"A showdown is brewing between the South African government and its opponents..." begins the lead article on the front page of the December 15, 1986, Christian Science Monitor. Lines like these are common in today's world, perhaps especially so regarding South Africa. For four decades South Africa has followed the policy of apartheid, the keeping of people of different races and ethnic groups apart. The policy serves to legitimate gross inequity of political and economic power and resources. Economic benefits, as well as access to adequate housing and educational facilities, are structured to serve people of the white race first. Black people, the vast majority, have to struggle with only a fraction of what the South African society can provide. Now it seems things are coming to a head. Internal pressure for change has built up to such an extent that violence is erupting throughout the country. Accompanying this violence is an economy in decline, massive unemployment, school and consumer boycotts and a great increase in military and police presence. In the midst of this escalating violence, what does it mean for Mennonite workers to talk of a Christian presence and witness? Especially, what does it mean to speak of God's reconciling love?

"Reconciliation" should define the Christian's task in South Africa. With so many forces at work to keep people from coming together, when "middle roads" frequently do not exist, reconciliation appears an awesome task. For many Christians in South Africa, standing for God's reconciling love has led to a costly discipleship.

Joe Seremane is such a Christian. He works for the South African Council of Churches as a coordinator for Justice and Reconciliation Division workers stationed throughout the country. Mennonite Central Committee (MCC) provides financial support for Joe's work and for some other parts of the Justice and Reconciliation Division's program. Joe has met with Mennonite workers on several occasions to share his story. He is a dynamic person whose energy and commitment to Christ are evident. In recent years he has talked often about hope in South Africa, about the experiences that have led him to center his life and hope in Jesus.

Joe is only in his mid-40s, but his life encompasses a large slice of South African experience. His father, a stern, self-disciplined Shona from what is today Zimbabwe, worked as a clerk on a gold mine near Randfontein. His mother's origins were Tswana, but she would not allow her children to refer to themselves as from one specific ethnic group. So Joe never thought of himself as Shona or Tswana -- only African. He was just a boy when the harsh policies of apartheid were starting to take effect and was one of the last generation of urban black children who sometimes played with white children. "The mine dumps were the no man's land where we played," he says. "It was maybe there that we gauged ourselves against our masters and thought we had no right to feel inferior" (Lelyveld, 1985, pp. 279-286).

Joe's first taste of political struggle came during what was known as the Defiance Campaign in the early 1950s, when the Congress movement (one of the earliest broadly-based black resistance organizations in South Africa), adopting the Gandhian tactic of civil disobedience, dispatched its supporters into segregated, "whites only" facilities. The Congress was active several years before the civil rights movement in the United States came into being, but it faced a national government that was ready to use force as ruthlessly as necessary to crush it. Joe and his teenage friends in Randfontein were never recruited or trained for civil disobedience, but they got the idea as soon as they heard about it and headed straight to the Post Office to shout "This is our country!" on the white side of the barrier, until the police arrived and they were hauled off to the station for a whipping. The police were less patient when they picked Joe up a decade later for affiliation with the then newly banned Pan-Africanist Congress. In 1963 he was sent to prison on Robben Island, South Africa's notorious prison for those who commit political crimes.

Joe had not meant to end up a Christian. In his youth the example of the way the whites in the country practiced their faith had led him to consider conversion to Islam. On Robben Island he went to church only because Robert Sobukwe, the Pan-Africanist leader, was being detained in a cottage near the chapel and Joe could sometimes get a glimpse of him and even show him a clenched fist as a gesture of support on the way to worship. Even now he wonders about the Christian patience and forgiveness of his people: "If it's such a good thing, why don't the whites see it?" (Lelyveld, 1985: 279-86).

Becoming a follower of Jesus in a country where "Christians" rule with brutal and oppressive might is not an easy decision. The Christian church, despite all its organizational contradictions, is for Joe a source of hope, the only hope that South Africans can hold onto. He sees allegiance to Jesus is the only way in which people can climb out of their stereotypes and ethnic trappings.

"Is it not hope, for the church, that when I was in detention for 28 months from 1975 to 1977, tortured to the verge of death, an Afrikaner policeman asked me, 'Do you believe in God?' I hesitantly and doubtfully answered, 'Eh, I don't believe in this hypocrisy called Christianity, but I believe in God.' Several days later he comes again and stares silently at me in the cell and says, 'You are a terrorist; I am an Afrikaner policeman. I have to defend my country against communists like you; but I don't think God wants us to treat each other this way.' He ended by saying, 'Joe, my mother and I pray for you every evening.'"

