Читать книгу The Verwoerd who Toyi-Toyied - Melanie Verwoerd - Страница 10

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In January 1985, I enrolled at Stellenbosch University. Having only recently decided not to do ballet, I was not sure what to study. I knew I liked children, so enrolled for primary school teaching. Within a week, I knew it was a mistake: I was completely bored.

On my mother’s suggestion, I decided to attend various different lectures. I enjoyed psychology and philosophy. I had thought about studying theology before, but since women could not be ordained, I thought it was impossible. Then I heard of a woman a few years ahead of me who had studied theology. On investigation, I was told: ‘You are welcome, and you will get a degree, but nothing formal regarding the church.’ I was delighted. My poor parents despaired. Having finally agreed to ballet, they (correctly) thought that primary school teaching was not a good choice for me. But now I had decided on a degree with absolutely no career prospects. As a compromise, I promised to study psychology as well, so that I could potentially become a clinical psychologist. So along with psychology, I would do three years of theology, two years of Greek and Hebrew, and three years of philosophy.

I was the only woman in the class of nearly 50 men. Coming from the girls-only school and having only sisters, I thought this might pose some problems, but I quickly made friends and discovered that I often enjoyed male friends more than female friends. Herman Nienaber, Robert Vosloo and a few others became close friends, and together we had great fun. They, more than I, would get into endless mischief. During boring lectures, they found various ways of entertaining themselves and the other students. One trick nearly caused serious injury.

We had Ancient Hebrew on the ground floor of an old building. As the building had no air-conditioning, the windows would usually be open. We would be bored to death while our lecturer enthusiastically wrote long sentences of Hebrew on the blackboard. The lads thought out a mischievous plan. One of the guys would jump out of the window, walk around and enter the classroom, apologising for being late. He would then take his seat, only to repeat the process a few minutes later. This would be repeated a few times, with a rather confused lecturer never quite understanding what was going on. This silly, but hilarious, stunt went on for weeks, until one day our lecture was moved to a first-floor lecture room. This must have slipped my classmate’s mind, and to our horror we saw him making his hasty escape through the window. A loud yell followed, and we all rushed over to the window, only to see the escape artist stuck in a rather thorny tree below the window. The poor lecturer still had no clue what was going on.

Outside of class, there was also lots of fun. Although my home was in Stellenbosch, I decided to live in one of the residences on campus. This was the norm, and I was allocated to a big residence called Heemstede. The residences were single-sex, and the tiny rooms were shared by two students, with big communal bathrooms on each floor. There was a dual − and to my mind very unjust − system when it came to the female and male residences. No men were allowed in the women’s rooms. If they wanted to visit anyone (this was of course in a time before mobile phones), they had to announce themselves to a person on duty at the front door, who would state over the intercom that so-and-so was there to see you. There were sitting rooms, which were monitored by residence staff, where you had to ‘meet’. But it was the curfew that irritated me most. In your first year, you had to be signed in at 8pm, and in subsequent years at either 10pm or 11pm. None of these rules applied to the male students.

At a welcome meeting for first-years with the rector and vice-chancellor, Professor Mike de Vries, I raised the unfairness of the system. He gave me a patronising smile and said it was for our own safety, since ‘we all know what men are like’.

‘Well, then it seems to me that you should rather lock the men in at eight in the evening and we will all be safer,’ I shot back – to a cheer from some of the women and cat-whistles from the men. I heard afterwards that the rector wanted to know who I was, since I was ‘clearly a troublemaker’.

Years later, the rector must have been relieved after my sisters and I finally graduated, all in the same academic year (Nadine received her Bachelor degree in law, Melissa a postgraduate law degree, and I received my Masters). Apart from my political activities to come, Nadine became the second female president of the student council, and Melissa the editor of the student newspaper, Die Matie. We all challenged the institutions, which were archaic, racist, sexist and intolerant of freedom of speech. Not only did different rules apply to the female and male residences, but the (very) few non-white students stayed in a separate residence slightly off campus. Organisations such as the End Conscription Campaign were banned. When Die Matie, with Melissa as editor, exposed some very harsh initiation rites, all copies of that edition were stolen and publicly burnt. There was no punishment for those who were involved. So, not surprisingly, our activities did not go down well.

