justice isn't served until crime victims are. the play for this program: sizwe bansi is dead by athol fugard. special guests: mr. ossie davis and miss ruby dee. now, your host, mr. jose ferrer. the struggle for human dignity is an ever-present theme in this play set in apartheid-ruled south africa. it deals with the relationship between two men brought together by the pressures of that rule. sizwe bansi is a unique offering in our series. first of all, it is our only drama taped live

in performance in 1974. secondly, sizwe bansi is a drama which was developed through a workshop improvisational approach. and finally, the nature of improvisation is such that the theme remains the same, however, the development of the theme depends on the actors and is always slightly different with each performance. fugard's play raises some powerful issues which cross over the boundaries of any one country and speak to all who would be free to pursue with dignity their hopes and dreams. our guests are two outstanding and versatile american theater performers who understand and value the issues raised, and who have a long-standing commitment to the cause of universal human dignity, ms. ruby dee and mr. ossie davis. we wear the mask that grins and lies,

it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes-- this debt we pay to human guile; with torn and bleeding hearts we smile, and mouth with myriad subtleties. why should the world be over-wise, in counting all our tears and sighs? nay, let them only see us while we wear the mask. we smile, but, o great christ, our cries to thee from tortured souls arise. we sing, but oh the clay is vile beneath our feet, and long the mile; but let the world dream otherwise. we wear the mask. paul laurence dunbar, who wrote that poem,

knows what it means to wear the mask. black man's code of etiquette: how to survive in white america. all men wear masks from time to time. but with the black man, smiling the right smile, grinning the right grin, bowing the right bow could often mean the difference between life and death. and which mask should we wear, integration or separation? the white mask or the black? william edward burghardt dubois described this excruciating dilemma in this passage from a book he wrote called the souls of black folk. after the egyptian and indian, the greek and the roman, the teuton and the mongolian, the negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second sight

in this american world, a world which yields him no true self consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. it is a peculiar thing, this double consciousness, this sensation of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by a tape of the world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. one ever feels his two-ness, an american, a negro: two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings, two warring ideals in one dark body whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. the history of the american negro is the history of this strife, this longing to attain a self conscious manhood,

to merge his double self into a better and truer self. and in the merging, he desires neither of the older selves to be lost. he would not africanize america, for america has too much to teach the world and africa. he would not bleach his negro soul in the flood of white americanism, for he knows that negro blood has a message for the world. he simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a negro and an american without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows and without having the door of opportunity closed roughly in his face. so...no matter the smile, no matter the grin, no matter the bow, there is no safety. no hiding place. no matter what mask we wear,

we blacks are damned if we do and damned if we don't. as ralph ellison says in the beginning of his novel, invisible man, we black americans have no guarantee that we exist at all. i am an invisible man. no, i'm not a spook like those who haunted edgar allan poe nor am i one of your hollywood movie ectoplasms. i am a man of substance, of flesh and bones, of fiber and liquids, and i might even be said to have a mind. i am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in the circus sideshows, it is as though i have been surrounded

by mirrors of hard distorting glass. when they approach me, they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination-- indeed, everything and anything except me. nor is my invisibility exactly a matter of a biochemical accident to my epidermis, that invisibility to which i refer occurs because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of those with whom i come in contact. a matter of the construction of their inner eyes, those eyes with which they look through their physical eyes upon reality. i'm not complaining nor am i protesting either. it's sometimes advantageous to be unseen,

although it is most often rather wearing on the nerves. then, too, you're constantly being bumped against by those of poor vision. or again, you often doubt if you really exist. you wonder whether you aren't simply a phantom in other people's minds. say, a figure in a nightmare which the sleeper tries with all his might to destroy. it's when you feel like this that because of your resentment, you begin to bump people back. and let me confess, you feel that way most of the time, you ache with the need to convince yourself

that you do exist in the real world, that you are a part of all the sound and anguish. you strike out with your fist. you curse and swear to make them recognize you. and alas, it's seldom successful. whatever mask we wear is a matter of public convenience. it maintains the peace. it keeps us in our place. and on the surface, it seems, for the most part, to work. we smile, we grin, we shuffle, and all is well, but only on the surface and only for a moment. the truth of what we are might be quite different. like if we were walking into a peaceful-seeming landscape and suddenly overturned a rock, the mask for the moment has been suddenly ripped away,

and we are startled and frightened by the anger, the fury, the hostility that we see and feel from the creatures hidden beneath. that's how i felt when first i saw john kani and winston ntshona do sizwe bansi is dead, a play which they themselves had written along with athol fugard, and at first presented in south africa. hey, come in. come in. come in. it's a dream. come in. mr. styles. welcome, brother. welcome at styles. oh, you've come to take a card. [imitates camera shutter] a snap. well, it's the same thing. have you got deposit? 40 cents.

