The day I shook hands with Mandela - A New Year forever!
It was an unlikely meeting, but one I will never forget. New Years Eve 1999 - the eve of the Millennium. To mark this auspicious event some friends and I planned a climb to the summit of Table Mountain at night, with head torches, clinging to the 200m sheer rock face that plummets vertically beneath the line of the cable car. The aim was to surprise the SABC TV broadcaster who would be poised near the edge ready to comment on the millenium celebrations at the Tip of Africa by popping our heads over the cliff top at 2 minutes to 12. Hopefully we would also avoid the shower of champagne corks heading off the mountain.
We spent the afternoon organising ropes and equipment and some rather fetching outfits to go under our harnesses. One of our three person team painted their body gold! Enroute to the start of our climb we made a quick stop at a shopping center in Claremont (a suburb of Cape Town). In the joie de vivre of the moment I left my purse on the shop counter. As I left the shop doors locked behind me, to be opened again on the 4th of January. It was only in the car that I realised what I had done, ran back inside and banged on the glass doors. It was a short lived anxiety. The shop assistants smiled, waved my blue purse and unlocked the door.
Only a few weeks ago that I found out what Mandela had been doing on that day. Whilst we were preparing our ropes and party outfits, his introduction to the millennium was a more somber affair, but one of far more importance...
It is early on the 15th of December 2014. I wake our two small daughters before sunrise and carry them down the wooden staircase to the living room where they sit bleary eyed on cushions near the fireplace. We are at my aunts home in Portchester, UK. My children know about Mandela. I have read them stories about his life since my father brought them the childrens' edition of his 'Long Walk to Freedom.' a few years ago. No explanation is needed. Over the previous days we had spoken often about Mandela and what he meant to South Africa, and how we would try to create a memory of this moment, a moment that will be marked and remembered by millions of people for hundreds of years. It is Nelson Mandela's State Funeral filmed live from Qunu in the Eastern Cape. Rosemary is six and quickly becomes engrossed in the proceedings. Jasmine at 3 finds the experience a little more challenging. We break for breakfast and fresh air.
Then I see an interview and some footage of Mandela that looks strangely familiar. He is wearing a patterned long sleeve shirt with the signatory Madiba collar. The patterns are detailed paisley swirls of colour, but from a distance they become just a shimmering grey. The shirt, the face, they all look familiar, as if this is something I have seen with my eyes and not just on a screen or picture. The footage is from a documentary about the first time that Nelson Mandela went back to Robin Island, to visit his prison cell and even shake hands with the jailers who had guarded over him. It is a moving piece signifying true reconciliation, fusing his bravery of confronting the past with the present and a yet another hugely symbolic step in the strong foundations he laid for peace. This event took place on the eve of the Millennium, December 31, 1999....
As I left the shop clutching my blue purse on the 31st of December 1999 I walked back through the mall and saw a strange sight. It was a tall man in a shimmering, grey shirt. He was flanked by two other men who looked like shop security guards. He was very tall and stood upright, but walked slowly. It was evening time and most of the shops were now closed but there were still a few people about. I saw a young black boy run up to the tall man and reach out his hand. The man shook it and spoke to him. As I approached I saw a mother with a little girl of about four years old. She ran from her mother and confidently held out her arms to the tall man who clasped them in his own. The mother stood back, lowering her body slightly in a position of respect. Then I found my legs running to the man. Like a child I reached out my hands. It wasn't one of those cursory token moments that celebrities sometimes offer their fans. It was a slow and deliberate handshake, a quiet moment when he looked into my eyes, and I felt he could see into my soul. I stared back. His eyes were more faded than I thought they might be, and there inside them was so much that for once in my life I was dumbstruck. They looked like the eyes of someone with great wisdom who had suffered terribly yet had great dignity and fortitude. All I could say was "Thank you" - I am sure he would have liked a bit more, but I just could not at that moment say everything I felt or what this man meant to me and my life. I have often wished I had.
Growing up as a white South African in Apartheid South Africa, I was just the right age to experience the confusion; the fear; the anger; realisation; the knowledge, and the hope... but to live always partially in fear. For millions Mandela meant freedom; releasing them from oppression. For white South Africans Mandela was also our freedom - freedom from fear, from hate and freedom from living in guilt. A chance not just for hope but strong grounds for unified optimism.
It is difficult to explain how that feels to a person who has never had to live in fear. To be liberated from this is like having a great weight cut from your body. You feel light, happy and free. To think that this has been offered by someone that your own kind have oppressed is probably beyond words. I just hope he could see it...
