Читать книгу Mamphela Ramphele: A Passion for Freedom - Mamphela Ramphele - Страница 9

I DO NOT REMEMBER PLAYING THE FANTASY GAMES OF ‘When I grow up I will be this, that or the other’. Nor do I remember being asked by adults in their usual condescending way what I thought I would become later in life. It may well be that my distance from my peers had a lot to do with my unconcern about a career. But it may also have had to do with the assumption in the village that you automatically became a teacher or nurse if you did well at school, or a policeman or labourer if you did not. Given my academic abilities and the fact that my parents could afford to educate me, my choice of career didn’t invite questions from curious adults. I was destined to become a teacher.

Charles Dickens could well have set his bleaker social novels in South Africa and, specifically, in one of the most important secondary educational institutions in the then northern Transvaal. Bethesda was a teacher training college which was started by Dutch Reformed Church missionaries in the 1930s. It was situated about fifty kilometres west of Pietersburg – now Polokwane – in a mission station known as Rita, which nestles under a beautiful, sharply defined koppie whose name it shares. It had an enrolment of about three hundred students, most of whom were in the secondary school section. There were about three boys to each girl, and the boys’ and girls’ residences lay on either side of the school’s teaching and administrative blocks.

Like many of my contemporaries, I arrived with great expectations in January 1962 at what I anticipated would be a place of higher learning. It was a major step in our lives. Childhood was finally behind us (even though I was only fourteen years old). We were on the road to preparing ourselves for the world of work. But on arrival I was taken aback at the state of the institution.

I was never asked my views of Bethesda, but when our English teacher asked us to write a letter to a friend, telling her about our school and encouraging her to apply for admission, I took off.

Bethesda Normal School

P.O. Kalkbank

Pietersburg

3/4/1964

Dear Friend,

I heard from a mutual friend that you intend to come to this school for your secondary level education. I feel it is only fair that I should give you a sense of what you would be letting yourself in for.

It has been a remarkable last two and a quarter years for me. My romantic vision of boarding school has been dented severely by my experiences here. I shall only focus on a few areas to illustrate my point. First, the dormitories we are housed in are in an appalling state of disrepair. There are bedbugs everywhere, particularly in the hot summer months. The authorities order fumigations only after repeated complaints, and even then the problem gets merely contained for a few months, only to resurface with greater vengeance.

The second major problem area, probably the most important one for young growing bodies such as ours, is the quality of the food. I cannot understand how any responsible adult can expect young people to live on a diet which consists of mainly carbohydrates, occasional meat (often rotten), and little fresh fruit and vegetables. The unchanging and unappetising weekly menu is as follows:

Breakfast – Soft porridge, cooked the night before, often served cold, without any milk, except on Sunday mornings when a quarter loaf of bread with a spoon of jam is served in addition.

Lunch – Hard porridge served with either boiled potato or over-cooked cabbage, and twice a week with meat (often off in the hot summer months due to a lack of refrigerating facilities).

Supper – Hard porridge served with a cup of cocoa with no milk added to it. A quarter loaf of dry bread is served only on Saturday evenings.

It is hardly surprising that the majority of the students, particularly the girls, end up with severe pellagra (a vitamin B complex deficiency). What is even more infuriating, though, is the attitude of the matron. She blames the skin manifestation of the vitamin deficiency disease on the girls themselves. She emphatically denies that it has anything to do with the quality of the food, but claims that it results from the use of skin-lightening creams. Her assertions fly in the face of the diagnosis of the visiting general practitioner, Dr Makunyane, whose opinions she completely ignores.

The quality of education itself is not bad. Most of the teachers are keenly interested in the success of their students. I particularly like my arithmetic and biology teachers, who encourage me to excel. The latter two subjects are my favourites.

Social relations between the students and most of the teachers are a problem area. All our teachers, except those teaching Northern Sotho, are white people, all Afrikaans speaking except our Standard 6 and 7 English teacher. The latter is a kindly old man in his late sixties, Mr Erckels, who lives on his farm, less than ten kilometres from the school. He refers to Serolong8 as his mother tongue, because he grew up in the western Transvaal. We are often taken aback when he says with perfect intonation: Ka se haheso re re ke lengoele (In my language we say it is a knee). Mr Erckels is an exceptionally caring teacher.

