205 - Dinner with Madiba (Cape Town, South Africa)
IF YOU COULD HAVE DINNER WITH ANYONE, ALIVE OR DEAD, who would it be? Nelson Mandela is high on my list. While we were in Cape Town, Leslie and I stopped by the Slave Lodge Museum for insight into the Mother City’s dubious past.
“The Slave Lodge is one of the oldest buildings in Cape Town. It has answered to many names over the last three centuries, namely the Slave Lodge, Government Offices Building, Old Supreme Court, and South African Cultural History Museum. All these names reflect the long and rich history of the building.
In 1998 this museum was renamed the Slave Lodge, and seeks to work under the umbrella theme, ‘From human wrongs to human rights’. Exhibitions on the lower-level of this museum explore the long history of slavery in South Africa; and through our changing, temporary exhibitions we address issues focused on human rights awareness. The upper-level galleries, as well as other spaces in the museum, will be renewed in the coming years.” (https://www.iziko.org.za/museums/slave-lodge)
It’s a wealth of fascinating information about the colony’s role in the global mechanism of slavery. As intriguing as it was, it paled in comparison to the Mandela exhibit housed inside.
“Madiba,” as he was affectionately known, had many outstanding qualities, none more remarkable than his quasi-divine ability to forgive. He lost almost twenty-seven years of his life, the best years of his life, to incarceration at the hands of an illegitimate government. From a blind law-and-order standpoint, one could argue his criminal actions warranted confinement. Mandela led the Umkhonto we Sizwe (Spear of the Nation), the armed wing of the African National Congress (ANC) in the early 1960s. He supported a sabotage campaign targeting military and government objectives, recognizing the potential need for guerrilla warfare to end apartheid. So what if he managed to carry out the mission of MK (short for Umkhonto we Sizwe) without causalities? He was, by any definition, an enemy of the state.
And what a state it was. It became increasingly clear pacifism and peaceful protest wouldn’t usher in the demise of apartheid, not then anyway. So, against every fiber of his being (he was a staunch supporter of Mahatma Gandhi), Mandela agreed to a limited (i.e. no causalities) campaign of violence against symbols of apartheid. He had no illusions. Violence without casualties is still violence.
After his arrest and subsequent trial, he stood firm in defense of his actions, going so far as to explain and justify the tactics employed by MK for a global audience. He concluded his opening statement at trial with these words:
"During my lifetime, I have dedicated myself to the struggle of the African people. I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die."
You’d think spending over twenty-six years in prison would do nothing to soften one’s disposition. And yet, he seemed devoid of bitterness and impervious to calls for vengeance, internal or otherwise. Upon release, nobody knew what came next, least of all the apartheid government. In 1985, President Botha agreed to release Mandela on condition he reject armed struggle as a political tool. He declined. His response was simple:
"What freedom am I being offered while the organisation of the people remains banned? Only free men can negotiate. A prisoner cannot enter into contracts."
Not hard to see his background in law shining through there. You can imagine the consternation of the white South African minority upon Mandela’s release in 1990. What would he do? Payback, as they say, is a bitch. Picture an enormous pile of kindling dipped in gasoline floating atop a lake of nitroglycerin next to a dynamite factory, and you might have some idea of the powder keg that was South Africa in the early ‘90s. Now picture Mandela as the match.
Lesser men may have succumbed to the thirst for revenge or the perceived imperative for karmic “justice.” Mandela was a different breed, the rarest of rare. He was sure of one thing—the only way for South Africa to recover and move toward prosperity was through forgiveness and reconciliation. And he knew the eyes of the world were on him. It was up to him to lead the way. And that’s exactly what he did from the moment he became a free man.
I could point to any number of actions, not the least of which was Mandela’s establishment of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission after becoming president, to underscore his commitment to forgiveness and the progress he believed would result therefrom, but I think the following anecdote says it all.
In 1995, President Mandela turned up at the 1995 Rugby World Cup Final, sporting Francois Pienaar’s number six Springbok jersey. No big deal, right? Wrong. Rugby in South Africa had become synonymous with apartheid. The majority of blacks wanted the Springboks exiled to the dustbin of history. He stunned everyone with this conciliatory gesture. It’s almost impossible to underestimate its significance. Even his many detractors (black and white) had to tip their hat. (This incident was at the heart of Clint Eastwood’s Invictus, starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon.)
So, if given my choice of dinner guests, Madiba it would be. To look into his eyes and listen as he explains the origin of his seemingly endless well of personal amnesty and indefatigable dedication to the principles of human equality would be an experience akin to winning the lottery. I’m not big on the concept of heroes, but if I were forced to list one, it would be Nelson Mandela.
Below is a poem often recited by Mandela aloud to himself and his fellow prisoners on Robben Island. It gave him strength and was an indispensable source of empowerment. For him, it was the very essence of self-discipline.
Invictus
by
William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.