No Life of My Own
© Frank Chikane 2012
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1
Letter to All Those Who Care
In 1986 I was forced to go into hiding in South Africa. It had become apparent from the frequent visits of the security police to my house and workplace that I had reached top of the list for arrest. I stayed in hiding for several months. It is not easy to avoid arrest, and as the weeks passed, the pressure mounted. I had a number of near escapes and, by the law of averages, it was only a matter of time. Training as a pastor does not equip one for the life of a fugitive.
I slipped abroad to Europe, to try to write an examination as an external student of the University of South Africa (UNISA). This was not possible, as the university authorities insisted I write in a South African embassy or consulate. Secondly, I planned to visit friends outside South Africa to share with them our pain and suffering in South Africa. Many friends wanted me to stay abroad and felt that any return to South Africa would be suicidal. What my friends were saying made a lot of sense. It was an agonising period of exile, and I learnt what other exiles suffer.
One thought dominated my mind: my congregation, friends and comrades in Soweto and South Africa did not have my luxury of indecision. They had to stay and face the music. How could I abandon them? How could I explain to them why, for me, the demands of the struggle dictated that I stay in exile? I could not gather them together and explain all the reasons for staying, for ‘skipping’.
So I decided to go home. I felt I owed it to all who had wanted to hold me back to write to them and explain. The letter I wrote, fully expecting the worst on my return, follows. It makes a good start to the longer explanation that follows: of my longer pilgrimage as a Christian under apartheid.
12 March 1987
To all those who care, to friends, brothers and sisters in the Lord, and to the Church of Christ at large:
The decision has been made and I am on my way into that beleaguered country, South Africa. I have made the decision being very much aware of the consequences thereof: the possibility of being detained and imprisoned for long periods of time without any charge; the possibility of being tortured, again, like many of my fellow sisters and brothers at home, the possibility of being tortured even unto death or the possibility of being eliminated or assassinated by agents of the apartheid regime as they have already done with some of my dear brothers and sisters who committed themselves to the noble goal of a just, non-racial, democratic and a peaceful society, for committing themselves to the ideal of the Kingdom of God in this world.
But why make this type of decision? To this question I must answer that I cannot explain in reasonable terms the decisionI have made. When challenged by well-meaning friends who are concerned about my life, my well-being and the safety of my family (Kagiso, my dear wife and our two boys: Obakeng [6] and Otlile [21/2]) who have never been given a chance to make their choices), in the face of this loving challenge I simply crumbled … my action looks senseless, futile, suicidal, inconsiderate, stupid, and one can continue endlessly with these descriptive words which characterise my state of affairs. In short I can’t defend this position.
But why have I moved against the tide of reason? The cries of my people at home, the call of those who are in distress, who live between life and death on a daily basis: those who are in the heat of things, who have no other options but to face the guns of the apartheid security forces, the call of those who have left their families and have been in hiding or underground for the last nine months since the state of emergency, and these are in their thousands; the call of women, men and children in Soweto who believe that my presence, in terms of my ministry, will make a difference. This is the call that sends me back home.
The question is, given the state of emergency, the closure of all possible non-violent and peaceful forms of intervention, given that some of us just ‘qualified’ by proclamation to go to prison and would be most probably whisked away or eliminated should we make an appearance, let alone intervention, what role does one have there? What am I called to come and do? Am I being called just to go to prison or to go and die? Is that the intention of those who have sent the distress message to me?
No, I do not believe that this is their intention. I don’t even believe that this seemingly logical end is in their minds. I believe that the enormity of the situation, their life-and-death situation, looms high over and above this rationalconsideration and I understand this. Rather than focus on this seemingly irrational call, I have been overwhelmed by the very need that supersedes any rational consideration. I cannot therefore explain what I am doing except that I am going to be present with them, in life or in death. I believe that it is the presence, even if it is a powerless form of presence, that they are crying for. And I am going there just to be present.
Throughout this painful and agonising experience, for the last few months I have begun to see the story of the passion in a new light. This experience has opened my eyes to a new and deeper reality about the gospel of the cross. It became clearer to me than ever before that Jesus in fact did not want to go to the cross. He willed that the cup could pass Him (Mt 26:36–46); He wished that the cup could be removed from Him (Lk 22:39–46), but He had to give in to the will of His Father.
No one really wants to go to the cross, or the way of the cross, but it has dawned on me in a new way that it does not look like we can achieve our liberation in South Africa without going through the cross. Given the determination of the white racist minority regime to defend and maintain the unjust privileges of 15% of our population at the expense and even lives of 85% blacks in our country; given that most of the Western superpowers are not seemingly persuaded by moral or just considerations over and above their economic and national security interests, and thus are determined to side with the apartheid regime, it does not look like we can reach this vision of the basileia without going through the cross. It looks like it is in our death that we shall rise again into a new and just society. It looks like that it is in our weakness that we become strong. That it is in our powerlessness in the face of the powerful odds that we shall gain power, the people’s power, God’s power.
