|
|
Where
angels fear to tread
In
2005 I interviewed the surviving spouse of a double farm murder in South Africa.
Here is her tragic story.
***
My
world changed three years ago, on my daughter’s 7th birthday. My
brother and his family joined us for a celebratory barbeque on our farm
in a remote rural area in the Gauteng Province.
A distress call came from an elderly lady living on a neighbouring
farm. She was extremely concerned because her farm workers had reported
suspicious looking people on the farm. My husband and brother
immediately got into the pickup truck and sped off to assist her.
Soon
my husband spoke on the CB radio in his vehicle and very calmly said
there were three men on the road ahead. Simultaneously my brother
spoke, “Where is he now?!” He sounded distressed. Then the radio went
dead. That was the last time they ever spoke. A moment later, a
neighbouring farmer, Piet, who also went to the elderly lady’s farm,
shouted into his handset, “I can’t stop! Jesus! They’re shooting at
me!” I knew immediately that something was badly wrong. I alerted the
police and left with two teenage sons to investigate.
We found
the pickup truck in the middle of the road, at the entrance to the farm
they were heading towards. My husband had broadsided to a stop when
four men stepped out in front of the vehicle, forcing him to come to a
swift stop and then they opened fire, at point blank range. My
brother’s body was slumped, half in and half out of the passenger side
door. My husband was slumped over the seat, still breathing. I sat in
the door frame next to the driver’s seat and held his head in my hands
as he breathed his final breath, gently rocking him back and forth.
“What are we going to do now?” I asked my sons, who were staring at the
scene of carnage around them in disbelief. I looked about in vain,
hoping to find some assistance but instead became transfixed with the
rivulets of blood trickling down the inside of the windscreen, pooling
on the dashboard. My sons could not speak or react to what they saw –
but I swear I witnessed my boys turn into old men in an instant.
I
was vaguely aware of the paramedics stopping next to me. I heard Jaco,
our church minister, speak. “Dear Jesus, dear Jesus… Anita, what
happened here?” He took in the scene and instinctively embraced my
sons, moving them away.
Under Jaco’s escort we returned to the
farm. On route my mobile phone rang, it was Piet’s wife, she was
frantic that her husband had not radioed in. “Jacky, my husband is…
Jake and Dries have been shot. They are dead…” I heard my words and
could not believe what I was saying. They were dead. But only half an
hour ago they were preparing the barbeque for the afternoon’s
festivities.
When we stopped outside the farm house, my
sister-in-law ran out to the car. She was visibly distressed, even more
so when she saw our church minister. “Poppy, something terrible has
happened…” She stared at the blood on my clothes and hands. I saw the
realization slowly dawn on her face and watched helplessly as she broke
down. I thank God that Jaco was there to help her. Moments later my two
younger children came out to the car. My seven year old birthday girl
asked, “Mum, where is Daddy”.
Within a short time my home was
filled with people. People giving their condolences; offering help;
asking what they could do; some starting the funeral arrangements;
others making tea; the men talking amongst themselves delegating
management duties to those capable of running the farm in the interim.
I needed space. I needed to leave. To get out. I wanted to be with my
children, alone. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, my
house was empty. I climbed into bed with my four children and we
exchanged ideas about what we should do. Soon they were asleep and I
was alone with my thoughts. I was certain I would wake from this bad
dream in a moment as I needed to milk the cows and Jake needed to tie
them securely.
Instead, I made myself some coffee and sitting at
the kitchen table looked out of the window; Jake’s shot-out vehicle was
still parked outside for everyone to see. I picked up the keys, as well
as several newspapers to cover the bloody seat and moved it into the
shed, out of view. I started to prepare the milking parlour for the
morning session and, lost in thought, instinctively called down the
corridor for Jake, as I did each morning, telling him he could now
start tethering the cows. Instead a neighbouring farmer appeared. He
took over the milking duties for the next ten days and sent me home to
be with my family. Through his act of kindness I realized I could not
manage the farm alone, I would need to sell soon.
Slowly, one by
one, my children emerged from the bedroom. The realization of the
horrific events was clear on their young faces. My youngest son went
out in the maize field; I think he went there to cry. My other children
sat close by me, they were numb, their spirits broken. It was Sunday
and my children asked to go to church. I had been cautioned against
this earlier as the press, television crews and police had staked out
the town centre. My sister later told me that the service was a total
disaster. Jaco was unable to preach. He had lost two of his closest
friends and coupled with his own personal grief, the anguished looks of
his congregation tore at his humanity and he broke down, sobbing
uncontrollably. The whole congregation was crying. The service was
eventually delivered by a church elder, fighting hard to control the
lump in his throat.
Later the congregation came to the farm. I
had never seen so many cars or people at our home. I was lost, I could
not bring myself to make tea or have a normal conversation. Everyone
offered their help and many of the farmers literally took over and
looked after the cattle, the labourers, the crops. I received more
meals than we could ever think of eating. My home was filled with
flowers and friends and love, all intensifying the pain even further.
I
was grasping at the few remaining straws of control I still had left. I
felt I was losing my grip and was desperately trying to remain calm. I
had to stay in control. My children needed me.