Back in 1985, I shared my tiny room with a lovely young woman, Nicolene Burger. Being the child of a church minister in the small, rural Free State town of Zastron, she struggled to adapt to the liberal arts department, where she studied fine arts. When they had to do drawings of nude males the first week, she came back to the room in tears and was physically sick. Even though we were politically very different, we became good friends and spent two years together as roommates. Being locked up during the long evenings, we also made many other friends, like Elsa Jute, a brilliant science student.

Like most of my fellow students, I was extremely religious, and we would often attend Christian camps during weekends. In September 1985, I camped at Betty’s Bay, about an hour away from Stellenbosch. On the Saturday, a few of us piled onto the back of a pickup to buy snacks at the local convenience store. On the way there, we made an unexpected stop at a group of houses. Wilhelm Verwoerd, one of the leaders of the camp, whom I knew from when he had addressed us at school, was sitting in the front and now hopped out. There had been a big storm the previous week and he was checking for damage at what I assumed was their holiday home. Staring out at the three houses on a fenced-in piece of land, I asked my friends: ‘What strange people have a flagpole in their yard?’

There was a moment of silence while they looked at me with amazement.

‘Don’t you know who he is?’ one finally asked.

‘No. Who?’ I responded.

‘He’s the grandson of Hendrik Verwoerd,’ another replied. ‘It was the prime minister’s holiday home and now belongs to the family.’

Like most South Africans, I knew the name Hendrik Verwoerd, even though he had been assassinated the year before I was born. I knew he had been prime minister and was known as the ‘architect of apartheid’. As a child I would hear my parents and grandparents speaking of him in glowing terms, and my grandmother treasured her copy of an HF Verwoerd photo book published after his death.

I looked at Wilhelm with interest, but still mumbled that I thought it was ridiculous to have a flagpole in your yard. That night, around the campfire, Wilhelm struck up a conversation with me. We chatted about religion and philosophy, and various moral questions. Wilhelm, who was four years older than me, was completing his Honours degree in philosophy, having graduated the previous year with the same theology degree I was studying for. He was also a part-time lecturer in philosophy. It was clear that he was highly intelligent, but I gave the conversation no further thought.

Three days later, there was an announcement at the residence that I had a visitor. I went down to the front door to find Wilhelm waiting. He explained that he had enjoyed our chat and that he had to attend a black-tie event a few weeks later.

‘Would you please accompany me?’ he asked. I agreed, and we spoke a while longer before he left. As I walked up the stairs back to the third floor I had a very clear, slightly unsettling thought. I entered the room and found two of my friends waiting. ‘Well? What happened?’ they asked excitedly.

‘It was Wilhelm Verwoerd,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how to explain it, but I’m almost certain this is the guy I’m going to marry one day.’

‘Wow! That was fast!’ laughed Nicolene.

‘No, I’m not even sure if I like him very much,’ I said in a daze. ‘I just can’t shake this feeling.’

This was the first of a series of what some would call ‘premonitions’ (I prefer the term ‘clear thoughts’) that I would get throughout my life, all of which would lead to dramatic changes and take me down roads that would be life-altering.

The event was fun. Wilhelm was charming and entertaining, and by the end of the evening I liked him a lot more. But I was worried about his family connections. When I had phoned my mum to tell her he had invited me to the ball, she responded: ‘You have to be very careful. His family are extremely conservative.’

So when Wilhelm called next, I confronted him: ‘Look, before we talk any further, I need to know where you stand politically.’

I could hear that Wilhelm was slightly taken aback, but he responded that he was to the left of the National Party. I could live with that. After the ball, we saw a lot of each other and grew increasingly close. Yet it was clear to me that Wilhelm did not want to get into a serious relationship. Eventually he confided in me that he had applied for a Rhodes scholarship to study for three years at Oxford, starting the next year. He felt it would be unfair to start a relationship if he was about to leave. We agreed to wait until December, when he was due to hear if he had been awarded the scholarship. We were also a bit worried about the fact that he was one of my tutors in philosophy.