That it is through this seemingly hopeless situation that there can be hope even to free or liberate the oppressors and those who are intoxicated with power. The second shock in my life throughout this period was that although I had understood the message of taking sides with the poor, the oppressed, the weak, that is, the ‘victims’ of society, following on the steps of the Lord, it did not occur to me that I will be required to go the whole way through. Even if I may theoretically have been aware of this possibility it never occurred to me that I would have to go through it all myself, through it all with the people. Yes, I am scared about this reality, I wish I could avoid it, let it pass me, to others, so that I can also live a ‘normal’ life like other people. I am scared that if this is the will of the Lord I will not escape it. I cannot hide myself from the Lord. In the midst of all this, in this struggle I have with the Lord, I pray that if one has to go through it all it must be only with the Lord!
There are two stories in the Bible which loomed high in my mind as I meditated on this issue. The story of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem which reached its climax on the cross, and the story of Paul’s journey, also to Jerusalem, which ended up in prison. Apartheid South Africa is indeed a Jerusalem of our time. When Jesus drew near and saw the city of Jerusalem ‘He wept over it’, saying: ‘Would that even today you knew the things that make for peace! But now they are hid from your eyes. For the days shall come upon you when your enemies will cast up a bank about you and surround you, and hem you in on every side, and dash you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave one stone upon another in you, because you did not know the time of your visitation’ (Lk 19:41–44).
This is the Kairos, it is our Kairos and I beg you, sisters and brothers, to pray with us, to act with us, even if it might cost us pain, to help us deliver this new baby, the new, just, democratic and non-racial South Africa where all will live in peace. In particular I ask you to pray with me, and for my family of which I feel guilty, because this (my decision) puts them in danger and deprives them of a normal life as a family.
I am now halfway through to Jerusalem and maybe I should put down my pen with only one promise, that if I am not kept in chains I shall keep our communication line open.
Sincerely yours
Frank Chikane
2
Thinking About My Family
Thinking About the Kingdom
If I had been asked whether I would have liked to live the type of life I am living now, I would most certainly have said ‘no!’ If I had been asked to choose a particular type of life to live, I would have chosen to live a normal life like other people. But now I am living a life that is not my own; I am living not for myself but for others. I am living a life full of risks and uncertainties, to such a degree that I work on the basis that I could be assassinated at any time of my life. It is a life of detentions, torture and treason trials, but no crime – even within the very unjust apartheid laws.
It is a life full of external pressures that disrupt any form of normal family life. My family sees very little of me. My wife, Kagiso, has assumed almost all the burden of the family. She has to be like a single parent. Our boys, Obakeng and Otlile, will be eight and four, respectively, by the end of 1988. Even when I am not in prison or in hiding, they see very little of me. The familyknows very little of a ‘daddy’ who goes out with them – except on work trips.
When I am faced with a situation where I am constrained, because of my faith and my understanding of my calling, to lay down my life or risk it for others I also put the lives of my family on the firing line. I often say that at least my dear wife Kagiso made a conscious decision to get married to me knowing the possible consequences of the type of ministry I was involved in, but the kids had no chance at all to make a choice. And when our house was attacked and petrol-bombed, catching fire with Otlile (then only eight months old) almost engulfed by the flames, I began to realise that my children were victims of circumstances beyond their control.
So I am not ‘of my family’, maybe because I consider them as part of myself and cannot see them as people outside myself.
Having said all this, I want to thank God for having given me the type of family I have, particularly my wife, Kagiso. I doubt that without her I would have been the same person. She is, of course, no saint just as I am no saint. She has normal human concerns about the family, my safety and the type of life we are living.
I remember during 1984, in the heat of the campaign against the new apartheid South African Constitution, when Kagiso was due to give birth to Otlile, she went through her worst experience. I was not there when she desperately needed me. The night of Otlile’s birth I was called at 9:00 pm to deal with an emergency in another family whose father was one of the many who were in preventative detention under Section 28 of the Internal Security Act. During my absence, an hour-and-a-half after I had left, Otlile also called, announcing that he would be arriving in this world any moment. Our next-door neighbour was called to come to Kagiso’s rescue. At about 11:00 pm I arrived and found Kagiso gone. I felt guilty and angry with myself, but without any answer to theproblem. The only thing to do was race to the maternity clinic. There I was delayed by having to put on the right attire to enter the delivery ward. As I entered the ward, Otlile was born.
‘Otlile’ is an unusual name. It is the name I thought of while racing to the clinic and announced after that cry which heralded the arrival of the baby. The name means ‘he has arrived’ or ‘he has come’. Besides the fact that the child had come irrespective of all the problems and complexities of our family life, there were two other meanings in my mind as I coined the name. The first had to do again with our type of life. I was due to run a Black Theology conference in St Francis Xavier’s, Cape Town, as General Secretary of the Institute for Contextual Theology (ICT) from 10–14 September 1984. I could not pull out of it and I was scared that the baby would arrive during the conference. I therefore prayed that the baby would come before the conference, and, indeed, he did.