Hope is a scarce commodity in South Africa. While political organizations and attempts to bring change do provide some hope, they are not enough to break apart the walls of mistrust and prejudice built by South Africa's history. For Joe, there is only one true source of hope. "When you ask for my hope," he says, "I shall say it is Jesus" (SACC, 1986: 47-53).

Richard Steele grew up at the opposite end of the spectrum from Joe in a white, wealthy suburb of Johannesburg. His father had come to South Africa from Scotland as a young man to work in the iron industry. "Even though we had relatives in Scotland," Richard states, "my father never gave us the impression that we were anything but South African. This is where we grew up. This is where we belong."

All young white men in South Africa must serve in the military. In the late 1970s when Richard was facing his "call-up," he had a growing conviction that this conscription conflicted with his commitment to follow Christ. At that time, no conscientious objector alternatives were available for someone who was not from a "Peace Church." To refuse call-up meant lengthy detentions, a trial, and an almost certain prison sentence.

While a student at the University of Cape Town, Richard came into contact with numerous Mennonite writings on biblical pacifism and nonresistance. He and others who were struggling with this made contact with Mennonite workers in Southern Africa, and a relationship between MCC and a developing conscientious objector movement was established.

When call-up finally came, Richard followed his cousin Peter Moll in refusing to train or to put on the defense force uniform. This resulted in a succession of periods of solitary confinement that went on for over a year. Confinement would be assigned for a period of weeks, following which Richard and Peter would be invited to put on the uniform. When they refused, they would be returned to their cells for more solitary confinement. "Small routines became important during this time," says Peter. "In order to sustain yourself mentally you had to resist the tendency to let small things, such as always brushing your teeth at the same time, slide. A regular routine became very important as a way to cope."

Richard and Peter's stand and subsequent imprisonment attracted the attention of numerous others. Conscientious objector support groups were started in several major cities. Annual conferences were held to build on different experiences and to offer support and encouragement. At an early point MCC was able to offer moral and financial support. Mennonite speakers addressed the national conferences on several occasions, and an ongoing dialogue was established.

In the early 1980s the conscientious objector movement spread rapidly and most of the established churches discussed the issue. In 1981 the South African Council of Churches (SACC) passed a resolution in support of young white men who chose to take this stand. In 1982 the government recognized conscientious objection to military service as a legitimate expression and established a board to review applicants. Today alternative service for religious objectors is legal. Although the period of service is long and it is still illegal to counsel a young person to become a conscientious objector, recognition is given to those who cannot, for conscience's sake, serve in their country's armed services.

Richard continues his work as a peacemaker in South Africa, working part-time with the International Fellowship of Reconciliation (IFOR). MCC provides part of the IFOR yearly budget. Richard's work with IFOR staffer Anita Kromberg focuses on training workshops for nonviolent action. Richard and Anita have been a part of many Mennonite retreats and workshops in Southern Africa and have been helpful to many Mennonite workers trying to understand South Africa. Their vision and commitment remain an inspiration to many.

Ezra Sigwela also has long been a friend of Mennonite workers in South Africa. He and his family have attended Mennonite retreats and in 1986 took part in the MCC Servanthood Sabbaticals program, going to the Newton, Kansas, area to share their life story and Christian testimony. Like Joe, Ezra's life has been full of struggle and pain. Also in his mid-40s, Ezra recounts a personal history that is typical for many South Africans.

In 1982 Ezra was taken from his office at the Transkei Council of Churches. For three months friends could get no word of his whereabouts beyond confirmation by police that he was in detention. Finally he was charged and after three more months was tried and acquitted. The judge could find no evidence for charges of harboring wanted persons or of recruiting people for the banned liberation movement. Ezra's ear still gives him some trouble as a result of beatings.

This was not Ezra's first experience in prison. He spent several years in exile in Lesotho when, at age 20, the security police first came after him for having written some free-lance articles on the happenings in the Transkei. Later, for helping a man find a place to live, he was charged with harboring terrorists and sentenced to ten years in prison, nine of them on Robben Island.

"In 1964, I came back from Lesotho at age 24 with my books. In Lesotho I had been part of a peace group affiliated with the National Peace Council. I had gotten lots of books from all over the world, from various peace groups and so on. And I wanted to share this sense of internationalism with my friends in the Transkei. Some of them were getting very involved with the underground movements and with sabotage campaigns and I thought they needed to know more about the international aspects of the struggle for peace and justice. But the police found me with my books and took me."

