Changemakers

Changemakers Podcast: Ivor Jenkins 

[Karen Allen] (0:03 - 0:51)

Welcome to Moments in Transformation, the podcast from the In Transformation Initiative (ITI), a peacebuilding project founded in South Africa. Drawing on the lessons learned during the country’s own transition, ITI applies these experiences to mediation, negotiation and peacebuilding efforts around the world - bringing former adversaries together to forge agreements and navigate the difficult compromises that peace often requires.

In this podcast, we offer an insider’s perspective on the negotiation process: the moments of drama, tension and breakthrough, told by the people who experienced them firsthand.

I’m Karen Allen, your host for this series. Today we’re joined by ITI director Ivor Jenkins, who shares the remarkable story of his life.

Ivor, welcome to Moments in Transformation.

[Ivor Jenkins] (0:52 - 0:52)

Thank you, Karen.

[Karen Allen] (0:53 - 1:49)

It’s a pleasure to have you here. In many ways, you are the quiet, steady backbone of the In Transformation Initiative - someone whose presence is often understated, even self-effacing. In the short time I’ve known you, I’ve come to think of you as something of a gentle giant.

You are a tall and imposing figure when you walk into a room. Yet behind that presence lies a remarkable story: that of a man with a deep sense of fairness, a strong faith, and a life shaped by considerable challenges. These include not only the struggle for South Africa’s democratic transition, but also difficulties in your personal and family life.

So where should we begin? Perhaps with your childhood - where you grew up and the world that shaped you. You were raised in a traditional Afrikaner religious environment in a small town. Tell us a little about the young Ivor Jenkins.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:49 - 3:44)

Thanks, Karen. Indeed, it’s great to be here. I suppose with a name like Ivor Jenkins everyone assumes that I’m English-speaking.

But it’s interesting that even when I matriculated, I couldn’t really speak English properly. And I suppose, even forty or fifty years later, I still struggle with it. I grew up in a very Afrikaans community in a small town in what was then the Eastern Transvaal, now Mpumalanga, called Waterval Boven. It was a traditional Afrikaner small-town environment, a fantastic life in a fantastic place to grow up, very much cut off from the realities of the wider world.

You simply lived a quiet, simple life there. I grew up in a very conservative Christian family. My mother and father were deeply religious and part of the Afrikaans Baptist church community in that small town. Church services, youth meetings and Sunday school were at the center of our lives. 

Another important part of life was sport: rugby, cricket and athletics, which were typical for young boys. There was also the openness of the environment - the mountains and the rivers. There was a beautiful river where we went fly-fishing. It was a wonderful life for a young person, in a very stable family for which I remain deeply grateful. My parents were simply wonderful.

I have a sister, so we were a small family, but we were also part of a big, close-knit, conservative Afrikaans Christian community.

[Karen Allen] (3:44 - 3:46)

Was that in a farming area?

[Ivor Jenkins] (3:48 - 4:49)

Waterval Boven is a railway town, and almost everyone there works on the railway. My father did as well.

My mother was a teacher at the local school. But around Waterval Boven, in places like Belfast, Machadodorp and other towns - the surrounding areas were all farming communities. Even today they are still dominated by agriculture. Lydenburg, for example, is very much part of that farming world. All my ancestors, my grandparents and those before them were farmers.

So every holiday, every December, I would go to my grandmother’s farm. She had thousands of Merino sheep and I would spend the whole December holiday there. As a young boy it was just fantastic: the openness, the freedom, having no fears and simply doing everything a young child could hope to do.

[Karen Allen] (4:49–4:56)

And was there any exposure at that point to what was happening in the world? We’re talking about the 1950s and 1960s?

[Ivor Jenkins] (4:57–5:14)

Yes, when I was growing up there. The only exposure was that next to Waterval Boven, the white town, there was Ngwenya, the township. And obviously, in the traditional apartheid system, black people were almost like shadows - out of sight and out of mind.

[Karen Allen] (5:15–5:20)

Because that was 1948 when the formal rules came in. So we’re talking about roughly twelve years into that system.

[Ivor Jenkins] (5:20 - 7:39)

Yes. I think apartheid, the first generation of real official separation had already taken hold. But perhaps it’s also important to say that in the house where I grew up there wasn’t open racism. At least, I never heard my parents making harsh racist statements.

There wasn’t an overt anti-black position. Rather, there was this Christian idea that you should be good to everyone. There were good relationships, although of course they were paternalistic, and so on. Like many homes at the time, there was a domestic worker in the house and a gardener.

But you asked about exposure to people of colour at the time, and there is an interesting moment, or rather a series of moments in my life. My father was the South African heavyweight boxing champion. He was a Springbok boxer and competed internationally, at the Commonwealth Games and elsewhere.

In his spare time he often coached boxing in the afternoons or evenings. Once a week he would also go into the township of Ngwenya, where he coached a few young black boxers. Every few months there would be a tournament, where boxers from different townships within the railway community would compete against one another.

At these tournaments my father would usually serve as the referee, and I would sit next to the ring and ring the bell. He and I would often be the only two white people among a crowd of perhaps one or five hundred people in an old, rusty hall in the township on a Saturday evening.

Looking back on it now, it was quite an interesting experience. I never felt any fear. And at the time it never really occurred to me that we lived separately, or that the people around us were oppressed.

[Karen Allen] (7:40–8:02)

But it was, in a way, an exposure to a moment of equality. And that word people often use in South Africa, ‘swart gevaar’, the fear of black people, you still encounter it even today. As a foreigner, I find it absolutely galling. But you didn’t have that as a child, because you’d been exposed.

[Ivor Jenkins] (8:03–8:36)

Exactly. Perhaps it was because of those experiences in my younger years, but also because of my father. He was a tall man, but he was kind, and his interactions with people were generally positive. Even though, of course, there was still that sense of hierarchy, that ‘I’m the boss and you are at a different level’. But it was never blatant. It was more simply how life was lived at the time.

[Karen Allen] (8:37–8:50)

So in your teenage years you went through school in the usual way any other boy your age would have done. And then you went into the army, as every South African man of eighteen was expected to do.

[Ivor Jenkins] (8:50 - 10:17)

Yes, that was in 1976, which was an incredibly dramatic year. 1976 was a very intense time in South Africa.

So I went into the army without asking any questions. It was simply how life worked: you went to school, you matriculated, and then you went to the army.

There was no real sense of oppression, unfairness or injustice. Even though we came from a very Christian background, it simply wasn’t something that entered our minds. It never occured to us that such brutal injustice was happening around us. So I went into the army.

Fortunately, I can say that I was never in a situation where I had to pull a gun or point a gun at anyone. I was a sapper, and for six months we were on the so-called ‘border fighting’ what were described as terrorists. But I never personally found myself in that situation, and I’m grateful for that.

I only served one year and was able to leave after completing my training. After that I went on to become a theological student.

[Karen Allen] (10:17 - 10:40)

That’s quite a transition. We’ll come back to the theology in a moment. But I’m curious: when you were in the army, among your peers - the other young men you were spending time with - was there any awareness that things were coming to a head?

