Inside (1996) - full transcript

♪♪ [bongo drums]

[yelling, screaming]

[loud singing]

[speaks Afrikaans]

[crying, screaming]

[crowd noise]

[gunshots]

Hey!

Please, please boss.

Master said I must watch his car whilst he make big, big deal.

But he forget briefcase, boss.



Important paper.

I must to take briefcase before he loses big deal.

Please, boss, please...

Watch the car, I'll be back.

Just don't keep me waiting.

Okay, no, no, no problem, boss.

Two minutes.

♪♪ [xylophone]

[Man] Say your name and then spell it.

[Man] You know my fucking name.

[punch thrown, groans]

Yeah, yeah, we got his name.

You don't have to hit him.

He's got to say it!



Proper police procedure.

[punch thrown]

Say it and spell it!

Fuck...you!

[punches thrown]

Leave it, Ben.

He's not a fucking football.

He's a political prisoner.

[punch thrown, moans]

[moans, urinating]

Strydom?

[speaks Afrikaans]

Yeah.

Hey, let me tell you.

Bulls, they are gonna take it this weekend.

Nonsense, man.

Of course they're gonna take it.

[Guard] But American football wrecked it.

[Guard] American football?

[Guard] Yes, sir.

[speaks Afrikaans]

The Bulls are gonna take it.

Stay.

Case 9087-BMS.

The Strydom family.

Peter Strydom, General with the Boer army,

fighting for freedom from British Imperialist domination,

1899 to 1902.

Five years prisoner of war in Saint Helena.

A hero.

Martinus Strydom, Member of Parliament,

in the first Nationalist government in 1948,

until his death in 1965 of a heart attack.

Only 58.

Peter Martin Strydom,

your father, fought in North Africa against Rommel,

and the invasion of Italy.

A hero.

Chairman of the Afrikanse Bank until his retirement last year,

in 1987.

Also, a heart condition.

And so we come to the current generation.

Peter Martin Strydom, Jr.

So what do they call you, Pete?

Age 30.

Race, white.

Unmarried.

Born and raised in Cape Town.

Army, 76-78, in Soweto and Namibia.

Rhodes scholar.

Rhodes scholar, Oxford, eh?.

A credit to this country, eh?

79 to 80, Masters degree, Oxford.

PhD., University of Cape Town in 1982,

professor of political science.

Arrested 26th of June, 1988,

under the Internal Security Act,

for conspiracy to commit treason,

sabotage and terrorism.

I want this on the record.

I have nothing to say to you.

I have never been involved in,

and have no knowledge of any illegal activities.

I've committed no crime,

and I've been charged with no crime.

Furthermore, even if I did have information,

I would not divulge it to you,

because you, your government,

and your policies are utterly abhorrent to me.

How many "R"s in "abhorrent"?

Look it up.

I demand prisoner of war status.

Like your great grandfather, eh?

A freedom fighter.

Only he risked his life so his people could be free.

You want your people ground in the dirt.

Where is my attorney?

Probably at his office.

I demand you notify him.

I won't say another word without proper legal representation.

The prisoner demands.

You'll have a right to representation when you're charged with an offense.

Charged with what?

And when?

The Security Act

provides 180 days for investigation

before bringing a charge.

You think you can hold me for six months?

No...

I don't think so.

So how many days you been here already then?

Ah, yes, I know how it is

when you lose all track of time, right?

Well...

Don't worry, Pete.

I'm not going to put you through all that.

I'm going to release you from all

charges under the Internal Security Act.

Sergeant?

Peter Martin Strydom,

you are under arrest in terms of the Terrorism Act.

Sergeant.

And the 180 days start now?

Has my family been notified?

I don't know. It's not my department.

I demand you notify my father.

Prisoner demands.

Why, you haven't spoken to your father for years.

Political differences.

The Act does not require any notification.

All right, Pete, write him a letter.

I'll see he gets it.

Maybe knock some sense into you, huh?

And I demand an examination by my doctor.

The prisoner-- That's right, demands.

With no "R"s.

What'd you want to see a doctor for?

Are you sick? Sick?

I've been beaten and kicked repeatedly.

I piss blood.

I stood naked for an entire day and night

in a tub of ice water,

while your pigs gave me electric shocks

with cattle prods.

I've heard nothing of this.

You just heard.

Well, there's nothing in the file to indicate--

Well, write it in!

Now these are serious allegations.

I'll make inquiries.

You do that. I want to see my doctor.

Well, you've already been examined by two physicians.

Fascist quacks.

I want to see my doctor.

That you suffered from contusions

to the abdomen and lower back,

incurred while falling down a staircase in an attempt

to escape from custody of guards

who were escorting you to your designated quarters.

