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Оглавление2 The Anatomy of the Marashea
THE MARASHEA WAS FOUNDED by adult male Basotho migrants working in South African cities and mines. Age, gender, and ethnicity have remained defining features of the Russian gangs to the present day. The stability associated with adult members who do not graduate out of a youth gang lifestyle has been important to the organizational coherence of the Marashea. Men control the various Marashea groups, and the exploitation of female members, combined with a militaristic masculine identity, has shaped the history of the society. A Sesotho identity remains at the very core of Borashea, for the gangs exist to meet the needs of Basotho migrants operating in an alienating and often hostile South African environment. Over the past fifty years the Marashea has undergone many changes and in many ways has stayed the same. In any case its existence reinforces the argument that, despite the constraints imposed by apartheid, Africans constructed influential organizations that often had a greater degree of localized power than various government agencies.
FORMATION
Any study of the Marashea must begin by acknowledging Philip Bonner’s pioneering work on the origin and first decade of Russian existence on the Reef in the late 1940s to 1950s. Bonner argues that Basotho differed from other migrant groups on the Rand in this period because of their tendency to permanently settle in the urban areas and that “it was the scale and rapidity of this transition from migrant to immigrant status that was responsible for the Russians’ development.”1 Basutoland was in deep distress in the 1930s. Population growth, land shortages, and soil exhaustion were exacerbated by severe drought. At the same time bridewealth prices were higher than elsewhere in South Africa. As a result of these circumstances, increasing numbers of men left Basutoland for longer periods of time. Desertion of wives became more frequent and thousands of impoverished women migrated to the Rand to scrape out a living, often as beer brewers and prostitutes. Many of these migrant men and women formed liaisons that eroded family commitments at home and mitigated against their return to Lesotho. At the same time, burgeoning employment opportunities and the higher wages available in secondary industries meant that Basotho men were leaving their jobs on the mines and moving into the urban areas. As a result, Basotho migrants began dominating many of the squatter movements and established an increasing presence in the townships. This process, Bonner believes, resulted in battles over territory, housing, and women and eventually gave birth to the Marashea, the bulk of whom lived and worked in the townships.
The movement of Basotho workers from the mines to secondary industry during the 1940s, combined with the fact that the majority of his informants followed that trajectory, led Bonner to conclude that “the preponderance of Russian leaders were working in secondary industry (much of it heavy), with the balance self-employed, mainly in tailoring. Their membership, while being regularly replenished and reinforced from the mines, was likewise employed for the most part in secondary industry.”2
My research indicates different work and settlement patterns. The Russian gangs on the Rand in the 1950s were led by men who lived in the locations, and while there is no doubt that many Marashea moved out of the compounds during this period, oral and documentary evidence suggests that mineworkers still comprised the majority in most Russian groups on the Rand.3 Alarmed by the weekend rampages of visiting mineworkers, township representatives urged the authorities to place tighter restrictions on miners’ movements. Following a series of weekend robberies in 1965 in which Russians were implicated, a member of Phiri’s (Soweto) Joint Advisory Board insisted, “These men are not local, but come from compounds in the East Rand. . . . It is clear that after drinking all their money . . . they tend to go out and hunt for innocent prey in the streets.”4 The African press highlighted the activities of marauding Russians on numerous occasions, and the report of an attack on Naledi (Soweto), announcing that “Blanketed ‘Russians’ from the mines hit the township at dawn,” was typical of such coverage.5 Township officials in areas regularly visited by Russian mineworkers complained vociferously—“Basutos employed in the gold mining industry habitually visit Pimville at weekends and terrorise the respectable and law abiding residents of the location. This it may be mentioned is a typical pattern of behaviour of the Basutos employed on the Reef.”6 The involvement of Basotho mineworkers in the 1950s Newclare violence was deemed sufficiently serious for the director of native labor for the Witwatersrand to request that compound managers prevent Basotho employees from visiting the township.7 While some Russians, including the leaders, resided in the townships, it was widely perceived that the gangs drew their strength from the compounds.
Moreover, a more urbanized Basotho populace did not necessarily signal a migrant-to-immigrant shift for the circumstances of most Basotho workers during this period were not so sharply defined. Marashea veterans interviewed for this study almost all maintained close ties with relations and friends in Lesotho and moved frequently between South Africa and Lesotho. Some settled permanently on the Rand and lost contact with families, but most regarded Lesotho as home and returned when their working lives were finished. Others migrated between Lesotho and South Africa on a more or less continual basis, depending on work opportunities, family circumstances, and the need to escape criminal prosecution in South Africa. Borashea was a survival and coping mechanism for its members but it did not arise from a migrant-to-immigrant transition. Bonner’s period, when large numbers of Russians worked in secondary industry, was an aberration. If the Marashea had largely cut their ties with the mines, one might expect that the Basotho gangs, like the Isitshozi mining gangs before them, would have become indistinguishable from the numerous urbanized gangster organizations on the Rand. A wider temporal and geographical focus on the Marashea demonstrates that nothing could be further from the truth.
As for the timing of the formation of the Marashea, an additional factor might well be of consequence. A number of early Marashea, including several of the men I interviewed, were veterans of the Second World War. Some accounts credit these veterans with being the founding members of the society. BH, a prominent Matsekha leader in the 1950s East Rand who arrived in Johannesburg in 1946, recalls that “Marashea began at the time of men like Ntate [term of address for an adult male] Mapiloko, Ntate Likhetla, and Ntate Matsarapane when they arrived from the world war. . . . . There were many men from the world war and they were the ones that began the groups of Marashea.”
Before the Second World War, Basotho migrants who fought with melamu (traditional fighting sticks) were known as liakhela, a label that distinguished them from “respectable,” law-abiding Basotho (multiple interviews).8 These early groups of fighters sometimes organized according to regional divisions in Lesotho, as was the case in a series of disputes in Vereeniging in the mid-1940s. However, the Marashea proper seem to have been born in Benoni, on the East Rand, in 1947 or 1948.9 The name Marashea surfaced in the late 1940s and was taken from the Russians, who were understood to have been fierce and successful fighters in the recent world war. At first no regional distinctions were made, but by 1950 a bitter rivalry had emerged. One faction referred to themselves as Marashea, while their rivals took the name Majapane, after the Japanese. “It is like naming a football team. The new team might be named after one that is already famous. Marashea were those from Matsieng [southern Lesotho] and Majapane were from Leribe [northern Lesotho]. Those from Matsieng named themselves after Russia while Molapo named themselves after Japan. These two countries were known to be strong in war. That’s why those two groups chose those names. But within no time the name of Majapane died away and even those of Molapo were called Marashea” (MK).10 The two main factions have since identified themselves as Matsieng (sometimes referred to as Makaota), from the south of Lesotho, and Molapo/Masupha (collectively known as Matsekha), from the north.
COMPOSITION
Membership was open to all Basotho men (most came from Lesotho, but Basotho from the Eastern Free State and the ethnic homeland of QwaQwa were also readily accepted); however, people from other ethnic groups were generally allowed to join as long as they spoke Sesotho. For example, Hlubi from the Matatiele area on Lesotho’s southern border (who speak both Xhosa and Sesotho) made up a portion of some Marashea groups. The typical trajectory for male youth was to herd their families’ animals, attend initiation school to learn the customs and rituals associated with manhood, and then migrate to the cities and mining areas to find work. Female members left Lesotho and the more impoverished rural areas of South Africa to escape desperate economic and social circumstances. The overwhelming majority of Marashea, both male and female, came from backgrounds of rural poverty and few had any significant formal education. Men labored in the mines and secondary industry while women most often took positions as domestic servants, brewed beer, and engaged in sex work.
