The idea to this homage arose during the International Policy Dialogue on IFAP (Information for all Programme) Priority Areas focused on BRICS organized by UNESCO and the Department of Information Science, African Centre of Excellence for Information Ethics (ACEIE) at
Universityof Pretoriain collaboration with BRICS representatives, UNESCO and IFAP held in on July 4-6, 2018. Cape Town
During the meeting a speech by Frederik Willem de Klerk as well as a visit to
took place. In the aftermath both events made evident to me that particularly Nelson Mandela's autobiography Long Walk to Freedom not only recapitulates his life and his struggle for freedom in Robben Island but also the common political will of both leaders to overcome apartheid. It also became evident to me that Mandela addresses key issues of information ethics and particularly of IFAP topics, namely: information for development, information literacy, information preservation, information accessibility, and multilingualism. Mandela's experience of writing and smuggling his text, chapter 78 of the autobiography, is an example on how freedom of speech can be defended in "heterotopian spaces" (M. Foucault) such a jail. Multilingualism from an ethics-political perspective is a key issue not only at a global level, but also in many countries and regions, also within the context of digital technology. South Africa
The singularity of the South African history and Mandela's Long Walk to Freedom is not incompatible with situations in other societies but can be reflected in order to give some orientation when dealing with 'language struggles' that are at the same time political, economic and, last but not least, cultural. This is why I think that UNESCO/IFAP (and BRICS) are indeed an excellent framework for dealing with these issues from the unique UNESCO/IFAP perspective.
When going through the diversity of situations and topics that Mandela's biography makes manifest the question arises about the 'red thread' that gives a unity to Mandela's life and to his reflection thereupon. This 'red thread' consists in making manifest issues of (in-) human information and communication addressed by him before, during and after the time of his imprisonment dealing with the history his country and continent as a struggle against what can be called information and communication apartheid.
The issue of apartheid goes beyond not only of African countries but also of Mandela's lifetime as he himself is aware of. But on reflecting upon the historical situation of apartheid in
he gives a potential universal perspective a concrete and unique historical and cultural background. This enables him and his political counterpart, Frederik Willem de Klerk, to open a new humane foundation for South Africa beyond Apartheid. What makes these two political leaders unique is their will to reconciliation. This common will made possible the creation of an information and communication free society in South Africa , based on mutual respect and equality before the law. South Africa
Mandela's life and work show the dark side of a society in which information and communication are subject to oppression and exclusion that turns to be inhumane, that is to say, morally and politically unsustainable. What is morally evil can be understood as the will to achieve something that implies lastly the annihilation of this will. Mandela's reflections upon these issues are also an outstanding contribution to
Africa's cultural memory.
See my contribution to the forthcoming Nelson Mandela Reader on Information Ethics under the patronage of the Nelson Mandela Foundation in cooperation with the African Centre of Excelence for Information Ethics (ACEIE), University of Pretoria, South Africa: Nelson Mandela as Information Ethicist
The source of the excerpts is: Nelson Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom. The Autobiography of Nelson Mandela. London, Little, Brown and Co. 1994. Main criteria for this selection are the relevance for the further developent of Information Ethics in the African context as well as for the discussion of ethical issues in the digital age which the Reader will address.
Nelson Mandela and Mandla Langa: Dare not Linger. The Presidential Years. 2017.
Kader Asmal, David Chidester, Wilmot James (eds.): Nelson Mandela in his Own Words. From Freedom to the Future. Tributes and Speeches. 2013.
Nelson Mandela. Conversations with Myself. With a foreword by President Barack Obama. 2010.
Nelson Mandela: Favorite African Folktales. 2012.
Website of the Mandela Foundation:
Karlsruhe, March 4, 2020.
Nelson Mandela's Cell on Robben Island
Nelson Mandela and Walter Sisulu on Robben Island
By OCHA, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=32650153
Source: Nelson Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom, London 1994, xi
By Stephantom - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=644850
NELSON MANDELA: LONG WALK TO FREEDOM
The Autobiography of Nelson Mandela
London: Little, Brown and Co. 1994
readers will discover, this book has a long history. I began writing it
clandestinely in 1974 during my imprisonment on Robben Island. Without
the tireless labor of my old comrades Walter Sisulu and Ahmed Kathrada
for reviving my memories, it is doubtful the manuscript would have been
completed. The copy
of the manuscript which I kept with me was discovered by the
authorities and confiscated. However, in addition to their unique
calligraphic skills, my co-prisoners Mac Maharaj and Isu Chiba had
ensured that the original manuscript safely reached its destination.
I resumed work on it after my release from prison in 1990.
See: - Mac Maharaj on Mandela, Zuma and South
Africa (Alec Russell 2015)
- Mac Maharaj on Mandela, Zuma and South
Africa (Alec Russell 2015)
only rivalry between different clans or tribes in our small world at
Qunu was that between the Xhosas and the amaMfengu, a small number of
whom lived in our village. AmaMfengu arrived on the
I was a boy, amaMfengu were the most advanced section of the community
and furnished our clergymen, policemen, teachers, clerks, and
interpreters. They were also amongst the first to become Christians, to
build better houses, and to use scientific methods of agriculture, and
they were wealthier than their Xhosa compatriots. They confirmed the
missionaries’ axiom, that to be Christian was to be civilized, and to
be civilized was to be Christian. There still existed some hostility
toward amaMfengu, but in retrospect, I would attribute this more to
jealousy than tribal animosity. This local form of tribalism that I
observed as a boy was relatively harmless. At that stage, I did not
witness nor even suspect the violent tribal rivalries that would
subsequently be promoted by the white rulers of
My father did not subscribe to local prejudice toward amaMfengu and befriended two amaMfengu brothers, George and Ben Mbekela. The brothers were an exception in Qunu: they were educated and Christian. George, the older of the two, was a retired teacher and Ben was a police sergeant. Despite the proselytizing of the Mbekela brothers, my father remained aloof from Christianity and instead reserved his own faith for the great spirit of the Xhosas, Qamata, the God of his fathers. My father was an unofficial priest and presided over ritual slaughtering of goats and calves and officiated at local traditional rites concerning planting, harvest, birth, marriage, initiation ceremonies, and funerals. He did not need to be ordained, for the traditional religion of the Xhosas is characterized by a cosmic wholeness, so that there is little distinction between the sacred and the secular, between the natural and the supernatural.
the faith of the Mbekela brothers did not rub off on my father, it did
inspire my mother, who became a Christian. In fact, Fanny was literally
her Christian name, for she had been given it in church. It was due to
the influence of the Mbekela brothers that I myself was baptized into
the Methodist, or
The schoolhouse consisted of a single room, with a Western-style roof, on the other side of the hill from Qunu. I was seven years old, and on the day before I was to begin, my father took me aside and told me that I must be dressed properly for school. Until that time, I, like all the other boys in Qunu, had worn only a blanket, which was wrapped around one shoulder and pinned at the waist. My father took a pair of his trousers and cut them at the knee. He told me to put them on, which I did, and they were roughly the correct length, although the waist was far too large. My father then took a piece of string and cinched the trousers at the waist. I must have been a comical sight, but I have never owned a suit I was prouder to wear than my father’s cut-off pants.
On the first day of school, my teacher, Miss Mdingane, gave each of us an English name and said that from thenceforth that was the name we would answer to in school. This was the custom among Africans in those days and was undoubtedly due to the British bias of our education. The education I received was a British education, in which British ideas, British culture, British institutions, were automatically assumed to be superior. There was no such thing as African culture.
Africans of my generation — and even today — generally have both an English and an African name. Whites were either unable or unwilling to pronounce an African name, and considered it uncivilized to have one. That day, Miss Mdingane told me that my new name was Nelson. Why she bestowed this particular name upon me I have no idea. Perhaps it had something to do with the great British sea captain Lord Nelson, but that would be only a guess.
later notions of leadership were profoundly influenced by observing the
regent and his court. I watched and learned from the tribal meetings
that were regularly held at the Great Place. These were not scheduled,
but were called as needed, and were held to discuss national matters
such as a drought, the culling of cattle, policies ordered by the
magistrate, or new laws decreed by the government. All Thembus were
free to come — and a great many did, on horseback or by foot.
On these occasions, the regent was surrounded by his amaphakathi, a group of councilors of high rank who functioned as the regent’s parliament and judiciary. They were wise men who retained the knowledge of tribal history and custom in their heads and whose opinions carried great weight.
Letters advising these chiefs and headmen of a meeting were dispatched from the regent, and soon the Great Place became alive with important visitors and travelers from all over Thembuland. The guests would gather in the courtyard in front of the regent’s house and he would open the meeting by thanking everyone for coming and explaining why he had summoned them. From that point on, he would not utter another word until the meeting was nearing its end.
Everyone who wanted to speak did so. It was democracy in its purest form. There may have been a hierarchy of importance among the speakers, but everyone was heard, chief and subject, warrior and medicine man, shopkeeper and farmer, landowner and laborer. People spoke without interruption and the meetings lasted for many hours. The foundation of self-government was that all men were free to voice their opinions and equal in their value as citizens. (Women, I am afraid, were deemed second-class citizens.) A great banquet was served during the day, and I often gave myself a bellyache by eating too much while listening to speaker after speaker. I noticed how some speakers rambled and never seemed to get to the point. I grasped how others came to the matter at hand directly, and who made a set of arguments succinctly and cogently. I observed how some speakers used emotion and dramatic language, and tried to move the audience with such techniques, while other speakers were sober and even, and shunned emotion.
At first, I was astonished by the vehemence — and candor — with which people criticized the regent. He was not above criticism — in fact, he was often the principal target of it. But no matter how flagrant the charge, the regent simply listened, not defending himself, showing no emotion at all.
The meetings would continue until some kind of consensus was reached. They ended in unanimity or not at all. Unanimity, however, might be an agreement to disagree, to wait for a more propitious time to propose a solution. Democracy meant all men were to be heard, and a decision was taken together as a people. Majority rule was a foreign notion. A minority was not to be crushed by a majority.
Only at the end of the meeting, as the sun was setting, would the regent speak. His purpose was to sum up what had been said and form some consensus among the diverse opinions. But no conclusion was forced on people who disagreed. If no agreement could be reached, another meeting would be held. At the very end of the council, a praise-singer or poet would deliver a panegyric to the ancient kings, and a mixture of compliments to and satire on the present chiefs, and the audience, led by the regent, would roar with laughter.
As a leader, I have always followed the principles I first saw demonstrated by the regent at the Great Place. I have always endeavored to listen to what each and every person in a discussion had to say before venturing my own opinion. Oftentimes, my own opinion will simply represent a consensus of what I heard in the discussion. I always remember the regent’s axiom: a leader, he said, is like a shepherd. He stays behind the flock, letting the most nimble go out ahead, whereupon the others follow, not realizing that all along they are being directed from behind.
At first, they shooed me away and told me I was too young to listen. Later they would beckon me to fetch fire or water for them, or to tell the women they wanted tea, and in those early months I was too busy running errands to follow their conversation. But, eventually, they permitted me to stay, and I discovered the great African patriots who fought against Western domination. My imagination was fired by the glory of these African warriors.
The most ancient of the chiefs who regaled the gathered elders with ancient tales was Zwelibhangile Joyi, a son from the Great House of King Ngubengcuka. Chief Joyi was so old that his wrinkled skin hung on him like a loose-fitting coat. His stories unfolded slowly and were often punctuated by a great wheezing cough, which would force him to stop for minutes at a time. Chief Joyi was the great authority on the history of the Thembus in large part because he had lived through so much of it.
But as grizzled as Chief Joyi often seemed, the decades fell off him when he spoke of the young impis, or warriors, in the army of King Ngangelizwe fighting the British. In pantomime, Chief Joyi would fling his spear and creep along the veld as he narrated the victories and defeats.
He spoke of Ngangelizwe’s heroism, generosity, and humility. Not all of Chief Joyi’s stories revolved around the Thembus. When he first spoke of non-Xhosa warriors, I wondered why. I was like a boy who worships a local soccer hero and is not interested in a national soccer star with whom he has no connection. Only later was I moved by the broad sweep of African history, and the deeds of all African heroes regardless of tribe.
Chief Joyi railed against the white man, who he believed had deliberately sundered the Xhosa tribe, dividing brother from brother. The white man had told the Thembus that their true chief was the great white queen across the ocean and that they were her subjects. But the white queen brought nothing but misery and perfidy to the black people, and if she was a chief she was an evil chief. Chief Joyi’s war stories and his indictment of the British made me feel angry and cheated, as though I had already been robbed of my own birthright.
Chief Joyi said that the African people lived in relative peace until the coming of the abelungu, the white people, who arrived from across the sea with fire-breathing weapons. Once, he said, the Thembu, the Mpondo, the Xhosa, and the Zulu were all children of one father, and lived as brothers.
The white man shattered the abantu, the fellowship, of the various tribes. The white man was hungry and greedy for land, and the black man shared the land with him as they shared the air and water; land was not for man to possess. But the white man took the land as you might seize another man’s horse.
I did not yet know that the real history of our country was not to be found in standard British textbooks, which claimed South Africa began with the landing of Jan Van Riebeeck at the Cape of Good Hope in 1652. It was from Chief Joyi that I began to discover that the history of the Bantuspeaking peoples began far to the north, in a country of lakes and green plains and valleys, and that slowly over the millennia we made our way down to the very tip of this great continent. However, I later discovered that Chief Joyi’s account of African history, particularly after 1652, was not always so accurate.
beginning of 1942, in order to save money and be closer to downtown
beginning of 1942, in order to save money and be closer to downtown
WNLA compound was a multiethnic,
polyglot community of modern, urban
the WNLA was a way station for visiting chiefs, I had the privilege of
meeting tribal leaders from all over southern
queen took special notice of me and at
one point addressed me directly, but she spoke in Sesotho, a language
in which I knew few words. Sesotho is the language of the Sotho people
as well as the Tswana, a large number of whom live in the Transvaal and
Education is the great engine of personal development. It is through education that the daughter of a peasant can become a doctor, that the son of a mineworker can become the head of the mine, that a child of farmworkers can become the president of a great nation. It is what we make out of what we have, not what we are given, that separates one person from another.
Since the turn of the century, Africans owed their educational opportunites primarily to the foreign churches and missions that created and sponsored schools. Under the United Party, the syllabus for African secondary schools and white secondary schools was essentially the same. The mission schools provided Africans with Western-style English-language education, which I myself received. We were limited by lesser facilities but not by what we could read or think or dream.
even before the Nationalists came to power, the disparities in funding
tell a story of racist education. The government spent about six times
as much per white student as per African student. Education was not
compulsory for Africans and was free only in the primary grades. Less
than half of all African children of school age attended any school at
all, and only a tiny number of Africans were graduated from high
school. Even this amount of education proved distasteful to the
Nationalists. The Afrikaner has always been unenthusiastic about
education for Africans. To him it was
simply a waste, for the African was inherently ignorant and lazy and no
amount of education could remedy that. The
Afrikaner was traditionally
hostile to Africans learning English, for English was a foreign tongue
to the Afrikaner and the language of emancipation to us.
several days after my meeting with Bram and Joel, we were taken to the
head office. The head office was only about a quarter of a mile away
and was a simple stone structure that resembled our own section. Once
there, we were lined up to have our fingerprints taken, which was
routine prison service business. But while waiting, I noticed a warder
with a camera. After our fingerprints had been taken, the chief warder
ordered us to line up for photographs. I motioned to my colleagues not
to move, and I addressed the warder: “I would like you to produce the
document from the commissioner of prisons authorizing our pictures to
be taken.” Photographs
of prisoners required such authorization.
several days after my meeting with Bram and Joel, we were taken to the
head office. The head office was only about a quarter of a mile away
and was a simple stone structure that resembled our own section. Once
there, we were lined up to have our fingerprints taken, which was
routine prison service business. But while waiting, I noticed a warder
with a camera. After our fingerprints had been taken, the chief warder
ordered us to line up for photographs. I motioned to my colleagues not
to move, and I addressed the warder: “I would like you to produce the
document from the commissioner of prisons authorizing our pictures to
be taken.” Photographs
of prisoners required such authorization.
It was always valuable to be familiar with regulations, because the warders themselves were often ignorant of them and could be intimidated by one’s superior knowledge. The warder was taken aback by my request and was unable to offer any explanation or produce anything in writing from the commissioner of prisons. He threatened to charge us if we did not consent to have our photographs taken, but I said that if there was no authorization, there would be no pictures, and that is where the matter remained.
a rule, we objected to having our pictures taken in prison on the
grounds that it is generally demeaning to be seen as a prisoner. But
there was one photograph I did consent to, the only one I ever agreed
to while on
morning, a few weeks later, the chief warder, instead of handing us
hammers for our work in the courtyard, gave us each needles and thread
and a pile of worn prison jerseys. We were instructed to repair the
garments, but we discovered that most of these jerseys were frayed
beyond repair. This struck us as a curious task, and we wondered what
had provoked the change. Later that morning, at about eleven o’clock,
the front gate swung open, revealing the commanding officer with two
men in suits. The
commanding officer announced that the two visitors were a reporter and
photographer from the Daily
Although these men were our first official visitors, we regarded them skeptically. Firstly, they were brought in under the auspices of the government, and second, we were aware that the Thelegraph was a conservative newspaper unlikely to be sympathetic to our cause. We well knew that there was great concern in the outside world about our situation and that it was in the government’s interest to show that we were not being mistreated.
The two journalists walked slowly around the courtyard, surveying us. We kept our heads down concentrating on our work. After they had made one circuit, one of the guards plucked me by the shoulder and said, “Mandela, come, you will talk now.” In those early days, I often spoke on behalf of my fellow prisoners. The prison service regulations were explicit that each prisoner was permitted to speak only for himself. This was done to negate the power of organization and to neutralize our collective strength. We objected to this role, but made little headway. We were not even permitted to use the word we when we made complaints. But during the first few years, when the authorities needed one prisoner to speak on behalf of others, that individual would be me.
I talked to the reporter, whose name was Mr. Newman, for about twenty minutes, and was candid about both prison and the Rivonia Trial. He was an agreeable fellow, and at the end of our talk, he said he would like the photographer to take my picture. I was reluctant, but in this case relented because I knew the photograph would only be published overseas, and might serve to help our cause if the article was even the least bit friendly. I told him I would agree provided Mr. Sisulu could join me. The image shows the two of us talking in the courtyard about some matter that I can no longer remember. I never saw the article or heard anything about it. The reporters were barely out of sight when the warders removed the jerseys and gave us back our hammers.
The men from the Telegraph were the first of a small stream of visitors during those early months. While the Rivonia Trial still resonated in people’s minds, the government was eager to show the international community that we were being treated properly. There were stories in the press about the inhuman conditions on the island, about how we were being assaulted and tortured. These allegations embarrassed the government, and to combat them they brought in a string of outsiders meant to rebut these critical stories.
were briefly visited by a British lawyer
who had argued for Namibian independence before the
On the day of Mr. Hynning’s visit we were called into the courtyard. The American arrived in the company of General Steyn, the commissioner of prisons, who rarely made appearances on the island. General Steyn was that unusual thing in the prison service, a polished and sophisticated man.
His suits were always of a fine quality and a fashionable cut. He was courtly, and referred to us as “gentlemen,” even doffing his hat to us, something no one else in the prison service ever did. Yet General Steyn oppressed us by omission rather than commission. He basically turned a blind eye to what was happening on the island. His habitual absence emboldened the more brutal prison officials and gave them carte blanche to do whatever they wanted. In his most gracious manner, the general introduced our guest and said, “Gentlemen, please select your spokesman.” A number of the prisoners called out my name. General Steyn nodded in my direction, and I stood up. In contrast to General Steyn, Mr. Hynning was a heavyset, unkempt man. I thanked him for visiting us and said we were honored by his presence. I then summarized our complaints, beginning with the central and most important one, that we were political prisoners, not criminals, and that we should be treated as such. I enumerated our grievances about the food, our living conditions, and the work detail. But as I was speaking, Mr. Hynning kept interrupting me. When I made a point about the long hours doing mindless work, he declared that as prisoners we had to work and were probably lazy to boot.
I started to detail the problems with
our cells, he interjected that the conditions in backward American
prisons were far worse than
Mr. Hynning perspired a great deal and there were those among us who thought he was not altogether sober. He spoke in what I assumed was a southern American accent, and had a curious habit of spitting when he talked, something none of us had ever seen before.
I had heard enough, and I
interrupted him, “No, sir, you misunderstand the points that I am
making.” Hynning took offense that I was now contradicting him, while
General Steyn watched and listened without comment. Under the
circumstances, it was difficult to keep tempers down. The men were
angered by Mr. Hynning’s remarks and annoyed that he had been permitted
to see us at all. Normally, a visit of any kind lifted our spirits but
the visit of Mr. Hynning was demoralizing. Perhaps that is what the
authorities wanted. To meet someone with so impressive an affiliation
and so little understanding was depressing. Hynning finally just turned
and walked away without so much as a good-bye. We were not sorry to see
him go. We discussed Mr.
Hynning for years afterward and many of the men imitated the way he
spoke to comic effect. We never heard about him again, and he certainly
did not win any friends on
In jail, all prisoners are classified by the authorities as one of four categories: A, B, C, or D. A is the highest classification and confers the most privileges; D is the lowest and confers the least. All political prisoners, or what the authorities called “security prisoners,” were automatically classified as D on admission. The privileges affected by these classifications included visits and letters, studies, and the opportunity to buy groceries and incidentals — all of which are the lifeblood of any prisoner. It normally took years for a political prisoner to raise his status from D to C.
We disdained the classification system. It was corrupt and demeaning, another way of repressing prisoners in general and political prisoners in particular. We demanded that all political prisoners be in one category. Although we criticized it, we could not ignore it: the classification system was an inflexible feature of prison life. If you protested that, as a D Group prisoner, you could receive only one letter every six months, the authorities would say, Improve your behavior, become a C Group prisoner, and you will be able to receive two letters every six months. If you complained that you did not receive enough food, the authorities would remind you that if you were in A Group, you would be able to receive money orders from the outside and purchase extra food at the prison canteen. Even a freedom fighter benefits from the ability to buy groceries and books.
classifications generally ran parallel to the length of one’s sentence.
If you were sentenced to eight years, you would generally be classified
as D for the first two years, C for the next two, B for the following
two, and A for the last two. But the prison authorities wielded the
classification system as a weapon against political prisoners,
threatening to lower our hard-won classifications in order to control
I had been in prison for nearly two years before I was taken to
Every six months, prisoners were called before the prison board to have their classifications evaluated. The board was meant to assess our behavior in terms of prison regulations, but we found that it preferred to act as a political tribunal rather than a mere evaluator of behavior. During my first meeting with the board, the officials asked me questions about the ANC and my beliefs. Although this had nothing to do with the classification system, I was vain enough to answer and think that I might convert them to my beliefs. It was one of the few times we were treated as human beings, and I for one responded. Later I realized that this was simply a technique on the part of the authorities to glean information from us, and I had fallen for it. Shortly afterward, we agreed among ourselves not to discuss politics with the prison board.
As a D Group prisoner, I was entitled to have only one visitor, and to write and receive only one letter, every six months. I found this one of the most inhumane restrictions of the prison system. Communication with one’s family is a human right; it should not be restricted by the artificial gradations of a prison system. But it was one of the facts of prison life.
Visits and letters were restricted to “first degree” relatives. This was a restriction we not only found irksome but racist. The African sense of immediate family is far different from that of the European or Westerner. Our family structures are larger and more inclusive; anyone who claims descent from a common ancestor is deemed part of the same family.
In prison, the only thing worse than bad news about one’s family is no news at all. It is always harder to cope with the disasters and tragedies one imagines than with the reality, however grim or disagreeable. A letter with ill tidings was always preferable to no letter at all.
even this miserable restriction was abused by the authorities. The
anticipation of mail was overwhelming. Mail call took place once a
sometimes six months would go by without a letter. To be allowed
one letter in six months and then not to receive it is a great blow.
One wonders: What has happened to my wife and children, to my mother
and my sisters? When I did not receive a letter I felt as dry and
barren as the
Afterward, I would protest through the proper channels, and sometimes get it. When letters did arrive, they were cherished. A letter was like the summer rain that could make even the desert bloom. When I was handed a letter by the authorities, I would not rush forward and grab it as I felt like doing, but take it in a leisurely manner. Though I yearned to tear it open and read it on the spot, I would not give the authorities the satisfaction of seeing my eagerness, and I would return slowly to my cell as though I had many things to occupy me before opening a letter from my family.
During the first few months, I received one letter from Winnie, but it was so heavily censored that not much more than the salutation was left. The island’s censors would black out the offending passages in ink, but they later changed this when they realized we could wash away the ink and see what was underneath. They began to use razors to slice out whole paragraphs. Since most letters were written on both sides of a single piece of paper, the material on the other side would also be excised. They seemed to relish delivering letters in tatters. The censorship delayed the delivery of mail because warders, some of whom were not proficient in English, might take as long as a month to censor a letter. The letters we wrote were censored as well; they were often as cut up as the letters we received.