You even say it with a straight face.

The incident is fully documented.

The incident is bullshit.

Sorry, would you like one?

The file also indicates, as do your statements,

that you are not cooperative.

Now, this is extremely foolish.

And you don't strike me as being a foolish man.

Now I've met your friends,

some of whom are extremely foolish.

But even they had the sense

to be cooperative.

Henderson,

and Libergosky.

Here are their confessions.

Easy enough to forge.

They'll repeat it in court.

The hell they will.

You can't forge that.

They'll tell the truth.

137 Rhodes Drive.

Isn't that that road up there on the mountain?

Oh, wonderful view you must have, eh?

The mountain, the sea...

Now, there's a Christie Malcolm registered at this address.

You live with her, don't you?

Christie Malcolm's your woman.

So bright, so beautiful.

I can't tell you how much she impressed me.

If you hurt her--

No, no.

Now, why would I want to hurt her?

Come on. No, No.

Dear Martin,

Don't forget the pest-- Marty?

Oh yes, of course, your middle name's Martin.

"Dear Martin, don't forget the pesto.

Nick and Mandy for dinner tomorrow. Love, C."

No kiss and make up this time, Marty.

You'll have to admit you're wrong.

Is that even possible, or am I dreaming?

Shame, eh? Lovers' quarrel.

"Dearest, thanks for last night. I'm still tingling."

God, you're sick.

Yeah, she's a very intelligent woman.

I am sure she'll have the sense to cooperate.

Don't hold your breath.

Look, we just want this whole thing to fade away.

A year or two, Marty.

Then you and Christie can move to England.

You hate this country anyway.

We won't miss you.

Your prison records will even help you there.

You'll be heroes at Oxford.

for your opposition to the racist regime.

You're alone in all this, Marty.

For no reason.

You have a lot to live for.

Don't throw it away.

[birds chirping]

[prisoners speak Afrikaans]

[prison gate opens]

[chains clinking]

[Marty] My God, he's just a kid!

Fuckers!

Ah!

[prisoner shouting in Afrikaans]

[Prisoner] Shhhh!

[Prisoner] They're coming to get me!

Please! Please!

Hold on, brother.

[screams in agony]

Don't let them get to you.

[prisoners sing in Afrikaans]

[singing continues]

[very loud rattle]

[singing stops]

[loud echoing rattle]

[Guard] Your chickie is something else, man.

A bit skinny for me, though.

And she fought like crazy,

but she's tight as a glove and wild, man.

Wild! Fucking pig!

Ah!

[coughing]

[speaks Afrikaans]

[gate closes]

[laughter]

[speaks Afrikaans]

Come, boytjie.

Hey, Strydom,

why don't you just tell the old man what he wants to know?

You don't have to stay in this fucking hole forever now.

Hey.

Come.

Why haven't I heard from my father?

Why ask me? I'm not a family counselor.

If you aren't giving me his answer--

I broke regulations to send that letter!

And I'll break them again if he answers.

If not, it's got nothing to do with me.

But you did get a letter from Christie Malcolm.

"Oh Marty, please don't hate me.

"There's just no point in going on.

"I tried, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,

but they know everything."

You don't know shit.

He was politicized after the army,

after what he saw in Soweto.

When the unrest began last time,

he decided we had to do something.

She never wrote that.

Don't you recognize her handwriting?

"I'm still tingling."

Ah!

I trust you won't claim that the injury was a result of torture.

So what did you see in Soweto?

Oh come on, man, you can tell me.

It can't hurt your case.

It might even help it.

You'll certainly talk about it at your trial.

Did you see police brutality?

I was part of a massacre.

[gunshots]

My section was given orders to shoot people down in the street.

Men, women, children.

They weren't rioting, they were running away,

and we shot them in the back.

[screaming, gunshots]

We made no attempt to arrest them.

Didn't tell them to halt, we just...

target practice.

Even the dogs, goats, chickens.

The police were in fear of their lives.

Fear?

Some of them were even laughing.

The Soweto riots opened a lot of people's eyes,

Martin, not just yours.

We won the battle, but the war was hopeless.

We are phasing out Apartheid,

but these things take time, man.

Look at the rest of Africa.

One man, one vote, one time.

And then dictatorship,

starvation, tribal slaughter,

and you can forget about human rights.

So if I really cared about human rights,

I should have been a cop.

He decided we had to do something.

He...

decided we...

were you so lacking in courage

that you had to drag your woman into it?

That is it? Don't talk about courage.

It takes a lot of courage to beat children.

Okay, drop the pose, Marty,

this could mean a reduction in her sentence.

Was she an unwilling co-conspirator?

