Blog #3 - Thursday, December 12th
Riona Bellim, 18, is one of the millions of young black South Africans who have watched the celebrations of Nelson Mandela’s life from afar; she hasn’t attended memorials or impromptu street parties or wept in sadness at his passing. But she does have questions about his legacy that affect her, and other young people, deeply.
“I was the post-apartheid generation and Mandela said we would have a Rainbow Nation,” she told me. “But in some places there is still segregation and unofficial apartheid. There is racism and blacks are treated very badly.”
Bellim, like many young people I have spoken with in South Africa, worries about what the future holds now that Mandela is gone.
Who, if not Mandela, will fight for the promised rainbow, she asked.
Over the last few days, we’ve heard from politicians, religious leaders and legends of the anti-apartheid struggle. But in a country with one of the youngest populations in the world, the voice of youth hasn’t been fully heard.
Given our work engaging young people, we facilitated a Skype conversation on Thursday between young black South Africans and students half a world away in Toronto. A dozen South African children, most from East London, near where Mandela was from originally, shared their stories with students at St. Joseph’s College School in Toronto, at an event honouring Mandela.
Like other youth I’ve spoken to this week, the students participating in the international dialogue told me they were shaken by the death of a man so elevated by their parents and grandparents that he seemed superhuman. They said they worried about what would happen now that he is gone. If he couldn't resolve their countries challenges, who can?
The youth I talked to worry most about the well-documented challenges they face—poverty, malnutrition, segregated and substandard schools, and one of the highest youth unemployment rates in the world. There are more than 10 million jobless people in the country, half of them are between the ages of 15 and 24. Some estimates put the unemployment rate among township youth at 57 per cent.
The Toronto students asked the South Africans, in the spirit of Mandela, what one thing would they do to improve their country.
Jocelyn Gqadu, 15, said she would support children to have education. Simalo Tshangana, 19, would make schools better and more affordable. “Many of my friends don’t even go to school because their parents can’t afford to send them,” she said.
An impossibly shy teen named Dephny Mapou, 17, told me in a whisper that she goes to a free high school with deplorable conditions, including broken desks, no pens or paper, plumbing problems, low-paid teachers who don’t care, poor attendance and chronic drug use among students.
“I really don’t want to be there, but I know I have to somehow finish,” she said. She worries that she didn’t pass her Grade 10 final exams.
The South African students were fascinated that a foreign nation would care so much to hold a memorial for their former president. They actually gasped upon learning there was a school in Toronto named Nelson Mandela Park Public School.
They also applauded loudly after David Onley, Lieutenant Governor of Ontario, put Mandela’s sacrifices into perspective. He told students that he was 14 years old when Mandela went to jail. By the time Mandela was released 27 years later, Onley was married with three children.
After the Skype call ended, Bellim told me she hopes that she and other young South Africans will continue to “push and push” for true equality. Because what a shame if the hope of the Rainbow Nation dies with Mandela.
Blog #2 – Tuesday, December 10th
I arrived early Wednesday at the corner of Steve Biko Street and Madiba Avenue to await the passing of the hearse carrying Nelson Mandela’s coffin, just one of thousands wanting to see him for the last time, and in many cases, the first time.
Le-Anne Pereira, 47, explained that it was on her “bucket list” to see Mandela at least once in her life.
She kept repeating to me as we waited under the bright sun, “my boss is going to kill me,” explaining that she’d ducked out of work to stand in line to see the former South African president’s body lying in state at the Union Buildings in Pretoria, where he was sworn as the first democratically elected president of South Africa in 1994.
“I want to thank him for unifying our country,” she explained. “This is my last opportunity to meet him.” The line was long and I worried that she wouldn’t get to see Mandela just once.
Monica Ntimana, 29, held her five-month-old baby Grace up high and took a picture with the procession passing in the background. She wanted her daughter, who will grow up with freedom and opportunities, to know she was there on this solemn and historic day.