The other meaning of the name is more difficult to translate into English because of the English language’s sexist gender connotations. ‘Otlile’ means ‘God has come’, or literally, ‘He/She has come’. It is interesting that most African languages do not have a gender problem in referring to God. God in these languages has no gender. As Gabriel Setiloane says, in the Tswana language God is neither male nor female, but God. To us, therefore, God had visited us; God was in our midst in time of need; God was present with us (Emmanuel), and gave us the baby. Otlile’s second name is Lehlohonolo, which means ‘a blessing’. The name of our first child is ‘Obakeng’, which means ‘praise God’ or literally, ‘Praise Him/Her’. His second name, which his mother does not like, reflects the beginning of the struggle in the family, and is ‘Aluta’. It comes from the slogan A luta continua.
Obakeng was born just after my third detention in 1980 and life presented itself to me as a life of struggles, between justice and injustice, between God and the devil, between good and evil,between the gospel of truth and the gospel of the oppressive forces of our time. Kagiso did not like the name because, among other things, she did not like the way in which the name becomes a constant reminder of our life.
Secondly, she did not like the name because of a Setswana saying, Leina le ya boreelong. She said to me: ‘You know, that saying might just come true; that is, the meaning of the name you give to a child could be fulfilled in the child’s life.’
What is special about Kagiso? What is unique about her that she has kept the family together and intact so much that we can say, ‘Thank God we are still married’? I have talked about this aspect of her character to other people, to friends, but I have not told her of it. She is going to see it for the first time when she reads this manuscript.
She is human like any other human being. She gets hurt and feels pain; she reacts to issues like any human being. Yet she is an understanding partner. If this were not the case, our marriage would be no more. The difficulty is, of course, trying to reconcile being human with being understanding in our situation. This conflict manifested itself in 1984 when she expressed her concern about my ministry and my involvement with those victims of apartheid who were engaged in a struggle to bring our pain to an end. She realised that I was working myself right into detention or death, and that by challenging this evil, racist system of South Africa I was inviting it to land brutally upon me. Here’s what she said: ‘Although I understand what you are doing, that it is part and parcel of your ministry and calling, I am concerned about your life. Even if I understand that with this type of ministry, which challenges the powerful oppressors in the name of the Lord, you will land up in detention, maybe tortured and even killed, I also love you. I would not like to see you in that situation. But I cannot stop you. I understand …’
Although she has expressed her concern and her frustrations with me, once the enemy has struck in the form of treason charges, attacks on the family, she switches on to another wavelength and confronts the reality with determined confidence and a level of understanding that intrigues. When she is faced with the worst, she takes the bull by the horns. In Sesotho we would say: ‘Mme o tshwara thipa ka bohaleng’ (A mother holds the knife on the sharp side).
In fact, it is during times like these, when I am frustrated and depressed, that she offers encouragement, and does her best to lift me up. At times the sudden shift is unreal to me; yet it is real; it happens and it works. It happened during my fourth and longest detention, from November 1981 to July 1982, which came immediately after I had been suspended by my church, the Apostolic Faith Mission (AFM), from October 1981 to September 1982. They suspended me because, they said, I was involved in politics, because I had appeared in the press. Their argument was that because I was appearing in the press, critically attacking the apartheid system, I was embarrassing the church. They gave us two months after the date of suspension to vacate the manse, or mission house as people call it in the townships. We had to find our own accommodation. The church wanted to place another pastor in the congregation.
Before we found alternative accommodation – a difficult task as you would expect in a country where thousands of black families are on waiting lists for housing while there is a surplus for whites – I was detained. Instead of worrying about my detention and the welfare of my family, the church concerned itself solely with when the family was going to leave the manse. When my family failed to leave the house on the due date, a six-man delegation of senior pastors was sent to give Kagiso a final warning to leave. When shesaid she had not been able to find alternative accommodation she was told that that was not their business.
‘When your husband did what he did,’ they said, ‘he must have been aware of the consequences thereof. But he is clever and he must solve this problem.’ Even when I was in detention! My wife was never as hurt by the church and by Christians as she was then. It is a miracle that she remained a Christian. But within days of this ultimatum, members of the greater body of Christ and friends came to her rescue and she found herself in a house in Soweto.
It was during this experience that she demonstrated her extraordinary character by facing the challenge head on. The same happened when I was detained in February 1985 and charged with high treason. When I was released on bail in May 1985 and subjected to restrictions amounting to house arrest, our house was attacked and, a week later, a hit list was discovered where my name appeared together with those of thirteen other community leaders, including Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Father Lebamang Sebidi.
She said they were not going to leave me alone – I could not, of course, move like the others to avoid the assassins because of my restrictions. She was prepared to stand by me – until death do us part. I can write another book on this one!
Choice
I have posed the question: Would I have chosen this type of life had I been given a choice? I said ‘no’. This question has not only been put to me by other people, but it is a question I have asked myself from time to time when facing those difficult situations which, in almost all cases, are outside of my control. Although Kagiso and I were aware of the possible consequences of my type of ministry, it became clearer to us during 1986 that we would never lead a normal life. I remember Kagiso articulating this position veryclearly one day. We realised that I could not stay at home with my family and nor could I work in my office at ICT because of the threat of detention due to the State of Emergency regulations and the possibility of being assassinated or kidnapped by the rampant death squads. I could not even go to church and continue with my ministry, although, ironically, I became available to those who were in hiding.
