Whilst in Johannesburg
The museum is an powerful record of Apartheid, how it came to being, its course, its collapse and the aftermath as the nation sought to rebuild itself. The sheer volume of material builds a graphic and compelling history of events which you cannot fail to be deeply moved by, just when you think you have reached a new low the next montage numbs you into even deeper disbelief. The resilience and tenacity of the South African blacks stands out a mile, what they had to endure leading up to and during apartheid is difficult for most, if not all of us to comprehend.
The life of Mandela is charted in a separate exhibit which reinforces the history and dovetails with Biko and others…..all in black and white in a museum of harsh concrete, steel, bare brick, corners of dimly lit metal, reinforcing the sense of injustice and inequality.
The museum is the best example of architecture supporting the purpose I have ever seen, time and again walls converge to force you into single file and through a narrow door, defying all convention for public space, floors at incongruous angles deny you comfort in the space
After turning a sharp corner you eventually reach the part of the museum recording the first election, by which time your own emotions are screaming for relief, as the museum bursts into colour recording the majority of the nation as they are at last given the freedom to express their own choice in a vote of seismic consequence.
When I got to the section on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission I found myself literally paralysed in awe.
Mandela’s choice to avoid splitting the country with an investigation driving retribution and prosecution, and instead choosing to uncover the truth on a premise of amnesty and forgiveness (however politically expedient it may have been) was one of unfathomable grace from one who had discovered the depth and value of grace and power of reconciliation.
I found myself repeatedly aghast as I read the testimonies of death gangs, relatives vanishing into a mist of lies and deception, mass beatings and torture, permanent disfigurement, trauma beyond comprehension, soldiers weeping in open confession, hit squad leaders begging for forgiveness. I clearly remember seeing a grief stricken and tearful Desmond Tutu on the BBC closing reconciliation hearings because no one could take any more of the truth for that session.
As I was walking round I was mindful that Mandela had originally gone into prison for being convicted of acts of criminal violence, and for refusing to denounce acts of terrorism as a valid mechanism in their fight for freedom. Judgement aside, what stuck me was his transformation from an active bomber with blood on his hands to this guiding light of ‘the truth and reconciliation process’…..it is a remarkable transition, which lets face it, had plenty of time to take effect whilst he was incarcerated on Robin Island, time to ponder clearly played a big part in the change of perspective.
I wondered how I could make that kind of transition, or even how I might journey to the place where I want to forgive our [former] paster and his family, reconciliation will never happen.
Yesterday we visited Soweto
The Hector Peiterson museum once again took my breath away in an unpleasant way. When we got there the power was out, we still went in, and in the absence of video clips and newsreel segments we started to read the printed eyewitness accounts of the student protest, vast black and white photos of the students, their banners, their cries to be heard, one after the other accounts of the build up, the shooting of Hector Peiterson, the photo of him being carried away with his sister screaming…. extraordinarily moving. I remember quite clearly seeing all this on the news back in 1976, kids my age struggling for a voice; it was probably one of the events that caused me to become more politically aware.
Eventually the power came back on and the museum sprang into life with a series of the most shocking news reels and interviews on dozens of monitors, which was interrupted by the arrival of two school buses full of students. As they buzzed around with their shrieks of excitement mucking around like typical kids it was as if the posters has come to life, and I found the idea that someone could open fire on these kids, kids just like mine, just overwhelming, and with tears welling up I went outside for some fresh air.
Outside I met our tour guide supplied by our hotel, and who we had got to know over the course of the day, and who had bought us to the museum. I had noticed that he seemed to know everyone in Soweto, after a little prompting he admitted to being a friend of Hector Pieterson, being involved in the uprising and loosing many friends in the aftermath of the uprising.
He told us some amazing stories; it’s not often that you get a chance to go to a place where an historic event of such seismic importance to human rights has taken place and get to spend the day with a participant.
I was very impressed with his candour and genuine nature which belied a dignified bravery and the accumulated wisdom of having lived though turbulent times, experiencing the very worst that a government can deliver to its people.
This is the second time in a couple of day that I have been confronted by the recovery of someone who has experienced infinitely more injustice and abuse than I have and their ascension from despair to dignity and strength is inspirational.
TO BE FREE IS NOT MERELY TO CAST OFF ONE’S CHAINS, BUT TO LIVE IN A WAY THAT RESPECTS AND ENHANCES THE FREEDOM OF OTHERS
Nelson Mandela.
