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The curious career of an African modernizer: South Africa's Thabo Mbeki
Article in Contemporary Politics · December 2009
DOI: 10.1080/13569770903416521
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Contemporary Politics
Vol. 15, No. 4, December 2009, 445 –460
The curious career of an African modernizer: South Africa’s Thabo Mbeki
Peter Vale! and Georgina Barrett!!
Rhodes University, South Africa
Thabo Mbeki, South Africa’s second democratically elected president, was born into leftwing politics. In exile, he became the face of the African National Congress (ANC) and
developed a reputation as a modernizer. He returned to the country and built relations, not
with the ANC’s internal allies, but with the country’s business community. In 1996, as
Mandela’s deputy, Mbeki implemented a neo-liberal economic package, called GEAR,
which alienated many. In office, he both failed to acknowledge the threat of HIV/AIDS to
the country and refused to pressure the failing regime in Zimbabwe; but it was his
bypassing of parliament that ultimately led to his failure as president.
Keywords: South Africa; presidency; neo-liberal; modernity; Africa; Thabo Mbeki
2010 will be the Centenary of the founding of South Africa. In any other country this would be
an occasion to rejoice, but this is unlikely to happen. Certainly, South Africans will celebrate in
2010, but these celebrations will focus on the Soccer World Cup tournament, which will be
played in the country between 11 June and 11 July. In symbolic ways, this inclination to
rejoice with the world but to dither at home captures the curious 9-year tenure of South
Africa’s second democratically elected president, Thabo Mbeki.
This article reflects critically on features of Mbeki’s presidency, with an eye to highlighting
the policy contradictions that were to prove his undoing. The argument is that Mbeki set out to
establish a modernist order in South Africa by adopting a technically driven neo-liberal policy
framework that effectively depoliticized politics (see Pithouse 2009).
Mimicking Third Way politics, Mbeki positioned a ‘new authoritarianism’ (Taylor 2000) at
the centre of South Africa’s domestic and foreign policy; but, in pursuit of his modernist agenda,
Mbeki was tripped by his quirky leadership – in health, in regional foreign policy and in public
accountability – all areas for which the modernity he had sought for the country (and, indeed, the
African continent) was essential.
Fitness for purpose
Mbeki’s life story has been set down in a number of places, including a recent acclaimed
biography (Gevisser 2007). Nevertheless, some biographical ground-clearing is necessary
both to situate Mbeki in his time and to anchor the argument.
An eldest child, Thabo Mvuyelwa Mbeki was born in 1942 into one of the dynastic families
of South African liberation politics. His father, Govan, was a leading figure in both the African
National Congress (ANC) and the South African Communist Party (SACP) – organizations that
share a political alliance dating back to the 1960s. Described as ‘austere, absolutist, and
Peter Vale is the Nelson Mandela Professor of Politics, Rhodes University, South Africa. Email:
p.vale@ru.ac.za
!!
Georgina Barrett is a Lecturer in the Department of Politics and International Studies, Rhodes University,
South Africa. Email: g.barrett@ru.ac.za
!
ISSN 1356-9775 print/ISSN 1469-3631 online
# 2009 Taylor & Francis
DOI: 10.1080/13569770903416521
http://www.informaworld.com
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Peter Vale and Georgina Barrett
uncompromising’ (Lodge 2006, p. 131), Govan Mbeki was a political icon, spending 24 years as
a political prisoner on Robben Island. After a disconnected childhood in which South Africa’s
struggle for freedom was the overriding concern of parents and children, the younger Mbeki left
for the UK following a brief period in the custody of apartheid’s police. The years in Britain
would eventually resonate with South Africa’s Anglophone political culture despite the fact
that for three decades the ANC was regarded as Communist in a country vehemently opposed
to Marxism. Indeed, during Mbeki’s tenure, this seemed all forgotten as Britain became not
only a point of reference for him but also a source of comparison for those writing about
Mbeki (Calland 2006).
Whether or not his lineage made Thabo Mbeki the ANC’s ‘Crown Prince’ (Nevin 2003) is
a matter for speculation, but his ascendancy to the presidency was a near foregone conclusion.
The assassination of the leader of the South African Communist Party, Chris Hani, in 1993
and the departure of the labour leader-cum-capitalist Cyril Ramaphosa from constitutional
politics after he failed to secure the ANC deputy presidency in 1996 removed significant
obstacles from Mbeki’s path to power. In the same breath as announcing his decision not to
stand for a second term in office, Nelson Mandela declared that Mbeki would be the right
choice as his successor (Associated Press 1996). This was to be a significant week in the
young democracy’s life; days later Mandela embarked on what was to be a triumphant visit
to London and, on 14 July, attended Bastille Day Celebrations as the guest of Jacques Chirac,
the French president. This itinerary suggests the great expectations that would fall on
Mandela’s anointed successor. For the West, democratic South Africa had become a beacon
of hope in a troubled continent, and Mbeki was considered a key player; but international
relations would pale when set against the enormity of what Mbeki faced at home. Was he
equipped for the job?
Notwithstanding 9 years in office (1999 – 2008) and five earlier years (1994– 99) as Mandela’s deputy, the answer to the question is still not clear. Mbeki certainly brought to office the high
expectations of a country caught in the afterglow of its acclaimed transition; but some of the
enthusiasm was generated by that most dangerous of political commodities, media hype.
Fuelled by acolytes, Mbekism – as we might call it – drew on a British political tradition of
hero worship that reaches back to the nineteenth century writing of the historian Thomas
Carlyle (2006). Conjuring visions of a ‘Crown Prince’ and ‘Philosopher King’ (Pretoria News
2008), Essop Pahad, a lifelong friend, confident and cabinet minister, wrote of Mbeki:
. . . you embody the qualities of sound democratic leadership – your reason and judgment about
creating a just society and a good society are beyond reproach. You are courageous in the face of
enormous pressure; you fight for and uphold the rule of law in the face of authoritarianism; you
live by your principles; you speak truth to power and listen to the truth from the dispossessed and
the marginalised . . . your leadership has brought to our country peace and stability, including
macro-economic stability. (Pahad 2008)
As a result of this myth-making, Mbeki emerged as an inscrutable figure in a country that,
notwithstanding the stature of Mandela, was desperately in search of heroes (see Vale 2004).