yes. oh, never mind. you don't have to pay me now. you can pay me later. you see, the trouble, if you don't have the deposit, the card doesn't come out. let me take your name and address down. i just keep record of people that visit me. what is your name, sir? name? now, look at least, my brother, you still have your name. - yes. - now what is your name? robert zwelinzima. - robert... - zwelinzima. zwelinzima. where do you stay? address? 50 mapija. - 50--50 mapija street. - mapija. are you staying with mr. buntu? - yes. - oh, no. never mind. his card was there, but he took it last saturday. mr. buntu is a very kind man. always ready to help the people when they are in troubles. if that man was white, they would call him a liberal. robert, tell me, how many cards do you want to take?

one. - just one? - one card. oh, robert, what a wonderful suit especially designed and tailor to fit you. - where did you buy it? - sales house. sales house, where the black people buy. six months to pay, pay as you wear, they never repossess. robert, tell me, how do you want to take your card? you can take your card sitting down. robert, you can take it standing. robert, you can take it anyhow. how do you want to take it? anyhow. sit down, robert. sit down. that's lovely. robert, you can put your hat on. put your hat on. relax, robert. feel at home. this is the only place that belongs to the people. lovely. now, robert, get ready. that's it. ready, robert. robert, are you ready? robert, tell me, what are you going to do with this card? send it home to my wife, nowetu. where is your wife? king william's town. oh, that's a man. that's a man with responsibility.

i know they do not allow you to bring your wife and stay with her in the big city, but that doesn't mean forget her. robert, take that card. put it in an envelope. the wife opens it, what does she see? look, robert zwelinzima with all the troubles of this world on his neck. what does the wife say? "oh, no. "my husband is not happy in the big city. he must come back." don't dohat, my brother. we all have troubles. we all have problems. t i tell you one thing, my brother. smile at these peopl smile at the world. robert, make a fall. make a fall, robert. how lovely. put this arm on the table. beautiful, robert. now, robert, smile. that's it, robert. smile. here we go. jesus christ, what is it, robert?

you can use your pipe. this is not a railway station. now right, robert, a little bit down, just towards the mouth. that's it, robert. lovely. now, robert, smile. smile, robert. lovely. robert, it's finished. it's finished, robert. beautiful, robert. oh, lovely. robert, what about another card? no. just one card. one card. what if it gets lost? you know what, robert, i've heard stories about the postman. if those bastards don't strike, you know what they do? they sit down on the way, open all the letters. "dear my wife," the letter goes to hell, the money here. he opens another one, "dear my wife," the card goes to hell. he puts the money here. oh, robert, if you take another card, you don't have to pay me the money now, just the deposit. like sales house. exactly, robert. where do you work? feltex. felt & textiles consolidated spinning mills? - yes. - they payood there.

- not bad. - robert, tell me, have you ever walked down that long passage that lead to the big glass offices, the manager's office? oh, robert, image in 15 years time to quit promoting the felt & textiles, you can become the best chief senior messenger boy. robert, imagine yourself sitting behind the desk like a white man withhe phone ringing, another phone ringing. robert, an ashtray, a vase of flowers and you, robert, giving orders to the junior messenger boys. why wait 15 years? styles can make your dream come true. now, robert zwelinzima, chief senior messenger boy at felt & textiles. in time to come an ashtray, robert, a vase of flowers. robert, let me show you something. robert, every time i walk into a manager's office, i laugh myself sick. the bastards, because they run the factory, sometimes they think they run the world too.

they always hang the map of the world behind them, all of them. here it is, robert, the map of the world. lovely, robert. this whole part, robert, is united states of america. nixon is somewhere here. he's in big shit. the papers say so. robert, this is south america, argentine, chile, somewhere here. there's been a lot of trouble in chile, but the papers are quiet about it now. robert, great britain. very small on the paper, but bloody strong and clever. robert, this is africa. petrol nuisance was somewhere around here. we've got nothing to do with it. we are here, robert. just here. robert, you know this one? russia. shh. robert, you know this one? - vietnam, vietcong. - no. - you don't read the papers? - uh-uh. jesus, that was once a hell of a fight between the two brothers. america was watching it on tv. [imitates shutter clicking] robert zwelinzima, chief senior messenger boy at felt & textiles. in time to come, sit down, robert.

