Diana Ferrus Diana Ferrus was born in Worcester on the 29.08.53 She wrote poetry since the age of 14 years. And has had her work published locally and abroad. She is a founder member of ‘Bush Poets’, an all women poet group from the University of the Western Cape and of the Afrikaans Writers Association (Afrikaanse Skrywersvereniging). She has read at various public occassions, community celebrations and political rallies. She is chairperson and founder member of Art de Commuque — an organiation for artists, painters, poets, musicians and other creative types and is founder member of women’s writers association, “Women in X-chains”. Diana co-ordinates the ‘Women’s room’, a weekly poetry jam at Heartbeat Café in Lansdowne and is currently working on my autobiography which centers around journeys in her life.

Her eyes — an election story

Diana Ferrus

It was the eyes that bothered me. Those eyes that never had a problem with being direct, suddenly now were evasive, looking away. They had nothing of the naughtiness they were so wellknown for. They could not even mock. Instead they looked suspicious and sometimes angry.

The run-up to the first democratic elections in my country was intense. All kinds of speculations and horror stories were playing itself off in the media, enterprises moulded and shaped by hands and minds that I did not trust. These stories found a place in the air above us. They floated around and came to land on those who were so willing to receive them and others who used them to light fires, fires they thought would destroy the “new country”. Yet others knew that they were poison, manufactured in the darkest of alleys where the highest bidder came to life. While the majority of our country’s people were awaiting their day of freedom in breathless anticipation, some of those who made up the minority, dreaded it as the day of doom.

Fierce and vicious political games were playing themselves out. Old tricks were played to perfection and it was the Coloured group that was the main target. With a history of shame and denial instilled, they were easy prey. Openly hostile, many of these people refused to listen to any messages contrary to what they were fed. They were scared. Neighbours were having conversations over the fence discussing the possible repercussions should a certain party win. Rumours of houses and properties being besieged by unruly and uncivilized Blacks abounded. Even the possibility of a total blackout and food shortages were raised. The scared ones were stacking their cupboards with everything, from candles and matches to tin food for the dogs

She was their victim too. It was in her eyes, at least that’s what I thought. They who took her soul, have now taken her mind, all of it.. All around us, families were split into two. The side that you were on depended on the political party that you supported. She, though, was as quiet as a mouse when elections were discussed.

Although my mother did not say who she was voting for, she sided with her children when fights became personal. Families and close friends started splitting up. Our house became meeting place for fierce political debate and those who differed had rather not be to the right of our position. Radical leftwing arguments were treated with the necessary respect but conservative rightwing drab were shown the door. My mother was extremely supportive when my sister phoned one friend who dared to openly declare that she will vote “to the right” of our position and told her not to ever put her feet in our house again. This must have been extremely pleasing for my mother because she always regarded this friend as exploitative and not worthy of our friendship. She could not stand them only visiting our house when we arrive from Cape Town and her not seeing them again until we return for another visit. We came to Worcester every weekend and hung posters with Nelson Mandela’s face on our fence and cruelly stared at people who dared to show dismay. Yet, although my mother did not oppose of us throwing out rightwing supporters from our house, she persisted in not taking part in the debates. We wanted commitment from her that she will make her cross against that of Madiba, but because she refused to say who she was going to vote for, we kept quiet and hoped and prayed for the best. We suspected that she in any case did not like these people that we threw out and that did not necessarily mean that we convinced her to vote for our party.

Two nights before the election, I could not sleep. My heart was beating fast. Maybe I feared that my party would lose in the Western Cape but it was also the thought of me going to vote for the first time in my life, that overcame me. My mind kept on wandering to the millions that were awaiting the big day and how much they have sacrificed. I also thought of the violence that was besieging the country, instigated by the desperate ones who wanted at all costs to stop us becoming citizens of our own country. On the eve of the election I softly sobbed in my bed. In my mind’s eye my dad was standing with a bent back and sunken cheeks, he could never vote although he was prepared to lay down his life for his country during WWII. Next to him my dear cousin Hennie was standing. He carried three 5-year banning orders and four years on Robben Island. He could never be a young man, he was too busy fighting for the big day I lay waiting for. And they were all there, Auntie Sarie, Uncle Paul, my grandma Bettie and grandma Rosie. Grandma Rosie was indirectly killed by security policemen when she fell victim to a heart attack after these security policemen ransacked her house. I could not sleep. The night went along too slowly and I feared that I might die just there without having voted!

The 27th April 1994 sailed into being with big fanfare. There was a buzz from early morning. Those that were going to vote for rightwing parties walked with downturned heads and those that were going to vote leftwing, were loud and abrasive openly taunting any uncertain face. In some way it was like Christmas in our house. Because there were no voters rolls yet, we could vote anywhere in the town. We had great pleasure in discussing at which venue we will make that cross. Some friends that came by chuckled when they informed us that they were going to vote in the “white area”. We had great pleasure in imagining how some of those faces were going to look. After having fun at the expense of white people we went through the process of deciding what to wear. We had to take rules and regulations into account. It was forbidden to wear colours of the party you were going to vote for. My mother seemed livelier than usual and ordered us to use the bathroom before her. It was when she made her appearance from her room that we were relieved of our agony. She looked splendid in her green pinafore, her black shirt and the bright yellow scarf around her neck. “Oh mummy, you look lovely” was all I could utter. The knob in my throat was too big.

At the canvassing table outside the schoolyard, friends and family jumped from their seats when we arrived. “Antie Ann, you look splendid”, “how are you?”, “We are so glad you brought your daughter along!” She joked around and made people laugh.

Leaning on me as we made our way to the polling station, she did not say a word. Her eyes were different, they were big and shiny. They looked so young, so alive.

When the Independent Electoral Commission official greeted us, she said in a loud and clear voice, “I have come to make my mark”.

boontoe

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