The police accused Ezra of having been to the Soviet Union for training in sabotage. "They used to hit me, and threaten me. One of them, I remember, said, 'We'll use the same methods against you that the Russians taught you to use against us.' They said they'd make me tell the truth. When I said I was telling the truth, that they could check and find out that I had just been in Lesotho, they wouldn't believe me."

Ezra was released in 1967. Then, in early 1968, a friend in Umtata asked Ezra if he knew of any housing available for another friend who was looking for a place. Ezra found him a room. Eight months later he was arrested for harboring a terrorist. "The man came from Tanzania [where some of the anti-government guerrillas are trained], and I didn't know it." Their trial was the first under South Africa's Terrorism Act. "There were ten of us in the trial. We were given very long sentences, as a deterrent. I got ten years."

The first year of Ezra's sentence was especially difficult. "We were all in Pretoria Prison, in solitary cells. The warden in charge really hated us. He said we were worse than criminals. I have never seen such hatred as I saw in that man's eyes. People make drawings of the devil, but I think they are far too beautiful. They don't show those flames of hatred."

Prisoners were fed only three spoonfuls of porridge a day. "We looked like those photos of Jews in Nazi camps. It's too painful to sit up -- your stomach sort of cramps. So we used to just lie on our bunks all curled up. We used to eat toothpaste. Another prisoner who worked in the prison store felt sorry for us and he used to bring us toothpaste. I tried floor polish once, but the fumes were too terrible; you couldn't eat that." After that, nine years on Robben Island seemed a relief.

Ezra's absence of bitterness is striking. Whites in South Africa, it is often said, want peaceful change (to preserve the status quo as long as possible); blacks opt for violence - it's all they have left. Ezra disagrees. "We need a goal that's greater than fighting, that goes beyond fighting. Peace must be the end goal that we keep in view. If it's not, if we don't keep that in view, then what we end up with will be no better than what we have now. You can't let yourself stay angry, that doesn't help. Anger will just destroy you."

The stories are difficult to listen to. But even more difficult to understand is Ezra's response to his experience. How can he tell these things with a smile? What has made him able to come through this experience without bitterness, without hatred? "You know, I think anger is just a response that shows you really don't understand the issues. Those people who beat me and mistreated me -- they did it because they really believed I was a terrorist and a threat to them. I don't think otherwise they would have been able to do those things. So you can't be angry at them. You have to understand them as people who have a wrong understanding."

Ezra can understand that some people feel the need to fight. He himself, in his passion for justice and his energy to confront injustice, amazes us who so quickly become weary or frightened. But his hatred is for the injustice, for the system of apartheid, and not for people. "People talk about hating whites because of how much they have suffered. But I don't think people who have really suffered will talk that way. They can't hold onto hate, or they won't survive."

People like these, whose lives have touched ours, have taught Mennonite workers much about what it means to live faithfully in the context of South Africa. Many others have also lived as examples of Christian love in a society full of hate. Through them Mennonites have learned much about costly discipleship. But working in this context also means that Mennonite workers at times experience for themselves something of the cost which many South African Christians face.

Larry Hills is an Africa Inter-Mennonite Mission (AIMM) worker with the Transkei Council of Churches (TCC), one of the regional councils of the South African Council of Churches. Larry's work is with a program of the TCC which provides Bible teaching and leadership training programs for African Independent Churches. These are small, often poor, groups and churches whose leaders often have little training. Larry's work is part of the council's efforts to strengthen the church in the Transkei, a poor, rural "homeland" area which has been granted "independence," but is in fact a part of South Africa.

But the council is seen as a threat by the local governmental authorities and the police. Because it insists on caring for people whom authorities want to ostracize, such as dependents of people who have been imprisoned on political charges, the council has been labeled political. Larry also has not been immune from such charges. Because he lives in a rural village and spends much of his time traveling in rural areas (something few whites do), he has on occasion been accused by security police of actually being a recruiter for the outlawed African National Congress. In this divided and suspicious society, whites or foreigners who want to live and work with blacks are automatically suspect.

In October 1986, security police entered the offices of the TCC and detained all of those in the office. They were taken to the local prison and were held there for two weeks. During that time they were allowed no visitors or consultations with lawyers. They were subsequently all released without being charged and were told to go back to work.