There was no conspiracy.

And you even say it with a straight face.

Marty agreed to hide weapons

at a meeting in Guguletu with our Umkonto We Sizwe liaison officer.

Marty never told me his name.

What did you do to her?

Talked sense to her.

Marty agreed to hide weapons.

What's that if it's not a conspiracy?

A lie.

Is this a lie?

Come!

AK 47s!

Hand guns, grenades! Limpet mines, look!

You didn't find them at my house,

and if you did, you planted them. Ahh!

I wasn't there when your

special branch broke in without a warrant.

They had all night to find whatever--

No, you weren't there!

You were running for the border!

Get your facts straight, man. I was arrested

coming back over the border with thousands of others

after a concert in Zimbabwe.

Bruce Springsteen, Peter Gabriel, Tracy Chapman,

sponsored by Amnesty International,

which, if you haven't heard of them, they've heard of you.

You're in their computer.

And what a coincidence, eh?

Minutes after Radowsky is arrested,

you suddenly decide to drive 1000 miles to a concert--

I planned it for weeks.

You never had tickets!

They weren't sold here. Cultural Boycott.

So why did Christie Malcolm go with you?

She had a seminar.

You never took a suitcase.

I was coming back the next day.

Nor had a hotel!

I stayed with friends.

Tell me about your friends.

Eh?

Okay!

Then I'll tell you.

They were a frontline unit infiltrating weapons

and explosives into South Africa,

and training agents in their use

to commit acts of terrorism and sabotage.

You enter Zimbabwe to receive such training,

and the concert was just convenient cover.

You went to the stadium but you never entered.

You went instead to a blue Volkswagen van,

license number HBS 252,

that was waiting in the parking lot,

and that drove you to 26 Somerset Road.

You're too late to protect them, boytjie,

we took them out.

Your friends are dead meat!

We're three million Afrikaners

on a continent of nearly a billion.

And they all want to annihilate us.

We not only survive,

we're an economic superpower!

There isn't an army in 5000 miles that can touch us.

We're one of only seven countries in the world,

with nuclear weapons.

There isn't a place in Africa

we can't buy and sell or bomb and bury!

And you think we're stupid?

Was it fun playing secret agent?

Like being in the movies, eh?

Secret codes,

clandestine rendezvous,

Christie in black lingerie,

like Mata Hari.

Did it make you tingle?

You're right, Marty, you should have been a cop.

You led us straight to them.

[prisoners speaking Afrikaans]

[prison gate opens]

[Colonel] I wanted this one man, eh? And I got him.

Hey! Excellent job.

So where have you put him?

Right in here, sir.

[Prisoner] Colonel, sir.

Please, boss, I'm ready to talk.

I have information for you, master.

If you give me my freedom...

I will give you the names of ANC leaders.

[prisoners yelling in Afrikaans]

The names of leaders, master.

Do we have a deal?

[prisoners shouting in Africans

Names and addresses, master.

The names?

Top names

of the leaders of the struggle.

Of the enemies of the State.

[prisoners yelling louder]

Do we have a deal, Master?

[Prisoner] I'm going to kill you!

[Another prisoner] Shit, man!

Let's hear the names.

Nelson Mandela!

Address, prison!

[laughter]

Oliver Tamba!

Exile!

[more laughter]

Steve Biko!

A martyr's grave!

[shouting, yelling]

I gave you the names, master.

Now set me free.

But we had a deal, master.

Shall I take care of that 'kaffir' sir?

No, no, now. Let the baboon have his fun.

This is the one you want to deal with.

I've been waiting for you, Bhambo.

[smack]

[Prisoner yells in Afrikaans]

[Prisoner] Motherfucker!

[Prisoner] Hey, bro.

How's it?

Couldn't be better.

And you?

Terrific. Who needs Club Med?

What's your name?

Marty Strydom.

Johnny Bhambo.

Remember it.

I won't leave this place alive.

I want someone to remember me.

I won't forget.

Ah, what the hell, I'm not a baby.

I knew what I was doing.

Oh, I'm going to miss my wife.

She, she was so sweet.

Living underground was cool, man.

My wife knew that I had to keep on moving.

Sleep at different places every night.

I had ladies in Soweto,

Sibukeng, Duduza.

Just waiting for me,

to come along along, and...

hole up.

Do you have a lady outside?

Inside.

They got her too.

You know,

some people reject whites in the struggle,

but here you are,

with your woman,

suffering along with the rest of us.

You know something,

you sacrificed more.

It's easy for us.

We've got nothing to lose.

Except your chains, as they say.

Yeah, only that I traded my chains for a rope.

[Bhambo] I bombed a police station,

killed three Boer pigs.