At the end of August, after I had been on the island less than three months, I was informed by the authorities that I would have a visitor the following day. They would not tell me who it was. Walter was informed that he, too, would have a visitor, and I suspected, I hoped, I wished — I believed — that it would be a visit from Winnie and Albertina.
the moment Winnie learned we had been brought to the island, she had
been trying to arrange a visit. As a banned person, Winnie had to
receive a special dispensation from the minister of justice, for she
was technically not permitted to communicate with me. Even with the
help of the authorities, visiting
did not seem to be planned in
advance by the authorities. One day, they would contact your
say, “You have permission to visit your husband tomorrow.” This was
enormously inconvenient, and often had the effect of making visits
impossible. If a family member was able to plan a visit in
advance, the authorities would sometimes deliberately delay issuing a
permit until after the plane had departed. Since most of the men’s families
lived far from the
The visiting room for noncontact visits was cramped and windowless. On the prisoner’s side, there was a row of five cubicles with small square pieces of glass that looked out on identical cubicles on the other side. One sat in a chair and looked through the thick, smudged glass that had a few small holes drilled into it to permit conversation. One had to talk very loudly to be heard. Later the authorities installed microphones and speakers in front of the glass, a marginal improvement.
and I were called to the visitors’
office in the late morning and took seats at the far end of the room. I
waited with some anxiety, and suddenly, filling out the glass on the
other side of the window was Winnie’s lovely face. Winnie always
dressed up for prison visits, and tried to wear something new and
elegant. It was tremendously frustrating not to be able to touch my
wife, to speak tenderly to her, to have a private moment together. We
had to conduct our relationship at a distance under the eyes of people
I could see immediately that Winnie was under tremendous strain. Seeing me in such circumstances must have been trying. Just getting to the island itself was difficult, and added to that were the harsh rituals of the prison, the undoubted indignities of the warders, and the impersonality of the contact.
Winnie, I later discovered, had recently received a second banning order and had been terminated from her job at the Child Welfare Office as a result. Her office was searched by the police shortly before she was fired. The authorities were convinced that Winnie was in secret communication with me. Winnie loved her job as a social worker. It was the hands-on end of the struggle: placing babies with adoptive parents, finding work for the unemployed and medical help for the uninsured. The banning and harassment of my wife greatly troubled me: I could not look after her and the children, and the state was making it difficult for her to look after herself. My powerlessness gnawed at me.
Our conversation was awkward at first, and was not made easier by the presence of two warders standing directly behind her and three behind me. Their role was not only to monitor but to intimidate. Regulations dictated that conversation had to be in either English or Afrikaans — African languages were forbidden — and could involve family matters only. Any line of talk that departed from the family and verged on the political might mean the abrupt termination of the visit. If one mentioned a name unfamiliar to the warders, they would interrupt the conversation, and ask who the person was and the nature of the relationship. This happened often, as the warders were generally unfamiliar with the variety and nature of African names. It was frustrating to spend precious minutes of one’s visit explaining to a warder the different branches of one’s family tree. But their ignorance also worked in our favor: it allowed us to invent code names for people we wanted to talk about and pretend that we were referring to family members.
That first visit was important, for I knew that Winnie was anxious about my health: she had heard stories that we were being physically abused. I quickly informed her that I was fine and she could see that I was fit, though a bit thinner than before. She, too, was thinner, something I always attributed to stress. After a visit in which Winnie’s face looked drawn or tense, I would urge her to put on a bit of weight. She was always dieting, and I was always telling her not to. I inquired one by one about all the children, about my mother and sisters, and Winnie’s own family.
Suddenly, I heard the warder behind me say, “Time up! Time up!” I turned and looked at him with incredulity. It was impossible that half an hour had passed. But, in fact, he was right; visits always seemed to go by in the blink of an eye. For all the years that I was in prison, I never failed to be surprised when the warder called, “Time up!” Winnie and I were both hustled from our chairs and we waved a quick farewell. I always felt like lingering after Winnie left, just to retain the sense of her presence, but I would not let the warders see such emotion. As I walked back to the cell, I reviewed in my head what we had talked about. Over the next days, weeks, and months, I would return to that one visit again and again. I knew I would not be able to see my wife again for at least six months. As it turned out, Winnie was not able to visit me for another two years.
were more valuable to political
prisoners than gold or diamonds, more hungered for than food or
tobacco; they were the most precious contraband on
regarded it as our duty to keep ourselves current on the politics of
the country, and we fought long and hard for the right to have
newspapers. Over the years, we devised many ways of obtaining
them, but back then we were not so adept. One of the advantages of
going to the quarry was that warders’ sandwiches were wrapped in
newspaper and they would often discard these newsprint wrappers in the
trash, where we secretly retrieved them. We would distract the warders’
attention, pluck the papers out of the garbage, and slide them into our
One of the most reliable ways to acquire papers was through bribery, and this was the only area where I tolerated what were often unethical means of obtaining information. The warders always seemed to be short of money, and their poverty was our opportunity.
When we did get hold of a paper, it was far too risky to pass around. Possession of a newspaper was a serious charge. Instead, one person would read the paper, usually Kathy or, later, Mac Maharaj. Kathy was in charge of communications, and he had thought of ingenious ways for us to pass information. Kathy would go through the paper and make cuttings of relevant stories, which were then secretly distributed to the rest of us. Each of us would write out a summary of the story we were given; these summaries were then passed among us, and later smuggled to the general section. When the authorities were particularly vigilant, Kathy or Mac would write out his summary of the news and then destroy the paper, usually by tearing it into small pieces and placing it in his ballie, which the warders never inspected.
When I noticed the newspaper lying on the bench, I quickly left my cell, walked to the end of the corridor, looked in both directions, and then plucked the newspaper off the bench and slipped it into my shirt. Normally, I would have hidden the newspaper somewhere in my cell and taken it out only after bedtime. But like a child who eats his sweet before his main course, I was so eager for news that I opened the paper in my cell immediately. I don’t know how long I was reading; I was so engrossed in the paper that I did not hear any footsteps. Suddenly, an officer and two other warders appeared and I did not even have time to slide the paper under my bed. I was caught black-and-white-handed, so to speak. “Mandela,” the officer said, “we are charging you for possession of contraband, and you will pay for this.” The two warders then began a thorough search of my cell to see if they could turn up anything else.
a day or two a magistrate was brought in from
The isolation cells were in our same complex, but in another wing. Although just across the courtyard, they felt enormously distant. In isolation, one was deprived of company, exercise, and even food: one received only rice water three times a day for three days. (Rice water is simply water in which rice has been boiled.) By comparison, our normal ration of pap seemed like a feast.
first day in isolation was always the most painful. One grows
accustomed to eating regularly and the body is not used to being
deprived. I found that by the second day I had more or less adjusted to
the absence of food, and the third passed without much craving at all.
Such deprivation was not uncommon among Africans in everyday life. I
myself had gone without food for days at a time in my early years in
As I have already mentioned, I found solitary confinement the most forbidding aspect of prison life. There is no end and no beginning; there is only one’s own mind, which can begin to play tricks. Was that a dream or did it really happen? One begins to question everything. Did I make the right decision, was my sacrifice worth it? In solitary, there is no distraction from these haunting questions.
But the human body has an enormous capacity for adjusting to trying circumstances. I have found that one can bear the unbearable if one can keep one’s spirits strong even when one’s body is being tested. Strong convictions are the secret of surviving deprivation; your spirit can be full even when your stomach is empty. In those early years, isolation became a habit. We were routinely charged for the smallest infractions and sentenced to isolation. A man might lose his meals for a sidelong glance or be sentenced for failing to stand when a warder entered the room. Some PAC prisoners, who often flouted the rules simply for the sake of doing so, spent a great deal of time in isolation. The authorities believed that isolation was the cure for our defiance and rebelliousness.
The second time I was charged and spent time in isolation occurred shortly after the first. As I have mentioned, we were having great difficulty making our complaints heard. The remoteness of the prison made the authorities feel they could ignore us with impunity. They believed that if they turned a deaf ear to us, we would give up in frustration and the people on the outside would forget about us.
One day we were working at the lime quarry when the commanding officer came to observe us, accompanied by a gentleman whom we at first did not recognize. One of my colleagues whispered to me that it was Brigadier Aucamp from the Head Office, our commanding officer’ commanding officer. (He is not to be confused with the Aucamp of Pretoria Local, who looked after us during the Rivonia Trial.) The two men stood at a distance, watching us.
Aucamp was a short, heavyset fellow in a suit rather than a military uniform. He normally came to the island on biannual inspections. On those occasions, we were ordered to stand at attention at the grille of our cells and hold up our prison cards as he walked by.
I decided that Aucamp’s unexpected appearance was a singular opportunity to present our grievances to the man who had the power to remedy them. I put down my pick and began to walk over to them. The warders immediately became alarmed and moved toward me. I knew that I was violating regulations, but I hoped the warders would be so surprised by the novelty of my action that they would do nothing to stop me. That proved to be the case.
When I reached the two men, the commanding officer said bluntly, “Mandela, go back to your place. No one called you.” I disregarded him and addressed Aucamp, saying I had taken this extraordinary action because our complaints were being ignored. The C.O. interrupted me: “Mandela, I order you back to your place.” I turned to him and said in a measured tone, “I am here already, I will not go back.” I was hoping that Aucamp would agree to hear me out, but he studied me coldly and then turned to the warders and said calmly, “Charge him.”
continued to speak as the guards led me away. “Take him back to the
cells,” the C.O. said. I was charged and, once again, I had no defense.
The punishment this time was four days in isolation. There was a lesson
in what I had done, a lesson I already knew but had disobeyed out of
desperation. No one, least of all prison officials, ever likes to have
his authority publicly challenged. In order to respond to me, Aucamp
would have had to humiliate his subordinate. Prison officials responded
much better to private overtures. The best way to effect change on
The most important person any prisoner’s life is not the minister of justice, not the commissioner of prisons, not even the head of prison, but the warder in one’s section. If you are cold and want an extra blanket, you might petition the minister of justice, but you will get no response. If you go to the commissioner of prisons, he will say, “Sorry, it is against regulations.” The head of prison will say, “If I give you an extra blanket, I must give one to everyone.” But if you approach the warder in your corridor, and you are on good terms with him, he will simply go to the stockroom and fetch a blanket.
I always tried to be decent to the warders in my section; hostility was self-defeating. There was no point in having a permanent enemy among the warders. It was ANC policy to try to educate all people, even our enemies: we believed that all men, even prison service warders, were capable of change, and we did our utmost to try to sway them.
In general we treated the warders as they treated us. If a man was considerate, we were considerate in return. Not all of our warders were ogres.
We noticed right from the start that there were some among them who believed in fairness. Yet, being friendly with warders was not an easy proposition, for they generally found the idea of being courteous to a black man abhorrent. Because it was useful to have warders who were well disposed toward us, I often asked certain men to make overtures to selected warders. No one liked to take on such a job.
We had one warder at the quarry who seemed particularly hostile to us. This was troublesome, for at the quarry we would hold discussions among ourselves, and a warder who did not permit us to talk was a great hindrance. I asked a certain comrade to befriend this fellow so that he would not interrupt our talks. The warder was quite crude, but he soon began to relax a bit around this one prisoner. One day, the warder asked this comrade for his jacket so that he could lay it on the grass and sit on it. Even though I knew it went against the comrade’s grain, I nodded to him to do it.
A few days later, we were having our lunch under the shed when this warder wandered over. The warder had an extra sandwich, and he threw it on the grass near us and said, “Here.” That was his way of showing friendship. This presented us with a dilemma. On the one hand, he was treating us as animals to whom he could toss a bit of slop, and I felt it would undermine our dignity to take the sandwich. On the other hand, we were hungry, and to reject the gesture altogether would humiliate the warder we were trying to befriend. I could see that the comrade who had befriended the warder wanted the sandwich, and I nodded for him to take it.
The strategy worked, for this warder became less wary around us. He even began to ask questions about the ANC. By definition, if a man worked for the prison service he was probably brainwashed by the government’s propaganda. He would have believed that we were terrorists and Communists who wanted to drive the white man into the sea. But as we quietly explained to him our nonracialism, our desire for equal rights, and our plans for the redistribution of wealth, he scratched his head and said, “It makes more bloody sense than the Nats.”
sympathetic warders facilitated one
of our most vital tasks on
Communication between sections was a serious violation of regulations. We found many effective ways around the ban. The men who delivered our drums of food were from the general section, and in the early months we managed to have whispered conversations with them in which we conveyed brief messages. We formed a clandestine communications committee, composed of Kathy, Mac Maharaj, Laloo Chiba, and several others, and their job was to organize all such practices.
of the first techniques was engineered
by Kathy and Mac, who had noticed that on our walks to the quarry, the
warders often tossed away empty matchboxes. They began secretly
collecting them, and Mac had the idea of constructing a false bottom to
the box and placing in it a tiny written message. Laloo Chiba, who once
trained as a tailor, wrote out minuscule coded messages that would be
placed in the converted matchbox.
Gqabi, another MK soldier who was with us, would carry the matchboxes
on our walks to the quarry and drop them at a strategic crossing where
we knew the general prisoners would pass. Through whispered
conversations at food deliveries, we explained the plan.
Designated prisoners from F and G would pick up the matchboxes on their walks, and we retrieved messages in the same fashion. It was far from perfect, and we could easily be foiled by something as simple as the rain. We soon evolved more efficient methods.
We looked for moments when the warders were inattentive. One such time was during and after meals. We helped ourselves to our food, and we worked out a scheme whereby comrades from the general section who worked in the kitchen began placing letters and notes wrapped in plastic at the bottom of the food drums. We sent return communication in a similar way, wrapping notes in the same plastic and placing them at the bottom of the mounds of dirty dishes that were routed back to the kitchen. We would do our best to create a mess, scattering food all over the plates. The warders even complained about the disarray, but never bothered to investigate.
toilets and showers were adjacent to the isolation section. Prisoners
from the general section were often sentenced to isolation there and
would use the same set of toilets we did, though at different times.
Mac devised a method of wrapping notes in plastic and then taping them
inside the rim of the toilet bowl. We encouraged our political comrades
in the general section to be charged and placed in isolation so that
they could retrieve these notes and send replies. The warders never
bothered to search there.
In order not to have our notes read or understood by the authorities if they were found, we devised ways of writing that could not easily be seen or deciphered. One way was to write messages with milk. The milk would dry almost immediately, and the paper would look blank. But the disinfectant we were given to clean our cells, when sprayed on the dried milk, made the writing reappear. Unfortunately, we did not regularly receive milk. After one of us was diagnosed with an ulcer, we used his.
Another technique was to write in tiny, coded script on toilet paper. The paper was so small and easily hidden that this became a popular way of smuggling out messages. When the authorities discovered a number of these communications, they took the extraordinary measure of rationing toilet paper. Govan was then ailing and not going to the quarry, and he was given the task of counting out eight squares of toilet paper for each prisoner per day.
But even with all these ingenious methods, one of the best ways was also the easiest: getting sent to the prison hospital. The island had one hospital, and it was difficult to segregate us from the general prisoners while we were there. Sometimes prisoners from the different sections even shared the same wards, and men from Section B and prisoners from F and G mingled and exchanged information about political organizations, strikes, go-slows, whatever the current prison issues were.
Communication with the outside world was accomplished in two ways: through prisoners whose sentences were completed and who were leaving the island, and through contact with visitors. Prisoners who were leaving would smuggle out letters in their clothes or baggage. With outside visitors, the situation was even more dangerous, because the risks were also borne by the visitor. When lawyers visited us, warders were not permitted in the room and we would sometimes pass a letter to the lawyer to be taken out. Lawyers were not searched. In these meetings, we could also communicate by writing as we had during the Rivonia Trial. Because the room was bugged, we might say, “Please tell . . .” and then pause and write “O.T.,” meaning Oliver Tambo, on a piece of paper, “that we approve of his plan to cut down the size of the . . .” and then write, “National Executive.”
Through a plastic-wrapped note hidden in our food drums, we learned in July of 1966 that the men in the general section had embarked on a hunger strike to protest poor conditions. The note was imprecise, and we did not know exactly when the strike had started or exactly what it was about. But we would support any strike of prisoners for whatever reason they were striking. Word was passed among us, and we resolved to initiate a sympathetic strike beginning with our next meal. A hunger strike consists of one thing: not eating.
Because of the time lag in communications, the general prisoners probably did not learn of our participation for a day or so. But we knew that the news would hearten them. The authorities would be telling them that we were not participating in the strike, that we were gorging ourselves on gourmet meals. This was standard operating procedure; in a crisis, the authorities inevitably started a disinformation campaign to play one section against the other. In this case, while the ANC unanimously supported the strike, some PAC men in the general section did not.
During the first day of our strike, we were served our normal rations and refused to take them. On the second day, we noticed that our portions were larger and a few more vegetables accompanied our pap. On the third day, juicy pieces of meat were served with supper. By the fourth day, the porridge was glistening with fat, and great hunks of meat and colorful vegetables were steaming on top. The food was positively mouthwatering.
The warders smiled when we passed up the food. The temptation was great, but we resisted, even though we were being driven especially hard at the quarry. We heard that in the main section, prisoners were collapsing and being taken away in wheelbarrows.
I was called to the Head Office for an interview with Colonel Wessels. Such sessions were delicate, as my fellow prisoners knew that the authorities would attempt to influence me to call off the strike. Wessels was a direct man and demanded to know why we were on a hunger strike. I explained that as political prisoners we saw protest to alter prison conditions as an extension of the anti-apartheid struggle. “But you don’t even know why they are striking in F and G,” he said. I said that did not matter, that the men in F and G were our brothers and that our struggle was indivisible. He snorted, and dismissed me.
The following day we learned of an extraordinary course of events: the warders had gone on their own food boycott, refusing to go to their own cafeteria. They were not striking in support of us, but had decided that if we could do such a thing, why couldn’t they? They were demanding better food and improved living conditions. The combination of the two strikes was too much for the authorities. They settled with the warders and then, a day or two later, we learned the authorities had gone to the general section and asked for three representatives to negotiate changes. The general prisoners declared victory and called off the hunger strike. We followed suit a day later.
* * *
That was the first and most successful of the hunger strikes on the island. As a form of protest, they did not have a high success rate and the rationale behind them always struck me as quixotic. In order for a hunger strike to succeed, the outside world must learn of it. Otherwise, prisoners will simply starve themselves to death and no one will know. Smuggled-out information that we were on a hunger strike would elicit newspaper stories, which in turn would generate pressure from advocacy groups. The problem, particularly in the early years, was that it was next to impossible to alert people on the outside that we were waging a hunger strike inside.
For me, hunger strikes were altogether too passive. We who were already suffering were threatening our health, even courting death. I have always favored a more active, militant style of protest such as work strikes, go-slow strikes, or refusing to clean up; actions that punished the authorities, not ourselves. They wanted gravel and we produced no gravel.
wanted the prison yard clean and it was untidy. This kind of behavior
distressed and exasperated them, whereas I think they secretly enjoyed
watching us go hungry. But when it came to a decision, I was often
outvoted. My colleagues even jokingly accused me of not wanting to miss
a meal. The proponents of hunger strikes argued that it was a
traditionally accepted form of protest that had been waged all over the
world by such prominent leaders as Mahatma Gandhi. Once the decision
was taken, however, I would support it as wholeheartedly as any of its
advocates. In fact, during the strikes I was often in the position of
remonstrating with some of my more wayward colleagues who did not want
to abide by our agreement. “Madiba, I want my food,” I remember one man
saying. “I don’t see why I should go without. I have served the
struggle for many years.”
Comrades would sometimes eat on the sly. We knew this for a simple reason: by the second day of a hunger strike, no one needs to use the toilet. Yet one morning you might see a fellow going to the toilet. We had our own internal intelligence service because we knew that certain men were weak in this regard.
the midst of the July 1966 hunger strike I had my second visit from my
wife. It was almost exactly two years after the first visit, and it
nearly did not happen at all. Winnie had been under constant harassment
since her first visit in 1964. Her sisters and brother were persecuted
by the police, and the authorities attempted to forbid anyone in her
family from living with her. Some of this I learned at the time, much
of it I found out later. Some of the
nastiest items were known to me because when I would return from the
quarry, I often would find neatly cut clippings about Winnie that had
been anonymously placed on my bed by the warders. In small and spiteful
ways, the authorities did their best to make Winnie’s journeys as
unpleasant as possible. For the previous two years, her visits had been
stymied by local magistrates and by the repeated bannings that
prevented her from traveling. I had recently heard through counsel that
Winnie had been informed by the police that she could visit me only if
she carried a pass. Winnie, who had been protesting the government’s
policy regarding women’s passes since the 1950s, rightly refused to
carry the hated document. The authorities were clearly attempting to
humiliate her and me. But I thought it was more important that we see
each other than to resist the petty machinations of the authorities,
and Winnie consented to carry a pass. I missed her enormously and
needed the reassurance of seeing her, and we also had vital family
matters to discuss.
the midst of the July 1966 hunger strike I had my second visit from my
wife. It was almost exactly two years after the first visit, and it
nearly did not happen at all. Winnie had been under constant harassment
since her first visit in 1964. Her sisters and brother were persecuted
by the police, and the authorities attempted to forbid anyone in her
family from living with her. Some of this I learned at the time, much
of it I found out later. Some of the
nastiest items were known to me because when I would return from the
quarry, I often would find neatly cut clippings about Winnie that had
been anonymously placed on my bed by the warders. In small and spiteful
ways, the authorities did their best to make Winnie’s journeys as
unpleasant as possible. For the previous two years, her visits had been
stymied by local magistrates and by the repeated bannings that
prevented her from traveling. I had recently heard through counsel that
Winnie had been informed by the police that she could visit me only if
she carried a pass. Winnie, who had been protesting the government’s
policy regarding women’s passes since the 1950s, rightly refused to
carry the hated document. The authorities were clearly attempting to
humiliate her and me. But I thought it was more important that we see
each other than to resist the petty machinations of the authorities,
and Winnie consented to carry a pass. I missed her enormously and
needed the reassurance of seeing her, and we also had vital family
matters to discuss.
regulations governing each of Winnie’s visits were long and
complicated. She was barred from taking a train or car and had to fly,
making the trip much more expensive. She was required to take the
shortest route from the airport to
had also learned from a newspaper
clipping that a Special Branch officer broke into our
second visit was for only half an hour, and we had much to discuss.
Winnie was a bit agitated from the rough treatment in
reviewed the education of the children, the health of my mother, which
was not very good, and our finances. A critical issue was the education
of Zeni and Zindzi. Winnie had placed the girls in a school designated
as Indian, and the authorities were harassing the principal on the
grounds that it was a violation of the law for the school to accept
African pupils. We made the difficult decision to send Zeni and Zindzi
to boarding school in
get around the restrictions on
discussing nonfamily matters, we used names whose meaning was clear to
us, but not to the warders. If I wanted to
know how Winnie was really doing, I might say, “Have you heard about
Ngutyana recently; is she all right?” Ngutyana is one of Winnie’s clan
names, but the authorities were unaware of that. Then Winnie could talk
about how and what Ngutyana was doing. If the warder asked who Ngutyana
was, we would say she was a cousin. If I wanted to know about how the
external mission of the ANC was faring, I would ask, “How is the
church?” Winnie would discuss “the church” in appropriate terms, and I
might then ask, “How are the priests? Are there any new sermons?” We improvised
and managed to exhange a great deal of information that way.
As always, when the warder yelled, “Time up!,” I thought only a few minutes had passed. I wanted to kiss the glass good-bye, but restrained myself. I always preferred for Winnie to leave first so she would not have to see me led away by the warders, and I watched as she whispered a good-bye, hiding her pain from the warders.
After the visit, I replayed all the details in my mind, what Winnie wore, what she said, what I said. I then wrote her a letter going over some of what we had discussed, and reminding her of how much I cared for her, how unshakable our bond was, how courageous she was. I saw my letters to her both as love letters and as the only way I could give her the emotional support she needed.
after the visit, I learned that Winnie had been charged for failing to
report to the police on her arrival in
The state did its utmost to harass me in ways they thought I would be powerless to resist. Toward the end of 1966, the Transvaal Law Society, at the instigation of the minister of justice, made a motion to strike me off the roll of practicing attorneys as a result of my conviction in the Rivonia Trial. Apparently they were not discouraged by the earlier unsuccessful attempt to remove my name from the roll because of my conviction in the Defiance Campaign.
found out about the Law Society’s action only after it had been
initiated. The Transvaal Law Society was an extremely conservative
organization, and they were seeking to punish me at a time when they
assumed I would be unable to defend myself. It is not easy for a
informed the authorities that I planned to contest the action and would
prepare my own defense. I told prison officials that in order to
prepare adequately, I would need to be exempt from going to the quarry
and would also require a proper table, chair, and reading light to work
on my brief. I said I needed access to a law library and demanded to be
My strategy was to overwhelm the prison authorities and the courts with legitimate requests, which I knew they would have a difficult time satisfying. The authorities always found it distressing when I wanted to defend myself in court because the accompanying publicity would show that I was still fighting for the same values I always had.
Their first response was, “Mandela, why don’t you retain a lawyer to defend you? He will be able to handle the case properly. Why put yourself out?” I went ahead and applied to the registrar of the Supreme Court for the records, documents, and books that I would need. I also requested a list of the state’s witnesses and summaries of their prospective testimony.
