children threw stones. One policeman, a Colonel Kleingeld, drew his pistol and fired a shot, causing panic. The police then opened fire, and hundreds of young people were killed. These killings sent shockwaves through South Africa, and large-scale riots broke out everywhere.
The army was deployed, but the military presence only escalated the anger and violence. Even though I was only nine years old, I was aware that something was going on. I would hear anxious conversations between my parents and their friends. Philip was asked to join the local community watch, and would leave at night to stand guard. I did not know where he went or what he did, but I knew that my mum was always anxious at night, and we became more security-conscious. I felt a deep sense of insecurity and found it difficult to sleep; the slightest sound woke me. Luckily, things calmed down towards the end of 1976, although it took a lot longer for my sleeping patterns to return to normal.
By 1980, my mum was also working at the University of Stellenbosch as a computer programmer. Between the music lessons, ballet lessons and working forty-five minutes away from home, all the driving became too much for my mum. Reluctantly, she agreed to move to Stellenbosch, even though she loved Somerset West and would never really settle in our new home. I was about to begin high school, Melissa was also in school, and Nadine was about to start school.
Stellenbosch is a very different place from Somerset West, even though the two towns are geographically close to each other. It is more class-conscious and snobbish. Stellenbosch was largely Afrikaans. Politically and ideologically, Stellenbosch was strongly nationalist, and with the help of the university, which would provide an intellectual justification for apartheid, it became the bastion of Afrikaner nationalism.
This was evident in the high school I attended. Bloemhof Afrikaans Girls’ High is the oldest Afrikaans girls’ school in the country. Even though it was a state school and therefore had no tuition fees, it was steeped in the traditions associated with exclusive British private schools. The impressive buildings were surrounded by even more impressive gardens, sports fields and, of course, an Olympic-size swimming pool. There was a strong sense of exclusivity, reinforced by the fact that we only rarely engaged with the boys’ school across the road, Paul Roos Gymnasium, and never had any interaction with the adjacent English girls’ school, Rhenish Girls’ High.
The principal of the school was Miss Coetzee, an elderly spinster who ran the place with an iron fist. It was her goal in life to develop Christian ladies who would become upstanding citizens, even if it was just to support their husbands. Frequently, we would be reminded of successful former Bloemhof pupils, such as Mrs Annetjie Marais, whose claim to fame was that her husband, Piet Marais, was a member of parliament. In years to come, when I became an mp, this would make me smile, even though Bloemhof was not impressed with my activities.
And yet, perhaps inadvertently, Miss Coetzee and Bloemhof helped me search for more from life. The fact that we were a girls-only school and had only female teachers meant that we had to do everything. There were no boys to carry things, nor were they given preference in speaking orders or glorified in sport. There were no romantic or sexual distractions. Miss Coetzee would frustrate us endlessly with her little sayings in assembly, such as: ‘Always fill your mind with beautiful thoughts’ or ‘Remember that CL [the car registration code for Stellenbosch] stands for “Christian Ladies”.’ Yet some of her frequently repeated quotes embedded themselves into my subconscious. Years later, I still remember: ‘Even a dead fish can swim with the stream’ and ‘There is not enough darkness in the world to destroy the light of one little candle.’ Wise words.
I focused on academia and ballet. I was now doing up to three hours a day of ballet lessons, and I would get up at around 5am to practise for two hours before school at the barre my parents had installed for me in the playroom. From an early age, my sisters and I had a Calvinist approach to work and life instilled in us. If you wanted to get somewhere in life, you had to work hard. To work harder than anyone else was the only way to get anywhere, and in addition, it was virtuous. To be idle was no good.
I still find it difficult to watch television without doing something else at the same time. Television time was strictly controlled; even at high school, we were not allowed to watch TV after 8pm. So we practised and worked hard. These teachings were reinforced by the church, where I spent most of my free time. The doctrine of the Dutch Reformed Church was based on fear and was fervently anti-Catholic. I did my best to follow the instructions and teachings.
Naturally, being in an all-white church, school, ballet group and neighbourhood isolated us all to a great extent from what was going on in the rest of the country. The only impact we felt from the unrest elsewhere was the regular drills at school in case of a terrorist attack, which we all knew really meant a ‘black attack’. In such an event, an alarm would go off, and on the teacher’s command of ‘Val plat!’ we would have to get down under our desks or hide in cupboards or storerooms. We practised this drill frequently. We were also taught to identify terrorist explosive devices, with examples of various bombs and limpet mines exhibited throughout the school. There was a weekly instruction of ‘Jeugweerbaarheid’ (Youth Preparedness), which, depending on the teacher, could be more or less ideologically driven. As instability grew and riots became more frequent in the 1980s, we were rarely aware of them, since the media were tightly controlled. Apartheid was very successful in what it set out to do – namely, to keep us apart.
During this time, however, Miss Coetzee gave a long lecture in assembly against ‘the black terrorists who were causing all the riots in the townships in Cape Town’. Even though I knew very little about what was going on, I instinctively revolted against her racist language and crude generalisations. As we left assembly, she called me aside and asked me why I had frowned during her speech. I said I did not like the way she had spoken and was sure that things were more complicated than she had made them out to be. I thought I could see the smoke coming from her ears as she turned red with anger. She pointed her long-nailed, crooked finger at my face and poked at my nose while rhythmically saying, ‘Be very careful [poke] young lady [poke]. Very [poke], very [poke] careful [poke, poke].’ I became equally annoyed, and turned around and walked away.
If any of the teachers did not agree with the school’s philosophy, they kept it to themselves, fearful for their jobs. But there was one teacher who made a big impression on me and my fellow students. Letitia Snyman had spent many years in England before returning to South Africa to be close to her elderly parents. She taught English and was in a different league from the rest of the teaching staff. Although she never explicitly voiced any political opinions in class, we all knew she thought differently. She gave us additional English texts to read, like Animal Farm and Lord of the Flies, and insisted on us expressing opinions on difficult and moral questions.
She did not judge our conclusion as long as it was well thought through and well argued. She must have had a difficult time at Bloemhof, but later became the principal of the adjacent English Girls’ School: she guided that school through a process of racial integration, and also turned it into a top all-round school. She made us think, and, contrary to the rest of our education, insisted that we were not only allowed to question things around us, but in fact had an obligation to do so.
In my final year of school, I was elected chairperson of the Christian Student Association. This was not of much consequence, except that I invited a well-known theology student, Wilhelm Verwoerd, to address us at our annual meeting. He brought his girlfriend along. Apart from thinking that he had appalling dress sense, I was quite impressed with the talk, although I was completely unaware that he was a grandson of the former prime minister.
I had two boyfriends at school, but being very religious, we only ever held hands and kissed. In fact, even dancing was frowned upon, so although I loved ballet, I never danced socially until the school’s farewell ball, with my boyfriend of the time.
I continued to be completely absorbed by ballet. I was good at it, and danced the lead in many performances. I wanted nothing more than to become a professional dancer.