The majority of the teachers maintain a ‘them and us’ attitude. This is manifested in a variety of ways: no handshakes, separate entrances even in the local church which we are compelled to attend every Sunday, racist comments particularly from the spouses of the teachers. There is an invisible wall between students and teachers which is very disturbing, particularly from those teachers whom I really like, and whom I would like to learn to know a bit more.

You have to make your own decision in the end, but I would discourage you from coming to this school. Explore other possibilities. I am planning to go to Setotolwane High School next year for my matriculation years, and am already impatient with the slow passage of time. I will certainly not miss this place.

I wish you all the best.

Yours sincerely,

Aletta9 Ramphele

Mr Le Roux, our Standard 8 English teacher, was appalled. How could I misuse a class assignment to complain about school conditions? An interesting question which begs the issue: Would he have complained if I had used the assignment to praise the school? He gave me fifty per cent for it, a marked departure from my average in other assignments and tests of eighty per cent and above. The message was clear. But I was not perturbed in the least, because I had given a true account of life at the school as I experienced it. I was also confident that my exceptionally good academic standing would protect me against further repercussions. It was good to know that the school could not afford to expel me.

The social distance between students and teachers was exacerbated by the system of huiswerk (Afrikaans for ‘housework’), which was a form of forced labour intended to remind students that education was not an escape route from the inferior position blacks were ‘destined’ to occupy. Each student was allocated to a staff member one afternoon a week for about two hours. Most were asked to do the menial domestic chores, such as sweeping the ground around the house, washing pots, scrubbing floors and ironing – a peculiar way to promote good relations between staff and students.

Some of the staff were more pleasant to work for than others. So too they differed in generosity. While several gave food at the end of the afternoon, others remained quite indifferent to the hunger that was a constant companion of the boarders. The principal’s wife, Mrs Grütter, who was also our music teacher, was the most unpleasant of all. She often reminded those students who seemed to her unenthusiastic in their tasks: ‘You were born to work for us.’ But there was a positive side even to this racist. It is to Mrs Grütter that I owe my interest in classical music. She was a pianist who taught music with great enthusiasm.

But how is one to explain that my parents, who had trained at Bethesda in the late 1930s, and had endured the same experiences, let me follow in their footsteps? My mother’s recollection of their life as students at this school differed only marginally from my own experience: the dormitories infested with bedbugs, the poor-quality food, the attitudes of ‘them and us’. The whole ambience of the place did not seem to have undergone much change over the intervening decades. Why then did she not discourage me from making this choice?

Part of the explanation lies in the limited choices available to Africans: there were few boarding schools of quality at the time. There was also a strong conservative ethos which constrained my parents from exploring even the few alternatives open to us. I could have gone to Setotolwane High School from the very beginning of secondary school, but that would have been trail-blazing for a little girl and my parents would have found it difficult to accept. Setotolwane was formerly known as Diocesan College, having been founded by missionaries of the Anglican Church, and its religious ethos reflected its origins. With their conservative Dutch Reformed background my parents would have found it hard to send me there. On top of that, the authoritarian Dominee Van der Merwe at Kranspoort would not have made their lives any easier for letting their daughter ‘go astray’ and be lost to another denomination. It was assumed that children from Dutch Reformed missions would retain their denominational allegiances and go to Bethesda Normal College or Emmarentia High School, a course both my elder sister and brother followed. So the question of a different choice of school did not even arise.

The first few weeks of the 1962 school year were traumatic for me. Initiation was still alive and well at Bèthesda in the 1960s, and we were humiliated in every possible way, as part of the ritual. The intimidating atmosphere became evident from the time we got onto the steam train at Mara Station where we joined students from Messina. We were assaulted with shouts of mesela (tails), to indicate that we were the last to come into the institution. It was also my first train ride. I had occasionally seen the passenger train pull off from Mara Station on its way to or from Pietersburg, but had never been on it until January 1962. The novelty of the experiences unfolding around me proved overwhelming. My heart was pounding in my tiny chest all the way. What an introduction to leaving home!