Or was there still a sense that ‘we're in charge, we can handle this, and we are superior’?

[Ivor Jenkins] (10:41 - 11:36)

Yes, at that time even with the Soweto uprisings, there was no real sense that anything fundamental had to change. As I remember it, it was mostly the police who were involved in dealing with those events, not the army itself.

There was absolutely no feeling that our lives might have to change or that the country was facing a serious challenge. These were simply portrayed as people who didn’t understand how a country should be run. They were described as terrorists, and we believed that we were protecting the country.

Of course, “the country” in that sense really meant the ‘white country’. There was great support for the soldiers serving on the border. People praised what they were doing.

There were also black soldiers in the army, and they were said to be fighting these same terrorists. So the narrative was very simple, and it was never really challenged. And I personally had no reason to question it.

It simply never crossed my mind that what we were doing might be wrong.

[Karen Allen] (11:37 - 11:43)

So you left the army to go and study theology. Was that something you felt called to from an early age?

[Ivor Jenkins] (11:44 - 12:48)

Yes, I think so. Growing up in that conservative Christian environment, it did feel like a calling, and I really believed that at the time. But during my year in the army I began to have some doubts. I wondered whether I might instead go and study engineering or something else, because as a sapper I was doing some interesting technical work.

Then, at the end of that year, it was announced that we had to stay for a second year. It was compulsory. You had no choice, unless you were already registered as a student at a university or another learning institution for the following year.

I hadn’t done that. But when that rule came in, I quickly made arrangements that December to register as a student. In that way I was able to leave the army.

So in a sense I was almost pushed into theological training. I enrolled at the Baptist Theological School and began the four-year programme there.

[Karen Allen] (12:48 - 13:33)

And that period was fairly uneventful in the sense that you applied yourself to your studies and focused on your training, as most young men would do at that stage.

But I’m curious about the church at that time. Was it beginning to speak more openly about the injustices of apartheid? People outside South Africa might remember figures such as Trevor Huddleston and others who were very vocal.

At that stage was the church still largely non-confrontational - more focused on biblical teaching than on community-based ministry, or was it already becoming more outspoken?

[Ivor Jenkins] (13:34 - 14:56)

Very evangelical - particularly in the environment where I studied. At that time names like Trevor Huddleston only appeared later in my life.

The atmosphere was much more shaped by the Afrikaans church tradition: the idea that we were serving God and saving souls. Other denominations like the Anglicans, the Catholics were often seen as not really being true Christians. It was a very single-minded approach to faith.

So even during those four years of study, the idea that apartheid might be unjust, or that it should be challenged, never really entered the discussion. Those who criticised apartheid were simply dismissed as liberals or communists.

And one shouldn’t underestimate how powerful the idea of the ‘rooi gevaar’ - the communist threat - was in those years. It was constantly presented as a danger that wanted to take over your beautiful country.

So the issue wasn’t even framed as a black/white matter. It was presented as communism versus Christianity.

[Karen Allen] (14:56 - 15:06)

And of course South Africa was surrounded by countries where there was a communist presence, so there was concern about developments in places like Angola and Mozambique.

[Ivor Jenkins] (15:06 - 15:31)

Yes. At that time the Cubans were in Angola and the Russians were there as well. And of course the ANC headquarters was in Zambia.

So it was quite an easy narrative for the apartheid regime to maintain. It kept people like us insulated and, in a sense, removed from the realities of what was actually happening in the country.

[Karen Allen] (15:31 - 15:39)

So I suppose the question is: when did it all change? When did that kind of Damascene moment happen, or was it more gradual?

[Ivor Jenkins] (15:40 - 17:51)

After completing my studies, I got married to Karen. In fact, this year we celebrate our 40-year anniversary. So she began walking this road with me.

Together, we had to figure out where we were going to fit and where our lives were heading. We were very committed. I was particularly drawn to pastoral psychology - I had a deep empathy for people and for suffering - and we were quite clear that this was the direction we wanted to follow.

We started in a small church in Pretoria, the Arcadia Baptist Church, an Afrikaans Baptist congregation. And I think the first real challenge came there.

As evangelical Christians, we believed in going out to expand God’s kingdom. So we began a very active missionary outreach into the then homelands. In Venda, in particular, but also other areas. The work grew significantly, and the tent ministry there was very successful.

At some point, as thinking in the church began to shift slightly, we suggested inviting some of the people involved in that work, like black missionaries and co-workers into the local church.

On the Sunday when they arrived, perhaps twenty or thirty of them, about half of the white Afrikaans congregation stood up and walked out. The message was clear: black people were welcome to be evangelised because ‘we must save their souls for Jesus’, but not to worship alongside them.

That was a real shock to the system.

But there was a moment even before that.

[Karen Allen] (17:51 - 17:54)

How do you pre-empt that? Had you had any idea that something like that could happen?

[Ivor Jenkins] (17:55 - 18:41)

We had heard some of the concerns, but I think we made a conscious decision to say that it was time for us as a country, as a church, and as people, to begin thinking differently. Ideas like reconciliation were starting to come into the conversation, and that was an important moment.

But there was something even earlier. In my final year as a student, coming from a railway background, I was able to get a holiday job as a ticket conductor.

[Karen Allen] (18:42 - 18:42)

Yes.

[Ivor Jenkins] (18:42 - 19:23)

And of course, that was every young boy’s dream. It was fantastic to get that job. I was also preparing to get married, so the extra money was useful for buying a ring and so on.

In Pretoria there were trains bringing people in from the townships: Soshanguve, Mamelodi, Mabopane, Atteridgeville. I was working mainly on those trains.

And it was there, I think for the first time, that the reality of apartheid really struck me.

[Karen Allen] (19:24 - 19:26)

What did you see? What were you seeing around you every day?

[Ivor Jenkins] (19:26 - 20:51)

You would start at four o’clock in the morning, collecting people on the pre-urban trains or the incoming trains. At half past four, people would board in Mabopane or Soshanguve. They would arrive at Pretoria station around five, and then catch a connecting train to Johannesburg to start work at six.

In the evening, after a second shift, you would take those same people back. They would arrive from Johannesburg around seven, get home at eight, and then still have to take a taxi or walk. By nine o’clock they would finally be home. And the next morning at four they were on their way again.

That, I think, was one of the hard realities of our society. You would see older women sitting on the trains, fast asleep, knowing that they were going into a day of hard labour. Mine workers and others had to work long hours under difficult conditions, expected to stay alert and productive for five or six days a week.

It was through that experience that the reality of apartheid began to take shape for me. It wasn’t something my theological studies had revealed. It was this lived experience that made it real.

[Karen Allen] (20:51 - 21:26)

At that point, did you begin to make the connection that the lifestyle enjoyed by most white South Africans was dependent on the oppression of black South Africans? That it wasn’t simply a different path or history, but a structural system - one in which the wealth and comfort of white communities were directly tied to the conditions faced by black communities?

[Ivor Jenkins] (21:27 - 22:51)

In my situation, as a white, traditional Afrikaner, I never thought that what black people were experiencing was suffering. It was seen as part of the broader apartheid idea of separate nations - that God created us as Afrikaners, Zulus, Tswanas, Sothos, Xhosas, and so on.