Part of the Mbeki enigma was that he mixed a passionate commitment to Africa with a
Western urbanity – the latter often emerged in his public discourse. So, in his very last major
speech to the country’s parliament in February 2008, he drew on Charles Dickens’s A tale of
two cities to make a point about the divided state of the country (Mbeki 2008).
Whoever it was that succeeded Mandela would have been found wanting; but however
golden Mandela’s presidency appears in retrospect, they were years of frustration on all sides
of the country’s many divides. As a result, the expectations of his successor were high and
Mbeki seemed well prepared (and groomed) for the job. The Economist, nevertheless, caught
a distinct ambivalence around the new president. Mbeki:
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447
. . . is clever and reassuringly cosmopolitan to visiting westerners. But, unlike Mr Mandela, he is
less concerned with racial reconciliation than with the transformation of South Africa’s still-white
institutions. His sometimes casual attitude to the responsibilities of his job is worrying. So is his
increasing suspicion of the press. White South Africans have some reason to fear that the world will
not be quite so comforting or familiar to them when Nelson Mandela is gone. (The Economist 1996)
It was a prescient observation. Mbeki’s strident – sometimes openly antagonistic – approach to
Mandela’s credo of ‘non-racialism’ offered considerable hope to those who felt excluded by the
latter’s non-racialism (Lodge 2006, p. 207), which, for some, had reached too far towards minority interests. This inclusiveness harked back to the 1955 Freedom Charter’s promise that
‘South Africa belongs to all who live in it’ (The Freedom Charter 1955); but Mbeki promised
the transformation of the ANC from a liberation movement to a modern – and modernizing
– political party that would ensure the growth of a Black economic elite through the twin policies of American-style affirmative action and Black economic empowerment (BEE). So,
Mbeki’s relative youth (he was 58 years old at the time) suggested a rejuvenation of nationalist
politics after Nelson Mandela’s celebratory, but somewhat static, 5 years in office.
Others drew a different inspiration from the president-in-waiting. South Africa’s business
community were elated by the idea that the country would be led by an ‘economist’. Like
many wishes (political and other), this was not a very considered view. Mbeki’s training as
an economist was somewhat overstated. His postgraduate studies in Development Economics
were at the University of Sussex during the heyday of that institution’s antiestablishment
best. Although his MA thesis, ‘The location of industry in Ghana and Nigeria’, was accepted,
it was not in a faculty of Business, or of Commerce, but in a School of Social Studies (Gevisser
2007, p. 199). In addition, the subject matter was more economic geography than the fine
number-crunching that marks modern postgraduate degrees in economics.
Nevertheless, the view that Mbeki’s academic training and his experience in politics could
deliver to the country’s people had taken wide hold. When he became president on 16 June 1999,
Zapiro, the country’s leading political cartoonist, drew Mbeki as ‘Mr Delivery’ (Zapiro 1999).
Depicted as a pizza delivery person – his trademark pipe firmly clenched between his teeth –
eager to get about his task, the new president was positioned on a motor-scooter with the
tower of services requiring urgent attention piled up like pizza boxes on the back.
Why did South Africans believe that Mbeki offered the modernity that apartheid and even
Mandela had denied them?
The rise of a rational man
In the mid- and late 1980s, Mbeki was the face of the ANC, a movement that had been demonized by the Cold War and vilified by the champions of the emerging liberal order, Ronald
Reagan’s America and Margaret Thatcher’s Britain. As a result, there is no underestimating
the importance of Mbeki’s growing stature, in the eyes of an increasingly triumphant West,
as the hope for a new African modernity.
He also made an impression on South Africa’s isolated Whites during a series of ‘safaris’ in
the 1980s – as Joseph Lelyveld (2009) has recently called them. To explain: at the time, South
Africans from within and without the country held high-profile meetings on the African
continent to discuss the future of their embattled country. One of these was a 1987 meeting
in Dakar, Senegal, between (mainly) Afrikaner intellectuals, led by Frederik van Zyl Slabbert
(2006), the former leader of the opposition in the White parliament, and representatives of
the ANC, led by Mbeki. More significantly, for our purposes, Mbeki had met with South
African business leaders and the mainstream press in Zambia and elsewhere. These gatherings
suggested that the country, with luck and goodwill, would not slide into the anarchy that
appeared to be Africa’s inevitable post-colonial destiny. The talks showed a sophisticated
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Peter Vale and Georgina Barrett
understanding of the challenges that the post-apartheid government would face and a growing
accord that a modern economy was essential in a quickly changing world. Mbeki was happy
to be closely identified with these outcomes.
Shortly after F.W. de Klerk’s 2 February 1989 speech, which overturned the ban on the ANC
and set the country on a 5-year transition to democracy, Mbeki returned home; he had been away
for 25 years. He continued to engage the business community, drawing closer to them than the
United Democratic Front (UDF), the confident but sometimes anarchical internal resistance
movement. The UDF’s decentralized structure, its grassroots approach to democracy and its
unwieldy political activism (Neocosmos 2004) may have sat uncomfortably with the authoritarian political approach preferred by Mbeki. But another plausible explanation was that exile
had not provided any deep understanding of the UDF’s complex sociology and ironically, like
the apartheid state, Mbeki may have regarded it only as the internal proxy for the ANC.