Occupational divisions among male Marashea will be discussed in detail later; it is enough to note here that groups were composed of employed members and those known as malofa (loafers), who relied on various, often illegal, means to support themselves. None of the retired members interviewed in Lesotho could be considered well off and many live in poverty. Marashea still active in South Africa typically live in informal settlements, although a select few men in the upper echelons of the organization display such trappings of wealth as private vehicles and cell phones.
As Bonner has noted, “Unlike other urban gangs on the Rand, the Russians were overwhelmingly adult in composition. No age cohort dominated, certainly not the youth.”11 Men usually joined in their youth but senior positions were generally reserved for long-serving veterans, and marena (chiefs or leaders; sing., morena) were required to be men of stature and experience. Given their perilous lifestyle, Marashea valued members who had proven themselves in difficult situations. A 1950s Matsekha commander, Maliehe Khoeli, explained that when a killing was planned he depended on seasoned veterans. Even if they were arrested these men would not divulge information to the police, whereas a youth would probably inform on his comrades if tortured.12
Elderly Marashea usually returned to Lesotho when they left the gangs. In such circumstances veterans received transport money and perhaps a little extra. “There is no big sum—at his farewell he gets something, but not enough for him to live on at home. However, we are responsible for his funeral like any other Lerashea” (KI). BM explains that “The old Lerashea is advised to go home, but if he does not want to go back home we do not force him, especially those Marashea who joined a long time ago who abandoned their families in Lesotho and do not have a home to go to.” Those who stayed were not expected to contribute as warriors. “He is not required to go to the fights because he would get killed” (DS). Instead, they acted as advisors for fights and for dealings with the authorities. Retired fighters also fulfilled other functions: “When Lerashea is old he stays looking after the women. He is given a simple job and he must make sure the [kidnapped] women do not escape” (DG). Probably more women than men remained in South Africa, because Marashea women are considered outcasts and prostitutes by many people in Lesotho. Men typically maintained families in Lesotho and returned to them when they retired. Fewer women enjoyed that option and many became estranged from their families. “If a woman is old she stays until she dies or her man dies—the old women are always selling joala [beer]. Others become lingaka [traditional doctors; sing., ngaka] giving moriana [traditional medicine], to Marashea. When the men go to fights and meetings she prepares her moriana to make them strong” (‘Mè RB).
GEOGRAPHY
The Marashea has settled in a variety of areas and environments during its fifty years of existence. Since the formation of the gangs, members have resided in the mining compounds. On the Rand in the 1950s, “Marashea groups tended to congregate in the less regulated parts of urban locations,”13 like Newclare and the “Asiatic” (Indian) section of Benoni as well as various informal settlements. As Soweto was divided into different ethnic enclaves, Marashea became concentrated in the “Sotho” sections—Phiri, Naledi, Tladi, Molapo, and Moletsane. On the East Rand, Benoni, Springs, and Germiston were Matsekha areas. At least one faction of Marashea lived in a white area, sharing the servants’ quarters inhabited by their linyatsi (lovers or concubines; sing., nyatsi). In the 1960s PL, along with a number of men from his group, operated out of the Johannesburg suburb of Booysens. “We were living in the whites’ houses. Our linyatsi were working in the whites’ homes, so we were living there. When the owner of the house asked the woman when I go to work, she told him that I work at night, whereas really I did not work at all” (Lesotho, 24 May 1998). This group of Matsieng drew the majority of its members from nearby Crown Mines and held its meetings in a forest that separated the town from the mine or traveled to Phiri for larger gatherings. Veterans’ reports, along with documentary evidence, indicate that Russian gangs operated in and around both Bloemfontein and Pretoria in the late 1940s and 1950s, but these groups were not sustained. The Bloemfontein gangs are said to have consisted largely of railway workers, while the Russians operating in the Pretoria area worked in industry and were directly connected to some of the Johannesburg gangs.14
With the opening of mines in the far West Rand and Free State, Marashea groups established informal settlements adjacent to the mines and resided in townships such as Khutsong and Thabong.15 Squatter groups typically rented land from white farmers and formed independent settlements. Although these camps might occasionally be raided by the police, there was less police pressure than in urban areas and fewer pass problems for illegal migrants. Some Marashea groups leased the land, some paid per dwelling, and others worked out liquor kickback and protection agreements with the farmers. In 1998 and 1999, I visited three camps in the Free State and one near Carletonville in which the Marashea constituted the ultimate authority.
As foreign migrants, Marashea who lacked the proper documents were vulnerable to deportation. The adoption of harsher pass control measures, particularly the imposition of a single standard reference book, the “dompass,” in 1952, caused considerable hardship for some Marashea groups on the Rand. Johannes Rantoa reported, “At the time of Jan Smuts we had no problems but when the dompass was introduced we had a difficult time. We had to fix the whole thing in Lesotho; as such we had our number reduced. Some of us were arrested and others could not return to South Africa. . . . this was one of the reasons the group disintegrated” (21 May 1987, Bonner transcript). The 1963 Aliens Control Act was a further blow to the urban-based gangs. However, some Marashea men, by virtue of their birth in South Africa or their duration of employment on the Rand, retained the right to reside in Johannesburg. This cohort, along with the continuing trickle of Basotho who migrated to the Rand and eluded the authorities, ensured the survival of the urban Marashea into the 1990s.
For Marashea in the mining areas, pass and border controls became simply one more obstacle with which to contend and did not significantly weaken the organization. ‘Mè TF, who was active in the Free State in the 1970s and 1980s, was deported several times but always returned. “We were arrested at Christmas because the South African government wanted everyone to go back to their home, so they would deport us to the border posts. But we would not stay in Lesotho, we would just go back again by trespassing.” Active Marashea illegally residing in South Africa experience no real difficulties. A Free State informal settlement resident explains: ‘Sometimes the police come here and deport us to Lesotho. At Christmas in 1997 they came and I was one of those deported. They dropped us at Ficksburg bridge and we crossed and then came back. A taxi took us here the same day” (TC). CN takes advantage of lax border controls to avoid the inconvenience of deportation: “I renew my temporary permit every month because I go home [to Lesotho] almost every month. If I do not go home, I give my passport to a taxi driver I know to renew it.”
Lesotho is considered neutral territory by Marashea, and instances of conflict between rival groups have been rare. “We don’t fight in Lesotho. It only happens here [South Africa] where Marashea belongs. If I went to Thabong [Free State Township] now they would kill me, but if we meet in Lesotho, nothing will happen” (CN). The Marashea’s original purpose was to protect migrant Basotho, so the gangs filled a need that did not exist in Lesotho. Much of the internecine fighting in the mining areas was caused by competition over territory and markets. There are no mines in Lesotho and little if any money to be made, so the Marashea have operated exclusively in South Africa. Many veterans echoed TT’s claim that “Borashea was a thing of South Africa; there was no need for such a group in Lesotho.” For many years now Marashea groups have returned to Lesotho for funerals, feasts, and meetings. The Malunga Hotel on the outskirts of Maseru was a popular meeting place for the Russians.
