Remembering Nelson

Today is the 2nd anniversary of the death of Nelson Mandela - a man who is justly called one of the fathers of our nation.  There are many of us who might have problems with some of the positions he took and some of the compromises he made.  But no-one can doubt his greatness or his significance. Or his remarkable ability to bring together opposing opposites.

A poem I wrote  at the time:

WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE
(Remembering Nelson)


When all is said and done
And the sound of the earth falling on
The box that holds
Your body
Is muffled
And the bugle
And the poet
Rasping "Aah Dalibhunga"
Is dim

Then, in that moment,
Let me look upwards
And see the broad sky.

When all is said and done
And the flags are folded
The chairs stacked
The tents stowed
For another show
On another day

Then, in that quiet moment,
Let me look outwards
And see the far horizon.

When all is said and done
And the social medias
Have found another saint
Or another sinner
To hail
Or to hang
To praise
Or to pillory

Then, let me think
Of this shining day
Of this bright
African son

When all is said and done.

What the President might have said ...

This picture of Nelson Mandela with a/his dog surfaced some time before the remarks by President Jacob Zuma about the different cultures of animal ownership between black and white South Africans.

The holidays, this year, have been dominated by remarks made by President Zuma regarding the way in which white people, apparently habitually, treat their domestic pets better than they do the black people around them.  The President’s mistake, as far as I can see, was not the observation itself – which may or may not upon investigation, prove to be true.  The real problem with his remarks, in my estimation, was the way in which he gets himself entangled in notions of “culture” which are not only spurious, but extremely dangerous.

The ex-governor of the Reserve bank, Tito Mboweni, tells a story about when he was working as a young man, as a gardener in a white person’s home – before Limpopo was Limpopo.He says that round about lunch time – in the heat of the day he would hear “the Madam” calling “Titus!  Titus! Come and get your lunch!”  That was the signal for him to run like hell, because he had to get to the stoep to protect his lunch, before the dog got it.

His lunch would be three very thick slices of bread with jam on them, served on a chipped enamel plate.  There would also be an enamel mug of extremely sweet, milky tea.  “The Madam” had never thought to ask him whether he actually drank tea, and whether he liked sugar and milk, or not.

When he tells this story – and I have heard it often – there are often shrieks of laughter from black people of a certain age, who recognise the scenario, and squirming embarrassment from whites, who recognise their mothers or their grandmothers in the story as well.

It is just a fact that people will not fail to notice when domestic pets are treated way better than they are as people.  They will not fail to notice this because there is a perceived natural hierarchy in the universe, with the humans at the top.  The life of a human is seen to be much more valuable than the life, for instance, of a dog and therefore there is enormous resentment and indignation when the dog appears to be getting the better deal.

The corollary of this is that because humans are perceived to be on top, they can do what they like with other forms of life and treat them as they will or desire.  So, we can starve the animals in our care (whether they be horses on farms, or dogs or cats); we can let them die from neglect; we can beat them if we want to; we can stone them when they come across our paths.  Why?  Because we are the boss of the universe.

Clearly, the truth is that both of these extreme frames are wrong.  It has bugger-all to do with that hallowed thing called “culture”.  Stoning a dog, because it irritates you - or because you can - isn’t some great statement of African culture – it is just despicable inhumanity.  Neglecting the plight of a farmworker while pampering a kitten is exactly the same thing.  These things are not cultural, they are the best examples of how ugly and revolting human beings can be.

Whether it be the revolting regular practice of slaughtering bulls with spears for fun in Spain, or whether it be the equally revolting annual practise of killing bulls with bear hands in Kwazulu-Natal; whether it be the neglect of a dog under one’s care or the neglect of human beings in one’s employ – these things are not cultural – they are just wrong.   To baptise a practise as “cultural” does not make it right, it does not somehow allow the practitioner to escape from criticism or critique.  It cannot be a cosy hiding place for acts of cruelty and barbarism.

