Irin, 16 May 2002
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Stella is 23-years-old and about to be deported to Zimbabwe.
For R1,000 a month (about US $100) she prepared salads and
sandwiches in a pub in Johannesburg's wealthy northern suburbs.
In her hometown of Bulawayo she had no work. Last week on her way
home she was stopped by police in Johannesburg's high-rise suburb
of Hillbrow and asked for her identity document. Unable to
produce one she was allowed to go home to collect toiletries and
some personal items and then taken to the infamous Lindela
repatriation centre outside Krugersdorp.
This privately-run centre, which is situated among old gold mines
west of Johannesburg - which ironically once thrived on immigrant
labour - is the last stop before deportation. The centre
accommodates about 6,000 people a month, many of them waiting the
full 30 days alloted by law for immigration officials and their
embassies to decide if they stay or go. For many, the
repatriation papers will be the only official documentation
they've ever had.
Sitting on the grass in the pale winter sun, surrounded by high
ochre-coloured walls, Stella is resigned to her fate. When asked
how she crossed the border into South Africa, which the
Department of Home Affairs admits is porous, she looks away, a
small smile playing on her lips.
"Next time I will try to get papers," she said.
Next to her is a woman apprehended in Johannesburg's Alexandra
township. She is reluctant to reveal anything about herself as
she feeds her chubby baby from the food tray containing samp
(maize) and beans, chicken and spicy chakalaka sauce. Next to her
are two other babies, unsteadily eyeing the brightly coloured
jungle gym, their mothers and two female security guards watching
them closely.
Women form about 20 percent of those held at Lindela. By day, as
they wait to be sent home, they play netball or doze or line the
perimeter wall gossiping in their new found camaraderie. Most are
in their teens or twenties and the scene resembles a community
playground rather than a detention centre. By night reality hits
as they file into dormitories with up to 28 irin double
bunk-beds.
The men's section on the other side of the heavy blue security
gate has the same ochre-coloured walls and night-club style
murals of famous musicians. But here it's a bustle of men playing
checkers and mbau on thick concrete slabs, washing clothes,
sitting on their haunches sharing cigarettes.
A long line of men, some still wearing overalls splattered with
paint, queue to phone friends, family, connections, arranging
matters in quick urgent tones, asking for things to be brought to
them. At the end of the courtyard howls of outrage and cheers
punctuate a packed football match.
Most rooms have television sets and inside, men sit on their beds
or in the cash canteen watching music videos. Home Affairs
officials visiting the centre are crowded by people who want to
complain or pitch a last ditch plea to avoid being sent home.
The officials listen attentively but maintain that many there
"constantly change their stories." To beat a flurry of
aliases the centre now takes fingerprints on arrival and each
person's details are captured on a barcoded security card. They
have to produce these at meal times and at the clinic, so that
staff can know at any time how many people are there.
Aaron, a middle aged Zimbabwean, says this is his third stint in
Lindela. "I work as a security guard in Johannesburg, I'm
just waiting to go back." Lowering his voice
conspiratorially Aaron complains that the guards beat them with
batons at night and the food gives him a rash. A young boy
wearing white and red butcher's boots leans into Aaron and says
"tell her about the beating last night."
Cameras follow everybody's movements with security staff
monitoring a wall of screens in a darkened control room. The
tapes are kept for two months and retrieved to resolve
allegations of beatings or ill treatment.
But while the centre may appear attractive with it's activities
roster, free clinic, library and religious services and walls
dotted with extracts of human rights clauses, this doesn't stop
escape attempts.
A few months ago, a group of men managed to scale the thick high
walls, run across bare grass, over a razor wire fence, over a
second electric fence, past dog kennels and into the night. They
were caught and one was beaten to death. His death sparked a mini
riot and police and centre security locked everyone in their
rooms until the tension eased.
An investigation is underway but one of the centre's directors
Gavin Watson says the man was killed by patrons of a nearby
shebeen. He claimed they mistook the fleeing foreigners, who were
unable to understand their calls to them in the dark and were
bleeding from the razor wire, for the perpetrators of recent
rapes in the area. Watson said the centre officials sent to fetch
them were mistakenly implicated in the deaths.
Last year the centre, run by hospitality company Bosasa, cost the
South African government about R32 million (around US $3
million). Though most of the detainees are from African countries
- particularly Mozambique and Zimbabwe - almost every country on
the globe has featured in the centre's computer system. Most
nearby repatriations are by train or truck. But those further
afield, like China, can cost up to R20,000 (US $2,000) which
includes the fare of an accompanying immigration official.
Some people complain that South Africans living in sprawling
shanty towns don't get that kind of social spending from the
government. But Home Affairs Director General Billy Masetlha says
the people at the centre clearly don't belong in already
overcrowded police cells and are entitled to humane treatment.
He believes the numbers who pass through the centre will reduce
when the region's economic and social conditions improve and pegs
his hopes on President Thabo Mbeki's New Partnership for African
Development (NEPAD) which is touted to jump start the region's
economies.
"Ninety-five percent of the detainees were looking for a
job. We've got to be sympathetic and we can't criminalise these
people. People are wading through rivers containing very
dangerous animals like crocodiles - they are trying to find money
whatever the cost. We can't ignore the pull factor," he
said.
However, Masetlha questioned why people weren't acquiring proper
travel documents. "We had about 6 million visitors last year
and they all went home - so why not these 6,000 we see every
month?"
Jody Kollapen of the South African Human Rights Commission said
conditions have improved at the centre, but "when you look
beyond the buildings and the food you see a scale of human
suffering, the look of desperation on their faces."
Emma Algotsson, a researcher for Lawyers for Human Rights said:
"We are concerned about how people get here in the first
place. Many people living in rural areas can't get to the cities
to buy visas and passports. A woman selling tomatoes across the
border doesn't have money to go and buy a visa."
Meanwhile, in the courtyard a man with a megaphone calls out
names to lines of men sitting impassively on concrete benches.
One man in his early twenties stands up when his name is called,
the men surrounding him smile and pat him farewell. He'll be on
the truck to Lesotho in a few hours.
But, as the legend goes, he'll probably be back in Johannesburg
before the truck.