December 5, 2013
At 95 years of age (1918-2013), Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela passed away.
Since the news spread, I started to hear and see the words Humba Kahle. It is a Zulu phrase that I understand to loosely translate to "go well" or "keep well" and is used to say goodbye when you're not really saying goodbye.
The death of Mandela was so much more than a passing thought. It shook the globe to the core and produced some of the largest events the world has ever seen. I read somewhere that Mandela's funeral was larger than those of Princess Diana, Michael Jackson and Pope John Paul II combined. It was reportedly one of the largest memorial services in history.
For me, the moment when I found out Mandela had died froze time in my mind's memory bank. Something similar happened when I heard of Princess Diana's death and of the terrorist attack on the twin towers in New York. I will always know where I was and what I felt (or was unable to feel) in those first few precious moments. The difference for me with those events is that I wasn't there. And so, after following the news for a few days and hearing bits and pieces of the stories, eventually it faded from my immediate world, and life went on.
But for Mandela, I was here. From the spreading of the news the moment it was announced. To the public memorial service held at soccer city that drew over 90 world leaders and 80,000 people to the FNB stadium in the pouring rain to sing and dance and offer words of inspiration, condolences and praise. To the thousands of people that viewed his body lying in state in the capital city of Pretoria. To the formal funeral service held ten days after his death to lay Madiba to rest in his home town of Qunu in the Eastern Cape.
And in-between all of that, what the whole world was a part of, I was here. On my way to a team dinner I walked past Nelson Mandela Square and had to choke back tears at the unimaginably huge piles of flowers, letters, gifts, and messages that had been left for Mandela in the soggy, wet square. Little pre-lit plastic candles were being handed out to people coming to the square, and my co-worker and I each took ours and found a quiet spot on the square to place our light in honour of Mandela. At work every TV in every common area was playing a live stream of the events, and at times there was standing-room only as everyone gathered around the TV. During Obama's speech at the memorial service, you could have heard a pin drop. Out in the city, and in the rest of the country, every shop and business had some sort of a sign honouring Madiba. As we drove the 1000km stretch of highway from Johannesburg towards Qunu we noticed every tiny town had adorned their street-lights with posters of Madiba.
While M and I wouldn't claim for a second to share the same depth of understanding of the bond South Africans had, and continue to have, with Mandela, we were humbled to mourn and honour together with South Africans.
I've heard that when the World Cup was held here in 2010 South Africa as a nation was nervous about making the right impression on the rest of the world. They knew the world's eyes were upon them, and wanted to show the pride and joy that anyone who's spent a little time here knows is inherent in the South African culture. For this though, South Africans honoured and were honoured as they bid farewell to the father of their nation. No pretence, no nerves. Just a remarkable unity of spirit that no sporting event could ever compete with.
Since the news spread, I started to hear and see the words Humba Kahle. It is a Zulu phrase that I understand to loosely translate to "go well" or "keep well" and is used to say goodbye when you're not really saying goodbye.
The death of Mandela was so much more than a passing thought. It shook the globe to the core and produced some of the largest events the world has ever seen. I read somewhere that Mandela's funeral was larger than those of Princess Diana, Michael Jackson and Pope John Paul II combined. It was reportedly one of the largest memorial services in history.
For me, the moment when I found out Mandela had died froze time in my mind's memory bank. Something similar happened when I heard of Princess Diana's death and of the terrorist attack on the twin towers in New York. I will always know where I was and what I felt (or was unable to feel) in those first few precious moments. The difference for me with those events is that I wasn't there. And so, after following the news for a few days and hearing bits and pieces of the stories, eventually it faded from my immediate world, and life went on.
But for Mandela, I was here. From the spreading of the news the moment it was announced. To the public memorial service held at soccer city that drew over 90 world leaders and 80,000 people to the FNB stadium in the pouring rain to sing and dance and offer words of inspiration, condolences and praise. To the thousands of people that viewed his body lying in state in the capital city of Pretoria. To the formal funeral service held ten days after his death to lay Madiba to rest in his home town of Qunu in the Eastern Cape.
And in-between all of that, what the whole world was a part of, I was here. On my way to a team dinner I walked past Nelson Mandela Square and had to choke back tears at the unimaginably huge piles of flowers, letters, gifts, and messages that had been left for Mandela in the soggy, wet square. Little pre-lit plastic candles were being handed out to people coming to the square, and my co-worker and I each took ours and found a quiet spot on the square to place our light in honour of Mandela. At work every TV in every common area was playing a live stream of the events, and at times there was standing-room only as everyone gathered around the TV. During Obama's speech at the memorial service, you could have heard a pin drop. Out in the city, and in the rest of the country, every shop and business had some sort of a sign honouring Madiba. As we drove the 1000km stretch of highway from Johannesburg towards Qunu we noticed every tiny town had adorned their street-lights with posters of Madiba.
While M and I wouldn't claim for a second to share the same depth of understanding of the bond South Africans had, and continue to have, with Mandela, we were humbled to mourn and honour together with South Africans.
I've heard that when the World Cup was held here in 2010 South Africa as a nation was nervous about making the right impression on the rest of the world. They knew the world's eyes were upon them, and wanted to show the pride and joy that anyone who's spent a little time here knows is inherent in the South African culture. For this though, South Africans honoured and were honoured as they bid farewell to the father of their nation. No pretence, no nerves. Just a remarkable unity of spirit that no sporting event could ever compete with.
There is no doubt in my mind that Mandela's legacy and spirit not only left their mark, but continue on here in South Africa. Humba Kahle, Tata Madiba.
Flying at half mast in Cape Town the day following the news of Mandela's death.
In Cape Town at the Nelson Mandela Gateway flowers and gifts started to accumulate just hours after the news of his death was announced.
In Kirstenbosch Gardens in the Western Cape, visitors left letters at the foot of a Mandela statue.
Flowers, gifts and candles en mass in Nelson Mandela Square in Johannesburg (the famous Mandela statue can be seen on the far right).
Remembering Mandela outside the government buildings in Grahamstown.
A sampling of some of the signs around various parts of South Africa.
Under Mandela's photo in the banner above it reads, "Be Somebody".
Hamba Kahle, Tata.
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