So, let us be clear – the perennial acts of neglect of human beings, compared with the penchant for pampering pets is going to be noticed and it is going to be paraded as yet another example of ongoing oppression. (Of course, to presume that this is something which is entirely racially based, is just remarkably silly).  But on the other hand, to presume that human beings have the right to dominate and subject (and if so desired, torture and neglect) all other forms of life, is crass and backward.  Do not expect that this is going to go un-noticed either. Neither perspective is cultural.  Both should be condemned.

The President’s recently expressed view is nothing unique to him.  I have heard it expressed as an almost defining characteristic of white people, by many black people.  (And I have also heard the opposite expressed as a characteristic of black people, by many whites.)  Where these are simple prejudices, they are at least something one can attempt to deal with, either by education or by argument.  But where they get entangled in the concept of “culture”, they become dangerous and extremely blunt weapons of analytical destruction.  Culture is, mostly, a fearful and terrifying thing.

When Mandela Goes

Cavendish Mall is one of the key meeting places of complacent, white, southern suburb Capetonians. They have Lattes there, skinny and otherwise, topped with the lightest hint of chocolate powder. They can wander around shops sporting expensive jewellery, overpriced nik naks and the latest fashion accessories. They can meander through the bookshop and shop at a leisurely pace for their necessities at a Woolworths, where even the next available till announcements are delivered in slightly hushed tones.

It is a wealthy environment. But you would not know that if you were not awake to the signs, because they are not entirely obvious. At any restaurant in the complex, you will battle to find a black patron. It is a safe haven for white people. They can see their art movies there on a Saturday evening. They can be at home with each other and relaxed. As they look around them, it is as if democracy never arrived with all its uncomfortable side effects, like taxis on the roads, and riff-raff being given too much freedom, and black people being allowed to do what they want. Cavendish Mall is a safe and pleasant environment. It is tasteful, without being loud. In it you can be assured that standards will be aggressively maintained and everyone will have the same expectations.

You will notice that most people have an attitude. It comes with a particular angle of the nose on the face – as though it has only recently sniffed the unpleasantness of lower forms of life. As I have said, you will notice that wealth is not flashy, nor brash, nor worn on the sleeve. No. The cars are usually ordinary, sun-blasted and with dents that have never been attended to. Even the clothes are not flashy, or loud. Hairstyles are usually the simplest. Makeup is not much in evidence. Things are tasteful and understated.

But it is an environment where like recognises and affirms like. This crowd of people have a set of rules which they all know from birth and follow rigourously until they die. Nothing changes. This is Cairp Tahn. This is the Southern Suburbs.

So I was interested to see some graffiti on one of the walls on a toilet in Cavendish Mall. It read this, in an unsteady hand – “I AM WAITING MANDELA DIE.” I am sure it is already attended to and has been removed – because graffiti is a very rare thing in Cavendish Mall, you underestand – (and we don’t want any of that, do we?)

But it made me think. Something about the sentence made me think, immediately (maybe it was the lack of correct English grammar), that it had been written by someone who was black. Not because I think blacks can’t write correct English, nor because I think only a black would write on a toilet wall – no. It was because I am white and I grew up under apartheid and because those are the kind of assumptions I am bound to make. But let us assume, just for the sake of argument, that my prejudices and my instinct are correct in this instance, and that it was written by a black person – what could it possibly mean?
Is it simply a statement of fact? Does it mean nothing more than what is being said? Someone was sitting on the toilet in Cavendish Mall and decided to write those words on the wall, because that is what he was thinking. He is waiting for Mandela to die. It would be odd indeed. Of the same ilk as “The sky is blue”, “I am bored” and “John loves Mary”. Except it isn’t.

The context of Cavendish Mall inevitably makes this some kind of a political statement. It is intended to be read in that context. It has a meaning more like “Troops out of Iran” or “Nationalise the mines”. It is not a bland or a neutral statement. And it is meant to feed into the deepest fears of the majority of the patrons of the Cavendish Mall. When Mandela dies, all hell will break loose. The black hoards are sitting around waiting for the day. It is only out of respect for the old man that they have kept their pangas under their beds, but when he dies! Then we will all be braaivleis.