We did summit our climb on New Years eve without being pelted by corks. The presenter was sat in an inaccessible position. So we couldn't say 'Happy New Year' on TV, and the two other team members proceeded to spend the night wrapped in each others arms, whilst I gazed out over Cape Town on a separate rock, and thought it was the most amazing start to my new life in the New Year I could hope to have.
We spent the afternoon organising ropes and equipment and some rather fetching outfits to go under our harnesses. One of our three person team painted their body gold! Enroute to the start of our climb we made a quick stop at a shopping center in Claremont (a suburb of Cape Town). In the joie de vivre of the moment I left my purse on the shop counter. As I left the shop doors locked behind me, to be opened again on the 4th of January. It was only in the car that I realised what I had done, ran back inside and banged on the glass doors. It was a short lived anxiety. The shop assistants smiled, waved my blue purse and unlocked the door.
Only a few weeks ago that I found out what Mandela had been doing on that day. Whilst we were preparing our ropes and party outfits, his introduction to the millennium was a more somber affair, but one of far more importance...
It is early on the 15th of December 2014. I wake our two small daughters before sunrise and carry them down the wooden staircase to the living room where they sit bleary eyed on cushions near the fireplace. We are at my aunts home in Portchester, UK. My children know about Mandela. I have read them stories about his life since my father brought them the childrens' edition of his 'Long Walk to Freedom.' a few years ago. No explanation is needed. Over the previous days we had spoken often about Mandela and what he meant to South Africa, and how we would try to create a memory of this moment, a moment that will be marked and remembered by millions of people for hundreds of years. It is Nelson Mandela's State Funeral filmed live from Qunu in the Eastern Cape. Rosemary is six and quickly becomes engrossed in the proceedings. Jasmine at 3 finds the experience a little more challenging. We break for breakfast and fresh air.
Then I see an interview and some footage of Mandela that looks strangely familiar. He is wearing a patterned long sleeve shirt with the signatory Madiba collar. The patterns are detailed paisley swirls of colour, but from a distance they become just a shimmering grey. The shirt, the face, they all look familiar, as if this is something I have seen with my eyes and not just on a screen or picture. The footage is from a documentary about the first time that Nelson Mandela went back to Robin Island, to visit his prison cell and even shake hands with the jailers who had guarded over him. It is a moving piece signifying true reconciliation, fusing his bravery of confronting the past with the present and a yet another hugely symbolic step in the strong foundations he laid for peace. This event took place on the eve of the Millennium, December 31, 1999....
As I left the shop clutching my blue purse on the 31st of December 1999 I walked back through the mall and saw a strange sight. It was a tall man in a shimmering, grey shirt. He was flanked by two other men who looked like shop security guards. He was very tall and stood upright, but walked slowly. It was evening time and most of the shops were now closed but there were still a few people about. I saw a young black boy run up to the tall man and reach out his hand. The man shook it and spoke to him. As I approached I saw a mother with a little girl of about four years old. She ran from her mother and confidently held out her arms to the tall man who clasped them in his own. The mother stood back, lowering her body slightly in a position of respect. Then I found my legs running to the man. Like a child I reached out my hands. It wasn't one of those cursory token moments that celebrities sometimes offer their fans. It was a slow and deliberate handshake, a quiet moment when he looked into my eyes, and I felt he could see into my soul. I stared back. His eyes were more faded than I thought they might be, and there inside them was so much that for once in my life I was dumbstruck. They looked like the eyes of someone with great wisdom who had suffered terribly yet had great dignity and fortitude. All I could say was "Thank you" - I am sure he would have liked a bit more, but I just could not at that moment say everything I felt or what this man meant to me and my life. I have often wished I had.
Growing up as a white South African in Apartheid South Africa, I was just the right age to experience the confusion; the fear; the anger; realisation; the knowledge, and the hope... but to live always partially in fear. For millions Mandela meant freedom; releasing them from oppression. For white South Africans Mandela was also our freedom - freedom from fear, from hate and freedom from living in guilt. A chance not just for hope but strong grounds for unified optimism.
It is difficult to explain how that feels to a person who has never had to live in fear. To be liberated from this is like having a great weight cut from your body. You feel light, happy and free. To think that this has been offered by someone that your own kind have oppressed is probably beyond words. I just hope he could see it...
We did summit our climb on New Years eve without being pelted by corks. The presenter was sat in an inaccessible position. So we couldn't say 'Happy New Year' on TV, and the two other team members proceeded to spend the night wrapped in each others arms, whilst I gazed out over Cape Town on a separate rock, and thought it was the most amazing start to my new life in the New Year I could hope to have.
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