Roy Thorsen
The Story of My Life
My name is Roy Thorsen, and I am still living my story.
As I reflect on the path that has brought me here, I recognise a life shaped by moments of challenge, growth, work, family, and change. I am not writing this as a final account, but as a living reflection – a pause in the journey to acknowledge what has been meaningful so far.
There are chapters I am proud of, others I am still learning from, and many I continue to write each day. This is not a completed story, but an ongoing one – shaped by experience, relationships, and the choices I continue to make.
I share these reflections in the hope that they preserve something of who I am today, while I am still here to tell it.
Roots & Early Life
Growing up in Durban during the mid-twentieth century, shortly after the Second World War, was a unique experience in many ways. It was a world before the technological revolution, but it was also a South Africa deeply shaped by the structures and realities of apartheid.
Much of life still carried a distinctly colonial atmosphere, reflected in the education system, social structures, and cultural expectations of the time. Looking back now, I realise that while enormous social changes were beginning to unfold around the country, my own childhood existed largely within a sheltered English-speaking enclave of Durban.
I experienced a structured and stable upbringing, shaped by strong family routines, affection, and the quiet security of home. As the eldest child, I received much love and attention from my parents, together with the care of a devoted Zulu nanny who formed an important part of our early family life.
Our Durban house became the emotional centre of my childhood. It was the first and only family home I knew growing up, and in many ways it grounded me deeply in a sense of belonging and continuity that I would only fully appreciate much later in life.
The house bordered a small nature reserve, and many of my earliest memories are connected to the natural world around us. Vervet monkeys regularly visited the pawpaw trees, while countless birds nested in the trees and beneath the eaves of the house. Nature was not something distant or occasional; it formed part of everyday life.
The house itself was built in the traditional Durban style of the time, with wooden floors raised above the ground on brick foundations. Beneath the house ran narrow crawl spaces and dark passageways where my father would inspect for white ant infestations with a flashlight in hand.
As children, we would eagerly follow him into these underground spaces, often bringing friends along for the adventure. It was dark, dusty, and at times quite frightening, but it also became a source of excitement and laughter as we startled one another in the shadows below the floorboards.
Looking back now, I realise how naturally humour and shared laughter softened fear even in those early years.
My schooling began at a nearby nursery school in the hilly suburb of Glenwood. Reaching it each day meant walking up and down Durban’s steep inclines, as our family car was shared between my parents and not always available. Those daily walks soon became part of the rhythm of life.
From an early age, I also became aware that academic performance was taken seriously within our family. There was an expectation that I should do well at school, and although this encouraged discipline and effort, it also introduced an early awareness of responsibility and achievement.
At preparatory school, I made steady progress academically and enjoyed being part of a stimulating class environment surrounded by close friends. Friendships became an increasingly important part of my early life and helped shape many of the experiences and values that would later remain with me into adulthood.
Dreams & Turning Points
Questions, Emerging Awareness, and Discovery
Although I was not naturally gifted with exceptional intelligence, there was an expectation within our family that I should achieve above-average academic results. This brought with it a certain degree of pressure and anxiety, but it also taught me the value of discipline, perseverance, and concentrated effort.
Fortunately, my parents invested a great deal of time and encouragement in my education. Homework often involved patient coaching from both of them, and good reports were met with genuine approval and support.
Evenings in our household followed a comforting rhythm. Before lights out, there would often be storytelling sessions, usually drawn from books chosen either by my mother or myself. As I grew older, the routine gradually changed, and I began reading aloud to my parents instead. Looking back, those moments quietly nurtured both imagination and communication.
Faith also formed an important part of our upbringing. Before going to sleep each night, I would say my prayers, and regular Sunday school reinforced the religious structure within our family life. At the time, however, I often felt a subtle disconnect between this aspect of my upbringing and my friendships outside the home.
Most of my neighbouring friends did not share the same religious environment, and as a young boy I struggled to reconcile these different worlds. In many ways, my faith remained more external than deeply internalised during those years, only becoming more personally meaningful much later in life.
Friendships, however, played an enormously important role in my childhood. One of my closest friends, Peter Gerson, lived only a few houses away and had attended nursery school with me. Our friendship endured throughout our lives and became one of the most stable and meaningful relationships of my youth.
The neighbourhood itself was full of young families and children, creating an atmosphere of constant activity and companionship. After homework was completed each afternoon, we would gather outdoors to climb trees, play cricket and other sports, or simply spend hours exploring the open municipal grounds adjoining our homes.
There always seemed to be space for movement, play, and laughter.
One of the highlights each year was our neighbourhood Guy Fawkes celebration, organised enthusiastically by my father. The humour of the occasion often centred around the “guy” on the bonfire, which my father amusingly constructed using one of his old pairs of pyjamas stuffed with rolled newspaper. For us as children, this became a source of endless laughter and anticipation.
