Navi Pillay: A woman of many firsts
The retired judge talks to Athandiwe Saba about being the daughter of a bus driver, a little girl who swore at school, and the pressure of being a leading woman in the world and a mother at home
You are a woman of many firsts: opening your own law firm and attending Harvard. You are also an expert in international criminal law. What is one of the highlights?
Well, there are many. Being the judge president of the UN Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda was one. My friends in NGOS told me: “If you don’t accept there won’t be a woman on the bench.” So I stayed there for eight-and-a-half years.
The brave witnesses from Rwanda, mainly women who had nothing to gain, came at great risk to themselves to relive this whole situation. [It helped me] to understand what the role was about and why the Rwandans are seeking justice.
Another milestone was the two judgments that the world now acknowledges were groundbreaking. We found that rape and sexual violence constitute genocide and crimes against humanity. These had never been prosecuted before. What happens to women in conflicts was taken for granted as collateral damage: something that happens or trophies that men can collect. No, this is a crime, and you’re going to get life imprisonment.
It was such hard work. I thought of giving up every day; I wished I didn’t have to do it. Sometimes, I would just weep because you’re trying to prepare when at home, [but] there’s no power, and the mosquitoes are chewing you up.
The other milestone is the media case, about radio RTLM [Radio Télévision Libre des Mille Collines]. According to all the evidence, if it hadn’t been for that radio station, and its messaging, the genocide wouldn’t have spread all over the country. So here we find a negative media playing a terrible role. The radio station’s owner and a journalist were convicted of genocide and sentenced to life imprisonment.
What was it like going to Harvard and getting a doctorate there during the 80s as a black woman from apartheid South Africa?
None of us had that kind of opportunity before. I was in the segregated university in Natal, where the nonwhite students were taught in the potato warehouse. My father was a bus driver. So that’s my background on why it was such a shock to me to see this wealthy university. They even had free coffee at the café. Things like that impressed me.
At the time, in 1981, I had just finished the ANC trial of Harry Gwala and others, and I went to visit them on Robben Island. I was heartbroken because we lost the appeal and we knew that on the evidence they shouldn’t have been convicted. So they encouraged me to take our court reports to the US and speak to judges to see whether they would have delivered a conviction.
I came back home, worked for four years and said I wanted to do the doctorate. Harvard only selected seven people from the whole world each year. My lawyer colleagues said to me: “What do you want to do all this for? You know, it’s not like you can charge more fees.” And I said to them: “You see, you use your money to buy Mercedes-benzes. I want to invest in my education one day.”
I want you to take me back to a young girl on the streets of Clairwood in Durban …
I didn’t spend days thinking about things I don’t have. You played with children outside. You put the empty milk cans on top of each other and hit it with the ball. Ah, yes, we had great fun with children of all races. We weren’t even aware of racism, except for whites towards you.
We had the bucket system, and my father went to ask the driver of the truck whether we could have an extra bucket because there were so many people living in our yard. The man said “No, you can’t.”
There was an altercation and my father swore at him and said: “Yeah, that’s why you’re only good enough to drive a shit truck.” It shocked me: my father telling off a white person. So it was like every other child in South Africa. You grow up, seeing apartheid all around you and seeing your parents being humiliated.
Once I got into trouble, because I swore at another child, I’m talking about “mabeech”. I’d heard my mother use it against the neighbour. I didn’t know what it meant. I was hauled up in front of the class. I can still visualise the anger and shock of the teachers. Meanwhile, I’m thinking: “I wonder what it means? It must be a bad word.”
You know, we could have had more happiness and hugs from our parents. We didn’t get all that — but loads of encouragement to get on with your schoolwork. My mother never went to school because her father had said: “If you go to school, you learn to write love letters to boys. Therefore, you can’t go to school.”
What is the meal you looked forward to your mother cooking?
Curries are obviously my favourite. We were brought up on that, but also oats porridge was your daily breakfast. Even today I love simple food. I
could not be bothered by these fancy restaurants where they put a big plate in front of you and you have to look at the squiggles of food.
Did you learn to cook these meals?
They were very strict with us as teenagers. Oh my God, you can’t leave the house. You can’t have a boyfriend. Oh no. And you can’t sing love songs — you have to sing religious songs. My resentment against the rules that applied to the girls but not to my brothers grew. You had to clean and cook. It was hard work. You know, I’m on my knees and polishing the stoep with the red polish.
What do you do when you wake up?
I’m here in Jo’burg now to help my daughter because she just had a baby — best news in the world. And I can do that now because I’m retired. I love listening to music and news is
a priority. Obviously, I do yoga. It’s helped me with physical health, but also mental health.
Being the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights was one of the most difficult tasks. In all those years in Switzerland without sunshine, I suffered. We take it for granted the amazing weather we have here.
You’re a judge and also a human rights activist. Some of your work criticises countries and their leaders for human rights abuses. How do you cope with the backlash?
So you hit the nail on the head about the challenges of being High Commissioner for Human Rights. And you’re right, because it’s very political — most countries would like you to go criticise their enemies, but not themselves or their friends, They don’t want you to look in their own backyard; they want you looking at faraway places. The UN created this post because of civil society demands. It’s not like governments woke up one day and decided: “Okay, yeah, we need more accountability here. Let’s have a High Commissioner for Human Rights, scrutinising all of us.”
When I came on board in 2008, many people said I had a lot of courage in taking up issues. I think that
comes from our experience in confronting apartheid and speaking the truth. We had like 10 offices in various countries — not a single one was headed by a black person. Not a single one was headed by a woman, a black woman. Now, because of my South African experience, I would notice this. One day, I said to them: “I will not tolerate apartheid in my office. I’m going to do something about it.” But it was so difficult because of entrenched rights.
Does being a powerful judge make you a powerful mom and grandma?
Please. They don’t care that you’re a powerful lawyer, or you’re busy with major cases. As soon as you enter the house, it’s “Mom, we are hungry.”
I have two girls. Neither of them did law: they said they could see that we are working too hard and not bringing in any money.
You know, let me tell you, as an educated mother you definitely have the skills to bring up your children better. They get the love and attention; they get the direction without you dictating to them.
The joy children and grandchildren give you, they are the most important — this is why when we have an opportunity to make change for the better [we must take it].
‘It was such hard work. I thought of giving up every day; I wished I didn’t have to do it. Sometimes, I would just weep’