The thinking was that people should be moved out of the so-called ‘white areas’ into townships, and from there into the homelands. It was presented as a kind of transition, allowing each group to develop its own identity in its own country. Bophuthatswana, for example, or others.

That was the story we were told. That was how we grew up. The idea was that eventually there would be a white South Africa, and that everyone would live separately but happily.

The connection that black labour was sustaining and enriching white society, that the economic advantages of white South Africans depended on that system, was simply not understood at the time.

We believed we were all moving towards these fantastic, separate nations.

[Karen Allen] (22:51 - 22:52)

And you still hear that sometimes.

[Ivor Jenkins] (22:52 - 22:54)

Oh my God, you do. We do.

[Karen Allen] (22:55 - 23:21)

Can I ask: didn’t you see this on television? Because for people outside South Africa - and I’m speaking as someone who watched this in the UK in the 1970s. We were seeing very vivid images of how black South Africans were suffering under apartheid. Was it that you didn’t have access to that information, or that you chose not to see it?

[Ivor Jenkins] (23:23 - 25:53)

I think it was a bit of both. But I’ve often said that I don’t think I had even heard the names Nelson Mandela or Steve Biko until I was about nineteen or twenty years old. That whole part of history simply didn’t exist in my world.

Television only arrived around 1976, and radio was limited. You listened to one or two stations. There was a little bit of news, but most of it was entertainment - Springbok Radio and so on. There was nothing like the media environment we have today, where global events are constantly in front of you.

So for me - and I think for many people of my generation - it was entirely possible to live without any real awareness of black suffering or of black lives beyond our immediate world. People were, in a sense, out of sight and out of mind. Almost like shadows beyond the hill. They didn’t exist in our daily consciousness.

Even their identities were reduced. People often didn’t use surnames, just simple names that we would give them. That was part of the reality.

So to answer your question: yes, it was entirely possible to be twenty years old in South Africa in the late 1970s and never have heard the name Steve Biko. And it wasn’t a deliberate choice. It simply never entered my mind.

But after four years in the local church, and through some of the tensions we experienced there, things began to shift slightly. The people who remained were more open, perhaps moving cautiously towards some form of change.

Then, in 1985, Karen and I went to the United States to continue our studies, to do a master’s degree in theology and pastoral psychology. We went to Louisville, Kentucky.

And I think that’s where the real turning point began.

[Karen Allen] (25:53 - 26:07)

Were you beginning to see things through an American lens and then relate that back to South Africa? Or when you first arrived, did you still see them as two separate realities - the American situation and the South African one?

[Ivor Jenkins] (26:08 - 29:29)

In 1985, South Africa was burning. It was an extraordinary time. And for the first time, from the United States, we could actually see what was happening in our country. Through international media like ABC, Ted Koppel, you were confronted with it constantly. You heard political voices like Jesse Helms, and suddenly South Africa was in the global spotlight.

At the same time, I found myself in a racially mixed seminary environment. In many of my classes, 40 or 50 percent of the students were black, many from the American South. And there I was, trying to explain South Africa in that context, while every night on the news, it was the leading story.

At some point, I realised I could no longer explain it. I tried speaking about different cultures, languages, Afrikaners and Zulus, but it began to sound hollow, even to myself.

Then one day, in an Old Testament class, something shifted. The night before, the Trojan Horse event had taken place in Cape Town. It was broadcast around the world. A military vehicle had driven into a township - Athlone, I think - and when young boys began throwing stones, soldiers jumped out and opened fire with live ammunition. Around fourteen young people were killed.

The next day, I walked into class, and it felt as though everyone was looking at me and asking, “How do you explain this?”

I left that class deeply shaken. That evening, Karen and I called close friends of ours from Mississippi, Mark and Dawn Thames. They sat with us until two or three in the morning, helping us begin to understand concepts we had never truly considered before - equality, one person one vote, the reality of racism, and what injustice really means.

That night was incredibly emotional. We cried together. It was the first time we began to grasp the depth of what we had not seen.

[Karen Allen] (29:29 - 29:37)

Can you set the scene for me? Describe that moment. You were sitting in their kitchen - just give me a bit more detail. What shaped their perspective?

[Ivor Jenkins] (29:37 - 30:54)

We were living in student dormitories, in essentially a small one-bedroom space. Mark and Dawn were staying at the end of the same corridor.

That evening, after class, Mark came to me and asked if we could talk. He suggested that he and Dawn come over for dinner. I don’t remember exactly what we ate - it was probably something very simple - but we sat together and shared a meal.

Then they began asking us about our experience that day. The conversation unfolded in that small, intimate space.

They told us about their own story, growing up in Mississippi, the history they had lived through. There were tears. There was a lot of emotion, hugging, and at the end of the evening, we prayed together.

And, in a sense, they challenged us. As two white Afrikaners, they urged us not to return to South Africa and simply fall back into what I would call the patterns of whiteness.

[Karen Allen] (30:55 - 31:06)

And that was just a year. One year of exposure in the United States. When you came back to South Africa, would you say you returned as a different man?

[Ivor Jenkins] (31:07 - 32:14)

Absolutely. And something else happened during that year. After that experience, the Baptist Union of South Africa refused to acknowledge that apartheid was a sin. The Dutch Reformed Church and other Afrikaans churches also took a similar position.

From the United States, I wrote an article for the church magazine - or perhaps it was a letter that was published. In it, I expressed my disappointment. I had hoped that the church would recognise apartheid as a sin, and that we could begin to change and move forward.

When we returned to South Africa, it was quietly, but unmistakably made very clear to me that no local church would be willing to employ me as a minister because of that position.

[Karen Allen] (32:14 - 32:15)

Were you seen as too political?

[Ivor Jenkins] (32:16 - 33:20)

Absolutely. Those were the words that were used - you’re too political, and you’re no longer faithful to the core of the gospel.

So I was labelled as too political. And that meant that after four years of seminary in South Africa, and another degree before going to the United States, I had eight years of theological training behind me.

Yet I found myself unemployed, asking, “What now?”

There was a real temptation to deny the change and to fall back into what I would call the comfort of a white lifestyle. That option was there. But not for long. We were very clear that we had a different mission in South Africa now - one that was not the same as before.

[Karen Allen] (33:20 - 33:25)

And your wife was on the same page with you? This was a journey you were taking together?

[Ivor Jenkins] (33:26 - 36:59)

Absolutely. And that’s why earlier in the conversation I referred to my wife - because we walked this path together.

So in 1986, we returned to South Africa without work. I eventually found work as a life insurance salesman, which was quite a different kind of calling from what I had imagined before. It was at an office in Sunnyside, Pretoria - perhaps Liberty Life or Southern Life, I can’t quite remember.

That six-month period was important. About three or four months in, our offices were on the fifth or sixth floor, and a black man - perhaps a delivery worker - had a heart attack right outside our office.

My colleagues came to fetch me, knowing my views. I went out and tried to resuscitate him, performing mouth-to-mouth. He was probably in his late fifties. But in the end, he died in my arms. The ambulance arrived, but it was too late.

