Producing South Africa's first audio drama podcast imparts hope and a spirit of determination for others

Stripped is South Africa's first full-length audio drama podcast. While it dramatises the true story of my life following my matriculation in 1970, its greater purpose is to inspire and offer hope to the many who have been oppressed and marginalised by society, encouraging them to persevere through life's challenges.

I freely admit that the 19-year-old Thom was no superhero. He was, in fact, like any other scrawny, nerdish teenager shaped by his upbringing. This awkward, pale-skinned redhead, who failed spectacularly at sport, discovered an inner resolve and strength of character. That resolve helped him endure the extreme hardships imposed by the South African Defence Force, which stripped him of his freedom and dignity for refusing military training, and by the Watchtower Society, which took away his good name and all that it represented in the minds and hearts of those who knew him. The fact that this ordinary boy was able to push through and thrive serves as a reminder that many others can do the same.

The dramatisation of Stripped is not intended as a commentary on the old apartheid government, as the world has already formed its conclusions about that defunct political system. Nor is it a critique of others' religious beliefs — only God can make that judgement.

There was, of course, a time after my release from detention and excommunication from the Jehovah's Witnesses when I harboured intense hatred and anger towards those who had hurt me. Fortunately, that time has passed. Dawid Minnaar, who portrays Captain Nel, the officer in charge of the military Detention Barracks, noted in a video interview for Stripped that the army's employees likely acted as they did because they believed they were doing the right thing. The propaganda they had been raised with dictated their actions. Similarly, my parents — despite their obvious love for me — acted against me because they believed it was the right thing to do, accepting with blind faith the religious interpretations that convinced them their actions were in line with Jehovah's will.

In situations like these, it is difficult to assign blame. Should we hold all white South Africans from the apartheid era accountable for the human rights abuses they perpetuated? Or should we excuse their actions as the result of brainwashing by a larger ideology? Black South Africans, rightly, hold all racists responsible for their actions during apartheid. Blame is a sticky thing, clinging to all rungs of the hierarchical ladder, from the bottom to the very top. After the Second World War, this principle of tiered accountability was applied to Germany as a whole, to the Nazi Party, and to Hitler himself. Similarly, white South Africans, the National Party, and the Prime Minister were all held responsible.

However, when religion asserts that God is at the apex of such a hierarchy, demanding that His followers commit hurtful acts, a deep irony arises. Religion absolves itself of responsibility, and society often allows it to do so. The church, finding moral justification in its interpretation of scripture, feels no further guilt. Once a religion convincingly claims that an action is God's will, society often bends, forgiving what would otherwise be unforgivable. This applies not only to Christianity but to religious doctrines across many faiths.

Consider how Democratic South Africa swiftly repealed its former racist and sexist laws, embedding human rights in its new Constitution. Those who violate these rights or incite hatred are breaking the law. Yet despite this legal protection, religious institutions continue to punish LGBTQI+ individuals, often with society turning a blind eye to the suffering inflicted in the name of God. Were a person or secular organisation to act in the same way, they would be held accountable for human rights abuses. Yet, these laws are rarely applied when it is the church inflicting the harm. In many countries, religion influences state policy, as it did during apartheid. The Dutch Reformed Church found scriptural justification for racism and condemned homosexuality. The apartheid state embraced these doctrines, entrenching them in law. When apartheid fell, the world condemned it, and the Dutch Reformed Church reversed its stance on many of its doctrines, now welcoming people of colour and homosexuals.

I once hoped for an apology from both the apartheid government and the Jehovah's Witnesses for the suffering I endured at their hands. Yet, I knew deep down that this was an unrealistic expectation. Fifty years later, I no longer need that apology. I now understand how the apartheid government manipulated those who incarcerated me into believing they were doing the right thing, just as the Watchtower Society manipulated my family into thinking their shunning of me was God's will. As Christopher Hitchens put it, Religion forces nice people to do unkind things. But we can only forgive these actions when those committing them remain ignorant of what they are doing.

The Watchtower magazine, 15 January 1974, reads: When persons are in great danger from a source they do not suspect, or are being misled by those they consider to be friends, is it an unkindness to warn them? They may prefer not to believe the warning, they may even resent it, but does that free one from the moral responsibility to give that warning?

Raymond Franz, a former Governing Body member of the Watchtower Society, resigned on grounds of conscience and later became a vocal critic. His book, Crisis of Conscience, exposed the hypocrisy of Watchtower policies, failed predictions, and the harm caused by their governance. He wrote, If some of what is presented is painful to read, it was also painful to write. His sentiments mirror my own. I knew I had to write my autobiography, It Is What It Is — Grace through Acceptance, and produce the podcast Stripped out of a sense of duty to those I love, not as criticism, but as a way to help them see what they are supporting.

Though the actions taken against me were disproportionate to my deeds, having a story to tell means that I stood for something rather than sitting idly by. Taking a moral stand is risky, and I often find myself at crossroads because I choose to do what is right, even when it's perilous.

Stripped is not a story we could have told thirty years ago. Societal norms have only recently shifted enough to make us feel safe telling it now. Although the events took place half a century ago, the themes remain universally relevant. Young people today still struggle to stand up to bigotry and autocracy. LGBTQI+ individuals continue to fight for acceptance in a world dominated by heterosexual narratives. Tens of thousands of remarkable people live as outcasts because their lives contradict the narrow views of zealots from across the religious and political spectrum.

It is to all these people that I dedicate this work.