SELLO HATANG | When justice waits too long: lessons from the families of the Cradock Four

There are interviews that leave you informed. There are those that leave you inspired. And there are interviews that leave you unsettled, carrying questions long after the microphones have been switched off.

My recent conversation with Lukhanyo Calata on Power Week on Power 98.7 was one such interview. Lukhanyo is the son of Fort Calata, one of the Cradock Four, the anti-apartheid activists who were brutally murdered by the apartheid security forces in 1985.

More than 40 years later, the families of the Cradock Four continue to seek what every family deserves: truth, accountability and closure.

The conversation was heartbreaking. Listeners wrote in expressing sadness, frustration and disbelief that after all these years, so many questions remain unanswered.

How is it possible that a democratic South Africa, founded on truth and reconciliation, still finds itself struggling to release records that may help families understand what happened to their loved ones? How is it possible that justice remains delayed for those who have waited for decades?

At the heart of our discussion were two legal matters involving the Calata family.

What obligation does a democratic state have to those who sacrificed everything for its existence?

The first concerns a contempt of court application aimed at compelling the department of defence to release records relating to the killing of the Cradock Four. The second involves an appeal by former presidents Thabo Mbeki and Jacob Zuma regarding matters connected to the families’ pursuit of justice through the Khampepe commission of inquiry.

We spent more time discussing the contempt of court matter than the case involving the former presidents. Yet even in touching briefly on the latter, Lukhanyo’s position was clear and heartfelt.

He believes former leaders of democratic South Africa should be standing alongside the families in their search for truth rather than finding themselves in legal opposition to them.

Whether one agrees with that position or not, one cannot ignore the deeper question beneath it: what obligation does a democratic state have to those who sacrificed everything for its existence?

Throughout the interview, one emotion stood out. Anger. Not the anger of recklessness or vengeance. Rather, the anger of a son who has spent decades waiting. The anger of a family forced to fight repeatedly for information that should perhaps have been available long ago. The anger of citizens who believed democracy would naturally lead to truth.

Yet alongside that anger was something equally powerful: determination, persistence, tenacity and grit.

There was fire in Lukhanyo’s voice, but it was the fire of someone refusing to surrender to silence. There was disappointment, certainly, but there was also an unwavering commitment to pursue answers wherever they may lead.

Even the cynic would have struggled not to listen. Even those who have become weary of conversations about the past would have found themselves paying attention. Because this is not simply about one family. It is about all of us.

As I listened to Lukhanyo speak, I found myself reflecting on my own journey years ago at the South African History Archive. Through the Promotion of Access to Information Act, we sought access to records from the apartheid era.

We believed democracy had created pathways for truth to emerge. We believed the opening of archives would help South Africans better understand the machinery of oppression that shaped our country.

Yet time and again, we encountered obstacles. National security, confidentiality, procedural hurdles and administrative delays. More than 20 years later, some of those same explanations continue to surface.

One cannot help but ask difficult questions:

• How long does national security remain national security?
• At what point does secrecy become an obstacle to healing?
• At what point does protecting documents begin to look like protecting histories that should be subjected to public scrutiny?
• Perhaps the most important question of all: who pays the price for continued secrecy?

Too often, the sacrificial lamb is justice. Families continue to wait. Communities continue to wonder. History remains incomplete. Healing remains unfinished. The democratic project itself becomes weakened.

History is not something buried in dusty boxes and forgotten files. History lives in families. It lives in communities. It lives in the unfinished business of justice

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission taught us truth is not a luxury. It is a necessity. Truth allows victims to heal. Truth allows societies to learn. Truth allows future generations to understand what happened and why it must never happen again. Without truth, reconciliation becomes fragile. Without truth, rumours flourish. Without truth, wounds remain open.

The struggle for access to records relating to the Cradock Four is therefore not merely an administrative dispute. It is a moral question. It asks whether democratic South Africa is willing to confront every corner of its history, even when doing so is uncomfortable.

The irony is striking. Many of those who fought against apartheid did so precisely because secrecy, unaccountable power and hidden decision-making were hallmarks of that system.

If democratic South Africa becomes reluctant to release information that could advance justice, then we must honestly ask ourselves whether we are drifting away from some of the values that inspired the struggle in the first place.

Yet this story is not only about the past. It is also about the future. A healed nation cannot be built on selective memory. A confident nation cannot fear its own archives. A mature democracy must have the courage to confront difficult truths.

The families of the Cradock Four are asking questions that belong to all of us. They are reminding us history is not something buried in dusty boxes and forgotten files. History lives in families. It lives in communities. It lives in the unfinished business of justice.

The challenge before us is not simply to resolve a legal dispute. It is to decide what kind of country we wish to become. Do we become a nation that hides behind technicalities or one that embraces transparency?

Do we continue postponing difficult conversations, or do we confront them honestly? Do we ask families to keep waiting, or do we finally help them find the closure they have sought for generations?

The conversation with Lukhanyo reminds us justice delayed is not merely justice denied. It is also memory denied, healing denied and closure denied.

The Cradock Four gave their lives in pursuit of a freer South Africa. The least we can do is ensure their families do not spend another generation fighting for answers.

In the end, the release of records is about far more than documents. It is about dignity. It is about truth. It is about honouring sacrifice. It is about building a South Africa confident enough to face its past so it can walk more honestly into its future.

• Hatang is the executive director at Re Hata Mmoho and host of Power Week on Power 98.7

Sowetan