The Verwoerd who Toyi-Toyied. Melanie Verwoerd
an effort to clear the Verwoerd name?’ It would take a lot more than my involvement to do that, I thought. Even though I was concerned about the reference, I knew that Wilhelm’s parents would never read this magazine.
A few days later, the Sunday Times phoned. This would be my baptism of fire with the media, and set in motion a series of events that would change my life. The journalist said he had confirmation of my membership and gave me an ultimatum: either I give him the interview and we work together, or he would write the story without me. He gave me an undertaking that he would not approach Wilhelm’s parents if I gave him a brief interview. Today I would never believe such an undertaking, but I was young (I had just turned 25), and desperate to avoid conflict with Wilhelm’s parents, so I agreed.
We met in a coffee shop in Stellenbosch. The interview went well, but as we left, the journalist said: ‘You know, as part of my journalistic integrity, I have to ask Wilhelm’s parents for a comment.’ I was furious. I told him he had broken his word, but he did not care. He eventually agreed to give us a few hours to tell the Verwoerds first. Although the interview was about my involvement in the ANC, he then phoned Wilhelm to check if he was a member too. Wilhelm had quietly joined a few months earlier. At first he would not comment, but the journalist insisted that he would then write that Wilhelm was not a member, which was not true. The cat was out of the bag. Wilhelm went over to his parents to talk to them, but somehow they did not fully understand (or he did not make it clear) that he was also a member. So thinking that it was just me, they expressed their disapproval, but Wilhelm was relieved that it all turned out reasonably well.
The article appeared two days later. His parents would not take the journalist’s call, but of course bought the paper, which they otherwise never did. We had gone for the day to my parents, who by now were living in Gordon’s Bay. My parents did not agree with our decision to join the ANC, but felt that it was our choice to make. They had raised me and my sisters to be free-thinkers and to raise questions, and they knew I would not easily back down once I had carefully analysed an issue and decided on a position. Ultimately, they believed that family and personal relations were more important than any ideological position – a belief I share.
Early that afternoon we got a call, and just like a year earlier we were summoned to the Verwoerd house. We were told not to bring Wilmé. The reception was icy. This time I was included in the conversation, as was Wilhelm’s mother. Wilhelm’s father was furious. He raged for what seemed like hours. Although he largely ignored me, it was clear that he felt I had misled Wilhelm. He called us traitors to the Afrikaner nation and a shame on the family name. Wilhelm tried to reason with him, but he would not listen. Wilhelm’s father was the patriarch – not only of his own family, but also, as the eldest son, he was the guardian of the Verwoerd legacy. We were now a threat to that legacy, he insisted, and had no right to be in the fold any more. He told Wilhelm that, since he no longer regarded him as his son, we had no right to the surname any more. We would no longer be welcome in ‘his’ house, and were disinherited. Wilhelm’s mother, who was in tears, asked him what this meant in terms of the grandchildren. He was clearly a bit troubled by this and said that they were welcome as long as we were not with them.
Of course, this was a deeply distressing conversation, and over the next few days we tried repeatedly to talk to him, but nothing would help. Over the next ten years, Wilhelm’s father would shun us. We would quietly visit his mother when he was not home, or I would drop off the children, waiting in a nearby restaurant for the call to come for me to pick them up.
To add to the stress, the media, both in South Africa and around the world, had got hold of the story, and would not leave us alone. The phone was ringing non-stop. The ANC asked us to do as much media as we could, because it was great publicity for them. I do not think I quite understood the shock waves this episode sent through the anti-apartheid movement. It was only years later, when I overheard a fellow MP, Salie Manie, telling a us governor about me, that I got some sense of what our joining the ANC meant. Salie explained how the news spread and how so many of the ANC activists felt that if a grandson of Verwoerd could join, it was the ultimate validation of everything the ANC stood for.
So we did literally hundreds of interviews. This was exhausting and stressful – not helped by the fact that I was almost nine months pregnant, and still working and trying (unsuccessfully) to finish my Masters thesis before the baby arrived. With all the media coverage, which focused more on Wilhelm than on me, Wilhelm’s father decided to denounce us publicly. He did so in a letter to the big Afrikaans newspaper Die Burger, which was quickly picked up by some of the other Afrikaans publications.
Almost immediately, letters threatening to kill us were sent to our house. These were distressing but I could deal with them. What really disgusted me was that people would call our home phone and when Wilmé picked up, tell her that they were going to kill us. She was only two and a half and became distraught. After this happened a few times, I made sure that she could not get to the phone and eventually I changed our number. This helped for a while, but the new number got out and the threats started again.
I was now also not welcome in Stellenbosch any more. None of our friends would talk to us, and I was asked not to attend the mother-and-toddler groups. In town, people would hiss ‘traitor’ when they saw me, and I was frequently spat on. We got a call from a professor at the university to warn us that he had reliable information that we were on the hit-list of a far-right organisation. He told us that we were third on a list that included Chris Hani.
In the next year, we received information that the two above us on the list had been assassinated. The ANC offered us protection, but I knew that if anyone really wanted to kill us, nothing would stop them. I did not want the incredible invasion of privacy that protection would entail, with armed men in and around my house. Intelligence sources felt that the children were not at risk, so we decided against any security. We kept to this decision although I would later, during the election campaign, agree to security at public events, when the ANC felt there was a specific threat.
In the midst of this chaos, I gave birth to my beautiful son, Wian Brandt. At 36 weeks, he must have got a bit claustrophobic, according to the doctors, and miraculously flipped around into a breach position. The doctors decided to do an early Caesarean section, but for the week before his birth I would be suddenly breathless when he headbutted me. Despite his early, backwards entry into the world, he still tipped the scale at just under nine pounds. All went smoothly, apart from Wilmé, who got a peanut stuck up her nose the night I went into hospital. I again had an epidural. Wilhelm recorded Wian’s entry into the world on video camera with the help of an enthusiastic anaesthetist, who completely forgot about me while directing Wilhelm.
As was the practice with babies born by Caesarean section, Wian had to be ‘warmed up’ for a few hours in an incubator. The nurses reluctantly agreed that I could keep Wian in an incubator next to my bed in my room, as I had arranged with the paediatrician beforehand since I wanted to have as much contact with him as possible. Wian was restless and crying in the incubator. I eventually took him out and, knowing that he had to stay warm, I fed him and then covered him up completely under the duvet, before we both fell asleep. I woke up with panicked nurses, doctors and security men next to my bed. Someone had spotted the empty incubator, assumed that Wian had been stolen and set off a mad panic. When I lifted the duvet to reveal him peacefully sleeping, there was a sigh of relief. The nurses were not impressed with me, though.
Wilmé visited later that morning, and brought Wian a panda bear. For months she had been excited about Wian’s arrival and had spoken to him through my tummy. Every night, she repeated the same words in a little sing-song tone: ‘Hello, Wian. I’m Wilmé. I love you.’ When Wilmé arrived at the hospital, Wian was fast asleep, as only a newborn can be. I propped Wilmé up on the pillows and carefully placed the sleeping baby in her arms. She looked at Wian intently and then said, in the same sing-song tone: ‘Hello, Wian. I’m Wilmé. I love you.’ A split-second later, Wian’s eyes flew open and he stared at Wilmé, wide awake and alert. She was thrilled and I was in tears. They were – and remain – very close. From the start, Wilmé wanted to take on the parental role. Just before she left the hospital at the end of her first visit, I changed Wian’s nappy. She watched closely, and when Wian started squirming a bit, she gently pushed me aside.‘Excuse me, Mummy. I’ll