Oh yeah, they're gonna hang me, man.

That's it.

And they'll be laughing while they're doing it.

But you...

All they want you to do is to cooperate,

and they'll let you go.

Listen, bro.

We won't blame you.

You'll live to fight another day.

I had

no choice.

But you do.

Hey...

You didn't kill any cops, did you?

You didn't kill anyone, Marty, did you?

Did you?

No, no one.

What did you do?

I agreed to hide some weapons.

[Prisoner] Strydom! Shut up!

He's an informer.

[prisoners shout in Afrikaans]

Informer?

Ha! What do you know?

I think you are the informer!

[Prisoner] Bullshit!

You tell a white man you blow up a police station!

No way! You'd think he was the informer.

It's, it's it's not true.

Don't listen to him!

[Prisoner] Or to him, or to anyone else!

Just keep your fucking mouth shut!

[Bhambo] I think you're the informer.

Don't listen to him!

It's-- It's-- It's not true.

[prisoner yelling, shouting in Afrikaans]

[prisoner] Let's kill him!

[loud rattle, prisoners quiet]

[Prisoner] Pig.

[punches thrown, moans, grunts]

[Guard] You fuckers!

[Guard] You fuck!

[spray]

Ah!

[punches thrown, moans, grunts]

[speaks Afrikaans]

Thank you for coming, Mr. Kruger.

You, uhm, were the chief interrogator...

Senior Investigative Officer.

of the Secret Police.

The Security branch, it wasn't secret, we had nothing to hide.

Between 1979 and 19-- 1988.

1988, yeah!

Yes, now retired.

So...

why have you asked me to drop by?

I'm investigating incidents of brutality and torture

during that time.

Now, these are vital issues, my friend.

We finally achieved the new democratic South Africa,

and people are always saying, you know why dig up the past?

But a black mob

would chase a black guy down the street,

and cut him to pieces with a machete

in front of his wife and kids?

And piss in his mouth when he begged for mercy?

And necklace him with a tie with burning petrol?

And what was his crime, huh?

That he bought some beans at a white store

to feed his wife and family.

That's your brutality, that's your torture.

You took advantage of tribal warfare.

You armed us both.

You pitted us one against another,

so that you, the white minority,

keep your power!

Look, your people have been doing that sort of thing

to one another for centuries!

All we added was the tires.

We were just trying to keep you apart, man.

Not just from white people, but from your-- from yourselves.

I'm listening. Yes.

If you have nothing to hide,

you don't mind being recorded, do you?

Look, I don't mean you, man.

You're an intelligent, educated man.

Apartheid wasn't about skin color, it was about

culture and civilized values.

The 20th century

cannot co-exist with the Stone Age.

It just won't work, my friend.

We've had numerous statements from prisoners

who were beaten, and tortured.

Not by me.

They were tortured under your orders.

Orders?

My orders?

What orders?

Have you such orders on file?

There were daily beatings in a room,

next to your office.

The cries of pain that could be heard by everyone on the floor.

Sorry?

The cries of pain--

I'm sorry, I'm deaf in one ear.

From childhood, you know.

But if what you say is correct,

that prisoners were beaten,

then I'm shocked.

I would've stopped it immediately,

but I heard nothing.

Peter Martin Strydom.

I'm sorry.

Strydom, Strydom, Strydom.

Ah, yes.

Yes, yes, yes, yes.

The professor.

Yeah, torture, no, no, I know about him.

He wanted to be tortured, he wanted to be a martyr,

you know, like his black brothers,

with the scars to show for it, eh?

He was very, very upset when I wouldn't oblige him.

Where are the surveillance photos of Strydom in Zimbabwe?

They're not in the file.

What photos?

Exactly.

There are none.

Your agents were not following him in Zimbabwe, were they?

My agents were AWOL, man.

They were surveiling the fucking concert.

I mean, it's not every day that Bruce Springfield plays live

in the asshole of the world, eh?

So he did not blow his friends at 25 Somerset Road?

Man, we'd known about Somerset Road for months.

No, I mean, he was a guilty liberal.

Guilt weakens you.

There was no problem with the blacks.

They acted from ideals.

That made them stronger?

Ah...

you can't generalize.

Some of them would snap like twigs.

And others were so tough,

you could hit them with everything and they'd...

Hit them with everything?

I hit them with every question I could think of

and they didn't break.

You hit them with questions, huh?

Yeah, precisely.

As defined in section 11 of the Geneva convention.

Prisoner has contusions of the abdomen

and the lower back.

That was caused by questions?

Go on, read the rest of it.

It tells you how he got them, doesn't it?

No, it doesn't.

It says "Prisoner fell down the stairs

with 40, 50, 100 others."

