A Child of Apartheid: A Memoir of a Colored Capetonian

By Noble F. Scheepers

This book is dedicated to the memory of my beloved daughter, Sandi Pearl, who passed on twenty two days before her fourteenth birthday in March 2002. The memories of her ministry to the choir, Spiritual dancing, and junior youth still today lingers on in the memories of many young people from the Factreton township whom she regarded as her peers, and they in return looked up to her.
I also dedicate this book to my son, Robin, Medical Doctor, and Psychiatrist, who passed away after attending a psychiatrist’s conference in a Drakensberg Mediclinic on October 25, 2021, aged forty-one. His mother, Valda, and I are still grieving this unprecedented and unexpected loss. Robin, in particular, was keen to see this book published. He was exemplary in life, conduct, ethics, and intellect, and made us, his family, and colleagues proud. He was, undoubtedly, a product of the hope and success of a new South Africa.
However, the circumstances leading to the passing on of my children in relation to the treatment they received at the respective medical institutions have been a blatant reminder to me, that, if they were of the white race, the results may have been different. No amount of litigation will bring them back, but I am comforted that in Sandi’s fourteen, and Robin’s forty one years, they have left a legacy of goodness and hope, relative to their exemplary achievements. In addition, their mother Valda and I live with beautiful memories of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823005661

Noble F. Scheepers

The Reverend Noble F. Scheepers – Episcopal Priest, Diocese of Massachusetts, USA Intentional Interim Priest Past organizer of the Masakane Project, Indaba Diocesan project, and Mission project to the Western Cape, South Africa. Past Dean of the South Shore Deanery Past Co-chair of the Diocesan Racial Justice Commission Ordained Priest within the Anglican Church of South Africa, 1992. Dedicated pastoral minister with a strong emphasis on equipping young people with leadership skills within the Church and community. Proven record in development of liturgy, stewardship, musical programs, spiritual development in congregations, and engagement in the surrounding community. of Southern Africa. Facilitated programs to stem the exodus of youth from the Anglican Church to Pentecostal churches. EDUCATION 2013-2015 Episcopal Divinity School EDS Cambridge, MA USA Masters Degree in Theological Studies (May 2015) Focus on Liberation Theology, Racial Justice, and Feminism Certificate in Theological Studies (May 2014) EDS Intentional Interim Priest training Course 2021 2006-2008 Philippi Trust Cape Town, South Africa Advanced Certificate in Christian Counselling 1992 Federal Theological Seminary Pietermaritzburg, South Africa Diploma in Theology 1992 Groote Schuur Hospital Cape Town, South Africa Pastoral Care Chaplaincy Course 1975 Scholarship from the South African Typographical Society to pursue National Diploma in Printing Management 1974 Diploma in Lithography Peninsula Technikon Cape Town, South Africa Parishes served: Church of the Resurrection, Bonteheuwel, Cape Town, SA St. Nicholas, Matroosfontein, Cape Town, SA St. Timothy's, Factreton, Cape Town, SA St. John the Evengelist, Crawford, Cape Town, SA Christ Church Iglesia de San Juan, Hyde Park, MA, USA Good Shepherd, Dedham, MA, USA Holy Trinity, Marshfield, MA, USA St. John, Westwood, MA, USA The Church of the Province of Southern Africa: Provincial Youth Chaplain (1994 – 2002) Planned and designed bi-annual youth conferences for youth and youth chaplains PUBLICATION, TRAINING MANUAL Certificate Course for the Theology of Youth Ministry, Anglican Church of Southern Africa (2000)

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; Jeremiah 1:5

Family background

My father’s name was Arthur. His parents for me were personally unknown. They died before I was born. I saw photos of father’s mother and sisters when I was a child. They had strong West Indian features. I was told they were from the Island of Tristan De Cuna. My father’s father was a white Dutchman and a hunter. I saw a photo of him next to a carcass of a springbok. These photos were in possession of my father’s sister, Minnie. My father spent most of his formative years in Kimberley, a diamond mining city located toward the northern center of South Africa. During the pre-Second World War decade many people moved to urban cities due to the high rate of poverty and unemployment. My father’s family moved towards the Cape, the southwestern part of South Africa.

