21. Pretoria, 1993 — The question
In which Eleanor confronts the price of honesty.
As Eleanor navigates a high-stakes interview, will truth elevate or sink her?
Eleanor
“What do you think about affirmative action?” Henrik asks me evenly, with no hint that this is a minefield of a question that could blow my candidacy right out of the water. And yet it’s also the easiest question so far for me. I don’t even have to think about what’s the best or right answer.
“I believe in it. Wholeheartedly. I’ve lived it.” I catch a momentary glimpse of what seems like surprise crossing Henrik’s face, but he quickly stills his features back to neutral.
We’re sitting in Henrik’s bright sunny office in one of the Department of Foreign Affairs’ office buildings downtown. It’s not the Union Buildings, as I’d secretly hoped it would be, but still, I’m here. I’m here! I’m still a little stunned that I am. His office has a comfortable couch in it, two formal armchairs, and a large Persian rug on the floor. Behind his large desk are bookshelves arrayed both with books, and various objets d’art from around the world. He’d gestured me to the couch as I entered, and seated himself in one of the armchairs.
His office reminds me of André Beckham’s study—full of interesting paintings, ornaments, rugs, and books. It’s a room that is quiet in its sophistication, but clearly the product of a refined, and well-traveled, taste.
“Be yourself, Eleanor,” André had advised when I told him I’d been invited to interview and had asked him about how best to prepare. Like Henrik now, he had moved out from behind his desk when I put my head into his study after spending some time chatting with Aunty Trudy and Helen, and gestured me to the couch in his office. Maybe it’s a diplomat thing. “You have the smarts, you have the right degree, you have the right outlook. Now it’s about if they see in you what I see in you—someone who would be a great diplomat for South Africa.” He had flicked a speck of invisible dust off his well tailored trousers. “So be yourself, because that’s who we need in the future government. Someone with your passion, your determination, and your belief in the future South Africa. Henrik Viljoen is an excellent diplomat and a keen judge of character. You won’t be able to pull the wool over his eyes. So just be honest and straightforward,” he had paused, then added, with a wry smile and a chuckle, “like you always are.”
So here I am.
“Say more,” Henrik says levelly, his gaze steady, but piercing.
André had warned me to expect this question in some form. He had refused to coach me, but had told me to think about it carefully, and have a well reasoned argument for whatever I said. “Henrik won’t tolerate any hedging or fence-sitting. Take a stand—and have a well reasoned argument for whatever stand you take. The quality of your reasoning, the clarity of your thinking, and the clearness of your speaking is more important than the actual stand you take.” Thank goodness for all those English essays and legal analysis. This I know I can do.
I take a breath to settle and pace myself. Here we go.
“I was in residence at the University of Natal for all three years of my degree. In first year, in the residence hall I was in, we were 91 white women, 3 black and 8 Indian women. It was like that in all the res halls. By third year, I was one of only four white women in my res hall—and the same flip was happening University wide.”
I look down at my lap. My ankles are crossed sedately. St Anne’s has drilled some things into us. I look up at Henrik. He is leaning back, one elbow on the armrest, his chin resting on one hand. His face is intent, but unreadable.
Swallowing, I continue.
“In second year, everyone was telling me to leave residence, to get a place off-campus.” My mind flicks back to Amy at the pool. You missed the best part, I want to tell her. “Everyone—students, parents, alumni—said res life was changing for the worse, that all the old traditions were going, that this was a mistake and wrong and that the University would regret its policy shift and should be going more slowly.”
Henrik’s steady gaze is a bit unnerving. Not cold, not hard, but intently listening. Listening like few other people I’ve ever met. I notice my palms getting sweaty. I hope I’m not starting to blush.
“Res life did change. The old traditions did go. Something new started to emerge. And it was so much better. And I was lucky enough to be part of helping to shape what a new res life would look like. In third year, I was even voted onto House Committee by my res mates.”