One of Mbeki’s early tasks was to prepare a speech that Mandela was to deliver at a meeting
of the ‘Consultative Business Movement’, the latest in a line of quasi-political organizations set
up by the liberal wing of the country’s business community. The meeting took place in what was
then the best address in Johannesburg, The Carlton Hotel. Incongruously, however, the recently
returned Mbeki had no place to live. No matter, business decided, they would set him up in an
executive suite in ‘The Carlton’ (Gevisser 2007, pp. 577 – 78). At the time, the offer (and its
acceptance) appeared less a deliberate strategy of co-option than a comfortable outcome to an
embarrassing moment between, say, old friends; but a more thoughtful interpretation might
view it as a form of cultural socialization.
So, the embrace between business and the returned ANC – symbolized by Mbeki’s stay at the
Carlton – appeared to be an increasingly natural kind of development. These deepening links,
however, were to foster an impression that business, not the street protest of the UDF, had been
in the forefront of the struggle against apartheid. In reality, the relations between business and
politics in South Africa were invariably ambiguous. In the early 1980s, for instance, business
had readily embraced the self-styled ‘reform’ strategy of the National Party; but, as the decade
matured, they realized the advantage – no, the necessity – of engaging the ANC and distancing
themselves from the apartheid regime (Vale 2004). The latter move was certainly intensified by
South Africa’s default on the country’s self-induced debt crisis (Herbst 1994, p. 31).
The ease of rapport between the ANC and business in the years after Mbeki’s return made it
difficult to see that these early intimacies represented tectonic shifts in the economic direction
that the country would take. After all, Mandela had insisted until the early 1990s that it
would be ‘inconceivable’ to modify the nationalization policies of the ANC (Sowetan 1990 in
Davis 2003). Statements like these unnerved the South African business community, sending
minor tremors through the Johannesburg Stock Exchange (Klein 2007, p. 207); but this uncertainty was not only symptomatic of the times, it reflected them, too.
Developments in South Africa followed upon the momentous changes in East– West
relations. The fall of the Berlin Wall was said to have erased near-Archimedean points of
political reference – left – right – which had influenced thinking about South Africa for
40-odd years. So, drawing closer the ‘Marxists’ – as apartheid’s opponents were invariably
called throughout the troubled 1980s – was made easier by the sense of triumphalism around
free-market capitalism, which was insidious in South Africa at the time. Building on this
pervasive free-market ideology, local public intellectuals had made much of capitalism’s role
in the earlier collapse of the East European-style socialism.
What had happened to the countless dreams of a non-capitalist South Africa that had marked
the long struggle against apartheid? And what was Mbeki’s view? To answer these questions, we
must turn to Weberian sociology. The 1980s were particularly turbulent years in the country and
the possibility of major disorder was ever-present. Indeed, UDF slogans such as ‘Making the
Contemporary Politics
449
townships ungovernable’ and ‘No education without liberation’ had presented anarchy as a
plausible, even rational, strategy to end apartheid. So, an immediate problem of post-apartheid
South Africa was to bring the country to order. The triumphalism claimed by free-market
capitalism and the modern policy prescriptions it provided offered a means to do so.
Discussed as commonsensical outcomes in new times, these approaches enabled the ANC to
slip its commitment to popular struggle in favour of an ordered state-centred nationalism in
which the movement, through the state, would govern in ‘the people’s interest’ (see Johnson
2002, pp. 221– 241). For this to work, however, meant a recourse to narrow ideological
explanations of the country’s complex social reality and, as importantly, the development of a
regime of centralized management that would make things happen.
Drawing from Max Weber, the political philosopher, Sheldon Wolin explains this move in
abstract terms:
The political importance of rational choice [lies] not in its advocacy . . . it professes to be politically
neutral . . . but in its integrative role in political economy. It is an important device for rendering
politics manageable by processing it through economic modes of analysis thereby linking both
the rhetoric and logic of economic rationality constituted by and for market-oriented institutions
with the rationality constructed by and for state bureaucracies and party organisations . . . [these
are] . . . modes of discourse for political elites . . . [which] . . . have deep roots in the culture of the
business corporation. (Wolin 2004, p. 574)
Put within the more immediate context of time and place, Mbeki jettisoned his Communist past,
and turned towards the new vocabulary of ‘Third Way’ (Giddens 1998) modernity. This course
of action was greatly appreciated by the business community. So, in late 1996 Conrad Strauss, a
leading South African banker, praised Mbeki as ‘a modern man who understands the macroeconomic forces at work in society’ (Ogden 1996).
Although Mbeki’s new ideas may have seemed more open, even democratic, he was not
above using tight political control closer to home to get his way. So, as an example, he undercut
the Congress of South African Trade Unions’ (COSATU) anti-privatization stance by ensuring
policy drafting committees were dominated by his centrist allies within the party (Gumede 2007,
p. 149). This approach would lead to what many later called Mbeki’s ‘Stalinist Capitalism’. By
changing his mind but not his authoritarian style of politics, Mbeki alienated the forces that had
worked so hard to end apartheid. The early seeds of his undoing had been sown.
Like all modernizing projects, South Africa’s was a mix of various – often contradictory –
threads: so, to understand the record of Mbeki’s ordering of South African society, and to explain
his downfall, our attention must now turn to them.
Neo-liberal triumphalism
If Mandela’s style was accepting and accommodating, Mbeki’s was reserved, even remote.
Appeals to austerity and the need for patience ran through his speeches, which were often
presented as a form quite alien in the country’s political culture. Instead of liberation slogans,
Mbeki offered technical solutions. The rhetoric of these was adopted from economic rationality,
which South Africa was ‘fated to emulate’ (Gray 2002, p. 104) – to use a phrase that reinforced
the Thatcherite idea that no alternatives were available to policy-makers.
