In Pursuit of Dignity

By Mohamed Enver Surty

“The National Awqaf Foundation of South Africa’s flagship Leaders and Legacies Project is pleased to publish a landmark book, In Pursuit of Dignity, in collaboration with The Project Justice Trust.
Penned by the Deputy Minister of Basic Education and anti-apartheid struggle stalwart, Enver Surty, this book gives us deep insights into the very critical mediations that were undertaken by Theme Committee Four, which contributed to shaping our democracy and moulding its inherent values.
These historical interventions mirror a legacy that will provide guidance and a practical example to all generations of South Africans. The key lesson that Deputy Minister Surty shares is that of pursuing justice, not only with dignity but also with an attitude of perseverance and patience.
The task of navigating a consensus during the Convention for a Democratic South Africa and the Final Constitution was very challenging, considering the different agendas at play. The diverse political and business interests found a way to reach a sustainable agreement on what is probably one of the best constitutions for a developing Rainbow Nation. It did this by capturing the aspirations of a multiracial, multi-ethnic and a multi-religious society. We pay tribute to the millions who placed their lives at risk to ensure a peaceful outcome and who helped to form a society that transformed a deeply divided nation into one that serves all the diverse peoples of South Africa.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Project Justice Trust
• Release date: Oct 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9780620936651

Book preview

2. Swearing in

The journey to Cape Town with my wife and three daughters was no ordinary one. I had been elected to serve in the Senate, the second, or upper House of Parliament. We were to stay in a hotel and would visit Parliament the next day to go through the processes of being photographed, completing forms, providing banking and other details.

Once the formalities had been completed we would, the next day, be taking the oath as Members of Parliament. There would be 90 in the Senate, 10 from each province indicating the envisaged parity among provinces, notwithstanding the asymmetrical and disproportionate development of the nine provinces regarding infrastructure, demographics, economy and development.

I had no clue as to what I was going to earn, where I was going to stay and what office accommodation, personnel or equipment would be provided. I was, in the context of my practice, accustomed to having staff, accountants, private and professional assistants to assist in the professional and administrative execution of tasks associated with my legal practice.

The evening before we were sworn in, members of the African National Congress (ANC) in the Senate were ushered into room S12, located next to and to the east of the Senate Chamber. The comrade who had convened this caucus was Bulelani Ngcuka - young, intelligent and energetic - who seemed entirely at ease in this environment and exuded confidence and authority as he spoke. After extending a warm welcome to us, he explained that there would be a special plenary convened the next day when we would be taking the oath of office or affirmation before the President of the Constitutional Court or a judge of the High Court.

As he was addressing us the Deputy President, Thabo Mbeki, arrived, raised his hands in salutation and stood quietly next to Ngcuka. He immediately acknowledged Mbeki and continued addressing us about the process of taking the oath and the programme. He informed us that after taking the oath, the House would elect the President and Deputy President of the Senate. It is at this point that he invited Mbeki to address us.

Mbeki is not a big man but, I would soon discover, a great intellectual. He smiled as he extended a warm welcome to us, congratulated us on our appointment and went directly to the issue that he wished to raise. He said he was going to make a proposal that would surprise some among us: the appointment of Kobie Coetsee, the Minister of Justice, in the apartheid regime, as President of the Senate.

He said this was a result of negotiations that had preceded the elections and also recognition of his role in hastening the release of political prisoners, including, in particular, Nelson Mandela.

In addition, we were informed that Coetsee had been very persuasive in convincing his party that negotiations were the only way to avert a bloody civil war. The Deputy President of the Senate, he added, would be Govan Mbeki, an intellectual giant of the African National Congress. We all knew that he was speaking of his father and there was the expectation among many of us that the older Mbeki would be President of the Senate. He also added that the leadership of the ANC had reflected deeply on this issue.

Given that we were addressed by the Deputy President of the ANC and recognising the reality of the delicate negotiations that preceded the election, there were no questions. We were given the party line and as disciplined cadres would not argue with the judgment of the officials whom we believed were sound in their strategy and tactics during a delicate period of transition into a democratic South Africa. We were also made aware that the proposal emanated in the context of the agreed Government of National Unity.

