Each week my mother visited me at school where I was a boarder. We would sit together in her blue mini-minor in the school’s car park. While we waited for my sister, a day scholar, to arrive we could catch up with each other. She updated me about family news and the political unrest outside the school grounds. This news always seemed like it came from another planet, far from the beautiful green lawns, the manicured trees and the generally peaceful school environment.
“Did you hear about the bus boycott?” she asked one day when I got into her little car. It was winter and I was tired after playing hockey. “I’m planning to give lifts to the boycotters this afternoon. It’s such a long way for the workers to walk”. No, I didn’t know about the boycott, and could not figure how so many African workers in the city would ever get home to Soweto or Alexandra Township.
Later she told me that the African women were protesting about the new pass law that made it illegal for them to be found without their reference book. “They’re protesting all around the country and hundreds have been arrested.” My mother’s alarm was palpable. I had visions of the numerous women that worked as domestics—worrying about the documents that legalized their presence in the city. If a woman crossed the road to visit a neighbor friend, or if she went to the corner café to buy milk, she would be in danger without her documents. This was already the situation for African men, and it was humiliating and enraging for them. I could sense the tightening control of African’s lives by the government. As a white girl in boarding school, all this news felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool—somehow it did not connect with me on a personal level. Guilt washed over me as I realized how cut off we were in school. But I was proud of my mum for her indignation, and gave her a hug,
On another visit, my mother announced that the government was removing all Africans from Sophiatown, and bulldozing their shacks. “They have to go and live in Soweto, but how are they going to do that?” She shook her head pondering what seemed so impossible. “And Sophiatown is going to become a suburb for whites only.” I knew Sophiatown was not so far from where we lived. It was a slum with tin shacks, dusty roads, and few amenities. But it had a vibrant African life with African jazz bands and the popular penny-whistle music that I adored. We had recently hired some penny-whistlers from Sophiatown to play at one of our parties.
“It’s not fair, not fair at all” I banged my hands on the dashboard of the car. What was really going on, in the same city that I was living in, yet I was so unaware of the events? I could hardly fathom the significance of all the bad news.
Next time she visited me she told me “There’s a treason trial now, and Mandela is accused with others. But we must not mention his name because he is a banned person—it’s dangerous.” My mother was grim-faced. She seemed worried and depressed. I knew she was right about the danger. I had heard of a man being sent to jail because he drank coffee from a mug sporting a picture of Mandela. All we knew at that time was that Mandela’s name was a no-no. We didn’t talk about Mandela or the Treason Trial at school. We had little knowledge of the deeper, darker components of the growing anti-government movements. When I returned to school activities, I seldom discussed these things she had told me with my friends. I was aware enough to realize the schism of opinions about racial matters. So I kept the news quiet.
“By the way, your Uncle David is becoming radical about the South African situation. I fear he may do something rash”. Feelings of dread overcame me. Now things were getting closer. David Pratt was my godfather—a special person to me. Apart from his being a successful dairy farmer, I knew little about his political views. This news was ominous. White liberals were being put in jail without charge along with countless Africans, Indians and Coloreds. The killings had started. The car felt hot and claustrophobic—I needed to get out.
“There’s been a fire at the Margaret Ballinger Home. Lots of kids died in that fire despite our efforts to call the fire brigade. The firemen didn’t come for hours and the damage was done. I think it was intentional”. Her eyes welled with tears. “And the government is insisting that we disband the MBH and move it into a black area.” She was on the executive board of this convalescent home and the news upset her deeply. I squeezed her hand. I too loved the MBH, having spent many hours playing with the kids while she attended meetings.
These events troubled me but I felt far from the action. We were very protected at our school, and apart from my mother’s news reports and occasionally reading The Rand Daily Mail, there was little discussion about the events happening around us. We didn’t know much about the government’s efforts to ensure South Africa was under complete control by the whites and, more particularly, the Afrikaans-speaking whites, the Afrikaners.
“You know your father thinks apartheid is a reasonable idea. He thinks the means of apartheid could justify the end, and the end is an orderly country that works”.
“Oh wait a minute!” I looked at her in disbelief. Shockwaves went through me. I didn’t realize there was a schism in my family. I suddenly emerged out of my sleepy detachment, sensing the very real danger Uncle David was putting himself in, and the unspeakable possibility that my family might be driven apart on political issues. I walked back to my classroom for homework hour, my legs dragging, my world feeling darker than ever before. I was struck by the uninvolved position of my school as far as us students were concerned. How was I going to play a role in the increasingly oppressive country of my birth, especially as a boarder at this privileged school?
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