Nelson Mandela, 1918–2013

I was saddened yesterday to hear the news of Nelson Mandela’s passing. Having just returned from a daytrip with my dad, I got in my car, heard the thick accent of Jacob Zuma on NPR, and listened as he made the official announcement. Zuma’s somber tone and careful, calculating words imparted the significance of whatever happened before he said it; I was pretty sure Mandela had died.

Obviously, we all knew it was going to happen. Death is the certainty that awaits us all, and its natural inevitability is a powerful truth that gives me peace and comfort in times of loss. But as Zuma said, “nothing can diminish our sense of a profound and enduring loss.”

To be shamefully honest, I do not know that much about Mandela. I know the basics — the twenty-seven years he spent in jail, his release in 1990, his role as an anti-apartheid figure, his resolve against tyrannical racism, and his presidency — but do not know much about his life before jail and what put him there. I remember seeing aerial pictures of long lines of people waiting to vote in 1994 and the fervor surrounding Mandela’s election and the end of apartheid, but did not know much about the underlying history. When I was a freshman in college I accompanied Bobblehead to see F.W. de Klerk speak at the IMU, but I really had no clue who he was and why he was heckled at certain points. (Bobblehead had told me he was the last apartheid president of South Africa so I had a very basic knowledge, but still did not know his entire background and history. My lasting impression was that he was a man grappling with a bipolar legacy.) I did not know about the African National Congress until a few years ago. Much of my cluelessness stems from the fact I was an unaffected, middle class, white American. I guess I still am, but I have been aware of Mandela’s significance and legacy for much of my life. I need to learn more about him.