In everything he did during apartheid and after 1994 he literally gave his life to his country
‘I came to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.” Thus Mark Antony spoke at Caesar’s funeral in William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.
In the past week of sadness contradictory opinions were expressed about Pravin Gordhan’s legacy. Many praised him as a fearless fighter for justice. The Economic Freedom Fighters noted his death “without any presence of sorrow”. By “selling” South Africa, he allegedly broke up families and made hungry children cry. Busisiwe Mkhwebane stated that she wanted Gordhan “to live long enough to face the full consequences of the law” for his deeds. Given the disgraced former public protector’s record concerning the truth and her understanding of the law, her negative view should suffice to confirm that he was a national hero.
The opposite of Mark Antony’s statement is also true. Because of respect for the dead, obituaries often emphasise the positive and disregard the negative, so much so that one wonders if the deceased is the person you knew.
This judge does not judge Pravin’s political role. Even the most excellent human beings make mistakes. And he was human, in fact intensely human, much more so than the stern and formal, sometimes larger-than-life, often intimidating public figure we saw and heard on television, speaking emphatically and definitively, in measured tones.
This remarkable human, a revolutionary and fighter with a large soft heart, I was privileged to know, professionally and as a family friend. Once, when I ended up in hospital with an eye injury, I came to my senses in the emergency ward with — of all people — the minister of finance next to my bed. When my wife and I wanted to visit him last week, it was too late. He was already in a coma.
For fun and games he had little time. His dignified wife, Vanitha, jokingly remarked that the two of them were very boring party guests. Yet, in spite of his almost inhuman workload, he valued family life. When our wives arranged family dancing lessons in our backyard on Saturday afternoons, he duly participated and concentrated (more so than I did) — but never got seduced by the Pretoria nightlife …
Few white South Africans realise what life on the wrong side of apartheid’s iron curtain was like, especially for dedicated black activists. At the age of 60 he visited the Kruger National Park for the first time. When I asked Vanitha whether ministers did not have special privileges there, like the Broederbonders of old, she laughingly replied: “Not our minister — he thinks it’s a waste of time.” Because of work, they joined us only on the Saturday morning, for a weekend trip. He struggled to understand why we took a detour on the Sunday to see more game on the way to the gate. The holiday was over, after all.
In the park we drove slowly in front of them, so that he would not get lost. His daughter — now a medical doctor who defended his memory with impressive eloquence this past week — appreciated the time with her father … and held his hand. He explained that the impalas in the park were springbuck — an amazing gap in the facts bank of one of the most intelligent and knowledgeable people I have ever known.
On that trip a family member from Canada asked me how a pharmacist could become minister of finance. The answer was simple: he could grasp any complex problem more quickly than almost anyone I knew.
For watching sport with Vanitha he made time. When I asked why South Africans so keenly supported English soccer teams like Liverpool and Manchester United, the response was quick, direct and almost reprimanding: apartheid alienated the majority from South African teams. One needs something to proudly identify with.
He admired the Australian wicket keeper and batsman Adam Gilchrist, whom he presented to his staff as a role model — not because of his fast centuries, but because he would leave the crease when he knew that he had nicked the ball into the hands of a fielder and was out, rather than to wait for an error by the umpire to save him.
In material wealth and conspicuous consumption he had virtually no interest. The Gordhans’ modest house in Groenkloof, Pretoria, is scarcely decorated. Photographs of Nelson Mandela and Ahmed Kathrada are quite visible. In our house he briefly looked at porcelain collectables and paintings, asked a question and then rather placed a book on economy and the world order in my hand. Birthday presents were works about Mandela and Bram Fischer.
A life of activism: Among the players in Operation Vula, set up to bring freedom fighters back to the country
and maintain communication with leaders in exile and prison, was Pravin Gordhan (second left, standing).
Now and then he — somewhat tongue in cheek — referred to his position in communist structures, especially in his younger days. To the best of my knowledge, he did not strive for the nationalisation of all private property, or to abolish free speech and elections. The communist background might have played a role in his love for and skills regarding strategy, mentioned by former comrades like Trevor Manuel this week.
As an activist and as member of the executive, he was a hard taskmaster. Some called him a “tough SOB” and even a “bully”. As the highly successful commissioner of the South African Revenue Service, he scolded staff members for wasting money on bottled water on the tables during meetings. Tap water was good enough.
I first met him in 1993 during the negotiations for the interim Constitution in Kempton Park. I co-chaired a committee to identify and abolish laws that could impede fair and free elections. These included apartheid laws, draconian “security legislation” and a myriad of powers that were abused by traditional leaders. The task was vast and the time short. During our first report to the big assembly, the emotional meeting (chaired by a later speaker of parliament) descended into chaos. The next meeting was scheduled for a week later.
When I indicated to Pravin in a small office in the World Trade Centre that it might not be possible to be ready in one week, the response was clear: “Professor Van der Westhuizen, you will be!” He chaired the next meeting. It was hugely successful. The first speaker of the democratic parliament, Dr Frene Ginwala, wrote how delightful it was to kill off the laws under which many had been detained, tortured and humiliated, one by one, like swatting flies on a wall. Of the chairpersons I saw in action, Pravin was “simply the best”, to quote Tina Turner. (Not far behind him was National Party minister and former Springbok rugby captain Dr Dawie de Villiers.)
During the drafting of the final Constitution in Cape Town in 1995 and 1996, his contribution was massive, especially in the areas of government structures and local government. With pride he led his committee into parliament’s Old Assembly Hall, long after midnight, file under the arm, briskly, upright, with purpose and urgency.
As an activist he was hard-working, energetic and tough in his dedication to the liberation of us all. With awesome power and tools, apartheid’s security police was no one’s playmate. This did not deter him.
His second struggle was more complex, surprising and indeed sad. It did not come from white racists and thugs, but from close comrades and friends: greed, betrayal, corruption, state capture. During our Kruger Park visit he spoke quite proudly about his appointment by former president Jacob Zuma. Then rumours were spread about an Indian cabal. Voices were raised about Indians in charge of finances. He was moved to another portfolio, then later reappointed as finance minister by an angry and vengeful Zuma.
Pravin’s “connect the dots” speech was a seminal moment in the exposure and fall of Zuma’s corrupt regime. He was threatened; at night cars without lights were seen outside his house; even Vladimir Putin’s men were involved, so it was rumoured, when the Russian nuclear deal was killed. His health started to show the stress.
His years in charge of public enterprises, with Eskom’s load-shedding and the financial woes of SAA, are widely regarded as unsuccessful. Was it because of his mistakes, or was the job undoable? The flawed structure, with two ministers and departments in charge of electricity and resistance from within, did not help.
Pravin never stole anything, even in the midst of seductive chaos. Whether he looked the other way, as André de Ruyter implied, I would not know with certainty. If so, it was not for personal gain; and … he was not the only one. He was disappointed in De Ruyter — and more so in colleagues. One of them allegedly warned him not to stand in the way of a tiger.
Pravin did not mind a fight. He might even have enjoyed it. With justice on one’s side, the wounds are medals of honour. Betrayal hurts though.
He literally gave his life to his country, in which he was a second-class citizen for almost 50 years. At several points he could have left — like others — to make big money out of a best-selling book, in the business world, or in an international organisation. We all make choices, every day. It was his choice, of course. No regrets.
If more of us were like Pravin Gordhan, our beloved constitutional democracy would have a much more promising future.
Johann van der Westhuizen is a former justice of the Constitutional Court of South Africa.