My mother’s name was Ernestine. Her parents had also been deceased before my birth. She told my siblings and I that her father was from England, spent many years in Rhodesia, and then moved to Natal. Her mother had originally worked for him. She was of mixed race. My mother always spoke endearingly of her mother. My mother was an only child, and she spoke with so much love and endearment about her mother. We believe she was a gracious woman. She showed me a picture of her that she carried in her locket around her neck. My mother spent most of her formative years in the cities of Durban in the East and Mossel Bay in the south of the country.

My parents met each other in Cape Town. Given their racial background both my parents were classified as colored. South Africa was experiencing a recession during the pre- Second World War period and many non-whites migrated to Cape Town to find work. Both my parents were never encouraged to further their education beyond primary school, since the culture of beginning to work at a young age in order to survive prevailed during those years. South Africa was called the Union of SA, under the governance of the British Empire, but the Afrikaners (from German, French and Dutch) heritage, were hard at work to establish their supremacy of the volk. It became the war of the whites, while coloured and black people remained in their positions of subservience. However, the coloreds were allowed the benefit of secondary education, while the blacks were limited to primary school simply because the white government prevented them from attaining any qualification. They were regarded and identified as the laborers.

It was during the pre and post Second World War that my parents had seven children, of which I am the youngest (often called the baby). My father was a policeman, and my mother was a clothing factory machinist. My older siblings were born in a suburb called Salt River, a factory and retail shopping town close to the city of Cape Town. My parents were then given the opportunity and moved to a middle-class suburb called Crawford, where my three sisters where born. They shared this house with another family, and clearly, it became too overcrowded for my family of eight. My father applied for an alternative house due to the discomfort and urgency of their situation. Through his work with the Police Department an apartment, or flats, (Council Blocks), with three bedrooms was offered in a sub-economic town called Q Town (it did not even have a name). This was the only alternative they could offer for colored police, coloured war veterans called the Cape Corps, government (council workers), and prison employees. The flats were later rented to families who were forced to move from their homes due to the GROUP AREAS ACT. This town had rows and rows of flats, called blocks, and that was where I was born. I was told in later years that my mother, and even a few of my siblings were very unhappy about this move, since we were now living among the riff-raff, or undesirable element of the coloured people. My parents were determined for the Scheepers family to be better or a higher class than our neighbors and the Q Town community. They insisted that English be the spoken language in the house. However, my father, being Afrikaans, and influenced by the Afrikaner culture in the police and prison work force, would maintain his comfort zone. Speaking English was also an expression of class, and neighbors and friends poked fun at our English. However, because my sister, Avril and I spent our childhood playing with friends in the street, the Afrikaans language often became our means of communication, especially when it came to cussing. There is no better language to cuss. I was often slapped by my parents when we cussed in the house. The Afrikaans we spoke was not pure, since it was mixed with English words, so it was called kitchen language. It was also a great language to taunt, tease, and criticize someone, since it was quite expressive. They called it, gwarra!

My father was the one to exercise punishment. The practice in my family was if one of my siblings needed a beating, all of us would get it, so that it would become a lesson to all. Often, my eldest brother would be the one who deserved a beating and we all had to queue for our punishment (called hiding by my parents). I was always the last being the youngest and had no idea what I was being punished for. My father was big and strong, and he did not even get tired when it came to my turn. My sisters’ screaming did not deter him. My dad had three belts that he hung in the passage, one wider than the next. We were always in fear of him using the widest and heaviest belt. My mother rarely gave us a hiding, but smacked us, and promised that my father would deal with us when he came home from work.

I remember as a child, always carrying a handkerchief in my hand because I had a runny nose. Later, I was told that I suffered from hay fever. I was always reminded to wipe my nose and was later teased about it. My parents loved buying comic books, like Tiger and Hurricane, Valiant, School Friends, and Girl’s Crystal. We used to follow the stories in these comics religiously. One of the comics had a cartoon called Georgie’s Germs, which often depicted the germs drinking soda pop in Georgie’s nose. My sister, Avril used to tease me by saying the soda pop in my nose overflowed. My siblings found this funny. As a child, one of the luxuries we would yearn for was custard. We had it with our desert at our Sunday lunch. One day my eldest sister gave me a dessert spoon loaded with mustard, and told me it was custard. I felt sick and struggled to vomit, and my siblings found my reaction hilarious. I rarely complained to my parents, because they taught us that you do not tattle-tail on your brothers or sisters. Nevertheless, I do not eat custard today, and only ate mustard when I became an adult.