I went back into my office deeply shaken. It was a very emotional experience. It was the first time I had encountered death so directly. I closed the door, and one by one my colleagues came in, all white, knocking on the door and saying, “Congratulations, Ivor.”

After the third or fourth person, I asked why they were congratulating me. The man had died.

And then I realised it was because I had, without hesitation, put my mouth on the mouth of a black man to try and save his life.

That moment struck me deeply. I realised how brutal and pervasive apartheid had been in shaping us, that even in matters of life and death, people could not see beyond race.

I left the office that day and went home. My wife and I sat together for hours, trying to understand what had happened - what had happened to our society, and to us.

And I often say that was the moment we sealed our decision: that we had work to do in this country - particularly among Afrikaners, among the white community - to try and change hearts and minds.

[Karen Allen] (36:59 - 37:16)

Did you feel a sense of shame for your community and for yourself? Sadness, guilt? What kinds of emotions were going through you when people were congratulating you?

[Ivor Jenkins] (37:16 - 38:08)

All of that - everything you’ve mentioned - but also disappointment. Almost a disappointment in who I thought I was, in what I thought my culture was, in who I thought my community was.

So it was a deep sense of disillusionment. Here I was, twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, and everything I had believed to be good, in order, proper and humane suddenly felt false. It felt as though it had all been built on something fundamentally wrong.

So yes, there was disappointment in myself, and in who we were as a people, as an Afrikaner community at that time.

[Karen Allen] (38:08 - 38:25)

Did it feel, at that point, as though you were being forced to choose between your faith - as you had been taught it - and politics?

[Ivor Jenkins] (38:27 - 40:54)

Perhaps even earlier than that. I was hesitant to tell this story, but let me share it.

During my time as a minister in the early 1980s, I took two black Baptist ministers, Gideon Makanya from Mamelodi and Peter Mishlape from Soweto, to my hometown, Waterval Boven. They were part of a separate black Baptist convention, distinct from both the English and Afrikaans Baptist structures.

They wanted to establish a small Baptist church in Ngwenya, the township where I had grown up. Since they didn’t have transport, I drove them there.

While we were in town, I phoned the white Baptist minister and asked if we could visit him for tea or lunch. He agreed. But I hadn’t told him that I was bringing Peter and Gideon.

When we arrived, he apologised and said it would be better if we went to buy food at a local café instead.

That was a moment of realisation for me. This was a man I had respected deeply - a dominee who had shaped my faith, who had influenced my calling to ministry. And yet, in that moment, I had to ask myself: where was the Christianity in this?

That experience began to challenge my theology in a profound way. Even as I continued my studies, moments like that - along with what I experienced later in the United States and at Sunny Park - forced me to confront serious questions about my faith.

[Karen Allen] (40:54 - 41:06)

Did your faith begin to shift towards something more humanitarian and less doctrinal, less tradition-based, and more grounded in basic human concern?

[Ivor Jenkins] (41:07 - 41:45)

Yes, very much so. It became about loving your neighbour as equal to loving God, and beginning to understand that aspect of faith much more deeply.

It was less about trying not to sin in a pious way. I’ve often said it’s not about what you stop doing, for example, stop drinking, stop stealing, and so on, but about what you start to do.

It became a movement towards action: to serve, to reach out, to change lives, and to begin to see others as equals.

[Karen Allen] (41:46 - 42:17)

Let’s look at what was happening in South Africa at the time - the late 1980s, around 1988. You’ve spoken about being particularly affected by an incident in Pretoria involving a man named Barend Strydom, who went on a shooting spree targeting black civilians.

Why did that event have such an impact on you?

[Ivor Jenkins] (42:19 - 42:26)

Let me take the story forward from after those six months in the insurance job, when I met Dr Nico Smith.

[Karen Allen] (42:26 - 42:28)

How long did you stay in life insurance?

[Ivor Jenkins] (42:28 - 48:29)

Six months and that was it. I realised very quickly that it wasn’t for me.

At that point I met Dr Nico Smith, a white Dutch Reformed minister who had left the white church and joined the black Dutch Reformed Church. He had been a professor at Stellenbosch in missiology, but then moved to the Mamelodi township to live with his wife. There he started an organisation called Koinonia Southern Africa, and he invited me to become its director.

We began working together, and Nico had a significant influence on my life, especially in how I understood the relationship between faith, politics and society.

The idea behind Koinonia was simple but powerful: to bring together two white families and two black families over a period of four months. Once a month they would meet, sharing meals in each other’s homes. My role was to organise these groups across the country and places where people were willing to engage and attempt reconciliation.

It was a remarkable experience. White families, often for the first time, would enter townships, sit with black families, and discover that they shared the same concerns, family, faith, education, daily life. It was deeply transformative for many people.

In 1987 we organised a larger encounter in Mamelodi. We invited those who had participated in Koinonia to take the next step, to spend a full week living with their partner families in the township. At the time this was illegal.

Around 300 people took part. The army was stationed in Mamelodi, and tensions were high, but through our relationships with local civic leaders, we were able to make it happen. It was a life-changing experience for many, and it drew international attention.

After that, something important happened. Dr Beyers Naudé invited my wife and me to travel to Europe for three months as part of a programme aimed at engaging Christian leaders.

During that time we visited several countries and, for the first time, met representatives of the African National Congress in exile. These were often discreet meetings, sometimes held in private settings such as church basements. It was a powerful experience.

When we returned to South Africa, my role began to shift. I moved from a focus on reconciliation towards more direct activism.

This was around the time of the shootings carried out by Barend Strydom, and the rise of the defiance campaigns in Pretoria. I became involved in the mass democratic movement, helping to organise boycotts and other forms of protest.

At that stage, the situation in the townships had become increasingly violent. The presence of the army and police intensified, and structures like Vlakplaas and what became known as the “third force” were emerging. It was a period of deep unrest and confrontation.

[Karen Allen] (48:30 - 48:57)

The “third force” refers to elements operating behind the scenes, attempting to incite violence; particularly what was described as black-on-black conflict between the ANC and other groups. As you became more involved in activism, there must have been moments when you feared for your life. And indeed, there were attempts on your life.

[Ivor Jenkins] (48:59 - 52:01)

During the defiance campaign, we organised civic groups across the greater Pretoria area with township organisations and religious leaders. The plan was that at major bus stops - UNISA, Church Square, Menlyn - we would gather groups of 30 or 40 black commuters.

The idea was that they would board buses reserved for white passengers, challenging segregation directly.

In the days leading up to this, the intelligence services became aware of what we were planning. My role was largely organisational, behind the scenes, but it was enough to draw attention.

A day or two before the campaign, we began receiving threats. Pamphlets were thrown into our yard with messages like, “We’ve just killed Webster. You’re next.” Bricks were thrown, and we realised we were being watched.

One night, around 11 o’clock, we noticed a car driving up and down in front of our house. My wife Karin was eight months pregnant with our second child, and we had our young son with us. We decided to leave immediately and go to family members.

We left the lights on in the house. Later that night, someone fired thirteen shots through our front window.