At preparatory school, I continued to make good academic progress and enjoyed being part of a stimulating classroom environment surrounded by close friends. One such friend, who would later become an important colleague in adult life, was also a fellow scout in the local pack that I had joined. Scouts brought additional opportunities for friendship, shared activities, and social engagement beyond school itself.
Then, without warning, life introduced one of its first significant personal challenges.
I developed a severe nervous weakness that affected my ability to keep up with speed writing during classroom dictation exercises. The condition appeared suddenly and left me deeply unsettled at the time. A doctor later diagnosed it as an essential tremor originating in the brain.
Fortunately, I was spared ridicule from classmates, something for which I remained grateful. No treatment was prescribed, and after a few days I returned to school, outwardly appearing much the same as before.
Yet experiences such as these leave their mark internally, particularly during childhood, when confidence and identity are still forming.
My final year of primary school, however, proved to be happier and more fulfilling in many respects. Friendships deepened, sporting activities became increasingly important, and I discovered growing confidence through rugby and athletics. Birthday parties, cycling long distances to school, and shared experiences with both school and neighbourhood friends brought a strong sense of enjoyment and belonging to those years.
Then, quite unexpectedly, another major turning point arrived.
One evening at the dinner table, my father announced that I had been offered the opportunity to attend a prominent diocesan boarding school in the Natal Midlands. The news came completely out of the blue and shook me profoundly.
Until that moment, I had assumed I would continue to high school alongside my existing friends. I still remember the feeling of shock and uncertainty as the proposal was discussed around the dinner table. My parents assured me that the decision would ultimately be my own, but even so, I felt emotionally unprepared for such a dramatic change.
After much discussion, I eventually accepted the offer, despite having little understanding of what lay ahead.
What followed was an intense period of preparation. Since many boys entering the school had already studied Latin, I suddenly found myself needing to complete an accelerated course over a matter of months in order to sit the entrance examinations.
In retrospect, however, this period also introduced me to several individuals who quietly helped ease the transition. My tutor, Mrs Bristow, was an accomplished intellectual with a deep love for classical learning. Through her lessons, I not only studied Latin, but also began learning about the culture and traditions of the school I was about to enter.
Gradually, what had initially felt overwhelming began to feel slightly more manageable.
Small connections started forming. Familiar names emerged. Pieces of the puzzle slowly began falling into place.
At the time, I did not fully realise it, but many of these early experiences were teaching me important lessons about uncertainty, adaptation, friendship, and resilience — lessons that would continue to shape my understanding of people and human connection throughout later life.
Family & Contribution
Building a Life
By the time I settled into high school life, I slowly began to find my footing. The difficult initiation period had passed, and with each succeeding year came greater confidence, together with increased privileges and responsibilities. Achievements on the sports field and in the classroom gradually began shaping my sense of identity and my thoughts about the future.
Looking back now, I realise how fortunate I was to have grown up within a stable and balanced family environment. Stability was very much the hallmark of our home life, and this gave me a strong emotional foundation during the often uncertain years of adolescence.
At school, however, I became increasingly aware of the wide range of personalities and behaviour patterns among fellow students. Some individuals communicated and interacted in ways that felt very different from my own values and upbringing. During those years, I also became more conscious of my own personal weaknesses.
I was often uncomfortable around strangers and tended to become quiet during social gatherings or unfamiliar situations. I hesitated to put forward my ideas and frequently experienced feelings of inadequacy or self-doubt. Leadership did not come naturally to me in those formative years, and I often found myself following rather than leading within social environments.
In hindsight, the educational climate of the time did little to encourage self-expression or emotional confidence. The Christian National Education system that shaped much of South African schooling during those years placed considerable emphasis on conformity, discipline, and structure. As a result, many of us learned to suppress uncertainty rather than openly express it.
One of the most important discoveries I made during this period was the value of sport as a balancing force in life.
Sport became a powerful release from the mental pressures and frustrations that built up through daily academic demands. Rugby, tennis, and other physical activities provided more than exercise alone. After training or competition, I would often return physically exhausted, yet mentally calmer and emotionally restored.
Only much later did I fully appreciate how important physical movement can be in regulating emotional tension and restoring psychological balance.
As I progressed through high school, attention increasingly shifted toward questions surrounding my future career. Subject choices in Grade 10 required important decisions, and I found myself naturally drawn toward science and mathematics, eventually deciding to include additional mathematics as a seventh subject.
This decision also meant letting go of several classical subjects, including history, biology, and language options such as Zulu, Greek, and Latin.
