The great march against the pass laws 60 years ago highlighted the role of women in the liberation struggle, some of whom are no getting to tell their stories. Rea Khoabane joined her mother and some former comrades on a visit to the prison where they were held for daring to defy the apartheid state. It is a normal day for the inmates at this Kroonstad jail. But for me, it is a very emotional time.I have come to Bizzah Makhate Correctional Centre, formerly known as Kroonstad Prison. Thirty years ago my mom was imprisoned here for her political activities.Today we know about women such as Lilian Ngoyi, Helen Joseph, Rahima Moosa and Sophia Williams de Bruyn and their fight against the injustices of apartheid. But there were many others who risked danger, persecution and death for freedom. One of those was my mom, Mojabeng Radebe."Are you sure you want to see my cell?" she asks me."I wouldn't be born today if you didn't come out in time to conceive my twin brother and me," I reply.My mother fell pregnant with me and Kabelo the week she was released from prison, in June 1987. "When I got out of prison I found my boyfriend waiting for me at my parents' house," she laughs, "but that's another story."After giving birth she found work as a cashier at KFC to help support her new family.My twin brother and I became my grandparents' burden. We grew up in Thabong, a township outside Welkom, hearing political stories. My grandparents would tell me that they never thought my mother was going to come home from prison alive, and were overjoyed to see her every time she was released.block_quotes_start It was 2am and there were 20 police vehicles and hippos. It was that night I realised not even my own father could protect me block_quotes_endShe was a tomboy, and they reckoned her interest in politics could have been influenced by the fact that she hung around a lot of guys.This month we are celebrating 60 years since 20,000 women marched to the Union Buildings in Pretoria against the pass laws. My mother and other female political prisoners are getting to tell their stories through a government initiative called Her Story.My aunt, who went into exile at the age of 14 and ended up in Cuba, will never get to tell her story. She passed away in 2003.My uncle, who I'll call Oupa, is still very involved in politics, but does not blow his own horn; he was one of the youths sought by the security police in Welkom in the 1980s.full_story_image_hleft1I remember him telling me that he wrote his matric exam in prison and passed, but not to his satisfaction. "After I was released from prison, I rewrote my exams so that I could get a scholarship to study at Medunsa - which I did," he said.One of the stories I heard growing up was that my other uncle, who was a police officer, was once asked to demolish my grandparents' house with a tractor, because the police couldn't find Oupa.My uncle was able to dodge this horrific task only because my grandmother was a traditional healer and the apartheid regime respected traditional healers' homes.It was for this reason that my grandparents' house was a political home or hiding spot for struggle fighters in the township .The '80s were the years in which the apartheid regime came under increasing internal pressure.As strikes and mass-action campaigns erupted in townships around the country, a friendship developed between my mother and two other activists, Matiro Mokgopudi and Alice Lesole, who are also walking in the footsteps of the past today.block_quotes_start There were times we were arrested and questioned in a painful way to admit to things we didn't even do. We didn't enjoy our youth spending life in and out of prison block_quotes_endMy mom calls to them. "Matiro ... Alice, come and see ... the netball field we used to play on is still here."Inside my mother's prison cell we find a white woman by the name of Jackie, dressed in blue prison uniform. My mother was jailed as a political prisoner; the current inmate is serving her six-year sentence for fraud."Jaja", as my mom was known to her comrades, wrote some of her matric exams in prison. "My father got me my exam number and asked the prison officer to help me write my exams. I wrote some and others I didn't. I wanted to go back to school to finish my exams but we were labelled as terrorists so no school took us back," she says.Says Mokgopudi: "Imagine knowing that you're arrested for everyone's freedom and having to go back to a community that is being taught to look at you as a terrorist. It was really painful."She says their journey as political prisoners had begun in the Welkom police holding cells "where we were detained for 90 days without appearing in court"."Already from that time no parents wanted their child to be associated with us."Lesole, who was arrested in front of her newly born child, says she had no idea that she would be gone for a year without seeing her baby."Coming back here is very emotional for me. The night I was arrested it was like they were looking for a serial killer. It was 2am and there were 20 police vehicles and hippos. It was that night I realised not even my own father could protect me."Her father had promised that no one would take her in front of him. Then a giant of a white man kicked down the door of their home ."I remember how my father just stood there while they took me and I was ordered to pack my toiletry bag, which was next to my baby who was sleeping," she says.Female political prisoners were incarcerated at Kroonstad prison while male political prisoners were held on Robben Island."Between 1984 and 1986 we were held in solitary confinement several times. The longest time we served in prison was from June 1986 to June 1987," says my mom."There were times we were arrested and questioned in a painful way to admit to things we didn't even do. We didn't enjoy our youth, spending life in and out of prison."I thought after 29 years I wouldn't recognise this place, but looking at the walls and the corners, not much has changed from a place that was a nightmare home back then."sub_head_start A schoolgirl in fight for right sub_head_endMojabeng "Jaja" Radebe joined the Congress of South African Students as an 18-year-old pupil of Thotagauta High School in Thabong in the Free State.In 1985 she was preparing to cross into Lesotho when her brother, fearing her arrest, fetched her from the ANC's Thaba 'Nchu safe house.That year she was arrested under Section 50 of the Internal Security Act and in 1987 she was detained without trial.On Tuesday, thousands of women gathered at the Union Buildings to honour those who marched against the pass laws in 1956...