The Athlone swimming baths, was a public swimming pool behind the sport stadium. I was about four years old, and I remember my father came home early from work. No one was home, since all seven of us were at the swimming baths. My dad must have asked kids from block if they knew where we were, and my dad was directed to the pool. We walked home single file with my uniformed, big, shouldered father in front. I’m sure all the kids from Q Town were walking along with us, teasing, Julle gaan pak kry. (You’re in for a beating). My sisters were howling all the way home. We all got it, but I never cried.

Supper, followed by my parents telling us their day’s experience were the practices of listening and lecturing about values, ethics, and relationships. The nine of us sat around the oval-shaped dining room table, my parents at either head. The youngest siblings sat next the parent – me next to my mother, and Avril next to my father. My mother was good at telling us stories of her fellow workers at the clothing factory, and she would describe everything in detail, from a book she had read in the bus, to a conversation she had with her fellow workers. My father, when it was his turn, gave an impassioned lecture, enforced the wrath of God and a verbal rule of life, or you face a darn good hiding.

Supper began and ended with prayer. You dared not leave the table until the final prayer called the grace was led by my father. I was three years old, and I did not understand much of the conversation. I would often fall asleep at the table and receive a slap to stay awake and sit up. I hated it and felt traumatized. It was of course, the one meal, sometimes the only meal we could have together as a family, often sitting for two hours. My parents meant well, and loved us, regularly teaching ethics, under the circumstances.

Nursery School and formation

I lived a very sheltered childhood, being the baby of the family. My parents and siblings often reminded me of being seen and not heard, especially around their friends. To be quiet and obedient was the rule of law imposed upon me during my childhood. My mother would firmly take me by the hand to her bedroom, and would give me a lecture on the importance of obeying your parents, older siblings, schoolteachers, and would remind me that even she and my father had to obey the law, their white supervisors and superiors. Be obedient to all forms of authority was their motto. This impact of absolute obedience caused me to be unresponsive during my early years at educational institutions. I remember the fear I had of speaking to my teachers at Nursery School and well as my first two years at primary school. It was at nursery school that I first experienced this level of authority by certain teachers (they were all colored, middle-class teachers) who were ruthless in their methods. It was a culture of enforcement – if you did not eat your mid-day meal you were force-fed, if you vomited you were forced to eat your vomit, if you did not do your bowel movement during the day you were locked in the toilet till you were able to prove you could make a aaahr. If you could not sleep, you had a pillow case pulled over your head and made to sleep. The bullies were the favored kids by the teachers, and I spent every break hiding from them, until one day the biggest bully raked me out from under a bush and beat me up in front of everyone. I never complained to the teachers or my parents. I would not even cry.

My older siblings had the responsibility of fetching me after nursery school. Q Town had an ethos of children playing in the streets and on the grass verges. My siblings often spent afternoons playing games with their friends, and forgetting they had a baby brother waiting for them at nursery school. I recall being taken by the staff to the police station in Athlone, the business center of the colored community. The white policemen were very friendly, and often gave me potato chips and lollipops, a pencil and paper to keep myself occupied. I don’t recall a coloured policeman even giving me a second glance.

My siblings would fetch me in a state of panic, only because they would have hell to pay if my parents arrived home and noticed I was missing. I was an afterthought. However, I was very endeared to my mother, since she was my source of comfort and security. I would wake at 4.00 AM when my father would get up to leave for work at 4.30 AM. I slept in a stretcher in the boy’s room and could not wait to snuggle next to my mom in the early hours of the morning. Things were not easy between my parents, given our location and our parent’s huge responsibility of raising seven children on meager earnings. In spite of my religious ethic with home, church, and school, I experienced a joy of comfort when my eldest sister prayed with me after a major row between my parents. My mother pleaded with God to take her life. I was devastated, and cried, (something I seldom did.) This was my first experience of God as Comforter. As a child, I was scared of my father, not just because he was the disciplinarian and punisher, but the constant scolding and threats my siblings received caused me to avoid him at all costs. However, looking back, I believed he felt that sparing the rod would not be in our best interests. Obeying your parents at all costs was his motto, and from a young age of five he taught me to polish his shoes and shine his belt buckle and brass buttons and insignia had to shine daily. It was to be my last task at night before bedtime. If I forgot he would wake me at 4.00 am to shine and polish. I hated it but dared not complain.