Later that day
Jaco and I drove to the coroner’s office in a neighbouring town. I
needed to identify Jake and Dries’ bodies. The coroner asked for their
identity documents and was about to stamp “deceased” across the photo
page. I instinctively bellowed for him to stop. The anguish in Jaco's
voice caused me to catch my breath, “Dear Father God, no… please Jesus,
no!”
A few days later their funeral was held and because it was
taking place in a town some 75 kilometres away, my children and I
needed to leave in the early hours. As I drove through the farm gates
my eldest son asked me to stop the car and look at the stars. Eric
Clapton’s “Tears from heaven” was playing on the radio. My son pointed
out two very bright stars, “Mum, that’s Dad and Uncle Dries watching
over us. Everything will be okay Mum. Everything will be okay.”
My
three sons returned to boarding school a week after the funeral. I was
told it was best they return to some form of normality as soon as
possible and that their friends would be of a great help. The school
staff kept a watchful eye on them and I called them individually three
times a day. Their friends avoided them at first; I presume they did
not know what to say. But my boys banded together, supporting each
other and drawing strength from their shared grief. The school Chaplin
prayed with them each evening and in time, became their confidant.
Four
of the attackers were swiftly apprehended, (the fifth remains at large)
and a trial date was set. At each hearing I noticed an elderly black
man; he always chose to sit directly behind us. I wondered why he was
there but he waylaid my fears as he was courteous and appeared to be
truly interested in the proceedings. During a court recess, he remarked
that the last witness had been lying. “Madam,” he said, pointing an
accusing finger at the now empty witness box, “This man, he is telling
a lie. He tells lies, all lies.” On the final court day, when sentence
was passed, my eldest son and I walked out of the courthouse and saw
the same old man standing on the steps outside. As we walked past him,
he called out to my eldest son, “Young master, you are still young. You
have to put this all behind you. Walk forward. Don’t look back. Don’t
let this scar your youth. It is these killers who make people think
everyone is bad. Please young master, don’t judge us all just because
of what these bad men did. Don’t hate and think we are all bad.” God
works in mysterious ways - my son needed to hear that message.
Three
months after the shooting I left the farm. I knew I would never be able
to stay. I was frightened, our lives were destroyed. The folk that
eventually bought the farm were a consortium of black farmers. They
came to view it three weeks after the murders and within a short time,
hard negotiations were on the table. I was looking for a buyer that
would purchase the farm as a going concern, everything included. I did
not want an auction or people walking around poking at stuff. Soon a
price was agreed and I received a deposit. The following day one of the
consortium members was shot and killed in a car hijacking incident.
When his brother called to tell me what had happened, I thought I would
faint. Everything was settled, we were packed up and ready to leave and
then this happened. Fortunately the sale went ahead. In hind sight, I
realize I did not get a good price. If I had been in a different
emotional state I am certain I would have done better. But there is a
certain stigma attached to buying a farm where the farmer had been
murdered.
My children and I were supported by our community, our
extended family and here I have to specially mention, by our farm
labourers. They were devastated by what happened to the man they
idolized. They went out of their way to help me and did what required
doing, without direction. Muriel, my dairy manager, worked tirelessly
without taking weekends off. Many nights, sensing I needed company, she
would sit with me and talk till the small hours. “The boss, he would
have wanted it this way, Madam,” she would say. With the strength we
drew from one another and from the love of the people around us, my
children and I overcame this most difficult period in our lives.
I
moved away to a safer part of the country now; although I will never
really feel that we are safe but God is guiding me and through Him, I
truly feel protected.
My children grew up in the wink of an eye
and have lost much, but they have also gained as I am certain they will
be strong and responsible adults. I find that each passing day they
heal a little more. They have gone on with their lives; they have
accepted what happened and carry no bitterness.
It’s been hard,
many tears have been shed but we are here now, at a new chapter in our
lives. I still ask questions, I feel the loneliness, especially when I
wake to “milk the cows”, which aren’t there.
Jake was a good
man, a wonderful husband and father. He was my best friend, my
soul-mate. And I lost my only brother too. Gone in an instant.
When
I think of what my children and I have lost, I am more adamant than
ever to succeed at making a good life for us all. I want to live my
life in peace and to the full; every moment God has given me is
precious. I am pulling the shards of glass from my heart and pray that
one day I will be healed and that I will find the carefree person I
once was.
·
Some
46-million people inhabit South
Africa, a country approximately twice the
size of Texas.
The population is 77.4% black, 11.7% white, 8.4% of mixed racial
composition and 2.5% Indian. Making it a near photo negative of the USA,
whose white inhabitants constitutes some 85% of the nation.
·
In 1991 South Africa
boasted 85,000 commercial farmers – young militants have murdered 1,658
since then in more than 20,000 armed attacks. Since 1997 farm strikes
have increased by 82% and murders by 70%.
·
The
murders of South African farmers is leading to massive food-insecurity
in the country as there are now merely 35,000 commercial farmers left
who need to produce sufficient food for South Africa’s 46-million
people.
·
Interpol
states that South African farmers have the most dangerous job in the
world - the murder rate for this sector is 313 per 100,000 - the
highest for any sector globally.
©
Cindy-Lou Dale 2004
|
|
