‘I knew from the shoes he was wearing that it was Hector’

Hector Pieterson, the brother of ANTOINETTE SITHOLE, was one of the first children to die on June 16. Her grief was immortalised in this photograph of Hector by Sam Nzima

HECTOR loved jokes, our mom and kung fu movies. I often wonder, if he was still alive, would he be the same happy person he was back then?

If you liked telling jokes, Hector would never let go of you. His favourite movie actor was Bruce Lee. He would save up five cents every week so that he can sit at the bioscope all day on Saturdays.

He was born Zolile Hector Pitso. Our family changed our surname to Pieterson to improve our chances during apartheid.

Hector avoided fights and stayed away from anything that could land him in trouble.

On the day of the student uprising, Hector was not supposed to be on the march.

He knew he was in big trouble when I spotted him wandering in Moema Street, Orlando West.

By that time all hell had broken loose. Police were shooting at the protesters and everyone ran for cover.

I had just emerged from my hiding spot. The shooting had died down.

I now had to think of a plan to whisk him away from danger too.

Primary-school children like Hector were not supposed to be there. I was angry at him, but I promised to take him home safe.

Before I could act, gunshots sent us running in opposite directions. I went back to my hiding spot.

When I came out, I couldn’t see my little brother.

For a while, I waited in the same corner with the hope that Hector would come.

A few metres away, I saw students gathering with a man walking towards them. I was also curious to know what was happening there. But my main concern was Hector. I didn’t want to lose him again. If he did not find me in the same spot, he might think I’ve left without him or something had happened to me.

Moments later, the man emerged from the crowd carrying a young boy. Blood was coming out of his mouth. As they came closer I knew from the shoes he was wearing that it was Hector. I screamed for help. A press car that was nearby rushed us to the clinic. But Hector was declared dead.

From the clinic window, I watched as Soweto was clouded in smoke.

We never thought the protest would end that way. The excitement and joy of challenging the government earlier that morning had turned into painful tears.

As I watched the chaos outside, I wondered how I was going to tell my mother, grandmother and the whole family about what had happened to him.

With the help of two women, I told the family.

A newspaper article counted him as one of the hundreds killed during the protests.

My mother, Dorothy, didn’t show any emotion. Hector was buried three weeks later and she remained strong. Two years later, she told me that in order to deal with the loss, she had created and believed a story that Hector was hit by a car while crossing the road with me.

Our family still don’t know who killed Hector, but we have learnt to forgive that person.

What has happened, happened. It is not only our family that was affected, many families were. We were fortunate that his last moments were captured.

Our family still don’t know who killed Hector, but we have learnt to forgive that person. What has happened, happened