Larry's experience in detention was a relatively mild one by South African standards. He was kept in a clean and light place, was not in solitary confinement, and was questioned but not tortured. He was released after several weeks, and though police continued to threaten to close down the council, he was in effect able to carry on with his work. He was not banned or banished from the Transkei. Larry's own reaction was that what workers in Umtata had long dreaded had now happened to him and that the actual experience was much less horrible than the fear of it. He had joined the over 20,000 other South Africans who had been detained for shorter or longer periods between June 1986 and the end of that year. His experience is one example of the way in which Mennonite workers may find themselves to be a part of South Africa as they share the lives of South African Christians in sometimes costly ways.

For Henry and Naomi Unrau (AIMM workers) and Fremont and Sara Regier, who were appointees of AIMM and MCC, involvement was much more sudden and unexpected. Life and work in Gaborone, Botswana, brought them into contact with South African refugees. Their interest in and proximity to South Africa meant that they stayed informed about happenings there. Then in June 1985 South Africa suddenly entered their lives in a new way.

Shooting and bombing began in the middle of the night. Explosions shattered some of Unraus' windows. The house in back of theirs and beside Regiers' was surrounded by South African soldiers. They heard screams and shouting, and finally -- after what seemed like hours -- the trucks driving away. They ventured out to find two of their neighbors, one a university student exiled from South Africa and the other a Dutch citizen, dead. Others were injured and the house was destroyed. Later, South African radio explained that the raid had demolished terrorist training locations in Gaborone. In all, 12 people died.

In the weeks that followed Unraus, Regiers and other Mennonite workers in Gaborone struggled with how they could respond. Many South African refugees living in Botswana suddenly found themselves homeless, as property owners refused to rent houses to them because of the fear of another raid. A number of these people were given temporary lodging in the Mennonite guesthouse. Mennonites and Quakers in Gaborone decided that one tangible way to work at peacemaking would be to help rebuild the house in Regiers' and Unraus' neighborhood. The owner of the house, a Botswana widow, needed the rental income and had no resources for rebuilding.

The "Buy a Brick" campaign involved the city of Gaborone in raising money, and much volunteer time went into reconstruction of the house. One of the saddest and most moving moments was the washing of blood off the remaining walls. The new house stands now as a reminder of concern; those who experienced the raid carry within them an understanding for the random violence which is a part of the reality of South Africa. One cannot always choose whether to be involved; involvement comes.

Mennonites who work in South Africa become involved just by being there. But involvement also does bring choices -- at times, difficult ones. Does helping those who need help justify violating a law which is oppressive? How does one weigh one's own safety and ability to work in a foreign context against providing the kind of help which might jeopardize those things?

Lesotho, a tiny country completely surrounded by South Africa, has until recently been a haven for refugees needing to escape South African authorities. Mennonite workers in the Transkei area, which shares a border with Lesotho, have sometimes been asked for help by those trying to make this journey into exile. Choosing to help means running the risk that one will be caught and jailed or sent out of the country. Choosing not to help means that the person who has asked could be picked up, tortured, killed. The choice is difficult and one which must be made quickly, without much time to check on the asker's background or the amount of risk involved. In a context of suspicion, where government informers are everywhere and people are reluctant to talk freely, it is difficult to know when one is making the best choice.

Faced with such a dilemma, Mennonite workers have relied heavily on the counsel of colleagues in the South African church. Local pastors and church workers understand the cost of involvement and also the calling to be involved with persons in need. As people who themselves take risks because of what they believe about the message of the gospel, they are most qualified to help Mennonite workers think through what following Jesus might mean in such a situation.

Mennonite involvement in southern Africa is involvement with people and places workers face-to-face with often uncomfortable issues and dilemmas. It is also, especially, involvement with the church. In such a confusing situation of social upheaval with many layers of analysis and conflicting voices and interests, it is crucial that outsiders, newcomers, have some reference point. For Mennonite programs and for Mennonite workers, that reference point is the church. Mennonites in southern Africa work with local bodies of the church for program involvement and in personnel placement. But working with the church means more than just a structural arrangement. If the church is a point of reference, this also means that Mennonites seek to view South Africa from or through the prism the church provides.

In South Africa the church represents a broad cross-section of society. South Africa is, after all, a "Christian country." The response one hears to calls for change depends on whom one listens to, whom one is most inclined to hear. For some the call is desperate and urgent; for others more conservative and cautionary. And an influential group of Christians resists the changes that are coming. The church permeates South African society, and so mirrors the society's diversity.

Today, especially, Mennonite workers and Mennonite agencies must be familiar with this diversity and be able to interact intelligently with it. How we respond to the work of the church will determine the extent to which our efforts contribute to a resolution of injustice and oppression in South Africa.