sit down, with the world behind you. sit down, robert. robert, make a fall. put that arm on the table. hold it, robert, chief senior ssenger boy smokes cigarette. that's a symbol of status for us these days. lovely, robert. just about to tap it on the ashtray. that's beautiful. what a lovely background. lovely, robert. now, robert, ready. smile, robert. beautiful, robert. here we go. lovely. [click click] lovely. robert, it's finished. robert, when the machine goes [click click] it's finished, robert. beautiful, robert. how beautiful. robert, what about a movie? move. you don't know what a movie is? - uh-uh. - easy, robert. i will explain it to you. look, robert, when i say come, all you do, walk straight towards me and i take the card. [clicking] robert, felt & textiles is closing down this december

for two weeks holiday, eh. take a piece of paper. write to your wife. "dear my wife, "i'll be coming to spend the christmas holiday with you and my children at last." the wife gets the letter, she opens it. what does she see? "oh, no, come my neighbors, look at my husband, robert. he's walking to me. my husband is coming to me." he gives the card to the little children. the kids look at the card and then look at the card and they say, "daddy's coming home. mama, daddy's coming home. mama." don't you want it, robert? don't you want it? robert zwelinzima, man about town, with a white suit that have never seen even the parliamentarians wearing. robert, here is a walking stick to match the color of your suit. beautiful, robert. a newspaper under your arm. i can't read. oh, your wife will see that in the pictures. robert, you think these bloody fools that walk up and down with the papers, they can read?

you'll be surprised, they're just looking, get the pictures. they don't want to talk to you. robert, let me show you something. what i do with the money that people pay me? i do not sit on it and be comfort like they do. robert, i do things that develop my people's dreams. robert zwelinzima, man about town, will walk in front of the great city of the future. the city of the future. lovely. ok bazaar. that is where we also. ok bazaar, main street, johannesburg building society for whites only. stren street, barclays bank all over the bloody world. mutual insurance company, john foster square. be careful, they run the country there. now right, robert, just get ready. beautiful, robert. robert, just a little bit in front of the great city, just right in front of barclays bank. lovely, robert. now when i say come, just walk straight to me, robert.

now, ready. come, robert. come, robert. one more time. come, robert. hold it, robert. smile. smile. smile, robert. nowetu. dear nowetu. i've got wonderfulews for you in this letter. my troubles are over, i think. you cannot believe it but i must tell you. sizwe bansi, in a manner of speaking, is dead. i'll tell you wh i can. as you know, when i left the railway compounds, i went to stay with a friend of mine called zola, a very good friend that, nowetu. in fact, he was trying to get me some job. after a week with zola, i was in big troubles, nowetu. the headman came around, and after a lot of happenings,

which i will tell you when i get back home, they put a stamp in my dom book saying i must leave port elizabeth at once. three days. i was a very unhappy man, nowetu. i couldn't stay with zola because if the headman found me there again, my troubles would be bigger. so zola sent me to a friend of his called buntu and asked him if i could stay with him until i decided what to do. i am buntu. sizwe bansi. sit down, sizwe bansi. i've been expecting you. i met zola in town. he explained to me you need a place to stay until saturday when you go back to king william's town. you can stay with me. well, as you see, this is a two-roomed house. perch yourself in that corner there. i'll be in this other room. i'm not staying with my wife at the moment. she's a domestic servant in town. she helps to sleep with a white madam. jeez, it's a bloody hot day today, eh? what is your trouble, actually?

i've got no permit to stay in port elizabeth. where doou have peit to be? in king william's town. how did they find out? - as you know-- - yeah. - i was staying with zola-- - mm-h. --and i was very happy at zola's place until one night as i was sleeping on the floor, i heard some noises. then the was a loud bang on the door. there was a raid again. there was a raid at zola's place. ah, shit, these people. the headman walked in and pulled me out of the table. - yeah. - i was wearing my pants and i finished dressing in the van. you were lucky. they drove straight to the administration office-- yeah. and from there they went to the labor bureau. uh-huh. later, i was taken into an office-- yeah. and made to stand next to the door like a pole. yeah. a white man sitting behind the desk-- yeah. looking at me and also shaking his head-- that's what they bloody know. and just then-- yeah.

another white man walked in carrying a card. was the card pink? the white man was carrying a pink card. that's a record card. your whole life on that card in detail and they kp it. the first white man started writing something on the card. yeah. and just then, another white man walked i- yeah. - caying... - a stamp. he was carrying a stamp. what did he do with the stamp? he used it on my dom book. let me see your book. what did they tell you? they wrote something on the dom book-- yeah. and then they told me to get out. jesus christ. you know what this stamp means? i can't read. listen. "you are required to report "to the bantu affairs commissioner "of king william's town within three days of the abovementioned date--" one, two--jesus, brother.