It seems that as long as the apartheid system exists we shall not be able to live a normal life as a family. This is shattering for us and the children. Do we have a way out? I doubt it. Jesus tried to find a way out – at the Mount of Olives, as Luke calls it, and at Gethsemane, according to Matthew, faced with the prospect of death on the cross, ‘He became sorrowful and troubled, even to death’. Because of this He prayed that this cup pass (Mt 22:36–46), or be removed from Him (Lk 22:39–46). But, He said, not my will but Your will be done. No one, no human being really wants to go the way of the cross, to suffer and die. Not even Jesus!
But given our calling to proclaim the Kingdom of God in this world, it seems as if there is no chance of surviving in the face of the evil powers that be, which are threatened by the reign of God in this world. The evil powers that be fear this message we are proclaiming, and the message proclaimed through the struggle and victory of Third World peoples, because if the Kingdom of God comes they will have no one to oppress, no one to exploit – especially economically – so that they can live in luxury at the expense of the poor, weak and powerless; no one to dominate; no one to undermine or humiliate; no one to dehumanise. Yes, there will be no place for blatant white racism and apartheid. Those who live at the expense of the blood, life and sweat of others fear even the mention of a classless society which could be compatible with the ideals of the Kingdom. They are afraid of a life in a world where righteousness and justice reign, a world that is emptied like a vacuum of its sin.
The oppressors and exploiters fear that they could be vacuumed up with all the sin. This is what Jesus really meant when He said they will not enter the Kingdom of God. Jesus must reign until all His enemies have been put under His feet. And then comes the end when He will deliver the Kingdom to God, His Father, after destroying every rule and every authority and power so that God may be everything to everyone (1 Cor, 15:24–28). When l read some of these passages of scripture, I begin to understand why people are charged with treason for preaching the gospel, for this is treasonable stuff indeed … The point I want to make is: ‘Until now the Kingdoms of Heaven has suffered violence, and men of violence take it by force’ (Mt, 17:12). It is for this reason that Jesus died. He died because He challenged those violent forces that wanted to take this Kingdom by force. He claimed the Kingdom as rightfully belonging to His Father and He was crucified for it.
A United States theologian remarked – at the Kairos Convocation in Chicago where I was a guest speaker – that he did not believe Jesus came to die as the church would like us to believe. He simply had no choice but to die given the evil nature of His society. I understand what this theologian was trying to say. The message is that if we Christians can begin to proclaim the Kingdom as Jesus did in the face of all these powerful systems and empires of the world, we have no choice but to die.
Although this is a ghastly reality, maybe it has to happen to the church so that it can come down from the places of power where it was put by Constantine fourteen centuries ago. The church, to be church in the world today, must reject the dominant ideology of the powerful and take the way of the cross. This, of course, will mean that it will have to take the side of the weak, poor and powerless in the world. Once this is done in opposition to the sinful ideology of the dominant classes in society, then the church is bound to be persecuted like the church of the apostles, John, Peter and Paul.Then, witnessing, which is a comfortable mission today for many, will become ‘blood witnessing’ – that is martyrdom.
But we need to thank God that Jesus rose again and He is alive. This assures us that in our death a new life will arise, a new society, a new heaven and a new earth (Rev, 21). Philippians 1:20–21 became a reality for me on the fourth floor of Krugersdorp Police Station. I was tortured there and made to stand for 50 hours with teams of interrogators working eight hours per shift during my 1977–78 detention. When one of my torturers told me that I was ‘going to die slowly but surely’, I said to him that ‘for me to live is Christ but to die is gain’. I told him that if he let me live I would still continue even more vehemently to proclaim the gospel and challenge the evil and satanic system of apartheid. But if they let me die, then it would be gain for me because I would be with the Lord. Because then, and now, as always, Christ will be honoured in my body whether by life or by death. Whichever way, their kingdom of apartheid will come to an end and Jesus will reign.
3
Kagiso’s Reflection on Our Life
It is difficult for me to say when I met Frank Chikane for the first time. I met him several times in the Student Christian Movement’s conferences where he was invited as a speaker. My first contact with him was in 1973 when a Christian Youth Club, the Teen Challenge Christian Club (now Teen Outreach Christian Club), was opened in Naledi Township in Soweto. I was in high school then, and he used to visit the club during the university holidays. I used to view him as a big brother who was concerned with solutions to our problems.
To tell the truth, I used to be impressed by his preaching. Although he would use different biblical texts, he seemed always to talk about the fact that Jesus had compassion for the people and that somehow we have to imitate Him. In one conference, I remember him saying, ‘I refuse to be frustrated because Jesus in me was never, is never and will never be frustrated.’ I remember that together with my friends we used to quote this when we talked about him. To most of us he was a likeable person but alsoa difficult character to deal with. Difficult in the sense that he is not an extrovert and used to like to talk business. It was not easy to relax with him and indulge in small talk. Not that he distanced himself from the people, but there was always a scramble to talk with him.
