Special Hearings — Women's Hearings — 1997-07-28

SHEILA MASOTE: Yes, I was detained, because in 1976 my father was then arrested for his political activities and they say in sighting the 1976.
And here I want to pause and say;  I see histories being distracted and my father's name is never mentioned;  whether it's mentioned by the way.  I see, I'm not jealous, or I'm not saying it shouldn't happen.  
 I see we have a monument, like Hector Pietersen monument, but I don't see us talk that when our leaders were in prison, children came too;  I was there and I was there and I saw it, came from ballet, the high schools, the ... indistinct).  
 They came to my father and he wept with them, because their main story was Africans.  And they mobilised against it and they were marching, because he was one of the leaders, the main leader who was instrumental in that.
And when the whole erupted and lost direction, today, very little is said.  And I'm saying I'm honouring you daddy wherever you are.  You are our leader.
 So in 1997, because he was arrested in August, just after the riots and he was accused that the list number one, were accused number one for the 1996 riots.
 My mother then was taken and we went with my mother, because all my life from childhood we were looking for my father each time he was arrested.  It was more from Pila to Pospo.  All the prisons, I know them all.  Not the inside, because as a child, we were not allowed to go into prisons.
 And in 1997, then my mother got detained, because she was in Jansens, looking for my father.  Then I followed her.  I was pregnant.  I followed with my husband to look for her.  With the help of ... indistinct) and others.  And we looked for my father.  And we discovered that he was kept in Pietermaritzburg.  Excuse me.
 My mother too, we thought, she should be there.  Because nobody told us.  Then we went with my husband.  The first visit we were allowed just to say to us that they must write and we want to make sure;  are they in this prison.
 Who told you to come here.  We had to go through a lot of interrogation.  But we were not allowed to see them, because they were under Section six.  So what I did, I said, please can you make them write a list of what they would need.  I'd like to buy something, because I wanted to make sure I see their handwriting.  Can I buy them stuff?  Yes, you are allowed.
 So my mother made a long list that went to the other side of the page.  Petti-coat, lettuce, sweets, stockings you know, and I was happy.  My father just two, vests and a woollen cap and I was glad he's there.
 I was happy and I know my mother made a long list, because she was trying to send messages;  I'm alive, I'm here, try and do this;  we're alive.  So, the first time they took it and they took, because we were doing this from our pocket at the time, I could - and then I said only the old top, daddy.  Ten rand, ten rand, blessed things that we bought for them.
 The next visit, which was in December 1977, into January, we were then, my husband was told we were going through the same process of making the list, going shopping, coming back and when I came back, we were there with my husband and the one;  I don't know their names;  the one gentleman said, policeman said;  I'm sorry Mr Masote, I've got bad news for you.
 And I thought, oh, my parents are dead, what.  So I braced myself and he said;  we're detaining your wife under Section six;  of what, I don't know.  And the rest I didn't hear.  And then he was saying, Sheila, you mean Sheila is - and please stop touching her, because now she's a prisoner.  You please go.  You're not supposed to say anything, telling her.  
 All I could say was, darling go, because my daughter was then six, my son, Klutana, was four years old and Zef was not born then.  But she's not well, she's in a family where - what do I do?  No, we'll look after her.  She's starting with Unisa.  She didn't bring her material.  She has to write in January.  We'll send for those.  Her clothing is at the station, because we had to leave our clothing at Pietermaritzburg station.
 So I got in to cut a long story short.  But then I got a lot of, not so much physical hitting, yes I've got that until - but most of it was hunger, was sitting and being given a pile of papers to write statements, being told your mother is giving us a lot of information about you and what you have been doing in Botswana and ABC.  Please go on and it must really be like what your mother has said.
 And I thought all these years these people have been doing a lot of harm to my family, I don't think it's true.  But then I got kicked.  I was put in a cell.  It was about this big.  Halfway is the cell where I stay, halfway is the yard;  the yard which had no ceiling, but just barbed wire and burglar proofing and here was the cell and down there was a toilet that regularly at the count of, I think about 23, one two three, whaa and it went on day in and day out.
It was very high, a small light there and there was this mat where I could sleep.  
 The room was filthy, full of lice.  The walls - as I was thrown in that wall, it had all the graffiti of blood, whatever.  Some were saying, fuck Jesus or some was saying God saves or I was in here and left.  There was no date.