you should have been at home yesterday-- "for the purpose of repatriation, influx control." brother, you've been endorsed out. i don't want to leave port elizabeth. maybe. if that stamp in that book says go, you must go. can't i burn this book and get a new one? you bu that book and get a new one and the bloody white man sees you doing that, huh? you'll have to tell him how many books you've burned before. and what do you think you're going to do, walk up and down without a book? you will have to apply for another one and you'll make it a point before that new book comes, no policeman stops you and ask for the book. you'll be back in those courtrooms, five rand, five days in jail, right? the new book comes. you'll never get a job, anything, without the right stamp in it. so you will have to go back to the labor bureau. the white man takes your book at the labor bureau, he goes straight to those big machines-- what do they call those bloody machines they've just bought from britain? the computer, yeah. he feeds the computer with your dom book number.

n-i-- [imitates typing and processing] record card. pink. sizwe bansi, born in king william's town, endorsed out of port elizabeth. that date, the white man picks up the same stamp. this one is finished. you can forget about it. throw it to hell, if you like. apply for another one, back to the labor bureau. the white man grabs your book. he doesn't even look at your face. it's not important. what he wants is the number. that's what he wants. back to the big machine. n-i... record card. pink. sizwe bansi, born in king william's town, endorsed out of port elizabeth. that date and that date, and this time, straight with an escort to the magistrate court, 10 rand fine, back to the railway station. you'll be in king william's town. you will serve in jail for the train fare. can't i find some jobs in the gardens? - jobs in the gardens? - yes.

you know what those white ladies say when they want a garden boy? can you read the paper? i can't read. eastern province herald, page 18, swap column, domestic vacancies. "we want a garden boy, very well-mannered, "wide knowledge of season and flowers. book in order." your book is not in order with that stamp, and what do you bloody know of season and flowers? tell me, isn't there a white man you know here in port elizabeth who might perhaps give you a job? i don't know any white man in port elizabeth, no. the white man i used to know is-- he is now in-- pity. we might have been able to work out a point there. you see, if you knew the white man, i would ask the white man to write a letter, stating in the letter that he's got a job for you here in port elizabeth, right? now, you take this letter from the white man in port elizabeth who's got a job for you

straight to the native commissioner of king william's town. the native commissioner of king william's town will read the letter from the white man in port elizabeth who's got a job for you and write another letter. now, take the letter from the native commissioner of king william's town, plus the letter from the white man in port elizabeth, straight to the native commissioner of port elizabeth. the native commissioner of port elizabeth will read the letter from the native commissioner of king william's town, letter from the white man in port elizabeth and then write another letter. take the letter from the native commissioner of port elizabeth, native commissioner of king william's town, letter from the white man in port elizabeth who's got a job for you straight to the senior labor bureau officer in charge of the influx control and the endorsement stamp. the senior labor bureau officer will read the letter from the native commissioner of port elizabeth, native commissioner of king william's town, letter from the white man in port elizabeth who's got a job for you and then take your book and re-endorse it with section 10 1a1b, the right to stay and work in a white prerescribed area while employed. listen, sizwe. once the white man puts that stamp in your book, it's done, brother.

no one can undo it. forget about it. all i can do is to try and get a single train fare ticket to king william's town, that's all. now, why don't you go back to king william's town? - uh-uh. - hey, i've got it. you go back to king william's town. - no. - listen first, man. go straight to those big offices-- what do they call this office if you want to go and dig the gold for them? whatever, the labor recruiting office. tell the white man behind the desk you want to sign the three years contract and dig the gold for them. they don't care, man, whether your book has got the right stamp or not. what the white man wants, you must go down and bring the gold up to him. i don't want to work in the mines again. i once worked in the mines. there's no money at the end of the month. and it's dangerous working down in the mines because you start boring those rocks and pieces of rocks start falling on your head. you can die any minute there because black men get killed in the mines. and you don't want to die?

