At five minutes to midnight this past Saturday, I was stopped by two Tshwane Metro Police Department officers at the Garsfontein Road off-ramp onto the N1 South in Pretoria. With flashing torches, the officers, who were conducting a roadblock, stopped my car and I duly obliged – because that is what law-abiding citizens do when given instructions by law enforcement officers. I would soon learn that sometimes, abiding by the law might be the most catastrophic decision a woman travelling alone in the middle of the night can do.
One of the officers approached my stationary car and requested my driver’s licence, which I gave him. After briefly inspecting it, he proceeded to shine the torch into my car, asking whether I had been drinking or if there was any alcohol in the car. I informed him that I do not drink alcohol, and therefore there was none in the car.
To put emphasis on this, I suggested that he subject me to a breathalyser test for confirmation. His next words left me cold: “There’s no need for a breathalyser, but let me kiss you”, after which he leaned into my window to attempt a kiss. I immediately snatched my licence from his hand and drove off onto the off-ramp.
But I did not drive home immediately. Instead, I parked my car on the side of the N1, put on my hazards and tried to gather my thoughts. I was scared. The counter had left me shaken. But it was not the first time that a law enforcement officer had left me apoplectic with fear. Shortly before lockdown was instituted, I was stopped at a roadblock near Roedeen School in Parktown, this time by the Johannesburg Metro Police Department. I was with my friend, Dr Lieketseng Ned, and the officer requested to see my licence. After inspecting it, he leaned into my car and made suggestive comments about my thighs, which were visible from the short dress that I was wearing.
The Johannesburg incident left me angry – but the incident in Pretoria left me shaken and afraid, because I was alone. Where normally a law enforcement officer is supposed to make a citizen feel safe, I was, on two occasions, left terrified by encounters with metro police officers who, in seeing me, saw an object for their sexual gratification.
I shared my story with my friends on Facebook and was stunned by the many comments of women sharing similar experiences. What I assumed was a rare occurrence turns out to be something common. Women across the country are being subjected to unthinkable sexual harassment at the hands of metro police officers who stop us at roadblocks and request kisses, our mobile numbers or in one case shared by a Facebook user, a blowjob. This is what it means to be a woman in SA. This is our daily lived experience.
I will be writing a letter of complaint to the City of Tshwane. Though I do not have the officer’s details, nor was I able to take down the vehicle registration number since I sped off onto the freeway after snatching my licence back, I am going to let the office of the executive mayor know that this happened, because that man might have taken away my sense of security but he is not going to take away my voice – and the voices of many other women who must daily negotiate existence in a society where we are abused by men, including those who have sworn to protect us.
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