Anticipating the next 25

This day, 25 years ago, was cold and crisp. I was living in Queenstown in the Eastern Cape. Just seventeen days earlier, on Easter Saturday, Chris Hani was assassinated. Already, South Africa was apparently teetering on the brink and the fear was, that this would tip the country over. In a stroke of brilliance, then President FW de Klerk allowed Nelson Mandela to address the nation. I remember sitting in wrapt attention. This was a man who was president in all but name, and whom I would be delighted to have as president.

The date for South Africa's first democratic election was announced and was received with emotions that reflected the divisions in the country and very little in between: euphoria or terror. A public holiday was declared and the army was mobilised. My ex-husband had served in the defence force as younger man as had many of his colleagues. He was a member of the local commando and because there were concerns that schools might be attacked, all the men had to don their uniforms, were armed and patrolled the school campuses. I remember being quite entertained by the fact that with his long, wavy hair he could have been confused with Che Guevara. An irony not lost on me.

At the time, I was doing community work and unlike him, I was on the euphoric end of the spectrum. I was in and out of townships, zipping around the Eastern Cape in my little Fiat Uno. Unarmed. Alone.

I could not understand why he wanted to stockpile baked beans and bottled water.

The day dawned, as I said, cold and crisp. We happily stood in the sun waiting our time to vote. I don't really remember how long we stood, but I do remember the laughter and sense of camaraderie as we waited. Then we went home and turned on the television and saw the entire country peacefully queuing to vote. By 9pm there were still people waiting. Patiently. The polls were closed and a second day of voting declared; and a third. We all stayed at home, the African National Congress became the ruling Party and Nelson Mandela was inaugurated on the 10th of May, a day memorable for more than the millinery of the leading ladies of the moment.

Source

For me that period was somewhat tempered by the fact that we had uncovered some serious fraud one of the organisations I was working in. Perpetrated by a community worker - on one of the party lists - of the very poor people she purported to be wanting to help. It did put a bit of a pall on things but it was, and remains, an object lesson on the reality that not everyone can resist temptation. Especially if they, themselves live in poverty and have been, unexpectedly put in positions of trust and accorded inappropriate amounts of power. That the matter was brushed under the carpet by the powers that be (I was not part of the decision-making group), remains, for me, a wrong decision. She went on to serve in one of the parliamentary chambers and was never seen again.

That was a necessary digression because it was a harbinger of things to come. Not so much in the eras of Nelson Mandela or Thabo Mbeki, although it was beginning to creep in, but as people of her ilk rose up the ranks; along with Jacob Zuma, it resulted in what is now being referred to as nine wasted years. I also remember that there was much anger and incredulity about newly-elected politicians' "gravy train". With hindsight, I suspect, this probably had more do with the transparency with which appointments and remuneration allocated, when compared with the previous regime which had been characterised by secrecy and opacity.

That, however, is a one-dimensional look at things. Twenty-five years ago I would not have even considered flying the country's flag outside my home. When the Fifa World Cup came to South Africa in 2010, the flag flew proudly outside our home in Cape Town, and instead of the side mirrors of the car proudly bearing the flag, it was the headrests - for months. When I travelled abroad on business, I made sure I wore a flag lapel pin. Much to the irritation of my Australian colleagues.

Our Cape Town home proudly flying the South African flag

I have shared before a little of my personal history in South Africa and much has changed in the last 25 years. Today is again a bittersweet day, but on a much more personal level. I have mentioned before, how stall holders at the market support each other by buying from each other, bartering and sharing their fare. Some of us more so than others, and our standard pre-brunch snack are the best samoosas in the universe. And, it seems their makers' daughters seem to think my koeksisters aren't half bad, either. Quite a compliment considering they're not part of my tradition's cuisine.

So, when she suddenly looses her husband, and they, their father, it is natural, normal and appropriate to pay one's respects. As one of the speakers at the funeral, and a former city counsellor said, he may have been a simple labourer and handyman, but he was a stalwart of the community and had had a huge impact on many people in the village. The little church was packed to the thatch.

So, why is this significant? Well, prior to democracy it would have been illegal to have gone into a so-called coloured community church to pay one's respects. That we can, and do, is how far we have come. That we were the only white folk in the church is how far we still have to go.

There it is - my contribution for day 27

Until next time Fiona The Sandbag House McGregor, South Africa

Photo: Selma

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