On our big day, the time for being sworn in as members of the first democratically-elected Parliament, there was a confluence of mixed feelings: anxiety, excitement, jubilation, happiness, pride and uncertainty. But, for me, excitement and jubilation were the dominant emotions.

Unlike the National Assembly, the Senators were sworn in as members about a week after the Members of the National Assembly. This was so because provincial legislatures had to convene to elect their 10 representatives on the basis that is proportionate to the outcome of the provincial elections. In this way the 90 Senators were indirectly elected as Members of Parliament.

We were ushered into the Senate chamber with its dark oak furniture and red leather-bound seats, similar to the decor of the House of Lords in England. The British influence was evident from how the seats were arranged to the architectural design of the chamber. I was seated at the rear in full view of the presiding officer and table staff. I was advised that a more permanent seat would be allocated once whips have been appointed.

The President of the High Court in the Western Cape was designated to swear in the members, who were called in alphabetical order in groups of three, to take the oath or affirmation. It crossed my mind that most members would not be familiar with the contents of the Interim Constitution and yet would swear allegiance to the document.

The occasion overwhelmed other considerations and generally it was a choice between an oath and affirmation rather than whether we should be bound to the provisions of the Interim Constitution or the implications and consequences of taking the oath. Most of us were aware that we would embark on the course of drafting a constitution within two years of the establishment of our democratic Parliament.

I had never imagined or planned to be a Member of Parliament. It was an incredible honour to be selected by the oldest political organisation in Africa, to be a representative of the people of the new democracy. Thousands had laid down their lives, thousands were incarcerated or went into political exile, all in the struggle for our freedom.

In this august House, I was in the company of many struggle stalwarts: Govan Mbeki, Wilton Mkwayi, Rita Ndzanga, Bulelani Ngcuka, Sam Motsoenyane, V.T. Sifora, Evelyn Lubidla, Indres Naidoo, many of whom were incarcerated on Robben Island having been charged and convicted for treason or treasonable activities in their fight for freedom, equality and social justice. These activists would serve as an inspiration for me and they would recount their extraordinary sacrifices when I sought information from them about their role in the struggle.

I was in absolute awe of their sacrifice, courage and humility. These men and women were a special fountain of wisdom and I would draw my political nourishment from them. It was political education from the very actors who shaped our history. I had also forged strong friendships with Bulelani Ngcuka, Mohseen Moosa, Evelyn Lubidla, Jackson Mthembu, J.L. Mahlangu, Mohamed Sulliman, Cheryl Gilwald, Mohamed Bhabha, Priscilla Themba, V.T. Sifora, R.A.M. Saloojee, Solly Rasmeni, Sello Moloto, Evelyn Lubidla, S.L. Fenyane, S.P. Grove, S.W. Lubisi, L. Chiwayo, H.G. Makgothi, A. Marais, Z.W. Mkwayi, Professor E.S. Mchunu, Beauty Ndlulane, among others.

It was clear that the governing party was meticulous about being inclusive from the perspective of gender, race and disability. It was a special feeling being among such a diverse group straddling race, culture, religion, class, gender, age and experience. I had made a commitment that I would unflinchingly serve the interest of our organisation and country; how else could I express my gratitude to these noble freedom fighters and struggle stalwarts?

I was so grateful that my wife allowed me to leave home to serve as a Member of Parliament. She would continue teaching, sustain the organisational work of the ANC in the branch and in the region, and singlehandedly take care of our three girls. It took courage and selflessness on her part.

As the ceremony started I turned around, looked up to the gallery where my family was seated, waved and smiled. This was a physical manifestation and affirmation of my gratitude - of course, she would never know.

In the opposition benches, I discovered in time there were colourful personalities such as A. Van Breda, the National Party (NP) Chief Whip, who brought with him enormous experience and confidence, Constand Viljoen, the General who ultimately opted for peace rather than civil war, Narend Singh and Reverend K.M. Zondi both very diligent and smart politicians from the Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP), Ray Radue and Piet Matthee, seasoned lawmakers and lawyers from the National Party (NP), and James Selfe, an intelligent and hardworking member of the Democratic Party (DP) with whom I would exchange verse during plenaries in creating lighter moments.