So call the building inspector. The stairs were unsafe.

You never charged Strydom, why not?

Man, it was 10 years ago.

You didn't dare let him go to a court.

He wasn't some nameless kaffir,

he was a professor, an Afrikaner.

You would have the white regime

and you personally on trial!

put CNN outside the court and outside your house!

He was much too smart for you.

Oh, come on, he was a fucking idiot.

Oh, do they give Rhodes scholarships to fucking idiots?

I told you it came with his birth certificate.

Then what came with your birth certificate?

Your father owned nothing.

He never went to high school, much less Oxford.

He was a poor white, who hated blacks because he feared us.

You give a kaffir half a chance!

That's what apartheid is all about!

To protect the fucking white idiots.

Yeah, he came home drunk every night and beat his wife.

How often did you see him beat your mother?

Did you try to stop him, huh?

I've had enough of this.

Hey! What could you do, you were just a kid.

Give me it.

Is that how you lost your hearing?

It wasn't by accident.

He hit you so hard you ruptured your ear drum.

This is nonsense.

How often did he beat you?

Is that why you thought it was normal to beat the prisoners?

But you worked!

You studied, became a Colonel!

Despite your white trash roots.

Peter Martin Strydom had it all on a silver platter.

No wonder you hated his guts!

I don't have--

I don't have to stay here and listen to all this

kaffir psychology crap, eh.

Thank you.

Uh!

You must be fucked in the head, you know.

Every day I read the reports,

and every night you're in some kind of a disturbance,

and every night they gas you.

I got a whiff of that stuff once when the wind changed,

and I'm telling you, it's not for me.

So are you ever gonna fucking learn,

or do you just wanna get gassed or what?

They just like gassing me.

Yeah, well, you put your hand over the fucking hole,

and you bounce it back in their faces.

[Guard] Push!

[whistles]

[speaks Afrikaans]

Yeah, sorry, man.

But it's so fucking simple,

and you never even thought of it.

Shit, Strydom, you're never gonna make it inside.

[raining outside]

Stand on the brick.

Ah!

Are you satisfied, you bastard!

Downtown shopping center right next to the railway station!

At fucking rush hour!

Could've been my wife, your mother, anybody!

So what next, eh?

Eh!

Car bomb in a loading zone?

Blow up a suitcase in a school bus!

Kill 100 secretaries on their way to work.

Where's the grid?

Grid?

There was a grid on the window, where is it?

Who cares about the fucking grid, they're probably repainting it!

One of your famous suicides!

Just like I fell down the stairs trying to escape.

You asshole!

Stand on the fucking brick, man!

Amnesty knows all about your suicides.

Sergeant.

Playback.

[Bhambo] You didn't kill anyone, Marty, did you?

Did you?

No, no one.

What did you do?

I agreed to hide some weapons.

All I said is I agreed--

You admit you agreed.

You confessed to conspiracy.

You are guilty of treason, sabotage and terrorism.

And now...

Nine murders in a Cape Town shopping center.

Eh!

Sergeant!

A rope will be tied around your neck,

lead weights will

be tied to your ankles,

you'll stand on a trap door,

and when it opens, your neck will break.

You'll die quickly,

if you're lucky.

Tell me about Mzwaki.

Mzwaki Nduli,

who gave you the AK 47s,

the grenades and the limpet mines we found in your house.

I see it rings a bell.

I already know, Mzwaki.

And very soon, I will have Mzwaki.

Your silence,

will cost me a day, perhaps only an hour.

It'll cost you your life.

Oh come on, man,

don't sacrifice yourself for a kaffir, eh?

Who'd sell you for a cigarette.

When did you first meet Mzwaki?

[children playing]

You met him at Victor Bakwana's house in Guguletu on June 9th.

That's Mzwaki's wife.

[Colonel] Bakwana. Your prized pupil!

How do you think we wrapped you up, he sang like a canary.

He told us everything about you.

But he had the sense to take a year instead of execution.

Where was your next meeting?

♪♪ [sax solo]

We won't find him there.

He never stays anywhere for longer than a day.

At a shebeen.

Good, which shebeen?

Oh come on, man, we can't make a case out of a shebeen.

Was it a proper bar or someone's living room?

Labeled booze or home brew?

Labeled. Johnnie Walker.

Electric light or gas lamp? Electric.

Anything else, man, little details?

There was a banging next door.

Banging?

Banging, someone banging someone's wife?

Banging, hammering, hammering wood.

What kind of banging?

Hammering metal.

Siyabule 99!

The neighbor does body work on smashed up cars.

You see, cooperation is painless.

You help us, you help yourself,

and you don't hurt anyone.

