Freedman, 2007).
The workers’ education practices described in this book have not been able
to fully resolve this paradox. However, some of the practices that have been
described provide a partial answer. One of these is learning through active
participation in organisational practices that embody the wisdom of past gen-
erations around how to sustain democracy. Another is a widely shared edu-
cator role, where different actors within the workers’ organisation exchange
educator and learner roles at different times. A third way of addressing this
paradox is the use of culturally embedded tools of mediation. These give voice
to the ideas, experiences and aspirations of the ordinary workers who are
the participants in workers’ education initiatives. In the case of South Africa,
these have involved the creative use of language and oral-performative genres
that are deeply embedded in indigenous cultures and in the cultural history
of black workers. This voice ‘from below’ operates as a dialogical response to
the strong ideological messages being imparted ‘from above’, allowing workers
to appropriate and impart their own meaning to these messages. This is most
vividly illustrated in Chapter 6 that focused on informal processes of learning
within the routine practices of the trade union. Drawing on Gramsci’s notion
that the working class needs to learn how to exercise power not only through
the exchange of ideas but through concrete organisational praxis, the chapter
explored the potential of the trade union as an organisational environment
to offer affordances for learning. It argued that the features of social interac-
tion and collectivity and a widely shared educator role, together with the use
of culturally embedded tools of mediation can provide a glimpse of what an
‘expansive learning environment’ can be (Fuller & Unwin, 2004).
Through an exploration of the emergence and blossoming of a vibrant,
workers’ cultural movement alongside the burgeoning trade union move-
ment in the late 1970s and early 1980s, Chapter 6 also demonstrated the rich
potential for workers’ culture – poetry, song, theatre, often combined in one
performance – to act as a powerful resource for the development of working
class identity and worker agency ‘from below’. In addition to these tools of
mediation, this chapter also explored the educative and knowledge-making
role of mass action. Drawing on Bakhtinian and feminist notions of the ‘body’
as an important reservoir of knowledge and a tool of mediation, it analysed
the symbolic significance of a local workers’ march in the midst of a national
strike of SAMWU in 2002. It argued that this instance of collective action may
be seen not only as an exercise in identity construction but also as a carrier of
important messages to the broader public. It showed how this instance of mass
action comprised a critique not only of workers’ immediate exploitative condi-
tions but of the current social order. The march communicated in an embod-
ied form the anger of workers over being treated as expendable as the garbage
which they remove. It was a declaration by workers of their ‘ownership’ of the
city that they work to maintain, and a celebration of their power.
This book has attempted to sketch the contours of workers’ education as one
particular strand within the tradition of radical adult education, drawing on a
case study of the South African workers’ movement. In doing so, it has sought to
contribute to our understanding of how knowledge is generated in collective,
social action or social movement contexts, and to suggest how such knowledge
may enrich our formal knowledge archive. It has explored how workers’ educa-
tion in this local context has engaged with, and contributed answers to some
of experiential learning offer a more effective platform for access into formal
education. For example, Harris (2004) has shown that trade unionists and
other political activists often enjoy a ‘head start’ in being able to meet the con-
ceptual and discursive demands of academia. These research projects were left
with the question as to how to conceptualise the particular discourses of expe-
riential learning that provide easier access to the academy. The accounts of the
knowledge practices of workers’ education in this book might provide some
answers to this question.
While the epistemology of workers’ education is deeply influenced by
Enlightenment thinking about ‘truth’, ‘progress’, reason and equality, at the
same time, there are numerous ways in which it is not typically ‘modern’ in
nature: it is oriented towards the collective rather than towards individual
rights; it encompasses ‘passion’ as well as intellect or reason, it seeks ‘truth’
while at the same time asserting that knowledge cannot be neutral. Workers’
education initiatives continue to offer models of how we might understand the
relationship between diverse forms of knowledge in educational practice and
inspire hope that we will one day be able to breach the intellectual/manual
knowledge divide in ways that broaden democracy, deepen ‘epistemological
justice’ (Frickler, 2007), and enable us to produce better, more reliable knowl-
edge. These qualities can potentially enrich established, academic bodies of
knowledge and our broader, societal knowledge archive.