I received a letter stating that before the court would grant my requests they would need to know the nature of my defense. This was extraordinary. To ask the nature of a lawyer’s defense before the trial? No defendant can be compelled to reveal his defense before he is actually in court. I wrote back to tell them that the nature of my defense would become clear to them when I filed my papers — and not until then.
was the beginning of a flurry of correspondence between me and the
registrar as well as the state attorney, who was representing the Law
Society. I would not back down on any of my requests. The authorities
were equally intransigent: I could
not be taken off quarry detail, I
could not have a table and chair, and under no circumstances would I be
able to go to
I continued to bedevil the Law Society and registrar with demands, which they continued to deflect. Finally, several months and many letters later, without any fanfare and with just a cursory notification to me, they dropped the entire matter. The case was becoming more than they had bargained for. They had reckoned I would not have the initiative or wherewithal to defend myself; they were mistaken.
I was able to read in detail about the official reactions to my opposition to the Law Society’s actions because we were receiving a daily newspaper just as if it were delivered to our door. In effect, it was. The warder who supervised us at night was a quiet, elderly Jehovah’s Witness whom Mac Maharaj had befriended. One night, he wandered over to Mac’s cell and told him that he wanted to enter a newspaper contest that required an essay. Would Mac, he wondered, be willing to assist him in writing it? The old warder hinted that if Mac helped him, there would be a reward. Mac agreed, and duly wrote the essay. A fortnight later, the old man came to Mac very excited. He was now a finalist in the competition; would Mac write him another essay? The warder promised Mac a cooked chicken in return. Mac told the old warder that he would think about it.
next day, Mac came to Walter and me and explained the situation. While
Walter encouraged Mac to accept the food, I appreciated his reluctance
to do so, because it would appear that he was getting special
treatment. That night, he told the warder he would write the essay in
exchange for a pack of cigarettes. The old warder agreed, and the
following evening presented Mac with a newly bought pack of cigarettes.
next day, Mac told us that he now had the leverage he wanted over the
old warder. How? we asked. “Because I have his fingerprints on the
cigarette pack,” Mac said, “and I can blackmail him.” Walter exclaimed
that that was immoral. I did not criticize Mac, but asked what he would
blackmail him for. Mac raised his eyebrow: “Newspapers,” he said.
Walter and I looked at each other. I think Walter was the only man on
That night Mac told the warder that he had his fingerprints on the pack of cigarettes and that if the old man did not cooperate, he would expose him to the commanding officer. Terrified of being fired and losing his pension, the warder agreed to do whatever Mac wanted. For the next six months, until the warder was transferred, the old man would smuggle that day’s newspaper to Mac. Mac would then summarize the news and reduce it to a single small piece of paper, which would circulate among us. The unfortunate warder did not win the contest, either.
It would be hard to say what we did more of at the quarry: mine lime or talk. By 1966, the warders had adopted a laissez-faire attitude: we could talk as much as we wanted as long as we worked. We would cluster in small groups, four or five men in a rough circle, and talk all day long, about every subject under the sun. We were in a perpetual conversation with each other on topics both solemn and trifling.
There is no prospect about prison which pleases — with the possible exception of one. One has time to think. In the vortex of the struggle, when one is constantly reacting to changing circumstances, one rarely has the chance to carefully consider all the ramifications of one’s decisions or policies. Prison provided the time — much more than enough time — to reflect on what one had done and not done.
We were constantly engaged in political debates. Some were dispatched in a day, others were disputed for years. I have always enjoyed the cutand-thrust of debating, and was a ready participant. One of our earliest and longest debates concerned the relationship between the ANC and the Communist Party. Some of the men, especially those MK soldiers who had been trained in socialist countries, believed that the ANC and the party were one and the same. Even some very senior ANC colleagues, such as Govan Mbeki and Harry Gwala, subscribed to this theory.
party did not exist as a separate entity on
time, the debate concerning the ANC and the party grew progressively
acrimonious. A number of us proposed one way to resolve it: we would
write to the ANC in exile in
Another recurrent political discussion was whether or not the ANC leadership should come exclusively from the working class. Some argued that because the ANC was a mass organization made up mainly of ordinary workers, the leadership should come from those same ranks. My argument was that it was as undemocratic to specify that the leaders had to be from the working class as to declare that they should be bourgeois intellectuals. If the movement had insisted on such a rule, most of its leaders, men such as Chief Luthuli, Moses Kotane, Dr. Dadoo, would have been ineligible. Revolutionaries are drawn from every class.
Not all debates were political. One issue that provoked much discussion was circumcision. Some among us maintained that circumcision as practiced by the Xhosa and other tribes was not only an unnecessary mutilation of the body, but a reversion to the type of tribalism that the ANC was seeking to overthrow. It was not an unreasonable argument, but the prevailing view, with which I agreed, was that circumcision was a cultural ritual that had not only a salutary health benefit but an important psychological effect. It was a rite that strengthened group identification and inculcated positive values.
debate continued for years, and a number of men voted in favor of
circumcision in a very direct way. A prisoner working in the hospital
who had formerly practiced as an ingcibi set
up a secret circumcision school, and a number of the younger prisoners
from our section were circumcised there. Afterward, we would organize a
small party of tea and biscuits for the men, and they would spend a day
or two walking around in blankets, as was the custom.
subject we hearkened back to again and again was the question of
whether there were tigers in
maintained that while there were no tigers to be found in contemporary
Africa, there was a Xhosa word for tiger, a word different from the one
for leopard, and that if the word existed in our language, the creature
must have once existed in
That spring, we had felt a certain thawing on the part of the authorities, a relaxation of the iron-fisted discipline that had prevailed on the island. The tension between prisoners and warders had lessened somewhat. But this lull proved to be short-lived and came to an abrupt end one morning in September. We had just put down our picks and shovels on the quarry face and were walking to the shed for lunch. As one of the general prisoners wheeled a drum of food toward us, he whispered, “Verwoerd is dead.” That was all. The news quickly passed among us. We looked at each other in disbelief and glanced over at the warders, who seemed unaware that anything momentous had occurred.
did not know how the prime minister had
died. Later, we heard about the obscure white parliamentary messenger
who stabbed Verwoerd to death, and we wondered at his motives. Although
Verwoerd thought Africans were beneath animals, his death did not yield
us any pleasure.
Political assassination is not something I or the ANC has ever supported. It is a primitive way of contending with an opponent. Verwoerd had proved to be both the chief theorist and master builder of grand apartheid. He had championed the creation of the bantustans and Bantu Education. Shortly before his death he had led the Nationalists in the general election of 1966, in which the party of apartheid had increased its majority, winning 126 seats to the 39 achieved by the United Party, and the single seat won by the Progressive Party.
As often happened on the island, we had learned significant political news before our own guards. But by the following day, it was obvious the warders knew, for they took out their anger on us. The tension that had taken months to abate was suddenly at full force. The authorities began a crackdown against political prisoners as though we had held the knife that stabbed Verwoerd.
authorities always imagined that we
were secretly linked with all kinds of powerful forces on the outside. The
spate of successful guerrilla attacks against the South African police
The punishment against us was never enunciated as an official policy, but it was a renewal of the harsh atmosphere that prevailed upon our arrival on the island. The Quiet One was replaced with a man who was a vicious martinet. His name was Van Rensburg and he had been flown to the island on twenty-four hours’ notice after the assassination. His reputation preceded him, for his name was a byword among prisoners for brutality.
Van Rensburg was a big, clumsy, brutish fellow who did not speak but shouted. During his first day on the job we noticed he had a small swastika tattooed on his wrist. But he did not need this offensive symbol to prove his cruelty. His job was to make our lives as wretched as possible, and he pursued that goal with great enthusiasm.
Each day over the next few months, Van Rensburg would charge one of us for insubordination or malingering. Each morning, he and the other warders would discuss who would be charged that afternoon. It was a policy of selective intimidation, and the decision on who would be charged was taken regardless of how hard that prisoner had worked that day. When we were trudging back to our cells, Van Rensburg would read from a list, “Mandela [or Sisulu or Kathrada], I want to see you immediately in front of the head of prison.” The island’s administrative court began working overtime. In response, we formed our own legal committee made up of myself, Fikile Bam, and Mac Maharaj. Mac had studied law and was adept at putting the authorities on the defensive. Fiks, who was working toward a law degree, was a bright, resourceful fellow who had become the head of the prisoners’ committee in our section. The job of our legal committee was to advise our comrades on how to conduct themselves in the island’s administrative court.
Van Rensburg was not a clever fellow, and while he would lord it over us at the quarry, we could outwit him in court. Our strategy was not to argue with him in the field, but to contest the charges in court where we would have a chance to make our case before slightly more enlightened officers. In administrative court, the charge would be read by the presiding magistrate. “Malingering at the quarry,” he might say, at which Van Rensburg would look smug. After the charge had been read in full, I always advised my colleagues to do one thing and one thing only: ask the court for “further particulars.” This was one’s right as a defendant, and though the request became a regular occurrence, Van Rensburg would almost always be stumped. Court would then have to be adjourned while Van Rensburg went out to gather “further particulars.”
Van Rensburg was vindictive in large ways and small. When our lunch arrived at the quarry and we would sit down to eat — we now had a simple wooden table — Van Rensburg would inevitably choose that moment to urinate next to our food. I suppose we should have been grateful that he did not urinate directly on our food, but we lodged a protest against the practice anyway. One of the few ways prisoners can take revenge on warders is through humor, and Van Rensburg became the butt of many of our jokes. Among ourselves we called him “Suitcase.” Warders’ lunch boxes were known as “suitcases” and normally a warder would designate a prisoner, usually his favorite, to carry his “suitcase,” and then reward him with half a sandwich. But we always refused to carry Van Rensburg’s “suitcase,” hence the nickname. It was humiliating for a warder to carry his own lunch pail.
day, Wilton Mkwayi inadvertently
referred to “Suitcase” within Van Rensburg’s hearing. “Who is
Suitcase?” Van Rensburg bellowed.
day at the quarry, we resumed our discussion of whether or not the
tiger was native to
Kellerman arrived on the scene a few minutes later to find us in much the same state as we had been before. Kellerman was relatively new to the island, and was determined to set the right tone. One of the warders then reported to Kellerman that Andrew Masondo and I had not been working, and we were to be charged with malingering and insubordination. Under Kellerman’s authority, we were then handcuffed and taken to isolation. From that point on, Suitcase seemed to hold a special grudge against me. One day, while he was supervising us at the quarry, I was working next to Fikile Bam. We were off by ourselves, on the far side of the quarry. We worked diligently, but since we were both studying law at the time, we were discussing what we had read the night before. At the end of the day, Van Rensburg stood in front of us and said, “Fikile Bam and Nelson Mandela, I want to see you in front of the head of prison.”
were brought before the lieutenant, who was the head of prison, and Van
Rensburg announced, “These men did not work the whole day. I’m charging
them for defying orders.” The lieutenant asked if we had anything to
say. “Lieutenant,” I responded, “we dispute the charge. We have been
working and, in fact, we have evidence that we have been working, and
it is essential to our defense.” The lieutenant scoffed at this. “All
you men work in the same area,” he said. “How is it possible to have
evidence?” I explained that Fiks and I had been working apart from the
others and that we could show exactly how much work we had done.
Suitcase naively confirmed that we had been off by ourselves, and the
lieutenant agreed to have a look. We drove back to the quarry.
Once there, Fiks and I walked to the area where we had been working. I pointed to the considerable pile of rocks and lime that we had built up and said, “There, that is what we have done today.” Suitcase had never even bothered to examine our work and was rattled by the quantity of it. “No,” he said to the lieutenant, “that is the result of a week’s work.” The lieutenant was skeptical. “All right, then,” he said to Suitcase, “show me the small pile that Mandela and Bam put together today.” Suitcase had no reply, and the lieutenant did something I have rarely seen a superior officer do: he chastised his subordinate in the presence of prisoners. “You are telling lies,” he said, and dismissed the charges on the spot.
One morning in early 1967, during Suitcase’s tenure, we were preparing to walk to the quarry when Suitcase informed us that an order had come down from Major Kellerman forbidding us to talk. Not only was conversation banned on our walks; henceforth, there would be no conversation permitted at the quarry. “From now on, silence!” he yelled. This command was greeted by profound dismay and outrage. Talking and discussing issues were the only things that made the work at the quarry tolerable. Of course, we could not discuss it on the way to the quarry because we were ordered not to talk, but during our lunch break the ANC leadership and the heads of the other political groups managed secretly to hash out a plan.
we were surreptitiously hatching our plan, Major Kellerman himself
appeared and walked into our lunch shed. This was highly unusual; we
had never had such a high-ranking visitor in our lowly shed. With a
cough of embarrassment, he announced that his order had been a mistake
and that we could resume talking at the quarry, just as long as we did
it quietly. He then told us to carry on and spun on his heel and was
gone. We were glad the order was
rescinded, but suspicious as to why.
That afternoon, I discovered that my cell had been moved from number 4, near the entrance of the passageway, to number 18, at the back. All of my belongings had been dumped into the new cell. As always, there was no explanation. We guessed that we were to have a visitor and I had been moved because the authorities did not want me to be the first among the prisoners to talk to whoever was coming. If each prisoner in turn voiced his complaints, the authorities could yell “Time up!” before a visitor reached cell 18. We resolved that in the interest of unity, each individual along the passageway would inform any visitor that while everyone had individual complaints, the prisoner in number 18 would speak for all.
The following morning, after breakfast, we were informed by Suitcase that we would not be going to the quarry. Then Major Kellerman appeared to say that Mrs. Helen Suzman, the lone member of the liberal Progressive Party in Parliament and the only voice of true opposition to the Nationalists in Parliament, would be arriving shortly. In less than fifteen minutes, Mrs. Suzman — all five feet two inches of her — came through the door of our passageway, accompanied by General Steyn, the commissioner of prisons. As she was introduced to each prisoner, she asked him whether or not he had any complaints. Each man replied the same way: “I have many complaints, but our spokesman is Mr. Nelson Mandela at the end of the corridor.” To General Steyn’s dismay, Mrs. Suzman was soon at my cell. She firmly shook my hand and cordially introduced herself.
judges and magistrates, who were
automatically permitted access to prisons, members of Parliament had to
request permission to visit a prison. Mrs. Suzman was one of the few,
if not the only, members of Parliament who took an interest in the
plight of political prisoners. Many stories were circulating about
this was Mrs. Suzman’s first visit to
Normally, I would not complain about an individual warder. One learns in prison that it is better to fight for general principles than to battle each individual case. However callous a warder may be, he is usually just carrying out prison policy. But Van Rensburg was in a class by himself, and we believed that if he were gone, it would make a disproportionate difference for all of us. Mrs. Suzman listened attentively, jotting down what I said in a small notebook, and promised to take these matters up with the minister of justice.
She then made an inspection of our cells, and talked a bit with some of the other men. It was an odd and wonderful sight to see this courageous woman peering into our cells and strolling around our courtyard. She was the first and only woman ever to grace our cells. Van Rensburg was exceedingly nervous during Mrs. Suzman’s visit. According to Kathy, while Mrs. Suzman and I were talking, Van Rensburg apologized for all his past actions. But his contrition did not last long, for the next day he informed us he was reinstating all the charges against us.
We later learned that Mrs. Suzman had taken up our case in Parliament, and within a few weeks of her visit, Suitcase was transferred off the island.
never imagined the struggle would be either short or easy. The first
few years on the island were difficult times both for the organization
outside and those of us in prison. After Rivonia, much of the
movement’s underground machinery had been destroyed. Our structures had
been discovered and uprooted; those who were not captured were
scrambling to stay one step ahead of the enemy. Virtually every one of
the ANC’s senior leaders was either in jail or in exile.
never imagined the struggle would be either short or easy. The first
few years on the island were difficult times both for the organization
outside and those of us in prison. After Rivonia, much of the
movement’s underground machinery had been destroyed. Our structures had
been discovered and uprooted; those who were not captured were
scrambling to stay one step ahead of the enemy. Virtually every one of
the ANC’s senior leaders was either in jail or in exile.
the years after Rivonia, the ANC’s External Mission, formerly
responsible for fund-raising, diplomacy, and establishing a military
training program, took up the reins of the organization as a whole. The
External Mission not only had to create an organization in exile, but
had the even more formidable task of trying to revitalize the
underground ANC inside
elsewhere the struggle against imperialism was on the march. In the
middle to late 1960s, armed struggles were being fought throughout
year, a group of MK soldiers who had been training in
August, as the Luthuli Detachment, accompanied by ZAPU troops, moved
southward, they were spotted by the Rhodesian army. Over the next few
weeks, fierce battles were fought and both sides sustained casualties.
Finally, our troops were overpowered by the superior numbers of the
Rhodesian forces. Some were captured, and others retreated into
We heard of this months later by rumor, but did not learn the full story until some of the men who had fought there were imprisoned with us. Though our forces were not victorious, we quietly celebrated the fact that our MK cadres had engaged the enemy in combat on their own terms. It was a milestone in the struggle. “Justice” Panza, one of the commanders of the Luthuli Detachment, was later imprisoned with us. He briefed us on the detachment’s military training, political education, and valor in the field. As a former commander-in-chief of MK, I was terribly proud of our soldiers.
We organized a small memorial service for the chief in Section B and permitted everyone who wanted to speak to do so. It was a quiet, respectful service, with only one sour note. When Neville Alexander of the Unity Movement rose to speak, it was apparent that he had come not to praise the chief but to bury him. Without even perfunctory regrets at the man’s passing, he accused Luthuli of being a patsy of the white man, mainly on the grounds that the chief had accepted the Nobel Peace Prize.
from its wrong-headedness, Neville’s speech was entirely contrary to
the climate of cooperation between organizations we were trying to
create on the island. From the moment I arrived on the island, I had
made it my mission to seek some accommodation with our rivals in the
struggle. I saw
Yet from the beginning, relations with the PAC had been more competitive than cooperative. Some of the PAC men had already been on the island, and saw our arrival as an encroachment on their territory. We heard from some of our men that the most senior PAC prisoners had expressed regret that we had not been hanged.
1962, when I had first been on the island, the PAC had greatly
outnumbered the ANC. In 1967, the numbers were reversed. Yet this
seemed to harden the PAC in their positions. They were unashamedly
anti-Communist and anti-Indian. In the early years, I had talks with
Zeph Mothopeng, who had been on the PAC’s National Executive Committee.
Zeph argued that the PAC was more militant than the ANC, and that in
prison, the ANC should follow the PAC’s
lead. The PAC maintained that negotiations with the authorities were a
betrayal, but that did not stop them from taking advantage of the
benefits that resulted from negotiations. In 1967, I held talks with
Selby Ngendane on the question of unity. Outside of prison, Ngendane
had been violently opposed to the Freedom Charter, but in prison,
particularly when sent to our section, Selby mellowed. We eventually
wrote separate letters to our respective organizations in the general
section advocating the idea of unity. The ANC also worked well with
Clarence Makwetu, who later became president of the
PAC’s insecurity occasionally had comical results. At one point, an
order came from
The PAC often refused to participate in meetings that had no overt party affiliation. When we called meetings to discuss our grievances and later had news sessions to discuss what we had learned from the paper, the PAC boycotted these gatherings. I found this greatly annoying. The PAC, we learned, were ignorant of changes in their own organization on the outside. At the time, the PAC members on the island refused to believe our claims that the exiled PAC had opened its doors to whites and Indians as members. That was heresy. Yet we had read in the paper that the white activist Patrick Duncan had become a member of the PAC executive. The PAC members derided this at the time as ANC propaganda.
ANC formed its own internal
organization on the island. Known as the High
Command, or more officially, the High Organ, it consisted of the most
senior ANC leaders on
its inception, we decided the High
Organ would not try to influence external ANC policy. We had no
reliable way of evaluating the situation in the country, and concluded
it would neither be fair nor wise for us to offer guidance on matters
about which we were uninformed. Instead, we made decisions about such
matters as prisoners’ complaints, strikes, mail, food — all of the
day-to-day concerns of prison life. We would, when possible, convene a
general members’ meeting, which we regarded as vital to the health of
our organization. But as these meetings were extremely dangerous and
thus infrequent, the High Organ would often take decisions that were
then communicated to all the other members. The High Organ also
operated a cell system, with each cell consisting of three members.
In the first few years on the island, the High Organ also acted as a representative committee for all the political prisoners in our section. In 1967, we organized a petition demanding better treatment that was signed by virtually everyone, including members of the PAC, the Unity Movement, and the Liberal Party, represented by Eddie Daniels. This arrangement was acceptable to all until Neville Alexander complained that the High Organ was neither democratic nor truly representative, and that some other body ought to be created.
original suggestion eventually turned into a prisoners’ committee
composed of people from all political parties. There was fear among the
other organizations that the ANC would attempt to dominate it, and the
committee’s rules were crafted so that its powers were purely
consultative and its decisions not binding. Even so, it was still
difficult to agree on a common approach to problems. We suggested that
Fikile Bam, a member of the Yu Chi Chan Club, preside over meetings.
Later, the committee leadership would rotate. Eventually the committee
became known as Ulundi, and acted as a disciplinary committee for all
The High Organ was the source of some controversy because of its ethnic composition: all four permanent members were from Xhosa backgrounds. This was a matter of coincidence rather than design; the senior ANC leadership on the island, the only four to have served on the National Executive Committee, happened to be Xhosa. It would not have been proper to take a less senior comrade and put him on the High Organ simply because he was not a Xhosa. But the fact that the High Organ was Xhosa-dominated disturbed me because it seemed to reinforce the mistaken perception that we were a Xhosa organization.
I have always found this criticism to be vexing and based on both ignorance of ANC history and maliciousness. I would refute it by noting that the presidents of the ANC have been Zulus, Basotho, Pedis, and Tswanas, and the executive has always been a mixture of tribal groups. I recall once working in our courtyard on a sunny afternoon, while some men from the general section were working on the roof above me. They shouted at me, “Mdala! [Old man!], why do you only talk to Xhosas?” The accusation stung me. I looked up and said, “How can you accuse me of discrimination? We are one people.” They seemed satisfied by that, but their perception stuck in my mind. From then on, whenever I knew I would be walking in front of men from the general section, I would try to converse with Kathy or Eddie Daniels, or someone who was not a Xhosa.
We subsequently decided that there should be a fifth, rotating member of the High Organ. This member was usually not a Xhosa; Kathy, for example, was the fifth member of the High Organ for more than five years. Laloo Chiba also served for a time, and in the end, the criticism died a slow and unremarkable death.
I did not by any means dominate the High Organ, and in fact, a number, of proposals that I felt strongly about were rejected. This is as it should be, but I sometimes found it frustrating. There were two issues regarding the authorities about which I could never persuade my colleagues. Prison regulations stated that prisoners must stand in the presence of a senior officer. I advocated that we should remain seated, as it was demeaning to have to recognize the enemy when he did not recognize us as political prisoners. My comrades believed this was a trivial matter and the negative consequences of resistance would outweigh any benefits.
The second issue was rejected by the High Organ on similar grounds. The warders called us by either our surnames or our Christian names. Each, I felt, was degrading, and I thought we should insist on the honorific “Mister.” I pressed for this for many years, without success. Later, it even became a source of humor as my colleagues would occasionally call me “Mr.” Mandela.
Some of the warders began to engage us in conversation. I never initiated conversations with warders, but if they addressed a question to me, I tried to answer. It is easier to educate a man when he wants to learn. Usually, these questions were posed with a kind of exasperation: “All right, Mandela, what is it you really want?” Or, “Look, you have a roof over your head and enough food, why are you causing so much trouble?” I would then calmly explain our policies to the warders. I wanted to demystify the ANC for them, to peel away their prejudices.
1969 a young warder arrived who seemed particularly eager to get to
know me. I had heard rumors that our people on the outside were
organizing an escape for me, and had infiltrated a warder onto the
island who would assist me. Gradually, this fellow communicated to me
that he was planning my escape. In bits and pieces he explained the
plan: one night, he would drug the warders on duty at the lighthouse to
allow for the landing of a boat on the beach. He would furnish me with
a key to get out of our section so that I could meet the boat. On the
boat I was to be equipped with underwater diving gear, which I would
use to swim into the harbor at
must have gotten the message, for he was soon transferred off the
island. As it turned out, my mistrust was justified, for we later
learned that the warder was an agent of the Bureau of State Security
term of a commanding officer was usually no more than three years, and
we had been through several by 1970. That year,
Whenever a new commanding officer was appointed, I requested a meeting with him. I did this in order to impress upon him the seriousness of our cause and also to evaluate his character. I requested a meeting with Colonel Badenhorst and was turned down. He was the first commanding officer to spurn such a meeting.
We felt the effects of his regime before we ever saw him. A number of the newer regulations regarding study and free time were immediately rescinded. It was obvious that he intended to roll back every privilege we had won over the years. Our old warders were transferred off the island and replaced by Badenhorst’s handpicked guards. They were younger, coarser men who enforced every niggling regulation, whose job was to harass and demoralize us. Within days of Badenhorst’s appointment, our cells were raided and searched; books and papers were confiscated; meals were suspended without warning; and men were jostled on the way to the quarry.