There was a day in 1974 when he made a great impression on me. Our school, Morris Isaacson High School, had undertaken a trip to the University of the North and we met Frank and some friends from Teen Challenge Christian Club there. We then went to a nearby village to see my neighbour’s relatives. There were about five of us, and on our way to the village, I found myself walking with Frank. I really felt some warmth in me about him. Nothing came out of the trip but I think it laid a good foundation for our love affair.
Although he had left the University of the North by the time I went there in 1975, we used to write friendly letters to each other. He used to take a long time before replying and I remember that together with Pinky (a friend), we wrote him a letter accusing him of not replying to our letters. During the holidays he told us that he could not cope with correspondence because many people wrote to him. Between 1975 and 1977 our relationship was just cordial. I used to visit his home because I used to visit his father’s congregation in Tladi. I had visited them on several occasions during his detentions. I had also visited him in Kagiso after his detention.
Our courtship started in 1978 when I was just about to complete my teacher’s diploma. Although I knew I loved him, accepting his love proposal was not easy. I had to ask myself whether I would cope with the kind of life that I was going to live. The future did not look bright, especially with the detentions he had gone through. The possibilities of him being detained were not slim. In short, when I accepted his proposal, I knew that it meant takinghim as he is and not trying to change him. My friends used to tease me by saying that if I got married to Frank, I would be the breadwinner in our home, and truly speaking, I have been during his detentions.
During our courtship days I knew I was not going to have an easy life. I knew I was going to share him with others. This happened many a time for he would break our appointments so as to be where he was ‘most needed’. At times I would be mad about it and he would explain why he could not come, and I would end up accepting his apologies.
Although I have never been actively involved in political activities, I have learnt a lot from Frank. My stay at the University of the North for four years was also an eye-opener to the socio-political and economic realities of our lives as black people. Many a time we found ourselves packing our bags and going home because of the boycotts and closure of the university. Many a time we ran away from the police during the boycotts and landed up in nearby villages and townships where we asked for accommodation because the campus was being ‘protected’ by the police.
Frank never promised me any bright future – he only said God would take care of us and that He would never forsake us. The closer I became to him, the better I understood his reasons for being involved in church work and in the socio-political lives of the people. His involvement in the day-to-day lives of the people stemmed from his belief in a just and compassionate God. This kind of God was the one who cared, who healed, who saved people from their sins, who hated oppression, who wanted justice for all irrespective of race, colour or creed. This God has created enough food and resources for everybody. Frank believes in a God who will not let people starve when His earth can produce so much for everybody. This God can clothe the naked, provide employment to the unemployed, and liberate the prisoners. He has said in His word: ‘All should cast their burdens to me because I care.’
I then learnt to understand that this God cannot descend from heaven to do all these things, so man has to be His instrument. Frank always seemed to be puzzled by people who said if you pray, God will provide. Even in his preaching he would grapple with what he used to call the vertical and horizontal ministries. He would say there are Christians who say, don’t worry about earthly things because we are looking forward to a better world after death. This is the vertical ministry. With the horizontal ministry, people get involved in the socio-political and economic issues that affect their lives, but this ministry does not emphasise the necessity for people also to relate to God. Frank tried to merge the two ministries. This, of course, landed him in trouble, especially with the former group. He was branded a non-Christian, a communist, a politician and a pretender. It was said that he called himself a Christian while involving himself in unChristian activities.
Although I had thought that I knew him and the kind of work he was doing when we got married in 1980, I later discovered that I did not. There was almost no privacy in that Kagiso mission house of the AFM Church. Actually, it was the ‘people’s house’. Even the groceries we bought with our meagre salaries were not ours alone. At times when I came home from work at the local high school, I would find that somebody had been busy in the kitchen. This was really too much for me. I would get mad because, at times, the food that had been cooked would be what I had intended to cook for supper. Frank always calmed me down by saying one could not leave a hungry man ‘to go in peace’ without providing for a basic need – food. Frank would say: ‘You cannot just say to a person, “Well, brother or sister, I’ve heard your problems. May the good God bless you.”’
Although he used to reassure me of his love, at times I felt like screaming at him about taking a break from his full programme. We hardly had a free hour together without any interference. Iremember saying to him one day: ‘Dear, I think I have to make an appointment with you because I hardly see you. Please make room for me in your diary.’
Many a time I was faced by a very depressed husband. Depressed because he felt he had reached a stage where he could not help everybody who came to him. There would be a parent, a wife, brother, sister or husband whose beloved had been detained, or a family where everybody was unemployed and could not pay rent, take the children to school or provide for their basic needs. At times it was a family without shelter, spouses with marital problems, young and old people looking for spiritual guidance. The Self Help Scheme that was established helped most of the people. It was a legal centre, a working centre and a spiritual centre.
As I got closer to the lives of the community around us, my attitude changed. The question was: What was Frank to do when everybody came to him for help? Was he to tell them that he was still having supper or lunch or breakfast with his wife? As my outlook changed, I realised that he did this out of pure compassion. It was not for self-esteem or any financial reward. It was because he was trying to merge the horizontal and the vertical ministries. I realised that his happiness was mine and mine was his. I learnt that his happiness lay in him feeling he had achieved what he wanted. And since I no longer saw his work as a burden but rather as part of his ministry of serving the Lord, which I also believed in, it became a real joy for me to know that our lives were a blessing to others. I learnt to rejoice with him when solutions were found, and support him in times of difficulty.