When we returned the next morning, the glass door was shattered and the walls were marked by bullets. It was deeply frightening.

We also received threatening messages on our answering machine - people saying they knew where I worked, where our child went to crèche, where my wife worked. It was clearly an attempt at intimidation, to stop the campaign.

And I believe we were not alone. Others involved in similar activities in Pretoria were facing the same kinds of threats.

[Karen Allen] (52:02 - 52:14)

And many years later, during the Truth and Reconciliation hearings, you learned more that these were in fact organised, systematic attempts against you?

[Ivor Jenkins] (52:14 - 52:23)

Yes. The person who pulled the trigger wrote to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and made a confession.

[Karen Allen] (52:23 - 52:26)

And this was linked to Eugene de Kock.

[Ivor Jenkins] (52:26 - 52:54)

It was organised out of Vlakplaas. Vlakplaas was a so-called third force farm outside Pretoria, where many covert operations were run; train attacks, gun-running, and violence linked to Inkatha and other groups.

It was headed by Eugene de Kock, who was later sentenced to 104 years in prison.

[Karen Allen] (52:55 - 52:56)

He's now making upholstery in Pretoria.

[Ivor Jenkins] (52:57 - 53:22)

Apparently, yes. I suppose he would argue - and I think he has - that he was simply a product of his time.

But that meant we had to respond. The following day, or evening, I spoke publicly together with Ahmed Kathrada at an event.

[Karen Allen] (53:22 - 53:23)

This is Armit Ketrada?

[Ivor Jenkins] (53:23 - 55:18)

Yes, Ahmed Kathrada. We were on a platform in Laudium, and the gathering focused on the shootings that had taken place.

Kathrada was the main speaker, but I also addressed the meeting. I stated publicly that I believed the South African police were responsible - specifically elements connected to Eugene de Kock.

After that, we knew we were in serious trouble.

Karen and I left the country. We travelled separately. At the same time, Koinonia had been awarded an international peace prize in San Francisco. It was an award called Beyond War, recognising its reconciliation work. The ceremony took place in the same hall where the United Nations charter had been signed after the Second World War, which was a very meaningful moment.

After that, I returned to Louisville, Kentucky, where arrangements had been made for us to stay.

Karen followed later, travelling alone with our children. Jana had just been born only about a month prior, and she flew with both children, Kevin and Jana, to join me in the United States. It was a journey made under considerable fear.

[Karen Allen] (55:20 - 55:35)

Ivor, it’s 1990 - March, just a month after Nelson Mandela has been released from prison and you return from the United States.

Tell me about that moment.

[Ivor Jenkins] (55:35 - 56:00)

Yes. I was in the United States at the time of Mandela’s release, sitting with close friends in Memphis, Tennessee. We were watching it on television, and they had invited people from peace committees to join us.

[Karen Allen] (56:01 - 56:02)

Describe that scene.

[Ivor Jenkins] (56:02 - 58:02)

We were gathered in a sitting room, packed with twenty or thirty people, I would say. They were all Christian peacemaking activists, people who had worked against apartheid for many years from abroad.

We sat together and watched as Mandela walked out of Victor Verster Prison. It was an extraordinary moment. Even though we were thousands of miles away, it felt as if we were there.

There was cheering, there were tears - it was pure jubilation. It was incredibly special.

I remember the next day actually driving back, and I was stopped for speeding by an African American police officer. I tried to explain, saying, “I’m from South Africa. Mandela has just been released.” He didn’t quite understand my excitement, but I was so caught up in the moment. I think I ended up paying a $45 fine, but it felt worth it.

There was another moment as well. I was driving and listening to public radio, PBS and heard Joe Slovo speaking after returning to South Africa. Listening to that interview at the time was incredibly meaningful.

Those were powerful moments between late 1989 and early 1990.

And then we decided to return to South Africa.

[Karen Allen] (58:02 - 58:29)

And you could see the writing on the wall. The Berlin Wall had come down in 1989, and the international support base for the apartheid government was rapidly disappearing. More people around the world were becoming aware of what life in South Africa was really like. The struggle was gaining momentum. Nelson Mandela had been released. It felt like it was only a matter of time.

And the struggle is gaining momentum. Nelson Mandela out of jail. It was only going to be a matter of time.

[Ivor Jenkins] (58:30 - 58:49)

Yes, and then the 2 February speech by F. W. de Klerk happened. At that point, we knew - this was it. We could come back.

We felt that this process could not be reversed, even if there were attempts to do so. In that moment, it seemed clear that South Africa was going to become something new.

[Karen Allen] (58:49 - 59:04)

You were surrounded by like-minded people, like other activists. But what about the community you came from? The people you grew up with? Were you seen as a traitor, a sellout? Or did you feel you were bringing them with you?

[Ivor Jenkins] (59:06 - 1:02:51)

Having people like Nico Smith and Beyers Naudé as inspirations, and seeing the suffering they endured, made a difference for me. Beyers Naudé, for example, could easily have become part of the Broederbond leadership - perhaps even Prime Minister of South Africa. Yet he gave that up for justice and for his faith.

So in comparison, what I faced felt relatively small. Karen and I were able to cope with the rejection. But it was much harder for my parents.

For them, in their conservative religious world, having a son who was seen as a “communist” or even a “terrorist” was deeply painful. They had to endure criticism and pressure from their community. I felt great sadness for them.

At the same time, they supported us. Not necessarily because they agreed with everything, but because they believed we were making our own decisions, and they respected that.

The extended family struggled more. Particularly when we accused the police of being involved in the shootings. Many simply could not accept that. The idea that the South African police could do such things was unthinkable to them.

Karen and I also made a conscious decision that we would not be seen as people who had turned away because we had failed in the white world. We wanted to show that we could still function and succeed within that space.

That gave us a certain authority. Even so, there were moments of tension. I remember sitting at Loftus Versfeld, watching rugby - perhaps a Springbok or Blue Bulls match - when the national anthem, Die Stem, was played. I refused to stand.

At that time, as an Afrikaner, you stood at attention when the anthem was sung. Not standing was a serious act of defiance. I genuinely thought people might react violently.

But I had made a decision. I had never voted in the apartheid system, and I refused to participate in its symbols.

These may seem like small acts. And compared to the sacrifices made by black South Africans in the struggle, they are small.

But we felt that we had to do our part, in whatever way we could.

[Karen Allen] (1:02:53 - 1:02:59)

Workwise, you'd come back and you were working for IDASA. Tell us a little bit about that.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:03:00 - 1:04:58)

Yes, that was an important moment. Koinonia had focused on changing individual lives and experiences, and that work was very real and had a lasting impact.

But at that stage, I began to realise that it was the system itself that needed to change. Of course, individuals are important, but changing a few people is not enough if the broader structure remains the same.

So there was a strategic shift in our thinking. Instead of focusing only on influencing individuals, we wanted to work towards changing the system and creating a new environment in which people could live differently.

That was when I joined IDASA. I was invited to head the Pretoria office of the Institute for Democracy in South Africa.