The formal embrace of neo-liberalism came in 1996, 2 years after South Africa’s first democratic election, when Deputy President Mbeki – effectively Mandela’s Prime Minister –
announced the adoption of a new economic programme, called the ‘Growth, Employment and
Redistribution Policy’ (thereafter known by the acronym, GEAR). This drew the free market,
and the emerging discourse around globalization, towards the celebratory achievements of the
new South Africa. It was claimed that GEAR would reduce inflation, decrease a budget
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Peter Vale and Georgina Barrett
deficit and offset a recent loss in the value of the currency by loosening exchange controls
(Koelbe 2008, p. 162). The new framework replaced a Keynesian-centred programme called
the Reconstruction and Development Programme (RDP), which had been directed at addressing
‘the legacies of the apartheid regime through a targeted set of social and economic policies that
would deal with the exceptionally high levels of inequality between black and white, rich and
poor, skilled and unskilled’ (Koelbe 2008, p. 161).
The switch in direction was presented in a depoliticized and commonsense language by
Mbeki and his economic ministers, Trevor Manuel and Alec Erwin. It was said to be a
logical move given that the currency had been in free fall and that there was a risk of economic
collapse (Gevisser 2007, p. 665). The resulting policy choices, the argument ran, were a natural
step towards the country’s full integration into the benefits that would follow neo-liberal
economic globalization. Brian Pottinger (2008, p. 69) insists that GEAR was a signal to the
West that African countries were capable of successfully managing modern states, a message
that Mbeki was keen to demonstrate at home and abroad.
These policy prescriptions, however, were to cause a furore within left-leaning circles when
it became clear that GEAR was little more than a local variant of the orthodox IMF – World Bank
policy mantra ‘deregulate, privatize, liberalize’. However, it was the authoritarian style of its
bedding down which caused disbelief that would last Mbeki’s entire presidency. The ANC’s
‘traditional’ ally in the so-called Tripartite Alliance – the SACP – and its newer ally, the
COSATU, were entirely left out of the decision; ANC loyalists were informed of the switch
in the most perfunctory fashion. In contrast to rising pique from these quarters, the idea of
GEAR was seldom challenged by the mainstream media and policy intellectuals (see e.g.
West 1994). Remarkably, their consent-by-silence persisted in the face of the far-reaching
decisions by leading South African corporations to divest from the Johannesburg Stock
Exchange and relocate to London and New York (Koelbe 2008, p. 162).
Reconciling the dilemmas resulting from this switch in economic direction became the
single most important challenge of Mbeki’s presidency. Thiven Reddy points out that Mbeki
found himself ‘in the contradictory position of implementing an austere macroeconomic
policy, one decidedly neo-liberal and favouring business interests, while also aiming to accommodate the expectations of . . . (ANC) . . . supporters for far-reaching redress. Faced with deeply
racialised social formations and white dominance of the economy, [the government in part] . . .
set out to de-racialise social relations by relying on affirmative action and black economic
empowerment’ (Reddy 2008, p. 214). The latter aimed to create a solid black business class
instead of generating long-term solutions to South Africa’s social woes. It also failed to
address populist calls for redistribution or even more rational versions that delivery to the
poor was essential to prevent further polarization in the country.
Was Mbeki conscious of all this? After all, he had grown up in a Communist home and had,
in the 1970s, spent a year at the Lenin Institute in Moscow. The answer is an unequivocal yes. In
1998, in a celebrated address known as the ‘Two Nations Speech’, Mbeki described the country
as ‘comprising two nations, one Black, the other White’. The latter was prosperous with access
to the resources that would allow them meaningful life opportunities. The other nation, ‘Black
and poor’, lived ‘under conditions of grossly underdeveloped economic, physical, educational,
communication, and other infrastructure’, which cut them off from the opportunities to a full and
meaningful life. The theme of this speech drew on a long tradition of thinking on class-bound
societies that originated in Britain in the mid-nineteenth century through the writings of
Benjamin Disraeli and was resuscitated in the United States in the late twentieth century to
describe the social effects of Reaganism (Seekings 2008).
Although conscious of its political importance and the comparative sociology of its poverty,
Mbeki seemed powerless to move beyond rhetoric. Why was this so?
Contemporary Politics
451
To achieve its goals, the government resorted to a problem-solving approach to politics,
which took on a centralized and authoritarian form. This was evident at the hub of national
policy-making, the Office of the Presidency. Under Mandela, the executive had been small
and accessible, but under Mbeki it drew on an increasing amount of technical expertise; his
‘backroom presidency’ had over 330 personnel (Mills 2000, p. 326). Vale and Ruiters (2004)
argued that this represented a return to Mbeki’s Marxist roots; to the Leninist idea of the
mass-base and small cadre of intellectuals who led the country. The latter are a kind of
command centre that is driven by ‘scientific knowledge’ – to use Lenin’s term for the desirability of this vanguardist approach to government. However, this interpretation seems to be an overelaborate explanation of Max Weber’s observation that modern politicians emboldened by the
rational technology of power emerge as narrow managers. Mbeki’s approach to day-to-day government certainly enabled him to access all levels of its structure with fine detail; but plainly it
was difficult for these ideas to permeate beyond certain levels of authority and government. So,
the efficacy of Mbeki’s administration was often called into doubt, as this apocryphal exchange
between a member of Mbeki’s government and a cynic highlights: ‘Nobody understands government . . . better than the president’, says the Minister. ‘Yes’, replies the cynic, ‘but other than
SARS [the country’s revenue service] nothing works’ (Carter 2008).
The path of irrationality
Mbeki’s modernizing image was, however, countered by his views on the biggest issue the
country faced, the HIV/AIDS pandemic. The facts of the virus, but not the scope of its potential
damage, were established as apartheid ended. Some crude juggling around the issue within the
homophobic and racial-routines of late-apartheid set out to reassure white South Africans that
they were ‘safe’ from the virus; it was an issue affecting only ‘deviant’ homosexuals. This
‘laconic portrayal’ reflected the rather limited experience with the virus in Europe and
America, and underpinned the early complacency on what was to become a major public
health issue in the country (Grundlingh 2001, pp. 125 – 126). In the moment of political transition, AIDS was overshadowed by the pressing issues around order, unity and transformation,
but the implications for public policy certainly became clear as Mandela’s presidency drew to a
close. A critical public issue was at hand and meeting it would require resolute leadership.