The Fees Must Fall (#FMF) student movement that began mobilising across
South African universities in 2015 highlighted how university curricula con-
tinue to reflect the ongoing ‘coloniality’1 (Maldonado-Torres, 2007) of the
country’s dominant knowledge systems, and gave rise to a wider project of
decolonising the curriculum. As noted in Chapter 1, Connell’s (2007, 2018) work
has focused on critiques of global-North hegemony in the discipline of sociol-
ogy. She argues that the idea of ‘decolonising the curriculum’ should be viewed
as a way of “correcting the distortions and exclusions produced by empire and
global inequality and reshaping the discipline in a democratic direction on a
world scale” (2018, p. 402). Such a process of decolonising would need to go
beyond simply ‘replacing an alien knowledge system’ or rethinking familiar
methods to more effectively involve social groups ‘marginalized by empire’
(ibid., p. 403). What is needed is a ‘solidarity-based epistemology’ that looks for
connections between different knowledge systems and promotes ‘braiding at
the borders between them’ (ibid., p. 404). It is arguable that if decolonisation
is conceived in this way, then the knowledge practices promoted by the radical
tradition of workers’ education may be able to contribute something of value
to this project.
The tensions embedded in workers’ education described above are not ones
that worker educators can easily resolve. They need to be ‘held’ through the skill
and art of a ‘balancing act’ as suggested by Trimbur (1990) in Chapter 5, through
which working new practices might be created. The book has argued however
that the conditions enabling these tensions to be ‘held’ lie outside the immedi-
ate sphere of education and reside in sustaining broader practices of democ-
racy and accountability within workers’ organisations. Drawing on Newman’s
(1993) model of ‘the Third Contract’, it is argued that as democracy and account-
ability have been weakened within the labour movement in recent years, the
strong ideological directedness of workers’ education increasingly runs the risk
of descending into ideological rhetoric, propaganda and indoctrination.
Chapter 7 showed that the weakening of the democratic character of radical
workers’ education in South Africa has ironically coincided with the transition
to a more democratic and non-racial South Africa. It described how new edu-
cation and training policies were spearheaded by the trade union movement
as part of its attempts to influence the broader trajectory of economic devel-
opment in post-apartheid South Africa. While aiming to afford workers access
to lifelong learning, in reality these policies drew on global market discourses
that are ultimately aimed at strengthening the power of capitalism interna-
tionally. New approaches to worker education and training were borrowed
from labour movements elsewhere in the world and reflected the growing
influence of human capital discourses internationally. Despite critical voices
elsewhere and in South Africa, the development of new policies and institu-
tional frameworks for workers’ education continued unabated.
New approaches to education and training have coincided with a serious
weakening of the South African labour movement in the post-apartheid era.
This was in part a result of the changes in the organisation of work locally and
internationally and their impact on the composition of the working class and
on the membership of the trade unions. However, these structural factors have
been aggravated by the political trajectory of organised labour, and in particu-
lar, the formal alliance of COSATU, the largest trade union federation, with an
ANC in government that has pursued neo-liberal economic policies in line
with those dominant internationally. This political alignment of the dominant
strand of the labour movement has been the source of deep political conflict
leading to the splintering of a number of major trade unions and of COSATU
itself. Coupled with the increased bureaucratisation of trade unions and the
rise of a corrupt, predatory leadership elite in unions, trade union education
that used to be at the heart of the radical tradition of workers’ education in
South Africa, has become a shell of its former self.
Since the turn of the millennium, many have argued that since increasing num-
bers of workers are employed in ‘flexible’ forms of work – that is, in contract,
casual or outsourced work – traditional, industry-based trade unions are no
longer capable of protecting the bulk of workers, let alone the unemployed.
Some argue that new forms of working class organisation are needed, and that
these are indeed emerging as workers begin to self-organise to confront the rav-
ages of neo-liberalism. Others argue that traditional working class organisations
like trade unions remain relevant, and that the focus should be on reclaiming
and reinvigorating them (Webster & Buhlungu, 2004, p. 243; ILRIG, 2017).
In South Africa some of the most innovative workers’ education initiatives
in recent years have been undertaken not by established trade unions but by
a range of organisations working with marginalised, vulnerable and precari-
ous workers. For example, Bonner (in press) describes the educational work of
organisations in different parts of the world2 aimed at supporting the organi-
sation of self-employed, informal sector workers such as street vendors, waste
pickers and home-based workers. She highlights the educational work in South
Africa of SAWPA (the newly formed South African Waste Pickers Association)
and WIEGO (Women in Informal Employment: Globalizing and Organizing)
in supporting workers’ advocacy at a local level, and their efforts to build a
national movement to represent themselves in negotiating and policy forums.
Having had longstanding experience as a trade union educator in South Africa,
she argues that the pedagogy of these initiatives demonstrates “links and con-
tinuity with the best traditions of workers’ education” (Bonner, in press). She
also argues that established trade unions should be playing a much stronger
role in strengthening workers’ education for informal workers: “informal work-
ers are potentially the majority membership of the future and/or important
class allies in the struggles that lie ahead” (ibid.).
Hlatshwayo (in press, citing Bhorat et al., 2015) shows that nearly half of all
employed workers in South Africa are in the category of ‘precarious’ workers.
They are employed in both the public and private sector as casual, short-term
contract and/or outsourced workers, with many being economic migrants
from elsewhere in Africa, and with women constituting the majority. He
describes precarious workers as “the major embodiment of the future of work”
and laments the bias of established trade union education towards the ever-
diminishing number of employed, unionised workers. His chapter documents
the work of the Casual Workers’ Advice Office (CWAO) that was established
in 2011 as a non-governmental organisation to provide advice and support
to precarious workers, based on the recognition that “the traditional labour
movement appears incapable or unwilling to organise the new kinds of work-
ers created by neo-liberalism” (ibid.). Using popular education methodologies
as well as film, radio and social media as tools of mediation, CWAO educates
workers on the constitutional rights that they do have and attempts to build
unity and solidarity within and between groups of workers.
Von Kotze (in press) describes a project of producing plays and street thea-
tre with and for unemployed and semi-employed workers and their communi-
ties. Having gained her early experience in the workers’ cultural movement
that flourished in the late 1970s/early 1980s (see Chapter 6), she contemplates
the differences between workers’ theatre ‘then’ and ‘now’. Whereas workers’
cultural work under the apartheid era was buoyed by a vibrant social move-
ment with an ethos of collectivity, today people have to compete for their daily
survival. Whereas earlier cultural work could rely on a large degree of shared
experiences within the working class, today people “arrive at workshops for dif-
ferent reasons and with varying identities”. Nevertheless, this work can begin
to help people share common problems and build mutual trust. Popular thea-
tre is not only entertaining and creative but it can ‘light fires’, act as ‘rehearsal
spaces’ for longer term behaviour change (for example allowing women to
discover ways of challenging domestic violence), and de-naturalise and make
connections between different social problems visible.
Two final examples show that some of the new initiatives in workers’ edu-
cation have emerged through some degree of co-operation with established
trade unions. Salim Patel (2017) provides an account of how the Labour
Research Service (LRS) in Cape Town which is affiliated to IFWEA (the Interna-
tional Federation of Worker Education Associations) has used study circles to
create spaces for grassroots activists of trade unions and community organisa-
tions to learn from each other “about forging solidarity under precarious con-
ditions in the world of work and in our communities” (Patel, 2017, p. 171). He
describes a context where, although “workers rely on the services that unions
provide, there is increasing awareness that unions are unable to lead their
struggles against oppression and deteriorating working and living conditions”
(ibid., p. 173). Assisting workers across different unions to create study circles is
In a number of the cases described above (the Casual Workers’ Advice Office,
the LRS/IFWEA programs, and the #OMF), social media has begun to be used as
an educational tool. However, like in the rest of Africa, the use of social media
in workers’ education in South Africa is significantly constrained by the ‘digital
divide’ or the inequality of access to the Internet (Fuchs, & Horak, 2008). In
South Africa, the digital divide is related to “underlying social, ideological (rac-
ism), and economic factors that result in structural inequalities” (ibid., p. 110).
In other words, social and economic inequality is closely mirrored in the digi-
tal divide.4 In 2017, more than half of all South Africans lacked access to the
Internet as a result of lack of material access to technology, lack of digital skills,
and the very high costs of data – one of the highest in the world (Goldstuck,
2017). While the use of social media has enormous potential to connect work-
ers across time and space, particularly those working in isolated, precarious
and unpredictable conditions, lack of access means that this educational tool
will continue to have limited use until broader issues of social inequality are
addressed – or the ‘market’ brings down the cost of access.
The grim reality is that there are no jobs for the millions of citizens of
the democratic post-apartheid and post-colonial state as the demands
of a new and rampant global capitalism continues to shape the nature of
employment despite the best intentions of radicals and constitutional-
ists seeking to implant the ideas of freedom ….
He continues:
It is clear that the conditions for a ‘more rational and human organisation of
work’ cannot be realised without a transformation of global capitalism, and so
we need to continue to take seriously the battles that take place at the heart
of the current nexus of capitalist-organised work. This points to the continued
relevance of workers’ organisations such as trade unions and the continued
importance of the principles of radical workers’ education historically forged
within these organisations. As noted by Andre Gorz in his Critique of Economic
Reason (2010) where he argues for liberation from work for economic ends,
workplace struggles have not lost any of their significance. However, he adds
that:
Notes
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accreditation 41, 44, 65, 162, 163, 165, 171 intellectual-manual 54, 58, 62, 68,
activity systems 4, 14–18, 26, 27, 39, 40, 61, racial 5, 54
66, 87, 115, 120, 122, 127, 130, 137, 139,
168, 169, 172, 175, 176 education
activity theory 4, 14, 26, 27, 61, 120, 175 adult 2–4, 8, 20, 21, 23, 24, 26, 28–30, 32,
adult literacy 32, 50, 53, 69, 102, 117 45, 48, 50, 53–55, 58, 64, 66, 79, 93, 95,
apartheid 1, 3–6, 10–13, 18, 19, 22–24, 27, 102, 108, 121, 137, 165, 167, 175, 177, 179
32–35, 38, 55, 58, 62, 68, 70, 72, 73, 80, and training 3, 8, 9, 13, 26, 27, 34, 35, 37,
84, 88, 90, 96, 97, 99, 106, 112, 118, 121, 40, 75–77, 100, 107, 108, 110, 125, 146,
139, 141, 144, 146–154, 159–162, 165, 173, 147, 150–157, 162, 164, 166, 171, 176, 182
176, 182, 184, 186 non-formal 2, 41, 46, 55, 68, 84, 93, 95,
96, 180
bureaucratisation 70, 155, 182 outcomes-based 73
workers’ 2–4, 7–13, 16–24, 26–35, 39, 40,
capitalism 3, 9, 10, 34, 40-42, 47, 49, 55, 61, 43–46, 50, 54–58, 63, 65, 66, 68, 69, 71,
67, 68, 76, 88, 93 72, 75, 76, 80, 83–86, 88–90, 92–96, 98,
global 40, 43, 67, 151, 152, 156, 186, 187 98, 101, 105, 106, 114, 115, 118, 119, 128,
class consciousness 9, 12, 30, 33, 34, 49, 50, 137, 138, 143, 147, 148, 156, 157, 159, 163,
69, 121, 147 165–168, 170–172, 175–188
colonial 5, 21, 49, 53, 68, 89, 185, 188
conquest 5, 21 Freire, Paulo 49, 50, 53, 65, 94, 101, 102, 114,
coloniality 46, 49, 181, 188 120, 122, 177, 180
communities of practice 86, 109, 122–125,
127, 168 globalisation 3, 13, 27, 29,39, 40, 43, 49, 61,
competencies 74, 126, 152 66, 72, 126, 137, 149, 156, 158, 161, 167, 180
contradictions 4, 15–17, 20, 30, 39, 40, 43, Gramsci, Antonio 17, 28, 43, 51–53, 55, 65,
44, 61–63, 66, 69, 87, 88, 91, 116, 138, 143, 69, 70, 72, 80–86, 88–91, 93, 99, 116, 118,
148, 176, 178, 183 120–122, 168, 177, 179
Cultural Historical Activity Theory (CHAT)
4, 14–18, 24, 26, 27, 40, 43, 57, 83, 95, 111, hegemony 17, 28, 30, 53, 69, 80, 82, 88,
116, 119, 120, 122, 123, 128, 138, 139, 143, 90, 93, 99, 100, 114, 120, 134, 177, 181,
147, 166, 169, 172, 175 187