And I expect, if it hasn’t happened yet, that there is going to be much buying of tinned sardines, stockpiling of water and matches – just as was the case during the first democratic elections. Why? Because it is a real possibility? No. It won’t happen.

Then why? Why the subliminal fear? Why the mounting hysteria? Why the bewailing of certain doom and racial misfortune? I will tell you why. Because deep down, in the recesses of their consciousness, white people in this country know just how big a compromise was made in the interests of peace. When they lie in their beds at night, they know that the poor cannot be fooled forever and the lid has got to blow on the sham at some point. That is why, this simple, ungrammatically correct sentence, written on a toilet wall in Cavendish Mall, has profound resonance.

Thirty Three out of One Hundred

I joined the ANC in 1979. It was in Lesotho. I had left South Africa as a War Resistor. That was all I had done. Soweto 1976 came and went. I read the headlines with rising alarm. I was a student at a very rightwing university, at the time - Rhodes University. We were all white students. There were a couple amongst us mad enough (or brave enough) to join Nusas. But not me.

Steve Biko got killed. The news was told me by a black stranger on the streets of Grahamstown. He was in shock – that was clear. He said what I thought was “Steve Peacock is dead!” I tried to look sympathetic, but had no idea what he might be talking about. I only later found out that it was Steve Biko as all the headlines screamed at me – and still I was none the wiser. Who was Steve Biko? I had never heard of him.

I remember that some of us got captured by the thing. It was horrific – that was clear. We were students. Students protest. So we protested. The Minister of police at the time tried to tell everyone that he had killed himself by not eating for 8 days. So we fasted. We would meet once a day at lunch time in the office of the Philosophy Professor, an enigmatic ex-Methodist Minister by the name of James Moulder. We fasted for eight days. And that was it. There was the occasional student protest about stuff I knew nothing about. But that was it. That was my entire experience of the struggle.

Well, not entirely. Up the road from me had lived Eli and Violet Weinberg – Communists under house arrest. The Security Police would sit all night long in a car across from our house – watching the Weinberg house. My mother used to chat sometimes with Eli, over the garden fence. She found it odd that a Communist would, on a yearly basis, send us a Christmas card.

Just up the road from us in Fanny Avenue, lived a woman called Helen Joseph. My mother had a strange fear and fascination for her. She was clearly bad news, because she consorted with the natives – but at the same time, my mother admired her principles and the fact that she stood up for them.

It was only when I was a student in Cambridge that I read some of the speeches from the Treason Trial. I read the Freedom Charter. They were a revelation. They determined for me that, no matter what, I would not allow myself to be conscripted. I was lucky enough to have a wife then, who agreed with me and supported me. Together, we decided to leave the country. It was a big thing for us. But that is all it was.

So we encountered a very suspicious ANC in Lesotho. Our first contact was with someone whose name we had been given while inside the country. The reception was chilly. We decided not to push the issue. And so we were watched. Background checks, presumably, were done on us. And eventually, it became clear that we were to be regarded as comrades, rather than spies. That realisation does not give any sense of the dramatic and dynamic change which was happening inside us.

For the first time, in our lives, we were living amongst black people as equals. For the first time in our lives, we were interacting with black people at an eyeball to eyeball level. For the first time in our lives, we were not the “baas”. Lesotho provided all of us with a foretaste of what liberation might be like. What it might be like to live side by equal side. Cheek by equal jowl.

For many of us, when we found ourselves elsewhere in the world down the years, it was Lesotho that we pined for. Because it was there that we experienced what we could never experience inside South Africa itself. We experienced a unity of purpose. We experienced and we started to live a progressive, revolutionary and life-changing ideal. And once you have crossed over that bridge, you can never go back.