i don't want to die. are you married, sizwe? yes. children? i've got four children. boys? girls? three boys and one girl. i'm married too, my brother. you've got children? one. only one? yeah, my wife attends this birth control rubbish clinic. you know what, sizwe? if i were to tell you the troubles they gave me before they could put the right stamp in my book, born in this town, the troubles they gave me before i could get a job to stay alive, born in this area, the hell i went through before they could give me this two-roomed house, born in this country. jesus christ, you'll start screaming the whole bloody night. why is there so much trouble, mr. buntu? last saturday, i went to a funeral of an old man just on the other side of port alfred

in those small farms. you know the way it is with us men. when an old man dies, there is always that service at home, another service at the church, another service at the graveside. all the priests present that day selected one phrase from the bible. [speaking african language] "we are all going home one day." but my moment was at the graveside, when they gave a chance to a lay preacher. he was a very tiny man, with a thin trimmed moustache. he wore one of those double-breasted suits, which -- wore. and every time this man called upon the lord, he had a wonderful gesture for me. [speaking african language] this reminded me of my kieri days. standing next to that little black coffin, he started by saying, "here lies jacob." that was the old man's name. here lies jacob at the age of 101 years old.

here lies jacob at the end of the road. this man with his bare hands, he has built the highways, the tunnels, the bridges of this country. and with his bare feet, he printed all those footpaths running through the bush and farms. here lies jacob at the end of the road. he said to those mothers squatting next to the grave, with their eyes solemn and the veils on their faces, he said, "wipe your tears, my sisters. "lift up your veils. stand up. "stand up, my brothers, and let us all sing. "let us sing because jacob, at last, is a better man." he hasn't got our troubles, he hasn't got our problems because jacob, at last, has reached home. that's the home for the black man, is when they dig a hole to bury him, is when they press our face against the cold earth and we smile with our teeth out. that will be the only time we will be happy, brother, is when we are dead. let me do you a favor. have you ever been to sky's place?

come with me. i'll do you a few shots there. let's go drown our sorrows at sky. let's go drink ourselves to death. that's the only time that black men can be happy, is when he's drunk. sky's. sky's place. hey, nowetu, when i mention that name again, i get a headache. such would be your surprise, nowetu, if you had seen me at sky's place, only it was not just cold drinks being served, no, but first-class booze. and it was not mrs. teron's serving, no, but a certain wonderful and beautiful lady called miss nkonyemi. and it was not just sizwe, your husband, seated there, no, but mr. bansi with all the most important and lovely people new brighton has ever known.

and we left sky's place, nowetu, with mr. buntu at 12:00 midnight. i'm taking you home. come. hey, wait here. i just want to pee in that corner. - okay. - don't move. if you move here, those thugs will grab you. right? how can you find jesus christ in a dutch reformed church? that sizwe, that sizwe is a bloody fool, i'm telling you. he's leading mr. bansi and mr. buntu astray. i know my way around this place, and i'm going to moor him if i find him-- you can't bullshit. come. let's get out. there's trouble there. only me in trouble, my friend. i said there's a dead man there. yeah? he's lying flat on the ground. i peed him wet. i thought he was a heap of rubbish. i look again, he's dead. listen, we must get out of here before the policeman come.

- come, this... - okay. - this side, man. - mr. buntu. what? let's report that to the police station, my friend. police station? this time of the night? two drunk men, one with a wrong dom book. we both walk right inside the police station. "sergeant, there's a dead man." lock them up. they killed him. i know those bastards. - okay. - come. - okay, mr. buntu. - what now? - mr. buntu. - what? let's carry that man home, my friend. jesus christ, we walk up and down with a dead man. we don't know who killed him. the policeman asks, "who killed this man?" "we don't know, sir." not a bloody damn. i'm going home now. - okay. listen, mr. buntu. - what now? - mr. buntu? - eh? then let's report that man to his home, my friend. and how do i know where that bloody dead man stays? how do you expect me to go back to that corner, ask a dead man, "where did you stay before?" don't be bloody stupid. you say you don't know, my friend. how will i know? - mr. buntu. - what? you see this, my friend?

that dead man's dom book is going to tell you, my friend. that dead man's dom book, like this dom book of my dogs, i'm telling you, my friend. you want to put me in real kak tonight, wena. i don't want to put you in shit. my friend, i'm not trying to put mr. buntu in shit. that dead man's dom book, like this dom book of my dogs, it knows its english. big words, "endorsement. report back. don't come back." sizwe bansi wants to come to port elizabeth, my friend. this dom book says, "no." sizwe bansi wants to come and work in port elizabeth. this dom book says, "no." sizwe bansi wants to bring his family to port elizabeth. this dom book says, "no." people, it was never like that when they introduced it. they called it a book of life, happiness, joy,

you can't get lost. but look what is happening to me with this dom book. this dom book is getting me mixed up. i'm getting mixed... [speaking african language] he was a handsome chap, this man, robert zwelinzima. - group, xhosa. - yeah. tribe, fingo. - yeah. - bergerskap. briskop? no citizenship. in the case of a native who is not a south african citizen, n.i. number, bantu population register. warning, it is an offense for any person-- where does he stay, my friend? hey, look. this dead man is one up on you. he's got the right stamp in his book and the work seeker's permit. okay, my friend.