Badenhorst attempted to turn back the clock to the way the island was in the early 1960s. The answer to every question was always no. Prisoners who requested to see their lawyers were given solitary confinement instead. Complaints were completely ignored. Visits were canceled without explanation. The food deteriorated. Censorship increased. About a week after Badenhorst arrived, we were working at the quarry one morning when, without introduction or fanfare, Badenhorst and his driver pulled up in the commander’s car. He got out and surveyed us from a distance. We paused to look at our new commander. Badenhorst returned my glance and called out, “Mandela, Jy moet jou vinger uit jou gat trek” (You must pull your finger out of your arse). I did not care for this expression at all, and without thinking, I started advancing toward Badenhorst. He was still a distance away, and before I got close he had returned to his car and driven away.
From his car, Badenhorst radioed a command to his staff, and within minutes a truck had arrived to transport us back to Section B. We were commanded to be silent in the truck, and when we arrived at the courtyard, we were ordered to stand at attention. Badenhorst appeared in front of us, pacing back and forth. He seemed incapable of uttering a sentence without including an oath or swearword. “Jou ma se moer,” was his favorite expression. “Your mother is a moer” — moer being a vulgar term for an intimate part of a woman’s anatomy.
In his guttural voice, he told us he was disgusted to have observed our laziness at the quarry. As a result, he said, he was arbitrarily dropping all of our classifications by one notch. Though we despised the classification system, most of the men had by that time risen to at least C level, where they were permitted to study. D level prisoners were not allowed to study. The authorities rued the fact that they had allowed us study privileges, and Badenhorst was determined to rectify that mistake.
after my anger abated, I realized that Badenhorst’s crude remark to me
at the quarry was a calculated one. He had been brought to
May of 1971, a number of men from
SWAPO (the South-West African People’s Organization), an ally of the
ANC fighting for independence in
Late on the night of May 28, we were awakened by shouts and fierce knocking on our cell doors. “Get up! Get up!” the warders yelled. We were ordered to strip and then line up against the wall of the courtyard. The warders were obviously drunk and were yelling and taunting us. They were led by a sadistic fellow named Fourie, whom we privately called Gangster.
It was a bitterly cold night, and for the next hour, while we stood at attention naked and shivering, our cells were searched one by one. Warders kept up their abuse for the entire time. Toward the end of the hour, Govan experienced severe chest pains and collapsed. This seemed to scare Fourie, and he ordered us to return to our cells.
The warders searched high and low, and found nothing. But the search seemed only an excuse for Fourie’s sadistic impulses. Only later did we learn that Fourie was reputed to have molested prisoners in the general section. The following day we discovered that the warders had brutally beaten some general prisoners before they came to us, and afterward, assaulted Toivo ja Toivo, who hit back and knocked down the warder who was beating him. Toivo was severely punished for this.
We filed a formal complaint about our treatment, but it was ignored. The incident stands out in my memory, but it was by no means unique; incidents like it were the rule rather than the exception during Badenhorst’s command. We were determined not to let conditions deteriorate entirely under Badenhorst. We smuggled messages to our people on the outside to agitate for his dismissal. At the same time, we resolved to create a delegation among ourselves to see Badenhorst. We discussed this for months and gradually decided on its composition; Walter and I represented the ANC, and each of the other parties had two representatives as well.
Badenhorst agreed to meet us, and at our parley we threatened work stoppages, go-slows, hunger strikes — every weapon at our disposal — unless he reformed his ways and restored many of the privileges that he had rescinded. He merely said he would take what we said under consideration. We regarded this confrontation as a victory, for he was wary of us and knew that we had alerted people on the outside of our complaints. These efforts soon produced a response.
weeks later, we knew an important visit must be imminent because when
it rained that day at the quarry we were allowed to take shelter
instead of continuing to work. The following day we were informed that
a troika of judges were coming to the island. The authorities asked us
to nominate a spokesman to express our grievances, and I was chosen.
I was preparing for my meeting with the
judges, I was informed by a reliable source that a prisoner in the
general section had recently been severely beaten by a guard. The three
judges were Justices Jan Steyn, M. E. Theron, and Michael Corbett of the
General Steyn introduced me to the judges and explained that I had been selected to represent the other prisoners. The judges then indicated that as a matter of course they would talk with me privately. I replied that I had nothing to hide and that in fact I welcomed the presence of General Steyn and the colonel. I could see that they were taken aback by my statement, and I added that it would be only proper for them to have the opportunity to reply to my charges. The judges reluctantly acquiesced.
I began by recounting the recent assault in the general section. I told them the details that had been reported to me, the viciousness of the beating, and the cover-up of the crime. I had barely begun to speak when I noticed Badenhorst shifting uncomfortably. When I had finished describing the incident, Badenhorst interjected in a gruff, aggressive manner: “Did you actually witness this assault?” I replied calmly that I had not but that I trusted the people who had told me of it. He snorted and wagged his finger in my face. “Be careful, Mandela,” he said. “If you talk about things you haven’t seen, you will get yourself in trouble. You know what I mean.”
I ignored Badenhorst’s remarks and turned to the judges and said, “Gentlemen, you can see for yourselves the type of man we are dealing with as commanding officer. If he can threaten me here, in your presence, you can imagine what he does when you are not here.” Judge Corbett then turned to the others and said, “The prisoner is quite right.” I spent the remainder of the meeting enumerating complaints about our diet, work, and studying. Inwardly Badenhorst must have been fuming, but outwardly he seemed chastened. At the end of the session, the judges thanked me, and I bade them good-bye.
I have no idea what the judges said or did after the meeting, but over the next few months, Badenhorst seemed to have his hands tied. The harshness abated, and within three months of the judges’ visit, we received word that Badenhorst was to be transferred. A few days before Badenhorst’s departure, I was called to the main office. General Steyn was visiting the island and wanted to know if we had any complaints. Badenhorst was there as I went through a list of demands. When I had finished, Badenhorst spoke to me directly. He told me that he would be leaving the island, and added, “I just want to wish you people good luck.” I do not know if I looked dumbfounded, but I was amazed. He spoke these words like a human being, and showed a side of himself we had never seen before. I thanked him for his good wishes, and wished him luck in his endeavors.
I thought about this moment for a long time afterward. Badenhorst had perhaps been the most callous and barbaric commanding officer we had had on
The aggressive young warders departed with Badenhorst as well, and we quickly resumed our customary behavior at the quarry and in our section. Willemse may have been a reasonable man, but when he saw that we spent more time at the quarry talking than working, he was shocked. He had been on the island for only a few weeks when I was summoned to his office for a meeting. “Mandela,” he said frankly, “you must help me.”
I asked him how. “Your men are not working. They don’t listen to orders. They only do what they want to do. This is a prison. There must be some discipline. It is not only good for us but good for you. We must have some order or they will bring back someone like the previous head of prison.”
What the colonel said made sense. I listened and told him that his request was a legitimate one, but before I could respond to him, I would need to meet with all my men. At that time, a meeting of all prisoners in the single cells was something that was expressly forbidden. By asking him to permit such a meeting, I was asking him for a significant extension of the rules. He knew this as well as I did, and he wanted some time to consider it.
Within days, I received a communication from Willemse saying he would allow it. All of us met one afternoon in the courtyard, without guards watching over us. I told the men what Willemse said, and noted that by compromising a bit now, we would be making our conditions better in the long run. We decided that we would at least appear to be working, but what work we did would be at a pace that suited us. From then on, that is what we did, and we heard no more complaints from the commanding officer.
the early part of Willemse’s tenure, in 1971–2, there was a steady
influx of captured MK soldiers. These men had seen combat, and were
well informed about the state of the exile movement. While I was never
happy to see ANC men imprisoned, I was keen to debrief them after they
arrived. I was extremely eager to know about Oliver, about the training
camps, about MK’s successes and failures. The
men were extremely militant, and they did not take to prison life
easily. One of the first of these men was Jimmy April, an MK officer
who had trained under Joe Slovo and had fought against the enemy in
Jimmy regaled us with war stories, but I also took him aside and asked him about MK’s problems. As I was founder of MK and its first commander-in-chief, Jimmy and the others were more candid with me than they were with the others. He told me stories of discontent in the camps, and of abuses by MK officers. I asked him to keep the matter to himself, and I managed to smuggle a letter out to Oliver suggesting that some reforms must be made in the camps.
One day, I was at the Head Office meeting with Colonel Willemse when I saw Jimmy outside the office of another official. He turned to me and said in some agitation, “They are refusing to give me my letter.” “On what ground?” I replied. “They claim it contains matter which I am not allowed to see,” he said. I entered the office to discuss the matter, but before I could even open my mouth, Jimmy had barged in and loudly said to the official, “Give me my letter!” Jimmy began to push me aside to get to the officer’s desk and take the letter himself. At this point, the official took the letter and moved behind me as if for protection from Jimmy. It might have been a comical scene in a film, but at the time it was nerve-racking. I turned to Jimmy and said quietly but sternly, “Please don’t do this. Calm down. I’ll sort out this matter and see to it that you get your letter. Now, please leave.”
speech had the intended effect, and Jimmy left the office. I then
turned to the officer, who was extremely rattled. It was, for me, an
odd position. I was not opposing the authorities but mediating between
my own people and the men I had so long fought against. The militancy
of those who were coming to the island put me in this position more and
more frequently. While we were encouraged by their radicalism, these
men sometimes made our day-to-day life more burdensome. Within a week,
the officer handed me Jimmy’s letter.
morning instead of walking to the quarry, we were ordered into the back
of a truck. It rumbled off in a new direction, and fifteen minutes
later we were ordered to jump out. There in front of us, glinting in
the morning light, we saw the ocean, the rocky shore, and in the
distance, winking in the sunshine, the glass towers of
senior officer explained to us that we had been brought to the shore to
collect seaweed. We were instructed to pick up the large pieces that
had washed up on the beach, and wade out to collect seaweed attached to
rocks or coral. The seaweed itself was long and slimy and brownishgreen
in color. Sometimes the pieces were six to eight feet in length and
thirty pounds in weight. After fishing out the seaweed from the
shallows, we lined it up in rows on the beach. When it was dry, we
loaded it into the back of the truck. We were told it was then shipped
work did not seem too taxing to us that day, but in the coming weeks
and months, we found it could be quite strenuous. But that hardly
mattered because we had the pleasures and distractions of such a
panoramic tableau: we watched fishing ships trawling, stately oil
tankers moving slowly across the horizon; we saw gulls spearing fish
from the sea and seals cavorting on the waves; we laughed at the colony
of penguins, which resembled a brigade of clumsy, flat-footed soldiers;
and we marveled at the daily drama of the weather over
In the summer, the water felt wonderful, but in winter, the icy Benguela currents made wading out into the waves a torture. The rocks on and around the shore were jagged, and we often cut and scraped our legs as we worked. But we preferred the sea to the quarry, although we never spent more than a few days there at a time.
The ocean proved to be a treasure chest. I found beautiful pieces of coral and elaborate shells, which I sometimes brought back to my cell. Once someone discovered a bottle of wine stuck in the sand that was still corked. I am told it tasted like vinegar. Jeff Masemola of the PAC was an extremely talented artist and sculptor, and the authorities allowed him to harvest pieces of driftwood, which he carved into fantastic figures, some of which the warders offered to buy. He constructed a bookcase for me, which I used for many years. The authorities told visitors that they had provided me with it.
atmosphere at the shore was more relaxed than at the quarry. We also
relished the seaside because we ate extremely well there. Each morning
when we went to the shore, we would take a large drum of fresh water.
Later, we would bring along a second drum, which we would use to make a
or what we call parlemoen, was
my favorite dish. Abalones are mollusks
that cling tenaciously to rocks, and one has to pry them loose. They
are stubborn creatures, difficult to open, and if they are the
slightest bit overcooked, they are too tough to eat. We would take our
catch and pile it into the second drum. Wilton Mkwayi was the chef
among us and he would concoct the stew. When it was ready, the warders
would join us and we would all sit down on the beach and have a kind of
picnic lunch. In 1973, in a smuggled newspaper, we read
about the wedding of Princess Anne and Mark Phillips, and the story
detailed the bridal luncheon of rare and delicate dishes. The menu
included mussels, crayfish, and abalone, which made us laugh; we were
dining on such delicacies every day.
One afternoon, we were sitting on the beach eating our stew when Lieutenant Terblanche, who was then head of prison, made a surprise visit. We quickly pretended to be working, but we had not fooled him. He soon discovered the second drum containing a mussel stew bubbling over the fire. The lieutenant opened the pot and looked inside. He then speared a mussel, ate it, and pronounced it "Smaaklik", Afrikaans for “tasty."
I would receive a
note from a prisoner in F or G asking for help. I would then request
the particulars of the case, the charge, the evidence, and the
testimony. Because of the clandestine nature of these exchanges,
information would come slowly in bits and pieces. A consultation that
would last no more than half an hour in my old Mandela and Tambo office
might take a year or more on the island. I advised my 'clients' to
write a letter to the registrar of the Supreme Court asking for a
record of their case. I told the prisoner to inform the registrar
had limited funds and would like the record at no charge. Sometimes the
registrars were kind enough to supply that material gratis.
OPPRESSION of my wife did not let up. In 1972, security policemen
kicked down the door of 8115 Orlando West. Bricks were hurled through
the window. Gunshots were fired at the front door. In 1974, Winnie was
charged with violating her banning orders, which restricted her from
having any visitors apart from her children and her doctor. She was
then working at a lawyer’s office, and a friend brought Zeni and Zindzi
to see her during her
lunch hour. For this, Winnie was charged and then sentenced to six
months’ imprisonment. She was put in Kroonstad Prison, in the
In 1975, Zindzi turned fifteen. The plan was for her mother to alter Zindzi’s birth documents to show that the girl was turning sixteen, not fifteen, and therefore able to see me. Birth records are not kept in a very uniform or organized way for Africans, and Winnie found that it was not hard to modify her documents to show that Zindzi was born a year earlier. She applied for a permit, and it was approved. A few weeks before Zindzi’s scheduled visit in December, I had a previously arranged visit with Winnie’s mother. When I was seated across from her in the visiting area, I said to her, “Well, Ma, I’m very excited because I’m going to see Zindzi.” My mother-in-law, who was a former teacher, regarded me with some surprise and then said in a rather peevish way, “No, Zindzi cannot come and see you because she is not yet sixteen.” I realized immediately that no one had told her about our gambit. There was a warder behind each of us, and I decided I would simply gloss over what she had said, and mumbled, “Ah, well, Ma, it is nothing.”
But my mother-in-law is a stubborn woman and she did not let it pass. “Well, Mkonyanisi” — an affectionate term for son-in-law in Xhosa, which is what she always called me — “you have made a serious error because Zindzi is only fifteen.” I widened my eyes in a gesture of alarm and she must have gotten the message because she did not mention Zindzi again. I had not seen Zindzi since she was three years old. She was a daughter who knew her father from old photographs rather than memory. I put on a fresh shirt that morning, and took more trouble than usual with my appearance: it is my own vanity, but I did not want to look like an old man for my youngest daughter.
I had not seen Winnie for over a year, and I was gratified to find that she looked well. But I was delighted to behold what a beautiful woman my youngest daughter had become and how closely she resembled her equally beautiful mother. Zindzi was shy and hesitant at first. I am sure it was not easy for her finally to see a father she had never really known, a father who could love her only from a distance, who seemed to belong not to her but to the people. Somewhere deep inside her she must have harbored resentment and anger for a father who was absent during her childhood and adolescence. I could see right away that she was a strong and fiery young woman like her own mother had been when she was Zindzi’s age.
knew she would be feeling uncomfortable, and I did my best to lighten
the atmosphere. When she arrived I said to her, “Have you met my guard
of honor?,” gesturing to the warders who followed me everywhere. I
asked her questions about her life, her schooling, and her friends, and
then tried to take her back to the old days that she barely remembered.
I told her how I often recalled Sunday mornings at home when I dandled
her on my knee while Mum was in the kitchen making a roast. I
recollected small incidents and adventures in
The one tragic note of the visit was when I learned from Winnie that Bram Fischer had died of cancer shortly after being let out of prison. Bram’s death affected me deeply. Although the government left no fingerprints on Bram’s body, it was the state’s relentless harassment of him that brought on the final illness that took him too soon. They hounded him even after death — the state confiscated his ashes after his cremation. Bram was a purist, and after the Rivonia Trial, he decided he could best serve the struggle by going underground and living the life of an outlaw. It burdened him that the men whom he was representing in court were going to prison while he lived freely. During the trial, I advised Bram not to take this route, stressing that he served the struggle best in the courtroom, where people could see this Afrikaner son of a judge president fighting for the rights of the powerless. But he could not let others suffer while he remained free. Like the general who fights side by side with his troops at the front, Bram did not want to ask others to make a sacrifice that he was unwilling to make himself.
went underground while out on bail and was captured in 1965, and
sentenced to life imprisonment for conspiracy to commit sabotage. I had
tried to write him in prison, but regulations forbade prisoners from
corresponding with each other. After he had been diagnosed with cancer,
a newspaper campaign calling for his release on humanitarian grounds
had influenced the government. It was just a few weeks after the
authorities released him, still under
house arrest, to his brother’s house in
In many ways, Bram Fischer, the grandson of the prime minister of the Orange River Colony, had made the greatest sacrifice of all. No matter what I suffered in my pursuit of freedom, I always took strength from the fact that I was fighting with and for my own people. Bram was a free man who fought against his own people to ensure the freedom of others. A month after this visit I received word from Winnie that her most recent request for a visit had been turned down by the authorities on the absurd grounds that I did not wish to see her. I immediately made an appointment with Lieutenant Prins, who was then head of prison, to lodge a protest.
Prins was not what one would call a sophisticated man. When I went in to see him I explained the situation evenly and without animosity. But I said the situation as it stood was unacceptable and my wife must be permitted to visit. Prins did not appear to be listening, and when I had finished he said, “Ag, Mandela, your wife is only seeking publicity.” I told him that I resented his remark, and before I had even finished, he uttered something so offensive and uncomplimentary about my wife that I immediately lost my temper.
I rose from my chair and started to move around the desk toward the lieutenant. Prins began to retreat, but I soon checked myself. Instead of assaulting him with my fists, as I felt like doing, I pummeled him with words. I am not a man who approves of oaths or curses, but that day I violated my own principle. I finished by telling him that he was a contemptible man without honor, and that if he ever repeated those same words I would not hold myself back as I had that day.
I had finished, I turned and stormed out of his office. As I was
leaving, I saw Kathy and Eddie Daniels outside but I did not even greet
them as I walked back to my cell. Even though I had silenced Prins, he
had caused me to violate my self-control and I consider that a defeat
at the hands of my opponent. After breakfast the following morning, two
warders entered my cell and said I was wanted at the Head Office. When
I reached the office, I was surrounded by a half-dozen armed warders.
Off to one side was Lieutenant Prins and in the center of this circle
was a warrant officer who was the prison prosecutor. The atmosphere was
“Well, Mandela,” the prosecutor said, “I hear you had yourself a nice time yesterday, but today will not be so pleasant. I am charging you for having insulted and threatened the head of prison. It is a grave charge.” He then handed me the summons. “Do you have anything to say?” he asked. “No,” I replied. “You can speak with my attorney.” I then asked to be taken back to my cell. Prins did not say a word. I knew immediately what I would do: prepare a countersuit charging everyone from the lieutenant all the way up to the minister of justice with misconduct. I would indict the prison system as a whole as a racist institution that sought to perpetuate white supremacy. I would make the case a cause célèbre, and make them regret they had ever charged me in the first place.
I asked George Bizos to represent me, and a meeting was soon arranged. Before George’s visit I informed the authorities that I would be giving him written instructions. They asked me why and I replied frankly that I assumed the consultation room was bugged. The authorities then refused permission for me to give a written statement; I must make an oral one. I told them that they had no right to withhold permission, and the fact that they did only confirmed my suspicions.
truth was that the authorities were
afraid George would leak a written statement to the press. This was
indeed part of our strategy. They were also concerned that I was using
George as a conduit to communicate with Oliver in
both brave and resourceful men, were always hatching plans and
discussing possibilities. Most were far too dangerous, but that did not
stop us from considering them. We had made
certain advances. Jeff Masemola, our master craftsman, had managed to
make a passkey that unlocked most of the doors in and around our
section. One day, a warder had left his key on the desk in the office
at the end of our corridor. Jeff took a piece of soap and made an
imprint of the key. Using that outline, he took a piece of metal and
filed it into the shape of the key. This key gave us access to some of
the storerooms behind our cells as well as to the isolation section.
But we never used it to leave our section. It was the sea, after all,
that was the uncrossable moat around
1974, Mac had an idea how to cross that barrier. He had recently been
taken to the dentist in
Mac returned, he met with a few of us and urged us to make appointments
at the dentist. We did so, and learned that a day had been arranged for
Mac, Wilton Mkwayi, me, and one other prisoner to go to
led us over to the window and pointed out the street that was our
escape route. But something about the street bothered Mac as soon as he
saw it: we were in the center of
Mac considered the most practical escape plans, Eddie Daniels hatched
the most imaginative ones. During the early years, airplanes were not
permitted to fly over the island. But by the mid-1970s, we noticed that
not only were planes flying over our heads, but helicopters on their
way to and from the tankers that sailed off the coast. Eddie came to me
with a plan that would involve the organization using a helicopter,
painted with the South
African military colors, to pick me up on the island and then deposit
me on the roof of a friendly foreign embassy in
celebrations were bare-bones affairs on
One of the issues that always concerned us was how to keep the idea of the struggle before the people. During the previous decade, the government had silenced most of the radical press, and there remained a prohibition on publishing the words or pictures of any banned or imprisoned individuals. An editor could go to jail and his newspaper be shuttered for publishing so much as a snapshot of me or my colleagues.
One day, Kathy, Walter, and myself were talking in the courtyard when they suggested that I ought to write my memoirs. Kathy noted that the perfect time for such a book to be published would be on my sixtieth birthday. Walter said that such a story, if told truly and fairly, would serve to remind people of what we had fought and were still fighting for. He added that it could become a source of inspiration for young freedom fighters.
The idea appealed to me, and during a subsequent discussion, I agreed to go ahead.
When I decide to do something, I like to start immediately, and I threw myself into this new project. I adopted a rather unorthodox work schedule: I would write most of the night and sleep during the day. During the first week or two, I would take a nap after dinner, awake at ten o’clock, and then write until it was time for breakfast. After working at the quarry, I would then sleep until dinner, and the process would begin again. After a few weeks of this, I notified the authorities that I was not feeling well and would not be going to the quarry. They did not seem to care, and from then on I was able to sleep most of the day.
We created an assembly line to process the manuscript. Each day I passed what I wrote to Kathy, who reviewed the manuscript, and then read it to Walter. Kathy then wrote their comments in the margins. Walter and Kathy have never hesitated to criticize me, and I took their suggestions to heart, often incorporating their changes. This marked-up manuscript was then given to Laloo Chiba, who spent the next night transferring my writing to his own almost microscopic shorthand, reducing ten pages of foolscap to a single small piece of paper. It would be Mac’s job to smuggle the manuscript to the outside world.
warders grew suspicious. They went to
Mac and said, “What is Mandela up to? Why is he sitting up late at
night?” But Mac merely shrugged his shoulders and said he had no idea.
I wrote rapidly, completing a draft in four months. I did not hesitate
over choosing a word or phrase. I covered the period from my birth
through the Rivonia Trial, and ended with some notes about
relived my experiences as I wrote about them. Those nights, as I wrote
in silence, I could once again experience the sights and sounds of my
youth in Qunu and Mqhekezweni; the excitement and fear of coming to
ingeniously hid the transcribed version of the manuscript inside the
binding of a number of notebooks he used for his studies. In this way,
he was able to safeguard the entire text from the authorities and
smuggle it out when he was released in 1976. The arrangement was that
Mac would secretly communicate when the manuscript was safely out of
the country; only then would we destroy the original. In the meantime,
we still had to dispose of a five-hundred-page manuscript. We did the
only thing we could do: we buried it in the garden in the courtyard.
Surveillance in the courtyard had become careless and sporadic. The
warders usually sat in an office at the northern end talking among
themselves. From that office,
not see the southern end next to the isolation area where there was a
small garden. I had casually inspected this area on my early morning
walks, and it was there that I decided to bury the manuscript.
order not to have to dig a great hole, we decided to bury the
manuscript in three separate places. We divided it into two smaller
segments and one larger one, wrapped each in plastic, and placed them
inside empty cocoa containers. The work would have to be done quickly,
and I asked Jeff Masemola to fashion some digging tools. Within a few
days I was equipped with several sharp iron stakes.
morning, after breakfast, Kathy, Walter, Eddie Daniels, and I drifted
over to the garden at the southern end of the courtyard where we
appeared to be having a political discussion. We were each hiding
portions of the manuscript in our shirts. At a signal from me, we
dropped down and began digging. I dug in the center, near a manhole
cover that led to a drainpipe. When I reached the pipe, I carved out a
space beneath it, and it was there that I
placed the largest of the three containers. The others dug two
shallower holes for their portions.
finished just in time to line up for our march to the quarry. As I
walked that morning, I felt a sense of relief that the manuscript was
safely hidden. I then thought no more about it.
few weeks later, just after our wake-up call, I heard a sound in the
courtyard that made me uneasy: it was the thud of picks and shovels on
the ground. When we were allowed out of our cells for wash-up, I walked
to the front of the corridor and managed to peer out the door and
around the corner. There, at the south end of the courtyard, was a work
crew from the general section. To my alarm, they were digging in the
area where the manuscript was buried
The authorities had decided to build a wall in front of the isolation section because they had discovered that the prisoners in isolation were able to communicate with us in the courtyard. The work crew was digging a shallow trench for the concrete foundation of the wall.
