Читать книгу The Verwoerd who Toyi-Toyied - Melanie Verwoerd - Страница 14

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The next few months were filled with the peculiar madness typical of any election campaign. But there was something special about this election. For the first time, millions of South Africans would be able to vote. After years of fighting for this most basic right – years in which thousands of people died and thousands more were unjustly incarcerated and tortured – freedom was finally on the horizon. There was such energy and a sense of anticipation, as well as fear that everything might still fall apart. Of course, all of this was happening under the watchful eye of the world’s media, which had flocked to South Africa to report on the campaign and on election day.

One of the many logistical challenges was how people were to be identified as legitimate voters. It would be impossible to compile a legitimate voters’ role in time for the election so it was agreed that everyone who wanted to vote should have a bar-coded identity document or a bar-coded voter’s card. Although almost all white South Africans had the little green ID book, only a small percentage of black South Africans had one, so it became a mammoth task to ensure that as many as possible received them in time.

It was challenging for the Department of Home Affairs to deal with the millions of applications, and there were many other stumbling blocks. The majority of Africans, especially those who were over 40, did not have a birth certificate. Many of them had been born in the rural areas with the help of traditional midwives, and the births were never registered. In addition, even though the application process was free for the election period, many could not afford the two passport-size photographs required. To top everything off, there were literacy problems, the forms were complicated, and, given the history of oppression, people were deeply suspicious of filling in any form issued by the government.

Determined to make sure that our ANC voters would be able to vote, we arranged free photographers on certain days, helped people fill in forms, and tracked down baptism certificates and affidavits from teachers and priests. Job well done, we thought.

A few weeks later, however, I got a call from the post office in Stellenbosch. They complained that, in their depot, there were thousands of ID books with incomplete addresses that could not be delivered. Almost all the people of Kayamandi lived in informal squatter areas that did not have any street addresses. The residents would informally name sections, but there was no way the postman would know where to go. Even if he did, he might refuse to go into certain areas.

I agreed to take responsibility for delivering these ID books. For the next few weeks, I spent hours every night walking between shacks asking for people and handing over their ID books. It was time-consuming, but the joy that was evident when people finally received their ID document made it all worthwhile. Now, at last, they existed in the eyes of the state.

The rest of the time was spent canvassing. I divided my time between the Stellenbosch ANC branch, the provincial executive work, and canvassing across the country. There were not many Afrikaans-speaking candidates, so I was in high demand in the coloured areas. By now, I could deliver the speeches about reconciliation and why people should vote for the ANC in my sleep. As the election drew closer, I would make up to eight speeches some days. I spoke so often that I lost my voice and was told I had damaged my vocal cords. But I loved it, and along with all the hard work we had a lot of fun as well.

On one occasion, the ANC asked if I would spend some time in the Northern Cape, where the majority of the potential voters were Afrikaans-­speaking. I flew to Kimberley and for a few days a group of comrades and I crisscrossed this vast, semi-arid area, speaking in hundreds of places. The poverty was on a scale I had not seen before, and truly shocked me.

One Sunday, a meeting was scheduled at a place called Grootdrink. It was lunchtime, and the temperature was over 40°C when we stopped under a tree. I looked around, but could not see anything.

‘Are you sure this is it?’ I asked the organiser.

‘Yes, just wait,’ he said, sliding down against the tree, tipping his hat over his eyes, ready to take a nap.

I was dubious. The heat and sun were unbearable, the sun beetles were screaming, flies were trying to get to the liquid in our eyes, and I spotted a snake sliding past a few feet away. Who would come to a meeting here, and at Sunday lunchtime?

But then I saw it. On the horizon, against the heat haze, various coloured umbrellas were moving towards us from all directions. The farmworkers from the area were on their way. Many had walked for hours to get there. It was one of the most moving and rewarding meetings I have ever spoken at. Watching their leathery, tanned faces, I knew that I had far more to learn from them than they from me, so in the end we just talked about where they felt the country should go, and their hopes for the future. This was true democracy in action. I promised myself I would forever remember and serve the people of Grootdrink once I was in office.

