ON THE eve of the 20th anniversary of the birth of the “new” South Africa, we should begin to rehearse the kinds of questions that will dominate national thinking in 2014.
These two questions – “Where were we when FW de Klerk made his famous speech?” and “Where were we the day that Nelson Mandela was released from Pollsmoor?” – will certainly be uppermost in many conversations.
Less time, I imagine, will be given to the question, “Why did the monstrous apartheid system end?”
It is still too early to say what the impact on South Africa was of the changes wrought in the 1970s by Thatcherism about which, in recent days, we have heard so much.
And it is also not clear what the impact of the ending of the Cold War was on the decisions which set South Africa on the road to freedom.
Like most difficult questions there is no single, simple explanation for why apartheid ended. It came about through the actions of great leaders, courageous fighters, visionary thinkers, astute negotiators, certainly – but it also came through the actions of ordinary men and women who waited for a moment to change it through actions both great and small.
These kinds of actions – as the Arab Spring suggests – can make all the difference. This is because in politics, as in life, timing is everything.
In the autistic politics of South Africa in the 1980s, the launch of Idasa (the Institute for Democracy in South Africa) was a case of near perfect timing. Formed in 1986 by the late Fredrik van Zyl Slabbert and Alex Boraine – who had both resigned from the all-white parliament in order to work for deep change – Idasa’ s aim was to encourage people to think differently about the future.
Curiously, support for this often came from unexpected sources – among them, students at Afrikaans universities. Not all of them, mind: many students continued to support the cause of the National Party, as they had for decades, but it was clear that many young people were open to new ways of thinking.
But for Idasa’s work, it was often the appointment of young Afrikaners to strategic positions in its offices across the country which made the real difference.
One such was Hermien Kotzè who, in November 1989, was appointed director of Idasa’s Border office.
The date is important because, as history tells us, the process of political change in South Africa had just started: FW de Klerk had replaced PW Botha as president; a series of secret meetings had taken place between the government and Nelson Mandela; the Dakar meeting brokered by Idasa had taken place; public facilities were desegregated throughout the country, and – most importantly – many ANC activists had been freed.
This was the very eve of South Africa’s great political change – two months later, of course, De Klerk would make the famous speech and, less than a month later, Mandela would be released from prison.
Unsurprisingly, as Hermien told me last week, her two-year tenure in the Idasa office in East London was “the high point” of her life. She had no deep roots in the Eastern Cape, but had been teaching development studies at the University of Fort Hare when she was offered the Idasa directorship in East London. But Hermien had studied at Stellenbosch University where, at the time, the mood of questioning was earnestly underway.
In her new post, she was immediately submerged in the energy of the transition: it was a period marked by intense speculation, endless guessing, deep conspiracy and, yes, boundless optimism about the future.
The Idasa o ffice was a kind of nerve- centre of thinking about change – how to foster it, how to deepen understanding between East Londoners, and how to communicate the threats and the possibilities of the great shifts underway both in the Eastern Cape and in the country.
A reading of the Idasa annual reports of those times reflects the loaded political agenda and highlights, too, the fractious politics of the Border region. The many divides ( white-black, rich- poor, employed-unemployed) were complicated by the fact that under apartheid, East London and Mdantsane were – certainly legally – in two different countries.
Then there was the complicated politics of the Eastern Cape hinterland with its ongoing series of consumer boycotts in far-flung places, the difficult question of local government and its reform, and the never-ending and complicated question of land and its redistribution.
If coping with divides was one series of issues in the everyday life of Kotzè and her colleagues Bea Roberts, Nondwe Miki and Nomonde Mtiyane, an ongoing issue was weathering the interest of the security police. The tyres of their respective motor cars were so regularly slashed that they were forced to open an account at a tyre-depot. On one occasion, at the Rhodes University’s East London campus, Kotzè’s car, along with others, was seriously damaged by two limpet mines.
They were, however, supported by an extraordinary range of East Londoners who became increasing committed to the deep processes of political change underway in the city. The ranks of these supporters were from a range of different South Africa backgrounds and included the Myburgh couple – Johan was the local Gereformeerde Kerk (dopper) dominee and his wife, Marietjie, was on the staff of the Dispatch.
Political and social change is an endless process: set-backs are as important as those great forward leaps of faith like changing one’s mind, and changing – almost completely – the institutional politics of a country, which is what South Africans have done these past 20 years.
Idasa, which has now closed its doors, certainly helped the citizens of East London – and, indeed, South Africa – to negotiate the difficult path away from apartheid.
But who will help them understand the deep lessons of these 20 years past – the lessons paradoxically caught in the Belgian proverb, “Happy nations have no history”?