It was black ANC members and the people of Lesotho who gave us back the humanity that apartheid had robbed us of. And this is something I, for one, cannot ever forget. Jacob Zuma held underground meetings in our back bedroom. Tito Mboweni learned to drive in our Volkswagen Beetle. Ngoako Ramahlodi ironed his shirts in our living room. Others, with equally big names bathed in our bath; made tea from our kettle; spent the night on the lounge sofa. And then there were those people, whose real names one never knew – until they were killed in one of the two raids which the Boers (and I use that term knowingly) executed with such extraordinary cruelty in Lesotho.

I wish, passionately – I wish with every fibre of my being – that every white person in the country could have experienced what we experienced. I wish they could have learned, as we did, that white people could not lead the struggle. I wish they could have eaten from that same pot. I wish they could have drunk from that same river. Alas, it is impossible.

But you ask me today why I am still a member of the ANC and I will say this to you: I will say that it is the ANC which has led this country to a peaceful and successful democratic reality. It has done so with the utmost generosity and grace to the former oppressors. It has done so in a way which has ensured that – against all odds – the country still functions and the economy continues to grow. It has done so without violence. It has done so in a way which has been respectful of culture and heritage and origin. It has never faltered from its commitment to non-racialism and non-sexism.

You and I may criticise the ANC. That, in itself, is an amazing achievement. You and I may stare in disbelief at some of the antics of some of its members – but you cannot suggest, if you are in any way honest, that the ANC has failed. That would be not only churlish, it would be fantastically ill-informed.

The ANC has gone through some difficult times of late, but when I compare policy for policy, position for position, principle for principle, I have no doubt where my loyalties lie. And I would suggest that everyone who has come to love and honour that former “terrorist”, who made the difficult decision to opt for armed struggle – Nelson Mandela – should look beyond him to the Movement which gave him life and breath and to which he still owes allegiance. Look to the principles of the Freedom Charter. And once you have done that, take courage in the Constitution of the country, which is our joint crowning achievement.

I have been a member of the ANC for 33 of its 100 years. I have had my doubts. I have had my worries. I have had my moments of anger and even rage. But I look back on the 100 years of struggle which this movement has led and I know, beyond any doubt, that I made the right decision way back then. I look at where we are now, and where we could have been - and I know it. I look at the tremendous achievements we have made - and I know it. I look at the peace we enjoy - and I know it. I look at the greed and the gluttony and the shenanigans and the unsupportable nonsense - and I know, beyond any moment of doubt, that the spirit of the Charter and the will of the people will survive it all. We just need to make it so. Aluta Continua!

Robben Island - a pilgrimage by a struggle hero

In the 1980's Pietermaritzburg was a cauldron of warfare between Inkatha and the African National Congress. They were terrifying times. Aided and abetted by the apartheid state, Inkatha rampaged everywhere, killing and intimidating. Priests and ministers of the church who were actively engaged were few and far between. Many of them just battoned down the church hatches and hoped it would all go away. Not the Revd Ben Nsimbi - a humble and remarkable Methodist, who was there for the people who were suffering - who stood out in any crowd, despite his slight stature.

He expressed the hope, some time ago, that he wanted to see Robben Island before he dies. I, together with a struggle lawyer in Durban, have been privileged to be a part in enabling this dream to come to fruition. He and his wife Thoko have been staying with us for the past few days, during which they went to the Island.

What follows below are his impressions of the visit. I will comment, at the end of them, on what I see to be really significant insights - put in a really simple way:

Visit to Robben Island
31 December 2010
Revd Ben Nsimbi

As our feet touched the ground, Cde Madiba’s words during the Rivonia trial came to mind -

“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.”

My soul, my mind, my body – yes, my whole being felt revitalised and rejuvenated. I am not a politician, but all of my life has been unfortunately negatively affected by the notorious apartheid system. I could write volumes about this, but God forbid!