While washing up I managed to inform Walter and Kathy about the digging outside. Kathy thought that the main part of the manuscript, which was buried under the pipe, would probably be safe, but that the other two were vulnerable. When the drums of breakfast porridge were wheeled into the courtyard, the warders commanding the work crew ordered the men out of the yard. This was done to prevent any fraternization with the political prisoners.
With our bowls of porridge in hand, I led Walter and Kathy over to the south end of the courtyard as though I wanted to confer with them privately. The beginnings of the trench were already perilously close to the two smaller containers. At the same time, we were joined by Eddie Daniels, who immediately recognized the problem. There was only one thing to do: as inconspicuously as possible, the four of us began digging in the area where the two smaller pieces of manuscript would be. We managed to unearth the two containers rather quickly, and covered the area again with soil. To rescue the chunk of manuscript under the pipe would require more time, but we were confident that they would not find the manuscript because they would not dislodge the pipe in order to build the wall.
hid the manuscript in our shirts as we walked back to our cells. Eddie
was not going to the quarry that day, and we gave the containers to
him, instructing him to destroy them as soon as possible. At great
personal risk, Eddie agreed to do so. I breathed easier knowing that we
had salvaged the two containers, and tried not to dwell on the
remaining piece of manuscript as I worked that day.
we returned from the quarry that afternoon, instead of washing up,
which I normally did, I strolled over to the far end of the courtyard.
I attempted to appear as casual as possible, but I was alarmed by what
I saw. The prisoners had dug a trench that ran parallel to the wall of
the isolation section and had actually removed the pipe altogether.
They could not help but have uncovered the manuscript.
I must have flinched or reacted in some way that was noticeable. Unknown to me, I was being watched by a number of warders, who later said that my reaction confirmed that I knew a manuscript had been there. I returned to the corridor to wash up and told Walter and Kathy that I suspected the manuscript had been discovered. Eddie had meanwhile successfully disposed of the other two pieces.
the next morning, I was summoned to the office to see the commanding
officer. Next to him stood a high prison official who had just arrived
I did not reply. The commanding officer then reached behind his desk and produced a sheaf of papers.
“This is your handwriting, is it not?” he demanded. Again, I remained silent.
“Mandela,” the commander said in some exasperation. “We know this is your work.”
“Well,” I replied, “you must produce some proof of that.” They scoffed at this, and said they knew the notations in the margin were made by Walter Sisulu and Ahmed Kathrada. Again, I said that they must furnish evidence if they were going to impose any penalties.
“We do not need evidence,” the commander said. “We have the evidence.”
he did not impose a penalty that day, a short while later, Walter,
Kathy, and I were called before General Rue, the deputy commissioner of
prisons, who told us that we had abused our study privileges in order
to illegally write the manuscript. For that offense, our study
privileges were being suspended indefinitely. As it turned out, we lost
study privileges for four years. After Mac was released in December, he
sent the notebooks overseas to
there, the trail grows cold. I heard
In 1976, I received an extraordinary visit: Jimmy Kruger, the minister of prisons, a prominent member of the prime minister’s cabinet, came to see me. Kruger was not only influential about prisons policy but he was critical to the government’s handling of the liberation struggle.
an inkling as to why he had come. The government was then engaged in a
massive effort to make a success of its separate development policy,
and “quasi-independent” homelands. The showpiece of separate
development was the
As it turned out, that was precisely what Jimmy Kruger was proposing as well. He was a stout, blunt man, not nearly as polished as I would have expected from a cabinet minister. I approached the meeting as another opportunity to present our grievances, and at first he seemed content to listen. I began by reminding him of the letter we had sent him in 1969, which had gone unanswered. He merely shrugged. I then detailed the poor conditions on the island, reiterating once more that we were political prisoners, not criminals, and expected to be treated as such. But Kruger scoffed at this, saying, “Nah, you are all violent Communists!”
then began to tell him a bit about the history of our organization and
why we had turned to violence. It was clear that he knew almost nothing
about the ANC, and what he did know was gleaned from the propaganda of
the right-wing press. When I told him the organization was far older
than the National Party, he was dumbfounded. I said that if he
considered us Communists he should reread the Freedom Charter. He
looked at me blankly. He had never heard of the Freedom Charter. I
found it extraordinary that a cabinet
minister should be so uninformed. Yet I should
not have been surprised; Nationalist politicians routinely condemned
what they didn’t understand. I raised the question of our release and
reminded him of the case of the 1914 Afrikaner rebels, who had resorted
to violence though they were represented
in Parliament, could hold meetings, and could even vote. Even though
General de Wet and General Kemp had led a force of twelve thousand and
occupied towns and caused many deaths, they were both released soon
after their convictions for high treason. I mentioned the case of Robey
Leibbrandt, who set up an underground organization during the Second
World War to oppose
waved all of this aside. “That is ancient history,” he said. He came
armed with a specific offer. Despite his reputation for brusqueness, he
made his proposal in a deferential manner. He stated the matter simply:
if I recognized the legitimacy of the
listened respectfully until he had finished. First, I said, I wholly
rejected the bantustan policy, and would do nothing to support it, and
second, I was from
As diligent as we were in gathering news and information, our knowledge of current events was always sketchy. Happenings in the outside world were muffled by the fact that we heard of them first through rumor; only later might they be confirmed by a newspaper account or an outside visitor.
June of 1976, we began to hear vague reports of a great uprising in the
country. The whispers were fanciful and improbable: the youth of
June 16, 1976, fifteen thousand schoolchildren gathered in
events of that day reverberated in every town and
funerals for the victims of state violence became national rallying
points. Suddenly the young people of
Bantu Education had come back to haunt its creators, for these angry and audacious young people were its progeny.
September, the isolation section was
filled with young men who had been arrested in the aftermath of the
uprising. Through whispered conversations in an adjacent hallway
we learned firsthand what had taken place. My comrades and I were
enormously cheered; the spirit of mass protest that had seemed dormant
through the 1960s was erupting in the 1970s. Many of these young people
had left the country to join our own military movement, and then
smuggled themselves back home. Thousands of them were trained in our
young men were a different breed of prisoner than we had ever seen
before. They were brave, hostile, and aggressive; they would not take
orders, and shouted “Amandla!” at
every opportunity. Their instinct was to confront rather than
cooperate. The authorities did not know how to handle them, and they
turned the island upside down. During the Rivonia Trial, I remarked to
a security policeman that if the government did not reform itself, the
freedom fighters who would take our place would someday make the
authorities yearn for us. That day had indeed come on
In these young men we saw the angry revolutionary spirit of the times. I had had some warning. At a visit with Winnie a few months before, she had managed to tell me through our coded conversation that there was a rising class of discontented youth who were militant and Africanist in orientation. She said they were changing the nature of the struggle and that I should be aware of them.
The new prisoners were appalled by what they considered the barbaric conditions of the island, and said they could not understand how we could live in such a way. We told them that they should have seen the island in 1964. But they were almost as skeptical of us as they were of the authorities. They chose to ignore our calls for discipline and thought our advice feeble and unassertive.
It was obvious that they regarded us, the Rivonia Trialists, as moderates. After so many years of being branded a radical revolutionary, to be perceived as a moderate was a novel and not altogether pleasant feeling. I knew that I could react in one of two ways: I could scold them for their impertinence or I could listen to what they were saying. I chose the latter.
When some of these men, such as Strini Moodley of the South African Students’ Organization and Saths Cooper of the Black People’s Convention, came into our section, I had them give us papers on their movement and philosophy. I wanted to know what had brought them to the struggle, what motivated them, what their ideas were for the future.
Shortly after their arrival on the island, the commanding officer came to me and asked me as a favor to address the young men. He wanted me to tell them to restrain themselves, to recognize the fact that they were in prison and to accept the discipline of prison life. I told him that I was not prepared to do that. Under the circumstances, they would have regarded me as a collaborator of the oppressor.
These fellows refused to conform to even basic prison regulations. One day I was at the Head Office conferring with the commanding officer. As I was walking out with the major, we came upon a young prisoner being interviewed by a prison official. The young man, who was no more than eighteen years old, was wearing his prison cap in the presence of senior officers, a violation of regulations. Nor did he stand up when the major entered the room, another violation.
The major looked at him and said, “Please, take off your cap.” The prisoner ignored him. Then in an irritated tone, the major said, “Take off your cap.” The prisoner turned and looked at the major, and said, “What for?” I could hardly believe what I had just heard. It was a revolutionary question: What for? The major also seemed taken aback, but managed a reply.
“It is against regulations,” he said. The young prisoner responded, “Why do you have this regulation? What is the purpose of it?” This questioning on the part of the prisoner was too much for the major, and he stomped out of the room, saying, “Mandela, you talk to him.” But I would not intervene on his behalf, and simply bowed in the direction of the prisoner to let him know that I was on his side.
This was our first exposure to the Black Consciousness Movement. With the banning of the ANC, PAC, and Communist Party, the Black Consciousness Movement helped fill a vacuum among young people. Black Consciousness was less a movement than a philosophy and grew out of the idea that blacks must first liberate themselves from the sense of psychological inferiority bred by three centuries of white rule. Only then could the people rise up in confidence and truly liberate themselves from repression. While the Black Consciousness Movement advocated a nonracial society, they excluded whites from playing a role in achieving that society. These concepts were not unfamiliar to me: they closely mirrored ideas I myself held at the time of the founding of the ANC Youth League a quarter-century before. We, too, were Africanists; we, too, stressed ethnic pride and racial self-confidence; we, too, rejected white assistance in the struggle. In many ways, Black Consciousness represented the same response to the same problem that had never gone away.
just as we had outgrown our Youth League outlook, I was confident that
these young men would transcend some of the strictures of Black
Consciousness. While I was encouraged by their militancy, I thought
that their philosophy, in its concentration on blackness, was
exclusionary, and represented an intermediate view that was not fully
mature. I saw my role as an elder statesman who might help them move on
to the more inclusive ideas of the
Congress Movement. I knew also that these young men would eventually
become frustrated because Black Consciousness offered no program of
action, no outlet for their protest.
Although we viewed the ranks of the BCM as a fertile ground for the ANC, we did not attempt to recruit these men. We knew that this would alienate both them and the other parties on the island. Our policy was to be friendly, to take an interest, to compliment them on their achievements, but not to proselytize. If they came to us and asked questions — “What is the ANC policy on the bantustans?” “What does the Freedom Charter say about nationalization?” — we would answer them — and a great many of them did come to us with questions.
myself contacted some of these men
through smuggled notes. I spoke with some who were from the
Terror’s nickname comes from his prowess on the soccer field, but he was just as formidable in a debate. He disagreed with some of his colleagues on the issue of racial exclusiveness and inched closer to the ideas of the ANC. Once on the island, Terror decided that he wanted to join us, but we discouraged him — not because we did not want him but because we thought such a maneuver would create tensions in the general section.
But Terror would not take no for an answer and publicly switched his allegiance to the ANC. One day, not long afterward, he was assaulted with a garden fork by disgruntled BC members. After he was treated, the authorities charged the attackers and planned to put them on trial. But in the interest of harmony, we advised Terror not to lodge a complaint. He agreed, and refused to testify against those who had hurt him. The case was dropped. Such a trial, I felt, would only play into the hands of the authorities. I wanted these young men to see that the ANC was a great tent that could accommodate many different views and affiliations.
After that incident, the floodgates seemed to open and dozens of BC men decided to join the ANC, including some of those who had planned the attack on Terror. Terror rose to the top of the ANC hierarchy in the general section, and was soon teaching ANC policies to other prisoners. The courage and vision of men like Lekota confirmed to us that our views remained potent, and still represented the best hope for unifying the liberation struggle as a whole.
Political feuding continued in F and G. We learned of a clash among the ANC, the PAC, and the BCM in the general section. A number of ANC people had been beaten. A large number of ANC members were charged by the authorities, and a trial was set for the island’s administrative court.
The ANC men brought in an outside lawyer to handle the case. Although I had not witnessed the fight, I was asked to be a character witness. This was a troubling prospect. While I was more than willing to give testimonials for my comrades, I did not want to take any action that would heighten the bitterness between the ANC, the PAC, and the BCM.
I regarded my role in prison not just as the leader of the ANC, but as a promoter of unity, an honest broker, a peacemaker, and I was reluctant to take a side in this dispute, even if it was the side of my own organization. If I testified on behalf of the ANC, I would jeopardize my chances of bringing about reconciliation among the different groups. If I preached unity, I must act like a unifier, even at the risk of perhaps alienating some of my own colleagues.
I decided not to testify. This disappointed some of my colleagues, but I thought the issue was serious enough to risk their displeasure. It was more important to show the young Black Consciousness men that the struggle was indivisible and that we all had the same enemy.
This victory was the combined result of our own unceasing protests and simple logistics. The authorities normally preferred to have a ratio of one warder for every three prisoners. Even before the arrival of the post-Soweto prisoners, there was a shortage of warders, and the rebellious young men required even greater supervision. They were so bold that each man seemed to require his own warder. If we remained in our section, we required less supervision.
end of manual labor was liberating. I
could now spend the day reading, writing letters, discussing issues
with my comrades, or formulating legal briefs. The free time allowed me
to pursue what became two of my favorite hobbies on
To survive in prison, one must develop ways to take satisfaction in one’s daily life. One can feel fulfilled by washing one’s clothes so that they are particularly clean, by sweeping a hallway so that it is empty of dust, by organizing one’s cell to conserve as much space as possible. The same pride one takes in more consequential tasks outside of prison one can find in doing small things inside prison.
from the beginning of my sentence on
The authorities supplied me with seeds. I initially planted tomatoes, chilies, and onions — hardy plants that did not require rich earth or constant care. The early harvests were poor, but they soon improved. The authorities did not regret giving permission, for once the garden began to flourish, I often provided the warders with some of my best tomatoes and onions.
I have always enjoyed gardening, it was not until I was behind bars
that I was able to tend my own garden. My first experience in the
garden was at
I began to order books on gardening and horticulture. I studied different gardening techniques and types of fertilizer. I did not have many of the materials that the books discussed, but I learned through trial and error. For a time, I attempted to grow peanuts, and used different soils and fertilizers, but finally I gave up. It was one of my only failures. A garden was one of the few things in prison that one could control. To plant a seed, watch it grow, to tend it and then harvest it, offered a simple but enduring satisfaction. The sense of being the custodian of this small patch of earth offered a small taste of freedom. In some ways, I saw the garden as a metaphor for certain aspects of my life. A leader must also tend his garden; he, too, plants seeds, and then watches, cultivates, and harvests the result. Like the gardener, a leader must take responsibility for what he cultivates; he must mind his work, try to repel enemies, preserve what can be preserved, and eliminate what cannot succeed.
I wrote Winnie two letters about a particularly beautiful tomato plant, how I coaxed it from a tender seedling to a robust plant that produced deep red fruit. But, then, either through some mistake or lack of care, the plant began to wither and decline, and nothing I did would bring it back to health. When it finally died, I removed the roots from the soil, washed them, and buried them in a corner of the garden. I narrated this small story at great length. I do not know what she read into that letter, but when I wrote it I had a mixture of feelings: I did not want our relationship to go the way of that plant, and yet I felt that I had been unable to nourish many of the most important relationships in my life.
Sometimes there is nothing one can do to save something that must die. One unanticipated result of ending manual labor was that I began to gain weight. Though we were doing barely enough labor at the quarry to work up a sweat, the walk there and back was enough to keep me trim.
I have always believed that exercise is not only a key to physical health but to peace of mind. Many times in the old days I unleashed my anger and frustration on a punching bag rather than taking it out on a comrade or even a policeman. Exercise dissipates tension, and tension is the enemy of serenity. I found that I worked better and thought more clearly when I was in good physical condition, and so training became one of the inflexible disciplines of my life. In prison, having an outlet for one’s frustrations wasabsolutely essential.
Even on the island, I attempted to follow my old boxing routine of doing roadwork and muscle-building from Monday through Thursday and then resting for the next three days. On Monday through Thursday, I would do stationary running in my cell in the morning for up to forty-five minutes. I would also perform one hundred fingertip push-ups, two hundred sit-ups, fifty deep kneebends, and various other calisthenics.
letters to my children, I regularly urged them to exercise, to play
some fast-moving sport like basketball, soccer, or tennis to take their
mind off whatever might be bothering them. While I was not always
successful with my children, I did manage to influence some of my more
sedentary colleagues. Exercise was unusual for African men of my age
and generation. After a while, even Walter began to take a few turns
around the courtyard in the morning. I
know that some of my younger comrades looked at me and said to
themselves, “If that old man can do it, why can’t I?” They too began to
From the very first meetings I had with outside visitors and the International Red Cross, I stressed the importance of having the time and facilities for proper exercise. Only in the mid-1970s, under the auspices of the International Red Cross, did we begin to receive things like volleyball equipment and a Ping-Pong table.
roughly the same time we finished working at the quarry, one of the
warders had the idea of converting our courtyard into a tennis court.
Its dimensions were perfect. Prisoners from the general section painted
the cement surface green and then fashioned the traditional
configuration of white lines. A few days later a net was put up and
suddenly we had our own
played a bit of tennis when I was at
manual labor ended, I had much more time for reading, but the books I
had been using were now out-of-bounds. When my studies were canceled, I
was still in the midst of pursuing my LL.B. at the
But the suspension of study privileges had an unintended benefit, and that was that I began to read books that I would not otherwise have read. Instead of poring over tomes about contract law, I was now absorbed by novels.
not have an unlimited library to choose from on
the first, I tried to read books about
book that I returned to many times was Tolstoy’s great work, War and Peace.
the word war was
in the title, this book was permitted.) I was particularly taken with
the portrait of General Kutuzov, whom everyone at the Russian court
underestimated. Kutuzov defeated Napoleon precisely because he was not
swayed by the ephemeral and superficial values of the court, and made
his decisions on a visceral understanding of his men and his people. It
reminded me once again that to truly lead one’s people one must also
truly know them.
WAKE of the
banned, Winnie picked up where she left off, and the authorities were
dismayed about her popularity with the young radicals of
time Winnie was not being arrested, or
detained, or interrogated; she was being banished to a remote township
is about two hundred fifty miles southwest of
new circumstances saddened and angered me. At least when she was home in
passed through this township once on my way to
Once again, I felt as though Winnie and I were in prison at the same time. Life in Brandfort was hard, as I learned from Winnie’s letters. They had no heat, no toilet, no running water. The township had no shops and the stores in town were hostile to African customers. The whites for the most part were Afrikaans-speaking and deeply conservative.
Winnie and Zindzi were under constant police surveillance and intermittent harassment. Within a few months Zindzi — who was not banned — was upset by the security police’s intimidation. In September, with the help of Winnie’s lawyers, I brought an urgent application for an interdict against the local Brandfort security police to restrain them from harassing my daughter. Affidavits filed before the judge described policemen bursting into the house and threatening Zindzi. The judge ruled that Zindzi could receive visitors in peace.
Winnie is a resilient person, and within a relatively short time, she had won over the people of the township, including some sympathetic whites in the vicinity. She supplied food to the people in the township with the help of Operation Hunger, started a crèche or nursery school for the township’s children, and raised funds to create a medical clinic in a place where few people had ever seen a doctor.
1978, Zeni, my second-youngest daughter and my first child with Winnie,
married Prince Thumbumuzi, a son of King Sobhuza of
met with the prince in his office and then arranged to consult with me
George reported how much the two children loved one another and the bright prospects of my future son-in-law. His father, King Sobhuza, was an enlightened traditional leader and also a member of the ANC. As George relayed to me some of the requirements made by the young man’s family, he was at pains to point out that the boy was a Swazi prince. I told George to tell the young man that he was getting a Thembu princess.
There was a tremendous advantage in Zeni’s becoming a member of the Swazi royal family: she was immediately granted diplomatic privileges and could visit me virtually at will. That winter, after she and Thumbumuzi were married, they came to see me, along with their newborn baby daughter. Because of the prince’s status, we were allowed to meet one another in the consulting room, not the normal visiting area where one is separated from one’s family by thick walls and glass. I waited for them with some nervousness.
It was a truly wondrous moment when they came into the room. I stood up, and when Zeni saw me, she practically tossed her tiny daughter to her husband and ran across the room to embrace me. I had not held my now-grown daughter virtually since she was about her own daughter’s age. It was a dizzying experience, as though time had sped forward in a science fiction novel, to suddenly hug one’s fully grown child. I then embraced my new son and he handed me my tiny granddaughter whom I did not let go of for the entire visit. To hold a newborn baby, so vulnerable and soft in my rough hands, hands that for too long had held only picks and shovels, was a profound joy. I don’t think a man was ever happier to hold a baby than I was that day.
The visit had a more official purpose and that was for me to choose a name for the child. It is a custom for the grandfather to select a name, and the one I had chosen was Zaziwe — which means “Hope.” The name had special meaning for me, for during all my years in prison hope never left me — and now it never would. I was convinced that this child would be a part of a new generation of South Africans for whom apartheid would be a distant memory — that was my dream.
not know whether it was the upheaval inside the prison after the
one recurring nightmare. In the dream, I had just been released from
prison — only it was not
But not all my dreams of release were so dark. In 1976 I wrote to Winnie of a happier vision:
The night of 24 February, I dreamt arriving at 8115 finding the house full of youth dancing away to a mixture of jive and infiba. I caught all of them by surprise as I walked in unexpectedly. Some greeted me warmly, whilst others simply melted away shyly. I found the bedroom equally full with members of the family and close friends. You were relaxing in bed, with Kgatho [my son Makgatho], looking young and sleeping against the opposite wall. Perhaps in that dream I was recalling the two weeks in December 1956 when he was six and when I left Makhulu [Evelyn’s mother] alone in the house. He was living with his mother in O.E. [Orlando East] then, but a few days before I came back he joined Makhulu and slept in my bed. He was missing me very much and using the bed must have relieved the feeling of longing a bit.
As I woke up on the morning of 25 February I was missing you and the children a great deal as always. These days I spend quite some time thinking of you both as Dadewethu [Sister], Mum, pal and mentor. What you perhaps don’t know is how I often think and actually picture in my mind all that makes you up physically and spiritually — the loving remarks which came daily and the blind eye you’ve always turned against those numerous irritations that would have frustrated another woman. . . . I even remember a day when you were bulging with Zindzi, struggling to cut your nails. I now recall those incidents with a sense of shame. I could have done it for you. Whether or not I was conscious of it, my attitude was: I’ve done my duty, a second brat is on the way, the difficulties you are now facing as a result of your physical condition are all yours. My only consolation is the knowledge that I then led a life where I’d hardly enough time even to think. Only I wonder what it’ll be like when I return. . .
Your beautiful photo still stands about two feet above my left shoulder as I write this note. I dust it carefully every morning, for to do so gives me the pleasant feeling that I’m caressing you as in the old days. I even touch your nose with mine to recapture the electric current that used to flush through my blood whenever I did so. Nolitha stands on the table directly opposite me. How can my spirits ever be down when I enjoy the fond attentions of such wonderful ladies.
Nolitha was the one person who was not a member of the family whose photo I kept. I revealed the secret of her identity to my daughter Zindzi in another letter from 1976.
By the way, has Mum ever told you about Nolitha, the other lady in my cell from the
I wish I could drive you on a long, long journey just as I did on 12/6/58, with the one difference that this time I’d prefer us to be alone. I’ve been away from you for so long that the very first thing I would like to do on my return would be to take you away from that suffocating atmosphere, drive you along carefully, so that you could have the opportunity of breathing fresh and clean air, seeing the beauty spots of South Africa, its green grass and trees, colourful wild flowers, sparkling streams, animals grazing in the veld and be able to talk to the simple people we meet along the road. Our first stop would be to the place where Ma Radebe and CK [Winnie’s mother and father] sleep. I hope they lie next to each other.
Then I would be able to pay my respects to those who have made it possible for me to be as happy and free as I am now. Perhaps the stories I’ve so much wanted to tell you all these years would begin there. The atmosphere should probably sharpen your ears and restrain me to concentrate on those aspects which are tasty, edifying and constructive. Thereafter, we would adjourn and resume next to Mphakanyiswa and Nosekeni [my parents] where the environment would be similar. I believe we would then be fresh and solid as we drive back to 8115.
But in prison no privilege comes without some accompanying impediment. Though I was permitted to receive pictures and to keep the album, warders would often search my cell and confiscate pictures of Winnie. Eventually, however, the practice of seizing pictures ceased, and I built up my album so that it was thick with pictures of my entire family.