I felt a great sense of relief after I had taken the oath. I was more than ready to take up the new challenge. I was forty and brimming with energy. The chamber was spotless, not even a speck of dust could be seen on the furniture or on the floor.

It was then that my mind turned to my childhood years. Dust in my hair, in my nostrils, on my clothes, in my shoes. Dust everywhere. My dad’s shop, Surty Brothers, and our home in Mosenthal, also known as Bosspruit, was located some 20 km north-west of Rustenburg. It was on the bend of the arterial road that also served the traffic of huge vehicles carrying bulk loads of granite from the nearby quarries.

It was also the main road for light vehicles travelling to and from Rustenburg to Bosspruit and beyond on a gravel road that became corrugated with the weight of these huge vehicles and their excessive loads. The road generated a great deal of fine white and red dust.

The shop and house were old and dilapidated with whitewash paint, a red zinc roof, no ceilings, and no electricity or piped water. The toilet was a pit latrine about 20 metres from the house. The yard was fenced with corrugated zinc sheeting. There were three trees in the yard; a tall blue gum, an exotic tree from India which I have seen nowhere else, and which gave delicious, tiny, apple-like fruit no larger than cherries, and a lemon tree near the kitchen.

The kitchen had a Union coal stove that also warmed the house during the cold winter. This was where the family would gather each evening for supper, where family conversations took place and homework would be done. In addition, it was the only place that was reasonably lit with a Coleman paraffin lamp.

On either side of the road you would find typical middle veld vegetation; tall grass, aloes, soft soil and thorn trees. Several pathways wound themselves from our shop and home to the river and beyond, like a motionless snake slithering beneath the tall grass meandering through the veld to the villages.

As a child, I remember vividly how exciting it was to run briskly along the pathways created by the many villagers who would trudge wearily to the shops to do their shopping for mealie meal, brown bread, sugar, canned fish or baked beans. The men from Mosenthal, Rankelenyane, Lesung and surrounding villages worked long hours in the hot sun at the quarries for a miserable wage.

The quarry owners sold the granite mined from the mountains at huge profits. The granite was cut, polished and sold as tombstones, kitchen counter tops and expensive floor tiles. Quarry mining ruined the beauty of the mountains that were blasted with dynamite. Over time these mountains became smaller and unused granite lay strewn along the mountainside.

Notwithstanding the damage to the environment, I am unaware of any efforts by the quarry owners at rehabilitation or a contribution that had been made to benefit communities living in the vicinity of the quarries in terms of infrastructure such as a school, church, community hall or social amenities.

We were a nuclear family of nine, my parents, four sisters and three brothers. I was the youngest of the brothers and the sixth of seven children. My oldest sister, Rashida, lived with my maternal grandmother, went to school in Johannesburg, and qualified as a radiographer. She loved reading and inspired me to read from a young age. The second oldest was Saida, who was responsible for the wellbeing of her siblings and this she did with great care, finding time to help us with our school work. She partially completed her qualifications as a nurse.

My brother, Ahmed, was very bright, received a double promotion in primary school, had strong entrepreneurial skills and qualified as a medical technologist and computer programmer. He ran several successful businesses and at the age of forty decided to fulfil his and my dad’s dream by becoming a medical doctor, a profession that he loves and which gives him fulfilment and enables him to serve the broader community.

Ahmed, like all my siblings, took great care of me in my early years. He was followed by my brother, Rashid Ahmed, who was carefree and easy-going but had a sense of commitment to the poor and provided support for orphans, the indigent and those in debt for much of his life. He took care of me in my high school years and for a period was my mathematics and accountancy teacher - subjects in which he excelled.

My sister, Khatija, and I started school together. She was quite small and beautiful, and looked younger than me. She was a wonderful companion during my school-going years. I remember caring for and pampering my younger sister, Feroza, when she was little; she was gentle and soft-spoken and I adored her. We were a tightly knit family, happy and content. I never felt any sibling rivalry that is often spoken about, nor did I experience jealousy or hostility from any of them.