As the world knows, however, Mbeki failed to deliver this, fostering instead public confusion
and global outrage with his denialism. In September 2003, for instance, he told The Washington
Post that he did not even know ‘anybody who died of AIDS’ (Gumede 2007, p. 211), insisting
that the prevailing scientific paradigm surrounding its aetiology needed further scrutiny. Thus,
on the central issue facing the country, Mbeki ventured away from politics and policy into
medical science (Leon 2008, p. 330), where he consulted dubious online material and
befriended dissident academics such as Peter Duesberg of the University of California (see
http://virusmyth.net), who enthusiastically supported Mbeki’s position, denying that AIDS
could be contracted through sexual intercourse, arguing that it was just another name for the
diseases of poverty (Gumede 2007, p. 197).
The consequences were profound: the Mbeki government prevaricated over the roll-out of
antiretroviral (ARVs) drugs despite ‘vociferous criticism’ (Heller 2001, p. 163) from civil
society activists, the media, health professionals and one-third of the tripartite alliance, the
trade union movement, COSATU. The long-term social and economic impact of his denialism,
however, repeatedly seemed to escape him and his fellow naysayers. As Mbeki’s term in office
continued, he failed to fire his Minister of Health, Mantombaza ‘Manto’ Tshabalala-Msimang,
who, although a trained medical doctor, had views on the treatment of HIV/AIDS that bordered
on the bizarre. Advocating a concoction of ‘garlic, lemon and olive oil as well as African
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potatoes and beetroot’ to promote good health (Paton 2006), particularly for those infected with
HIV, the Minister fostered greater public confusion and derision from AIDS activists.
Explanations of Mbeki’s s approach range ‘from the prohibitive costs of providing antiAIDS medication on a mass scale, along with the unmanageable burdens of care this would
impose on the state health service, through to Mbeki’s own sex life and sexuality’ (Posel
2005, p. 141). Others argued that Mbeki’s approach to the AIDS issue was stymied by his leadership style – the instinct to command rather than negotiate support for his policy choices (Leon
2008, p. 329). So, when Tshabalala-Msimang’s young Deputy, Nozizwe Madlala-Routledge,
questioned the government’s approach to the issue, she became the only one of his ministers
to face dismissal (Sapa 2007). Mbeki’s responses to criticism of his position included the
assertion that calls for action rested on racism (Posel 2008, p. 16), and these led to the repeated
thwarting of public efforts to deliver ARVs and educational strategies. Taken together, these
actions signalled to the country’s citizens (and the world) that the Mbeki government seemed
indifferent to a condition that was killing 600 citizens a day (Treatment Action Campaign 2003).
If Mbeki hoped to deny the grassroots a voice in the national debate on AIDS by making it a
technical issue, he was mistaken – his approach had the opposite effect. In a political style reminiscent of the UDF, the issue was taken to the streets by the Treatment Action Campaign (TAC);
this single-focus pressure group is, undoubtedly, the most important new political movement to
arise in post-apartheid South Africa. Beyond the street, however, their razor-sharp research highlighted government failure to address the AIDs issue: so, for example, they pointed out that 40%
of the 1999/2000 AIDS budget was unspent (Gumede 2007, p. 200).
Reports that Mbeki’s embrace of prominent AIDS dissidents had divided his Cabinet were
ever-present, especially in the early years of his second term. However, his withdrawal from the
controversy in April 2002 after admitting that the government had experienced a ‘communications problem’ over the issue (Battersby and Bhashlane 2002) suggested an instance when
Mbeki may have followed the advice of those outside his chosen circle of close advisors. But
AIDS denialism remained rampant, although it was frequently questioned (Feinstein 2007,
pp. 125– 126) within party circles. Unlike Uganda’s president, Yoweri Museveni, Mbeki had
failed to lead the country in tackling the pandemic head on. His poor leadership left ordinary
people confused and with a sense that they had been forgotten by what was said to be the
most progressive Constitution and Bill of Rights in the world.
Mbeki’s approach to Zimbabwe was equally baffling. The gradual implosion of South
Africa’s northern neighbour commenced before he assumed office. Robert Mugabe, Zimbabwe’s
president, had disregarded the spirit of the country’s late-decolonization constitution (negotiated
in 1979) as his own increasing autocratic style drew the country into crisis. At its centre was
access to land – an explosive issue in Zimbabwe (as in South Africa) because it runs along
the orthodox racial divide of post-colonial southern African politics. In the face of Mugabe’s
violent suppression of dissent, a credible opposition was slow to emerge, and when it finally
did it was harassed by state institutions and functionaries. Even with industrial production
falling, crops failing and inflation rocketing to 2.2 million per cent (Dzirutwe 2008), Mugabe
failed to engage the opposition. What was to be done?
Given geography, South Africa was well situated to play a crucial role in a negotiated way
out of the Zimbabwe impasse, in line with the declared ideals of Mbeki’s African Renaissance.
Moreover, Cold War and late-colonial history both offered a helpful precedent. By exercising
the levers of geopolitics in the late 1970s, apartheid South Africa had helped to bring the
settler-colonial regime in the then Rhodesia (Zimbabwe’s name under colonialism) to settlement. So the same approach, many believed, offered post-apartheid South Africa an opportunity
to lead a multinational initiative to restore democracy in Zimbabwe. After all, South Africa had
itself emerged as a bastion of democracy in the continent through a negotiated settlement and
Contemporary Politics
453
Mbeki, as we have noted, was seen to be a champion of peaceful change. As president (and
deputy president), however, he proved reluctant to exert any pressure to deal with Zimbabwe.