Peter Vale is professor of humanities at University of Johannesburg. He served on the national board of Idasa from 1986 until 1996. The first article appeared yesterday
Insight: Nerve-centre for change
These two questions – “Where were we when FW de Klerk made his famous speech?” and “Where were we the day that Nelson Mandela was released from Pollsmoor?” – will certainly be uppermost in many conversations.
Less time, I imagine, will be given to the question, “Why did the monstrous apartheid system end?”
It is still too early to say what the impact on South Africa was of the changes wrought in the 1970s by Thatcherism about which, in recent days, we have heard so much.
And it is also not clear what the impact of the ending of the Cold War was on the decisions which set South Africa on the road to freedom.
Like most difficult questions there is no single, simple explanation for why apartheid ended. It came about through the actions of great leaders, courageous fighters, visionary thinkers, astute negotiators, certainly – but it also came through the actions of ordinary men and women who waited for a moment to change it through actions both great and small.
These kinds of actions – as the Arab Spring suggests – can make all the difference. This is because in politics, as in life, timing is everything.
In the autistic politics of South Africa in the 1980s, the launch of Idasa (the Institute for Democracy in South Africa) was a case of near perfect timing. Formed in 1986 by the late Fredrik van Zyl Slabbert and Alex Boraine – who had both resigned from the all-white parliament in order to work for deep change – Idasa’ s aim was to encourage people to think differently about the future.
Curiously, support for this often came from unexpected sources – among them, students at Afrikaans universities. Not all of them, mind: many students continued to support the cause of the National Party, as they had for decades, but it was clear that many young people were open to new ways of thinking.
But for Idasa’s work, it was often the appointment of young Afrikaners to strategic positions in its offices across the country which made the real difference.
One such was Hermien Kotzè who, in November 1989, was appointed director of Idasa’s Border office.
The date is important because, as history tells us, the process of political change in South Africa had just started: FW de Klerk had replaced PW Botha as president; a series of secret meetings had taken place between the government and Nelson Mandela; the Dakar meeting brokered by Idasa had taken place; public facilities were desegregated throughout the country, and – most importantly – many ANC activists had been freed.
This was the very eve of South Africa’s great political change – two months later, of course, De Klerk would make the famous speech and, less than a month later, Mandela would be released from prison.
Unsurprisingly, as Hermien told me last week, her two-year tenure in the Idasa office in East London was “the high point” of her life. She had no deep roots in the Eastern Cape, but had been teaching development studies at the University of Fort Hare when she was offered the Idasa directorship in East London. But Hermien had studied at Stellenbosch University where, at the time, the mood of questioning was earnestly underway.
In her new post, she was immediately submerged in the energy of the transition: it was a period marked by intense speculation, endless guessing, deep conspiracy and, yes, boundless optimism about the future.
The Idasa o ffice was a kind of nerve- centre of thinking about change – how to foster it, how to deepen understanding between East Londoners, and how to communicate the threats and the possibilities of the great shifts underway both in the Eastern Cape and in the country.
A reading of the Idasa annual reports of those times reflects the loaded political agenda and highlights, too, the fractious politics of the Border region. The many divides ( white-black, rich- poor, employed-unemployed) were complicated by the fact that under apartheid, East London and Mdantsane were – certainly legally – in two different countries.
Then there was the complicated politics of the Eastern Cape hinterland with its ongoing series of consumer boycotts in far-flung places, the difficult question of local government and its reform, and the never-ending and complicated question of land and its redistribution.
If coping with divides was one series of issues in the everyday life of Kotzè and her colleagues Bea Roberts, Nondwe Miki and Nomonde Mtiyane, an ongoing issue was weathering the interest of the security police. The tyres of their respective motor cars were so regularly slashed that they were forced to open an account at a tyre-depot. On one occasion, at the Rhodes University’s East London campus, Kotzè’s car, along with others, was seriously damaged by two limpet mines.
They were, however, supported by an extraordinary range of East Londoners who became increasing committed to the deep processes of political change underway in the city. The ranks of these supporters were from a range of different South Africa backgrounds and included the Myburgh couple – Johan was the local Gereformeerde Kerk (dopper) dominee and his wife, Marietjie, was on the staff of the Dispatch.
Political and social change is an endless process: set-backs are as important as those great forward leaps of faith like changing one’s mind, and changing – almost completely – the institutional politics of a country, which is what South Africans have done these past 20 years.
Idasa, which has now closed its doors, certainly helped the citizens of East London – and, indeed, South Africa – to negotiate the difficult path away from apartheid.
But who will help them understand the deep lessons of these 20 years past – the lessons paradoxically caught in the Belgian proverb, “Happy nations have no history”?
Peter Vale is professor of humanities at University of Johannesburg. He served on the national board of Idasa from 1986 until 1996. The first article appeared yesterday
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