Out of the Laager, Into the Streets: The Origins, Rise, and Fall of Gay Reform Organizing in Apartheid South Africa By Jacob Tobia A thesis submitted for honors in Program II: Human Rights Activism and Leadership Duke University Durham, North Carolina 2014 1 TABLE OF CONTENTS ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ......................................................................... 3 PRELUDE ................................................................................................... 7 INTRODUCTION ....................................................................................... 9 CHAPTER 1: SEPARATE DEVELOPMENT, SEPARATE IDENTITIES: THE ORIGINS OF GAY REFORM ................................. 26 CHAPTER 2: COMING OUT, STAYING IN: THE RISE OF THE GAY ASSOCIATION OF SOUTH AFRICA ............................ 67 CHAPTER 3: ON SHIFTING GROUND: TURBULENT POLITICS AND THE END OF GAY REFORM ................................... 106 CONCLUSION: GASA’S LEGACY AND THE RISE OF GAY LIBERATION ................................................................................. 148 POSTLUDE ............................................................................................ 159 BIBLIOGRAPHY .................................................................................... 161 INDEX OF FIGURES FIGURE 1: "SO THIS IS A CAPE MOFFIE DRAG" DRUM, JANUARY 1959. ........ 56 FIGURE 2: GASA MEMBERSHIP DATA, DEC. 1982 TO MAR. 1983 ................ 80 FIGURE 3: COMIC FROM FEBRUARY 1983 ISSUE OF LINK/SKAKEL ................. 86 FIGURE 4: DECEMBER 1984 COVER OF LINK/SKAKEL ................................... 97 FIGURE 5: ADVERTISEMENT FOR LAW REFORM, EXIT, JANUARY 1986 ....... 116 FIGURE 6: LEON DE BEER 1987 ELECTION ADVERTISEMENT .................... 142 2 Acknowledgements The prospect of properly acknowledging all of the people whose lives have in some way contributed to this thesis is akin to the prospect of naming all of the rocks, boulders, and pebbles that make up Table Mountain. And yet, taking a moment to pause and reflect on those who have contributed so readily to my life and academic growth is a worthwhile and nourishing goal. I’ll start in the place that is perhaps the most obvious by first thanking my indefatigable advisor Professor Karin Shapiro, who first challenged me to think of myself as a historian. Through her nurture and occasional prodding, she has helped me to spin an immense tale of struggle, conflict, and transformation. Throughout the course of writing this thesis, her intellectual engagement was only matched by her venerable collection of jewelry. Great thanks are also due to Mary Tung and Karlyn Forner, two colleagues and fellow thesis/dissertation writers who have patiently waded in and out of queer history with me, and have taken the time to actually read multiple iterations of hundreds of pages. I’d also like to thank Professors Bill Chafe, Bob Korstad, Janet Ewald and Robin Kirk for heartily supporting my academic work and growth over the course of writing this thesis. Perhaps the single-greatest contributors to this thesis have been the staff at the Gay and Lesbian Archives at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, including Anthony Manion, Nancy Castro-Leal, Gabriel Khan, Cherae Halley, John Marnell, Nomancotsho Pakade, John Meletse, and perhaps most importantly, Adelaide Nxumalo. Thanks to their diligent work and patience, I gained unprecedented access to both archival material and interviews with leaders in the South African LGBTQ movement. Moreover, 3 their steadfast dedication to preserving queer history in South Africa, as well as the dedication of academicians such as Mark Gevisser, Graeme Reid, and Neville Hoad, provides an inspirational model for queer communities across the globe to take a more proactive stake in preserving their history. When I first arrived in Johannesburg in the summer of 2012, I knew four people in the entire city, and didn’t really have a friend to speak of. Friendship and community were critical in providing a foundation for my research, and this thesis would not have been possible without the love and support of the incredible friends that I made during my two stays in South Africa. While in Joburg, I built lasting friendships with people who graciously took me under their wing, showed me the town, and provided much needed transport to parties. Thanks in particular are due to Ayseha Krige, for being an empathetic roommate while I was in Johannesburg and teaching me to make delicious daal. Thanks are also in order for Zazi Dlamini, Russell Clarke, Kieron Gina, Simon Mayson, Mmakgosi Kgabi, Rahiem Wisgary, Lurdes Laice, Aimar Rubio, and Jessica Glenndinning—all of whom provided me with a rich and at times raucous social life in JoZi. I’d also like to acknowledge Liesl Theron, Londi GamedZe, Sylvie Wirtjes, Tabitha Paine, Lucinda Van Den Heever, Dean Peacock, and Cherith Sanger, many of my wonderful friends and fellow activists in Cape Town. As a historian, I’m deeply indebted to the fifteen or so activists who took the time to be interviewed for the documentary film that I am