Khwezi no longer called Zuma 'Uncle'

In death "Khwezi" has regained her true identity. I remember Fezekile Ntsakela Kuzwayo as a brave young woman who I last saw in a green scarf, writes Ronnie Kasrils.

I had known her as Fezeka when she was a six-year-old schoolgirl living in Manzini, Swaziland. She was bright, sweet and lively and when I slipped clandestinely into that kingdom from Mozambique to meet her father, Judson Kuzwayo, I looked forward to seeing her. Like other struggle figures we were abomalume - her loving, trusted uncles.

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Her mother, Beauty, would make us feel at home while cooking a welcome meal. We would sit, deep in conversation, with her beloved father, Judson, a 40-year-old struggle veteran from Durban who had served 10 years on Robben Island.

He headed an ANC underground structure in Swaziland and, having gained refugee status, was able to live openly with a degree of tenuous protection - but the family, particularly Beauty, felt the stress.

The young Fezeka appeared carefree and would run errands for us after school, happy to buy the newspapers we avidly read.

She and I liked ice cream and she knew she was in for a treat when I was around. I would read to her at bedtime, having sometimes helped out with her homework. She was so bright.

She was not immune from the tensions her mother endured. Raids from apartheid hit squads, including some led by Eugene de Kock, left bodies in their wake, and Fezeka had seen the corpse of a slain comrade in a neighbourhood garden.

Such murderous activities led the ANC to withdraw the Kuzwayo family in 1985. Judson became the chief representative in Zimbabwe, where Fezeka's life changed dramatically. Her father was to die tragically in a car crash within months. She and her mother were devastated.

Life in exile was not easy, despite the close-knit nature of ANC communities and families caring for one another. There were good times when confidence soared and times of stress. Danger was ever present. Life without a father figure was all the more vulnerable.

Fezeka suffered in exile and there were reported cases of sexual abuse with which the ANC tried to deal - not always with success. Friends say she did not receive the justice and protection she deserved - abroad or back home.

I had lost touch after she and her mother left Swaziland and only saw Fezeka again early in 2005. Her friend from exile days, Kimmy Msibi, was working in the intelligence sector when I became minister. When she told me Fezeka was working as a health activist in Pretoria, and wished to see me, I readily agreed and invited her to tea.

Before me appeared an attractive, well-built young woman, bursting with energy and charm. She clearly had a zest for life. She was open about her HIV-positive status and energetic in her activism on that and gender equality.

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We talked about the Swaziland period, joking about our shared love of ice cream, and what an outstanding man her late father was. She explained that she was keen to study homeopathy in Australia and I undertook to see what I could do in raising funds from her father's former comrades.

I was making some progress when on the morning of November 4 2005 she phoned to inform me she was laying a charge of rape against her late father's comrade. There was no "Uncle" prefix, only the man's name. This signalled real anger. For a younger person to refer to an older man in that way reflected a loss of respect for him.

While that startled me, the actual allegation came as a huge shock. This is not the place to deal with all my reactions (I have in a recent court case) but once I ascertained that she had had a medical examination and with a group of women was on her way to lay a charge against that man, there was nothing I could do. Her reason for calling me was to inform someone in a position of authority about her allegation, for in rape cases that is considered by the police to be important in the absence of witnesses.

The rape trial, which saw the person she accused being found not guilty, took a severe toll on her and her mother. The manner in which the defence was conducted spoke of all the notorious stereotypical male prejudices and attitudes. Fezeka's complaint was not assisted by the pro-male bias of South African law.

What was even more of a scandal was the lynch-mob behaviour of the defendant's supporters outside the court and the triumphalist renditions of "umshini wami" (bring me my machine gun) by the accused.

He was found not guilty of rape but certainly found wanting in the realm of gender abuse, and the country awaits his words of remorse and apology.

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Those who behaved in that disgraceful manner, who vilified Fezeka further by alleging she had been the willing bait in a "honey trap", reflected the worst possible traits of a sick society and need to hang their heads in shame. Their disgusting behaviour will never be forgotten.

Fezeka has triumphed over their abominable misogyny - including that of the person she accused.

Fezeka has been martyred by the putrid and odious male chauvinism and patriarchy of our country and is a heroine of young women in particular and our women and people in general.

Back in Christmas 2005, while she was under police protection pending the trial of a powerful man, I asked Kimmy, her trusted friend, to pass on a green scarf and greeting card by way of love and solidarity.

Just a few weeks before her untimely death I invited her and her mother to dinner in Durban. This was the first time we had met since 2005. She had spent most of that time abroad caring for her mother, the two of them afraid to live in South Africa. I wanted to discuss arrangements I was making to provide her with the funds I was awarded in my defamation case against Kebby Maphatsoe and the Umkhonto weSizwe Military Veterans Association. They alleged, among other smears, that I had "hand-picked" Fezeka to entrap the man she accused of raping her.

That evening she was in a happy mood and appeared well on the way to recreating her life although there were still signs of vulnerability. She asked me what I thought of the scarf she was wearing. I had not noticed. It was the green scarf I had sent one of the dearest young people I have known for what must have been her loneliest Christmas, in 2005.