On Zimbabwe Mbeki will be remembered for his policy of ‘quiet diplomacy’, for which he
endured mounting international and internal criticism (Spence 2006). Mbeki continued, in public
at least, to offer solidarity to Robert Mugabe, although the latter would regularly embarrass him
by ignoring the decisions that were reached in bilateral or multilateral forums (Gumede 2007,
p. 226); and when the international community condemned the fraudulent outcome of the
2002 elections in Zimbabwe, an ANC delegation – which had been carefully selected by
Mbeki – declared the results as both free and fair (Feinstein 2007, p. 118).
What accounts for Mbeki’s irrational approach to a question that could have been resolved,
and which could have generated much needed international kudos? Many attribute it to the
‘baptism of fire’ (Gumede 2007, p. 220) Mbeki experienced when, at Mandela’s initiative,
South Africa attempted public criticism of Nigeria’s Abacha regime in the early years of
South Africa’s democracy. In 1995 Mandela dispatched his deputy, then Mbeki, to convince
the Nigerian dictator, Sani Abacha, to spare the life of the activist and playwrite Ken Saro
Wiwa. However, the intervention failed; Saro Wiwa was executed. Mbeki was angered by the
incident, believing that any hope that South Africa could export its ‘home-grown’ human
rights agenda to the continent was foolhardy.
A further explanation for Mbeki’s failure to intervene in Zimbabwe was that any involvement could have roused pressure in South Africa, where the redistribution of land was slow
and contentious. The ‘illegal’ land grabs in South Africa in 2001 (Smith and Tabane 2001)
were demonstrative of the frustration felt by many poor South Africans and reinforced the
anger and disillusionment that GEAR or BEE were doing little to improve the lives of the
poor. Furthermore, these grabs strained the government’s relations with white communities,
who feared that South Africa was turning into ‘another Zimbabwe’ (The Economist 2001) –
an accusation that infuriated the anti-imperialist Mbeki by playing on his often ambivalent feelings towards whites in Africa. So, as William Gumede (2007, p. 223) pointed out, Mbeki had
‘egg dance[d]’ on Zimbabwe and also failed to reassure his political constituents at home.
A further explanation could be squeezed from the patterns of political patronage that developed
during the years of liberation struggle and exile. Put in a series of questions: was Mbeki in
Mugabe’s debt for unspecified support (either personal or political) during the anti-apartheid
years? Or was the explanation to be found in the complicated world of political hierarchies? In
the ranking order of liberation movement leaders, Mugabe was senior to Mbeki, notwithstanding
that the latter was leader of the biggest country in the region. Less politely, perhaps, was the role of
envy, namely that Mugabe’s irritation over South Africa’s economic and political hold on southern
Africa made him unbending to South African pressure. Furthermore, was this ill-will aggravated by
the commanding international stature that Mandela enjoyed throughout his presidency? Or was
Mbeki in another bind? Publicly condemning Mugabe, a respected leader in Africa, would have
violated ‘the rules of the [liberation struggle] club . . . and no one wanted to be a shoddy club
member’ – to borrow the phrase from Michael Barnett (1998). Interestingly, this code, if it
exists, was not binding on a new generation of regional leaders, such as Botswana’s President
Ian Khama, who has spoken out against Mugabe (Fabricius 2008).
Then there was a racial explanation for Mbeki’s reluctance to get involved in the Zimbabwe
issue. Calls for action on Zimbabwe were often most vociferous among South Africa’s whites,
and Mbeki, so it was thought, did not want to be seen as placating the minority. Ironically,
however, in steering the course he did, Mbeki failed the majority black population of Zimbabwe
and sent a worrying message to his own people. As the Nobel Laureate Desmond Tutu (2003) put
it, ‘if we are seemingly indifferent to human rights in a neighbouring country, what is to stop us
one day being indifferent to them in our own?’
454
Peter Vale and Georgina Barrett
Whatever the reason for Mbeki’s hesitation to act against Zimbabwe, grave doubts were
raised about his policy of ‘quiet diplomacy’. In an infamous retort to critics, Mbeki said that
‘Loud diplomacy was not diplomacy’ (Charbonneau and Worsnip 2008), but his stance undermined his idea of an African Renaissance, making a sham of his promotion of good governance
and democracy on the continent through his New Partnership for Africa’s Development
(NEPAD) project. In the fading days of his presidency Mbeki did negotiate a tentative settlement
in the ill-fated country, but the continuing failure of the parties to adhere to that particular
agreement only reinforces the idea that, in Zimbabwe, all efforts were too little, too late!
When Mbeki’s quirky stance over HIV/AIDS was set alongside his hesitancy over
Zimbabwe, his judgement – let alone his reputation as a modernizer – was increasingly suspect.
African saviour
The unbending stand on Zimbabwe cast a long shadow over what was the single achievement of
the Mbeki presidency, international relations. In contrast to Zimbabwe, Mbeki’s approach to
peace-making in the Democratic Republic of Congo, Burundi, Rwanda, Côte d’Ivoire, Sudan
and elsewhere on the continent were to his great credit (Adebajo 2009, p. 10). More importantly
perhaps, beyond his technical approach to these issues, he was inspirational in setting a
new agenda for Africa. Here, as nowhere else in his presidency, Mbeki was to the manner
born. His deep, abiding interest in the continent, ignited in his childhood, was carefully honed
during his years of exile. In the mid 1980s, with Mandela’s incarceration and the failing
health of Oliver Tambo, then the ANC’s president, responsibility for the movement’s foreign
policy – including managing relations with the continent – fell to Mbeki. He did this labour
with considerable skill and great sensitivity.
On his return to the country, the direction of South Africa’s future foreign policy was of some
interest to the wider international community, and hopes that he would set new directions were
not disappointed. In a speech to the country’s Constituent Assembly in May 1996, Mbeki set out
an entirely new approach to the country’s international relations, especially those between South
Africa and the African continent (Mbeki 1996). The speech, known by its first four words, ‘I am
an African’, was the precursor to the notion of an African Renaissance, a talismanic idea that was
said to mark a new moment in African affairs.
