True transformation: Professor Jonathan Jansen, the first black vice-chancellor at the University of the Free State, approached the Reitz racist students conundrum with steadfastness in the face of doubt, and achieved more than mere expulsion would have done. Photo: Per-Anders Petterssen/Getty
Introductory note: Jansen joined the University of the Free State (UFS) in 2009 as its first black vice-chancellor amid the Reitz saga. He invited four expelled white students responsible for a humiliating video involving black cleaning staff back to UFS on conditions that he outlined after his inauguration: that there was a genuine apology, that the workers accepted the apology, that there was compensation to the victims for what happened, and that a process of reconciliation was embarked on by all parties. It took more than a year for all those conditions to be agreed to and met.
As the dust started to settle, there were two distinct responses. One was that I was the devil himself, to put it mildly, and had to be dealt with. The racists must rot in jail, nothing less. The anger was palpable among black students and activist leaders from the governing ANC.
At this point in the first months of my appointment in Bloemfontein, my wife Grace was still in Pretoria with the children as they finished school (Sara) and university (Mikhail). When a leader of the ANC Youth League announced that “the rector must die”, my family saw these words on Pretoria News lamppost posters. They were anxious, especially because of their distance from Bloemfontein and being unable to assess the situation for themselves.
But there was another response that I sensed across communities in South Africa, black and white. I felt that strength of support to be very strong throughout Cape Town where I grew up.
In the minds of many other South Africans, I did the right thing and much of this came through on radio talk shows and in presentations on the decision that I was giving in all the provinces.
They were saying that this is a nation being built on the foundations of forgiveness, not retaliation. That groundwork for that understanding was laid by other political leaders during the bumpy transition from apartheid to democracy.
An open letter by Archbishop Desmond Tutu in national newspapers made a major impact on public opinion. Tutu declared that “forgiveness is not for sissies”. I felt a weight fall off my shoulders.
The Arch invited me to see him in his modest Milnerton home. I flew to Cape Town and was a little anxious about what he would say to me.
After a short wait, the great man appeared, hugged me and led me into his office. “Please sit down,” he said. “Let us pray.” As he thanked God for me and petitioned for strength in my leadership, I broke down in tears. I do not deserve this, I told the gracious old man.
The process of reconciliation unfolded slowly because of an egotistical cast of characters who all “wanted in” on this opportunity. The South African Human Rights Commission (SAHRC) assigned a team to ensure it could control the process and claim success, which it duly did. The lawyer representing the five workers wanted to know during the process if I could arrange a job for him at the university. Any number of politicians came through my office offering to help and be helped. It was a sorry sight.
In the meantime, my team continued the hard work, which began with bringing representatives of the two parties into long meetings to seek agreement on the reconciliation process.
After more than a year of “talks about talks”, to use a strange phrase from the constitutional negotiations for a new South Africa, everybody was on the same page with respect to key issues: acknowledgement, reconciliation, compensation and empowerment.
On acknowledgement, the four boys had to recognise and own their misdeeds. Since theirs was a public act of humiliation, the acknowledgement of human wrongs also had to be a public event.
On reconciliation, both parties agreed to enter a process that could lead to the coming together of the boys and the workers (nothing was assured).
On compensation, it was agreed that a significant amount of money would be paid to the workers with the accompanying statement that no amount of material payback could make up for what had happened.
On empowerment, the university agreed to train and develop the workers so they could establish and manage their own company and contract with UFS as service providers with their own workers. In addition, we would offer scholarship support for any worker or their children who wanted to pursue studies at UFS.
On a Friday night, the four students and five workers finally met in one of the boardrooms down the corridor from my office with a facilitator present. We waited and waited for an outcome from this final phase in the reconciliation process.
In the smaller meeting room off my office, several senior colleagues had their heads bowed in prayer. We reminded each other that deliberations could go either way, perhaps to cushion the shock of possible disappointment.
Suddenly, the doors of the boardroom opened and we were told a decision had been reached to engage in the final step of the process and we could enter the meeting for that purpose. On one side of the table sat the workers with their supportive families; on the other side sat the students without their families.
An Afrikaans word ran through my head as I observed the boys: stoksielalleen (transliterated, alone in your soul like a stick on its own).
What happened next is something I will never forget. One of the boys, the spokesman, started with a heartfelt apology to the workers. He began in English and then, as the emotion hit, reverted to Afrikaans and said this: “Sal julle ons asseblief vergewe?” (Will you please forgive us?)