When he was detained in 1980 during the celebration of ‘The Freedom of Krugersdorp’, it was as if life had come to a standstill for me. Other people were also detained to make the celebration ‘peaceful’, I suppose. By that afternoon, the house was full ofconcerned relatives of the detained people and one could see frustration written all over their faces. The very person who was supposed to give them advice had been detained. He was detained during the day while I was still at work. Suddenly I was going through the agony that other people had been going through, and coming to my husband for help. I asked myself: How long was he going to be detained? What was I going to do if he was not released soon? I just felt paralysed. Some people consoled us by saying they thought that after the celebrations most would be released. This proved to be true. We were very excited when he was released. But that detention had marked the beginning of a series of hardships for us. The year 1981 was a tough one for us. It was the year during which our church decided to suspend him for ‘being involved in politics’. I could not understand why he was called before the Church Council. I could not understand how people who called themselves Christian could formulate so many incoherent stories about a person. I was shocked when I discovered that Christian ministers could treat a colleague the way they treated Frank. I tried to be objective when looking at the events that led to his suspension. I asked myself how attending meetings to which you have been invited could cause such an uproar. Was it a sin to help the needy?
The church could not substantiate the accusations against Frank, but it was clear that the Christian ministers had made up their minds about suspending him. It became worse when one of them indicated that he had met with the police and that they had given him information about Frank. Then, we began to understand that it was no longer a church matter.
On the other hand, I realised that self-interest also had a hand in influencing the pastors to call for Frank’s suspension. Frank was a threat to them. This is still the case because even now, they cannot leave him alone. They were faced with a young man whowas winning the hearts and minds of young and old. The people always elected him into most of the church portfolios, from the local council to the national council of the church youth. The pastors’ positions were thus threatened.
They could not pin him down on biblical grounds or constitutionally. They could not say, as a Church Council, that this man is guilty of the following sins. They knew that the language best understood by our missionaries would be: ‘He is involved in politics.’ It is really ironic that even our fellow oppressed brothers, who can hardly have fellowship in the so-called white church, could accuse Frank of involving himself in politics when he questioned the division of the church into black, white, coloured and Indian, and when he said there should be equality before the law.
In actual fact, while I was bitter about the whole situation, I understood the position of the black ministers – the position of dependency on the white missionaries. Having a position in the church committee is interpreted as a real achievement. They always remind you that they are talking to you as chairmen or secretaries of the church. This I have heard many times.
We agonised about the matter and when Frank was finally told of the year-long suspension, it was a blow to the family. The suspension would be reviewed if he ‘repented’ of the sin of commitment to the lives of his congregation.
I remember him coming home very depressed. It was shattering in the sense that our ministry, which we so cherished, which was part and parcel of our lives, could so easily be brought to an end by our fellow brothers. If they had said he had misappropriated funds or committed a biblical sin, or had gone against the church’s constitution, it would have been understandable. The worst part of the story was that we were instructed to leave the mission house within two months. That meant leaving our beloved congregation, the youth club and the Self Help Scheme which had been such a blessing to the congregation.
Up to this day, we both miss the life of ministering to a congregation. In spite of what he does, Frank still talks about the members of the congregation who had also devoted their lives not only to God, but also to one another. We had to look for alternative accommodation and we did not know where to start. We also had to think about finding employment. People approached Frank about forming a new church. His answer was: ‘God has enough problems with the existing churches and I do not want to add more problems.’ In the end we decided that we would remain in the church and be full members of his father’s church, despite the fact that his credentials and ordination certificate had been taken back by the church. We are still full members of this very church that does not want him.
To add salt to the wounds, Frank was detained in November 1981 in an early-morning raid. It was around 2:30 in the morning when we heard loud knocks on the doors and windows. Torches were being flashed on the windows. A male voice shouted: ‘Frank, open, it’s the police!’ I was frightened, but Frank remained calm. He was told to pack some toiletries and clothing. The police did not say anything to me; they just left with my husband. I could not sleep. I had lots of questions with no answers. I was numb. It was as if I had been told somebody I loved had died. I was left alone with my eleven-month-old baby, Obakeng. I was not even given a letter to show that the people taking him were real policemen.
In the morning I informed my in-laws and lawyers about the matter. What could they do? Nothing! The lawyers could only confirm that he had been detained under whatever legislation.
For people whose family members have never been detained, it is difficult to understand the emotions that some of us have gone through. Together with a friend of Frank’s, we went from one police station to another to no avail. I never received any information from the police about my husband’s whereabouts. It was only afterthe death of Neil Aggett in detention that I was given permission to visit him at John Vorster Square. It was a painful experience. During the first few months of his detention, it was difficult for me to eat. I would say to myself: Here I am eating, while he may not be eating.
This pain was made worse by the pastors of our District Council who came to inform me that I had to leave the church manse. I remember them telling me that Frank should have provided accommodation for us before involving himself in politics. They also wrote letters telling me to leave the manse. They seemed to be rejoicing at my plight.