At the same time, I became increasingly aware of my parents’ strong hope that I might eventually follow my father into the medical profession. He had built a successful practice of his own, and understandably there was a desire to see that path continue within the family.
Although I respected my father deeply, I sensed early on that my own interests and inclinations did not naturally lie within medicine. Fortunately, ours was never a quarrelsome household, and these discussions rarely developed into conflict. Looking back, I remain deeply grateful for the atmosphere of mutual respect and emotional stability that existed within our family.
Toward the end of my final school years, discussions about my future became more focused. My parents suggested the possibility of a post-matric year, but by then I had grown weary of the highly structured nature of school life, with its constant routines, bells, duties, and regulations. Increasingly, I longed for greater freedom and independence.
A formal meeting was eventually arranged between my parents, my housemaster, and myself to discuss career possibilities. Predictably, the medical profession was placed on the table as a serious option. While I did not openly object, I knew internally that my interests lay elsewhere.
A compromise was eventually reached whereby I would begin with a Bachelor of Science degree, leaving open the possibility of medicine at a later stage if desired.
We all emerged from that meeting satisfied, although fully aware that the immediate challenge of matric examinations still lay ahead.
One important lesson had already begun to establish itself clearly in my mind during those years: that hard work and academic discipline often brought increasing trust, responsibility, and freedom from both parents and authority figures.
It was a principle that would continue revealing itself repeatedly throughout later life.
Challenges & Resilience
Turning Points in Life
We often speak about role models and the influence certain individuals have on our lives. For many people these figures are found in sport, business, or public life. In my own case, however, one of the greatest influences was my mother, although my father also played an equally important role in many respects.
It was my mother who introduced me to daily prayer and encouraged my involvement in the choir at St Paul’s Cathedral in downtown Durban. Faith was not something heavily debated around our dinner table, as it may have been in some households, but it quietly formed part of the structure of our upbringing.
At school, prayers were said each morning at assembly, and religious life existed as a natural part of the educational environment. Yet even as a young boy, I became aware of differences in how faith and community were experienced among my peers.
Several Jewish boys in my class would leave school early on Fridays to attend Hebrew lessons together at the synagogue. What struck me was not only their religious practice, but the sense of shared identity and belonging that surrounded it. Their friendships extended naturally into school life, sport, and social activities.
Looking back, I realise that my own experience of faith lacked some of this collective togetherness. It remained present in my upbringing, but perhaps less fully integrated into my friendships and social world during those early years.
When the opportunity later arose for me to attend Michaelhouse, I was largely unaware of the network of relationships and circumstances that had quietly contributed to this possibility. My father, through his work and church connections, had developed a friendship with Bishop Vernon Inman, who happened to be chairman of the school’s governing board.
As events unfolded, I eventually found myself placed in the same house as one of the bishop’s sons, Mark Inman. Although we never became especially close friends, the familiarity of that connection helped ease the transition into an unfamiliar environment.
Arriving at boarding school, however, was still an overwhelming experience.
After unpacking our cases and being assigned beds in the dormitory, we were introduced to the senior boys responsible for guiding new pupils through the traditions and routines of the school. My assigned mentor greeted me politely enough, although I sensed immediately that this responsibility was more obligation than enthusiasm on his part. Far from calming my nerves, the encounter deepened my uncertainty about whether I truly belonged there.
At that stage, my emotions were difficult to process. I remember feeling caught somewhere between shock, homesickness, confusion, and determination.
Then, gradually, small moments of connection began to appear.
One of these came through another new boy named Tony Goodyear, the son of a priest. We were assigned duties together within the boarding house and over time formed a meaningful friendship. Sharing responsibilities, routines, and the awkwardness of adapting to school life created a bond that helped steady me emotionally during those difficult early months.
Looking back now, I often wonder at the remarkable sequence of people connected to faith and spiritual life who seemed to enter my journey during those years.
At Michaelhouse, chapel played a central role in daily life. Some former students later described this emphasis as something that distanced them from religion. In my own experience, however, the opposite occurred.
Although I was still too immature to fully understand or commit myself deeply to matters of faith, those early years prompted serious reflection for the first time in my life.
I vividly remember sitting beneath the great stained-glass rose window in the chapel loft reserved for new boys, quietly praying for guidance during periods of loneliness, bullying, and emotional uncertainty. There were times when the ridicule and pressures of boarding school felt deeply painful, and I often questioned whether I would successfully adapt.
Yet friendship and humour once again became important sources of resilience.
Having my lifelong friend Peter Gerson nearby helped enormously. Through shared weekends, classes, and countless conversations, we found ways to laugh at the absurdities of school traditions and routines that otherwise felt intimidating or overwhelming.
Laughter created perspective. It softened tension and made difficult experiences feel more manageable.