There is no space here to rehearse the emergence and direction of the African Renaissance,
on which much has been published (see e.g. Vale and Maseko 1998); but Mbeki’s intention
was to improve the continent’s negative image by bringing its policies, particularly in the financial, economic and governance spheres, closer to mainstream global thinking. The African
Renaissance idea was not, however, a single moment, but rather a link in a chain of both
ideas and practical politics. To shift the image, the African Renaissance was the inner of
three Russian dolls. The other two, less abstract in their form, emerged sequentially – they
were the NEPAD and the African Union (AU). The former was a multilateral forum structured
around a peer review mechanism and the latter a modernization of the shop-worn Organization
of African Unity.
The lyricism of Mbeki’s oratory on Africa stands in contrast to his technical approach in
addressing domestic issues. This may help to explain the real conviction, following the ‘I am
an African’ speech, that the continent could experience a Renaissance, which would restore
lost dignity and assume an assertive global presence. For South Africa, this was a moment
when domestic and, simultaneously, international policy required careful calibration. To
achieve this, Mbeki frequently used anti-imperialist rhetoric and the promotion of an African
distinctiveness to reinforce the importance of developing a new identity in a country where
Western, particularly Anglophone, values offered stubborn resistance.
Contemporary Politics
455
So the African Renaissance was many things, but, importantly, its inclusive tone offered a
common vision for all who belonged to the continent (Vale and Maseko 1998, p. 276). As,
however, the Renaissance could not live outside the ideas that had exerted themselves in postCold War public life – of which neo-liberalism mattered most – it was impossible that further
developments of the African Renaissance, NEPAD and the AU could escape the hold of the
terms that carried free-market ideology. Chief among these were the keywords ‘governance’,
‘transparency’ and ‘accountability’, which had been used, with great effect, to naturalize and
legitimize GEAR by becoming ‘household . . . [terms] . . . heading the list of concerns of aid
agencies, government researchers and the media’ (Doornbos 2003, p. 4). Thus, the influence of
the policy discourse of the domestic on the international and vice versa was ever present in
Mbeki’s policies.
South Africa’s policy community embraced this vocabulary and the link it provided for
Africa’s renewal (see Sidiropoulos 2004). It was called an ‘internationally acceptable approach’
and was often linked to the idea of ‘sound fiscal policy’: this suggests how the regular language
of policy – even of foreign policy – was being crowded out by the discourse of economic
priorities. If there was doubt over Mbeki’s aims with his approach to Africa, it was settled by
George W. Bush during a press conference in July 2003. Mbeki, Bush said, ‘is advancing . . .
the New Partnership for African Development (NEPAD). He’s a leader in that effort . . . [we]
believe that the partnership can help extend democracy and free markets and transparency
across the continent of Africa’ (Factiva 2003). (This was the same occasion, incidentally, that
the American president called Mbeki his ‘point-man on Zimbabwe’ (Spence 2006).)
All this was new for South Africa’s foreign policy and was bold testimony to Mbeki’s energy
in international affairs. However, although new, it was not original, nor, indeed, authentic.
Although rooted in an African-centred idiom and lyricism, the Renaissance idea relied on
Western constructions to carry its purpose forward. NEPAD, for example, turned on a peer
review mechanism, which was first used by the Organization of Economic Cooperation and
Development (OECD) (see Molete 2008).
So what was Mbeki’s true purpose with the Renaissance idea? A compelling historical eye
on the pan-Africanist ambitions of big ideas, such as the African Renaissance, was once offered
by the late Polish writer Ryszard Kapušciñski:
A wave of liberation struggle has carried . . . [African leaders] . . . to the top: they are the children of
storms and pressure, born of the longings and desires not only of their own countries, but of the
whole continent. Thus, each of them becomes a sort of pan-African leader. Each of them will
long to make his capital the Mecca of Black Africa. (Kapušciñski 1992, pp. 49–50)
Mbeki’s undoing
Mbeki’s attempts to depoliticize South Africa in the cause of creating order has left many institutions in the country wanting. In the wake of the centralization of power, one institution that is
seemingly without purpose is the country’s National Assembly (as the country’s parliament is
called). Throughout the Mbeki years, tensions between parliamentary and presidential power
grew as Mbeki’s grip on the organs of government strengthened. Outside official occasions
and votes on the presidential budget, Mbeki seldom, if ever, sat in parliament listening to
debate. An innovation, President’s Question Time, which aimed to overcome this by requiring
the president to answer parliamentary questions four times a year, was not a great success. Tony
Leon, the former Leader of the Opposition, recalls that ‘without sanction or disapproval’ Mbeki
would cancel his appearances in parliament (Leon 2008, p. 401).
Remarkably, Mbeki’s approach to parliament was not dissimilar to apartheid’s leaders.
Almost a quarter of a century ago, Frederik van Zyl Slabbert, then the Leader of South
456
Peter Vale and Georgina Barrett
Africa’s all-white parliament, quit the body to devote his energies to finding a negotiated
settlement for the country. He was excoriated by the country’s liberal press for his decision.
Defending himself, Slabbert wrote that the Nationalist ‘Government has demonstrated its
contempt for the parliamentary tradition and for accountable government. It is doing so more
and more by the day’ (Slabbert 1986). Mbeki paid a high price for his neglect of parliament,
however, because it was here that his political fate was ultimately sealed. To explain this we
must consider the events around what has become known as the ‘arms deal’.
The country’s decision to refurbish its military, in the mid-1990s, which was integral to the
desire to become a modern state, was, ironically, in contradiction to the GEAR austerity
measures championed by Mbeki. Significantly, the arms deal also put paid to any hope that
the industrialization of war-making in the southern Africa subcontinent could have ended
with apartheid and undermined the ANC’s commitment to cut defence spending drastically.
