Document 3: Debbie Wolfe writes about growing up as a white child under apartheid I was born in South Africa, under apartheid -a white child with every privilege. It was the year 1969, five years after Nelson Mandela was sentenced to life in prison. While my parents weren't wealthy, my dad was an engineer, and a graduate of the University of Cape Town. We had a pretty little townhouse in the suburbs of Cape Town. I had good food to eat. There were dolls to play with, and presents under the tree at Christmas. I went to ballet lessons, and my lovely preschool down the road. I had never heard the name 'Nelson Mandela'. I was too little to understand what was happening in my country, or what apartheid meant. I got the faintest glimpse every couple of weeks, when we rode the train into Cape Town to meet my father for lunch. Those were the only days that I actually saw black children. But it was always from far away, or through the window of a train. In the first six years of my life, I never got to speak or play with a child whose skin was a different colour than mine. On those train rides, my mother and I waited on a platform designated for 'whites' waiting to board the train cars for 'whites'. There was a separate platform for blacks'. Once on the train, we'd pass parks and beaches clearly marked white' and black'. In Cape Town, if we needed to go to the bank, we'd approach a different counter than families with black children. Source: Debbie Wolf, I Grew Up In South Africa During Apartheid, Huffington Post, December 6, Context: How has this issue CONTINUED to be an issue OR CHANGED over time? (How has the issue been addressed? Connections to other events?) CONTINUATION FROM PAPER Who: Through this account, we get to know that the issue continued for a long time until the end of apartheid in South Africa in the period between 1990-1993. What: Where: Why/How: Document 4: I spent most of the 100 days of genocide at the orphanage. Each day we had more kids arrive whose parents had been killed and it grew very crowded. Some of the children had hands or arms cut off by the killers. Sometimes parents dropped off their children for safety and then they would try to find a place to hide from the Hutus. There were many instances where I witnessed Tutsi men and women being dragged to their deaths by the killers as they tried to climb the fences of the orphanage. In the orphanage, little children cried every night for their parents. We did not have enough food in the orphanage and many children died from malnutrition or diseases that spread because of the overcrowding. It got to the point that the priests built a cemetery inside the orphanage. Every day or so we all went to the cemetery, the priests would say a prayer, and they would bury a child. It became almost like a daily routine. I was fortunate to never get really sick. Every night, I prayed that the whole thing would be over soon and then I would go back home and see my family. Hutu soldiers, who were trying to escape, came to the orphanage and told the Italian priests that they were going to finish the job and exterminate all the Tutsis, including the children and babies. They herded us into the cafeteria and made us sing their victory songs. Soldiers walked up the aisle in the middle of the cafeteria pointing guns at us and pushed around the priests. The children cried and we thought, "They are going to kill us." But the priests convinced them we could do them no harm and offered them money to leave us.

Document 3: Debbie Wolfe writes about growing up as a white child under apartheid I was born in South Africa, under apartheid -a white child with every privilege. It was the year 1969, five years after Nelson Mandela was sentenced to life in prison. While my parents weren't wealthy, my dad was an engineer, and a graduate of the University of Cape Town. We had a pretty little townhouse in the suburbs of Cape Town. I had good food to eat. There were dolls to play with, and presents under the tree at Christmas. I went to ballet lessons, and my lovely preschool down the road. I had never heard the name 'Nelson Mandela'. I was too little to understand what was happening in my country, or what apartheid meant. I got the faintest glimpse every couple of weeks, when we rode the train into Cape Town to meet my father for lunch. Those were the only days that I actually saw black children. But it was always from far away, or through the window of a train. In the first six years of my life, I never got to speak or play with a child whose skin was a different colour than mine. On those train rides, my mother and I waited on a platform designated for 'whites' waiting to board the train cars for 'whites'. There was a separate platform for blacks'. Once on the train, we'd pass parks and beaches clearly marked white' and black'. In Cape Town, if we needed to go to the bank, we'd approach a different counter than families with black children. Source: Debbie Wolf, I Grew Up In South Africa During Apartheid, Huffington Post, December 6, Context: How has this issue CONTINUED to be an issue OR CHANGED over time? (How has the issue been addressed? Connections to other events?) CONTINUATION FROM PAPER Who: Through this account, we get to know that the issue continued for a long time until the end of apartheid in South Africa in the period between 1990-1993. What: Where: Why/How: Document 4: I spent most of the 100 days of genocide at the orphanage. Each day we had more kids arrive whose parents had been killed and it grew very crowded. Some of the children had hands or arms cut off by the killers. Sometimes parents dropped off their children for safety and then they would try to find a place to hide from the Hutus. There were many instances where I witnessed Tutsi men and women being dragged to their deaths by the killers as they tried to climb the fences of the orphanage. In the orphanage, little children cried every night for their parents. We did not have enough food in the orphanage and many children died from malnutrition or diseases that spread because of the overcrowding. It got to the point that the priests built a cemetery inside the orphanage. Every day or so we all went to the cemetery, the priests would say a prayer, and they would bury a child. It became almost like a daily routine. I was fortunate to never get really sick. Every night, I prayed that the whole thing would be over soon and then I would go back home and see my family. Hutu soldiers, who were trying to escape, came to the orphanage and told the Italian priests that they were going to finish the job and exterminate all the Tutsis, including the children and babies. They herded us into the cafeteria and made us sing their victory songs. Soldiers walked up the aisle in the middle of the cafeteria pointing guns at us and pushed around the priests. The children cried and we thought, "They are going to kill us." But the priests convinced them we could do them no harm and offered them money to leave us.