It was a Tuesday morning in June 2008 at 7.30am when I arrived at school (for children with special needs) and found the main gate locked.
This was unusual. The car belonging to the chairperson of the school governing body was parked right in front of the gate, blocking entry into the schoolyard.
When I went to him to inquire about what was happening his response was hostile: “No employee of the Gauteng department of education (GDE) will be allowed in, including you, Madam Principal, because your employer does not want to finish the school for our impaired learners because they are not considered to be normal children.”
I was surprised to hear this remark from the chairperson, with whom I had a cordial working relationship.
I was not only taken aback but shocked that I, the principal, was being ordered not to set foot on my own school premises. I had not been consulted about the protest.
I attempted for a second time to enter the gate but my efforts were thwarted. The chairperson shouted at me, saying: “Ma’am, you’re GDE-employed. Please stay away from us. We and our children are going to toyi-toyi at the MEC’s office today. You can phone your boss if you like but nobody will be allowed in today.”
Angry, I tried to push open the gate again, but in vain. Head office officials who had been informed about the toyi-toying arrived and tried to address the parents, but they (the parents) were in no mood to listen.
I tried to call them to order but they shouted back at me rather menacingly.
“Go and join your employers. We are not interested in talking to you,” they said, almost in unison and visibly angry.
Fortunately a moment of sanity prevailed and we eventually managed to address them outside the schoolyard.
Thereafter they went ahead with their march to head office, the children toyi-toyiing and singing a popular struggle song, Siyaya ePitori siyaya [We are marching to Pretoria].
When they had gone I thought I would be able to gain access to the school. But that was not to be.
As I ordered my staff to move in I realised the gate was still locked. I tried to push it again but my attempt caught the attention of a security guard, who came running towards me, armed with a sjambok.
Wielding it threateningly, he addressed me in isiZulu: Umphathi wami uthe ngingavuli, suka egatini [I was ordered not to open this gate for you].”
I was embarrassed as he ordered me, in front of my staff, to leave the gate. He came towards me as he spoke, clearly wanting to unleash the sjambok on me. That was even more humiliating! I felt devastated by the experience.
I phoned the district director, who ordered the staff to go home, but I was told to remain behind to check that all the learners returned safely.
About 1pm the learners and parents came back looking excited, presumably because they had finally had a chance to make their protest heard.
Their toyi-toyiing seemed to have yielded positive results because a few days later we heard that we had been offered new and better premises. In July we moved in.
So, a situation which had seemed disasÂtrous turned out to be positive. What I learned from the experience is that keeping calm during moments of madness and maintaining one’s dignity may be rewarded. But it is not always easy.
Gloria Setshedi is principal of Isipho Sethu Special School in Ekurhuleni, east of Johannesburg. In 2007 she was a nominee for the National Teaching Awards in the category of Lifetime Achievement