Instead, the necessity for acquiring new weapons became publicly linked to economic growth
– a move that was naturalized by the force of economic policy discourse. To quote Ronnie
Kasrils, one time Deputy Minister of Defence, without a modern navy, South Africa could
not protect its ‘island economy’s’ imports and exports, of which ‘95 percent goes through our
ports’ (see Holden 2008, p. 8).
The ANC government was widely criticized for spending funds that could have been used for
essential service delivery on unnecessary ‘modern’ weapons: it had, after all, argued repeatedly
that it had no money for the life-saving ARV drugs; but the South African National Defence
Force (SANDF) repeatedly insisted that the deals would bring much needed economic benefits
through trade offsets (see Holden 2008, pp. 14 –32). Very quickly the arms deal poisoned postapartheid politics and undermined most of Mbeki’s modernizing efforts. It exposed many of the
contradictory elements in his style of government, not least a foreign policy that was at odds with
the country’s progressive Constitution and the spirit of the African Renaissance in which South
Africa promoted itself as a ‘continental peacekeeper’ (Gumede 2007, p. 172). It also brought the
most odious side-effects of the arms trade – corruption and graft – to bear directly on South
Africa’s political life.
Although, at the time of this writing, Mbeki is not personally thought to have benefited by the
deal, he was deeply involved in it from the outset. As deputy president, he had chaired the
meeting that decided to proceed with the deal; he was also central to a subsequent decision to
halt one set of contracts and begin the negotiations with bidders anew. The latter provoked
the interest of watchdog agencies, who took a closer look into it. As president, Mbeki was
also behind efforts to bypass parliament’s decision to look into the public accounting aspects
surrounding the contracts (see Holden 2008, pp. 63 – 67). This resulted in a deepening mistrust
in both the executive and the ANC’s commitment to legislature’s role in the democratic process.
Finally, he used the issue to target his strongest rival for leadership of the ANC (and the country),
Jacob Zuma, his deputy president, by firing him.
These events provided a backdrop to Mbeki’s desire for a third (but unconstitutional) term in
office. He was denied this at the December 2007 conference of the ruling ANC in the city of
Polokwane when Zuma was elected to the party’s presidency. In the event of an ANC victory
in an election, Zuma would – and (in April 2009) did – automatically become president of
the country.
So, Mbeki’s lack of accountability over the arms deal was to be his formal undoing. In
September, 2008, a High Court Judge opined that Mbeki’s government had abused the justice
system in an attempt to thwart Zuma’s presidential ambitions. A fortnight later, the ANC’s Executive Council met and, in an anticipated move, ‘recalled’ (read: fired) Mbeki as the president of the
country. The following day, he resigned. In the interests of rounding out the story, it must be pointed
out that an Appeal Court Judge has subsequently overturned the earlier decision of the courts.
Contemporary Politics
457
Torn legacy
Mbeki’s embrace of what Joseph Stiglitz (2009) has called ‘the short period of market
triumphalism’ has bequeathed the country an uncertain future. South Africa remains the
world’s second most unequal society, and while the policy of BEE has allowed some of previously disadvantaged citizens to become very rich, the basic apartheid configuration of white
wealth and black poverty remains the central feature of South African society. Overcoming
this legacy in the aftermath of the global economic crisis is difficult, if not impossible.
Even more difficult will be the possibility of weaning those who benefited from Mbeki’s
policies off the patterns that were developed during his 9 years in office. Michael Neocosmos
described their behaviour as
the politics of grabbing and enrichment among post-apartheid elite . . . BEE has enabled the development of a new class of ‘black diamonds’ whose new-found wealth is not particularly geared towards
national accumulation and development but towards short-term quick profits . . . Reports of corruption
among state personnel, from the national and local levels abound. Few get prosecuted, let alone
convicted, in a hegemonic culture that extols the virtues of free-market capitalism, equating private
enrichment with the public good and quick profit with development. (Neocosmos 2008, p. 587)
Other legacies also continue; undoubtedly race is one. The Mbeki presidency certainly deepened
the confidence and assertiveness of South Africa’s majority and, undoubtedly, drew the country
closer towards the African continent; but curiously, the hold of Anglophone culture on public
life was enhanced rather than weakened, as we have seen by Mbeki’s oratorical style.
Despite Mbeki’s curious presidency, South Africans, it seems, continue to have faith in the
promise of democracy. In the first general elections of the post-Mbeki era held in April 2009,
77.3% of the electorate turned out to exercise their vote (Inter-Parliamentary Union 2009).
The ANC was returned with a strong mandate, but opposition parties demonstrated a significant
growth in support.
So how are we to explain this curious African presidency? Positioned, as he was, at the crossroads (rather than Fukuyama’s end) of history, Mbeki was more a technocratic leader than a
democratic politician. The controlling neo-liberal language of the post-Cold War era created
the space for him to bring South Africa to order after the frenzied and reckless 1980s and
Mandela’s celebratory presidency. But Mbeki’s responses to the challenges of government
were high-handed, uneven and tied to the absolute certainty that marks all modernization
politics. As we have seen, however, in important areas some were simply incomprehensible.
Finally, what of a post-Mbeki South Africa? However tempting it may be to judge Mbeki’s
fall as rooted solely in his controlling persona (see Spicer 2009), especially his distrust of
democratic forces beyond his control, Mbeki’s nemeses were drawn from the political left.
This suggests that those Archimedean beacons – left and right – may have slipped from
sight only temporarily. Under President Jacob Zuma, South Africa may well need an old
language to govern.
Acknowledgements
Thanks are due to Dr Thabisi Hoeane, formerly of Rhodes University, Eileen Shepherd of the
Rhodes University Library, Beth Vale and Estelle Prinsloo.
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