This Robben Island was a curse to our black community and foolishness to the whites. It was foolishness because they thought the size of their army; the huge machinery of their security forces and; (worst of all), the myth of their having been ordained by God to rule over us, could never be challenged.

Like the lepers of the ancient days, political prisoners were dumped here, lest they contaminated the rest of their fellow human beings with their ideology. Today, the Island has become an international attraction for tourists of all walks of life, young and old.

Our minds were challenged and our hearts moved when we met a boy of 10, who had travelled with his father from Australia to see the place whose name is now synonymous with Madiba. In his hand this boy carried a book entitled “Viva Mandela!” On the ferry he was enthusiastically paging through it. The question went through our minds, how many South African children of that age would take an interest in the liberation struggle of their own country? For me, this is a crucial question, because if we forget where we come from, the gains that have been made will vanish into thin air. There are many battlefields inside and outside South Africa, against the apartheid regime, but Robben Island, surely, remains unique.

The young man who was our tour guide in the bus spent time showing us where the PAC leader, Mr Robert Sobukwe was placed in solitary confinement. He briefly outlined his biography. His telling of the story was extremely impressive and reminded me of the special parliamentary session which was called at the time to pass the so-called “Sobukwe Bill” (The General Laws Amendment Bill) This Bill would permit the detention in solitary confinement without trial for 90 days. One particular clause was directed at Robert Sobukwe. He had been due for release, but instead was transported to Robben Island, where he stayed in 24-hour solitary confinement for six years.)

From the bus, a middle-aged ex-convict, Mr Msomi, took us through the different sections and cells in the prison. I did wish that we could have been divided into smaller groups at this stage, because the group we were in numbered more than 100 people. This meant that we could not hear some of his comments or explanations. It was very much a rushed process and we could not ask some of the questions we had on our mind.

To Thoko, my wife, who has never been imprisoned, it was horrifying. To me it was less so (of course, I was not imprisoned on Robben Island).

Ideally, we would have liked to spend more time on the Island. We would have liked time to digest and to reflect on what we had seen. We would have liked to hear what some of the other convicts had to say. In a word, there was not sufficient time for contemplation.

We went to the Island expecting something educational and spiritual. This could have been better achieved if there was more time, less rush, and more interaction with the guides. Instead what we experienced was a commercial one, rather than an educational one. Despite that, however, it was an extraordinary experience and has fulfilled one of my life-time ambitions.

Revd Nsimbi raises several interesting observations which, I would think, need much more further discussion. Firstly, there is the issue of the interest which South African children have in history. He wonders whether a South African child be as interested as was the young Australian boy he encountered, in his/her own history - let alone someone else's history? There can be no doubt that South African learners of today are very much less engaged with the struggle against apartheid. In many ways that is a good thing – something one would want. But it soon becomes clear, when one engages in discussion with many young people, that there is just a simple ignorance about the most basic facts of South African history. Equally because of the way the present curriculum is structured, there is equal ignorance on other struggles, both present and past, in other countries. This has been an issue which has been widely debated and acknowledged – but it remains a blight on our educational system and will have profound effects on the way the future generation understands and interprets itself.

The second observation he makes is that Robben Island needs to be celebrated as a primary site of black consciousness. A visit to the Island does highlight the importance of certain people such as Robert Sobukwe, but somehow the contribution of Black Consciousness, in particular, seems to have got lost in the "rainbow nation" dream. It was (and to my mind, remains) a hugely important contribution to our struggle and I don’t think there is nearly enough focus on it.

Finally, Revd Nsimbi expected (not unnaturally) the experience of visiting the Island to be spiritual one. In some rather limited senses, it was. But there was not enough opportunity to pause, to reflect, to be contemplative. I would say that that must be a grave flaw in the tourism design of the place. Robben Island is not an ordinary museum. It is much more like a Cathedral, a Mosque, a Temple. It is a World Heritage Site and it was chosen to be that, because it is entirely unique. That, in itself, should be a limiting factor on the commercial opportunity – and a pointer to the design of an experience that enables the visitor to engage with it and be changed by it. It has not achieved that, unfortunately.