Christie wanted you to have this.

Under The Security Act you have no right to mail.

I told her you'd never receive it, but...

she wrote anyway.

What did you

discuss there with Mzwaki?

That was when you agreed to hide the weapons, wasn't it?

Where was your next meeting?

There wasn't any.

I only met with him twice.

Is that all you're going to tell me?

Do you think you're gonna buy your leniency with that?

I don't know anything more.

My God, you've already arrested everyone I knew except Tim,

but I barely knew him.

You're so fucking pathetic.

Mzwaki knew that.

He knew you'd be caught.

He knew you'd betray him.

So he gave you nothing to betray, huh?

But he knew all about you,

because you spilled your stupid guts to him.

About how much you hated Apartheid.

How guilty you felt.

You poured your sick little heart out.

You never even noticed.

He told you nothing in return.

Get him out of here.

Come.

Wait.

Forget it, you're finished.

I know...

I know where his wife lives.

[prisoners chatting in Africans]

Cell Q.

Cell Q, are you there?

Yeah, I'm here.

Are you okay?

They really fucked you up.

It's that old joke.

It only hurts when I laugh.

How did you know he was an informer?

He wasn't shooting the breeze with you, man.

He was questioning you.

He's a "Black Jack."

He's on the payroll.

A cop.

Did you see him?

Yeah, they just...

let him out and he walked away.

Listen, if you see him again, on the outside,

grab him, man, hold him, for the people.

Do you ever worry that you can't take it anymore?

Ah Jesus.

After that last beating,

I don't know.

Tomorrow, the day after,

a week, a month--

Shut up! Don't tell them anymore.

They're taping us.

[distant singing]

[rattle]

[moans]

[Christie] In my confession, I begged your forgiveness.

I cried to think I was betraying you.

[woman's moan]

But those tears clarified my eyes,

and now I see you betrayed me.

I'm glad we were caught.

I'd rather be in prison

than know your bombs killed innocent people.

So I don't care if you forgive me

because I'll never forgive you.

I now know what you are.

A piece of shit I stepped in on the path of life.

And I'll spend the rest of my life

scraping you off my sole.

[gate opens]

[prisoner] Who is it?

[prisoners whispering]

Ah!

Say hello to the man who sold you, Mzwaki.

[quivering, moans]

Arhh!

Arhh!

Fuck!

[spraying]

[coughing]

Ah!

[Christie] Scrape your shit off my sole.

What happened?

They smashed the door down.

I was asleep.

They dragged me naked out of bed,

they wouldn't let me put anything on.

They were all staring at me,

saying disgusting things and laughing.

Then they tore the house apart.

They searched my desk.

The drawers.

Ahh!

Then they searched me.

They bent me over,

and on of them rammed his finger

so deep into me that I bled.

They were laughing.

And one of them said,

"She may have contraband way in there,

use something longer, like your dick."

And he said,

"Ag nie, the commie bitch will give me some disease."

Excerpts from her forthcoming novel?

It's from her sworn deposition.

I wasn't there. I knew nothing.

But you knew this was fake.

Printed at your order.

There was no bomb in Cape Town.

No mutilated victims.

Good, that's how it's supposed to be.

Ah...

"I now know what you are.

A piece of shit I stepped in."

Who wrote this?

You...

wrote this.

Forging her handwriting, that was easy enough, but...

the personal details, the feelings,

even Strydom believed it.

And he knew her better than anyone.

You confiscated their papers.

Their letters, their love notes, their diaries,

You've invaded their very intimacy.

She did not betray Strydom.

You used her own words to torture him.

Torture?

Yeah, all those pieces of paper.

Oh come on, man, you can't be a sissy in this world.

There are so many enemies out there,

why spend so much time on Strydom?

He's no threat to the regime.

You even faked his betrayal of Mzwaki.

Mmmmm, What?

Not what, who?

Mzwaki.

Mzwaki Nduli.

An ANC agent underground in Cape Town.

Rings no bells.

Long time ago.

It says here.

Strydom betrayed Mzwaki to you and then sank into

a deep depression.

Ag, shame, give him a Prozac.

But he could not have betrayed Mzwaki.

You arrested Mzwaki five days...

before Strydom.

You already had him.

Interrogated him, tortured him.

Jesus, here we go again. But he gave

you nothing, no matter what you did to him.

So you used Mzwaki to torture Strydom,

then you beat Mzwaki to death

just to teach him who's the boss!

I never beat anyone.

I'm not a violent man.

Mzwaki was dragged in.

Come on.

And then he was...

raised up...

where he could see Strydom.

And then they pulled Mzwaki's head back,

and they smashed it against the door.

And they pulled his head back,

and they smashed it against the door.

