Out of sight, out of mind: A reflection on legacy and loss

IOL News

23-04-2025

Movements that forget their elders, discard their servants and replace memory with machinery lose their souls, writes Saftu general secretary Zwelinzima Vavi.
Image: Itumeleng English / Independent Media
"The future is everyone's fear."
Do not have high expectations of your family, friends, and comrades!
Last Saturday, I attended the funeral of a veteran unionist and activist who had faded from prominence over the years due to age and ill health. She was once a fierce organiser and educator for COSATU and had passed through the ranks of SACCAWU and FEDCRAW. She embodied the tripartite alliance and the strong resistance traditions of the Vaal Triangle.
She witnessed and survived the fires of 1976, the 1984 Vaal uprisings, the Sebokeng-Boipatong massacre, and every political upheaval in between. Growing up, she lived among neighbours who bore the scars from the 1960 Sharpeville massacre. Her life was woven into the very fabric of the people's movement.
Yet I was stunned to discover that her funeral service was being held at her home. Those who grew up in the townships know how small those yards are. For a comrade of her stature? She deserved a send-off befitting a hero. In my mind, I had pictured streets lined with mourners, young people chanting, banners flying, and a final farewell lit by the red colours of the struggle. But none of that was present.
The young and the old passed by quietly, minding their own business, their faces heavy with the burdens of daily survival.
I recalled Frantz Fanon's eternal words: "Each generation must discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it." And I realised - I could not blame them. The silence of the street was not betrayal; it was exhaustion.
There were not many in attendance. I sat at the front and counted the comrades I recognised - perhaps 25. Very few wore the colours of the movement to which she dedicated her life. Not a single red T-shirt of any kind - just a few women from the Women's League who had come in solidarity. The saying "out of sight, out of mind" pierced my thoughts more sharply than ever
The coffin was modest, with no draping from the organisations she served. I have seen families go all out for their loved ones at funerals and witnessed ceremonies where resources signified remembrance. But buying the most expensive coffin is not necessarily a fitting tribute. Please give me my flowers while I can still smell them.
The speeches from her neighbours and comrades were fitting - moving and fierce. They recounted her story and affirmed her power. I wished more people could have heard them; more neighbours should have seen who lived among them.
Then, we proceeded to the cemetery, where the trauma deepened. The grave dug by the municipality was shallow, uneven, and wet, with water pooling at one end. My family has a tradition: a grave must be prepared with dignity. You do not throw soil directly over the coffin; there must be zinc or sticks. It's about honour and respect.
And I asked myself - what awaits me and others like me after four decades of sacrifice for the workers' cause?
What happened to Elijah Barayi? To Ronald Mofokeng? What will happen to Jay Naidoo, Mbhazima Shilowa, and James Motlatsi? Who will remember? Who will care? Will we only recall their mistakes and forget the decades of their sacrifice?
Three weeks ago, I attended the funeral of the lifelong partner of a towering figure in our labour movement - the General Secretary of NUMSA. She was a stalwart in her own right. NUMSA leaders attended and gave her a dignified send-off. Yet again, there was the same quiet, the same absence, the same forgetting. I wanted to see more shop stewards and officials. I had imagined thousands chanting in the streets. So I ask - not out of vanity, but from the depths of a sleepless mind - what will become of me?
Will my children remember? Will they bury me with understanding? Will their partners and in-laws even attend? Will they know the life I lived and the struggle I stood for?
What about my siblings - of whom only six remain? Some are already pensioners, and two younger siblings are nearing that stage. I trust them; they would bury me with dignity, as we buried my sister only three weeks ago - laid to rest like a queen by her children.
But what if they pass before me?
And what about the comrades I led and the staff I worked with? The union officials I mentored, defended, reprimanded, and celebrated? Will they come? Will they remember? Will the leadership in place understand what I gave? Or will they leave it to my family to carry the weight of it all?
I have organised to ensure my comrades are buried quietly - at my own expense. I borrowed money to travel to the NUMSA General Secretary's wife's funeral. I drove myself there with no one else except my wife. I have organised comrades to take his son to the mountain as part of the Xhosa rituals. I have stood in the gap when their organisations did not. I have made sure others were laid to rest with the honour they were denied in life. But will anyone stand for me as I have stood for others?
Movements that forget their elders, discard their servants and replace memory with machinery lose their souls. Kgalema Motlanthe once remarked that there is nothing more important than memory.
We spend the better parts of our lives serving without sparing ourselves. But when we age and become sick, we become the burdens of our families and close friends - if we are lucky to have had good friends. This is not a cry for accolades. This is a plea for consciousness
I do not fear death. I fear erasure. I fear that the next generation may forget the shoulders they stand on. I fear a politics without memory, without honour, without spirit.
But I take comfort in this: somewhere, a young worker is speaking truth to power. Somewhere, a protest is erupting. Somewhere, a soul is being stirred to fight back.