Gradually, friendships deepened, confidence grew, and life at the school began to feel more normal. I also developed a growing appreciation for the Anglican Church, influenced in part through conversations with Tony Goodyear and others whose lives reflected a quiet sense of service, discipline, and spiritual grounding.
Over time, I came to value the Church not only for its theology, but also for its sense of continuity, structure, and commitment to community.
To this day, some of my clearest memories are of the Sunday evening chapel services after weekends spent in the surrounding farming district known as Free Bounds. After the intensity and competitiveness of Saturday sport, a remarkable stillness would descend upon the school as we gathered quietly in the chapel pews.
The contrast was profound.
The noise and aggression of the rugby field gave way to silence, reflection, music, and contemplation. In those moments, a deep sense of peace often settled over the school community, leaving impressions that have remained with me throughout my life.
Wisdom & Legacy
Reflections and Messages Going Forward
Reflecting on the meaning of this course and the messages I wish to leave behind, I feel first and foremost a deep sense of gratitude.
Martin, I sincerely thank you for creating the opportunity for people such as myself to gather our thoughts and reflect on the experiences, lessons, and memories that may one day hold value for future generations.
What struck me most about the process was the realisation that ordinary lives are far more meaningful than we often assume. Many people believe there is nothing especially remarkable about their personal story. Yet when families gather later in life, conversations inevitably return to the life that was lived, the values carried forward, and the memories that shaped future generations.
Too often, however, very little tangible record remains.
In many ways, this course highlighted the importance of preserving not only major achievements, but also the smaller moments, reflections, struggles, and experiences that collectively shape a human life.
The group itself brought enormous value to the experience. There was an energy and openness among participants that contributed greatly to the learning environment. The structure of each session, together with the five guiding questions, provided a practical framework that made the task of reflection feel manageable rather than overwhelming.
After each session, I found it surprisingly natural to continue shaping my thoughts and memories during the week that followed. The questions helped prioritise what truly mattered and gradually allowed the outline of my story to emerge.
At this stage of life, I feel reasonably capable of recounting many of the major experiences from my eighty years. What I remain less certain about is where the balance lies between meaningful reflection and unnecessary detail. Perhaps that uncertainty is something shared by most aspiring writers.
I now understand far better why authors rely so heavily on editors and proofreaders.
The course, together with your accompanying material, has given me a valuable framework for identifying what is relevant and worthwhile within a life story. It has also made me aware of some of the pitfalls that prospective memoir writers may encounter along the way.
Throughout my life I have enjoyed reading biographies and autobiographies, often admiring the different ways individuals choose to interpret and present their personal history. Some authors focus strongly on family background and inherited values, showing how lessons from previous generations continue shaping later life.
This, too, has become increasingly meaningful to me.
Learning is truly a lifelong process, and part of that learning involves acknowledging those people who helped shape our journey along the way.
What has become particularly clear to me is the enormous amount of time and commitment required to complete a memoir properly. It is far more demanding than it first appears. I have known several individuals who began writing projects enthusiastically, only to abandon them halfway through.
For my own part, I hope to complete this work within the next six to ten months. At present, I imagine it may eventually comprise around sixteen chapters, although these are still rough estimates. What matters most to me is not perfection, but the desire to complete the task while I am still able to share it personally with family and friends.
One of my own role models has been Clem Sunter, whom I was fortunate enough to know as a friend. Although he did not, to my knowledge, leave behind a memoir, he produced a remarkable body of written work that formed part of his legacy to both family and society.
At present I am also reading the autobiography of Johnny Clegg, whose life journey was vastly different from my own, yet equally fascinating. His story reminds me that every life contains its own unique landscape of challenges, relationships, and discoveries.
I have no ambition to produce a lengthy literary masterpiece. A modest memoir of perhaps one hundred and fifty pages, accompanied by photographs and letters, would satisfy me greatly.
One thing this process has taught me is how vividly memory can return, even after many decades. Experiences buried for seventy or eighty years can suddenly reappear with surprising clarity and emotional immediacy. Moments long forgotten somehow remain stored within us, waiting quietly to resurface.
This, perhaps more than anything else, has deepened my appreciation for the remarkable nature of human consciousness and memory.
As I reflect on these experiences, I remain deeply grateful for the support of my wife, Maureen, whose encouragement has made this endeavour feel both possible and worthwhile. Any married person will understand how valuable such support can be when undertaking a project of this nature.
Looking back now, I realise that life rarely unfolds according to a fixed plan. Yet through family, friendship, faith, education, challenge, and perseverance, a meaningful path gradually reveals itself over time.
And perhaps that, ultimately, is what this process has allowed me to appreciate most clearly of all.
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