Other than occasional skirmishes between rival groups on holiday or at a funeral, Marashea are active in Lesotho only in the sense that they can be hired to intimidate people and resolve disputes. Interested parties travel to South Africa and contract men to do this type of work for them. “The Marashea are doing nothing [in Lesotho], but if I want to attack someone in Lesotho I can go to South Africa and hire Marashea who will come back and kill him. There are no Marashea in Lesotho but you can invite them if there is a problem” (SM). A detective in the Royal Lesotho Mounted Police confirmed that Marashea are sometimes hired for the purposes of intimidation and assassination. According to him, Marashea are most visible at their funerals, where they invariably display and discharge illegal firearms. The police choose to overlook these activities rather than confront large groups of well-armed Marashea (Detective M, Maseru, 20 April 1998). Although some prominent veterans who retire to Lesotho maintain contact with their former groups, act as mediators and advisors, and still consider themselves Marashea, the bulk of retired members seem to share KI’s assessment of their status: “Those who live in Lesotho after leaving Marashea are no longer regarded as Marashea. Like in my case, I don’t regard myself as Lerashea. . . . my being Lerashea ended when I left South Africa.”
JOINING THE MARASHEA
Like virtually every aspect of Borashea, the process of joining the group was profoundly gendered. Men chose to join and, although there were no elaborate induction ceremonies, were usually informed of the responsibilities and expectations that accompanied group membership. SO’s account of joining Matsieng in 1972 is typical of the process: “When I joined I was surrounded by all the members and the morena told me all the rules. He asked me whether I was ready to fight any rival and I said yes. Will you kill anyone who tries to kill you, he asked. When you are arrested you must not inform on others, he told me. You must keep all our information secret from the police. They said, this is what we need you to do. And they told me not to tell the other miners our secrets. Even in Lesotho you were not supposed to tell anything concerning Marashea.”
There were no qualifications for membership other than the ability to speak Sesotho. Men simply presented themselves to the group, expressed their desire to join, agreed to abide by the rules, and paid an initial fee. Different groups constantly sought new members as there was strength, both military and financial, in numbers. Most often, potential members were introduced to the group by established Marashea who were “homeboys,” workmates, or relatives. BM joined in 1968 after he was invited by fellow mineworkers: “When I started working on the mine I found men in my compound room who stayed outside the mine compound on weekends. . . . There were five Marashea in my room and this influenced me to follow them on weekends. I asked them, what was this Marashea? They explained to me and I became interested.”
Some male Marashea were introduced to the group through family connections, often an uncle or a cousin. I am also aware of several instances of brothers belonging to the same group and sons following fathers into the Marashea. However, there has never been an established pattern of generational succession in the Marashea. Indeed, some informants report that groups discouraged close relatives from joining because of the dangerous lives led by Marashea. “People from the same family were not allowed to join. That was done so that when my brother dies I would support his family and also to prevent the death of two people in the same family” (DG).16 Most veterans we spoke with, male and female, regard Borashea as a harsh life and hope for something better for their children. I have not learned of any parents encouraging their children to become Marashea, and several informants indicated that they had forbidden their children to join. However, some young men became Marashea against their fathers’ wishes. As DB replied when asked whether it was common for the sons or brothers of Marashea to join the group, “It happened because when you are here, your son goes to the mines somewhere and one day you see him holding molamu [fighting stick] and there is nothing you can do.” Certainly sons did not succeed fathers as leaders, and there was no core of family at the heart of the organization as with the Cape Town area “mafia” gangs.17
The most common reasons cited by male informants for becoming Marashea were physical security and access to women.18 Urban locations could be dangerous environments, especially for migrants, and group membership provided a measure of safety. In the 1940s and 1950s the Mpondo in particular are remembered for preying on Basotho: “I joined Marashea to protect Basotho who were ill-treated by Mapondo. Some were even killed in the bush when they walked from one mine to another. The Mapondo gathered at the railway stations to rob and kill Basotho” (MK). WL echoes these sentiments: “Mapondo used to beat us. Therefore I joined in order to be safe. I started enjoying life when I became a member.” Additionally, Basotho from southern Lesotho were sometimes targeted for intimidation and assault by Matsekha groups, as were northerners by Matsieng. Consequently, men joined their homeboys for protection. Joining a fighting association for safety is not without irony. However, even though collective violence was a staple of life in the Marashea, members judged that group security was preferable to the vulnerability of isolation.
Male veterans acknowledge that the gangs led harsh and often brutal lives. Most were arrested and all saw comrades die. However, male respondents reminisced fondly about the access to women that their status as Marashea afforded. Nonmembers had to pay to enjoy the company of women under Russian control. Former miner TL remembers:
If one of the miners who was not a member had maybe a woman outside, say a girlfriend or so, the Marashea would say that since that person is not a member he should pay something like a protection fee . . . because they are protecting all women outside. So these guys had to pay such fees, and if they didn’t pay, they take the woman away and she’s not going to be yours anymore. It was not like there were some negotiations, they would do what they wanted to do because they were a large group and they could force people into whatever idea they wanted.19
Russians were frequently given a woman and had free access to unattached women affiliated with the group. GK reports that his life improved significantly once he joined the Marashea. “What made me join was my love for women. I found that I was spending a lot of money to pay for women and this made me join in order to get them for free and without intimidation. I lived a happy life as Lerashea because I got what I always wanted.” “Mako” Thabane, a Matsieng commander in the 1950s and 1960s, declared, “There were many women to be had as Lerashea. There is no other reason why I became Lerashea except it meant entertainment” (Molefi Thabane, 15 June 1987, Bonner transcript). Others were motivated by an attachment to a particular woman. “I joined Marashea because the woman I loved lived in a squatter camp next to the mine and I was not free to see that woman unless I paid a fee to the Marashea. I joined because as a member it was easy for me to live with her” (KB). CN, who worked on a Free State mine in the 1970s, rated access to women as the primary benefit of Borashea, “because in the mine compound life is difficult and very lonely.”
Of course, men joined the group for a combination of reasons. WL, as stated above, joined for personal security, but also “because I was attracted to their life. They lived a bold life in Gauteng. When I saw Basotho putting on their blankets I became attracted and decided to join them in order to be like them.” Pride caused TC to become Lerashea: “I was working at Buffel [Buffelsfontein mine] and Marashea from Gauteng were coming here for stokvels. They would sometimes provoke me, saying that I was not a man, so I joined to show them that I was also a man like themselves. I had been to initiation school and I had learned molamu and I did not want to be mocked by other men.” A long-serving Matsieng veteran viewed membership as an effective strategy to thwart personal enemies: “When I worked [at St. Helena] as a miner there was a troublesome supervisor who undermined me. He even demanded bribes from people. And there was a Shangaan cook at the kitchen who gave me bones instead of meat, and I decided to join Marashea because of those two people so that I could get revenge against them” (PK). For LT, affiliation with the Marashea offered the best prospect of survival. “I was forced to join because I lost my job. I had no money to return home and there was nobody to assist me to get home.” The Marashea became more commercially oriented as the numbers of malofa increased over the years and many members joined for primarily economic reasons. KI, on the contrary, viewed membership as the fulfillment of a long-standing dream: “When I came out of initiation school I was interested in the people called Marashea in South Africa. I wanted to go to the mines so that I could join them. When I arrived there I visited Thabong, where I met Marashea. Since I was already interested I decided to join immediately. . . . I told myself when I was growing up that I would undergo initiation and thereafter go to the mines and join the Marashea.” Mineworkers sometimes commented on the social life available as a result of membership. “The good things about being Lerashea were to have security and a place where one can enjoy himself because on the mines life is too lonely for those who stay in the compound” (KI).