IDASA was founded in 1987 by Frederik van Zyl Slabbert and Alex Boraine, both former white parliamentarians from the Progressive Federal Party. They left Parliament because they felt it was ineffective and essentially just white politicians talking to themselves without real change.

They went on to establish IDASA, which became known for initiatives such as the Dakar conference, where a group of Afrikaners met with the ANC leadership, including Thabo Mbeki.

Many significant figures were involved in that process, and it marked an important step in dialogue and transition.

For me, joining IDASA led to a long period of work of about 23 years.

[Karen Allen] (1:04:58 - 1:04:59)

And what were you doing?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:05:00 - 1:10:27)

At that time, we were in the middle of an extraordinary period. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of meetings between 1990 and 1994. These ranged from small gatherings to larger engagements, bringing together representatives from the National Party, Conservative Party, Communist Party, ANC, PAC, and others.

The focus was on facilitating dialogue - creating spaces where people could meet, talk, and be exposed to one another on a political level. Previously, we had done this in religious and personal contexts. Now it was happening at a national, political level.

This work was about more than just facilitation. It was about helping people figure out where the country was going. Part of this involved organising exposure visits for different groups.

One project that stands out began in 1992 in the Pretoria office of Institute for Democracy in South Africa, namely, the Conservative Dialogue Project.

We brought together a small group of Afrikaners who were more progressive in their thinking, including some who were sympathetic to or involved with the African National Congress. The aim was to find ways to bring more conservative Afrikaner communities, farmers, political leaders, and others into dialogue with the ANC.

We appointed Professor Abraham Viljoen, a church historian, to lead the project. It was supported by funding from the Dutch government.

Abraham’s identical twin brother was General Constand Viljoen, a prominent military figure who had become a leader among conservative Afrikaners. At that time, he had been chosen to represent Afrikaner interests, including the idea of negotiating a separate homeland.

The two brothers had not spoken for years because of their opposing views.

Through this project, Abraham re-established contact with his brother. Eventually, General Viljoen expressed a desire to meet Nelson Mandela.

We were able to facilitate that meeting.

One of the highlights of my career was being present and together with Abraham, when General Viljoen met Nelson Mandela at his home in Houghton, before he became President.

[Speaker 3] (1:10:27 - 1:10:28)

Was he receptive?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:10:29 - 1:12:03)

It was unbelievable. Even now, I still feel it when I think about it.

To see Nelson Mandela personally serving tea to Constand Viljoen was extraordinary. Mandela’s generosity, his openness… he could easily have refused to meet him, but instead he welcomed him.

Viljoen left that meeting visibly moved - almost stunned.

From there, a process began. Mandela agreed to appoint a delegation from the ANC to engage further. At the same time, the broader negotiations, such as CODESA, were underway.

Mandela appointed Thabo Mbeki to lead discussions with Viljoen and the other generals.

We then organised a series of seven discreet meetings in Pretoria. Participants included Mbeki, Penuell Maduna, Jacob Zuma, Joe Modise, and others.

These meetings were held in private locations like a small Anglican church nearby, a house in Waterkloof, and other quiet venues.

[Karen Allen] (1:12:03 - 1:12:06)

I was going to ask, was the intelligence services not aware of any of this?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:12:07 - 1:13:02)

Yes, eventually they did. And once they became involved, the process moved into a more public phase.

At the negotiations in Kempton Park, a set of constitutional principles was agreed upon. In addition to the 33 principles, a 34th principle was included, leading to the possibility of negotiating a Volkstaat, an Afrikaner homeland, through a Volkstaat Council.

The condition was that there would need to be sufficient support of around two or three percent. That threshold was not met.

Instead, General Viljoen chose to participate in the democratic process and formed the Freedom Front to contest the elections.

What began as a small IDASA initiative with no clear outcome, ultimately contributed to a peaceful resolution.

[Karen Allen] (1:13:02 - 1:13:06)

And did they ultimately achieve that? We hear about Orania now… was that part of it?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:13:06 - 1:13:48)

Yes, it was part of the broader idea. I actually led a delegation with three ANC members and three representatives from the Conservative Party to study federal systems - particularly the cantonal system in Switzerland and the Belgian model.

The aim was to report back to the negotiation process between the ANC and what had become the Freedom Front.

At that stage, the idea of a Volkstaat was very much on the table. However, it depended on achieving a certain level of support.

Orania later emerged as a privately purchased town, but it did not meet the threshold required for formal recognition under that framework.

[Karen Allen] (1:13:52 - 1:13:59)

So Oranje that we hear about now is not the product of that. No.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:13:59 - 1:15:06)

No. The principle agreed during negotiations - often referred to as the 34th principle - essentially stated that if sufficient support existed, there would be a right to negotiate a homeland.

There was also provision for a Volkstaat Council to explore that possibility. But in the end, there was not enough support.

At the same time, there were tensions in places like Bophuthatswana, where conflict did break out, and people were killed.

While I wouldn’t want to overstate it, I do believe that these dialogue processes helped prevent a much larger and more violent conflict.

It was a remarkable process to witness and to be part of.

[Karen Allen] (1:15:06 - 1:15:27)

You experienced extraordinary highs during this period: the meetings, the negotiations, the connections with key figures like Nelson Mandela. But there were also profound personal challenges, particularly within your family life.

What happened in 1994?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:15:30 - 1:15:52)

Let me tell one story before I get to that, because there is a link to be made. In 1992, we, as IDASA, ran a big workshop, a conference in Vereeniging. The town Vereeniging of Van der Beel, now known as Omvuleni.

[Karen Allen] (1:15:54 - 1:15:56)

Just outside of Johannesburg.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:15:56 - 1:21:27)

Yes. The conference focused on policing in the 1990s. We recognised that South Africa was facing a major transition. There were multiple armed formations: Umkhonto we Sizwe, APLA, the KwaZulu police, and the South African Police.

We believed it was time to begin a conversation about what a future police service could look like. As part of an Institute for Democracy in South Africa initiative, we brought in international experts from countries like Canada, the Netherlands, and Ghana.

The South African Police did not officially participate, but they sent two young officers unofficially. We began working closely with them, building trust over time. They were part of a group already thinking about the future of policing under the leadership of figures like George Fivaz.

Through this relationship, information began to emerge about activities linked to Vlakplaas and the covert unit associated with violence, including operations connected to places like Boipatong and broader political unrest.

One individual from Vlakplaas approached these officers and indicated that he wanted to expose what had happened. He was willing to provide information in exchange for the opportunity to leave the country and study abroad.

We met with him, and he shared deeply disturbing accounts. Eventually, we arranged for him to meet secretly with the Goldstone Commission.

Initially, the commission was sceptical, but he provided evidence such as documents related to false passports and weapons, which could be verified.

An arrangement was made to ensure his protection. He was later moved to Denmark.

At that time, my wife Karen and I were in Copenhagen when he arrived. We met him at the airport. He was not alone. Two other Vlakplaas members had come with him, along with one of their wives, who was 8 months pregnant with their first child.

They had travelled in fear, aware that their actions might be discovered.

And then I realised something extraordinary: one of these men had been present the night our house was attacked. He had not fired the shots, but he had been in the car.