right stamp or wrong stamp, just look for his address card. okay, section b. that's it. 46 mendi road, new-- [mutters] section 1. - huh? - you know what that means? - section? - he was a lodger there. - look, if you're not married-- - i know. they don't give you a house. you must screw around until you get married. then they put you on the waiting list. - oh, yeah. - yeah. it wasn't this house. they kicked him out. let's see. 52 medala street--the same kak. hey, i'm not going here. - where? - you know where this man stays? - where does he stay? - single men's quarters. [speaking african language] hey, hey, listen. i stay at 50 mapija street. any man can show you where mapija street is. number 50, right on the door, right? that single men's quarters is a hell of a big concentration camp with a string of houses like train carriages, 12 doors in each carriage, 6 men behind each door. so what, mr. buntu? you want us to go there this time of the night, knock at those thousands of doors, wake up the whole bloody compound? does robert stay here? that is...

we don't have to do that, my friend. i'm not trying to do that. listen, this is trouble. it's no trouble, mr. buntu. we've got nothing to do with this man. don't say that, mr. buntu. hey, i'm taking this book back. - buntu. - what? and you will do that with me, too, my friend. if -- stabbed at night and left me there, buntu, would you just pee me wet and leave me, buntu, your own friend, buntu? i wish i was dead, buntu. i wish i was dead because nobody cares a damn about me. what's happening in this world, my friend? who cares for who in this world? who cares for me? what's wrong with me? i've got eyes to see. i've got ears. i've got a head to think good things. am i not a human being? look at me, my friend.

i've got arms. i'm strong. i can run with a wheelbarrow full of cement. am i not a human being? look at me, my friend. i've got a wife and four children. how many children does he make? what makes me different from him? am i not a human being? am i not a human being? am i not a man? i'm a man. - hey. - i'm a man. - hey. let me see your book. - what? let me see your reference book. are you a policeman, buntu? for christ's sake, let me see this bloody book. buntu, take this book, my friend. take this book and read it carefully, buntu, and tell me what it says about me, buntu. does this book say i'm a man, buntu? does this dom book say i'm a human being, buntu? this dom book, my friend, wherever you go, it's dom book.

you go to church to sing good hymns. you've got to carry a dom book. you go to town to buy food for your family. you must have a dom book. in your own house with your children, this dom book must be in your pockets. and even when you die in hospital, this dom book must be there. dom book, yer, this is a world of dom books. come. yer.

eehh, yo yo yo yo. uh-uh. i, i won't. - this is the chance. - i, i won't. i-- this is your only chance. i still say no, buntu. what's it mean, buntu? - that means sizwe bansi... - is dead. i'm not dead, buntu. ah, shit, my brother. let us burn this book. sizwe bansi disappears off the face of the earth. and that man you left in the street, buntu? tomorrow the policemen pass that goner. they see the dead man, run his pockets, they won't find this book. three days in the public mortuary. nobody identifies him. pauper's burial. and what then, buntu? i contact my friend, norman at felt & textiles. i tell him about you, robert zwelinzima, my friend. the white man looks at the book. who does robert zwelinzima looks like? you. who gets the job? you. and what about that shit at the labor bureau, buntu? you don't have to go there. this man has the right stamp in his book and the work-seeker's permit. once the white man signs it, you can stay in port elizabeth. i don't want to lose my name, buntu.

what you bloody mean, you don't want to lose this book. you like this bloody book they gave us well. i say i can't lose my name, buntu. all right. after all, i was trying to help you. i've got my book and i'm staying in port elizabeth. robert zwelinzima takes this book, he's got a job at felt & textiles. sizwe bansi picks up this one. he walk 150 miles to king william's town. you better start walking. you go to be there yesterday. - buntu. - don't bloody bullshit me. buntu. i told you they're coming back again. if they find you here, you'll be back in that crowded train. take an advice from me, friend. walk the 150 miles, there's a lot of sightseeing in that. buntu. you get a bloody lot, man. go join your wife. she's there in king william's town out of job. your children are out of school. - buntu. - join them. the whole sizwe bansi family is on leave for life. that's what the bloody white men want. sit down with your ass in the ciskeian border, cough your lungs out. that's the way to king william's town, man. - walk. - buntu. i said get out of my house. - buntu. - what? what about my wife, nowetu? buntu?