Large numbers of Basotho women have migrated to the urban and mining centers of South Africa since at least the early 1900s. Bonner, Tshidiso Maloka, and Judy Gay all assert that widows and abandoned wives made up the largest proportion of female migrants from the early years of the century to the 1970s.20 These women left Lesotho for a variety of reasons, including ill treatment by in-laws, the search for husbands who failed to send remittances, and desperate economic circumstances. Oral evidence indicates that these motivations, especially the economic imperative, continue to be the prime factors driving women to leave Lesotho. While it has become more difficult for Basotho women to migrate legally to South Africa since 1963, large numbers have continued to undertake the journey.21 Farm areas near the mines have long been the destination of homeland women whose options were severely constrained by influx regulations. Since the relaxation and eventual abolition of influx control in the 1980s, former homeland residents have poured into informal settlements throughout South Africa.
Female migrants seeking formal-sector employment generally lacked the qualifications to compete for the more prestigious positions open to women, such as nursing and teaching, and were largely confined to factory and cleaning work, but even these positions were closed to foreign migrants after 1963. Consequently, seasonal agricultural labor was virtually the only legal employment available to Basotho women in South Africa.22 Bonner states that by the late 1920s Basotho women dominated the brewing business on the Rand,23 and the opening of the Free State mines in the 1950s ensured that large numbers of female migrants continued to rely on brewing for their livelihood. Many of these women fell under the dominion of the Marashea.
Some women did not choose to become Marashea, rather they were kidnapped and coerced into becoming members. Perhaps the majority of women joined voluntarily, but for reasons that often differed from those of male Marashea. These women usually linked up with men who were Lerashea and automatically became part of the group. “My cousin was Lerashea and he stayed with us in the house and I became a friend of Marashea. My cousin was from the Matsieng group. They were dancing in the third house from this one and I met Tsotsi—he proposed and I agreed” (‘Mè RW). Others joined out of desperation: “You are just there [with the Marashea] because you do not have anywhere to stay and you are not even allowed to stay in South Africa. So you just stay there and sell joala” (‘Mè TF). Some women accepted proposals without knowing the man was Lerashea. Once they discovered his identity it was too late to leave the group (‘Mè FD).24 Marashea men frequented the railway stations and taxi ranks to scout for women who had just arrived in the locations. These women often had no place to stay and were susceptible to offers of accommodation (DG).
Women who joined without being attached to a particular man most often cited the need for protection from criminals and the law as their primary motivation. Independent women were vulnerable to criminal predation, police harassment, and deportation, and association with the Marashea afforded a degree of protection. For example, the men of Marashea ensured that customers honored their debts and women were not robbed, a significant benefit in the crime-plagued townships and informal settlements. Newspaper reports from the Rand confirm oral evidence that criminals and even African municipal police who interfered with Marashea women were subject to retribution. In Dobsonville (Soweto) a gang of seven tsotsis who allegedly molested a female Lerashea was chased into a house by avenging Marashea. “When the gang of seven ignored a challenge to fight it out, the raiders removed the iron roofing, poured petrol inside, and set the house alight. Overcome by smoke, the gang ran out to be thrashed by the Russians. All of them landed in hospital.”25 On the East Rand in 1967 four African police also ended up in hospital following a fight with the Russians resulting from their arrest of female Marashea.26 The hazards of life as an illegal migrant convinced ‘Mè ID to join the Marashea in Carletonville in the 1980s. “In South Africa we were staying illegally because we did not have work permits or residence permits, so I felt afraid. That’s why I joined the Marashea, because Marashea were not deported at all.” Additionally, the group usually paid the fines of women arrested for brewing and other minor offenses.
Although some women were impressed with the reputation of Marashea, admired their fine clothing, and enjoyed the dances and concerts, it seems that most joined simply because their male partner was Lerashea or as a measure of last resort. ‘Mè ID summarizes the plight of the latter group: “Women still leave Lesotho but it is unusual for a woman to leave knowing or intending to join Marashea. I think for most it is like it was for me. They intend to find jobs but it is very difficult, and then the easiest thing to do is to join the Marashea.”
ORGANIZATIONAL STRUCTURES
The Marashea has consisted of dozens of separate groups in the course of its history. These groups have operated largely independently of each other and have been differentiated by composition, leadership, relations with white authorities, size, and the environments in which they carved out a niche. A 1950s group in the urban township of Newclare would necessarily be quite different from a 1990s gang presiding over an informal settlement in the rural Free State. The Marashea has never been a monolithic entity; however, it remains a society linked by national origin, a distinct culture, and a common history. Borashea continues to be recognized as a Sesotho organization. Sesotho culture has played a key role in the identity of the Marashea—language, dress, and some social customs emanated from Lesotho, as did the divide that separated the two main factions. Marashea groups dispersed throughout the Free State and Gauteng have come together for general meetings, celebrations, and funerals and have assisted each other in times of conflict, both with rival factions and outsiders. And, while each group had its own particular character, oral testimony indicates that there was (and remains) a common organizational culture governing hierarchies, rules, and discipline, albeit one that adapted to circumstances and change over time.
The different groups of Marashea have varied widely in size. A cohort of at least twenty to thirty men was required for a group to be formed, but groups have been much larger and Marashea battles on the Rand sometimes involved several hundred combatants. The key determinants seem to have been the number of Basotho in a given area and proximity to the mines that sustained the groups. An influential morena could attract followers from a large area and establish control over several smaller groups. Solomon Hlalele was one such leader. He commanded the allegiance of most, if not all, Matsieng groups on the Rand in the early 1950s before he was jailed and deported to Lesotho. Other famous marena from both Matsieng and Molapo have established powerful networks in the years since. BM estimates that he rules approximately two hundred male Marashea and more than a thousand women. According to KB, the size and strength of each group was largely dependent on the quality of the morena. Without proper leadership, groups disintegrated. “The strength of Marashea differs from place to place depending on how they organize themselves, especially the morena’s ability to organize them. Another factor is their number, which is also determined by the number of Basotho in the area. If the morena is good many Marashea will join, but if he is not favored many will run away or resign.”
With a single exception, all informants reported that leaders were elected by the male Marashea. BM is the exception to the electoral rule. He claims he was appointed by his predecessor, who was preparing to retire.
I was called to Klerksdorp by Ntate Mokhemele, who was morena of the Klerksdorp region, which covers the Free State and Orkney and Klerksdorp. He said he looked all over the area but he could not find a leader among his people who could take his position as he was old and intended to retire. He found me to be the only one who could take his position. He called all marena under him and asked them to elect someone to take his position, but he rejected all their candidates and chose me as the general morena. He called me to Klerksdorp to take his position. He called me together with sixteen men—I was the seventeenth—to take his position as morena of the whole Free State and Klerksdorp. These men became my council and advisors.