We were the only Indian family in the area. Our landlord, Mr Bouwer, was a white Afrikaner and the farm was home to many of his family, among them Lang Ben, Kort Ben, Vris Bouwer, Klein Bouwer and Stout Bouwer. The adjectives aptly described the physical attributes or personalities of the large family. They were very friendly with my parents and were frequent visitors and customers who would occasionally purchase for cash, but generally buy on credit. I remember my dad as kind and trusting, with no ambition for wealth but only to care for his family. Part of his difficulty was his inability to say no.

This weakness was exploited by many customers, who knew that he could never decline a purchase on credit, even if he knew from years of dealing with the customer that the debt would not be paid. It appears as if this disposition was passed to all his children as we are all generally unable to say no, or be assertive enough, even when we ought to have been in appropriate circumstances.

My mother, Amina, was from an affluent Johannesburg family. She was literate and numerate, and very conscious of good morals and respectful behaviour. Her father, Suliman M. Nana, who died at the youthful age of 38, was a highly intelligent and very popular Indian politician who served as general secretary of the Transvaal Indian Congress. Gandhi was his mentor and political guide.

It was in this rural farmland that I learnt to build friendships mainly through sport. I acquired, with practice, some fine dribbling skills in football and at the first opportunity my African friends, Tsholofelo and Neo (whose surnames I can’t remember) and I would kick anything that was round. I remember that during my entire youth I had not asked for any toys other than a leather football on two occasions. I would spend many hours playing football. The other summer sport was fishing at the river, about 200 metres from where we lived. I was filled with pride when I was able to make my own fishing rod out of bamboo that I cut at the riverside. I had taken, with my dad’s permission, some fishing line and a hook from the shop. The cork from an empty vinegar bottle was the float.

My friends and I would congregate at the riverside about an hour before sunset each summer day and compete. Each of us wanted to be the champion who caught the highest number of pan-sized fish before sunset. This demanded intense focus and attention and the skill in hooking the fish at precisely the right moment. The bait was either worms dug from the banks of the river or tiny grasshoppers from the long grass and reeds in the slow-moving river.

We travelled to school with any available transport, quarry trucks, taxis or with my dad. Our parents generally spoke Gujarati to each other, English with us, and Afrikaans or Setswana to the customers and assistants. I started school speaking very good Afrikaans, some English and a smattering of Setswana. My first schoolteacher was Mr Hassan, a Cape Malay who was very fair and had strong German features. He was fond of me and would converse with me in Afrikaans. In the afternoon we attended madressah, the religious school for Muslim children.

At age five we were introduced to Urdu, Gujarati and Arabic. So we were exposed to five languages that we were taught formally, English and Afrikaans at school and Gujarati, Urdu and Arabic in madressah. Then there was a degree of communicative competence in Setswana when we played with our African friends at home. I continue to marvel at the power of the young mind to absorb so much, especially languages, at a very tender age.

This, notwithstanding, there was always time for play and social games. These life experiences would be most helpful in the political office that I would hold in the later years of my life, especially my focus on early childhood development and social cohesion.

From my early rural life in Rustenburg I had travelled very far, and as I soon discovered, I had much to learn in a very short time. In Cape Town, after my swearing in, I witnessed the nomination of the National Party’s Kobie Coetsee as President of the Senate. The ANC nominated Govan Mbeki as Deputy President and his nomination was unanimously supported.

There was something stoic about the personality of Oom (Uncle) Gov, as we fondly called the elder Mbeki. It was impossible to detect whether he was happy to serve as the deputy of Coetsee. If there was any discomfort he never showed it. Oom Gov was a tall man with a deep voice. He came across as a gentle giant, nothing like the fiery young freedom fighter that I had learnt and read about. His speech was measured and he was dignified in his engagement and interaction with members. Everyone respected him and there was something regal about his demeanour, and the firm hand of the teacher and leader was noticeable.

His office was spacious and located on the first floor of the Senate building. I had to pass his office before getting to mine and would often find his door ajar.

I would greet him and he would always invite me in for a chat. In the beginning it was about mundane things, including cricket and the weather. On no occasion did he ever speak ill of any person, nor would he discuss the President, Thabo Mbeki, his son. He would always be referred to as the President without a hint of a personal or private relationship.