I am a Mandela dissenter

I hate to admit it. In fact, it is probably dangerous to admit it. But I am. I really am a Mandela dissident! I have to confess to being more than a bit bewildered by the "proclamation" of "Mandela Day". As I am by the extraordinary zeal that there is, in his universal and international adoration.

Now, let me say immediately that of course he is a wonderful human being. Of course he is! And I have no doubt that these musings of mine will be swept aside on the tide of popularism, but these are some of the things which alarm me:

Firstly, I have a real problem with political and national deification. Analysis later on almost always proves the greatest heroes to be flawed, in one way or another. Think of the Churchills; the Malans; the Smuts's; perhaps even the Gandhis and the Nehrus. Time exposes them and their flaws lie there in ridged profile against the sky, for all to see. And what becomes completely clear, with the benefit of hindsight, is how time and context bound each of them are.

Secondly, popular opinion is a very unreliable test of sainthood. Hitler, after all, was an exceedingly popular man.

Thirdly. Have we forgotten the Arms deal? I think, somewhere down the line, when all the euphoria and adulation has died down, this single deal, under Mandela's presidency, will prove to be the source of a great deal of the poison in South African society today.

Fourthly, despite occasional, weak appeals to the contrary, a cult of personality (benign though it might be) has been allowed to develop - not only within the ANC, but within the country as a whole. And that, to my mind is going to be our great undoing. It is anathema to the ANC - or at least it was, during Oliver Tambo's time. And the fact that it is allowed - (and now more than encouraged, it is virtually institutionalised) is, (or at least should be) a very worrying development.

The result has been to take the sting out of ANC policy - and replace it with warm fuzzy feelings, while the crooks can just get on with their business. And is it not extremely strange that Mandela - the man - can somehow be divorced from the ANC as an organisation, in some sectors of the popular mind? Because it is one thing to love Mandela and call him "Tata". It is quite another to accept that his vision for the country is an ANC vision, and always has been. On the other hand, the annual hullabaloo about Nelson Mandela seems to have absolutely no impact on the divisions and ructions within the ruling party. Everything just carries on as it has before, after brief pause of tearful adulation.

Fifthly, I do not believe that one can heal either the racism endemic in our society, or issues of economic disempowerment, by creating fantasy all the time. That, after all, is what the 2010 FIFA World Cup was all about. We all walked around in a fantasy - the fantasy was that we all love each other and that we are all happy together; the fantasy was that we can all walk around at night in big cities in fancy dress, without looking over one's shoulder all the time.

Mandela is another fantasy. He is the fantasy that we all love each other and respect each other and do good for each other. He is the fantasy that we are a major player on the world stage and that the world gives a fig about us. He is the fantasy that personal sacrifice and hardship will do good to everyone generally.

So we can love Mandela and underpay our workers. We can love Mandela and be an unconverted racist on every other matter. We can love Mandela and steal the state coffers blind. We can threaten and kill foreigners who come from other African countries and ignore the fact that Graca Machel comes from Mozambique. We can do it, because we can hoist the fantasy - and everyone will be so busy cheering and waving flags in an orgy of patriotism and fuzzy feeling that they don't see the wood for the economic trees.

Lastly, and in this regard, I don't think that Nelson Mandela can take very much credit for the fundamental task of changing the lot of the poor in this country. Yes, he got Oprah to build an elite school here, and other rich people to donate towards this hospital and that child clinic there. But the lot of the poor remains - to this day - mostly unchanged. That is Mandela's other legacy.

Breakfast with Nelson Mandela

Me and the late Harry Gwala, in front of Nelson Mandela, back in the early 1990s in Pietermaritzburg

A few months after Nelson Mandela’s release, he came on a visit to the Kwazulu-Natal region, to assess for himself what was going on in relation to the terrible violence which was wracking the province. I was, at the time, working quite closely with Harry Gwala, who was also a Robben Island prisoner and, by virtue of that, the de facto leader of the ANC in the area.

