Fade to black

Like countless other South Africans, I was glued to Twitter for most of yesterday, watching the Protection of State Information Bill drama play out as thousands tweeted from Parliament, or while watching the broadcast, caught halfway between frantic hope and despair.

A true sense of security cultivates freedom; a false one suffocates it.

Lezette Engelbrecht, online features editor

With news that the Secrecy Bill had been passed came a realisation that things would be very different from now on. The run-up to the vote was characterised by the very activity this Bill seeks to quash, as both social and traditional media kept up a steady stream of information, debate, and commentary - the kind of national conversation that keeps the wheels of democracy turning.

There was a powerful sense of anticipation as last-minute efforts to derail the passing of the Bill gathered momentum. Akin to the solidarity the country shows when uniting behind a common sporting goal, people from all walks rallied and fought to the last, until the reality of defeat set in. This time, however, the opponent wasn't another country or team, it was our government - the very people elected to serve our best interests. It wasn't a surprising outcome, but it left a bitter taste nonetheless.

Defendants of the Bill claim it will bolster national security, and that there are ways for information to be accessed if necessary. But the law has no public interest defence, which would allow citizens to publicise information if they could legally prove the public's need to know outweighed the state's need to keep it secret. Without this clause, whistle-blowers, journalists and concerned citizens are pretty much guaranteed jail time if they access or share classified information.

And the Bill makes it pretty easy to get that “access denied” stamp. It allows any organ of state to apply for the classification of information it deems “valuable” to the state, making it a punishable offence to possess or divulge this information, which can lead to being locked up for 25 years.

One only has to think back to the major corruption scandals of recent years to realise the ramifications of such limitations: there's the Travelgate scam, the Arms Deal, the Oilgate scandal, Jackie Selebi's ties to organised crime... the list goes on. Would we hear reports on ministers' spending on hotel rooms or cars? Probably not. Julius Malema's salary contributions? Excessive renovations at the president's residence? Dodgy tenders linked to politicians or their families? None of the above, most likely.

It comes down to the name of the campaign that's been spearheading protests to the Bill - the right to know. Any society which functions under a system of fear and secrecy is vulnerable to the widespread abuse of power. The Bill is meant to protect the country from foreign threats, but it will no doubt be used by some as a convenient way to shelter themselves from harm, rather than protecting the interests of the majority.

One of the defences often given for their apathy by those living during apartheid was “We didn't know”. Some will argue it was an unawareness bred of convenience, but the fact remains that it was well nigh impossible to report on anything not sanctioned by the previous government's draconian press laws. Returning to this kind of institutionalised ignorance tramples on the memory of those who fought to expose injustice, or just plain dishonesty.

The Bill will also, of course, give intelligence agencies huge influence over a broad range of government activities. The ANC seems unduly concerned about the threat of outside powers, when the worse atrocities our country has seen have come from inside. A society in which people are afraid to speak out, to challenge or to question is no safer than one under physical attack. A true sense of security cultivates freedom; a false one suffocates it.

Granting this kind of power to intelligence officials goes against the hard-fought gains in freedom made in recent years. The advent of the information age has transformed how society functions - no longer can access be dictated to the many by the few. Like previous authorities who tried to keep knowledge in the hands of the minority, so they could act without being challenged, the government has appointed itself to decide what the public has the right to know.

To see this spirit of repression return to a democracy millions gave their lives and livelihoods for is horrifying. Ignorance is not bliss. It is a blindness that becomes paralysing when extended to the degree outlined in the Bill, which places legalistic safeguards above accountability.

Perhaps the most chilling aspect of the entire saga is what will happen when the controversy dies down. When people get tired of the story and go back to “normal” and hope somebody else sorts it out. It's this slide into apathy that will be the true death knell for democracy.

There's a poignant story by Daniel Keyes called Flowers for Algernon, in which a mentally handicapped patient undergoes experimental surgery and becomes a genius, rapidly acquiring new knowledge and skills. However, a flaw in the operation soon causes him to begin losing these abilities, and he's forced to watch, powerless, as his faculties slip away and he deteriorates into his former state.

One can't helping thinking, upon hearing statements like Sanef chairperson Mondli Makhanya's comment that editors were “broken inside”, that SA is having its own “Flowers for Algernon” moment. That those who experienced the arrival of democracy now have to watch as the country regresses into an oppressive state.

The effects may not be swift or dramatic; there may be no easily identifiable moment of collapse. But the slow, steady deterioration of freedom and transparency will be just as devastating, and unless the nation puts up a fight during the final processes before the law is passed, the darkness will descend until we barely notice it; stuck, like the denialists of the previous dispensation, in the deceptive bliss of ignorance.