Omutenge: The Burden of Young Men

By Theron Crawford

Theron Crawford has taken four men from completely different backgrounds and written them into an emotive and realistic record of the South African Border War, also known as the Namibian War of Independence/Angolan Bush War A war that started in 1966, and lasted 25 years, took the lives of an estimated 13,000 soldiers and 100,000 civilians.
At the time the South African Government decreed that all able-bodied boys of 16 years or older had to undergo compulsory military service. It was not just how these young boys had to cope with the thought of leaving family and friends, of going to a war they knew nothing, or very little about, a war they did not want to fight, but it was also the complexities of living with, and trying to understand, contemporaries of totally different cultures and aspirations. Crawford also debunks the theory that the majority of the soldiers where white South Africans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Theron Crawford
• Release date: Dec 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9780620958868

Theron Crawford

South African born writer, author and genealogist with a love for historical fiction.

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Omutenge

The Burden of Young Men

Theron Crawford

Copyright © 2021 Theron Crawford

First edition 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. If any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

ISBN 978-0-620--95886-8

Published by Theron Crawford using Crawford Publication services,

53 South Downs Avenue, Port Alfred, South Africa, 6170

Edited by Marcel Koortzen for Crawford Publications

Cover designed by Crawford Publications

Website: www.crawfordpublications.org

E-mail: [e-mail]

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Theron Crawford

[e-mail]

FOREWORD

This story is told in honour of the 600,000-plus young men that fought in the South African Border War, also known as the Namibian War of Independence. Most of these young men signed up under duress, unable to escape the South African Apartheid Government’s decree that all able-bodied boys of 16-years or older had to enrol for military service. Until late in the war, there was no legal means of evading conscription. Those who sought to avoid their call-up either fled the country or were incarcerated in inhumane conditions for up to five years. By the time the war ended, the conscription period had increased from nine-months to 720 days.

The war started in earnest on 25 August 1966 and lasted for 25 years, during which time scores of boys had little option but to forgo their youthful years to the highly effective and uncompromising military engine that was the South African Defence Force (SADF). Many of these soldiers spent a period of at least three months on active duty in the warzone in northern Namibia (then South West Africa) and in southern Angola. It is estimated that at least 13,000 soldiers and more than 100,000 civilians lost their lives in the conflict.

One of the popular misconceptions about the war is that the bulk of the SADF forces were made up of white South Africans. Nothing could be further from the truth as it is estimated that by the time the war ended in 1990, 80-percent of all the troops in action were black men. Throughout the war an average of 60-percent of the troops were black persons, mostly Namibian-born citizens. Indeed, this is just one of many myths that surround the events that played out over the duration of the conflict. All the men that served the war were sworn to secrecy having to sign documentation that bound them to absolute confidentiality.

The full truth may never be told, but what is certain and common amongst most of the veterans of the Border War is that once conscripted, they had only one priority: Their survival, and for those in leadership positions, the safety of their charges. Furthermore, they all carry some burden of responsibility, albeit in varying forms of acknowledgement. Today, the survivors, a whole generation of young men, had their youthful innocence snatched away from them at a very premature phase of their lives. Many still bear the scars of that time.

Not all the men were reluctant participants. Many, inspired by a powerful and effective system of political and religious indoctrination, actually looked forward to participating in the action.

The events and characters described in this book are based on the experiences of the author while serving in the SADF. Any similarities are purely coincidental.

For a quarter of a century, the mothers of South African and Namibian children had to bid farewell to their sons with the knowledge that they may never return alive. Little did they realise that those who would escape death would live on to bear burdens rarely spoken about and sadly, for the most, never acknowledged. My mother had to hand over three of her four sons to military conscription. This book is dedicated to her.

In war there are no heroes - only young men who must bear the burden of the vain and misplaced aspirations of older men.

Theron Crawford

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – War Games

Chapter 2 - Railway Stations

Chapter 3 – Onward Christian Soldiers

Chapter 4 - Sugar Man

Chapter 5 – Piano Man

Chapter 6 – Fight Song

Chapter 7 – Jet Plane

Chapter 8 – Devil’s Work

Chapter 9 – Fire Power

Chapter 10 – The Warrior

Chapter 11 – Letters from Home

Chapter 12 – Drums of War

Chapter 13 – Devils Work

Chapter 14 – Fighting Men

Chapter 15 – Devils and Dust

Chapter 16 – ‘Scatterlings’

Chapter 17 – Hunter and Prey

Chapter 18 – Dogs of War

Chapter 19 – Armageddon Time

Chapter 20 – Flowers Gone

Chapter 21 – Wind Beneath My Wings

Chapter 1 – War Games

How many homes must you break to feel good

How many men does it take to burn wood

You just call and say they're needed

Face the jury, guilty pleaded

War games, and I want nothing to do with war games

Paul Young

Petrus Kanime Namunyekwa lay in the shade of the Mopani tree. This was familiar territory at last. He felt at home under his tree where he had for many years sat and watched over his family’s livestock as they foraged for food on the meagre plant life. From his seat at the base of the tree, he would observe the cattle chomping on the short grasses while the goats would clamber into the nearby thicket to find juicy leaves.