what has your wife got to do with this? her loving husband is dead, buntu. so she's going to marry a better man. - who, buntu? - robert zwelinzima. you, man. ay, buntu, how can i marry my wife? who am i, buntu? robert or sizwe? please, i'm mixed up now, buntu. leave the rest to me. as soon as your wife gets here, i will introduce you to your wife. no, buntu, my children. their father is sizwe bansi, and they're registered as bansi at school. are you worried about those children? are you worried about yourself? are you worried about your bloody name? you, my brother, with this book and that stamp, that job at felt & textiles, at least can make this world a little bit brighter for your children. no. i'm afraid, buntu. how do i get used to robert? how do i live as another man's ghost, buntu? ghost? wasn't sizwe bansi a ghost? - no, buntu. - wasn't he? - no. - when that bloody white man at the labor bureau grabbed you by the collar, what did he see when he looked at your face? a man with dignity and respect

or another dom book with an n.i. number? isn't that a ghost? walk to the white suburb, that little child says to its mother, "mama, look at that boy. isn't that a ghost?" all i want you to be is a real ghost if that's what they want us to be. be a bloody ghost, man, if that's what they've turned us into. why can't you be a spook? spook the lot of them to hell. suppose you try my idea? suppose you take this book and you get that job at felt & textiles? friday, 3:00 in the afternoon, it's pay time. roughcasting, section c, non-skilled laborers, one line. the white man sits there with that big box full of the wage packets in line. he picks up the first one, "john kani." "yes, sir." pay packet over. "thank you, sir." he picks up the next one, "winston ntshona." "yes, sir." pay packet over. "thank you, sir."

he picks up the next one, "fats bhokolane." [speaking african language] pay packet over. [speaking african language] he picks up the next one, "robert zwelinzima? robert zwelinzima." yes, sir. pay packet over. open it. open it. 5, 10, 11, 12, 99. 12 rand, 99 cents a week. your wife, your children, rent, food, clothes, school fees, school books, school uniform, your tax, your life, your future. saturday morning, man in a blue overall. 12 rand, 99 cents in the back pocket. he walks straight to town into main street, sales house. ah, he walks in, the salesman meets him. "sit down, my boy. sit down. "you've come to buy a suit?

"ah, just a deposit, "the rest of the balance in six months installments. "you must pay every month, my boy. "we shall send you statements to remind you of your balance. "let me take your name and address down, "so that we can send you a calendar "during christmas holidays. what is your name, my boy? your name?" robert zwelinzima. where do you stay? 50 mapija. where do you work? feltex. felt & textiles consolidated spinning mills, ltd., s.a. how much are they giving you there a week? 12 rand, 99 cents. 99. what is your reference book number? n.i.? n.i. number? n.i. number 3811863.

burn this number in your head, my brother. burn it. this is more important than your name. the white men will never ask for your name, but always this number. never forget it. you heard me. never forget it. - n.i. number, three. - three. - eight. - eight. - one. - one. - one. - one. - eight. - eight. - six. - six. - three. - three. again. n.i. number? - three. - three. - eight. - eight. - one. - one. - one. - one. - eight. - eight. - six. - six. - three. - three. n.i. number, my boy? 3-8-1-1-8-6-3.

sunday morning, man in his white suit from sales house. he looks smart, so he must go to church. he picks up the bible and the hymn book. down grattan street into dora road. right inside the church and there stands the priest on the pulpit again. [speaking african language] - amen. - i warned you all. - hallelujah. - your time is up. amen. - beware-- - hallelujah. lest the lord visits the earth. - amen. - the books, the page. - hallelujah. - your names are not found. repent. before it is too late. repent. will all those that have not yet handed their names for the burial society remain seated, please? may i have your name, my brother? address? your reference book number? n.i.? your name, my sister? address?

your reference book number? v/f. your name, my brother? your name, sir? robert zwelinzima. address? 50 mapija. n.i. number? 3-8-1-1-8-6-3. sunday afternoon, he walks out of the church a saved man. the congregation waits outside. everybody is happy. may the lord bless you, brother bansi. we are happy you belong to the call of the lord at last. amen. hallelujah. he walks down the street. may you stay within the right side of the laws of this country. jesus christ will see to that as well. amen. hallelujah.