In most cases it seems as if the morena was elected by all the men in the group. In larger groups, senior members sometimes arrived at a decision among themselves, but their decision needed to be confirmed by popular consensus. When Lenkoane, a powerful Matsieng leader in 1960s Soweto, was assassinated in 1963, PL reports that he was chosen morena of the group by the senior strata. “We had lost our brave leader. We had big men like ‘Mako’ Thabane, Menchele, and Nape and an old man whose name I forget. We sat down to discuss who was going to be morena and they appointed me and all Marashea approved this appointment.” The morena usually designated a committee of advisors, including a secretary, a treasurer, and a second-in-command. Each group also had whistle blowers who functioned as sentries and directed fights through different whistle signals. Marena were selected from these senior positions. KI explains: “Morena appoints wise men whom he trusts to work with him as his advisors. When morena dies we call them and put them in front and say, ‘Which one can we put on the seat of morena?’ If the majority agrees on one man, we install him as morena. We make a big feast, we eat and drink joala and dance all sorts of dances.”
Leaders were elected wholly on the basis of merit. Accomplished strategists and powerful fighters became commanders; royal connections and noble bloodlines in Lesotho carried no weight in the Marashea. HL discusses the qualities that groups looked for and the manner in which marena were expected to rule: “You cannot be morena if you are careless; you must have the qualities to rule people and you must speak in a way that you can convince people. You must be a good leader because you are not going to fight alone, you are fighting along with the people under your control. We sit at a meeting for every issue. You discuss with the members about how you can trap your rivals. You must investigate how many people they have so that you do not get your people into trouble.”
The safety of the group depended on the morena, and his leadership was under scrutiny, especially in the beginning of his term. “Morena is elected by the members who consider his qualities and experience. But if he is shit, we remove him and put another as morena. We might even kill him” (KI). PM concurs: “We wanted a person who is brave, who can look after people. If he is careless we could kill him. That’s why we want a good person, we tell him that he must be very careful.” Successful marena wielded a considerable amount of power but had to be sensitive to popular opinion. For example, BM was not pleased when he discovered his eldest son had joined one of the groups under his control. “I advised my son to leave the Marashea but I failed because my members asked me where that rule comes from. I didn’t stand a chance. They said that if a man has joined, he has joined. He cannot all of a sudden leave because he already knows the secrets.”
Marena performed a variety of functions with the assistance of the committee. They dispensed group funds to pay bail and legal fees and negotiated all sorts of arrangements with the police. Group discipline was the responsibility of the morena, who decided on punishments and arbitrated disputes. Marena decided when, whom, and how to fight and, in larger groups spread throughout several areas, controlled the actions of their subchiefs. For example, in October 1998, BM summoned his lieutenants from settlements throughout the Free State to a meeting in Virginia to discuss rumors that some of them were participating in taxi conflicts without his permission (BM). SAPS Inspector K reports a similar hierarchy among the group he worked with in the 1970s and 1980s, initially headed by Mokhemele: “It worked like this—MoKimbelele [Mokhemele] was in charge first and he had a lot of lieutenants under him. At that time it was Buffels, Harties, Stil, Jouberton, Canana [mining areas]. He was in charge of them—anything they do, they must first discuss it with him” (Potchefstroom, 7 June 1999).
Once marena were solidly entrenched, coups were uncommon. One of BM’s assistants, when discussing the matters of electing and removing marena, stated that “[BM] is morena for life. He is more than morena now. He is the father of us and he is above these conditions” (CN). Long-serving marena usually died on the job, although a few retired, ended up in jail, or were deported. BM plans to retire shortly, partly because he feels he is losing control. “I am retiring next year if I am still alive, because I am aware that I will end up killed by these youngsters because they do not like to be corrected. I should point out that Kloof, Khutsong, and Bekkersdal were under my rule, but because they were not prepared to accept my control, we parted.”
Many of the most famous marena died violent deaths. Matsarapane was hanged for his part in the killing of a white police officer; Lenkoane was assassinated by a fellow Matsieng; Bifa was killed by Mamalinyane, who was in turn slain by Bifa’s compatriots; Tsilo was stabbed to death under mysterious circumstances; Maseko was killed by the police; and Tsotsi Raliemere was killed by a rival faction.
Matsieng leader Tsotsi Raliemere’s funeral in Lesotho, 1985. Collection of the author.
RULES AND DISCIPLINE
Life was precarious for all Marashea and the gangs adopted strict rules to instill order and maintain male control. Although there have been minor variations between groups there seem to be some general rules that have applied to the Marashea as a whole. Regulations were designed to maintain group integrity, specifically to minimize conflict within each group, to maximize the financial and human resources of the group, and to prevent betrayal. Members were expected to follow instructions issued from the morena and the committee. “You have to take orders from the top. . . . When you are ordered to go somewhere, maybe to collect money, you have to obey” (MM). Members were required to settle quarrels through arbitration and to accept the judgment of the lekhotla (council). To take matters into one’s own hands invited severe punishment.
If maybe you beat someone [another member] who has taken your nyatsi instead of taking him to the lekhotla then you would be convicted and the fine was maybe R600 for such offences. And you had to pay that fine immediately. If you failed to pay immediately you would be beaten. They beat you severely and then they would take you to the hospital. They would break your bones and after the hospital you would come back to the group. You were required to respect the members in the group. (SO)
The linyatsi of group members were introduced to the group and it was an offense to covet another man’s nyatsi. “You should not propose to the woman of another member in the group. When you have nyatsi you have to report it to the group so that she would be known and an investigation would be made to ensure that she is not involved with another man within the group” (DG). For serious matters such as infidelity or attempting to escape, women were judged and punished by men. Some groups allowed women to deal with minor offenses such as personal quarrels. “We have a women’s council composed of elderly women that looks into the matter of rule-breaking. They can fine her some money or corporal punishment may apply depending on the nature of the case” (BM).
All male group members paid a regular contribution to the group treasury. In some groups this levy was collected monthly and in others it was paid weekly. These funds were used for the benefit of the group—to pay bail and legal fees, to hire traditional doctors and pay for moriana, to bribe police, and to pay for transport and funerals. When larger sums were needed—for example, to cover legal expenses when several members faced serious charges—both men and women Marashea were required to pay extra.
Once a man committed to the Marashea he was not free to leave the group. “It is not easy to leave because you are like a soldier, so you cannot leave while the fight is on” (DS). The old, the badly injured, and the sick were typically given a choice between returning home to Lesotho or staying with the group as advisors. For the young and active it was more problematic. “If you are healthy and young we cannot let you go—you are like an ox in a yoke plowing—we cannot let you go especially when you are young” (HL). This condition applied equally to men and women. “No one in Marashea is allowed to leave the group except for those who are old and useless” (‘Mè ID). Along with the determination to retain men of fighting age and younger women, who could attract mineworkers, there was a concern that absconders would reveal secrets to rivals and place the group in jeopardy. “You are not allowed to leave because you have seen our secrets; you have even seen our doctors and how they give moriana to us” (BH). “If you leave without our permission, then we consider you a traitor because you can inform on us to our rivals and the police, who can kill and arrest us” (HL). Healthy members could secure their release in select circumstances. Employed men who lost their jobs were often permitted to leave provided they returned to Lesotho—thus posing no danger. KI was forced to retire from the mines in 1985 and obtained permission to leave the group. He explains that “it is not easy to leave Marashea. But for those who work on the mines, if the job is finished, as in my case, one has to go home. . . . If one leaves the group because he was working and then lost his job, that is a valid reason and they let him go. But if he just decides to step aside while still living in South Africa, it might be like a decision to die.” It appears that some groups allowed members to purchase their release. “When you want to leave you must pay money for going out, and if you do not have money we do not permit you to leave” (MM).