producing in conjunction with this thesis, including Bev Ditsie, Justice Edwin Cameron, Justice Albie Sachs, Zackie Achmat, Funeka Soldaat, Joy Wellbeloved, Jabu Periera, Pierre De Vos, Gavin Hayward, Mary Louw, Paddy Nhlapo, Mikki Van Zyl, Robert Colman, and Shaun De Waal. While our interviews 4 concerned a later period of South African history than that which is covered in the pages that follow, through speaking with me about the LGBTQ movement, its current tensions, and its historical path, they were able to elucidate key ideas that came together as the framework for this thesis. Though there are few direct citations of these interviews in this thesis, the ideas and frameworks I learned through speaking with each of them are woven into the fabric of this work. At Duke, I also have many people to thank, including the Office of Research Support, Trinity College, and the Center for Documentary Studies for their generous financial support. More importantly, I want to acknowledge the housekeepers, dining staff, janitors, and library staff who have worked so tirelessly over the past four years to support my life as a student at Duke. Without their invaluable contributions and care, this thesis would not have come into being. Lastly, I’d like to thank my parents Jane Tobia and Abraham Tobia, and by brother Matthew Tobia, all of whom were patient enough to go along with my plan to jet off to South Africa, and were kind in understanding the stress of writing a thesis. Through their love, unconditional affirmation, and willingness to let me experiment over the past four years, I have been able to bring this project into fruition. As a historian, I have merely worked to understand the lives and legacies of those who participated in South Africa’s struggle for LGBTQ equality. The true credit for this thesis goes to those courageous queer people who, despite confusion, danger, adversity, and dissent, managed to speak up for people like me in the context of a repressive and defensive government. Through their historical example, I am able to understand my past and my lineage as a queer activist. While writing this thesis, I have been begun to see 5 myself not as an outcast or a historical anomaly, but as an integral part of the human family. Too often, queer people are made invisible in the historical record, are erased from communal history, and are relegated as outsiders. For queer people like me, the impact of this erasure is devastating. Because we do not understand our queer past, we are made to face the world without a frame of reference, without a historical sense of self. This thesis is but a small attempt to rectify that erasure; it is in that spirit that I dedicate this thesis to all queer people, who like myself, were never taught the history of their community. In many ways, the motto of the South African Gay and Lesbian Archives rings true: “Without Queer History, There is No Queer Future.” 6 Prelude Author’s Field Note: July 14, 2013 It was dark by the time that we left the conference. The looming silhouette of Table Mountain was framed in the distance by bright city lights from the other side. From my vantage point, I couldn’t actually see the lights, only their aura emanating into the wet winter air. On the other side of the mountain, glittering neighborhoods of the Cape Town city bowl clung to the side of the mountain as it sloped gently towards Table Bay. Above the parking lot outside the conference venue, there hung a single streetlight bathing the lot in tungsten orange. It had been a long day: the second annual Khayelitsha Black Lesbian Conference started early in the morning and concluded late that evening. Raucous assembly, discussion, breakout groups, and spontaneity filled the day. While a representative of the police was addressing the group, the room erupted into protest song. The representative tried to speak out over the music to no avail, attempting to explain that, yes, in fact, the police did care about the pandemic of anti-queer violence sweeping through township communities across the country. The music continued, and the representative swiftly walked out of the meeting, apologizing and asserting that she had another meeting to attend. After the conference concluded, I found myself musing on the strangeness of the juxtaposition. That night, I was going to a party at Crew, Cape Town’s largest gay bar in the upscale gay neighborhood of the Waterkant. I’d been to the club before, and in many ways, it felt somewhat like the bars I was used to at home. The club played mostly Western music— Rihanna, Lady Gaga, Daft Punk, Madonna—and was filled with well-toned white gay men of 7 various ages. After spending the day in Khayelitsha, the relatively well-to-do crowd of Crew felt distant, decadent, and hollow. The stark gymnasium walls of the conference venue stood in great contrast with the shimmering, glitter-drenched tableau of the bar. I got in the car and looked out the window as we drove back into town. Clouds began rolling in as we rounded Table Mountain, and by the time we arrived at Crew, you could no longer see to the top of Devil’s Peak.