Five years earlier, we had fled in fear. Now, we were standing there, receiving him.

[Speaker 3] (1:21:27 - 1:21:28)

And he was being a whistleblower.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:21:28 - 1:22:20)

Yes, he became a whistleblower. I felt it was important to tell that story.

Together with colleagues, we effectively looked after them for about three months during the election period. We missed the elections in South Africa ourselves because of that.

Members of the Goldstone Commission travelled to take statements from the three men. Their testimony became part of the evidence that ultimately contributed to the conviction of Eugene de Kock, who received a 104-year prison sentence.

All three later received amnesty when they returned to South Africa.

Looking back, it was one of those small things. An initiative like the policing conference in 1992 unexpectedly led to something much larger, helping to bring these truths to light.

[Karen Allen] (1:22:20 - 1:22:22)

There is a word for that. Karma?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:22:23 - 1:22:32)

Yes… perhaps. It was a very special moment to be part of that process.

[Karen Allen] (1:22:33 - 1:22:50)

Let’s turn to your personal life in the mid-1990s. While your work with IDASA and the political transition was unfolding, things took a darker turn for you personally.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:22:51 - 1:25:26)

Yes. One of the things Institute for Democracy in South Africa did during that time, in our Pretoria office, was to organise mixed groups which basically brought together the ANC, National Party, and other political leaders to travel abroad.

We took groups to the UK to study the prison system, to Australia to look at their constitution, and to Norway and Denmark to examine their military structures. We also organised local government visits to Canada and other places.

These were people directly involved in thinking about what our new constitution should look like, how the transition would unfold, and how integration between the old apartheid state and the new political actors could happen.

We organised at least four such trips during that period between 1994 and 1996, when the constitution was being written.

We would take very specific groups and people like Pravin Gordhan, Valli Moosa, Baleka Mbete, Roelf Meyer, and Constand Viljoen, on different trips to India, Portugal, Germany, and elsewhere to study constitutional models globally.

On one of the later trips, I was leading a delegation to Canada to look at their constitution. And during that time, in July 1994, I received a phone call.

We were at the airport in Toronto, about to fly out, when two or three people came to me and said, “There’s a phone call you need to take it.”

And…

[Karen Allen] (1:25:28 - 1:25:30)

Tell us about that.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:25:30 - 1:29:32)

Yeah… I picked up the phone, and it was my wife on the other side of the line. She said our son had been killed in a hit-and-run earlier that day. Kevin was eight years old.

It was… it was one of those moments that just blows your life into pieces. You think you’re serving, you think you’re doing good, and then you’re faced with that question, ‘Why do bad things happen to good people?’

The irony is that, during my time in America in 1985, I had focused my studies on death and dying and how to support people through those processes. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and others. That was my field - pastoral psychology.

And now I’m on the phone, and my wife is asking me whether we should switch off the machines.

Kevin had crossed the road near our home to go to a café with a young friend - his black friend. A driver skipped a red light and hit him.

I got on a plane immediately to come home. The Canadians were incredible. People helped, made arrangements, and got me onto flights.

But it was the loneliest journey of my life. I flew from Toronto via Paris to Johannesburg, with a layover of twelve or fourteen hours in Paris. I didn’t have a visa.

I remember going to the counter after arriving. There was a woman there who could barely speak English. I don’t usually speak in these terms, but it felt like something extraordinary. I tried to explain to her that my son has died.

She simply said, “Don’t worry, I will organise it.”

She disappeared, arranged a visa somehow, and got me out to a hotel. I spent the day there alone, but at least not sitting in an airport. It was an act of kindness from someone who didn’t know me at all.

That stayed with me.

And then the process of healing began.

Back in South Africa, Karen and I had to try and make sense of life again. By then, we had our daughters, Jana and Kate, and we had to find a way forward.

[Karen Allen] (1:29:33 - 1:29:38)

The amazing thing is that, after a few weeks, you begin to reflect and realise that - even though people may have disagreed with you politically, the number of people who came around us was extraordinary.

It was unbelievable how people carried us. Colleagues, friends could come every day, sit with us, spend time, and help us through that period.

And I think we refocused our lives. At that point, we said: as important as career and everything else may be, this changes things. Family became the centre of our lives in a much deeper way.

Not that it hadn’t been before, but now it became the guiding principle. Just as we had previously made hard decisions religiously, then politically, we now made a conscious decision: family comes first.

From that point on, every decision was shaped by one question: How does this affect us as a family?

And so, slowly, we began to reorient ourselves and continue with life.

[Karen Allen] (1:31:14 - 1:31:24)

It’s a heartbreaking story. Anyone with children or even without can relate to that. But… it gets worse.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:31:25 - 1:34:34)

Yes.

By that time, after 1994, we said we’re still young enough, let’s try for another child. And we were blessed with a son, Jason. His name means “healer.”

He was born at the end of 1995. The idea of seeing new life, really became part of the healing for us. When Karin fell pregnant again, it brought hope. And then later, when you realise it’s a boy, and that boy is born… it gives you the courage to start again and go on.

But then, yes… it got worse.

I said, you know, lightning does strike twice. In 2004, ten years later, our middle daughter, Kate, was killed in a car accident. She was 13 years old.

She had just been head girl at the school up the street - a fantastic, sporty young woman.

And then we had to figure it out again.

For Jana, it meant losing both an older brother and a younger sister. And with that came all the questions, survivor’s guilt, loss, how to make sense of it.

For Karen and me, now in our early forties, we even asked ourselves: Do we try again for another child? But we decided not to.

Instead, we tried to rebuild in other ways. We bought a piece of land and built a house. It gave us something to focus on, something to help us move forward.

But it was devastating. When Kate died, we truly felt that we might not recover.

And it changes everything. How do you raise children after that? How do you not overprotect them? How do you allow them to live freely without trying to control every moment?

Those were questions we had to live with.

And yet… here we are.

I don’t believe in superstition, but 1994 - Kevin died. 2004 - Kate died. And I must say, as 2014 approached, it was a difficult year psychologically.

When we reached 2015, I remember thinking, ‘Thank God, we’ve made it through.’

[Karen Allen] (1:34:34 - 1:34:43)

And talking about God, did it shake your faith at all when you lost Kate? That sense of ‘how could lightning strike twice’, to use your words?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:34:46 - 1:36:08)

Yes, Karen… I mean, how do you not question God? How do you not ask those questions?

Many people, when they hear how we speak about faith today, assume that we must be angry at God, but that’s not the case. People came to us with explanations, saying things like, “God is teaching you a lesson,” and we had to reject that completely.

Karen and I had to work through it ourselves and develop our own understanding, our own way of making sense of it. Nothing elaborate, but something honest.

We came to the conclusion that life happens. It’s not that things happen so that you can learn something. Life is not planned in that way… it just happens.

You can look back afterwards and say, perhaps I can learn something from this. Or perhaps there is nothing to be learned at all.

[Karen Allen] (1:36:08 - 1:36:11)

How do you learn more about yourself than that?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:36:11 - 1:36:52)

Yes… but I must say, one of the consequences of moving away from the political discussion for us, is that it changes how you respond to everyday things.

