HILDA PHAHLE
This relates to the Gaborone raid in 1985, but I will start from "is hulle dood, morsdood".  These are the words of the South African Defence Force members after killing our children on lot 157157 in Gaborone, Botswana.
 It all began on 10 December 1976, when police from John Vorster Square raided and ransacked our home.  They did not have the decency to tell us what they were looking for.  Their language was spiced with the violence of words.  Yes, 
ALEXANDRA TRC/GAUTENG
3 H PHAHLE
this was the beginning of the rest of our beloved son, George's life, which ended when he, his wife Lindy nee Malaza and her cousin Joseph Malaza, were brutally massacred in their home by the South African Defence Force in Botswana in Gaberone on the 14th of June 1985.
 For us it was years of torment by John Vorster Square, who never tired of regularly raiding us as early as four am, knocking and kicking our doors so hard that even neighbours would get up to see us being humiliated by these earthly gods.  
 After they had been searching on this horrible day of December 10th 1976, Levi, our younger son was taken along with the words that he would be detained until they find what they were looking for.
 At midday on the same day, he was returned after sitting with them in their car, near the entrance of the Standard Bank in Bramley, where they said he should identify his brother to them, as he may be coming to withdraw his savings.  
 The question always arises: who gave them all this information; how did the police happen to know so much?   Only when Levi returned did we know that they were looking for George.  
 Sunday, the 12th of December 1976, was the consecration our bishop, not an Anglican though, at the Anglican Cathedral.  As a church elder I was sitting in the front seat. I could not control my tears.  I wept uncontrollably and the lady who was sitting next to me, took my programme and wrote "I can see you are under stress, contact me".  She gave her phone number and name.  This kind lady was Mrs Helen Suzman.  I never had the guts to contact her.  
ALEXANDRA HEARING TRC/GAUTENG
4 H PHAHLE
 The Sunday Times was saying horrible things about my son. City Press was the only exception. It gave a very consoling report, written by the editor, Mr Percy Gopoza.
 The first week in 1979 we were informed telephonically by a friend of George that he has requested us to fetch his car from a panel-beaters in Mayfair and pay R80,00.  Then thereafter continued to pay the monthly instalments at Donart Motors.
 We went to pay the instalments and were asked for his whereabouts.  We replied that we did not know.  To avoid all their questions we ended up saying we learnt he is in hospital.  They wanted to know which hospital, but we said we did not know.  They then also knew about the panel-beaters.
 Donart Motors accepted my suggestion that I would keep the car and continue paying the instalments until his return.  Later they refused the car and said if I wanted it I should start paying from scratch.  That was our first major loss.
 We went to the panel-beaters where we found the car imposing on the middle of the street. The tyres were deflated, yet somebody was busy polishing it.  That was the last time we saw it.
 At the entrance stood an immaculately dressed white man with his jacket hanging by his finger over his shoulder. Inside, wherever we looked, were blacks dressed in overalls, like the one cleaning the car outside.  
 We were shown into a glass-partitioned office.  On entering we were surprised to find so many people in such a small office.  They all looked like bookkeepers, as they were busy with books and some pretending to be sipping tea. 
ALEXANDRA HEARING TRC/GAUTENG
5
We introduced ourselves. I told them our mission and took out the R80,00 for the panel-beating, what we were told was R80,00, I paid.
 A woman asked me in Xhosa whose name she should write on the receipt. I replied H Phahle or Cecil Phahle, Cecil is George's other name.  Then a white woman said by the way, your son is in a hospital somewhere and we agreed.  As we moved towards the small door we were confronted by one of the men we thought were workers, who said I am major so-and-so who searched your house the other day, you both are under arrest.  All those workers were police.
 When Donart Motors asked us when we were going to the panel-beaters, we said we were on our way there.  So they shuffled their cards well, reported to the panel-beaters and to John Vorster Square.
 On our way out I was handed over to the immaculately dressed man at the entrance.  My husband left with the major in our car.  Into the green/white Chev 4100 I went.   Along the way to John Vorster Square, I travelled with a gentleman, but as soon as we entered the building I discovered I was moving with a Dr Jekyll and a Mr Hyde.  He hurled rude words to me in Afrikaans.  As I could not walk fast, it was just "jou stink" (you stink) one after another. I don't have to put in that word.
 We eventually reached the grilling court where we were thoroughly grilled and told we would be held in detention until we told them the hospital where George was.  We were surrounded by blacks as we were interrogated by the major - who did not listen to our side of the story. I stood my ground and I even spoke my way out. My husband was so disillusioned. He became suspicious and was ultimately sent 
ALEXANDRA HEARING TRC/GAUTENG
6 H PHAHLE
to a cell.  The major kept the car keys, phoned my pastor in Alexandra to come and fetch me, as it was too late.  When my husband was ushered to the cell, I asked the black policeman whether I could bring his toiletries. I was rudely answered ( ... not translated ...)  The major heard us as he was passing. He asked what was happening. I told them, and to my greatest delight he gave them a good drubbing and instructed them to answer my question, which they did briefly, 11 o'clock pasasa.  
 I stood outside waiting and waiting for someone to fetch me. Looking at the watch at John Vorster Square, I cursed the government for all the powers they misused on us blacks.  Then to my surprise I saw a car approaching. My husband was driving. The major had sent for him, given him the car keys, told him to pick me up as he could still see me waiting, he could see me through the window.
 By then he says he had already cleaned the filthy cell he had been thrown into.  He demanded a broom and a pen and cleaned up.  To this day our car is still gone.
 This was only the beginning.
 For years we suffered, not only the agony of a son in exile, but the constant harassment and all the vile language and unpleasant things reported about us as well. We knew where he was but to avoid detention we lived on lives.  They would tap the phone and say this thing tells us everything, "julle lieg" (you are lying). In other words, our phone was tapped.
 In 1984 we decided so far and no further.  We went to visit George whose wife was employed by the Botswana government as a social worker. This was really the beginning of the end. My question will always be: who was the ALEXANDRA HEARING TRC/GAUTENG
7 H PHAHLE
informer.
 At the border we were thoroughly searched.  We were shown George's picture and instructed to tell him to come back to South Africa.
 We went back the second time and on our way we were stopped in Zeerust and led to the police station.  We spent more than two hours under questioning by the lieutenant, who insisted that we must persuade George to come back, and that they would offer him whatever business he ran in Botswana. Not coming to terms with what he was saying, he rudely told us of a very good friend of George whose name he would not divulge, who has been feeding him with all the information they had. He ended up by saying that if he refuses to come back he is going to die a very "gevaarlike dood" (a very terrible death), and which he died.