In one of the towns, we stopped at the home of the local ANC organiser. He was a deeply religious coloured man and we said prayers before his wife served us tea and cake. After discussing local ANC matters, he announced that he had a gift for me. He presented me with an almost life-size bust of Hendrik Verwoerd. The ANC leader told me how he had been so shocked and upset the day Verwoerd was killed that he had gone into the mountains to get clay to make this bust in honour of Verwoerd. The likeness was very good and, appropriately, it was made from white clay. I could see the amused but uncomfortable smiles from my other ANC colleagues. I complimented my host on his handiwork, and he insisted that he wanted me to have it and pass it on to my children. It would have been rude to say no.

Since it was too big to fit in the boot of the car, we left with the bust sitting between me and my ANC colleague on the back seat. There was a tense silence in the car, and I saw my colleague repeatedly glancing over at the bust. Eventually, he could not take it any more.

‘I’m sorry, comrade,’ he said, ‘but this is freaking me out. I don’t want to be disrespectful, but I can’t relax with Oupa Hendrik sitting here!’

I had a thin scarf with me to protect me from the sun. ‘Will it help if I cover him up?’ I asked.

Everyone in the car agreed that this would help, and there was a sigh of relief. Then someone said: ‘F**k! This would only happen in the ANC!’ and everyone burst out laughing.

Wilhelm was also canvassing, which meant that we rarely saw one another, and when we did we were exhausted. One night we stumbled into each other when we both got up to attend to the children, who had woken up. Wilhelm sleepily stretched out his hand and introduced himself . . .

To spend some time with the children, we often took them with us, when we knew the meetings would not be dangerous.

As well as these smaller community meetings, there were many huge rallies. My initial shock at the crowd of 4000 at the Cape Town Civic quickly passed as I spoke at rallies in stadiums filled with thousands more. On the last MK Day (the day celebrating the ANC military wing) before the election, we organised a rally in Stellenbosch. It was to be held on the sports ground in Cloetesville, in the coloured area across the road from Kayamandi. We built a podium for the speakers, installed a powerful sound system, organised refreshment tents and laid on transport. To our annoyance, from early morning, the police were monitoring our movements with a helicopter flying low over the venue, kicking up dust.

An hour before people were due to arrive, there was a sudden panic. We had forgotten to organise a flagpole and the raising of the ANC flag was a vital part of the day. What to do? ‘Leave it to me,’ Franklin Adams said, waving over a few of the ANC marshals in full uniform. They drove off in Franklin’s old bakkie. About 30 minutes later, we saw the marshals marching over towards us in military style, with the flagpole above their heads.

‘Where . . .?’ I started to ask.

‘Better if you don’t know,’ Franklin said with a smile.

I learned later that they had ‘borrowed’ the flagpole from the much-hated municipality in Kayamandi. (The flagpole was later returned.) The pole was mounted on the wall, so the marshals had climbed onto the roof and then lowered one of their number down by the legs. The flagpole was unscrewed and then proudly marched over to the field. The municipal building was right next to the police station in Kayamandi, but all the police stationed there were ANC members, so they were at the rally.

The rally was a great success. Among others, Winnie Mandela attended, in full camouflage. She spoke charismatically, as only she could. She was and remains enormously popular – beyond being the wife, or former wife, of Nelson Mandela. Ordinary people around South Africa have endless stories of acts of kindness done by her, and how brave she was. She endured enormous suffering while Mandela was in jail. She and her children were constantly harassed and then put under house arrest in the tiny town of Brandfort in the Free State. Clearly, she was deeply damaged by all of this, and increasingly things went wrong. The well-documented death of Stom­pie Moeketsi and the corruption convictions, as well as her appearance at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, were shocking. I had met Winnie Mandela before and later when we were in parliament. Her seat was close to mine, so we spoke often. She is one of the most charismatic people I have ever met. Even at an advanced age, she is stunningly beautiful, and she listens intently to everything you say, with a piercing look. Of course, much of her life remains hugely controversial, but I believe it is too easy to demonise her, as often happens.