You hear people complain about small things like a car breaking down, or minor inconveniences, and you find yourself becoming less sympathetic. Not consciously, but subconsciously.

There’s a sense of… perspective. Of scale.

[Karen Allen] (1:36:52 - 1:36:53)

Recalibrated.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:36:53 - 1:37:09)

Yes, exactly - recalibrated.

And perhaps that comes at a cost. That deep empathy you once had for certain kinds of struggles - it shifts.

[Karen Allen] (1:37:11 - 1:37:45)

IDASA comes to an end in 2013. But beyond the organisation itself, I’m interested in the lessons from your life: Your awakening, your ability to bring people together across divides, especially in times of conflict. That really defines what you do now with ITI.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:37:45 - 1:40:21)

Yes. IDASA’s work was initially very South Africa-focused, up until around 2000. Then we began receiving requests to work elsewhere on the continent.

Over the next decade, we expanded, particularly into SADC, but also into West Africa. IDASA had strong, visionary leadership, and we were able to grow significantly.

Then, from around 2009 or 2010, the work started becoming more global. We began receiving requests from places like Sri Lanka and elsewhere.

All those years of facilitation, working between complex groups, learning how to mediate, how to stand in the middle of conflict, built up a body of experience that we felt could not simply be lost when IDASA closed.

Personally, I felt that we couldn’t just walk away and move into something unrelated.

So at that point, together with Roelf Meyer and Mohamed Bawa, we decided to start something new - the In Transformation Initiative.

We had already been working together for some time through IDASA, so the transition felt natural.

Sri Lanka played an important role in that transition. IDASA’s funding there had ended, but the work was ongoing and meaningful. We approached the funders and asked whether they would support the continuation of that work under a new organisation.

They agreed, and that gave ITI its starting point.

From there, we began to take the lessons from South Africa, like the experience of dialogue, negotiation, and facilitation, and apply them in other contexts.

And it was a unique combination - bringing together people like Roelf Meyer, who had come from the other side of the negotiating table, into this new phase of work.

[Karen Allen] (1:40:21 - 1:40:23)

He was the defense minister at one point.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:40:24 - 1:42:45)

Exactly. And he was the chief negotiator for the old National Party in the early 1990s, opposite Cyril Ramaphosa. So he brought that experience and vision.

And then Mohamed Bawa, coming from within the ANC, brought deep expertise - particularly in local government. He had been a member of parliament and an MEC in Mpumalanga.

And then myself, from civil society, bringing all the organisational experience and the kinds of stories I’ve shared.

We also approached Ebrahim Ebrahim, who was then a deputy minister, and asked him to join us. He said he would do so once he left office, but in the meantime he began engaging informally. A year or so later, he officially joined as a director of the In Transformation Initiative.

From there, our global work became much more structured. We worked in places like Colombia, Palestine, and Myanmar, and across the African continent… Madagascar, Zimbabwe, Lesotho, and others.

And we continue.

As with IDASA, we always believed there would come a time when its work would no longer be needed. It closed for different reasons, but that idea remained.

With ITI, we recognise that there may never be full peace in the world. But the South African story - the firsthand experience we carry - has a limited lifespan. Perhaps another two or three years.

After that, it will become a second-hand story, told by those who did not live through it.

[Karen Allen] (1:42:46 - 1:43:13)

Do you think South Africa still has the moral authority to speak about peacebuilding and reconciliation internationally, especially given recent events? I’m speaking to you just a week after some of the most extreme violence we’ve seen in KwaZulu-Natal and Gauteng in post-democratic South Africa.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:43:16 - 1:46:26)

In the first three or four years of ITI, from 2013 to about 2017, we didn’t do any work in South Africa. We focused entirely on international engagements.

But then people in those contexts began asking us difficult questions - whether everything in South Africa was actually in order.

So in 2017, we reassessed and decided to re-engage locally. We started projects such as PPGI and ACT-A, focusing on land reform and economic inequality.

These became our South African priorities, partly in response to those questions, to ensure that our own context remained credible.

But after the recent events you mentioned, it becomes more challenging.

Globally, we work on political transformation and conflict management. In South Africa, however, the core issue is not primarily racial or ethnic - it is fundamentally economic.

If we do not address inequality in education, employment, economic access, we are in serious trouble.

We are beginning to believe that South Africa may need something similar to the early 1990s negotiations: a broad, inclusive national dialogue.

This time, it must include not only government, labour, and business, but also youth and the unemployed, as those are the most affected.

We need to ask: is there a new social compact? Is there a different way to structure our economy?

Because if we continue as we are, we are not moving forward.

[Karen Allen] (1:46:26 - 1:47:15)

Are there people you can see who could effectively convene such a gathering? Because so much depends on leadership. And it feels as though things are very fragmented at the moment.

People are not hearing each other. It’s a very different landscape from the 1990s. People are more individualistic, exposed to different influences. We live in a world of social media, with high levels of mistrust - especially towards traditional sources of information.

When people talk about something like another CODESA, or an economic dialogue - do you see that as a realistic possibility? It may be needed, but is it achievable?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:47:16 - 1:49:27)

Yes. We actually try to stay away from the word CODESA, because that belonged to a specific moment in time.

What we believe is needed now is a sustainable process - a structured, ongoing engagement, not just a single meeting. A process that runs for three to six months, bringing together the right people to think carefully and build real buy-in.

That was one of the key lessons from the Mandela era - the importance of inclusivity. There were 26 groups around the negotiation table, many of them not necessarily influential, but their presence mattered. It created ownership.

That principle remains critical.

So the question becomes: How do we initiate such a process today?

Are there leaders capable of doing it? Yes, absolutely. This country is full of capable, thoughtful individuals across sectors: labour, youth, business, political parties, civil society etc.

But many of them remain in the background, partly because of complex power dynamics.

It will require someone to step forward. Ideally, that responsibility rests with Cyril Ramaphosa as president.

But it cannot be driven by government alone. Nor can it be led solely by the ANC. It must be a broad, inclusive national process involving all key stakeholders.

[Karen Allen] (1:49:27 - 1:49:32)

And a final question: Are you staying in South Africa to see it through?

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:49:34 - 1:51:34)

Absolutely.

There was a powerful post I read. Someone who had emigrated to Australia and later returned. The message was: Don’t stand abroad and say, “I told you so.” Instead, ask, “How can I contribute (even from afar) to the future of South Africa?”

That person chose to come back because they wanted to be part of the solution.

And I feel the same. This country has given so much to me. My ancestors arrived here in 1658, so I have deep roots here.

I have no desire to leave. This is where I belong.

I still have hope for South Africa and for the continent.

It may take time, and I may not see the full outcome in my lifetime, but I believe South Africa will continue to move forward.

We may have lost some of our moral standing, but I believe we will regain it.

[Karen Allen] (1:51:36 - 1:51:40)

A hundred percent. Ivor Jenkins, thank you very much indeed.

[Ivor Jenkins] (1:51:41 - 1:51:50)

Thank you, Karen. It was a real pleasure to talk. Perhaps I spoke too much, but it was fun.