For most of his childhood, it had been his responsibility to ensure that his family’s herds were grazed and protected. In the beginning he would accompany his elder brother Elias, but for the last seven years, he had performed the duties on his own.

Every morning at sunrise he would enjoy an early breakfast of Nyowa (millet porridge) sweetened with goats’ milk, prepared by his Meme (mother) before freeing the cattle and goats from the enclosures that tightly surrounded the Negumbo (homestead).

It was customary that homesteads consisted of a circular formation shaped by tree stumps and branches that were tightly packed in a vertical fashion forming a strong fence and barrier to the outside world. In the outer circle were the Nahambo (cattle pens) in which the cattle and goats were kept at night and during harsh weather.

The inner circles were reserved for sleeping quarters, storerooms, and cooking areas where the woman would prepare meals. The large circular area in the centre of the homestead was the domain of the men reserved for meeting, drinking Oshikundu (traditional beer), and telling stories. It was here that he would return at sunset to report to his Tatekulu (grandfather) that the herds had been fed, watered and counted.

It was always a relief to be able to report that all heads had been accounted for as failure to do so would mean that he would have to return to the bush to find the missing livestock, often returning well after dark. He did not want to disappoint, and when animals went missing, he would not wait for the elder’s instruction to begin the search. Besides, he loved each animal having named most of them and considered all of them as his friends.

Once the animals were beyond the fields where the women planted and cared for their millet and sorghum plants, he would be on the lookout for the spoor of predatory animals. One could never be too careful in securing the grazing area as leopard and lion could be lying in wait in the many thickets that dotted the Okavango landscape. He could tell from their spoor the time of their passing and whether they were in hunting mode. He could gauge the size of the animal and could even at times recognise their age and gender from their method of locomotion.

Then he would turn his attention to finding new grasses for the cattle to feed. He would be intent on making sure that he did not allow the animals to overgraze the vegetation and that they left enough of the plants to ensure their regeneration. He would watch over the animals to ensure that they did not stray and looked for any tell-tale signs of impending danger. The animals would sense danger long before he could and he could tell what danger lurked by simply observing their behaviour.

Today there were no cattle or goats to tend. This job was now that of his young nephew who took over the responsibilities when Petrus became Hilifavali (of age). He felt somewhat guilty about having abandoned his four-legged charges and tears came to his eyes as he recalled their names silently. He could not wait for his cousin to return to the homestead with the herd so that he could reacquaint himself with the animals.

Petrus was destined to follow in his father’s footsteps by engaging in contract labour. It had become customary amongst his people that when boys turned 18 years of age, they would leave home and migrate to the towns or the farms in the south to seek work. He would rather have stayed at the homestead to tend to the herd, but there had been no point in him asking his family for such a dispensation. Customs were not something that one messed with, and in any event, the other options did not rest easily on his young mind.

So it was that he had found work with a white Afrikaans-speaking farmer on the fringes of the Etosha Pans. He had just completed his first year of contract labour and had returned with his meagre earnings, half of which had been given to his grandfather who would buy more cattle. The other half was to be given to the local chieftain.

Earlier that day he had met with his grandfather in the inner circle to complete his report. However, this time it was not to report on the state of the herd, but rather to provide an account of his first year as a contract labourer: he had travelled with his father who was on his way back to his employer in Windhoek. They had stopped over at the white man’s farm for water and shelter. The farmer had taken a liking to him and was in need of labourers. Soon his father and the farmer had struck the deal and he was hired as a farmhand.

It was hard work and paid poorly. He had learnt much about the Afrikaans culture and had much improved his command of their language. His grandfather was pleased nonetheless and gratefully accepted the money saying that he would now be able to buy a few head of cattle. These would be marked as belonging to Petrus in preparation for the time that he would take a wife and start his own family.

He reflected on the conversation and the morning’s events. When he arrived, he had been greeted with much fanfare from the women and children that lived at the homestead. His mother had cried tears of joy while his sisters and nieces had giggled girlishly at his appearance – the hard labour had turned his boyish physique into the muscular shape of a man. Now he sported new khaki trousers and shirt, complete with a steady set of boots instead of the shorts and t-shirt and sandals he had left home with just more than a year ago.

He was pleased to see his mother, ‘Meme’ as he was accustomed to naming her. It was always a great occasion for her when one of her boys returned home. The poor woman had to see her men leave home one after the other. First, it had been her beloved husband who was forced into contract labour by the dire circumstances and inability of the homestead to support the burgeoning family. Then she had to see her eldest son unexpectantly ripped from her life by the dreaded SWAPO. Lately, it had been the turn of her youngest to join the procession to the south in search of work.

Meme had wasted no time in preparing a feast for the evening meal. She had ordered the slaughter of a goat so that there would be enough meat to prepare a hearty stew. Her three daughters were roped in to grind the grain and to prepare the bread. Later, the eldest daughter would be sent to the nearby Kuku shop (general dealer store) to buy beer as she would not have had enough time to prepare a home brew.

As always, his grandfather, the only man left at the homestead had been more reverent in his welcoming. It was not the place of a man to show emotions, but later when