“As she grows up I will keep telling her stories about apartheid and how it was before in this country. It’s great for her that she was born during this time,” said Ntimana.
It’s a wonder to see so many wait for so long to thank this man for liberating South Africa from apartheid. And also to say goodbye to the hope he represented. The lines wormed through the capital for many kilometres. Everywhere, there were signs of the unity that Mandela made possible.
Two young women — one a black high school student, the other a white high school student — struck up a friendship while they waited five hours in line. They, like so many others, said they were grateful to be able to live in unity. If there were problems — disparities between races have been well documented — people seemed reluctant to address them, as though it was disrespectful to Mandela.
I talked to so many South Africans in line that I almost forgot why I was lining up. In the late afternoon, I finally walked into the courtyard of the Union Buildings and then headed up a flight of stairs. Le-Anne Pereira, finally getting to meet Mandela, went ahead of me. I entered a tent, and then stopped abruptly.
There he was. I’d expected a closed casket.
Mandela’s head and shoulders were visible under glass. His iconic face, peaceful. I felt pressure on my chest and took in a deep breath and paid my respects.
As I left, I saw Pereira folded over sobbing. The blonde South African woman could barely walk. A young black soldier put her arms around Pereira, and told her that it was all going to be OK.
In that moment of unity, it was possible to believe it was.
Blog #1 – Monday December 9th
Joining thousands of others before me, this morning I lined up in Johannesburg to sign the condolence book for Nelson Mandela.
It’s difficult to find words to adequately honour a man who brought such significant societal transformation to a country, and the world. So I settled on the most simple of sentiments.
“The young people of Canada, the U.S., U.K. and the world are forever inspired by you, and promise to continue your life's mission of compassion and equality. In gratitude.”
Similar books have been placed across South Africa and at high commissions around the world. The book I signed was at Nelson Mandela Square in the shadow of a six-metre statue of the former South African president. I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with many South Africans looking for ways to mourn the passing of their favourite son.
Jacqui Makume was at the square with her five-year-old daughter. The 29-year-old massage therapist called Mandela “the Messiah of our time.”
Paying tribute to Mandela was crucial and she said she’d go to any lengths to do so, especially to attend the stadium memorial tomorrow in this city. “I would walk 100 kilometres to get there, if I had to.”
One of the organizers of the condolence book, Karen Hartdegen, said the written tributes will be compiled and placed in a government archives as a record of the public outpouring for the leader she deeply admired.
When she learned of the 95-year-old’s death at 2 a.m. last Thursday, she rushed to be with other comrades from the African National Congress.
“There was both sadness and a sense of joy,” she said. “It was also so spiritual, so eternal, because that was the kind of man he was.”
The period of mourning for the man, affectionately known by his clan name Madiba, is ten days, to end on Dec. 15, when he is buried at his ancestral home of Qunu. In between, South Africans have flocked to those places that Mandela’s presence can be felt.
Hundreds of people continued to gather Monday afternoon at the home where Mandela died quietly with his family around him. There were candles, police torches and cooking fires amid t-shirt hawkers and the growing shrine of hand-written notes, bouquets of flowers and balloons. At one point, doves were released into the sky as people cheered, then sang. Every now-and-then, bands with tubas shuffled through the crowd.
The streets around Mandela’s home were closed off, and jammed with people. A rumour spread through the crowd that U.S. President Barack Obama might show up at the home when he touched down in Johannesburg before tomorrow’s memorial. The excitement of that possibility faded quickly when CNN’s Anderson Cooper showed up to conduct interviews.
Trixi Hlatshwayo was supposed to be selling ice cream from her pushcart, but business was slow, so she shuffled danced to the music instead.
The 25-year-old said the work of Mandela changed her life. “He made it so we are free.” But she also said she is worried that life will get worse for black South Africans now that Mandela is dead. “We can only pray.” Then, she sold a frozen berry bar to a journalist, and smiled.