The same insecurity and sense of impending doom pervaded our arrival at Bethesda. No effort was made by either the school or fellow students to put us at ease, and make us feel welcome. Any senior student could order a mosela to run errands or engage in demeaning acts at any time. This ‘treatment’ lasted for about one and a half weeks, ending on the night of a belated welcome concert given by the school in the main hall. The last lap on this gruelling initiation track was running as fast as our frightened legs could carry us to our room immediately after the concert. Here we were at last free. That week and a half were the longest in my adolescent life. I cried myself to sleep during those first nights.

Mathabatha, my elder brother, who attended the same school at the time, was my only source of support and continuity with the protective family life I had left behind. He took the risk of breaking the rules during my first week at boarding school to check on me and to reassure me – an offence punishable by expulsion. He came to stand outside our classroom window before the classes started, and caught the attention of a fellow student, who then called me to the window. The minute I saw him I burst out crying. I had never felt so far from my family before, and I was miserable. He just stood there and comforted me.

Networks of support were critical in this environment. Homegirls were the most important people, particularly in the first few months of boarding school life, before one had made friends with girls from other parts of the country. Homegirls protected one from gross abuse during initiation, even though they could not completely shield one from the humiliation of the entire process. One of my homegirls was assigned to keep watch over me and to intervene where appropriate. Sometimes serious fights broke out between seniors about the reasonableness of the ‘treatment’ meted out to a particular mosela. Those unfortunate enough to be outside this protective network were often grossly abused.

Networks of support were also vital in enabling you to survive the inadequacy of even the few essentials that were supplied. The school provided an iron spring bed with a coir mattress for each student. There were dormitories ranging from four beds each for seniors, to ones with twenty beds or so. There were neither lockers nor desks. You had to bring your own blankets, pillows and linen. Our personal effects were held in locked tin trunks kept in the locker room adjacent to each dormitory, and supervised by a prefect.

We had to rely heavily on our own resources to supplement the inadequate food supplied in the boarding school. From home at the beginning of term we brought scones, chicken, rusks, tinned food, dried meat and vegetables, biscuits, and a variety of preserved food. The resourcefulness of your family was severely tested. Homegirl groups, varying in size from two to ten, often shared their provisions, as well as the occasional food parcel sent from home. In addition we bought provisions from the store at Kalkbank once a week.

My brother and I had to learn to make do with one pound ten shillings each per quarter, which our father sent us as pocket money. It was barely enough to cover basic necessities, including toiletries. Mashadi, my elder sister, who was then working as an assistant in a fish and chips shop in Soweto, played an important part in rescuing me from total despair. I used to jump for joy each time I received a parcel from her, because I knew that there would be treats: biscuits, sweets, tinned beef and fish, toiletries and, occasionally, a pair of stockings or a handkerchief. You really learned to appreciate such small tokens of love from your family.

The custom of sharing had its drawbacks. There were wide differences among students in the quality of provisions brought from home, the regularity and amount of pocket money, and the number of parcels sent from home during term. Tensions also developed around the amount of communal food each devoured. Small eaters were at a decided disadvantage. There was also difficulty in catering for different tastes. Some people with less delicate palates ate whatever came their way, and thus paid little attention to the needs of others in preparing food.

Survival is a stronger force than the fear of offending others. After the first year of sharing with about eight homegirls, I took the plunge. I felt that having complete control over my supplies would enable me to budget better, and spread my resources over a longer period. I had also learned to bake biscuits, and my mother loaded me with provisions, which used to last me until just before the end of term. My severe weight loss during the first year also prompted more regular pocket money and food parcels from home.

I had suffered a lot during the first year from near-starvation. As I could not bring myself to eat what I considered food unfit for human consumption, I often had to survive from Monday to Friday drinking only cocoa at supper time, with sugar water during the day. My small frame took severe punishment, but my will not to be reduced to an animal kept me going. So when I decided to eat alone, homegirls were dismayed but let me go. Thereafter I occasionally shared some food with them, but it stopped being an obligation.

