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The day before I write this is the 11th of September,
the first anniversary of the destruction of the Twin Towers in New York.
It's a date that from now on will be burned into people's collective memories.
But it was already burned into mine, because yesterday was also the 31st
anniversary of the day my daughter was born.
Last year I awoke with absolute dread on my daughter's 30th birthday.
Cruelly, the events in New York have made sure I will never be able to
forget it. '9/11' is written and talked about everywhere, and each time
I see it, it is like a knife in my heart. It is a date that has been seared
into my brain for two-thirds of my life.
I became pregnant at 16. A forbidden love. In 1971, South Africa was at
the height of its repression. Apartheid was not just between black and
white, but anyone who dared to go against the government and morals of
the country. Being an unmarried mother was one of many things that were
not tolerated.
I was still at school - a strict and severe convent staffed by nuns -
and extremely cruel; warped women most of them were too. I was so terrified
that I did not confide in anyone until I was seven months' pregnant and
could no longer fit into my school uniform.
With great fear, I told my mother. I was desperate to keep the baby, but
helpless due to my age and circumstances. I was whisked off to a tiny
town in Zululand where our old family doctor was living. The nuns were
told I had glandular fever. I was given no information on childbirth and
told to speak to nobody. I had to pretend to be married, and an adoption
was arranged by my mother and the doctor. I was given no say and had no
rights. My baby girl was taken from me at birth.
I have never recovered.
On my return to Cape Town, I refused to return to school. It was a nervous
breakdown, although I did
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