I do not remember who first asked to borrow my photo album, but it was undoubtedly someone in my section. I happily loaned it, and someone else asked, and then someone else. Soon it became so widely known that I possessed a photo album that I was receiving requests from men in F and G.
The men of F and G rarely received visitors or even letters, and it would have been ungenerous to deny them this window on the world. But before long I found that my precious photo album was in tatters, and that many of my irreplaceable photographs had been removed. These men were desperate to have something personal in their cells and could not help themselves. Each time this happened, resolved to build up my album once more.
Sometimes men would just ask me for a photograph rather than the album. I recall one day a young BC fellow from the general section who was bringing us food took me aside and said, “Madiba, I would like a photograph.” I said fine, I would send him one. “When?” he said rather brusquely. I replied that I would try to send it that weekend. This seemed to satisfy him, and he began to walk away, but suddenly he turned round and said, “Look, don’t send me a photograph of the old lady. Send me one of the young girls, Zindzi or Zeni — remember, not the old lady!"
In 1978, after we had spent almost fifteen years agitating for the right to receive news, the authorities offered us a compromise. Instead of permitting us to receive newspapers or listen to radio, they started their own radio news service, which consisted of a daily canned summary of the news read over the prison’s intercom system.
The broadcasts were far from objective or comprehensive. Several of the island’s censors would compile a brief news digest from other daily radio bulletins. The broadcasts consisted of good news for the government and bad news for all its opponents.
first broadcast opened with a report about the death of Robert Sobukwe.
Other early reports concerned the victories of Ian Smith’s troops in
year, we learned via the intercom that
P. W. Botha had succeeded John Vorster as prime minister. What the
warders did not tell us was that Vorster
resigned as a
result of press revelations about the Department of Information's
misuse of government funds. I knew little about Botha apart from
the fact that he had been an aggressive defense minister and had
supported a military strike into
had recently read an authorized biography
of Vorster (this was one of the books the prison library did have) and
found that he was a man willing to pay for
he went to prison for his support of
even without our expurgated radio
broadcast, we had learned what the authorities did not want us to know.
We learned of the successful liberation
keeping with the increased openness on the island, we now had our own
cinema. Almost every
week, we watched films on a sheet in a large room
adjacent to our corridor. Later, we had a
proper screen. The films were a wonderful diversion, a vivid escape
from the bleakness of prison life. The
first films we saw were silent, black-and-white
were intrigued by The King and I,
to us it depicted the clash between the values of East and West, and
seemed to suggest that the West had much
to learn from the East. Cleopatra
controversial; many of my comrades took exception to the fact that the
Later, we also saw local South African films with black stars whom we all knew from the old days. On those nights, our little makeshift theater echoed with the shouts, whistles, and cheers that greeted the appearance of an old friend on screen. Later, we were permitted to select documentaries — a form that I preferred — and I began to skip the conventional films. (Although I would never miss a movie with Sophia Loren in it.) The documentaries were ordered from the state library and usually selected by Ahmed Kathrada, who was our section’s librarian. I was particularly affected by a documentary we saw about the great naval battles of World War II, which showed newsreel footage of the sinking of the H.M.S. Prince of Wales by the Japanese. What moved me most was a brief image of Winston Churchill weeping after he heard the news of the loss of the British vessel. The image stayed in my memory a long time, and demonstrated to me that there are times when a leader can show sorrow in public, and that it will not diminish him in the eyes of his people.
of the documentaries we watched
concerned a controversial American motorcycle group, the Hell’s Angels.
The film depicted the Hell’s Angels as
violent, and antisocial, and the police as decent, upstanding, and
trustworthy. When the film ended, we immediately began to discuss
its meaning. Almost without exception the men criticized the Hell’s
Angels for their lawless ways. But then Strini Moodley, a bright, young Black
Consciousness member, stood up and accused the assembled group of being
out of touch with the times, for the bikers represented the
equivalent of the
I was not interested in the Hell’s Angels, but the larger question that concerned me was whether we had, as Strini suggested, become stuck in a mind-set that was no longer revolutionary. We had been in prison for more than fifteen years; I had been in prison for nearly eighteen. The world that we left was long gone. The danger was that our ideas had become frozen in time. Prison is a still point in a turning world, and it is very easy to remain in the same place in jail while the world moves on. I had always attempted to remain open to new ideas, not to reject a position because it was new or different. During our years on the island we kept up a continuing dialogue about our beliefs and ideas; we debated them, questioned them, and thereby refined them. I did not think we had stayed in one place; I believe we had evolved.
It took fifteen years, but in 1979, the authorities announced over the intercom system that the diet for African, Coloured, and Indian prisoners would henceforth be the same. But just as justice delayed is justice denied, a reform so long postponed and so grudgingly enacted was hardly worth celebrating.
All prisoners were to receive the same amount of sugar in the morning: a spoonful and a half. But instead of simply increasing the African quota, the authorities reduced the amount of sugar that Coloured and Indian prisoners received by half a spoonful, while adding that amount for African prisoners. A while before, African prisoners had begun to receive bread in the morning, but that made little difference. We had been pooling bread for years.
food had already improved in the previous two years, but not because of
the authorities. In the wake of the
In the Summer of 1979, I was playing tennis in the courtyard, when my opponent hit a cross-court shot that I strained to reach. As I ran across the court, I felt a pain in my right heel that was so intense I had to stop playing. For the next few days I walked with a severe limp.
examined by a doctor on the island who decided I should go to
under normal circumstances I and the other men would relish a visit to
On the docks, we were met by more armed guards and a small crowd. It is a humiliating experience to watch the fear and disgust on ordinary citizens’ faces when they watch a convict go by. My inclination was to duck down and hide, but one could not do that.
examined by a young surgeon who asked if I had ever before injured my
heel. In fact, I had when I was at
surgery went well, and when it was over, the doctor was explaining to
me how to care for my heel. He was abruptly interrupted by the head warder,
who said that I had to return immediately to
My first night in a proper hospital turned out to be quite pleasant. The nurses fussed over me a good deal. I slept very well, and in the morning, a group of nurses came in and said that I should keep the pajamas and dressing gown that I had been given. I thanked them and told them that I would be the envy of all my comrades.
I found the trip instructive in another way because in that hospital I sensed a thawing in the relationship between black and white. The doctor and nurses had treated me in a natural way as though they had been dealing with blacks on a basis of equality all their lives. This was something new and different to me, and an encouraging sign. It reaffirmed my long-held belief that education was the enemy of prejudice. These were men and women of science, and science had no room for racism.
My only regret was that I did not have the opportunity to contact Winnie before I went into hospital. Rumors had appeared in newspapers that I was at death’s door and she had become quite concerned. But when I returned, I wrote to her to dispel her fears.
In 1980, we were granted the right to buy newspapers. This was a victory, but as always, each new privilege contained within it a catch. The new regulation stated that A Group prisoners were granted the right to buy one English- language newspaper and one Afrikaans newspaper a day. But the annoying caveat was that any A Group prisoner found sharing his newspaper with a non–A Group prisoner would lose his newspaper privileges. We protested against this restriction, but to no avail. We received two daily newspapers: the Cape Time and Die Burger. Both were conservative papers, especially the latter. Yet prison censors went through each of those newspapers every day with scissors, clipping articles that they deemed unsafe for us to see. By the time we received them, they were filled with holes. We were soon able to supplement these papers with copies of the Star, the Rand Daily Mail, and the Sunday Times, but these papers were even more heavily censored.
One story I was certainly not able to read was in the Johannesburg Sunday Post in March 1980. The headline was “FREE MANDELA!” Inside was a petition that people could sign to ask for my release and that of my fellow political prisoners. While newspapers were still barred from printing my picture or any words I had ever said or written, the Post’s campaign ignited a public discussion of our release.
idea had been conceived in
previous year I had been awarded the Jawaharlal Nehru Human Rights
exploded at power stations in the eastern Transvaal, at police stations
in Germiston, Daveyton, New Brighton, and elsewhere, and at the Voortrekkerhoogte
military base outside
Free Mandela campaign had its lighter
side as well. In 1981, I learned that the students at the
campaign for our release rekindled our hopes. During the harsh days of
the early 1970s, when the ANC seemed to sink into the shadows, we
had to force ourselves not to give in to despair. In many ways, we had
miscalculated; we had thought that by the 1970s we would be living in a democratic,
my father before me, I had been groomed to be a counselor to the king
of the Thembu. Although I had chosen a different path, I tried in my
own fashion to live up to the responsibilities of the role for which I
had been schooled. From prison, I did my best to remain in contact with
the king and advise him as best I could.
As I grew older, my thoughts turned more and more often to the green
hills of the
group of Thembu chiefs requested an urgent visit with me, which was
approved by the authorities, who were usually willing to countenance visits
by traditional leaders — believing that the more involved I was in
The government promoted the power of traditional leaders as a counterpoint to the ANC. While many of my comrades thought we should disavow those leaders, my inclination was to reach out to them. There is no contradiction between being a traditional leader and a member of the ANC. This spurred one of the longest and most delicate debates we had on the island: whether or not the ANC should participate in governmentsponsored institutions. Many of the men considered this collaborationist. Once again, I thought it necessary to draw a distinction between principle and tactics. To me, the critical question was a tactical one: Will our organization emerge stronger through participating in these organizations or by boycotting them? In this case, I thought we would emerge stronger by participating.
I met with the chiefs in a large room in the visiting area, and they explained their dilemma. Although their hearts were with Sabata, they feared Matanzima. After listening to their presentation, I advised them to throw their support to Sabata against Matanzima, who was illegally and shamefully usurping power from the king. I sympathized with their situation, but I could not condone Matanzima’s actions. I asked them to convey my support to Sabata and my disapproval to Matanzima.
Matanzima had also proposed a visit to discuss Sabata and family matters. As my nephew, he had actually been requesting such a visit for a number of years. Although Matanzima claimed to want to discuss family matters, such a visit would have political consequences. From the moment of Matanzima’s first request, I referred the matter to the High Organ and the ANC men in our section. Some simply shrugged their shoulders and said, “He’s your nephew; he has a right to visit.” Raymond, Govan, and Kathy, however, insisted that although such a visit could be explained away as a family matter, it would be interpreted by many people inside and outside as a sign of my endorsement of the man and his policies. That was the reason why Matanzima wanted to visit, and the reason such a visit was unacceptable.
I understood and in large part agreed with their arguments, but I wanted to meet with my nephew. I have always had perhaps too high a regard for the importance of face-to-face meetings and of my own ability in such a meeting to persuade men to change their views. I was hoping I could convince Matanzima to modify his policies.
Eventually, the ANC men in our section decided not to object to a visit. In the interests of democracy, we then consulted with our men in F and G on the matter, and they were adamantly opposed. Steve Tshwete, who was one of the leading ANC figures in the general section, said such a visit would help Matanzima politically and was therefore out of the question. Many of them noted that Matanzima had already tried to coopt my approval by making Winnie’s father, Columbus Madikizela, the minister of agriculture in his government. This was bad enough, they said, without Madiba agreeing to see him. I bowed to the views of the membership in the general section and regretfully informed the authorities that I would not accept a visit from my nephew.
In March of 1982, I was told by the prison authorities that my wife had been in a car accident, and that she was in hospital. They had very little information. and I had no idea of her condition or what her circumstances were. I accused the authorities of holding back informaion, and I made an urgent application for my attorney to visit me. the authorities used information as a weapon, and it was a successful one. I was preoccupied with my wife’s health until I was visited on March 31 by Winnie’s attorney and my friend Dullah Omar.
Dullah quickly eased my mind about Winnie. She had been in a car that overturned but she was all right. Our visit was brief, and as I was led back to Section B my mind was still dwelling on Winnie, and I was plagued by the feeling of powerlessness and my inability to help her.
not been in my cell long when I was visited by the commanding officer
and a number of other prison officials. This was highly unusual; the commanding
officer did not generally pay calls on prisoners in their cells. I
stood up when they arrived, and the commander actually entered my cell. There
was barely room for the two of us.
was a commotion in the corridor when the other men learned we were
leaving, but we had no time to say a proper goodbye to our comrades
of many years. This is another one of the indignities of prison. The
bonds of friendship and loyalty with other prisoners count for nothing with
the authorities. Within minutes we were on
board the ferry headed for
At the docks, surrounded by armed guards, we were hustled into a windowless truck. The four of us stood in the dark while the truck drove for what seemed considerably longer than an hour. We passed through various checkpoints, and finally came to a stop. The back doors swung open, and in the dark we were marched up some concrete steps and through metal doors into another security facility. I managed to ask a guard where we were. “Pollsmoor Prison,” he said.
Maximum Security Prison is located on the edge of a prosperous white
suburb of green lawns and tidy houses called Tokai, a few
miles southeast of
Pollsmoor had a modern face but a primitive heart. The buildings, particularly the ones for the prison staff, were clean and contemporary; but the housing for the prisoners was archaic and dirty. With the exception of ourselves, all men at Pollsmoor were common-law prisoners, and their treatment was backward. We were kept separately from them and treated differently.
It was not until the next morning that we got a proper sense of our surroundings. The four of us had been given what was in effect the prison’s penthouse: a spacious room on the third and topmost floor of the prison. We were the only prisoners on the entire floor. The main room was clean, modern, and rectangular, about fifty feet by thirty, and had a separate section with a toilet, urinal, two sinks, and two showers. There were four proper beds, with sheets, and towels, a great luxury for men who had spent much of the last eighteen years sleeping on thin mats on a stone floor.
was greatly disorienting to be uprooted so suddenly and without
explanation. One must be prepared for precipitate movements in prison,
but one does not ever get used to them.
Though we were now on the mainland, we felt more isolated. For us, the
island had become the locus of the struggle.
We took solace in each other’s company, and spent those early weeks
speculating on why we had been transferred. We knew the authorities
had long resented and feared the influence we had on younger prisoners.
But the reason seemed to be more strategic: we believed the authorities
were attempting to cut off the head of the ANC on the island by
removing its leadership.
few weeks after Kathy arrived, we were also joined by a man we did not
know who had not even come from
At first, we were skeptical of this new arrival, and wondered if he could perhaps be a security plant by the authorities. But we soon saw that this was not the case. Patrick was a bright, amiable, undaunted fellow with whom we got along very well. It could not have been easy for him bunking in with a group of old men set in their ways who had been together for the previous two decades.
were now in a world of concrete. I missed the natural splendor of
visited by Winnie shortly after arriving at Pollsmoor and was pleased
to find that the visiting area was far better and more modern than the one
was far easier for my wife and family to get to Pollsmoor than
At Pollsmoor I got to know Gregory better and found him a welcome contrast to the typical warder. He was polished and soft-spoken, and treated Winnie with courtesy and deference. Instead of barking, “Time up!” he would say, “Mrs. Mandela, you have five more minutes."
The Bible tells us that gardens preceded gardeners, but that was not the case at Pollsmoor, where I cultivated a garden that became one of my happiest diversions. It was my way of escaping from the monolithic concrete world that surrounded us. Within a few weeks of surveying all the empty space we had on the building’s roof and how it was bathed in sun the whole day, I decided to start a garden and received permission to do so from the commanding officer. I requested that the prison service supply me with sixteen 44-gallon oil drums that I had them slice in half. The authorities then filled each half with rich, moist soil, creating in effect thirty-two giant flowerpots.
grew onions, eggplant, cabbage, cauliflower, beans, spinach, carrots,
cucumbers, broccoli, beetroot, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, strawberries, and
much more. At its height, I had a small farm with nearly nine hundred
plants; a garden far grander than the one I had on
Some of the seeds I purchased and some — for example, broccoli and carrots — were given to me by the commanding officer, Brigadier Munro, who was particularly fond of these vegetables. Warders also gave me seeds of vegetables they liked, and I was supplied with excellent manure to use as fertilizer.
Each morning, I put on a straw hat and rough gloves and worked in the garden for two hours. Every Sunday, I would supply vegetables to the kitchen so that they could cook a special meal for the common-law prisoners. I also gave quite a lot of my harvest to the warders, who used to bring satchels to take away their fresh vegetables.
Pollsmoor, our problems tended to be less consequential than those we
was concerned, and I soon learned
thatthere were press reports that I was having a toe amputated. Because
of the difficulty of communication information from prison often
becomes exaggerated in the outside world. If I had simply been able to
telephone my wife and tell her that my foot was fine, such confusion
would not have happened. A short while later, Helen Suzman was
permitted to visit, and she inquired about my toe. I thought the best
answer was a demonstratioon. I took off my socks, held my bare foot up
to the glass, and wiggled my toes.
We complained about the dampness in our cell, which was causing us to catch colds. Later, I heard reports that South African newspapers were writing that our cell was flooded. We asked for contact with other prisoners, and in general made the same basic complaint that we always had: to be treated as political prisoners.
May of 1984, I found some consolation that seemed to make up for all
the discomforts. At a scheduled visit from Winnie, Zeni, and her youngest
daughter, I was escorted down to the visiting area by Sergeant Gregory,
who instead of taking me to the normal visiting area, ushered me into
a separate room where there was only a small table, and no dividers of
any kind. He very softly said to me that the authorities had made a change.
That day was the beginning of what were known as “contact” visits.
He then went outside to see my wife and daughter and asked to speak to Winnie privately. Winnie actually got a fright when Gregory took her aside, thinking that I was perhaps ill. But Gregory escorted her around the door and before either of us knew it, we were in the same room and in each other’s arms. I kissed and held my wife for the first time in all these many years. It was a moment I had dreamed about a thousand times. It was as if I were still dreaming. I held her to me for what seemed like an eternity. We were still and silent except for the sound of our hearts. I did not want to let go of her at all, but I broke free and embraced my daughter and then took her child into my lap. It had been twenty-one years since I had even touched my wife’s hand.
Pollsmoor, we were more connected to outside events. We were aware that
the struggle was intensifying, and that the efforts of the enemy were
similarly increasing. In 1981, the South African Defense Force launched
a raid on ANC offices in
August of 1982, activist Ruth First was opening her mail in
first car bomb attack took place in May of 1983, and was aimed at an
air force and military intelligence office in the heart of
The killing of civilians was a tragic accident, and I felt a profound horror at the death toll. But as disturbed as I was by these casualties, I knew that such accidents were the inevitable consequence of the decision to embark on a military struggle. Human fallibility is always a part of war, and the price for it is always high. It was precisely because we knew that such incidents would occur that our decision to take up arms had been so grave and reluctant. But as Oliver said at the time of the bombing, the armed struggle was imposed upon us by the violence of the apartheid regime.
Both the government and the ANC were working on two tracks: military and political. On the political front, the government was pursuing its standard divide-and-rule strategy in attempting to separate Africans from Coloureds and Indians. In a referendum of November 1983, the white electorate endorsed P. W. Botha’s plan to create a so-called tricameral Parliament, with Indian and Coloured chambers in addition to the white Parliament. This was an effort to lure Indians and Coloureds into the system, and divide them from Africans. But the offer was merely a “toy telephone,” as all parliamentary action by Indians and Coloureds was subject to a white veto. It was also a way of fooling the outside world into thinking that the government was reforming apartheid. Botha’s ruse did not fool the people, as more than 80 percent of eligible Indian and Coloured voters boycotted the election to the new houses of Parliament in 1984.
Powerful grassroots political movements were being formed inside the country that had firm links to the ANC, the principal one being the United Democratic Front, of which I was named a patron. The UDF had been created to coordinate protest against the new apartheid constitution in 1983, and the first elections to the segregated tricameral Parliament in 1984. The UDF soon blossomed into a powerful organization that united over six hundred anti-apartheid organizations — trade unions, community groups, church groups, student associations.
The ANC was experiencing a new birth of popularity. Opinion polls showed that the Congress was far and away the most popular political organization among Africans even though it had been banned for a quarter of a century. The anti-apartheid struggle as a whole had captured the attention of the world; in 1984, Bishop Desmond Tutu was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. (The authorities refused to send Bishop Tutu my letter of congratulations.) The South African government was under growing international pressure, as nations all across the globe began to impose economic sanctions on Pretoria.
government had sent “feelers” to me over the years, beginning with
Minister Kruger’s efforts to persuade me to move to the
government was testing the waters. In late 1984 and early 1985, I had
visits from two prominent Western statesmen, Lord Nicholas Bethell, a member
of the British House of Lords and the European Parliament, and Samuel
Dash, a professor of law at
I met Lord Bethell in the prison commander’s office, which was dominated by a large photograph of a glowering President Botha. Bethell was a jovial, rotund man and when I first met him, I teased him about his stoutness. “You look like you are related to Winston Churchill,” I said as we shook hands, and he laughed.
Lord Bethell wanted to know about our conditions at Pollsmoor and I told him. We discussed the armed struggle and I explained to him it was not up to us to renounce violence, but the government. I reaffirmed that we aimed for hard military targets, not people. “I would not want our men to assassinate, for instance, the major here,” I said, pointing to Major Fritz van Sittert, who was monitoring the talks. Van Sittert was a good-natured fellow who did not say much, but he started at my remark.
In my visit with Professor Dash, which quickly followed that of Lord Bethell, I laid out what I saw as the minimum for a future nonracial South Africa: a unitary state without homelands; nonracial elections for the central Parliament; and one-person-one-vote. Professor Dash asked me whether I took any encouragement from the government’s stated intention of repealing the mixed-marriage laws and certain other apartheid statutes. “This is a pinprick,” I said. “It is not my ambition to marry a white woman or swim in a white pool. It is political equality that we want.” I told Dash quite candidly that at the moment we could not defeat the government on the battlefield, but could make governing difficult for them.
one not-so-pleasant visit from two Americans, editors of the
conservative newspaper the Washington
seemed less intent on finding out my views
than on proving that I was a Communist and a terrorist. All of their
questions were slanted in that direction, and when I reiterated
that I was neither a Communist nor a terrorist, they attempted to show
that I was not a Christian either by asserting that the Reverend Martin
Luther King never resorted to violence. I told them that the conditions
in which Martin Luther King struggled were totally different from my
I had been warned by the authorities that the government was going to make a proposal involving my freedom, but I had not been prepared for the fact that it would be made in Parliament by the state president. By my reckoning, it was the sixth conditional offer the government had made for my release in the past ten years. After I listened to the speech on radio, I made a request to the commander of the prison for an urgent visit by my wife and my lawyer, Ismail Ayob, so that I could dictate my response to the state president’s offer.
Winnie and Ismail were not given permission to visit for a week, and in the meantime I wrote a letter to the foreign minister, Pik Botha, rejecting the conditions for my release, while also preparing a public response. I was keen to do a number of things in this response, because Botha’s offer was an attempt to drive a wedge between me and my colleagues by tempting me to accept a policy the ANC rejected. I wanted to reassure the ANC in general and Oliver in particular that my loyalty to the organization was beyond question. I also wished to send a message to the government that while I rejected its offer because of the conditions attached to it, I nevertheless thought negotiation, not war, was the path to a solution. Botha wanted the onus of violence to rest on my shoulders and I wanted to reaffirm to the world that we were only responding to the violence done to us. I intended to make it clear that if I emerged from prison into the same circumstances in which I was arrested, I would be forced to resume the same activities for which I was arrested.
with Winnie and Ismail on a Friday; on Sunday, a UDF rally was to be
gave Ismail and Winnie the speech I had prepared. In addition to
responding to the government, I wanted to thank publicly the UDF for
its fine work and to congratulate Bishop
Tutu on his prize, adding that his award belonged to all the people. On
Sunday, February 10, 1985, my daughter Zindzi
read my response to a cheering crowd of people who had not been able to
hear my words legally anywhere in
Zindzi was a dynamic speaker like her mother, and said that her father should be at the stadium to speak the words himself. I was proud to knowthat it was she who spoke my words.
am a member of the African National Congress. I have always been a
member of the African National Congress and I will remain a member of
the African National Congress until the
day I die. Oliver Tambo is more than a brother to me. He is my greatest
friend and comrade for nearly fifty years. If there is any one amongst
you who cherishes my freedom, Oliver Tambo
cherishes it more, and I know that he would give his life to see me
free. . . . I am surprised at the
conditions that the government wants to impose on me. I am not a
violent man. . . . It was only then, when all other forms of resistance
were no longer open to us, that we turned
to armed struggle. Let Botha show that he is different to Malan,
Strijdom and Verwoerd. Let him renounce violence. Let him say that he
will dismantle apartheid. Let him unban
the people’s organization, the African National Congress. Let him free
all who have been imprisoned, banished or exiled for their opposition
we did not discuss politics, I did bring up one sensitive issue, and
that was the status of my wife. In August, shortly before I entered the hospital,
Winnie had gone to
I spent several days in hospital recuperating from the surgery. When I was discharged, I was fetched at the hospital by Brigadier Munro. Commanding officers do not usually pick up prisoners at the hospital, so my suspicions were immediately aroused. On the ride back, Brigadier Munro said to me in a casual way, as though he were simply making conversation, “Mandela, we are not taking you back to your friends now.” I asked him what he meant. “From now on, you are going to be alone.” I asked him why. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve just been given these instructions from headquarters.” Once again, there was no warning and no explanation.
Upon my return to Pollsmoor I was taken to a new cell on the ground floor of the prison, three floors below and in an entirely different wing. I was given three rooms, and a separate toilet, with one room to be used for sleeping, one across the hall for studying, and another for exercise. By prison standards, this was palatial, but the rooms were damp and musty and received very little natural light. I said nothing to the brigadier, for I knew the decision had not been his. I wanted time to consider the ramifications of the move. Why had the state taken this step?