I first went through a period of self-pity, and ultimately regained all my strength. I can say that God gave me the inner strength to face the world. My colleagues were sympathetic and even offered me accommodation. I looked at the problem differently. I thought of my loving husband who would never harm nor talk rudely or badly to anyone. A person who was ready to sacrifice for other people. I started to become very proud of him. He had not killed or harmed anybody; his greatest sin or crime had been to say that God has created us equally and that He hates oppression. There was thus no need for me to be ashamed or feel pity for myself. Actually, I told myself, I have to stand up and be proud of him. If ever he was going to be released, he was supposed to find me patiently waiting for him. His words – ‘I will never be frustrated because of the Jesus in me’ – assumed a different meaning in my mind.
Members of our congregation and the community were supportive. They used to come to my aid. When the lawyers finally told me about Frank’s whereabouts, my friends accompanied me to the police station to take food and a change of clothing. When the district pastors wanted me to leave the church manse because they wanted to bring in another minister, the congregationopposed them. My friends said: ‘If our pastor has sinned, show us the woman with whom he committed adultery.’ They asked the pastors to justify the ‘involvement in politics’ as a biblical sin.
Our congregation really protected me. They vowed not to allow any other pastor to replace Frank. In the meantime, pressure through letters was being put on me by our district pastors to leave the manse. Because our God is a good shepherd, he helped me to get a house in Pimville, Soweto. It was a miracle. In the first place, the building contractors and the building society did not want to deal with me because of my husband’s detentions. They asked what guarantee I had that he would be released. If he was not released, how would I pay for the mortgage bond on the house?
While my own church was throwing me out, other churches were opening their doors to me. Through one of Frank’s friends, one of the churches helped me to get a house. Before his detention, Frank had been promised a temporary job by the ICT. I went to the Institute and they gave me their full backing. They wrote an affidavit, which I sent to the building society, to the effect that the Institute would make the repayments for the mortgage bond. I pleaded for an extension of the two-month deadline with the District Committee pastors, but I was told that by the end of April I had to move out. My God would not let my children eat in front of their enemies – I got the keys for the Pimville house on the last day of April.
A week before our departure, our congregation organised a farewell function for us. To our amazement, one pastor from the District Committee came and put a big lock on the door of the Kagiso church to stop the function from taking place. Emotions ran high among the congregation. We decided to hold the function outside the church instead of breaking in. My bitterness towards the District Committee waned. I had told myself that they didnot know what they were doing. My Christian life could not be destroyed by what people did to me. Mine was just to trust in God.
It was painful to part with the congregation in Kagiso. I went to a new area in Soweto and stayed with my brother, my sister-in-law and my son, Obakeng. During this time I was allowed to visit my husband in prison. He was excited to see me and I used to look forward to these visits. At times we felt that it would be better if he was tried, charged and sentenced because then we would be certain about his future.
Frank’s release in July 1982 was a very joyous moment for us. His parents phoned me at work and told me he was with them. I could not believe the story. I rushed excitedly to my in-laws’ house. I fetched him from his parents’ house and brought him to a home that he had never seen before. One other interesting thing that I did not mention is the fact that I had obtained a driver’s licence during his absence. While he was in detention, I was always frustrated when I had to do things like going to see the lawyers in Johannesburg and some family errands. It meant asking people to drive me around and this dependency frustrated me. He was amazed that I could drive so well as I took him home.
During his detention I learnt that as a woman I have to be independent. I should not depend on anyone because everybody has his or her own problems. I had to ask for help only when it was absolutely necessary. Learning to drive myself around therefore made life a little easier for me.
I no longer put Obakeng on my back when going to work on rainy days and moaning about Frank’s detention. I learnt to do many things, and when I could not do them, I taught myself never to say that if Frank were around, he would have done them. The Bible became real to me; I learnt to say I can do all things through Christ, who gives me strength. Frank was very proud of me and showed his appreciation.
Another hectic period began when Frank started working with the ICT. In 1983, when the United Democratic Front (UDF) was launched, he was hardly home. In February 1985, the same experience of November 1981 repeated itself. Policemen came at 3:00 am with a warrant for Frank’s arrest. We were told that he was being charged with high treason. We looked at each other. I then packed a few of his clothes. The reference to high treason made me think that I would never see my husband again. His detention was expected under the circumstance, but we had not bargained for a high treason charge. Although we were expecting him to be detained, one does not get used to the idea of seeing one’s loved one being taken away by the police.
When Frank was detained in 1981, Obakeng was still young and he did not understand, but in 1985, he was asking a lot of questions. He thought that his father was a criminal because he always saw policemen arresting criminals on TV. I had to tell him that Frank was not a criminal but that he had been arrested because the police did not like what he was saying.
I had gone with Obakeng to the Jabulani Amphitheatre when the community was rejoicing with Archbishop Desmond Tutu after he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Frank was also there on stage. I told Obakeng that the police disliked what he said on that day. This answer seemed to satisfy him.
I did not know that my simple answer meant so much to him until one day after Archbishop Tutu had visited our home. It was a pastoral visit that meant a lot to me. After his departure, my son said to me: ‘Mom, you said Daddy was arrested because he spoke at the amphitheatre?’ And when I answered ‘yes’ he continued: ‘Why was the Archbishop not arrested because he also spoke there?’ His analysis shocked me. All I could say was ‘I do not know’. One thing that struck me about his question was that it meant he had accepted my explanation about his father’s detention.