Gwala was an amazing, albeit flawed man. He suffered from a terrible degenerative disease, which meant that he had no use of both his arms. You would think this would be something of a limitation, but it wasn’t. He was an orator like none I have ever heard. He could get a crowd raging, or weeping, or quiet and obedient, within a few sentences.

He was an unashamedly unreformed Stalinist. (In fact, I would sometimes sit turning pages of this or that work by Stalin, which he would be reading at the time). He held Stalin and Shakespeare on probably the same level – both with deep reverence and he would quote both, from memory and with the same amount of passion.

He was also a warlord, I’m afraid. He had an outright hatred of Mangosuthu Buthelezi’s Inkatha movement – which was a breakaway Zulu-based movement in Kwazulu-Natal, which was friendly with (and many would say supported by) the apartheid state. He did not believe that talking to them would do any good and he believed that we, in the ANC, should fight fire with fire. His warlike stance was, undoubtedly, a contributing force in the escalating violence of the time.

But he called Mandela to come and visit the province. And he came. He stayed at Harry Gwala’s tiny house. It was all supposed to be fairly low key. He wanted to meet people and get to know what was happening. What we did not expect was the kind of support the man had. “Mike”, Harry Gwala said to me, “we have a secret weapon here”.

So, we drove Nelson Mandela all over Pietermaritzburg. Up hill and down dale. We drove him into every township, and wherever we went, he was greeted with crowds of people. Sometimes, it was almost impossible to actually drive the cars. People were singing, chanting, shouting, waving. People were crowding around the vehicle. People were crying. People were laughing. It was indescribable.

Early one morning, during the visit, it may have been 6 o’clock, I got a telephone call from Harry Gwala. “Mike”, he said, “I want you to come here now”. Being the naturally obedient type, I jumped into my clothes and ran to organise another priest to say Mass at the seminary, where I was teaching. I jumped into the car and rushed to Gwala’s house, which was not too far away.

I was met at the gate by Gwala. “I have to go somewhere urgently”, he said. “Please keep Madiba (Mandela’s clan name) company for breakfast”. Needless to say, I was a bit taken aback.

As I entered the lounge of Gwala’s house, I could see Mandela sitting, with his back to the window, dressed in a lounge suit. Gwala escorted me in and introduced me to Mandela. He did not rise to meet me, but shook hands very warmly, as though I was an old friend, and asked me to sit with him. (There was no dining-room in the house. Breakfast was going to be served on our laps and in the lounge). There I was, sitting, alone, with the mythical Nelson Mandela. Here was the man who had been in prison for 27 years; who had made that immortal speech from the dock about being prepared to die in the fight against white domination and against black domination; the man who picture none of us were allowed to see until very recently; the man on whom the hopes of millions of people in the country depended. There I was, about to have breakfast with him.

We spoke for quite some time. It was mostly on the situation in Kwazulu-Natal. And I could tell, even then, that his view of the world was one very different indeed from Harry Gwala. But there was one incident, during that breakfast, which remains indelibly etched in my memory.

At one point, one of the women who had been cooking breakfast in the kitchen came in and whispered in my ear, that there was someone who desperately wanted to see Mr Mandela. She addressed the request to me, out of a kind of reverence for Mandela himself – almost as though the use of a proxy was necessary in the face of such eminence.

I asked Mr Mandela, if he would mind meeting a young member of the ANC youth. He had no hesitation. “Of course!”, he said, “Of course!”. The message was relayed. Then, shuffling into the room, on his knees, with his eyes averted, came a boy, who could not have been more than 17 years old. He was on his knees, out of respect. He averted his eyes, because to look at the man would be too much of a disrespect for his person.