My father would sometimes take me with him to visit his friends. I guess this was his way of spending quality time with me. However, we hardly spoke, and I felt embarrassed and perplexed when he would avoid paying for me on the train, by telling the white ticket examiner that I was four years old (I was six). I don’t think he believed my father, but he used his police attitude and acumen to impress the examiner. I was fascinated at the superior attitude of white people, white policemen, white public servants, almost, looking down upon any person of colour.

CHAPTER 2

My little children, let us not love in word or in tongue, but in deed and in truth. 1 John 3:18

I was eleven years old when my eldest brother, Brian, celebrated his 21st birthday. It was the first, big event by my family’s standards, and it was held in the Catholic Hall in Athlone.

He had Champagne boys and girls, all immaculately dressed in their suits and pink gowns. They formed the 21 shapes on the dance floor. He had a pop band that played dancing songs of the 60’s. My sisters were all Champagne girls, and my brother Clive, a Champagne boy. I was warned to stay out of sight and sit upstairs in the balcony. An older guy, who was with me in the Boy Scouts, was told by Brian to sit with me, to keep me company. We had to help with the cleaning up after the celebration. I remember him telling me, Dies alles kak! (This is all bullshit!) He stayed for an hour and left. I spent the evening watching my family have a happy time. I wondered if they remembered me, sitting alone up in the gallery watching family and friends having a party. I was eleven years old and had by now become accustomed to be told to stay out of the way. As a child you should not be seen and not heard. However, I did focus on the band playing, and enjoyed the songs because of my love for music. At the end of the evening my sister Avril, called me to tell me it’s time to help with the cleanup. I watched the family, extended family, and their friends congratulating each other for a wonderful evening. The excitement of this event resonated with my family and their friends for weeks afterward.

My mother was passionate about movies, called bioscope in those days. She fetched me from school one day, when I was in grade two. I don’t know what she told the principle, but we walked to the Regent bioscope, and I watched a movie called The Premature Burial. It scared the hell out of me. Once, when I was twelve years old, she took me to see a movie that had an age restriction for no persons under eighteen. It was a warm evening, but she told me to wear my raincoat and a cap. The doorman at the bioscope looked at me and asked my age. My mother hooked me in and told the doorman to leave my husband alone. We marched into the cinema. I did not even understand what the age restriction was about. My mother liked to take me with her when she would do the shopping on Saturday mornings. I hated it! I was about three years when she took me with her to the heart of Cape Town, where the city would be bustling with shoppers. On more than one occasion she would become distracted and would let go of my hands. I would be oblivious because of the crowds and would put up my hand. I distinctly recall on more than one occasion, thinking it was my mother next to me, a white lady would smack my hand away and cuss me in Afrikaans. My mother was a seamstress and loved going to cloth material stores. She would walk up and down the same isle before she might buy something. The same thing applied in the food stores, and the clothing stores. I was put through this torture till I was about eleven years. I still hate shopping today.

My mother took great pleasure in taking her young children to see the attractive things in the city. She took me to the museum and would explain the history of Cape Town as presented from the Apartheid white supremist perspective. She had no problem attributing successes and development of Cape Town and its surroundings to the whites. She loved flora and the beauty of gardening, so we often walked for hours in the Botanical Gardens in Cape Town. She would smell every flower and talk to me as she reveled to the beauty of the city’s gardens. A few years later at the age of eight she took me to Kirstenbosch Gardens, located on the western slope of Table Mountain. I looked forward to the the treat of eating a packet of Chilli Chips and a Coo-ee soda.

