Читать книгу The Verwoerd who Toyi-Toyied - Melanie Verwoerd - Страница 13

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In May 1993, Allan Boesak, the head of the ANC in the Western Cape, asked Wilhelm to speak at an ANC rally to be held in the Parow Civic Hall. We discussed it for a few days before Wilhelm agreed.

His participation in the rally was announced at a well-attended press conference. Immediately, the death threats increased. A few of the threats suggested that we would not make it home alive after the meeting. We were warned by intelligence sources that things were ‘extremely hot’. I was worried, and asked friends around the world to keep us in their thoughts.

The afternoon before the meeting, Wilhelm was outside in the garden with Wilmé in his arms. The sun was shining brightly on both of them – both father and daughter had very blond hair – creating a halo effect. Wilhelm was whispering in Wilmé’s ear, and she was quietly listening with a serious expression on her face. It dawned on me that Wilhelm was saying goodbye, in case something went wrong that evening. It shocked me, but I knew we had to go to the meeting. Once you give in to the threats of bullies, you will never stand up for what is right. There will always be those who hate others who are different and do not share their views. But if we allowed hatred to paralyse us with fear, there would be no Mandela, Tutu or Gandhi, and no struggles for freedom.

On instructions from the organisers, we left the house early. As we got closer to the venue, we noticed that the police and military presence increased dramatically. Around the venue it looked like a battlefield, with armoured vehicles, ANC marshals and mobile medical units. No one could get into the meeting without going through metal detectors and being searched. People were already filling up the hall two hours before the meeting was due to start.

Allan Boesak was chairing the meeting and he was joined by ANC spokesperson Carl Niehaus, an Afrikaner who had spent seven years in jail for his membership in the ANC. I sat in the second row on the stage, behind Wilhelm. Allan is a fine orator and could get a crowd going in minutes. He introduced the people on stage and there were many ‘Viva’s’. When he introduced Wilhelm, the audience exploded. ‘Viva Verwoerd, viva!’ they chanted. ‘Long live Verwoerd, long live!’

Hearing those words said together was like a bolt of electricity through all of us. I became aware of Wilhelm shaking in front of me. I bent forward to ask if he was okay and realised he was overwhelmed with emotion. I was concerned that he would be unable to make the speech, but he did. At the end of his carefully crafted words, the audience exploded again. Suddenly someone shouted: ‘Verwoerd for president!’ There were a few seconds of shocked silence, before laughter – and a huge cheer – erupted.

In contrast to the happy scenes inside, things were tense outside. The AWB had arrived, fully armed and in uniform. There was a huge crowd of ANC supporters who could not find space inside the hall; they were furious and impatient. To make matters worse, word spread to the townships that the AWB was trying to break up an ANC meeting. People piled into mini­bus taxis armed with sticks, petrol bombs and whatever else they could find, and rushed to the venue. The police, peace secretariat and army found it difficult to contain the situation.

At some point, the AWB broke through the police cordon, and from inside the hall I could see them beating against the glass doors to get access before the police regained control.

In the end, we made it home safely. We only heard weeks later that the peace secretariat had had to position people on the roofs of the buildings in the area to calm down AWB snipers.

After the Parow meeting, Wilhelm was frequently asked to speak at ANC rallies. I was happy working at grass-roots level. A few months later, Allan Boesak’s wife Elna asked if we would participate in a video they were producing. We agreed and went to their Bishopscourt home to be interviewed for the video. Most of the questions were directed at Wilhelm, but then Elna asked me a question. Allan had just entered the room and was quietly watching the interview. I could see that Elna was impressed with my answer. She asked another question, and Allan walked forward to hear my answer better. I saw him and Elna exchange glances. Afterwards, they both said how impressed they were, but I did not think much of it.

A few months later, while I was at work at the university, I got a call from someone in the ANC provincial office. She explained that Mandela was going to have an election tour in Cape Town and that they were putting together a list of speakers for the closing rally of his visit. Conscious of the disapproving looks of my co-workers, and assuming that they were actually looking for Wilhelm, I impatiently told her to phone Wilhelm directly.

‘No, no!’ she said. ‘Comrade Boesak wants you. He thinks you will be fantastic.’ I was dumbstruck. I had never done any public speaking. What would I say? Would I cope with the big crowd that was bound to be there, given that Mandela would be present? But how do you say no to Mandela? You can’t. So I agreed.

On the day of the meeting, I had to fly to Johannesburg to participate in a TV recording on feminism, and then back to Cape Town. I went straight from the airport to the rally. I had written the speech over a few days and thought it was fine. What I had not anticipated was the size of the audience. The meeting was indoors in the Civic Hall Concourse in Cape Town. It was estimated that there were more than 4000 people present: the place was packed to the rafters. Of course, the press was also there in full force. When I was introduced, loud cheers went up. Wilhelm (who was this time sitting behind me) was also introduced, and Mandela turned around to shake his hand. When it was time for me to speak the huge crowd became quiet; you could hear a pin drop.

