Last week, I went to prison.
Everyone told me I had to go—that’s just what you do when you go to Johannesburg. So I took a cab to the top of the hill and paid my ticket and joined the group.
They were all South Africans—all young, all black, and all very fashionable. And then there was me, American and white, lagging behind, listening to the guide who was too young to remember what it used to be like in his country.
He told us the horrors of life in this prison, known simply as “Number Four,” where political prisoners were locked away for months and years. He took us into the communal cell and showed us the concrete floors where more than 30 men would fight for blankets and a place to sleep. Read More…