An exciting past-time and culture for local coloreds and whites were the New Year’s celebration of the Coon Carnival. This culture was historically embraced by the colored slaves going back to the 19th century – a sort of fiesta celebration for the New Year. The Muslims of Cape Town were very prominent in organizing this carnival, and their tailors and organizers would work for weeks leading up to this festive event. My parents would take us by bus to the city center where we would stand among the crowds in Adderley Street. I would wait in eager anticipation for the floats of appropriately decorated trucks, followed by the Klopse (colorful dressed minstrels with painted faces) and Acha-mericans (men dressed as historical Native American Indians), with war-paint, hatchets and axes – they were scary, and they loved scaring children! I was given a handful of pennies to throw at the trucks. We looked forward to this every year. In later years I went to the Coon festival. These minstrels would sing and serenade songs that would make the crooners of the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s, proud. This parade and New Year festival was particular to the culture of Cape Town.

(Kew) Q Town culture

Q Town was a colored community of people perceived to be of a lower class. However, it was clear that many people lived there, not out of choice. It was a suburb of Athlone, the hub of the coloured people. However, included on the outskirts of this hub were black townships called, Langa, Guguletu, and Nyanga. As a child I was informed that the coloured people had identity cards and the blacks had to carry passes. Many in the coloured community used to warn us to stay away from the blacks, because they’re not like us. In 1960, I experienced a scary sight of hundreds of blacks walking from Langa through Q Town to the Athlone Police Station in protest against the massacre of blacks in Sharpeville Johannesburg.

Every man carried a sjambok, a homemade baseball bat with iron spikes or nails. Many parents screamed at their children to run home. Given this experience, I could never understand, as a child, what the fuss about racial segregation was about, because we had a black milkman who my mother often invited into the home for a sandwich and some tea. He would call me, fighter boy, and my sister, Avril, fighter girl. I guess he would often see us fighting. My father had work colleagues who were white and black, whom he often invited home after work to enjoy a drink. They all looked a happy bunch. They even exchanged racial slurs that gave occasion to pour another drink. They would cuss each other using words like, donner, bliksem, and jou moeren. (All spoke Afrikaans).

The blocks where we lived were four stories high. We lived on the second floor. Below us was a fisherman whom my father befriended because they enjoyed having a drink together. Opposite us on the same floor were family with middle-class ideals whose only taint was a son who was more in prison than out of it. Above us there was a shebeen, a home where liquor was sold illegally. Weekends and evening were the times most frequented by people going up or down the stairs to buy liquor, since the liquor stores would be closed. Often there were those who were unsure where the shebeen was, and they would knock on our door, and ask me, do you sell something; where’s the wine; can I speak to the madam; wet my throat; I want to buy a drink, etc. All of course, in Afrikaans. My parents hated them, mostly because we were exposed to this culture. The top floor was a very religious Muslim family, whose youngest son became my best friend. He was strong, and could lick anyone who dared to challenge us to fight. Opposite to them was a middle-class family, where the matriarch was a little old lady who loved being friends with my mother. One of her daughters, a matured woman, was never seen without a suit. My mother told me she was manly, but I couldn’t understand what she meant during those years.

My siblings associated to some extent with families living in the block facing us, and I had befriended many of the boys about my age. Each of them had a nickname; whitey, or boere, if you were fair-skinned; kaffir, if you were dark-skinned, boesman, if you had fuzzy hair, moffie, if you were effeminate; slums, if you were Muslim; koppe, if you had a big head; biene, if you were skinny; and lange, if you were tall, and harre, if you had long hair. If you were a kid, you would be called, lighty. My family gave me the nickname, Butchie. I hated it and made sure none of my friends knew about it. Apparently my father said I had a boxer face as a child, appearing very butch.

The gangsters were not popular in the eyes of my parents, and they knew it. Somehow, as the youngest and weakest, I became the target to teach my family a lesson. A few times I was slapped and kicked when a gangster recognized me saying, Hiers die oubaas se lighty, kom ons moer hom. (This is the cop’s son, let’s beat him up).

I was twelve years old when my mother sent me to the shop at about 8.00pm. It was winter, and it was raining. I went to buy bread, milk, and sugar. I needed to pass by the sport stadium to and from the shop. On my return three gangsters came out of nowhere, and the one held a knife to my throat while the other pointed a gun at me. One of them recognized me and said, Die is die oubaas se kleintjie, kom ons stiek hom en skiet hom vrek. (It’s the cop’s kid, let’s stab him and shoot him dead). They took my raincoat, the bag of groceries, and money I had in my pocket. The one with the gun said, Laat hom gaan, sy pa sal wiet hulle moetie met ons vok nie. (let him go, his father will know he must not fuck with us). They beat me up, and I ran home as fast as I could. My brother took me to the Athlone Police Station, and the white policeman asked me if it was a real gun that they pointed at me, for it could have been a toy; (my father had a service revolver, and I saw enough gun toting gangsters to know a real gun). I never answered him, and he told me to raise my hand and swear to tell the truth. I wasn’t in the mood for this shit, and I felt agitated. He scolded me and told me that I was making a mockery of the law. As we were about to leave, he told my brother to bring me back the next day, and they would have an identity parade in case I recognized any of the perpetrators. However, later that night my father told me to act dumb at the parade, for my own safety.

