The Bang-Bang Club (28 page)

15

‘AT LEAST YOU WE RE THERE’

Let us hope that Ken Oosterbroek will be the last person to die.

Nelson Mandela, on Inkatha’s announcement that they would, at the last moment, participate in the elections. The violence ceased.

The day after Ken and I were shot, dozens of journalists wearing bullet-proof vests were crouched beside gun-wielding comrades in the little gardens lining Khumalo Street when Joao arrived with Kevin and Mikey Persson. Several fierce exchanges of fire between the Zulus and the comrades, intent on overrunning the hostel, had emptied the street of people - the usual collection of combatants, journalists, camp-followers and spectators all hugged the verges for cover. Joao walked slowly and deliberately up the exposed pavement along the deserted road towards the wall where Ken had died. He barely noticed the photographers he passed as he approached the abandoned garage forecourt, barely noticed the gunshots. Near the last corner, Louise Gubb - a wise photographer a few years older than us who often worked for
Time Magazine
- was on her knees, worried about the bullets and, distractedly, about the unheeding feet that were trampling the lovingly tended flower-bed. Then she was wondering about whose lead to follow; ordinarily she would have taken her cue from one of us, figuring
we had spent the most time in Thokoza and should know best just which yard to leap into or when it was OK to move with the ANC fighters, but now two of us had been shot and she was unsure of just how much faith to place in the bang-bang boys’ judgement. She was cradling her long 300mm lens and thinking about the balance between pictures and safety when she saw Joao moving past her, once again not wearing a bullet-proof vest. Louise had watched the television footage of the shooting being played over and over again the night before, and she knew how much he must be hurting. She left the safety of the yard and came to Joao, hugging him tight, telling him how sorry she was. Joao struggled to fight back the tears as he squeezed back. They were the only two people standing upright in Khumalo Street; then she led him to the little garden out of harm’s way.

Gary had decided not to go to Thokoza that day - he was scared; but much more than the fear of being hurt was the dread of returning to the place where Ken had died in his arms. Why anyone who had survived yesterday’s shooting chose to go back there was not totally clear at the time. Were they there simply because there was a war going on and it was their job to take pictures, or was it to continue where Ken and I could not? Was it a defiance of death?

Looking back, the answer is that the South African story was in a crucial phase - the election just nine days ahead spelled the end of apartheid, but it was looking more and more likely that the nation would tear itself apart, starting from the jagged rip that was Thokoza. It was a story we had all risked death for many times before and even Ken’s death was not going to stop Joao and Kevin from going into Thokoza - documenting that little fragment of history was more important than personal considerations, or safety. They could not stay at home that day, especially that day.

For some unfathomable reason, the peace-keepers, the police, as well as the regular army, had departed from Thokoza. The dead zone was left to the isazi and the mdlwembe. The comrades took their chance and hundreds of youths tried to overwhelm the hostel defenders. The attack began from the last street that intersected Khumalo Street before the
Mshaya’zafe Hostel. Behind the petrol station was a flat field wild with tall khakibos weed and all that Joao could see of the hostel were the dirty white walls punctuated by small windows. The fighters ran out from the houses and charged across the field, trying to get to the hostel perimeter; Joao went with them. The tops of the weeds cracked and sang as bullets ripped through the green leaves. The comrades dropped to their bellies and urged each other on. Most of the attackers were bare-handed, or carried unlikely weapons such as kitchen knives and hammers among the handguns and deadly Kalashnikov assault rifles.

Joao shot a few frames of fighters crouching next to their commander who was telling them to charge, but the intensity of the incoming fire and the terrifying noise of the bullets ripping through the khakibos convinced the fighters and Joao to retreat - it was simply too dangerous. Joao had already come to that conclusion: they were attacking defenders who were safely behind thick walls whereas he and the comrades had weeds for cover in an open field. Joao mimicked the comrades - he lay flat on the ground and clutched his cameras close to his chest, then rolled like a pole, flattening the weeds as he made his way to the road. He rolled off the curb and stayed flat; there was no way he was going to stand up in that fusillade. He looked around and realized why there had been no journalists in the weeds; they were all in street, staying low and photographing the fighters at the rear who were giving covering fire for their comrades in front. The fighters rose to their feet for a few seconds to hold the AKs above their heads and spray bullets towards the hostel, before dropping to the ground again. Joao now realized that many, if not all, of the bullets that were raking the weeds were coming from the ANC side, almost doing Inkatha’s work for them.

As the battle continued, Joao lay on his stomach, not shooting. Joao later told me that at that moment he was thinking about Ken and me. He felt a sadness and a regret that we were not there getting those pictures. He imagined how excited we would once again have been, all there together that day. He visualized Ken stooping over the large lightbox at
The Star
, editing and calling the editors over to show them
the images, passionately discussing how the page should be laid out, how the photographs should be used.

Joao’s reverie was harshly broken by a frightening explosion of gunfire right behind him. He turned to look, and there was an ANC fighter with an AK-47 crawling over the back of his legs. The comrade was completely ignoring the presence of the photographer, other than using Joao for cover as he fired and then moved on, Joao twisted over and shot frames of the fighter slithering over the back of his legs.

The ill-conceived attack petered out and the crowd of fighters and their sidekicks moved to Khumalo Street and the garage quadrant. They passed through the courtyard up to the concrete wall where Ken had died and then on to the very walls of the hostel itself. Joao had never before seen something like this in the townships. Without any security forces to intervene, the residents were determined to eradicate Inkatha from their stronghold. The dozens of young men charging through the hail of bullets seemed not to care about their own safety; some were even attacking with empty Coke bottles.