Henrik has remained still, his chin still resting on one hand. I find his stillness and steady gaze unnerving. He seems interested, but is he? I just can’t gauge how what I am saying is landing. I notice the urge to pick at my nails. I purposefully still my hands, thankful for all the debate training St Anne’s gave us.
“Third year in res was the best, most fun year of all of them. And not because I was on House Com. In first year, when we were 90 percent white, res life was pretty awful. Loud, drunken girls, who left their stuff everywhere, and just expected staff to clean up after them.” I can still smell the nauseating smell of stale beer, dried vomit, and dirty underwear that was one girl’s room.
“In third year, the res hall was peaceful, clean, quiet. Instead of the smell of stale beer in the quad, there was the smell of clean laundry. Instead of loud parties, we celebrated Diwali. The Indian women put candles everywhere in the res hall, it was so beautiful.
“So yes, I’ve lived affirmative action. It works. It’s exactly what we need if we’re going to build a South Africa that actually looks like South Africa.”
I fall silent, suddenly embarrassed that I’ve been too passionate, too blunt. But it’s the complete truth. Henrik gives an almost imperceptible nod, shifts his body slightly in the chair, and both hands relax across his lap.
The interview moves on, Henrik asking me questions about current affairs, the negotiations, where I thought South Africa needed to focus its international efforts. Serious, thoughtful, real questions. I can’t get a read on how my answers are landing, so I just stick, as André had recommended, with saying what I truly believe, what I know, and being clear about what I don’t.
Technically, if I get the job, I will be working for the apartheid government, but not really. CODESA II1 broke down last year, but then negotiations restarted again right before graduation. Studying constitutional law in third year right as the ANC and the last apartheid government were negotiating had been fascinating. In comparison to second year, which was dry as nails, third year law was alive. Every day there was something new coming out of the negotiations. Studying and comparing different constitutional models wasn’t a dry academic exercise. It was real and unfolding in front of our eyes. It was shaping the future we were all going to live in in South Africa.
So I’m not worried that I’d be working for the apartheid regime for long if I get this. It’s on its last legs.
Soon it will be Mandela’s government.
I stop for a moment to take it all in.
The Union Buildings lie in a gracious semi-circle in front of me. The warm yellow sandstone and red tiled roof glow in the morning light. In the center, the steps rise to the amphitheater, the deep shade of the gracious colonnade behind it. On my left, the Presidential wing. On my right, the Department of Foreign Affairs. Just visible over the rooftop, the towers rise above each wing.
It feels both familiar and strange at the same time. Visits to the Union Buildings have been part of my life ever since I can remember. Every out of town visitor gets taken to this jewel of Pretoria. Sitting on top of Meintjieskop, it commands a spectacular view across the bowl that holds the city center, and across to the Muckleneuk and Waterkloof Ridges. Pretoria may be, according to South African folklore, the “least windy city”, but in the morning light, green with the summer rains, the sweep of the low escarpment ridges, and in the valleys the treed streets, it is truly beautiful.
Behind me, the immaculate terraced lawns and formal gardens step gently down to Church Street. The stately pines demarcate the wide open lawn at the bottom, and provide vertical interest throughout the broad horizontal sweep of the terraces.
I turn back to soak in the buildings again. I’ve been brought up with the quiet pride of English speaking white South Africans that it was one of our own, Herbert Baker, who was the architect of this icon of British Imperial power. That it became the home to the apartheid government does not diminish its classical beauty.
Today—today!—I get to go inside. Not as a visitor, but as a member of the South African government.
I feel like the luckiest woman in the world right now.
Bonus Material - Icons of Pretoria
The Union Buildings: A complicated history.
The Voortrekker Monument: it’s controversial counterpart.
Book Club #3: The Bold and the Beautiful—Young Diplomats for Mandela, with Guests
Saturday, January 4, 2025, 10am ET (US)/ 5pm South Africa
It was the dawn of the new era. Freedom had come. And we were young and literally right there, starting our careers as diplomats. Our guests this month will be two other South African diplomats.
Convention for a Democratic South Africa—the negotiations between the African National Congress, National Party and other political parties to create a new constitution for South Africa.