Over time we became friends or rather developed a relationship like that of father and son. He knew that I held him in high esteem and he accommodated with great patience my curiosity about his life experiences as teacher, journalist, political leader and political prisoner. Whenever I requested information about past incidents he would provide me with a detailed and elaborate narrative covering the people, place and time of the events. His memory was remarkable.

I was generally assigned as a sweeper for the ANC in the debates of the Senate and noticed that he would come to the chamber shortly before my speaking time. I was not at all surprised, as the sweeper speaks before the member of the executive who closes the debate. I assumed it was a courtesy extended to the executive.

Yet when I was placed in the middle of the speaker’s list, I noticed that he would quietly enter the chamber, take his seat and leave shortly after I had spoken. It was a great compliment to me, but I had never dared to ask him why he did so. He never commented on the quality of my debates and I always regarded his presence as a special honour and assumed that it was his expression of paternal and political solidarity towards me.

He was very passionate about political education. He consistently lamented the lack of political education programmes and would tell me how the political leadership on Robben Island ensured the spread of education. Oom Gov spoke about the preparation of lessons, the manner in which it was copied, and smuggled to other sections of the prison and would serve as a basis for lively discussions.

Even though I always respected his intellect, it was only very much later, when I studied his writings, other than The Peasant’s Revolt, that I realised what a great intellectual, researcher, teacher and journalist he had been. How fortunate we were to touch, hear, see and work among the Mandelas, Mbekis, Sisulus, Mlangenis, Kathradas and Tambos. Just their presence was a constant reminder of how much more we should do to compensate for the enormous sacrifices they, and thousands of our heroines and heroes, had endured.

Compared to these political giants, my contribution seemed so insignificant. I would characterise it as neither a struggle nor a fight, but humane activism inspired by the bravery and struggle of our own authentic freedom fighters whose names and actions I shall never forget.

3. Memories from the Esplanade

The walk with my family in the park revived memories of my youth. We chose a spot for our picnic at the grass embankment beneath two willow trees, the perfect place on a hot summer’s day. Walking about two metres ahead of me was my wife, Khatija, affectionately known to friends and family as Katy. She clutched the tiny hands of two of our grandchildren walking on either side of her. They were in animated conversation.

The granddaughter to her right was Madeeha (Kadir), who had just turned 10 and was in her sixth grade. She wore a hat, blue jeans and a blue T-shirt. Tall and highly intelligent, her speech was flawless and she possessed a treasure of adjectives and adverbs that enabled her to describe objects and activities with incredible precision.

Khatija, an English teacher, would point out how she often found speaking to Madeeha so enjoyable, as her speech was so clear and precise. She had a powerful imagination and could read and calculate at the level of a grade or two above her age. She loved rhyming words and we would constantly have conversations with sentences ending with words that rhymed.

A gifted artist, she was also respectful and orderly. Very much like her mother, Raisa, I thought - organised, thoughtful and caring. As an optometrist, Raisa, our eldest daughter, had taken her children as toddlers to work each day and used the journey for stimulation and conversation. The results of this interaction were evident in both her children.

Holding her hand on the left was Nuha (Minty), our second grandchild, who had just turned eight. Nuha was as always skipping and jumping and hopping...always energetic. She was athletic and had the analytical skills of a flourishing engineer. She could, through self-directed learning, work out how things functioned and always wanted to know why they functioned in a particular way.

There was always a hurried sense of getting things done and a swift and remarkable ability to connect ideas. She loved helping and being actively involved. This ability was a pronounced attribute of her mother, Sumayya, our second child, who is an honours graduate in Computer Science and Information Technology, a Masters in Business Administration graduate with GIBS and who, in her world of work, would find solutions and create turn-around strategies after incisive diagnostic analyses. Sumayya was fearless and impatient, as was her child. I wondered if they would also acquire her incredible drawing and painting skills. Nuha (Minty) was already playing the guitar and I knew it would not be long before her sister, Aisha (Minty), would be playing an instrument, although she was already singing beautifully.

The little girls loved their gran and she loved them intensely. She provided them with the comfort and security that she had likewise given to their mothers. I respected and admired her for this as it made their interaction so special.

I, too, had two grandchildren on either side, both roughly seven years old, both strong and beautiful. Yusra (Kadir), who tightly held my right hand, had gained immensely from her sibling Madeeha (Kadir). Madeeha could play the piano and Yusra was thrilled that she could do so too.