The gangsters of Q Town would often congregate outside the entrance of each block of flats. They wore tailor – made pants that was positioned halfway below their buttocks; called a hangbroek. Almost all of them would smoke dagga (pot). They would smash a glass bottle, grind the pot, and wedge the silver foil of a cigarette pack as a filter into the pouring edge. The top of the bottle was the means through which they smoked. At every corner of the blocks, when the gangs would congregate, a cloud of smoke would billow from them. They would soon become a happy bunch, and the most beautiful singing and harmonizing would emanate from them. More often than not, however, their state of being high also escalated to gang fights. This would draw the crowds, for we wanted to see who would be stabbed or beaten and who would be the winners. A police van would soon pull up and everyone would scatter. I think the police were often shit scared…..they were only allowed to carry batons. The gangsters often carried hatchets hidden in their loose, wide, pants.

Once, my sister, Avril was slapped by a gang member as they were walking through the courtyard in the block. She ran to tell my father, who had just come home from work. I remember my father ran and chased a group of ten gangsters. He was armed with his wooden baton. He caught up with them and ploughed into them, smashing the baton into the heads of three gangsters. I remember he knelt on two of them, beating them to a pulp. A police van pulled up, and three of the gangsters were arrested. I admired my dad’s strength. My parents loved giving adult parties for their friends and relatives. It was only the middle-class colored people who had motor cars. We never owned one, but the visitors would park their cars in the street outside the block where we lived. As a child I don’t recall anyone in the blocks owning a car, unless you ran a shebeen (an illegal wine merchant). The unusual row of cars attracted the gangs, and they would burgle the cars and slash the tires. Neighbors living in the blocks would come to inform us, and my father, his brothers and friends in their bold state after drinking and partying, would sometimes catch the culprits and beat them up. My sister, Avril and I loved watching this spectacle.

My father had two brothers and a sister whom we visited on occasion or visited us. His younger brother, Noble, lived with his family in Kensington, a middle-class coloured suburb close to the city of Cape Town. He was also in the police force with my father. My father’s older brother, John, lived in Bree Street, in the heart of Cape Town. In the 60’s, they were forced to relocate to Factreton through forced removal due to the Group Areas Act. This was a draconian law promulgated when the government declared areas for white persons only. Uncle Johnny had a big family, and they were forced to move into a council owned semi-detached cottage. I remember how angry my uncle was. My father’s sister, Minnie, lived in a double story house in Mowbray, a suburb conveniently en-route to the city. I remember sliding down the banister on their stairs. She too, was forcefully removed through the Group Areas Act, and was given a tiny semi-detached council cottage in Bonteheuwel. I remember my aunt sobbing her eyes out. I was ignorant of the law practices but realized how dehumanizing this must have felt. These coloured townships sprung up like mushrooms, as the government kept reclassifying suburbs for white persons. My father had many other relatives, some who lived in upper middle-class coloured suburbs, and I was told in later years, some who had themselves reclassified as white. That stopped all association with them.

My father’s nephew, Norman, the son of my aunt, Minnie, lived in Belgravia, a middle-class suburb five minutes’ walk from our home in Q Town. It was located on the other side of Klipfontein Road, a main street that divided the townships from the suburbs. Norman and his wife, Bertha, were my godparents. I have the fondest memories of Bertha, who always had a care and showed acts of kindness toward me. She would bring me a little gift every time they visited and would give me candy every time we visited. She showed support for every recognition I received throughout my life. We were members of the Anglican Church, and Bertha’s family, the Congregational Church, yet her godly influence towards me was unforgettable.

Primary School

When I went to primary school, things in my situation did not improve. I found my