Those who betrayed the group were sentenced to death and great effort was expended in tracking them down. “The most serious offence that a member can commit is treason, and he is killed instantly like a dog when he is discovered” (KI). Treason could encompass informing on colleagues to the police, defecting to a rival group or even leaving the group without permission. After being shot and wounded by the police during a skirmish, ML testifies that he was tired of life as Lerashea: “After that I wanted to leave the group but it was difficult to leave because after committing yourself there is no way to go back, as they will call you a traitor and chase you until they kill you.”
The most common method of discipline was corporal punishment. “In most cases the punishment will be melamu. We are Marashea here, not a church society—he must pay with his flesh” (CN). Beatings were usually administered in front of the group and there was a definite element of humiliation. “You are beaten like a child—but with melamu. You are stripped naked and beaten” (GL). Furthermore, offenders were expected to admit their culpability. “The one who broke the rules is surrounded by others and beaten with melamu. If he is ready to stop breaking the rules, it ends with a severe beating, but if he is stubborn, he might be killed” (WL). For lesser offences, transgressors were sometimes fined. If members were unable to pay the fine, their valuables were impounded and released upon payment.
Marashea arrested on group business were entitled to legal counsel funded from the treasury. However, those who participated in criminal acts that were not sanctioned by the group were not afforded this protection. “When you were arrested we would pay for your bail or fine if you were arrested for a group fight. If you were arrested for robbery we would not pay any fine for you because that was not for the group’s purpose, it was for your own needs” (PL, Lesotho, 23–24 May 1998). Some marena forbade their members to take part in certain criminal activities and not only withheld financial assistance but punished transgressors. BM declares that there should be “no rape, robbery, or assassinations. If a member is found guilty of any of these he is severely beaten. If he is arrested by the police we do not bother ourselves about him. We let him go to jail. . . . I should point out that one morena under me in Klerksdorp is now on trial because of a taxi conflict. He broke my rule by accepting payment to engage in that conflict and we will not pay for his lawyer because he broke that rule.” These efforts to maintain discipline within each group did not apply to the association as a whole; the Marashea have a long history of infighting.
INTERNECINE CONFLICT
Russian gangs fought with other ethnically organized migrant groups; urbanized criminal youth, known as tsotsis; and the police. But above all, the rival factions battled each other. The rivalries that distinguished the different Marashea groups reflected regional animosities rooted in Lesotho’s history of succession disputes. “The factions of Matsieng and Ha-Molapo/Masupha reproduced and reignited the historical antagonism between the royalists of south Lesotho, follower of Moshoeshoe’s [founding king of Lesotho] heir, Letsie I, with his capital at Matsieng, and the restive collateral nobility of north Lesotho led by Moshoeshoe’s second and third sons, Molapo and Masupha, whom he installed at Peka and Thaba Bosiu, and who consistently defied or rebelled against the paramountcy.”27
There are numerous stories as to why the split took place, ranging from fights over women to disputes over money, but it is evident that Basotho migrants carried a keen awareness of their homeland’s historical divisions. “We fought with the people of Molapo because they wanted to rule us. . . . We know that the king of Lesotho is living at Matsieng and we would not allow people from Ha-Molapo to rule us, so our quarrel started there” (DG). Oral evidence is consistent, however, that in the beginning Marashea were united: “Marashea began at Benoni. People from Lesotho were friends—there was brotherhood from Leribe to Matsieng, but we ended up separating because of women. The people from Matsieng killed a man named Lehloailane because of a woman, and the people of Molapo were furious” (BF).28 As Bonner observed, “Once this factional polarisation had taken place it quickly spread to other areas where Basotho migrants and immigrants were congregated and where the same latent rivalries were present. By the early 1950s there was scarcely a Reef township untouched by the fighting, which very often reached extraordinary intensity, involving up to a thousand combatants at any one time.”29
These conflicts were a defining feature of Borashea, and the rivalry between Matsieng and Matsekha persists to this day. The Russian gangs in the Johannesburg area gained much notoriety in both the African and the white press because of the battles they waged across the length and breadth of the Rand from the 1950s to the 1970s. Colorful descriptions of hordes of blanketed warriors engaging in bloody disputes regularly made the headlines. Reports of train station crowds fleeing as Russian gangs joined in combat, officials and spectators scrambling to safety as opposing gangs continued their fights in the courtroom, and trials in which dozens of Russians were charged with public violence were all a result of internal rivalries.30 Russian disputes in mining districts attracted less attention because they took place in more isolated areas, away from official scrutiny, and tended to be less of a spectacle than the Rand battles. Still, fights in the Free State appeared in newspapers as well as police reports and mining correspondence.31
A variation of the conventional rivalry seems to have existed in the early years, when conflict sometimes occurred between Russian mineworkers and township Russians, based on this occupational and spatial division, rather than strictly adhering to the Matsieng-Matsekha divide. In fact, one report traces the formal establishment of the Marashea to conflict between mineworkers and residents of Benoni location. According to this account, Basotho living in Benoni formed the original Russian gang in 1947 to prevent Basotho miners from visiting resident women.32 The testimony of a Molapo member active in Johannesburg during the 1950s indicates that in some groups little love was lost between location residents and mineworkers. PG1, who worked in the Johannesburg general post office and lived in Moroka, explains that the relationship between Russian mineworkers and township Russians “was not friendly because those people living in the mines, they were after the women. Now they have to be fucked up by [township Russians].” Presumably because of this antipathy, there were “not more than ten” mineworkers in PG1’s group, which, he reports, numbered in the hundreds. Before a 1960 battle between resident Russians and invading mineworkers, the Russians from the mines visited Naledi and left a note declaring, “Their home-boy Basothos of the township were women,”33 and vowed to return the following day. Forewarned, the local Marashea repelled the attack, killing at least two of the invaders. It is likely that such conflicts erupted on the Rand before the mid-1960s because township Russians could more readily find employment and were not as financially dependent on their mining compatriots. It is also possible that it was relatively easy for mineworkers, who had access to numerous locations throughout the Rand, to find women who were not resident in Russian-controlled areas and thus had less of a need for formal links with township Marashea. However, even in this environment, internecine conflict was characterized by clashes between Matsieng and Matsekha groups that incorporated both township dwellers and mineworkers.
In spite of the ferocity of the fighting between rival Marashea factions, veterans draw a clear distinction between these conflicts and the battles Marashea fought with outsiders. There was a definite recreational aspect to early internecine battles as groups fought for bragging rights as Basotho. When veterans recount fights with rival groups, they describe rousing encounters. Before the battle the women would encourage the men by singing their praises and celebrations followed victories. During the week when Matsekha and Matsieng worked side by side in the mines and factories they would discuss previous battles, speak admiringly of brave and accomplished fighters, and predict victory in upcoming conflicts. “The fighting was good,” claims DB, a Matsieng veteran of the 1950s. “Although it was tough, we did not regret it because it was our choice and we enjoyed fighting.” NT, who also fought as a member of Matsieng in the 1950s, reminisced, “We were happy to fight because it was a sort of play; at that time we were not killing. When we beat you with melamu and you fell, we would leave you and chase your friends. We fought on Saturdays and Sundays; during the week we went to work because all of us were working. It was nice because it was like when Basotho boys play melamu at home.”