 And then it was the first time I ever got into a cell.  I've been a teacher, I've been a mother, I've been a musician, I know my father has been here, but is this the real world?  I went through all.
 But then what was worse, behind the cell was a little road I couldn't see, but I could judge.  And then passed that wall was a big building, the post office of Pietermaritzburg and as I was kicked and I lost my pregnancy I was left there and I said, but I was all bleeding.  
 The lady was talking of blood, oozing down your legs and drying up there.  That is what I went through and I called please call a doctor then.  Please help me, I'm dying.  I shall die.  
 They left me.  I don't know how long, whether it was days, I couldn't tell.  Whether it was two days or it was  a day, they didn't come to my help.  But when the doctor finally came, he gave me, whatever he gave me, I was then - the door, this door was opened to go into the yard to wash.  There was a tap there.  There was a drain.
 And up there were men, cleaning windows of the post office.  And as I was there washing, hey, you know I'm not racial, tribalistic, but you know I wouldn't even name.  When they scold vulgar, they really can do it.
 Asking me questions of when last did you have sex?  Hey, look at you?  Are you bleeding because - They were looking at me and at first it was not the world I'm used to.  I've been taught to respect other people's privacy.
 I knocked at the door if I need to go to bedroom, somebody else's bedroom or somebody's room.  But then I just though what do I do, because they were saying, if you don't wash today, we've got to close and just wash your things Mrs Masote and dry them and come back.  You won't have another chance to go out.
 That is one of the indignities I suffered.  And my husband was later arrested.  He was done the same.  Not bleeding, but kept and interrogated.  My children had to - there was no granny at my father's house.  It was only John staying there and looking after it.
 My house was shut down, because I was married.  Then my children were taken to my in-laws.  We almost, I don't know, there's a lot.  But the names of the people, I cannot - for me to go out, I had to call a Mr Dreyer.  I don't know whether they call him Captain or what.  I don't know what his rank is, but he was Dreyer yes. 
 And I called him and spoke to him and said, please, I'd like an interview.  He took his time, but when he came, all I said, I'm appealing to you as your daughter.  As I look at you, you're almost my father's age.  And I'm sure you've got grandchildren.  
 Can you bear you grandchildren going through what my children, my father's grandchildren are going through?  Would you bear your daughter going through this?  And I think in a way it touched him, because I don't know why I was left, because I don't know why I was in there in the first place.
 But one thing I want to say is one thing that kept me alive, I also took a pin from, when I came from the office, because now and then I had to be taken out, to be shown a big book with pictures.  Do you know this?  Whose this?  And I took a pin and I scratched on the wall;  there was my family.  (... indistinct) those are my children.  And there was my mother's family and there was my in-laws' family.
 And I would play;  oh good morning Tondi, oh you're going to crash my child, you must - and oh mama, I know mama and oh granny, how - and then I would play detector, make-belief I'm there.  You know, those kind of things to keep myself alive, to hear my voice, because sometimes they would leave me for a long time.  
 Sometimes they'd come in and just interrogate, question me, tell me there's a flood, there was a flood in Piville.  And they were telling me;  your house also in Piville is under floods or that place and you believe anything.
 And that is why I started to smoke.  I became a chain smoker.  Because, in stead of food, they'd throw cigarettes for me and would tell;  hey, I'm your friend.  Smoke, you'll be better.  And I did all that.  And it took me ages and I stopped smoking in 1984, but was worse for me;  I nearly lost my family as well.
 One of the things they asked my husband and at a stage were harping on him and even when they visited, was that, why did you marry into Mathopeng family?  And I'm not saying I'm speaking for him, but one of his choices, or one of the ills we fell into was that he gave me summons right in the year when my father's case was going on 1979 when it was going towards its end.
 I couldn't bear.  I'm just talking as a woman that even my husband had to break and give me that final blow.  And friend, everybody, (... indistinct) he's such a leader, he's such a good man, he's a conductor, oh he's graceful, oh Sheila, you don't, you never even combed - I'm even better in my old-age.  I was very simple, short.  Those were normal.  I've been a tom-boy all my life.
 They looked at my outer, they never knew I'm rich inside.  So all those things coming to me as a woman.  When other women should have rallied and say, no Sheila, let my take your children when you go to Beth-el, because I had to.  My mother was sick, like I said;  every other week to go to Beth-el and change my father, make sure they changed during the trial.  
 And I followed, but nobody came to say Sheila, let me help.  Maybe I never asked, because I thought or I assumed nobody was there to help.