In Praise of Nelson Mandela

I had just come back to New York after an extended Thanksgiving visit with family and seen my sister off to California, when I turned on the TV to hear the news of Nelson Mandela’s passing. I shed tears, unsure if they were solely for him or mixed with the tumult of emotions that often arise during the holidays.  South Africa had been one of the many places and topics discussed during our lively family talks as my college aged cousin was considering a study abroad program there, which I wholeheartedly encouraged. I not only love travel but feel it is essential to place yourself amongst other cultures to broaden your perspective and gain insight.

Like family holidays, travel and living abroad can be joyous and emotionally uncomfortable as divergent lifestyles and ideologies meet face to face.  It was 1986 and I was in London for a summer semester program studying English history, theater and art.  It was my first trip abroad, filled with many firsts: living in a big city, taking the tube (subway), eating scones with clotted cream and jam, watching tennis at Wimbledon on Center Court.  It was also the first time my being black was routinely pointed out to me, as if it was a surprise.  Sitting in an Indian restaurant, our Indian waiter exclaimed “You’re black and pretty” as if the two couldn’t possibly coincide.  Mind you his skin was about 4 shades darker than mine. An Australian tourist walked through a fountain to take a picture of me saying “She’s Black.” God knows what the postcard caption was on that photo. This was confusing to me as a Black American, didn’t other countries know about us? But London was also the first place where I drank Palm wine, ate Nigerian cuisine and participated in one of the largest Anti-Apartheid protest marches against South Africa, demanding the release of Nelson Mandela.

I didn’t know or appreciate its significance then as I was more concerned about crowd violence and police brutality.  London was hot that summer with Thatcher Conservatism clashing with Liberal ideology.  I had seen the pictures of bloodied heads, charging horses and billy clubs raining swift hard blows from the 1985 Brixton Riots.  I wasn’t sure if this was my fight and did not want to make that transatlantic call to my Mom that her baby girl was in lock down. Luckily it was a peaceful demonstration without incident as I recall, but it opened my eyes to a whole new world.

It was astonishing to me that what America and Blacks had fought and changed legally in the 60’s and 70’s with the Civil Rights Movement was still a struggle a continent away.  As if the work we had done, the leaders we had lost, covered the world and made everyone free. I was just young enough to view our American movement as history, but now present for a new dawning with South Africa and Mandela.  As I look back I can’t imagine the strength, courage and faith President Mandela had to speak truth to power, endure imprisonment and form a new, free nation out of such oppression and discord.  To have the grace to forgive one’s brutal enemies and form allegiances to keep his country whole shows the depth of his humanity and his humility.

I know now that I shed those tears for loss of a light that has left our earth, but take comfort that his legacy endures.