Warrior Pose by Brad Willis Page B

camera onto his shoulder and slips a microphone into my hand with amazing speed. “Why violence?” I ask. “Why not follow Mandela and Tambo? Peaceful resistance. Civil disobedience?”
    â€œI am a communist and a patriot,” Hani says gently. His boyish face and wide smile make it hard to believe he embraces armed struggle until he says, “I make no apologies. The South African government has brutalized, tortured, and killed too many of our people. They make false promises, break agreements, treat us like children. The only thing they will ever understand is violence. We must let them taste the suffering they have given us, make them insecure in their homes and on the streets.” Hani is charismatic and articulate. He is the second most popular figure in the resistance movement after Nelson Mandela. Six years after we air our interview with him he will be assassinated.

    Departing Lusaka, we move deep into the countryside, passing through small villages and remote areas where armed gangs withmurky allegiances often ambush travelers. Zambia had previously been the British Colony of North Rhodesia until it declared independence in 1964. Billy Nkunika, a cross between an intellectual and a street-savvy survivor, was a leader of the resistance against the British and is now an advisor to the ANC. We’re lucky to have him with us as both guide and protector.
    It’s our second day of moving south from Lusaka toward the borders of Zimbabwe and Botswana. Just before nightfall, we round a sweeping corner through the jungle and find the road blocked by two battered pickup trucks. As Jonas slams on the brakes, we’re quickly surrounded by a dozen armed men. Two of them have rifles pointed directly at us. The rest brandish large machetes as they order us to get out of our car. It’s little matter that Dennis and I are not South African; the fact that we’re white and carrying expensive camera gear is enough to place us in grave danger.
    Nkunika orders Jonas to leave the engine running as he jumps out fearlessly, barking at the men with great authority. A few of the younger members of the gang, who look to be in their early teens, start tapping their machetes on the hood of our car while pressing their faces against the window, staring hard at us. I think about the five thousand dollars I have in my satchel for travel needs and emergencies. Our camera gear is worth a small fortune.
    Dennis whispers, “This is trouble.” I’m about to agree when Nkunika bursts back into the car, shoving the young men aside, slams the door and rolls down his window still yelling that he fought against racism before they were born. One of the battered trucks is pushed back and we roar through the roadblock. Dennis and I look at one another and sigh in unison. Without Nkunika, who knows what would have happened.
    â€œThese young men are crazy,” Nkunika says at a jungle hut where we are spending the night. “They don’t know anything about this struggle. They are filled with rage. All they want to do is rob people.”
    We are having a simple dinner of nshima , a bland, pasty dish made from maize. It’s also called mealie-meal. It’s almost impossible to swallow. Then it sticks to your ribs.
    â€œIt’s hard to blame them,” I say. “They’ve been terribly oppressed. There are no jobs, no future. I understand why they would want to rob us. What did you say that saved us?”
    Nkunika smiles. “I lied to them,” he answers. “I told them we had three more trucks behind us in an armed convoy and they would all be killed on the spot if they didn’t let us go and scram before our soldiers arrive.”
    The following morning, deep in the arid bush, we film lines of women standing for hours in the brutal sun with their children to get a few cups of grain from humanitarian organizations. Relief workers weigh their infants and provide powders for