In December 1985, to his delight, Wilhelm was awarded the prestigious Rhodes scholarship. Knowing how much this meant to him, I was happy for him and accompanied him to deliver the good news to his parents. Wilhelm’s parents lived in the Stellenbosch neighbourhood of Uniepark in a rambling family home dominated by large pictures and busts of HF Verwoerd. I had met his parents briefly before and liked his mother, Elise, in particular. She came from the small farming town of Sannieshof in the North West Province. A soft-spoken, very religious woman, she was (and remains) totally dedicated to her husband and family. Wilhelm’s father, Wilhelm senior, is the eldest son of Hendrik and Betsie Verwoerd. Until his retirement a few years ago he was professor in the Geology Department at the University of Stellenbosch. As the eldest son of the family he is very much the patriarch of the extended Verwoerd family and since his father’s assassination had taken on the role of protecting not only HF Verwoerd’s legacy, but also the ‘good’ name of the family.

Even though I was of course aware of the Verwoerds’ political background, I was still shocked when his father reacted with disappointment and disgust at Wilhelm’s proud announcement that he had won a Rhodes scholarship. Wilhelm senior made it clear that he did not want the Verwoerd name associated with the British colonialist Cecil John Rhodes. He also said Wilhelm would be corrupted by the liberal English attitudes at Oxford. I could see how this hurt Wilhelm. It was to be my first glimpse into how ideologically driven Wilhelm’s family was, and I did not like it at all.

Yet I liked Wilhelm – in fact, we were in love – and despite our earlier agreement, we started a serious relationship. A few months later, however, a revelation from Wilhelm nearly ended our relationship. One evening Wilhelm was very late for an appointment we had. When he finally arrived I asked where he had been, but his answers were vague and evasive. Under pressure from me he eventually ‘confessed’ that he had been at a Ruiterwag (junior Broederbond) meeting at Professor Tom Dreyer’s house. I was furious.

‘Are you a member?’ I wanted to know. Wilhelm said that he was. I exploded and bombarded him with angry questions and accusations. I could not understand how he could be part of a secret, Afrikaans, male-only organisation with such dubious political motives. I also made it clear that I could never be with anyone who belonged to the Ruiterwag or Broederbond. Even though he argued passionately with me on the night, I think Wilhelm had started to doubt the wisdom of belonging to the organisation even before our conversation. A few days later he resigned his membership.

In July 1986, Wilhelm left to start his studies abroad. He went first to Utrecht in Holland for three months, and then to Oxford to study politics, philosophy and economics for three years. Before he left, we agreed that we would get married at the end of 1987, when I had finished my first degree, if we were still together then. The period he spent abroad was traumatic for Wilhelm, especially his time in Holland. Not only was it his first trip outside South Africa, but he ended up in a house with ANC members and gay couples – all former South Africans – who were very hard on this ‘naive’ white Afrikaner who carried the Verwoerd surname. He wrote long letters to me daily and spoke on little cassette tapes that he sent me. The certainties of his youth were being undermined and it was clear that he was having a difficult time. He became confused and even depressed.

At the end of 1986, I decided to visit him in Oxford. We spent three weeks Inter-Railing through Europe. It was not my first trip abroad, but we were badly prepared for the extreme cold of the European winter. Things became even more challenging when Wilhelm lost all his money and his passport. Given that this was during the apartheid years, no one was very keen to help us and, as it was close to Christmas, the embassy officials just shrugged their shoulders. Yet we survived.

Back in England, we met a young South African in exile, Tshepiso Mashi­nini. Tshepiso’s brother Tsietsi had been one of the leaders in the 1976 Soweto uprisings. Tshepiso was a brilliant man and we talked for hours. He challenged our political views and told us about the other side of life in our country, which we had not known existed. He introduced us to other exiles, who did the same. For hours they talked about their living conditions in South Africa, the struggle to get an education, and the police harassment they endured. Some even showed us the scars they carried from being tortured by the security police. They were our age and had grown up in the same country as us, yet our lives were worlds apart.

Meeting Tshepiso had an enormous impact on me. I returned to South Africa a month later with my whole perception of reality changed. I looked at everything and everyone around me with new eyes – and with growing suspicion. I felt as if everyone in authority – the church, teachers, lecturers, and even my parents – had lied to me for years. I watched the TV news with disdain, thinking how none of it was the truth.

Back on campus, I started questioning and challenging many of the ideological and political statements the lecturers made. This resulted in furious exchanges between the lecturers, my classmates and me. I had been warned that there were one or two students in every year who were paid to feed information to the security police, but I could not have cared less. One day, I arrived home to find one of my lecturers having tea with my parents. I could see that my mum was irritated, and she told me the lecturer had come to warn them of my ‘revolutionary’ ideas, which he felt were not only dangerous but also anti-Christian. I eyed the professor furiously.