Bethesda Normal College was like an island of Protestant morality in the Bushveld. The location of boarding schools in remote rural areas had its benefits and drawbacks. The isolated and barren rural setting offered few cultural, intellectual and leisure opportunities. Some adults, however, felt that it was an appropriate environment for taming restless adolescents. The fewer the ‘distractions’ from the learning process, or so it was felt, the better the outcome. The majority of these schools also obliged by laying down rigid rules enforced by autocratic matrons or boarding masters. Bethesda was no exception.

Most of the male students spent their weekends loitering near the school and in the village of Rita. Some of the younger ones were responsible for looking after the herd of cattle which the school relied upon for its meat supply. Fridays and Mondays were slaughter days. The beasts were usually shot by one of the teachers, and the older male students were responsible for skinning, cutting up the meat, and storing it away. The meat was kept in large bath tubs for a day or two without any refrigeration – with predictable consequences in summer.

Female students were under stricter rules. You could only go to the Kalkbank shopping centre if you had permission from the head prefect, who had to be given a list of potential shoppers by midweek for the Saturday morning outing. Numbers were strictly controlled – not more than twenty at a time were allowed. A prefect had to accompany the shoppers. The four-kilometre walk was quite hard for younger, frailer persons like me, but it was fun and a welcome change from the dull surroundings of the boarding house.

Sundays were strictly observed as days of compulsory worship. A morning service was held at the local Dutch Reformed church conducted in Afrikaans with Northern Sotho interpretation for the local villagers. Racial segregation was entrenched in both the entrance points and the seating – after all, it was God’s law to keep blacks and whites apart, and one had to be even stricter in His house in this regard. Men and women also sat separately, presumably to reduce the temptation of being attracted to someone of the opposite sex. We had to be protected from ourselves.

Activities organised by the Student Christian Movement (SCM) and Mokgatlo wa Ba Bacha (MBB) dominated Sunday afternoons and evenings. Varying degrees of charismatic religiosity were in evidence particularly among female students. These tendencies were encouraged by the school authorities, who saw religion as the cornerstone of good behaviour. I found some solace in the various religious activities, particularly the singing, which was a major part of them, and I became a full member of the MBB.

In spite of this gloomy picture, the school had its warm and enjoyable sides too. We developed close friendships among ourselves. I became friendly with a group of three girls in my class: Moloko Laka (a homegirl) with a tall beautiful body, dry wit and a stutter, Mphika Molokoane (from Musina, then still Messina) who was the shortest of the foursome, with a perfect baby face, gentle nature and softly spoken manner, and Greta Mogooane (from Natalspruit, on the East Rand), to whom I was closest. Greta’s attributes stood out as gentleness, neatness and generosity of spirit. She was also physically attractive and petite. She did not keep the unwritten rule that prevailed among urban students not to befriend country bumpkins like myself.

Students from rural areas also kept to themselves. Any association with those from urban areas was viewed as potentially destabilising and polluting, as there was a widely held belief at the time that cities had a corrupting influence on young people. Bana be South ba tla go lahletša (Children from the South – a metaphor for the Witwatersrand area – will lead you astray) were the words of caution uttered by senior homegirls. Boundaries between town and country were evident, and reinforced in social relations at the school.

As a foursome, we operated on the margins of all conventions. We enjoyed sitting next to one another in class, sharing jokes and gossip, helping one another with school work, and occasionally sharing treats, which were few and far between. We were all very different personalities, but enjoyed each other’s company, and complemented each other’s strengths. We referred to one another as ‘Penkop’ or ‘Pennie’, from an Afrikaans set book we were reading at the time. This was the story of a group of mischievous young people who were given the same nickname.

It was hard to part from my friends at the end of our Standard 8 year, when I moved to Setotolwane High School for my matriculation. The class farewell party we organised at the end of 1964 was a great success. Food was in abundance, a rare event indeed. We celebrated our years together, and shared the hope of new beginnings. I was not sad about leaving Bethesda; my only regret was having to leave my friends behind. We kept up a brisk flow of correspondence for the rest of our school days, but lost contact later.

8 Serolong is a dialect of Setswana, spoken in the northwestern part of the country.

9 I used Aletta as my first name until my third year at Medical School when the Black Consciousness Movement challenged us to revert to our indigenous names.