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Remembering Madiba: The Legacy of Nelson Mandela
December 2013
By Kate Miceli
Before arriving in South Africa for a month of study, I knew two things about the country. One, I had watched the Color of Friendship, a 2000 made-for-TV movie about the friendship between two girls, one from the United States and the other from South Africa, twice when I was nine years old. And two, my sister had requested I bring back a vuvuzela, the large plastic horn used in the World Cup. I can’t decide what’s worse about this list: the fact that I went to a country with a turbulent history without doing any research before getting on the plane, or that I was a political science major with absolutely no grasp on apartheid. It wasn’t that I had intentionally avoided the subject; it just never came up in any of my classes. But fear not, this is not a diatribe about the inept American college system; this is about a great man’s birthday.
My first week in Port Elizabeth, a small beach town about eight hours from Capetown, I was lucky enough to see the Nelson Mandela Memorial. The memorial depicts a line of people, all waiting to vote for the first time, and ends with Mandela and his classic “fist-in-the-air” pose. As a child who grew up in D.C., I have seen plenty of memorials. I’m not sure if it was the amazing view of the ocean or our guide’s touching story about watching his dad cry with joy when he gained suffrage in 1994, but this memorial touched my heart. It’s not stuffy and obtuse. It’s history that is fresh, and thought provoking. It evoked strong emotions in me. To think of a grown man crying because he could finally vote for a candidate of his own skin color is powerful. But to think of this happening during my lifetime, not in a history book or a grainy PBS documentary, is a realization that crawled into my heart and stayed.
Before arriving in South Africa for a month of study, I knew two things about the country. One, I had watched the Color of Friendship, a 2000 made-for-TV movie about the friendship between two girls, one from the United States and the other from South Africa, twice when I was nine years old. And two, my sister had requested I bring back a vuvuzela, the large plastic horn used in the World Cup. I can’t decide what’s worse about this list: the fact that I went to a country with a turbulent history without doing any research before getting on the plane, or that I was a political science major with absolutely no grasp on apartheid. It wasn’t that I had intentionally avoided the subject; it just never came up in any of my classes. But fear not, this is not a diatribe about the inept American college system; this is about a great man’s birthday.
My first week in Port Elizabeth, a small beach town about eight hours from Capetown, I was lucky enough to see the Nelson Mandela Memorial. The memorial depicts a line of people, all waiting to vote for the first time, and ends with Mandela and his classic “fist-in-the-air” pose. As a child who grew up in D.C., I have seen plenty of memorials. I’m not sure if it was the amazing view of the ocean or our guide’s touching story about watching his dad cry with joy when he gained suffrage in 1994, but this memorial touched my heart. It’s not stuffy and obtuse. It’s history that is fresh, and thought provoking. It evoked strong emotions in me. To think of a grown man crying because he could finally vote for a candidate of his own skin color is powerful. But to think of this happening during my lifetime, not in a history book or a grainy PBS documentary, is a realization that crawled into my heart and stayed.
I quickly learned that Mandela is the Jesus of South Africa. And to be honest, he very well should be. Although many people contributed to the abolition of apartheid, Mandela remained an influential figure in the movement during his twenty-seven years in prison. He even learned Afrikaans in prison so he could converse with his guards in an attempt to convert them to his point of view. Most people I met while in Port Elizabeth referred to him as Madiba, his Xhosa clan name. In South Africa, it’s a sign of honor and respect to refer to someone by their clan name..
Of all the things I did in South Africa, the most moving was on Mandela Day. On this memorable day, my group was assigned to the Missionvale Care Center, a community center run by nuns in the Missionvale Township. A township is a slum by American standards and the care centers serve as a school, doctor’s office, employer and church for people in the area. It amazed me how many people from large companies were given time off on Mandela Day to volunteer. There were so many volunteers at Missionvale that we made 500 fish paste and butter sandwiches in twenty minutes. We spent the rest of the time playing with the school children and cleaning because people refused to leave until their sixty-seven minutes was up. There is no American equivalent to this day. In America we celebrate Martin Luther King’s birthday and the birth of our nation on July 4th, but the tributes are sorely inadequate compared to South Africa’s celebration of Mandela’s birthday. On Mandela’s birthday, everyone in the country is encouraged to perform sixty-seven (67) minutes of service. Sixty-seven minutes is equivalent to the number of years Mandela actively fought against apartheid in South Africa. As I chatted with the native South Africans, I learned they each had reason why this day was important to them. For some, Mandela is the reason they can go to school, vote and stand on equal footing with their white countrymen. For others, Mandela stands for something we all should embrace: hope. After we had finished our allotted time, we were rushed back into the large auditorium for some speeches and to sing Happy Birthday to Mandela. I think the lyrics really say it best, “Happy Birthday Madiba, no one is like you.”
Kate Miceli is a recent political science graduate from the University of Mary Washington in Fredericksburg, VA.
Of all the things I did in South Africa, the most moving was on Mandela Day. On this memorable day, my group was assigned to the Missionvale Care Center, a community center run by nuns in the Missionvale Township. A township is a slum by American standards and the care centers serve as a school, doctor’s office, employer and church for people in the area. It amazed me how many people from large companies were given time off on Mandela Day to volunteer. There were so many volunteers at Missionvale that we made 500 fish paste and butter sandwiches in twenty minutes. We spent the rest of the time playing with the school children and cleaning because people refused to leave until their sixty-seven minutes was up. There is no American equivalent to this day. In America we celebrate Martin Luther King’s birthday and the birth of our nation on July 4th, but the tributes are sorely inadequate compared to South Africa’s celebration of Mandela’s birthday. On Mandela’s birthday, everyone in the country is encouraged to perform sixty-seven (67) minutes of service. Sixty-seven minutes is equivalent to the number of years Mandela actively fought against apartheid in South Africa. As I chatted with the native South Africans, I learned they each had reason why this day was important to them. For some, Mandela is the reason they can go to school, vote and stand on equal footing with their white countrymen. For others, Mandela stands for something we all should embrace: hope. After we had finished our allotted time, we were rushed back into the large auditorium for some speeches and to sing Happy Birthday to Mandela. I think the lyrics really say it best, “Happy Birthday Madiba, no one is like you.”
Kate Miceli is a recent political science graduate from the University of Mary Washington in Fredericksburg, VA.