I became aware of a slight trembling in my hands as my eyes turned towards the workers. Before the student could even continue, one of the women responded — not in her home language, Sesotho, but in the language of the perpetrators: “Maar natuurlik! Julle is ons kinders.” (But of course! You are our children.)
We all sat there stunned, then rapturous applause broke out as the students and the workers made their way around the long table to embrace each other and the moment.
A formal ceremony was held on campus to confirm in public what had happened behind closed doors. I was left off the agenda for the evening and I was happy about that. However, the politicians and the SAHRC members went around the table congratulating each other.
I was relieved that it was finally over and that the workers could get on with their lives as bosses of their own company. Not that this outcome was at all assured. More than once my senior colleagues warned that the decision to bring back the boys and seek reconciliation might unravel.
The firebrand leader of the ANC Youth League, Julius Malema, declared in public that he was going to pay me a visit at the UFS campus.
I do not know how the word got out but that early morning there was no place on the Red Square, the beautifully paved red stone area in front of the main building and my outward-facing office.
Lifting the wooden blinds slightly, I saw a massive crowd of people that included international media with cameras trained on the entrance to the building. Then it struck me, the announcement by Malema was interpreted by those who opposed my decision as “Julius is coming to sort out the rector.”
You could feel the excitement in the air outside, the smell of blood. This was high noon at Kovsies, the affectionate name for the university.
Malema was late but was received with an overwhelming amount of noise as he entered the main building with cameras flashing for the coming news cycle.
That morning as I pondered the day in my office, my trusted secretary Ilse came through the door separating our workspaces. “Prof, hier het ’n boer vanoggend uit die platteland gebel.” (A farmer called early that morning from somewhere in the rural areas.) This was strange.
“He wanted you to know,” continued Ilse, “that they heard about the visit by Julius Malema. He then gathered his family and workers together in the barn and they prayed for you throughout the night. This morning he wanted you to know that everything will work out. Don’t worry about Malema. It will be okay.”
Wait. A white farmer called his people together to pray for a black vice-chancellor he had never met to petition for his well-being. I sat down to let the message sink in. Ilse turned around towards her office as if this was the most ordinary message to deliver in a typical workday. I believed in prayer, but this was a bit too much.
I had met Malema before so as he strode into the little boardroom adjoining my office we greeted each other warmly. When I was an administrator at Mangosuthu University of Technology he came with the same entourage and helped calm the fires between the ANC’s South African Students Congress (Sasco) and the rival Inkatha Freedom Party’s South African Democratic Students Movement (Sadesmo).
Given the bloody history of tension between these two parties, especially in KwaZulu-Natal, I feared the worst. But with incredible charm and authority, Malema came and left without incident.
I liked the young man, and even in this testing moment there was a good deal of mutual respect.
“Prof, can you explain to us why you forgave those boys?”
I thought this was a good start. “Sure,” I said, and started to explain the actions taken against the students and the hypocrisy of the university in not owning up to its complicity in the sordid affair. Simply blaming the students meant transformation was going nowhere at UFS since the conditions that made their behaviour possible were not addressed. The students paid a heavy price in the court of public opinion and still had to appear in court. But for UFS, inviting them back meant requiring the four to take responsibility in the place they had committed the racist act.
I was halfway through my planned 20-minute explanation when Malema stopped me. “Prof, that’s enough. You made the right decision. It is better to have them here and re-educate them than to send them back [to] where they would be a danger to other black people.”
At that point Floyd Shivambu, his deputy, leapt out of his seat in horror. No, I could not be let off that easily.
“Sit down,” responded Malema. “The prof has spoken.”
Around the table, my senior team, whom I had asked to attend the session, were surprised and affected by the unexpected response.
Malema left the room to address the excitable crowd outside. Suddenly, everything went quiet. One of my colleagues rushed into my office and said, “He told them you were right, that ‘he is one of us’.”
The holding paddles behind my eyes opened as I shut my office door and let the emotions flow. No number had been left for me to call the white farmer who had predicted the outcome. In that moment, if I had not already believed in God, I would have done so. The spiritual impact of what had happened is hard to describe.
The sense that there was something much bigger than me going on in that boardroom was clear. As I subsequently travelled around the country on commitments and marketing efforts on behalf of the university, I was stunned by how many people, black and white, told me they had prayed for me on the day Malema visited the campus.
Breaking Bread is published by Jonathan Ball.