Joao was running alongside one of the AK-wielding attackers and trying to get a frame on the run when suddenly the fighter’s legs were lifted out from under him - he had been hit. Within seconds of the com dropping, another picked up the AK-47 he had been carrying and continued the assault, while four others picked up the fallen youth. Joao focused, framed and shot as he ran alongside boys carrying the wounded com-a fountain of blood was squirting from his side in an arc. Joao followed them inside the petrol station, where several other wounded comrades had also been brought. He saw another fighter sitting crosslegged on the paved floor, concentrating on replenishing AK magazines with fresh rounds as swiftly as possible, oblivious to his comrades being brought in dead or wounded.

Joao had stopped short of following the mob all the way to the wall. From where he had taken cover at the last petrol bowsers, he could see Jim and a couple of other photographers at the wall, beyond the spot where Ken had died. Jim’s luck held where others’ ran out. Even to Joao, who had a well-deserved reputation for being fearless, that seemed
too risky. He watched as the attackers made the hostel wall and climbed on top of the roof to try to set fire to the building-a youth wielding a wheel spanner managed to get a tyre on to the roof and set it alight, but then the defenders shot him off with a spray of bullets. Joao was totally immersed in the action. He was shooting the best combat pictures he had ever made, briefly forgetting the pain of Ken’s death.

Brauchli later told me that he had been watching Joao run alongside the stricken comrade, shooting away, oblivious to the bullets pinging off the pavement. Brauchli shot too, just as a reflex, no thought, no composition. There were more bullets flying through the air that day than he had ever seen before. Brauchli had covered wars from Azerbaijan, Armenia, and Somalia to Bosnia, where he had lost a testicle to shrapnel in Sarajevo. But on that day, in that township, it seemed to him to be ‘like a fucking movie. Coms were running up and just blasting off clip after clip at the hostel. It was insane.’ Brauchli watched photographers running with the coms, trying to get a picture. But he couldn’t comprehend what they were all doing there. Was it to justify Ken’s death? Somehow it seemed terribly irrelevant to him. He couldn’t get up the courage to go to where the shooting was to make pictures. He didn’t want to get shot. He didn’t want to do anything. He was mentally exhausted. He went to the old grease pit inside the garage and sat at the bottom, not making pictures, not moving, not thinking, just sitting and listening to the chaotic sounds of battle all around him.

The comrades had managed to set the roof of the hostel on fire, but they were suffering too many casualties, and then the regular army reappeared. Their arrival ended the battle as swiftly as their departure had precipitated it. The coms melted back into the township, the weapons disappeared and the firing ceased.

Though the fierce battle had temporarily delayed everyone’s reaction to the violence of the day before, its lasting impact became clear after that first full day back on the job. Mikey came to Joao after the battle and said he’d had enough, it didn’t feel right any more. Ken had died the previous day and he had just finished covering the huge assault on the hostel, he had good pictures - he did not want to push his luck and
he was leaving. In fact, Mikey never shot news again. He moved to California and hung out with tattooed women, taking pictures of Harley Davidsons. He told me that he sometimes missed the adrenaline, the thrill of a big, happening story, but then he recalled Thokoza and other equally bad days in other equally bad wars, and the itch subsided.

Joao and Brauchli returned to the AP office in Johannesburg to drop off the latest films and look at those they had sent back earlier in the day. A picture editor, who had flown in from London that day to help on the rapidly escalating story, had selected many pictures from Joao’s take to transmit. The editor did not choose even one of Brauchli’s pictures, angering him, even though he knew they were not as good as Joao’s.

Brauchli stormed out after losing his temper. Back at home, all of his suppressed emotions unexpectedly came tumbling out while listening to a sentimental song, and he began weeping. ‘I loved Ken. I loved Joao, Greg, Kev, Gary, Mike, Jim. We had a crew. Close, tight, caring, special. We cared about pictures but most of all we cared about each other, forcing each other to make better and better pictures, stay informed and beat the shit out of the competition. It was the tightest group I’ve ever worked with and it hurt the most.’

At a popular restaurant that night, dozens of journalists had gathered in response to a ‘press alert’ pager message announcing a wake for Ken. Everyone was drunk, or working at it, except me-I was tripping on the intensive care unit’s morphine. Ken’s death was foremost on Kevin and Joao’s minds, and they were intent on getting drunk. But instead of quieting the pain, the liquor fuelled the rage Joao was feeling. The aggression kept building, and he wanted to lash out at someone. He became abusive and tried to pick a fight with a waiter. BBC cameraman Dave Spira half-led, half-dragged him outside and tried to pacify him. Joao responded by telling Dave, a good friend, that if he did not leave him alone he’d fuck him up. Dave, closer to seven than six foot, towered over Joao at five foot four. He laughed good-naturedly and walked away.

Meanwhile, Joao swayed drunkenly in the middle of the deserted road, shouting abuse at no one in particular. Kevin, also outside, went
down on all fours, looking for a brick to throw through the restaurant windows. Brauchli, also drunk but at least in better humour, came out carrying the cameras which Joao had left inside. Jim arrived, freshly showered and clean-shaven. He and Brauchli managed to talk Kevin out of throwing the brick.

After Joao calmed down, Brauchli handed him back his new cameras, which had not yet been paid off. With an alcohol-induced clarity he suddenly came to the conclusion that it was all the cameras’ fault: if it weren’t for them, Ken would not be dead and I would not be in the hospital. Maybe there was more he could have done, instead of just taking pictures of Ken lying dead at his feet. He screamed out and smashed the cameras against a billboard. The flash broke into pieces that flew off into the dark and Joao swung again, trying to destroy them. Brauchli jumped in the way, the cameras hitting him in the head, then he and Jim wrestled the cameras off Joao before he could do more damage.