The Verwoerd who Toyi-Toyied. Melanie Verwoerd
not say what, but I assumed he felt that my speech had not been intellectual enough.
Over the next few months, I spoke at meetings almost every night of the week. At first it was only in the Western Cape, but gradually I got invitations from branches all over South Africa. It was an exhausting schedule. I mostly drove in our battered Volkswagen Golf, which frequently broke down, often late at night and on isolated roads. Despite my exhaustion and the occasional danger, I loved it. Passing through towns that I had visited numerous times before, I would end up in the ‘other’ part, the ‘non-white’ area. I felt as if I was reclaiming my own country and its people.
Towards the end of 1993, the ANC Western Cape had its annual provincial conference at the University of the Western Cape. I attended as part of the Stellenbosch branch delegation. There were hundreds of delegates, and nominations took place for the provincial executive, after which there was a secret ballot. As I stood in line to vote, it struck me that this was the only place where 99 per cent of the people present were able to vote. It was a sobering thought.
On the Sunday, at the final session, the newly elected officials were announced. My name was among them. Now, apart from raising two children under three years of age, working part-time at the university, doing ANC branch work, still trying to complete my thesis, and talking at branches all over the country, I would also have to attend frequent meetings in Cape Town. I thought it was impossible to be busier than I had been up to that point. But I was soon proven wrong.
During this time, I was asked whether I would be available to stand for parliament in the upcoming first democratic elections in 1994. Wilhelm was also asked, but he declined. He felt that we could not both do it and he preferred a more reflective life whereas I was the natural activist.
At the lengthy Kempton Park multiparty negotiations, where the Bill of Rights and interim constitution were negotiated, it was agreed that South Africa would have a proportional list system. This meant that all the parties taking part in the election had to draw up two lists of candidates for the national parliament of 400 MPs: one national list and nine provincial lists. Then 200 MPs would be elected from the national lists, based on votes the party received nationally, and a further 200 from the provincial lists based on the votes the individual parties received in each of the nine provinces. This was a far more representative system than the traditional first-past-the-post constituency system – in particular for the parties that represented minority groups. Every vote counted. It was up to the parties to decide how they compiled the various lists.
The ANC had an extensive process that was deeply democratic. The branches made nominations to their provincial executive. In order to get onto the internal ballot, you had to be nominated by at least seven branches. The branches would then all send delegates to a provincial electoral conference and vote. The candidates with the highest number of votes for the national list would then go through to a national electoral conference. There, all the provincial nominees would be put on the ballot, and delegates from all over the country would vote on them. The names would be ranked according to the votes received, and a list of 200 candidates would be compiled out of the thousands of names. It may have been democratic, but it was stressful for the candidates.
There were only two exceptions to the democratic nature of the process. Should Mandela not top the list after the vote, he would be put there, since he was the presidential candidate. Needless to say, there was no need for concern about that. The second issue related to the representation of women. For years, the ANC Women’s League had insisted that there should be a quota for women in parliament. The ANC executive had agreed to a quota of one-third. So when the election results were known, they carefully checked to ensure that there were enough women high up on the list. As it turned out, they did not have to change any position on the first hundred names and only a few in the second hundred names. Clearly, the years of insisting on equitable representation for women had resulted in comrades naturally voting for women.
I was not at the first national list conference, but when the names were announced, I was astonished. I was number 84, which meant that I was almost guaranteed a seat in parliament. (The ANC was expected to win close to 60 per cent of the vote, which would have meant that the first 120 names would get seats.) I was delighted, but now life became even more hectic, with electioneering and increased media pressure.
I still found it strange to see my name and face on election posters, some of which were quite clever. Since both Ella Gandhi – a granddaughter of Mahatma Gandhi – and I were on the list, the ANC designed a poster that read: ‘Only the ANC has Gandhi and Verwoerd in one party.’
6
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