Guy and Thabane have discussed this phenomenon as it applied to the Rand conflicts of the 1950s:
Internecine fighting amongst the Ma-Rashea could possibly so weaken them that they could no longer effectively fulfill their function as defenders of the Basotho. It might leave them open to destruction by other groups—criminal or ethnic—or by the coercive arm of the state. Thus, deadly and violent as these confrontations were, there were certain devices that the Basotho factions adopted which limited the ultimate outcome—devices which they could use because there were certain assumptions that they as Basotho, could share, and which they could not share with other groups.34
Thus, in the course of a battle when a man was wounded and helpless, his opponent might stand over him to ensure he was not killed. On some occasions defeated opponents were released after being beaten and forced to relinquish their valuables. HM, a 1950s veteran, explains: “We even showed mercy to other Marashea in a fight. We would just take your clothes and send you to your morena; we would not kill you.” ML, a 1970s veteran, describes much the same practice: “When we chase one and catch him, we kill him. But if he is well dressed in smart clothes, wearing a blanket like this one, we take the blanket and send him away and say, ‘Go!’ so that tomorrow when one of us is caught during a fight, his clothing will be taken but he will not be killed.”
In the heat of battle men were sometimes struck down and mercilessly killed—there were no guarantees of protection. However, in the early years the different groups generally adhered to a moral code that when violated could result in severe consequences. Mamalinyane, who led a 1950s group of Marashea, mainly composed of Hlubi, was targeted for assassination by a combined Matsieng-Molapo force precisely because he broke the rules of the time. “In those days marena were not supposed to be killed. If morena was captured he would be taken to lekhotla and asked about his group. When he answered those questions, he was supposed to be released, not killed, and then his group would go and fight back. But Mamalinyane killed morena Bifa from QwaQwa in Masakeng. He stabbed him with a spear, and Marashea from Molapo and Matsieng joined to attack Mamalinyane” (NT). Mamalinyane was killed in his house in 1956, reportedly stabbed in the same way he killed Bifa (multiple interviews).
When the Marashea began in the 1940s and 1950s, most combatants used melamu, battle axes, or swords and it was relatively easy to limit hand-to-hand conflicts. As firearms became more prevalent, it was difficult to control the fights and the practice of sparing fallen enemies, as well as the tendency to prearrange battles, gradually died out. BM, who has more than thirty years of experience as Lerashea, gives his perspective on these changes:
The fight between Marashea started a long time ago, around the 1940s. I do not know how it started but we are told many stories about it. It was like a game when one person hits another—the rule was that if he falls down he should not be hit again, rather you would just take his blanket. After the blanket is taken the owner would want to claim it back by fighting. It would be an ongoing fight. There were notices from the attacking group to the other group in order to make them prepared for the fight. Somebody would be given a letter telling morena of the other group that on such and such a day we will come and fight over our blankets, which you captured last time. He would be given a drink as we are drinking now and they would reply and say, okay, we shall be waiting for you, or we will not be in a position to fight because of a funeral or stokvel or anything. But these days things have changed. If there is a fight, it is a fight, not a game. If we were to send someone to Thabong now, they would kill him; he would never come back.
The proliferation of firearms was partially responsible for eroding the practice of ritualistic combat governed by a recognizable set of rules. A second factor has been the increasing commercialization of the Marashea. Instead of fighting for recreation and bragging rights, Marashea in the last thirty years have battled for control of lucrative transport routes and liquor distribution networks. Rather than the prearranged, set-piece battles of former days, hit-and-run raids using taxis are the method of choice in recent years. However, battles between Marashea groups are still viewed in a different light than fights with non-Basotho, as truces and agreements are more easily negotiated.
As transport became more readily available in the 1970s and 1980s, Marashea groups began to accompany the bodies of fallen members to their home villages in Lesotho, where they conducted funeral ceremonies. Before this practice, funerals in South Africa often erupted in violence when groups attempted to prevent rivals from burying their dead.35 “It was difficult to bury Lerashea because when we were taking the body to the cemetery the other group would come and start a fight at the funeral. If they defeated us, before they buried the body they would break the coffin and sometimes even pour petrol on the body and burn it” (HM). Funeral conflicts could also be prearranged. NN, a Matsekha veteran, explains, “If Lerashea died in a fight, before he was buried we would invite the Matsieng group and fight with melamu before the burial began” (20 May 1998). Less often, fights have occurred at funerals in Lesotho when one group follows a rival back home to disrupt the proceedings. In 1996 members of a rogue Matsieng group attacked Matsekha during a funeral service near the university town of Roma, killing several people.36
Impromptu battles also took place, especially on trains, when groups met on the way to dances and other celebrations. With a near constant state of warfare between rivals, spontaneous fights erupted for the most trivial reasons. Molefi Thabane was at a loss to explain these internecine conflicts: “Really there is no reason why Marashea fight each other. I still remember at times in court when we were asked why we fought. The answer was puzzling, and only fit to be given by an insane person—‘These Masupha people despise us’” (Bonner transcript). KP remembers, “The cause of those fights was when Molapo people called us girls and we had to prove that we were not girls.” DS was wounded because “someone from the Molapo group said that we were farting and we had to go outside. The fight started and my head was injured by a sword.”
Not all fights were so whimsical; groups fought for material gain and to increase their power. Raids to abduct women and revenge attacks to reclaim stolen women featured prominently. The 1940s clashes in Vereeniging were reportedly due to “the abduction by a member of the Matsieng clan of a woman of the Molapo clan.”37 In 1957 the World (Johannesburg) carried an editorial on Marashea clashes that were plaguing the Sotho zones of what was to become Soweto: “We learn that one of the causes of fights between these factions is the indecent habit of woman-grabbing.”38 As the Marashea extended into the Free State so did the internecine battles that often revolved around women. A 1960 clash in Thabong was said to have begun when “a member of one of the two groups was accused of having an affair with the wife of one of the members of the other group.”39
Fighting was also precipitated by the desertion of members to a rival group, and assaults on individual members sometimes instigated large-scale revenge attacks. Raids on rival settlements had an economic rationale because of the prospects of booty. “When they defeat the other group, they take away watches, clothes, everything a person has” (‘Mè TF). Thus an attack to avenge the abduction of a female member was also potentially lucrative. Marena attempting to extend their power over neighboring groups occasionally initiated confrontations. “Sometimes they fight for power, as when one leader wants to rule over another. He attacks and tries to defeat him in order to rule over him, as in politics” (KK).
The men and women interviewed supplied dozens of accounts of fights between different Marashea gangs. Three specific incidents demonstrate some of the conditions and consequences of these conflicts. SC was Lerashea with a Matsekha group on the East Rand in the 1950s, where he worked as a miner. He attended meetings and dances and fought alongside his colleagues on weekends. His experience illustrates how membership in the Marashea could put individuals at considerable risk even when they were not engaged in group fights.