It is very difficult to expect a child to understand under such circumstances, but I made up my mind that I had to make him feel proud of his father. I told him about all the things his father had done for the people, which had landed him in jail. He seemed to appreciate what Frank had done.
When I went with Obakeng to Durban during the trial, we stayed at Paul David’s house. I told him that he was not the only child whose father was in detention – Paul was also one of the treason trialists. When we met Mandela, Aubrey Mokoena’s son, who is of the same age as Obakeng, I told my son that Mandela’s father was also in detention: This meeting with children of detainees seemed to be meaningful to him.
The thought of not seeing Frank for about twenty years if he was sentenced depressed me immensely. It was really difficult to cope with my emotions and those of kids aged five years, and six months. Although Otlile, our second son, was quite a baby then, when he cried he used to bring me to tears, especially when he was sick. There were moments when I asked myself how I was going to cope. There was one thought that always revived my spirit. I looked around me and saw many women – widows, divorcées and single parents who had never married – who had children to look after. Life was going on for them. I vowed that life would also continue for me. I said to myself that some of these women were separated from their beloved husbands or boyfriends and might never be reunited with them. Who was I not to accept my situation? Frank and I were lucky, I said to myself, because we still had and loved each other. We had only been separated by his noble convictions. I told myself that I have kids to take care of and they have nobody except me. So if I became a nervous wreck or tried to console myself with liquor, what would become of my children? I decided to try and protect my kids and give them what they would haveenjoyed had Frank been with us. I straightened my back again and, with the help of the wives of the other detainees, I coped.
We used to meet regularly with the wives of the other treason trialists and this raised our morale. All of us were very proud of our husbands. The trialists’ release in May 1985 came as a shock to us. I heard about it over the radio. I could not believe it. I started phoning the families of Frank’s fellow trialists to confirm the news I had heard. I was overcome with joy.
When I met him at the airport, I could not believe it. The kids were overwhelmed with joy. During the night I remember waking up and pricking him. I wanted to make sure I was not dreaming.
Our joy was short-lived because two days after Frank’s release we woke up to a burning bedroom. The sitting room was also on fire. Petrol bombs had been thrown at our house. My baby was sleeping next to the window and the curtains were on fire.
Confusion reigned. Frank took the baby, Otlile, out of the room and we started to extinguish the fire. Neighbours heard our screams and rushed to our aid. It was sad and frightening for us. We were grateful that none of us had sustained any serious injuries. Psychologically, a lot of harm was done. I could no longer sleep peacefully afterwards.
While trying to recover after the fire experience, somebody told Frank that he was on the list of an assassination or hit squad. This person said Frank, and other prominent people in our community, were due to be murdered. This was more than a blow. For the first time in our lives we realised that we were walking in the valley of the shadow of death. We reported the matter to the police, and even after some investigation by Frank’s lawyers, nothing came out of this case up until this day. This incident further confirmed that we live by God’s grace.
When charges were dropped against the trialists in December 1985, we were all excited. Their acquittal came as a real surprise.They were criminals in the eyes of the State, and suddenly they were free. What a relief for the family, especially because we had lived under the stringent bail conditions. Frank’s bail conditions included reporting daily to the local police station in the morning and afternoon. He was supposed to be indoors by 9:00 pm I used to worry when he did not come home before that time. I would always ask him whether he had reported to the police station or not. I would wait for him if I thought he was late. He would enter the house quickly and I would have to get the car into the garage so that nobody would find it outside after 9:00 pm.
At the end of the treason trial we were all relieved. We thought a new book of life was about to be opened where we would live a relatively ‘normal’ life. We thought the treason trial had come and gone along with the worst of our experiences. We were kidding ourselves. The State of Emergency was declared in June 1986 and we had to live like two silly teenagers, madly in love with each other but hiding from parents who would kick up dust if they found us together. My story will have to end here – our life under the emergency situation in our country continues even to this day.
I have talked more about our public life and I believe most of the people will be interested in knowing about our personal life. I have not seen what Frank has written in the other chapters because we felt I would be influenced by what he has written. He asked me to write whatever I wanted to write about our life experience.
I believe that most of the people who know Frank will tell you that he is not an emotional person. He is a meticulous person. That is how he is at home. I still wish to hear of somebody who will tell me that he ever saw Frank very angry and shouting at others. During the seven years we have stayed together I have not seen him in a bad mood. He is such a loving husband and I am glad to say that despite all the hard times, I never forget all the warmth I get from him. In his absence during the detention periods or whenhe was in hiding during the State of Emergency, deep in my heart I would say to myself that although there are men around me, my husband remains the best of them all. Although he never spends a lot of time with our kids, he is a darling to them. At times I feel jealous as they tend to confide in him more than they do in me. When they make mistakes he calls them and talks to them. I always admire him because, unlike Frank, I always seem to be shouting at them when they become naughty. His character has thus made me stand by him through thick and thin.
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