And then he fell down.

And they got some steel bars,

and they hit him!

and hit him!

And hit him!

And...

And then scooped out his eyeballs and ate them.

With or without mustard, I can't recall.

You're ridiculous!

This is a sick fantasy to cover your own atrocities.

I was in this cell.

I saw it!

Flashback Nelson Mandela.

Address, prison.

Sergeant Moolman.

[prison door opens]

God!

You're pathetic.

Your girlfriend's more of a man than you are.

There's some clothes and toiletries.

Try and clean yourself up.

You're formally charged

with four offenses under four statutes,

each of which carries the death penalty.

Your lawyer better be as good as you think he is.

I can see him know.

Right.

He can't see me like this, can he?

What does my file say?

Did I fall down the stairs again?

You instigated a riot.

You assaulted a police officer.

and you were subdued with moderate force.

A man takes responsibility for his actions, Strydom,

your father should have taught you that.

So don't blame me!

You assaulted me!

So don't blame me!

You betrayed Mzwaki.

You are to blame for being a gutless coward.

And you're to blame that your father's disowned you.

He tore up your stupid letter, man.

If you had any decency, you'd plead guilty.

And spare him the public shame of a trial,

especially with his heart condition.

He didn't answer your letter, man.

When you asked me about that later,

I called him. He said--

He said there were 26 P. Strydoms in the book,

I had the wrong number.

I didn't get it from the book. I got it from your filofax.

And the address was the same as on your letter to him.

I told him that, Marty.

He said I was mistaken.

He said his son had died years ago.

And that if we had a Peter Strydom in custody,

it was no relation.

Then he hung up.

Look...

I'll call him again,

Eh, Marty, eh?

Eh?

I'll do what I can, eh?

You're his only son.

Eh?

[prison gate closes]

Strydom!

Strydom!

Marty, are you okay?

Answer me, Marty.

Answer me, Marty!

Are you okay?

Ah!

Jesus, Marty, please.

Are you okay?

What did he say?

I'm being charged. Good.

Now you can have a lawyer.

Your family will help you.

Family...

My father said...

he...

he said that I'm dead.

Well, count your blessings, man.

I never even knew my own father.

He died in the mines thousands of miles from home.

And my mother!

She died of despair.

My brothers and sisters, still in the homelands, watching

the children die of malnutrition.

Well, I'll count my blessings.

Shit, man, you joined the struggle.

Be proud!

My friends all testified against me.

Even my woman.

Then they were not your friends.

And fuck her!

She's not worth your love.

Shut up!

Shut up!

Oh!

Hey!

Who is the brother who screamed in the night

and Marty called out to him?

Brother!

Are you still here?

[Prisoner] It was me. Ah!

What did he say?

[Prisoner] I don't remember, but he helped me.

[Prisoner] He said, "Hold on brother, don't let them get to you".

[prisoners shouting in Afrikaans]

They have buried us here, Marty,

and nobody gives a damn!

Marty...

You can tell the world.

You can help us all, boy.

[prisoners shouting in Afrikaans]

He gave me clothes for the lawyer.

Ah! Put them on, man.

Dress like a free man.

You should see these ties.

Ah, Marty...

Do you still have pencil and paper?

Paper and pencil.

Yeah...

Yep.

Good, write this down.

[Questioner] You are going on trial,

for all of us!

This country is on trial!

Not us!

You tell our story.

They threw us off our farms.

[Prisoner] They smashed my house.

They killed our cattle.

[Prisoner] They hit my grandmother

with a car.

[all prisoners speaking out]

[Questioner] You tell their story.

[prisoners singing in Afrikaans]

[helicopter]

[crowd screaming, shouting]

[crowd screaming, gun shots]

[prison door unlocks]

Marty...

you know how I promised to call your father.

But he hung up on me again.

So, uhm...

I decided to go over to the house.

I thought maybe if we were able to talk face to face...

The police were already there.

And an ambulance.

They were wheeling him out, Marty.

I'm sure they did everything possible,

but...

it was his heart.

He just...

didn't make it.

I know you wanted to make your peace with him,

but...

at least he's at peace.

I'm very sorry.

[door locks]

[Questioner] Marty?

Marty?

Marty, what did he want?

What's wrong, God damn it!

[sobbing, crying in Marty's cell]

My father, my father...

I never told him.

Told him what?

I...

I thought there was time.

Oh, God.

Now is the time, Marty.

[Marty] No, it's too late.

He's gone.

[Questioner] No, no, no, he's not gone.

No one is ever gone.

♪♪ [tribal drums]

Listen to me, Marty.

We know these things.

We live and we breathe...

in the presence of our ancestors.