It would be too strong to call it a revelation, but over the next few days and weeks I came to a realization about my new circumstances. The change, I decided, was not a liability but an opportunity. I was not happy to be separated from my colleagues and I missed my garden and the sunny terrace on the third floor. But my solitude gave me a certain liberty, and I resolved to use it to do something I had been pondering for a long while: begin discussions with the government. I had concluded that the time had come when the struggle could best be pushed forward through negotiations. If we did not start a dialogue soon, both sides would be plunged into a dark night of oppression, violence, and war. My solitude would give me an opportunity to take the first steps in that direction, without the kind of scrutiny that might destroy such efforts.
We had been fighting against white minority rule for three-quarters of a century. We had been engaged in the armed struggle for more than two decades. Many people on both sides had already died. The enemy was strong and resolute. Yet even with all their bombers and tanks, they must have sensed they were on the wrong side of history. We had right on our side, but not yet might. It was clear to me that a military victory was a distant if not impossible dream. It simply did not make sense for both sides to lose thousands if not millions of lives in a conflict that wasunnecessary. They must have known this as well. It was time to talk.
This would be extremely sensitive. Both sides regarded discussions as a sign of weakness and betrayal. Neither would come to the table until the other made significant concessions. The government asserted over and over that we were a terrorist organization of Communists, and that they would never talk to terrorists or Communists. This was National Party dogma. The ANC asserted over and over that the government was fascistic and racist and that there was nothing to talk about until they unbanned the ANC, unconditionally released all political prisoners, and removed the troops from the townships.
decision to talk to the government was of such import that it should
only have been made in
was now in a kind of splendid isolation.
Though my colleagues were only three floors above me, they might as
well have been in
After I had been in my new cell for a few days, I asked the commanding officer to arrange such a meeting. He did so, and the four of us discussed the issue of my transfer. Walter, Kathy, and Ray were angry that we had been separated. They wanted to lodge a strong protest, and demand that we be reunited. My response was not what they expected. “Look, chaps,” I said, “I don’t think we should oppose this thing.” I mentioned that my new accommodations were superior, and maybe this would set a precedent for all political prisoners. I then added somewhat ambiguously, “Perhaps something good will come of this. I’m now in a position where the government can make an approach to us.” They did not care too much for this latter explanation, as I knew they would not.
chose to tell no one of what I was about to do. Not my colleagues
upstairs or those in
Within a few weeks of my move, I wrote to Kobie Coetsee to propose talks about talks. As before, I received no response. I wrote once more, and again there was no response. I found this peculiar and demoralizing, and I realized I had to look for another opportunity to be heard. That came in early 1986.
meeting of the British Commonwealth in
In February, I was visited by General Obasanjo to discuss the nature of the delegation’s brief. He was eager to facilitate a meeting between me and the full group. With the government’s permission, such a meeting was scheduled for May. The group would be talking with the cabinet after they saw me, and I viewed this as a chance to raise the subject of negotiations.
The government regarded my session with the group as something extraordinary. Two days before the meeting I was visited by Brigadier Munro, who had brought along a tailor. “Mandela,” the commander said, “we want you to see these people on an equal footing. We don’t want you to wear those old prison clothes, so this tailor will take your measurements and outfit you with a proper suit.” The tailor must have been some kind of wizard, for the very next day I tried on a pinstriped suit that fit me like a glove. I was also given a shirt, tie, shoes, socks, and underwear. The commander admired my new attire. “Mandela, you look like a prime minister now, not a prisoner,” he said and smiled.
At the meeting between myself and the Eminent Persons Group, we were joined by two significant observers: Kobie Coetsee and Lieutenant General W. H. Willemse, the commissioner of prisons. Like the tailor, these two men were there to take my measure. But, curiously, they left shortly after the session started. I pressed them to remain, saying I had nothing to hide, but they left anyway. Before they took their leave, I told them the time had come for negotiations, not fighting, and that the government and the ANC should sit down and talk..
Eminent Persons Group had come with many questions involving the issues
of violence, negotiations, and international sanctions. At the outset,
I set the ground rules for our discussions. “I
am not the head of the
movement,” I told them. “The head of the movement is Oliver Tambo in
questioned me extensively on the issue of violence, and while I was not
yet willing to renounce violence, I affirmed in the strongest possible
terms that violence could never be the ultimate
solution to the
told them that my release alone would not stem the violence in the
country or stimulate negotiations. After
the group finished with me, they planned to see both Oliver in
May, the Eminent Persons Group was scheduled to see me one last time. I
was optimistic as they had been to both
again, I felt my efforts to move negotiations forward had stalled. Oliver
Tambo and the ANC had called for the people of
In every outward way, the time seemed inauspicious for negotiations. But often, the most discouraging moments are precisely the time to launch an initiative. At such times people are searching for a way out of their dilemma. That month I wrote a very simple letter to General Willemse, the commissioner of prisons. In it, I merely said, “I wish to see you on a matter of national importance.” I handed the letter to Brigadier Munro on a Wednesday.
weekend, I was told by the commanding officer to be prepared to see
General Willemse, who was coming down from
Willemse is a direct fellow and we got down to business immediately. I told him I wanted to see Kobie Coetsee, the minister of justice. He asked me why. I hesitated for a moment, reluctant to discuss political matters with a prison official. But I responded with frankness: “I want to see the minister in order to raise the question of talks between the government and the ANC."
pondered this for a moment, and then said, “Mandela, as you know, I am
not a politician. I cannot discuss such issues myself, for they are
beyond my authority.” He then paused, as if something had just occurred
to him. “It just so happens,” he said, “that the minister of justice is
general then telephoned the minister and the two spoke for a few
moments. After putting down the phone, the general turned to me and
said, “The minister said, ‘Bring him
round.’ ” Minutes later, we left the general’s residence in his car
bound for the minister’s house in
his official residence in the city, Coetsee greeted me warmly and we
settled down on comfortable chairs in his lounge. He apologized that I had
not had a chance to change out of my prison clothes. I spent three
hours in conversation with him and was struck by his sophistication and
willingness to listen. He
and relevant questions — questions that reflected a familiarity with
the issues that divided the government and
He asked me under what circumstances would we suspend the armed
struggle; whether or not I spoke for the ANC as a whole;
whether I envisioned any constitutional guarantees for minorities in a
After responding in much the same way as I did to the Eminent Persons Group, I sensed that Coetsee wanted some resolution. What is the next step? he asked. I told him I wanted to see the state president and the foreign minister, Pik Botha. Coetsee noted this on a small pad he had kept beside him, and said he would send my request through the proper channels. We then shook hands, and I was driven back to my solitary cell on the ground floor of Pollsmoor Prison.
was greatly encouraged. I sensed the government was anxious to overcome
the impasse in the country, that they were now convinced they had to
depart from their old positions. In ghostly outline, I saw the
beginnings of a compromise. I told no one
of my encounter. I wanted the process to be under way before I informed
anyone. Sometimes it is necessary to present one’s colleagues
with a policy that is already a fait accompli. I knew that once they
examined the situation carefully, my colleagues at Pollsmoor and in
After an hour or so, Colonel Marx stopped the car in front of a small shop on a quiet street. “Would you like a cold drink?” he asked me. I nodded, and he disappeared inside the shop. I sat there alone. For the first few moments, I did not think about my situation, but as the seconds ticked away, I became more and more agitated. For the first time in twenty-two years, I was out in the world and unguarded. I had a vision of opening the door, jumping out, and then running and running until I was out of sight. Something inside was urging me to do just that. I noticed a wooded area near the road where I could hide. I was extremely tense and began to perspire. Where was the colonel? But then I took control of myself; such an action would be unwise and irresponsible, not to mention dangerous. It was possible that the whole situation was contrived to try to get me to escape, though I do not think that was the case. I was greatly relieved a few moments later when I saw the colonel walking back to the car with two cans of Coca-Cola.
turned out, that day in
One day I went to the gardens with a captain, and after walking in the fields we strolled over to the stables. There were two young white men in overalls working with the horses. I walked over to them, praised one of the animals, and said to the fellow, “Now, what is this horse’s name?” The young man seemed quite nervous and did not look at me. He then mumbled the name of the horse, but to the captain, not me. I then asked the other fellow in turn what the name of his horse was, and he had precisely the same reaction. As I was walking back to the prison with the captain, I commented on what I thought was the curious behavior of the two young men. The captain laughed. “Mandela, don’t you know what those two chaps were?” I said I did not. “They were white prisoners. They had never been questioned by a native prisoner in the presence of a white officer before."
Some of the younger warders took me quite far afield, and we would walk on the beach and even stop at a café and have tea. At such places, I often tried to see if people recognized me, but no one ever did; the last published picture of me had been taken in 1962.
These trips were instructive on a number of levels. I saw how life had changed in the time I had been away, and because we mainly went to white areas, I saw the extraordinary wealth and ease that whites enjoyed. Though the country was in upheaval and the townships were on the brink of open warfare, white life went on placidly and undisturbed. Their lives were unaffected. Once, one of the warders, a very pleasant young man named Warrant Officer Brand, actually took me to his family’s flat and introduced me to his wife and children. From then on, I sent his children Christmas cards every year.
much as I enjoyed these little adventures, I well knew that the
authorities had a motive other than keeping me diverted. I sensed that
they wanted to acclimatize me to life in
In 1987, I resumed contact with Kobie Coetsee. I had several private meetings with him at his residence, and later that year the government made its first concrete proposal. Coetsee said the government would like to appoint a committee of senior officials to conduct private discussions with me. This would be done with the full knowledge of the state president, Coetsee said. Coetsee himself would be head of the committee, and it would include General Willemse, the commissioner of prisons; Fanie van der Merwe, the director general of the Prisons Department; and Dr. Niel Barnard, a former academic who was then head of the National Intelligence Service. The first three individuals were associated with the prison system, so if talks foundered or were leaked to the press, both sides would be able to cover up and say we were discussing prison conditions and nothing more.
presence of Dr. Barnard, however, disturbed me. He was the head of
That night I considered all the ramifications. I knew that P. W. Botha had created something called the State Security Council, a shadowy secretariat of security experts and intelligence officials. He had done this, according to the press, to circumvent the authority of the cabinet and increase his own power. Dr. Barnard was a key player in this inner council and was said to be a protégé of the president. I thought that my refusing Barnard would alienate Botha, and I decided that such a tack was too risky. If the state president was not brought on board, nothing would happen.
the morning, I sent word to Coetsee that I accepted his offer. I
knew that I had three crucial matters that I needed to address: first,
I wanted to sound out my colleagues on the third floor before I
proceeded any further; second, it was
essential to communicate with Oliver in
Finally, the request was approved, with the proviso that I could see my colleagues one by one, not together. I met them in the visiting area. I had resolved to leave out a few details; I would seek their counsel about the idea of having talks with the government without mentioning that an actual committee had been formed. Walter was first. I told him about my letter to the commissioner of prisons and my meeting with Coetsee. I said that I had discussed with Coetsee the idea of beginning talks with the government and that the government seemed interested. What were his views on the matter?
I have been through thick and thin with Walter. He was a man of reason and wisdom, and no man knew me better than he did. There was no one whose opinion I trusted or valued more. Walter considered what I told him. I could see he was uncomfortable, and at best, lukewarm. “In principle,” he said, “I am not against negotiations. But I would have wished that the government initiated talks with us rather than us initiating talks with them.” I replied that if he was not against negotiations in principle, what did it matter who initiated them? What mattered was what they achieved, not how they started. I told Walter that I thought we should move forward with negotiations and not worry about who knocked on the door first. Walter saw that my mind was made up and he said he would not stop me, but that he hoped I knew what I was doing.
Next was Raymond Mhlaba. I explained the entire situation to him as I had to Walter. Ray was always a man of few words, and for several moments he digested what I had said. He then looked at me and said, “Madiba, what have you been waiting for? We should have started this years ago.” Andrew Mlangeni’s reaction was virtually the same as Ray’s. The last man was Kathy. His response was negative; he was as resolutely against what I was suggesting as Raymond and Andrew were in favor. Even more strongly than Walter, he felt that by initiating talks it would appear that we were capitulating. Like Walter, he said he was not in principle against negotiations, and I responded exactly as I had with Walter. But Kathy was adamant; he felt I was going down the wrong path. But, despite his misgivings, he said he would not stand in my way.
Not long after this I received a note from Oliver Tambo that was smuggled in to me by one of my lawyers. He had heard reports that I was having secret discussions with the government and he was concerned. He said he knew I had been alone for some time and separated from my colleagues. He must have been wondering: What is going on with Mandela? Oliver’s note was brief and to the point: What, he wanted to know, was I discussing with the government? Oliver could not have believed that I was selling out, but he might have thought I was making an error in judgment.
fact, the tenor of his note suggested that.I replied to Oliver in a
very terse letter saying that I was talking to the government about one
thing and one thing only: a meeting between the National
Executive Committee of the ANC and the South African Government. I
would not spell out the details, for I could not trust the
confidentiality of the communication. I simply said the time had
dome for such talks and that I would not compromise the organization in
Although the ANC had called for talks with the government for decades, we had never been confronted with the actual prospect of such talks. It is one thing to consider them in theory, and quite another to engage in them. As I was writing my response to Oliver, I was also beginning to draft my memorandum to P. W. Botha. I would make sure that Oliver saw this as well. I knew that when Oliver and the National Executive read my memo, their fears that I had gone off the road would be allayed.
The first formal meeting of the secret working group took place in May 1988, at a posh officers’ club within the precincts of Pollsmoor. While I knew both Coetsee and Willemse, I had never before met van der Merwe and Dr. Barnard. Van der Merwe was a quiet, levelheaded man who spoke only when he had something important to say. Dr. Barnard was in his mid-thirties and was exceedingly bright, a man of controlled intelligence and self-discipline.
The initial meeting was quite stiff, but in subsequent sessions we were able to talk more freely and directly. I met with them almost every week for a few months, and then the meetings occurred at irregular intervals, sometimes not for a month, and then suddenly every week. The meetings were usually scheduled by the government, but sometimes I would request a session.
During our early meetings, I discovered that my new colleagues, with the exception of Dr. Barnard, knew little about the ANC. They were all sophisticated Afrikaners, and far more open-minded than nearly all of their brethren. But they were the victims of so much propaganda that it was necessary to straighten them out about certain facts. Even Dr. Barnard, who had made a study of the ANC, had received most of his information from police and intelligence files, which which were in the main inaccurate and sullied by the prejudices of the men who had gathered them. He could not help but be infected by the same biases.
I spent some time in the beginning sketching out the history of the ANC and then explaining our positions on the primary issues that divided the organization from the government. After these preliminaries, we focused on the critical issues: the armed struggle, the ANC’s alliance with the Communist Party, the goal of majority rule, and the idea of racial reconciliation.
The first issue to arise was in many ways the most crucial, and that was the armed struggle. We spent a number of months discussing it. They insisted that the ANC must renounce violence and give up the armed struggle before the government would agree to negotiations — and before I could meet President Botha. Their contention was that violence was nothing more than criminal behavior that could not be tolerated by the state.
I responded that the state was responsible for the violence and that it is always the oppressor, not the oppressed, who dictates the form of the struggle. If the oppressor uses violence, the oppressed have no alternative but to respond violently. In our case it was simply a legitimate form of self-defense. I ventured that if the state decided to use peaceful methods, the ANC would also use peaceful means. “It is up to you,” I said, “not us, to renounce violence.”
I think I advanced their understanding on this point, but the issue soon moved from a philosophical question to a practical one. As Minister Coetsee and Dr. Barnard pointed out, the National Party had repeatedly stated that it would not negotiate with any organization that advocated violence: therefore, how could it suddenly announce talks with the ANC without losing its credibility? In order for us to begin talks, they said, the ANC must make some compromise so that the government would not lose face with its own people.
was a fair point and one that I could well understand, but I would not
offer them a way out. “Gentlemen,” I said, “it is not my job to resolve
your dilemma for you.” I simply told them
that they must tell their people that there can be no peace and no
solution to the situation in
ANC’s alliance with the Communist Party seemed to trouble them almost
as much as the armed struggle. The National Party accepted the most
hidebound of 1950s cold war ideology and regarded the
of all, I said, no self-respecting freedom fighter would take orders
from the government he is fighting against or jettison a longtime ally
in the interest of pleasing an antagonist.
I then explained at great length that the party and the ANC were
separate and distinct organizations that shared the
same short-term objectives, the overthrow of racial oppression and the
birth of a nonracial
This discussion went on for months. Like most Afrikaners, they thought that because many of the Communists in the ANC were white or Indian, they were controlling the blacks in the ANC. I cited many occasions when the ANC and the CP had differed on policy and the ANC had prevailed, but this did not seem to impress them. Finally, in exasperation, I said to them, “You gentlemen consider yourselves intelligent, do you not? You consider yourselves forceful and persuasive, do you not? Well, there are four of you and only one of me, and you cannot control me or get me to change my mind. What makes you think the Communists can succeed where you have failed?”
They were also concerned about the idea of nationalization, insisting that the ANC and the Freedom Charter supported blanket nationalization for the South African economy. I explained that we were for a more even distribution of the rewards of certain industries, industries that were already monopolies, and that nationalization might occur in some of those areas. But I referred them to an article I wrote in 1956 for Liberation in which I said that the Freedom Charter was not a blueprint for socialism but for African-style capitalism. I told them I had not changed my mind since then.
other main area of discussion was the issue of majority rule. They felt
that if there was majority role, the rights of minorities would be trampled.
How would the ANC protect the rights of the white minority? they wanted
to know. I said that there was no organization in the history of Soutz
Africa to compare with
ANC in terms of trying to unite all the people and
meetings had a positive effect: I was told in the winter of 1988 that
President Botha was planning to see me before the end of August. The country
was still in turmoil. The government had reimposed a State of
1987, the ANC celebrated its
seventy-fifth anniversary and held a conference at the end of the year
Although violence was still pervasive, the National Party had never been stronger. In the white general election of May 1987, the Nationalists won an overwhelming majority. Worse still, the liberal Progressive Federal Party had been replaced as the official opposition by the Conservative Party, which was to the right of the Nationalists and campaigned on the theme that the government was too lenient with the black opposition.
Despite my optimism about the secret talks, it was a difficult time. I had recently had a visit from Winnie and I learned that 8115 Orlando West, the house in which we had been married and which I considered home, had been burned down by arsonists. We had lost invaluable family records, photographs, and keepsakes — even the slice of wedding cake Winnie was saving for my release. I had always thought that someday when I left prison I would be able to recapture the past when looking over those pictures and letters, and now they were gone. Prison had robbed me of my freedom but not my memories, and now I felt some enemies of the struggle had tried to rob me of even those.
also suffering from a bad cough that I could not seem to shake, and I
often felt too weak to exercise. I had continued to complain about the dampness
of my cell, but nothing had been done about it. One day, during a
meeting in the visiting area with my attorney, Ismail Ayob, I felt ill
and vomited. I was taken back to my cell,
examined by a doctor, and I soon recovered. A few days later, however,
I was in my cell after dinner when a number
of warders and a doctor arrived. The physician gave me a cursory
examination, and then one of the warders told me to get dressed. “We are
taking you to hospital in
While sitting on a table in the examining room, I was looked at by a young and amiable doctor who was also a professor at the university medical school. He inspected my throat, tapped my chest, took some cultures, and in no time pronounced me fit. “There is nothing wrong with you,” he said with a smile. “We should be able to release you tomorrow.” I was anxious not to be diverted from my talks with the government, so I was pleased with his diagnosis.
After the examination, the doctor asked me if I would like some tea. I said I would and a few minutes later, a tall young Coloured nurse came in with a tray. The presence of all the armed guards and warders so frightened her that she dropped the tray on my bed, spilling the tea, before rushing out.
I spent the night in the empty ward under heavy guard. The first thing the next morning, even before I had breakfast, I was visited by an older doctor who was head of internal medicine at the hospital. He was a no-nonsense fellow and had far less of a bedside manner than the cordial young physician of the night before. Without any preliminaries, he tapped me roughly on my chest and then said gruffly, “There is water in your lung.” I told him that the previous doctor had done tests and said I was fine. With a hint of annoyance, he said, “Mandela, take a look at your chest.” He pointed out that one side of my chest was actually larger than the other, and said that it was probably filled with water.
He asked a nurse to bring him a syringe, and without further ado he poked it into my chest and drew out some brownish liquid. “Have you had breakfast?” he said. No, I replied. “Good,” he said, “we are taking you to the operating theater immediately.” He told me I had a great deal of water on my lung and he wanted to draw it out right away.
In the operating room I was given anesthesia, and the next thing I recalled was waking up in a room with the doctor present. I was groggy, but I concentrated on what he said: he had removed two liters of water from my chest and when the liquid was analyzed, a tuberculosis germ had been discovered. He said it was in the very early stages of the illness, and that the germ had done no damage to the lung. While full-blown tuberculosis normally took six months to cure, he said, I should be better in two months. The doctor agreed that it was probably the damp cell that had helped cause my illness.
I spent the next six weeks at Tygerberg recuperating and receiving treatment. In December, I was moved to the Constantiaberge Clinic, a luxurious facility near Pollsmoor that had never had a black patient before. My first morning there, I had an early visit from Kobie Coetsee, who was accompanied by Major Marais, a deputy commander responsible for looking after me. We had barely exchanged greetings when the orderly brought in my breakfast.
Because of my recent illness and my history of high blood pressure, I had been put on a strict low-cholesterol diet. That order had apparently not yet been conveyed to the clinic’s kitchen, for the breakfast tray contained scrambled eggs, three rashers of bacon, and several pieces of buttered toast. I could not remember the last time I had tasted bacon and eggs, and I was ravenous. Just as I was about to take a delicious forkful of egg, Major Marais said, “No, Mandela, that is against the orders of your physician,” and he reached over to take the tray. I held it tightly, and said, “Major, I am sorry. If this breakfast will kill me, then today I am prepared to die.” Once I was ensconced at Constantiaberge, I again began to meet with Kobie Coetsee and the secret committee. While I was still at the clinic Coetsee said he wanted to put me in a situation that was halfway between confinement and freedom. While he did not spell out what this meant, I had a notion of what he was talking about, and I merely nodded. I would not be so naïve as to consider his proposal to be freedom, but I knew that it was a step in that direction.
In the meantime, the clinic was extremely comfortable and for the first time I actually enjoyed a hospital convalescence. The nurses — who were white or Coloured, no black nurses were permitted — spoiled me; they brought extra desserts and pillows and were constantly visiting, even during their time off.
One day, one of the nurses came to me and said, “Mr. Mandela, we are having a party tonight and we would like you to come.” I said I’d be honored to attend, but that the authorities would undoubtedly have something to say about it. The prison authorities refused permission for me to go, which nettled the nurses, and as a result, they decided to hold their party in my room, insisting they could not have their party without me.
That night, a dozen or so of these young ladies in party frocks descended on my room with cake and punch and gifts. The guards seemed befuddled, but they could hardly consider these vivacious young girls a security risk. In fact, when one of the guards attempted to prevent some ofthe nurses from entering my room, I jestingly accused him of being jealous of an old man receiving so much attention from such beautiful young ladies.
In early December 1988, security on my ward was tightened and the officers on duty were more alert than usual. Some change was imminent. On the evening of December 9, Major Marais came into my room, and told me to prepare myself to leave. Where to? I asked him. He could not say.
packed my things and looked around for some of my loyal nurses; I was
disappointed at not being able to thank them and bid them farewell. We
left in a rush, and after about an hour on the road we entered a prison
whose name I recognized: Victor Verster. Located in the lovely old Cape
I was ushered into the house by Major Marais and found a spacious lounge, next to a large kitchen, with an even larger bedroom at the back of the house. The place was sparsely but comfortably furnished. It had not been cleaned or swept before my arrival, and the bedroom and living room were teeming with all kinds of exotic insects, centipedes, monkey spiders, and the like, some of which I had never seen before. That night, I swept the insects off my bed and windowsill and slept extremely well in what was to be my new home.
The next morning I surveyed my new abode and discovered a swimming pool in the backyard, and two smaller bedrooms. I walked outside and admired the trees that shaded the house and kept it cool. The entire place felt removed, isolated. The only thing spoiling the idyllic picture was that the walls were topped with razor wire, and there were guards at the entrance to the house. Even so, it was a lovely place and situation; a halfway house between prison and freedom.
afternoon I was visited by Kobie Coetsee, who brought a case of
The cottage did in fact give one the illusion of freedom. I could go to sleep and wake up as I pleased, swim whenever I wanted, eat when I was hungry — all were delicious sensations. Simply to be able to go outside during the day and take a walk when I desired was a moment of private glory. There were no bars on the windows, no jangling keys, no doors to lock or unlock. It was altogether pleasant, but I never forgot that it was a gilded cage.
prison service provided me with a cook, Warrant Officer Swart, a tall,
quiet Afrikaner who had once been a warder on
Warrant Officer Swart baked bread, made home-brewed ginger beer and assorted other delicacies. When I had visitors, which was increasingly often, he would prepare gourmet meals. They always praised the food and I daresay my chef was the envy of all my visitors. When the authorities began to permit some of my ANC comrades and members of the United Democratic Front (UDF) and the Mass Democratic Movement (MDM) to visit me, I accused them of coming only for the food.