Yusra was already at the age of two able to sing nursery rhymes at the beat of her little toy drum set. I called her my little drummer. She was endearing and affectionate. She was more demanding, more pampered by her parents and sister and consequently sought more attention, but was just adorable. She had some of her mother’s beautiful features.

Aisha (Minty)was flourishing. She was beginning to intensely enjoy making up stories. She was a physical replica of Sumayya when she was little and she has these lovely large green eyes that she inherited from Katy. She chose her own clothing and loved bags and jewellery. I called her my little princess in the pink dress.

We heard the sound of rapid footsteps coming from the rear. There were shouting and screams of excitement, followed by screams of Bashy khala! (Aunt Basheera) shouted in unison by our grandchildren. The reason was apparent; they adore their aunt and she loves each of them. They all wrench themselves free and run towards her. Basheera, my youngest daughter, is carrying Sumayya’s little one, Isa (Minty). This was our three-year-old grandson, the first boy, and our little prince. With three daughters and four granddaughters, the arrival of our very smart and handsome grandson quite understandably caused a great deal of excitement.

Basheera is the tallest of my three daughters, green-eyed and resembles Raisa. Basheera is bright, has a good mind and writes beautifully. She is caring and compassionate. Empathising with the poor, showing solidarity with the Palestinians and oppressed people, an ANC activist and mobilising for the vulnerable - especially disabled children - were among the many things that occupied her.

Raisa, Sumayya and sons-in-law, Mohamed Minty and Mohamed Sameeg Kadir, would follow later with the picnic baskets.

Madeeha, or was it Nuha, asked: Nana (grandfather) where did you meet Nani (grandmother)?

The question jolted memories of the same question from my daughter Raisa, or Sumayya, some 35 years ago while we walking past the yacht club towards the jetty on the far side of the Esplanade in Durban.

This was the very jetty from where, in 1971, we boarded the Sarie Marais, and other smaller ferry boats each morning. These ferries transported us to Salisbury Island, a satellite university campus exclusively for Indian students.

When we arrived at the jetty I noticed that the boat was a modern, state-of-the-art ferry… the Sarie Marais was long gone. I remembered then telling my daughters: It is here that we took the ferry and it was at Salisbury Island that I first set eyes on your mum.

So I began the story of how I first saw Katy, all those years ago. It was in 1971 that I first saw her and I knew then that I would marry her. But I needed to meet her and that proved to be a challenging prospect.

She was a student among a few hundred, the vast majority of whom would travel to the disused army barracks converted into a university campus, Salisbury Island, by ferryboat. The island was a satellite campus for the University of South Africa, a distant learning tertiary institution, which had the highest student enrolment in South Africa.

This was the island at which Indians would receive their university education as they were legally and effectively barred from enrolling at other white universities, without the consent of the Minister of Interior.

I, like most others, regarded the island as an ethnic tribal institution, which functioned in a manner inconsistent with the autonomy, independence, openness and democratic ethos of institutions of higher learning, especially universities. That you have a pliant institution, which serves as a handmaiden of the apartheid regime, eroded and diminished the status and legitimacy of the university.

But these thoughts quickly faded when I saw Katy. Of course, I had fallen in love with this woman without even meeting her. We were ostensibly an obvious mismatch. I was tall with long unkempt black hair, no cohesive sense of dress, a huge flat nose, thick lips, an untrimmed goatee and tiny brown eyes that always seemed intensely focused.

I was neither organised nor ambitious, and I had no sense of responsibility or accountability. I interacted with others spontaneously. I epitomised the carefree youth who was neither prepared nor willing to take anything seriously, especially my studies.

She reached my shoulder, was well dressed with a sense of purpose in the manner in which she spoke, walked and talked. Katy is very beautiful. Her voice was gentle, expressive and bewitching. Her beautiful long hair hung loose but was so neat, almost as if she combed her hair every two minutes. She was organised, meticulous in her work, serious about her studies and clearly responsible and accountable.

There was such a glaring contradiction in our respective appearances that it would be obvious to any observer that any approach contemplated would be repelled. I stood out