Everybody who ever lived,

is still here with us.

Your father is not gone, Marty. He's here!

The first place he came was here to find you.

Listen to me.

We know these things.

He feels just as you do.

He wishes he had told you, and he's here.

But he can no longer speak, but he can hear,

so you must tell him, Marty!

Because he needs you, he's scared.

So reach out to him!

We know how to do this.

We call to him.

He turns, he listens.

We sacrifice a bull to him.

He hears the bull cry.

He knows it's for him and he comes,

crying tears of joy that rains in the fields.

And new life arises.

[prisoners yelling in Afrikaans]

Your life, Marty.

Your sons and daughters.

His grandchildren through whom he lives on!

Ah!

[All prisoners yelling in Afrikaans]

Did you hear, Marty?

I called him!

Did you hear?

He heard!

[chanting in Afrikaans]

I am the bull!

I am the sacrifice!

[All prisoners chanting in Afrikaans]

The cut is made.

The bull has cried,

and his blood drenches the earth.

He hears the call!

We've answered his blood with our blood.

And he's here, Marty.

Talk to him.

He's looking for you.

Pa...

Louder!

Talk to him, Marty!

He is with you!

He needs you.

Call to him.

Tell him what's in your heart.

Pa!

♪♪ [faster tribal drums]

[drums end]

I-- I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Marty?

What are you doing, Marty?

[prisoner speaks Afrikaans]

[Prisoner] What's going on?

[Questioner] Strydom!

[Prisoners calling out]

Stop! Quiet!

Shut up! Marty!

Strydom?

Guard!

Oh Jesus! Guard!

You guys, please! Call for the guard!

Move it!

Strydom. Strydom!

[All prisoners yelling, hitting prison doors]

Guard!

Where's the guard?

Guard!

[prison gate opens]

Marty!

Shut up!

Shut your fucking mouths.

[Questioner] It's cell P. It's Strydom.

Jesus!

Help him, you bastards!

[speaks Afrikaans]

[Prisoner] Moolman, what happened, Moolman?

[prison gate closes]

[urine dripping on floor]

[jangling of keys]

[rattle of chains]

Your log book,

from the lobby of this building,

from the security desk.

June 27th,

One day after the arrest.

P.M. Strydom Sr.,

8:38 a.m., when the door opened,

entry denied, and in parenthesis,

the initials H.K.

And again at 3 p.m., entry denied, H.K.

The next day the same.

The 29th, P.M. Strydom Sr.,

twice entry denied, H.K.

And the same July 1st, 2nd, 3rd and 4th.

You told him his father disowned him.

Yet he was here every day, twice a day,

and every time, entry denied, H.K.

Hendrick Kruger.

You.

You told him that his father tore up this letter.

But you never sent it.

It's still here in the file.

10 years later,

along with letters from his father

to the Minister of Police,

to the Minister of Justice,

to State President, Mr. P.W. Botha.

Now, all these letters,

were referred down the chain of command.

"Refer to the case officer.

"Refer to the officer in charge.

Refer to H.K."

Now you saw all these,

and you also saw this letter written from father to son.

"Dear Marty,

"We love you dearly.

"How deeply I've regretted the long silence between us.

"I blame myself...

so much."

Now you saw this but Marty did not.

He believed you,

that his father had abandoned him.

He believed you that he had died of a heart attack,

caused by the stress

that he had caused him.

But he didn't die of a heart attack.

In fact, two days after Marty's death,

he spoke to the press.

"All my life, I've been a lawyer Afrikaner.

I believed Apartheid was best for all South Africans.

Black and white.

When my son told me I was wrong,

I did not listen.

I urge everyone in this tortured country

to stop and examine your hearts.

Not because my son is dead,

thousands of our sons are dead.

Black and white.

And thousands more will die unless we stop

and examine our hearts.

So what have you got with all this, huh?

Strydom pulled his own plug, man.

All I did was not plug it back in again.

Hendrick Kruger,

I charge you with the murder of Peter Martin Strydom.

Murder?

You'll never make it stick.

You know, you really ought to get a white man

to handle these things for you.

Now bring me a lawyer.

Ah, hello.

Hendrick Kruger.

[speaks Afrikaans]

Pull up a chair, eh?

Yes, can you believe it?

They told me their entire case.

They don't have one.

[speaks Afrikaans]

They don't have any evidence.

[speaks Afrikaans]

Yes, the whole thing's a joke, man.

A joke?

I am Peter Martinus Strydom.

I...

I just wanted to see...

what kind of...

what kind of man?

Arhh!

[grunts, moans]

[crying]

♪♪ [tribal]

Closed-Captioned By J.R. Media Services, Inc. Burbank, CA