‘Comrades,’ I started. The crowd erupted. ‘Viva Melanie, viva!’ I waited for the noise to die down, then began again. I told a few funny stories to lighten the mood, and they went down well – especially this (true) story about Wilmé. A few weeks earlier, I was keeping a watchful eye over Wilmé and a few of the Afrikaans children from the neighbourhood playing outside our house. I heard three-year-old Wilmé announce loudly: ‘I am Mandela!’ There was a stunned silence from the other little Afrikaans children. Expecting some negative reaction, I stood ready to intervene. But then the little boy from next door, whose parents were very conservative, announced defiantly: ‘No! I am Mandela.’ A huge argument developed, with all four children demanding to be Mandela. Eventually, it was agreed that all four could be Mandela, and then the four little Mandelas marched around on the grass, singing the traditional Afrikaans song ‘Aanstap rooies, die pad is lank en swaar.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mandela shaking with laughter.

At the end of the speech, I was astonished when the crowd jumped to their feet and gave me a long and boisterous ovation. As I turned to go back to my seat, Mandela was standing behind me. He gave me a big hug. Enfolded by his arms, all I could think of was how tall he was. ‘Baie, baie dankie,’ he said in Afrikaans. ‘You are very loved and will make a big difference.’

As I left the stage at the end of the meeting, various ANC branch chairs from across the Western Cape came to ask if I would speak at their branch meetings. Still bewildered by all the attention, I agreed. Allan Boesak came too. ‘There’s something special in you,’ he said. ‘Please think about making yourself available for the regional executive.’

Despite the positive feedback, I was still unsure about my speech. I often felt intellectually inferior to Wilhelm, and, as we drove home, I asked him if it was okay. He said it was, but I could see that something was bothering him. He would not say what, but I assumed he felt that my speech had not been intellectual enough.

Over the next few months, I spoke at meetings almost every night of the week. At first it was only in the Western Cape, but gradually I got invitations from branches all over South Africa. It was an exhausting schedule. I mostly drove in our battered Volkswagen Golf, which frequently broke down, often late at night and on isolated roads. Despite my exhaustion and the occasional danger, I loved it. Passing through towns that I had visited numerous times before, I would end up in the ‘other’ part, the ‘non-white’ area. I felt as if I was reclaiming my own country and its people.

Towards the end of 1993, the ANC Western Cape had its annual provincial conference at the University of the Western Cape. I attended as part of the Stellenbosch branch delegation. There were hundreds of delegates, and nominations took place for the provincial executive, after which there was a secret ballot. As I stood in line to vote, it struck me that this was the only place where 99 per cent of the people present were able to vote. It was a sobering thought.

On the Sunday, at the final session, the newly elected officials were announced. My name was among them. Now, apart from raising two children under three years of age, working part-time at the university, doing ANC branch work, still trying to complete my thesis, and talking at branches all over the country, I would also have to attend frequent meetings in Cape Town. I thought it was impossible to be busier than I had been up to that point. But I was soon proven wrong.

During this time, I was asked whether I would be available to stand for parliament in the upcoming first democratic elections in 1994. Wilhelm was also asked, but he declined. He felt that we could not both do it and he preferred a more reflective life whereas I was the natural activist.

At the lengthy Kempton Park multiparty negotiations, where the Bill of Rights and interim constitution were negotiated, it was agreed that South Africa would have a proportional list system. This meant that all the parties taking part in the election had to draw up two lists of candidates for the national parliament of 400 MPs: one national list and nine provincial lists. Then 200 MPs would be elected from the national lists, based on votes the party received nationally, and a further 200 from the provincial lists based on the votes the individual parties received in each of the nine provinces. This was a far more representative system than the traditional first-past-the-post constituency system – in particular for the parties that represented minority groups. Every vote counted. It was up to the parties to decide how they compiled the various lists.

The ANC had an extensive process that was deeply democratic. The branches made nominations to their provincial executive. In order to get onto the internal ballot, you had to be nominated by at least seven branches. The branches would then all send delegates to a provincial electoral conference and vote. The candidates with the highest number of votes for the national list would then go through to a national electoral conference. There, all the provincial nominees would be put on the ballot, and delegates from all over the country would vote on them. The names would be ranked according to the votes received, and a list of 200 candidates would be compiled out of the thousands of names. It may have been democratic, but it was stressful for the candidates.

There were only two exceptions to the democratic nature of the process. Should Mandela not top the list after the vote, he would be put there, since he was the presidential candidate. Needless to say, there was no need for concern about that. The second issue related to the representation of women. For years, the ANC Women’s League had insisted that there should be a quota for women in parliament. The ANC executive had agreed to a quota of one-third. So when the election results were known, they carefully checked to ensure that there were enough women high up on the list. As it turned out, they did not have to change any position on the first hundred names and only a few in the second hundred names. Clearly, the years of insisting on equitable representation for women had resulted in comrades naturally voting for women.

I was not at the first national list conference, but when the names were announced, I was astonished. I was number 84, which meant that I was almost guaranteed a seat in parliament. (The ANC was expected to win close to 60 per cent of the vote, which would have meant that the first 120 names would get seats.) I was delighted, but now life became even more hectic, with electioneering and increased media pressure.

I still found it strange to see my name and face on election posters, some of which were quite clever. Since both Ella Gandhi – a granddaughter of Mahatma Gandhi – and I were on the list, the ANC designed a poster that read: ‘Only the ANC has Gandhi and Verwoerd in one party.’