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Fica has created a police state

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THE KNOCK on the door was harsh. It turned the night into a scary place.

“Who’s there?” crowed my grandmother. Her tone was an octave deeper than usual as she made a determined but blunt ­attempt to scare whoever was at the door.

“Maak oop,” barked the voice on the other side.

I looked at that small metal lock and wished my gran wouldn’t have to turn it.

“Who’s there?” she repeated.

“Amaphoyisa, mama,” a different voice ­replied. The police.

She opened the door.

Looking half monster and half man, the ­policeman walked in, followed by another. One wore a brown uniform, the other blue. South Africa was in the middle of the era of discrimination – even the police were not ­allowed to wear the same uniform colour.

“Permit,” the white policeman instructed. No greeting, no pleasantries. Even in my youth, I noticed his eyes exposed a certain fear, as if I was about to shout: “Bulalani abathakathi,” which, apparently, was Dingane’s ­instruction to kill the Afrikaners.

My grandmother was prepared for this night. She knew they’d come one day.

The “permit” was a document that proved that every member of each family had permission to be in that township, and in that specific house. We had a slight problem – we had just moved to KwaThema after being forcibly ­removed from her house in Payneville. The family had scattered and the papers were still not in order.

As for the penalty, it was clear – if we did not have a permit, we would be taken away that night. Mitigating circumstances were never considered. That night, my grandmother changed our names to that of our cousins who had grown up and left the house. Apartheid forced good people to lie, which they did to survive. As far as the government of the day was concerned, every black person was a criminal until they could prove themselves ­innocent.

The idea of the “permit” is still here, but has changed with the times. It has metamorphosed into what is called “the Fica document”, an offshoot of the callous Financial ­Intelligence Centre Act.

Its aim is to combat money laundering, but in typical apartheid fashion, it assumes every South African is a money laundering, unauthorised immigrant until she proves herself to be a ­local with a utility bill or clothing account. Government has ­ordered banks, cellphone companies, state departments and other service providers to be its “permit enforcers”.

Think of people who live in rural villages where there are no street names; where they fetch water from communal taps and use prepaid electricity. As if that burden were not enough, Fica documents have to be no more than three months old.

Young people who do not have their own homes cannot open bank accounts without asking for a Fica document from their parents – no wonder we don’t save. Fica has created a police state.

Oppression does not come in the form of ­Casspirs alone, but in small and often seemingly insignificant ways that make the lives of ­ordinary people difficult. It’s worse when it comes to small business. Officials who try to ease the burden and ignore the onerous ­requirements do so at the risk of breaking the law and destroying their careers. Good people are being turned into criminals again.

As a small businessperson, you must trudge on, regardless. The hurdles are endless.

Kuzwayo is the founder of Ignitive, an advertising agency

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