[speaking african language] three steps from his date just before he opens it, suddenly police. clean that face. your name? - robert. - address? mapija. - where do you work? - feltex. passbook? now, have you got this reference book? - yes. - now, do you? come. - have you got the bloody book? - yes. sergeant, throw him in. oh, hold it, sergeant. [whistles nervously] what -- do you vote for? sebe. hey, your boss must sign this book every month. this bloody book must be signed every month. now, where's your tax? where's your tax? [mutters]

all right, buntu, i will try. that's a man. that's my brother. if you want to stay alive, you must try. but if i try, buntu, sizwe bansi is dead. what about robert zwelinzima? what about the man? i peed him wet until i realized it was all that was left of a man. he's alive. it's a bloody miracle. robert zwelinzima is alive again. look, my brother, if somebody were to offer me some of the things i wanted most in my life and will never get, some of the things that make me and my wife happy just in exchange for my name, buntu, you think i wouldn't swap? are you sure, buntu? yes, if it was me alone to think about, if i had no responsibility, no one to care a damn about. yes, my brother, i'll be prepared to keep my name

and pay that price with a little pride. but if i had a wife i loved, wasting her life, 150 miles in -- in the bush. if i had four hungry children waiting for me, their father, to do something about their lives, no, sizwe. robert. oh, yes. robert, nomen, sizwe, mangi, busi-- to hell with your bloody name, man. to hell with that name, if in exchange for it, you can get a piece of bread in your stomach and blankets in the winter. all right. swap those photos and return the dead man's book. you can keep your name if it is important to you. have your name back, man, if it means your bloody pride. but next time, next time, the bloody white man calls you john, don't turn back. it's not your name, don't say "ja, boss." next time, next time the bloody white man calls you a boy, don't run up to him and lick his ass like we all do.

turn back and face him, "white man, i'm a man, not a boy." quit bluffing ourselves, my brother. listen, i'm not saying that pride is not a way for us black people, but all i say is shit on our pride if only we're bluffing ourselves that we are men. we are men, my brother. we are men. you just remind me of my father's hat. you're just like the old man's hat, a special navy blue stetson hat, wrapped in a plastic bag to keep the dust off. my father puts it right on top of the wardrobe. god help the children who so touch it. sundays, he puts on his diamond black suit, the only suit he puts on when he goes to funerals of relatives. then comes the special hat. as my father walks down the stairs, me and my mother, we watch him through the lace curtain, and both we say, "there goes the man," my father. as he walks down the stairs, down the street and that bloody big policeman stops, and the white man shouts again, "come here, boy." off comes that hat.

boss, mein herr. is this what you call pride? is this what you call pride? take mine and give me bread for my children. understand me, brother. you know, robert zwelinzima, that man i left stinking in that dark corner. if there are ghosts, his ghost is smiling tonight. he's a brother, man, just like us. you know what his ghost is saying? "good luck, sizwe. i hope it works." for how long, buntu? how long? for as long as you stay out of trouble. trouble will lead you to the police station. at the police station, they'll take your fingerprints. your fingerprints will be sent to pretoria, where they line our names, numbers, faces and lives in the big book. and your name, sizwe bansi, will be kicked out again, and that will be the beginning of your troubles, brother.

buntu, do you know what you are saying? you are saying a black man must stay out of trouble. it's impossible, buntu. our skin itrouble. you said you wanted to try. i'll see you in the morning. good luck, my brother. i hope it works. so, nowetu, for the time being, my troubles are over. christmas, i'll come home. in the meantime, buntu is working out a plan to get me a lodger's permit. if i get it, you and the children can come here in port elizabeth.

spend the money i'm sending you carefully. if all goes well, i'll be sending more and more every week from now. i do not forget you. your loving husband, sizwe bansi. one more time, robert. come. hold it. robert, smile. smile, robert. smile. ay! witnessing human beings forcing another human beings to spend their whole lives in spiritual and physical traps and cages leaves us with a feeling of outrage and fear and helplessness.

paul laurence dunbar, a man not too far removed from the days of slavery, understood this feeling of entrapment. and he wrote a poem called sympathy. i know what the caged bird feels, alas! when the sun is bright on the upland slopes; when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, and the river flows like a stream of glass; and the first bird sings and the first bud opes, and a faint perfume from its chalice steals, i know what the caged bird feels!

i know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars; for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he fain would be on the bough a-swing; and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pulse again with a keener sting i know why he beats his wing! i know why the caged bird sings, ah, me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, and he beats his bars and he would be free; it is not a carol of joy or glee, but a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

but a plea, that upward to heaven he flings i know why the caged bird sings! this was a co-production of miami-dade community college and british broadcasting corporation, british open university. captioning performed by aegis rapidtext