‘Isn’t that what they said of Jesus as well?’ I asked coldly.

Before he could answer, I left the room, but I heard the professor say: ‘There you have it! Need I say any more?’

Even though my parents must have been concerned, they did not say anything to me afterwards. They had always encouraged debate and free thinking, and the dinner table would often resemble a debating society. I gradually sought out more of the (very few) left-wing students on campus. Wilhelm, meanwhile, kept sending me books and articles that were banned under the draconian censorship laws in South Africa. In order not to be caught, he would include photocopies of, for example, Donald Woods’s book Biko, about the life of Steve Biko, or Mandela’s speech from the dock, between copies of philosophy articles. These books gradually opened my mind and broke down the intellectual walls my apartheid education had put up.

After a few months apart, we agreed that we would get married a year later, in December 1987. We were still very young, but adored one another. We shared a powerful intellectual connection and value system, and above all we wanted to contribute to positive change in South Africa. We did not want to spend another two years on different continents, but believing that sex before marriage was wrong, we felt that we had to get married before I could move to England and we could live together. With the wisdom of hindsight, this was not very smart. We barely knew each other, having spent so much time apart. We were both rapidly becoming disillusioned with religion, so we should have overcome our no-sex-before-marriage belief. To make matters worse, I would be only twenty years old and would need permission from both my parents to get married.

I was concerned about how my dad would respond to our decision. Since the disastrous holiday when I was thirteen, I had not seen him, apart from a brief visit to get him to sign a passport application the year before. Yet he would cause endless problems for me over the years, frequently phoning the residence at university in a drunken rage. One night towards the end of 1986, he called again, this time about money. He wanted me to agree that he could stop paying for a life insurance policy, with me as the beneficiary, that he was legally obliged to maintain. He rarely paid any maintenance, but now that he was in financial difficulty he wanted the life insurance to be paid out to him. On the spur of the moment, I said: ‘I’ll sign that, if you agree to sign your parental rights over to Philip and don’t hassle me any more.’

There was a moment of silence before he said: ‘Okay!’ No questions, no fight, just: ‘Okay!’

A few days later, my father phoned to say he was in Stellenbosch. We met for tea and he told me that we had to go to court the next day, where he would sign me off and I would be formally adopted by my stepfather. My mum offered to come with me, but as always when I have to face something very difficult, I preferred to do it on my own, going deep inside myself for strength. The judge asked a few questions before agreeing to the order. I then asked if he could tell my dad not to bother me any more. The judge looked at my dad and said: ‘Mr Van Niekerk, I have never dealt with something like this before, and I don’t like it at all. I’m not sure what is going on here, but you’d better behave and do what is right.’ He then signed the order. It was all over in ten minutes.

How could it be this easy to get rid of your child? I wondered, as he dismissed us. My dad (who was legally not my dad any more) and I left the courtroom together. We walked down the rose-lined path outside the magistrates’ court in silence. At the end of the path, we paused.

‘Bye,’ I said softly. My dad did not respond. He turned to his right and walked away. I watched him, hoping he would look back and give me a little wave or even just a final look. He didn’t, and as he disappeared around the corner I turned to my left to go to the car park, in tears.

That evening, my dad called. He had clearly had too much to drink and he screamed at me. He raged about what a failure I was and would always be. He assured me over and over that I would never succeed at anything I did. Instead of seeing this as drunken meanness stemming from his own sense of failure, I desperately tried to convince him otherwise. At some point he threw down the phone, after which I went to find my mum. I rarely involved her in my troubles with my dad, but it had become too much for me. She was furious, and I overheard her calling my father, and then his sister, to ensure that he would leave me alone in future.

This awful conversation at the end of an awful day was the last time I spoke to him. I have no doubt that the legal signing-off was the right thing to do for me to have some normality in my life. Yet it left me with deep emotional scars for a long time, particularly when it came to developing trusting relationships, especially with men. I also became more driven to be successful. I had always worked hard, and these increased efforts brought further results, but at a high emotional and physical price.

In 1992, I got a call from my dad’s wife saying that he had died suddenly from cancer. I was too far pregnant with my second baby, Wian, to attend the funeral. Even though I did not shed a tear, I will forever regret that I did not have a relationship with him and that he never saw my children or experienced my entering parliament. Irrespective of all the pain he had caused me, he was still my dad.