One Sunday morning I was with two friends and we jumped the fence to the location. At that time I didn’t drink joala. We went to where the women hid joala by burying the cans and we saw some of the containers above the ground. We took all the joala . . . to an isolated place and hid in the grass because we were afraid of the police. I was the one who poured the joala until I decided to drink it myself, and that was my first time. We were busy drinking and then we saw a crowd of men coming toward us. They were Matsieng. . . . My friends ran away but I was not able and they beat me. I tried to fight but it was useless because the Matsieng were many. . . . I was beaten unconscious and when I regained consciousness my head was covered in blood and my hand was badly injured. I felt the grass on my back and realized I had no clothes—they left me with only my trousers. When a person is badly beaten we say limohatile [trampled by horses or cattle]. I tried until I managed to stand. I didn’t know where I was because I was afraid and drunk. I walked until. . . . I saw another crowd of men and gave up because I thought they were Matsieng, but they were Molapo. . . . My group went in front of a car driven by a white woman, forced her to stop, and ordered her to take me to the hospital at the mine where I worked. (7 June 1998)
The original group of an abducted or runaway woman was honor bound to attempt her reclamation. ‘Mè ID, who belonged to a Carletonville group in the 1980s and early 1990s, explains the outcome of one such fight:
Most of the fights between Marashea are caused by women. Although I cannot recall all the details, I remember a fight over a woman called Ntsoaki from Qacha’s Nek [Lesotho], next to White Hill. She had been staying with Lerashea at Kloof [informal settlement near Kloof Gold Mine] when I was at Bekkersdal. Ntsoaki had run away from Kloof to stay at Phiri, where she was discovered two months after her escape. Marashea from Khutsong, Kloof, and Bekkersdal came together to go to Phiri and return with Ntsoaki. They left in the afternoon with six taxis and one van. They came back with her around nine the next morning. She was badly wounded, stabbed in many places. They did not tell us the exact number of those from Phiri who died, but for us three died and two were badly injured.
Revenge attacks were also commonplace and LG, Matsieng Lerashea under Tsotsi Raliemere in the 1980s, describes how his leader engineered revenge after LG suffered at the hands of a rival group:
I was beaten by Matsekha at Carletonville. I went to the hospital at Deep Level [mine]. Marashea of Matsieng went to Phiri and told them I was beaten by Matsekha. Raliemere told them they would come to see me. I was beaten and went to the hospital on Saturday. On Sunday members of my group arrived at the hospital and Raliemere gave me R40. He told me I must go to the dance next Saturday and did not care whether I was discharged or not. I was badly injured but I had to go to the dance at Phiri. On Wednesday I was discharged and on Saturday I took the train to Phiri. My head was aching but I could not refuse. At twelve o’clock the whistle was blown and Marashea came and formed a group. At two o’clock we all bathed with moriana. I didn’t know where we were going. At eight o’clock three vehicles arrived, two taxis and Raliemere’s private car. Some entered the taxis and I was with Sanki, Bothlenyane, Mohlomi, and Raliemere in the private car. We left, going straight for Carletonville. Before we entered the location, the vehicles stopped and they locked me inside a taxi and they attacked that location. I heard many gunshots. When they came back I didn’t know what had happened, but they took me to the scene of the fight and there were fifteen people dead.
As Marashea became established in the Free State from the 1950s, some of the groups ignored the Matsieng-Matsekha divide that had caused so much fighting on the Rand. Given time, however, this split was replicated in the Free State. BM recounts how his group was torn apart:
There was a fight between Marashea that caused a division between us. We were united as Basotho. The fight was caused by a woman named Mantoa who was staying with Ntate Sootho. This led to the groups of Ha-Molapo and Matsieng that did not exist in the Free State, only in Gauteng and some other places. In the Free State we had only one group that did not belong to either Molapo or Matsieng. A young man from Leribe called Maseko happened to fall in love with Sootho’s woman. People from Matsieng did not like this because they thought that this young man was being unfair to the old man. Those from Leribe supported Maseko when he took Sootho’s woman. This led to a serious dispute between the two parties. That’s why we fought each other. The fight began in the morning around five. . . . Our men left Virginia to go to Thabong early and surround their area before they realized we were there. We started throwing stones at their houses and it seemed as if they were expecting us. The fighting continued until around ten [a.m.] and nobody died but many were injured. Since that day we have never been together with the people of Molapo.
By the 1970s, the Free State factions were as divided as their compatriots in Gauteng. Alliances between Free State and Rand groups reflected this division, as a Matsieng faction from Virginia would call on Matsieng from Soweto for assistance and vice versa. Matsieng established strongholds in the Virginia and Klerksdorp areas, while Matsekha enjoyed supremacy in the vicinity of Welkom.
The Matsieng-Matsekha rivalry was not responsible for all internecine fighting within Marashea. Disputes over leadership sometimes led to fighting and the proliferation of splinter groups. Commonly recited examples include the cases of Mashai and Lenkoane. A renegade Matsieng group based in Carletonville led by Mashai fought many battles with Matsieng from Soweto in the 1980s and continues to defy the authority of the leader of Matsieng in the Free State. Lenkoane was assassinated by a man who aspired to his position. This led to fighting between those who had supported Lenkoane and the followers of his assassin, Teboho Majoro.40
SOCIAL PRACTICES
Relations between groups of Marashea were cemented at dances, concerts, stokvels, and funerals, and these social affairs also acted as fundraisers. For example, BM has an annual feast and celebration for all the members in each one of the settlements under his control. Additionally, Matsieng from the Free State maintained relations with Matsieng on the Rand by means of feasts and funerals. Some activities, especially funeral rites, were Marashea inventions that distinguished members from other migrant Basotho. The following description of a ceremony and the answer to a research assistant’s question reveal the distinct nature of the organization.
At the vigil for the dead we do not pray or sing hymns; rather we talk a lot of nonsense about this man. We tell him to go and tell Satan about his deeds on earth because he killed people. We jump over his coffin. There is no singing of hymns but the accordion is played the whole night, just like at stokvels. His blanket and molamu and other weapons are placed on top of him. When we proceed to the cemetery the coffin is shot three times, or it is hit with melamu. The coffin is swung up and down as we walk toward the graveyard while the women are marching and yelling.
question: But are you Christians?
Yes, I am Catholic, but in Marashea one forgets all those things. (‘Mè LW)
Since advances in transport made it feasible for the Russians to bury their dead in Lesotho, the groups guarantee male members a funeral in their home area and financial compensation for relatives. PL explains that in the old days, “we did not bring them home, we buried them in South Africa, but now they are brought home to their relatives. . . . We buy an ox for food and everything is bought by Marashea. We give R1,000 to his relatives” (Welkom, 21 May 1999). Other interviews confirm that this has been standard practice for many years now. Retired members and their families are accorded the same privilege by some groups. “We tell them to make their families aware that when they die we must be notified so that we can come and bury them—it is our obligation. For their funeral we buy two sheep, one cow, a coffin, some groceries, and we give the family of the deceased R1,000” (CN).
Marashea women on the Rand in the 1950s and 1960s were famous for their enticing displays when they performed the famo, a dance in which the buttocks and sometimes even the genitals were displayed to cheering men. One of David Coplan’s informants provides a detailed description: