Death of an Idealist: In Search of Neil Aggett by Beverly Naidoo

He died, again. From 22nd September 1981 until 5th February 1982 much happened. I was preparing for my matric exam, which I wrote then rewrote late into December as most exam papers were leaked. I then waited anxiously for my results, celebrating on the streets of Durban after obtaining my university exemption. This excitement dissipated when the then minister of education, yes FW de Klerk, refused my application to study at Wits. And, Apartheid was not a crime against humanity? However, unbeknownst to my little insular world, more than 60 activists were being rounded up and ruthlessly tortured culminating in Dr Neil Agget’s untimely death. It also set the decisive beginning of the end of apartheid.

Kubi kubi Siyaya, aiyaya, siyaya

Noma kubi

Kwashu Sisulu Siyaya Siyaya

Kwashu Neil Agget Siyaya Siyaya

Kwashu Mandela Siyaya Siyaya

Noma Kubi

[In trials and tribulations we are marching on, we are marching on

Despite trials and tribulations

Sisulu said we are marching on

Neil Agget said we are marching on

Mandela said we are marching on

Despite trials and tribulations]

He died, again, as I read Beverly Naidoo’s excellent biography searching for her cousin Neil. In the days and long nights that I took in reading the book, I lived the period fearing that the security police were watching, ready to take me away. The fear was real. I imagined being tortured – handcuffed right hand to left leg standing for hours just on my right leg, running on the spot with knees touching arms lifted again for hours, hanging upside down naked and handcuffed with a wet bag around my head while my body shook as electric currents were applied to my knees, toes, penis and testacles. I winced when I received another blow to the head. A regtige klap. I cried as pliers were clamped around my penis. Another blow, many more insults. Threats to kill my family… He died slowly, again.

Beverly’s brilliant rendition left me exhausted and deeply affected. I was emotionally spun around like a helicopter in an interrogation room – sad, angry, distraught, relieved, anxious, terrified, bitter…  I noted how short I’ve come measured against Neil’s profound yet pragmatic life. A methodical union organizer committed to building democratic and accountable structures. Mentored by Gavin Andersson, Sipho Khubeka and Oscar Mpetha, Neil earned the respect and trust of union members and senior office bearers alike. Neil, together with other union organizers in that period, played a critical role in union recognition, worker militancy and alignment with community struggles. He practiced to earn enough as a medical doctor so that he had more time to volunteer as a union organiser. He lived a simple life with bare essentials.

Nervous , happy words.

There is security in words

And smiles.

I sit alone

Without words I look for strength

Without the smiles, the games.

I look within myself,

And what I see is hollow.

– Neil Aggett (7th September 1971) (p50)

Beverly gathered letters, journals and pictures; police, inquest and TRC records; and, conducted interviews with family members and his comrades. She read widely, consulted those who better understood that period and especially the labour movement. Her research was meticulous and she left the material that she gathered at university archives for any future research. It took her more than 15 years (with a 10 year break) to write this book. She brought him to life while he slowly died, again. Yet, he lives.

My deepest sympathies on the loss of your son Neil. I can imagine how you must be feeling because I felt the same when I lost my son also while in detention and also the same age – Mrs Hawa Timol (p336)

He lives but does not. I watched the SONA farcical and read the president’s dribble. And, I wept. Truly. The book and his life so affected me that I was left revulsed by the spectacle called parliament. So many have given so much for the realisation of a better future. Selflessly, courageously, practically and idealistically. How have we forgotten. He, like so many others, dies every time an entitled politician opens his or her mouth.

Beverly craftfully and imaginatively weaves Neil’s story from his birth and childhood in Kenya to his maturation as a committed revolutionary. In between, she covered his schooling and university life, his philosophical and political transformation, his courageous confrontation with his family and subsequent estrangement. She interviews his mentors and comrades. Central to his being is his dogged trade union work.

What, perhaps, she leaves out is his medical work and interviews with his medical colleagues and patients. While his partner of almost 10 years, Liz Floyd, is central to this narrative, we are left with more searching questions and limited insight. Liz may not have wanted to be very deeply part of the story. To understand him fully we need to know these two facets of his life too.

Nevertheless, there could not be a better narrative about his life articulated with such sensitivity and depth. Hamba kahle Neil and thank you Beverly.