Mandela was holding a teacup full of tea. When he saw the youth come in, he passed the cup to me and, saying nothing, struggled to his feet, with a fair amount of difficulty. The youth was now terrified and started shaking. “I always stand in the presence of a young lion”, said Mandela. “Thank you for coming to see me”.

When I see the politicians of today, puffed up with too much food; expensive whiskey; and too much reverence being shown to them for their less than admirable persons, I remember this incident. I think I can say, without any doubt, that it changed me forever. I am pretty sure it had the same effect on that young boy.

Another great leader, (one whom I had the privilege of serving under as a priest), made the same point, in different words. Desmond Tutu said that we need to genuflect to our neighbours. Ah yes, these were really great leaders. How much they stand out and how sad the contrast with what we have today.

Invictus

Let me be clear – I don’t understand Rugby. I have no idea what they are doing when they run in lines across the field, throwing the ball to each other backwards and charging each other down and making spit fly. Even less, when they thud into each other in a kind of low-slung group hug and make a collective kind of “Ugh” sound. I have studiously avoided the game all my life, so it was, you understand, with considerable reluctance that I agreed to go to see Invictus, with a rugby-mad friend of mine from the UK.

The start of the film did not bode well. Mandela’s release from Victor Vester prison, driving past a groups of white boys playing Rugby – the coach (or the teacher, or whatever he was) with a thick Afrikaans accent, says words to the effect of “Remember this moment, because nothing is going to be the same after this”. He says this, like he is reading, with difficulty, from a cue card. I squirmed in anticipation and settled down for a ghastly experience.

But then the whole thing changed!

One could not help being struck by the way in which Morgan Freeman was made to look so extraordinarily like Mandela. (Wait until he speaks, I thought, ruefully!) He had managed to recreate, perfectly, the walk, the stoop, the mannerisms and then - not without blemish, but pretty damn near it - the speech of Mandela. My naturally cynical self started to weaken.

Then Matt Damon as Rugby captain Francois Pienaar. He looks nothing like him, and it took a long while for him to actually do anything besides look handsome and pensive and visionary – (Oh, God, I thought – wait until he speaks!) and then he did – and he actually got the accent! I was now seriously engaged.

Of course there were gimmicks. Like the fact that Mandela insisted on going for an early morning walk every day with a minimum of security; like there were real dangers to his life; like the collapse of his marriage; like the white people who looked extremely grim and the black security people who also looked extremely grim. But you know what? The film really does manage to re-create a moment in our history – an instant – when Rubicons were crossed, and bridges were made and where people changed their minds about other people.

I was too young to remember where I was when Kennedy was assassinated. I do remember where I was when the rugby World Cup was being won. I was in the airport building in Johannesburg, waiting for a flight. I wasn’t watching the match. I was watching the crowd at the airport. I was completely astonished to see black people completely caught up in the moment. (Of course, white people were too, but that was to be expected.) But for that moment we really were a united people, with everyone cheering for the same team.

It was, perhaps, the only time when we have done so. We were not united during the famous election (or any since). We were not united at the inauguration (or any since). Indeed, I cannot think of any instance, besides this unlikely one, where unity has been seriously considered or freely demonstrated. And when I think about it, the reason it happened was this, and only this: because of the kind of leadership which was shown - not by any of the political parties. Not by the sports bodies. Not by the churches or shuls or mosques. It was entirely due to the kind of leadership which Mandela displayed.

Invictus captures that leadership, and it is a timely reminder. We are, as I write, exactly five months away from the FIFA 2010 World Cup. Will this major event have a similar effect on our country? Certainly, the business people (black and white) are slavering in anticipation; the soccer watchers will all have a jolly time; many more white children will be captivated by soccer than ever before; and I am pretty sure we will all be able to pat ourselves on the back and proclaim the event “incident free”. But will it add to our character and substance as a nation? That, as before, will depend very largely on the quality of the leadership.

Go and see this movie, if you can. It is really well worth it. Not least because of the superb acting, but also because of the message it took an American like Clint Eastwood to remind us of.