Stegen’s Cottage
Sunlit Memories & Undercurrents of Abuse
As children, my siblings and I cherished our holidays at Stegen’s Cottage in Salt Rock, a simple haven perched on a hill overlooking the Indian Ocean. The cottage was modest, surrounded by little more than scrubby bush and the distant roar of waves, a far cry from today’s bustling version. Our days revolved around lazy explorations and endless play, but nothing captured our hearts like Thompson’s Bay, our favorite beach just a short walk down the path.
Thompson’s Bay was a slice of paradise, a crescent-shaped stretch of golden sand framed by rugged rocks and lush greenery. The beach itself is renowned for its gentle seas and safe bathing, making it ideal for young families like ours. At its heart lies a large tidal pool, a natural rock enclosure that fills with crystal-clear seawater at high tide. We’d spend hours splashing in its shallow, warm waters, watching small fish dart among the rocks and feeling the thrill as incoming waves crashed over the barriers, sending sprays of foam into the pool. The scenery was breathtaking—turquoise waters meeting the horizon, with stunning seaside views that seemed to stretch forever. Vibrant marine life added to the magic, turning every visit into an adventure. Even now, flipping through old family pictures, I can feel the sun on my skin and hear our laughter echoing off the cliffs. It was, without question, one of the most beautiful bays along the Dolphin Coast.
The property had a rich history, purchased by my grandmother’s brother around World War II for a mere 50 pounds. Back then, Salt Rock was a quiet backwater, untouched by development, a place where the war’s echoes barely reached. But over the decades, it transformed into prime real estate. By the 1980s, the land had become so valuable that every one of his descendants received an apartment in a new development built on the site. What was once a solitary cottage is now the Buxtehude townhouse complex, a modern cluster of upscale units with pools, balconies, and beachfront access—a far cry from the humble retreat we knew. Salt Rock itself evolved from a sleepy post-war outpost into a prime holiday destination about 20 years later, and today it’s a mecca for the affluent, boasting some of the most expensive properties in South Africa.
Those idyllic holidays came to an abrupt end when we kids started school. The Joostens, entangled in the kwaSizabantu’s (KSB) rigid dynamics, began sending us strange letters steeped in their absurd notions of repentance. My dad, furious beyond words, stripped his moer, jumped into his car, and drove straight to confront them. He made it crystal clear: if his children ever received another letter, there would be hell to pay. The letters stopped, but so did the invitations to the cottage. We were suddenly chopped liver, cast aside in the family fray.
The Stegens and Joostens as part of the KSB sect held a deeply perverted view of Christianity, one that twisted faith into control and blame. Women were forbidden from wearing makeup or nice clothes, reduced to plain shadows in a world that demanded their subjugation. Their perspective on boys and girls was equally warped—they’d blame women for any abuse if they dared to adorn themselves, claiming it was their fault for tempting fate. This toxic mindset led directly to the abuse of my Aunt Enid, and even now, it fills me with fury and agitation. It’s disgusting and primitive, a betrayal of any true spiritual path.
My mom stood in stark contrast, always radiant in her makeup and elegant clothes. At family Christmases at my grandparents’ house, she’d be the only one who looked truly beautiful and alive, a beacon amid the drab conformity. As people began leaving the sect, they’d seek her out, visiting to learn the simple arts of applying makeup and dressing with confidence—small acts of rebellion that reclaimed their dignity.
Fundamentally, if you’re a strong Christian, you take responsibility for your own actions and don’t palm off blame onto someone else. You can’t call yourself a Christian if you subjugate women or shift the fault for your failings onto them. Not only are you not a Christian, you’re not even a man. And for abusers, there’s no easy repentance; you face earthly justice first, processed here on this side, and when you cross over, it’s to burn in hell. Those holidays at Stegen’s Cottage may have faded, but the lessons from that time, about joy, transformation, and the dangers of distorted faith, remain etched in my soul.