One day, after a delicious meal prepared by Mr. Swart, I went into the kitchen to wash the dishes. “No,” he said, “that is my duty. You must return to the sitting room.” I insisted that I had to do something, and that if he cooked, it was only fair for me to do the dishes. Mr. Swart protested, but finally gave in. He also objected to the fact that I would make my bed in the morning, saying it was his responsibility to do so. But I had been making my own bed for so long it had become a reflex.
We also traded off in another respect. Like many Afrikaans-speaking warders, he was keen to improve his English. I was always looking for ways to improve my Afrikaans. We made an agreement: he would speak to me in English and I would answer in Afrikaans, and in that way we both practiced the language at which we were weakest.
I would occasionally ask him to make certain dishes for me. I sometimes requested samp and beans, which I used to eat as a boy. One day, I said to him, “You know, I would like you to cook me some brown rice.” To my astonishment, he said, “What is brown rice?” Swart was a young man, and I explained to him that brown rice was the unrefined rice kernel, and we used to eat it during the war when white rice was unavailable. I said it was far healthier than white rice. He was skeptical, but managed to find me some. He cooked it and I enjoyed it very much. But Mr. Swart could not abide the taste and vowed that if I ever wanted it again, I would have to cook it myself.
Even though I was not a drinker, I wanted to be a proper host and serve wine to my guests. I would occasionally take a sip of wine in order to make my guests feel comfortable, but the only wine I can stomach is a South African semisweet wine, which is actually very swweet.
Before my guests came I would ask Mr. Swart to get a certain type of Nederburg wine, which I had tasted before and knew was a semisweet. One day, I was expecting my friends and lawyers for lunch, Dullah Omar, George Bizos, and Ismail Ayob, and asked Mr. Swart to purchase some Nederburg wine should George Bizos, not a Muslim, want some with his meal. I noticed that he grimaced when I said this, and asked him what was wrong.
“Mr. Mandela,” he said. “I always buy that wine for you because you ask me to, but it is cheap stuff and not very nice.” I reminded him that I did not like dry wines and I was sure George could not tell the difference anyway. Mr. Swart smiled at this and proposed a compromise: he would go out and buy two bottles, a dry wine and my Nederburg, and then he would ask my guest which wine he preferred. “Fine,” I said, “let us try your experiment."
When all four of us were seated for lunch, Swart came out holding the two bottles and turned to the guests and said, “Gentlemen, which wine would you like?” Without even looking at me, George pointed to the bottle of dry white. Warrant Officer Swart just smiled.
meetings with the committee continued,
and we stalled on the same issues that had always prevented us from
moving forward: the armed struggle, the
Party, and majority rule. I was still pressing Coetsee for a meeting
with P. W. Botha. By this time, the authorities permmitted me to have
rudimentary communications with my comrades at Pollsmoor and Robben
Island and also the ANC in Lusaka.
Although I knew I was going out ahead of my colleagues, I did not want to go too far ahead and find that I was all alone. In January 1989, I was visited by my four comrades from Pollsmoor and we discussed the memorandum I was planning to send to the state president. The memorandum reiterated most of the points I had made in our secret committee meetings, but I wanted to make sure the state president heard them directly from me. He would see that we were not wild-eyed terrorists, but reasonable men.
disturbed,” I wrote to Mr. Botha in the memorandum, sent to him in
March, “as many other South Africans no doubt are, by the specter of a
the question of violence I wrote that the refusal of the ANC to
renounce violence was not the problem: “The truth is that the
government is not yet ready .
. . for the
sharing of political power with blacks.” I explained our unwillingness
to cast aside the SACP, and reiterated that we were not under
its control. “Which man of honour,” I wrote, “will desert a lifelong
friend at the insistence of a common opponent and still retain a
measure of credibility with his people?” I
said the rejection of majority rule by the government was a poorly
disguised attempt to preserve power. I suggested he must
face reality. “Majority rule and internal peace are like the two sides
of a single coin, and white
At the end of the letter, I offered a very rough framework for negotiations.
Two political issues will have to be addressed; firstly, the demand for majority rule in a unitary state, secondly, the concern of white South Africa over this demand, as well as the insistence of whites on structural guarantees that majority rule will not mean domination of the white minority by blacks. The most crucial tasks which will face the government and the ANC will be to reconcile these two positions.
I Propoosed that this be done in two stages, the first being a discussion to create the proper conditions for negotiations, the second being the actual negotiations themselves. “I must point out that the move I have taken provides you with the opportunity to overcome the current deadlock, and to normalize the country’s political situation. I hope you will seize it without delay."
But delay there was. In January, P. W. Botha suffered a stroke. While it did not incapacitate the president, it did weaken him and, according to his cabinet, made him even more irascible. In February, Botha unexpectedly resigned as head of the National Party, but kept his position as state president. This was an unparalleled situation in the country’s history: in the South African parliamentary system, the leader of the majority party becomes the head of state. President Botha was now head of state but not of his own party. Some saw this as a positive development: that Botha wanted to be “above party politics” in order to bring about true change in South Africa.
violence and international pressure continued to intensify. Political
detainees all across the country had held a successful hunger strike, persuading
the minister of law and order to release over nine hundred of them. In
1989, the UDF formed an alliance with the Congress of South African
Trade Unions (COSATU) to form the Mass Democratic Movement (MDM), which
then began organizing a countrywide “defiance campaign” of
civil disobedience to challenge apartheid institutions. On the
international front, Oliver held talks with the governments of
violence also had its tragic side. As the violence in
That July, for my seventy-first birthday, I was visited at the cottage at Victor Verster by nearly my entire family. It was the first time I had ever had my wife and children and grandchildren all in one place, and it was a grand and happy occasion. Warrant Officer Swart outdid himself in preparing a feast, and he did not even get upset when I permitted some of the grandchildren to eat their sweets before their main course. After the meal, the grandchildren went into my bedroom to watch a video of a horror movie while the adults stayed outside gossiping in the lounge. It was a deep, deep pleasure to have my whole family around me, and the only pain was the knowledge that I had missed such occasions for so many years.
Before leaving, the general also asked me my blood type, just in case anything untoward should happen the following day. I prepared as best I could for the meeting. I reviewed my memo and the extensive notes I had made for it. I looked at as many newspapers and publications as I could to make sure I was up to date. After President Botha’s resignation as head of the National Party, F. W. de Klerk had been elected in his place, and there was said to be considerable jockeying between the two men. Some might interpret Botha’s willingness to meet me as his way of stealing thunder from his rival, but that did not concern me. I rehearsed the arguments that the state president might make and the ones I would put in return. In every meeting with an adversary, one must make sure one has conveyed precisely the impression one intends to. I was tense about seeing Mr. Botha. He was known as die Groot Krokodil — the Great Crocodile — and I had heard many accounts of his ferocious temper. He seemed to me to be the very model of the old-fashioned, stiff-necked, stubborn Afrikaner who did not so much discuss matters with black leaders as dictate to them. His recent stroke had apparently only exacerbated this tendency. I resolved that if he acted in thatfinger-wagging fashion with me I would have to inform him that I found such behavior unacceptable, and I would then stand up and adjourn the meeting.
At precisely 5:30 in the morning, Major Marais, the commander of Victor Verster, arrived at my cottage. He came into the lounge where I stood in front of him in my new suit for inspection. He walked around me, and then shook his head from side to side. “No, Mandela, your tie,” he said. One did not have much use for ties in prison, and I realized that morning when I was putting it on that I had forgotten how to tie it properly. I made a knot as best I could and hoped no one would notice. Major Marais unbuttoned my collar, loosened and then removed my tie, and then, standing behind me, tied it in a double Windsor knot. He then stood back to admire his handiwork. “Much better,” he said.
drove from Victor Verster to Pollsmoor, to the residence of General
Willemse, where we were served breakfast by the general’s wife. After breakfast,
in a small convoy, we drove to Tuynhuys, the official presidential
office, and parked in an underground garage where we would not be seen.
Tuynhuys is a graceful, nineteenth-century
We took an elevator to the ground floor and emerged in a grand, wood-paneled lobby in front of the president’s office. There we were met by Kobie Coetsee and Niel Barnard, and a retinue of prison officials. I had spoken extensively with both Coetsee and Dr. Barnard about this meeting, and they had always advised me to avoid controversial issues with the president. While we were waiting, Dr. Barnard looked down and noticed that my shoelaces were not properly tied and he quickly kneeled down to tie them for me. I realized just how nervous they were, and that did not make me any calmer. The door then opened and I walked in expecting the worst.
From the opposite side of his grand office, P. W. Botha walked toward me. He had planned his march perfectly, for we met exactly halfway. He had his hand out and was smiling broadly, and in fact, from that very first moment, he completely disarmed me. He was unfailingly courteous, deferential, and friendly.
We very quickly posed for a photograph of the two of us shaking hands, and then were joined at a long table by Kobie Coetsee, General Willemse, and Dr. Barnard. Tea was served and we began to talk. From the first, it was not as though we were engaged in tense political arguments but a lively and interesting tutorial. We did not discuss substantive issues, so much as history and South African culture. I mentioned that I had recently read an article in an Afrikaans magazine about the 1914 Afrikaner Rebellion, and I mentioned how they had occupied towns in the Free State. I said I saw our struggle as parallel to this famous rebellion, and we discussed this historical episode for quite a while. South African history, of course, looks very different to the black man than to the white man. Their view was that the rebellion had been a quarrel between brothers, whereas my struggle was a revolutionary one. I said that it could also be seen as a struggle between brothers who happen to be different colors.
The meeting was not even half an hour, and was friendly and breezy until the end. It was then that I raised a serious issue. I asked Mr. Botha to release unconditionally all political prisoners, including myself. That was the only tense moment in the meeting, and Mr. Botha said that he was afraid that he could not do that.
There was then a brief discussion as to what we should say if news of the meeting leaked out. We very quickly drafted a bland statement saying that we had met for tea in an effort to promote peace in the country. When this was agreed upon, Mr. Botha rose and shook my hand, saying what a pleasure it had been. Indeed, it had been. I thanked him, and left the way we had come.
While the meeting was not a breakthrough in terms of negotiations, it was one in another sense. Mr. Botha had long talked about the need to cross the Rubicon, but he never did it himself until that morning at Tuynhuys. Now, I felt, there was no turning back.
A little more than a month later, in August 1989, P. W. Botha went on national television to announce his resignation as state president. In a curiously rambling farewell address, he accused cabinet members of a breach of trust, of ignoring him and of playing into the hands of the African National Congress. The following day, F. W. de Klerk was sworn in as acting president and affirmed his commitment to change and reform.
To us, Mr. de Klerk was a cipher. When he became head of the National Party, he seemed to be the quintessential party man, nothing more and nothing less. Nothing in his past seemed to hint at a spirit of reform. As education minister, he had attempted to keep black students out of white universities. But as soon as he took over the National Party, I began to follow him closely. I read all of his speeches, listened to what he said, and began to see that he represented a genuine departure from his predecessor. He was not an ideologue, but a pragmatist, a man who saw change as necessary and inevitable. On the day he was sworn in, I wrote him a letter requesting a meeting.
his inaugural address, Mr. de Klerk said his government was committed
to peace and that it would negotiate with any other group committed to peace.
But his commitment to a new order was demonstrated only after his
inauguration when a march was planned in
as de Klerk became president, I
continued to meet with the secret negotiating committee. We
were joined by Gerrit Viljoen, the minister of constitutional
development, a brilliant man with a doctorate in classics, whose role
was to bring our discussions into a constitutional framework. I pressed
the government to display evidence of its good intentions, urging the
state to show its bona fides by releasing my fellow political prisoners at
October 10, 1989, President de Klerk announced that Walter Sisulu and
seven of my former
But my gratitude paled compared to my unalloyed joy that Walter and the others were free. It was a day we had yearned for and fought for over so many years. De Klerk had lived up to his promise, and the men were released under no bans; they could speak in the name of the ANC. It was clear that the ban on the organization had effectively expired, a vindication of our long struggle and our resolute adherence to principle.
De Klerk began a systematic dismantling of many of the building blocks of apartheid. He opened South African beaches to people of all colors, and stated that the Reservation of Separate Amenities Act would soon be repealed. Since 1953 this act had enforced what was known as “petty apartheid,” segregating parks, theaters, restaurants, buses, libraries, toilets, and other public facilities, according to race. In November, he announced that the National Security Management System, a secret structure set up under P. W. Botha to combat anti-apartheid forces, would be dissolved.
early December, I was informed that a
meeting with de Klerk was set for the twelfth of that month. By
this time I was able to consult with my colleagues new and old, and I
had meetings at the cottage with my old colleagues, and the leaders of
the Mass Democratic Movement and the UDF. I received ANC people from
all of the regions, as well as delegates from the UDF and COSATU. One
of these young men was Cyril Ramaphosa, the general secretary of the
National Union of Mine Workers and one of the ablest of the new
generation of leadership. I also had visits from colleagues of mine from
said that the spirit of that speech had not been much in evidence of
late. The government’s policies were perceived by many as a
continuation of apartheid by other means. The government, I said, had
spent too much time talking with black homeland leaders and others
coopted by the system; these men, I asserted, were the agents of an
oppressive past that the mass of black South Africans rejected.
reiterated my proposal that talks take place in two stages. I told him
I fully supported the guidelines the ANC had adopted in the Harare
Declaration of 1989, which put the onus on the government to eliminate
the obstacles to negotiations that the state itself had created. Those
demands included the release of all political prisoners, the lifting of
all bans on restricted organizations and persons, the end to the State
the morning of December 13, I was again taken to Tuynhuys. I met de
Klerk in the same room where I had had tea with his predecessor. Mr. de
Klerk was accompanied by Kobie Coetsee, General Willemse, Dr. Barnard,
and his colleague Mike Louw. I congratulated Mr. de Klerk on becoming
president and expressed the hope that we would be able to work
together. He was extremely cordial and reciprocated these sentiments.
the first I noticed that Mr. de Klerk listened to what I had to say.
This was a novel experience. National Party leaders generally heard
what they wanted to hear in discussions with black leaders, but Mr. de
Klerk seemed to be making an attempt to truly understand.
of the issues I emphasized that day was the National Party’s recently
introduced five-year plan, which contained the concept of “group
rights.” The idea of “group rights” was that no racial or ethnic group
could take precedence over any other. Although they defined “group
rights” as a way of protecting the freedom of minorities in a new
added that it was not in his interest to retain this concept, for it
gave the impression that he wanted to modernize apartheid without
abandoning it; this was damaging his image and that of the National
Party in the eyes of the progressive forces in this country and around
the world. An oppressive system cannot be reformed, I said, it must be
entirely cast aside. I mentioned an editorial that I had recently read
in Die Burger, the
mouthpiece of the National Party in the
Mr. de Klerk, I saw that day, does not react quickly to things. It was a mark of the man that he listened to what I had to say and did not argue with me. “You know,” he said, “my aim is no different than yours. Your memo to P. W. Botha said the ANC and the government should work together to deal with white fears of black domination, and the idea of ‘group rights’ is how we propose to deal with it.” I was impressed with this response, but said that the idea of “group rights” did more to increase black fears than allay white ones. De Klerk then said, “We will have to change it, then.”
then brought up the question of my freedom and said that if he expected
me to go out to pasture upon my release he was greatly mistaken. I
reaffirmed that if I was released into the same conditions under which
I had been arrested I would go back to doing precisely those things for
which I had been imprisoned. I made the case to him that the best way
to move forward was to unban the ANC and all other political
organizations, to lift the
he listened carefully to what I had to say. My suggestions certainly
came as no surprise to him. He said he would take all that I said under
consideration, but that he would make no promises. The meeting was an
exploratory one and I understood that nothing was going to be resolved
that day. But it was extremely useful, for I had taken the measure of
Mr. de Klerk just as I did with new prison commanders when I was on
Robben Island. I was able to write to
our people in
February 2, 1990, F. W. de Klerk stood
before Parliament to make the traditional opening speech and did
something no other South African head of state had ever done: he truly
began to dismantle the apartheid system and lay the groundwork for a
was a breathtaking moment, for in one sweeping action he had virtually
normalized the situation in
February 9, seven days after Mr. de Klerk’s speech opening Parliament,
I was informed that I was again going to Tuynhuys. I arrived at six
o’clock in the evening. I met a smiling Mr. de Klerk in his office and
as we shook hands, he informed me that he was going to release me from
prison the following day. Although the press in
Mr. de Klerk’s announcement nevertheless came as a surprise to me. I had not been told that the reason Mr. de Klerk wanted to see me was to tell me that he was making me a free man. I felt a conflict between my blood and my brain. I deeply wanted to leave prison as soon as I could, but to do so on such short notice would not be wise. I thanked Mr. de Klerk, and then said that at the risk of appearing ungrateful I would prefer to have a week’s notice in order that my family and my organization could be prepared for my release. Simply to walk out tomorrow, I said, would cause chaos. I asked Mr. de Klerk to release me a week from that day. After waiting twenty-seven years, I could certainly wait another seven days.
Klerk was taken aback by my response. Instead of replying, he continued
to relate the plan for my release. He said that the government would
fly me to
Klerk was again nonplused. But this time my objections caused a
reaction. He excused himself and left his office to consult with
others. After ten minutes he returned with a rather long face and said,
“Mr. Mandela, it is too late to change the plan now.” I replied that
the plan was unacceptable and that I wanted to be released a week hence
and at Victor Verster, not
De Klerk again excused himself and left the room. After ten minutes he returned with a compromise: yes, I could be released at Victor Verster, but, no, the release could not be postponed. The government had already informed the foreign press that I was to be set free tomorrow and felt they could not renege on that statement. I felt I could not argue with that. In the end, we agreed on the compromise, and Mr. de Klerk poured a tumbler of whisky for each of us to drink in celebration. I raised the glass in a toast, but only pretended to drink; such spirits are too strong for me.
did not get back to my cottage until
shortly before midnight, whereupon I immediately sent word to my
awoke on the day of my release after only a few hours’ sleep at 4:30 A.M. February
11 was a cloudless, end-of-summer
were numerous matters that had to be discussed and resolved with very
little time to do so. A number of comrades from the reception committee,
including Cyril Ramaphosa and Trevor Manuel, were at the house bright
and early. I wanted initially to address the people of Paarl, who had
been very kind to me during my incarceration, but the reception
committee was adamant that that would not be a good idea: it would look curious
if I gave my first speech to the prosperous white burghers of Paarl.
Instead, as planned, I would speak first to the people of
of the first questions to be resolved was where I would spend my first
night of freedom. My inclination was to spend the night in the
The prison service supplied me with boxes and crates for packing. During my first twenty or so years in prison, I accumulated very few possessions, but in the last few years I had amassed enough property — mainly books and papers — to make up for previous decades. I filled over a dozen crates and boxes.
actual release time was set for 3 P.M.,
Winnie and Walter and the other passengers from the chartered flight
Warrant Officer James Gregory was also there at the house, and I embraced him warmly. In the years that he had looked after me from Pollsmoor through Victor Verster, we had never discussed politics, but our bond was an unspoken one and I would miss his soothing presence. Men like Swart, Gregory, and Warrant Officer Brand reinforced my belief in the essential humanity even of those who had kept me behind bars for the previous twenty-seven and a half years.
There was little time for lengthy farewells. The plan was that Winnie and I would be driven in a car to the front gate of the prison. I had told the authorities that I wanted to be able to say good-bye to the guards and warders who had looked after me and I asked that they and their families wait for me at the front gate, where I would be able to thank them individually.
At a few minutes after three, I was telephoned by a well-known SABC presenter who requested that I get out of the car a few hundred feet before the gate so that they could film me walking toward freedom. This seemed reasonable, and I agreed to do it. This was my first inkling that things might not go as calmly as I had imagined.
By 3:30, I began to get restless, as we were already behind schedule. I told the members of the reception committee that my people had been waiting for me for twenty-seven years and I did not want to keep them waiting any longer. Shortly before four, we left in a small motorcade from the cottage. About a quarter of a mile in front of the gate, the car slowed to a stop and Winnie and I got out and began to walk toward the prison gate.
At first, I could not really make out what was going on in front of us, but when I was within one hundred fifty feet or so, I saw a tremendous commotion and a great crowd of people: hundreds of photographers and television cameras and newspeople as well as several thousand wellwishers.
I was astounded and a little bit alarmed. I had truly not expected such a scene; at most, I had imagined that there would be several dozen people, mainly the warders and their families. But this proved to be only the beginning; I realized we had not thoroughly prepared for all that was about to happen.
Within twenty feet or so of the gate, the cameras started clicking, a noise that sounded like some great herd of metallic beasts. Reporters started shouting questions; television crews began crowding in; ANC supporters were yelling and cheering. It was a happy, if slightly disorienting chaos.
When a television crew thrust a long, dark, furry object at me, I recoiled slightly, wondering if it were some newfangled weapon developed while I was in prison. Winnie informed me that it was a microphone.
I was among the crowd I raised my right fist and there was a roar. I
had not been able to do that for twenty-seven years and it gave me a surge
of strength and joy. We stayed among the crowd for only a few minutes
before jumping back into the car for the drive to
countryside was lush and well cared for, but what surprised me was how
many white families were standing beside the road to get a glimpse of
our motorcade. They had heard on the radio that we were taking an
alternate route. Some, perhaps a dozen, even raised their clenched right fists
in what had become the ANC power salute. This astonished me; I was
tremendously encouraged by these few brave souls from a conservative farming
area who expressed their solidarity. At one point, I stopped and got
out of the car to greet and thank one such white family and tell them
how inspired I was by their support. It made me think that the
entered the outskirts of the city, I could see people streaming toward
the center. The reception committee had organized a rally at the Grand
The driver was even more anxious than Winnie and I, and he was clamoring to jump out of the car. I told him to stay calm and remain inside, that others from the cars behind us would come to our rescue. Allan Boesak and others began to attempt to clear a way for our vehicle and push the people off the car, but with little success. We sat inside — it would have been futile to even attempt to open the door, so many people were pressing on it — for more than an hour, imprisoned by thousands of our own supporters. The scheduled beginning of the speech had long passed.
Several dozen marshals eventually came to the rescue and managed slowly to clear an exit path. When we finally broke free, the driver set off at great speed in the opposite direction from City Hall. “Man, where are you going?” I asked him in some agitation. “I don’t know!” he said, his voice tense with anxiety. “I’ve never experienced anything like that before,” he said, and then continued driving without any destination in mind.
When he began to calm down I gave him directions to the house of my friend and attorney Dullah Omar, who lived in the Indian area of the city. We could go there, I said, and relax for a few minutes. This appealed to him. Fortunately, Dullah and his family were home, but they were more than a bit surprised to see us. I was a free man for the first time in twenty-seven years, but instead of greeting me, they said with some concern, “Aren’t you meant to be at the Grand Parade?”
We were able to sip some cold drinks at Dullah’s, but we had only been there a few minutes when Archbishop Tutu telephoned. How he knew we were there I do not know. He was quite distressed and said, “Nelson, you must come back to the Grand Parade immediately. The people are growing restless. If you do not return straightaway I cannot vouch for what will happen. I think there might be an uprising!” I said I would return at once.
Our problem was the driver: he was deeply reluctant to return to the Grand Parade. But I remonstrated with him and soon we were on our way back to City Hall. The building was surrounded by people on all sides, but it was not as dense in the back, and the driver managed to make his way through to the rear entrance. It was almost dusk when I was led up to the top floor of this stately building whose halls had always been filled with shuffling white functionaries. I walked out onto the balcony and saw a boundless sea of people cheering, holding flags and banners, clapping, and laughing.
I raised my fist to the crowd and the crowd responded with an enormous cheer. Those cheers fired me anew with the spirit of the struggle. “Amandla!” I called out. “Ngawethu!” they responded. “iAfrika!” I yelled; “Mayibuye!” they answered. Finally, when the crowd had settled down a bit, I took out my speech and then reached into my breast pocket for my glasses. They were not there; I had left them at Victor Verster. I knew Winnie’s glasses were a similar prescription and I borrowed hers.
comrades and fellow South Africans. I greet you all in the name of
peace, democracy and freedom for all! I stand here before you not as a
prophet but as a humble servant of you,
the people. Your tireless and heroic sacrifices have made it possible
for me to be here today. I therefore place the remaining years of my
life in your hands.
spoke from the heart. I wanted
first of all to tell the people that I was not a messiah, but an
ordinary man who had became a leader because of extraordinary
circumstances. I wanted immediately to thank the people all over the
world who had campaigned for my release. I thanked the people of
told the crowd in no uncertain terms that apartheid had no future in
said I hoped that a climate conducive to a negotiated settlement could
soon be achieved, ending the need for the armed struggle. The steps to achieving
such a climate, I said, had been outlined in the ANC’s 1989 Harare
Declaration. As a condition to real negotiations, I said, the government
must immediately end the State of
I told the people that de Klerk had gone further than any other Nationalist leader to normalize the situation and then, in words that came back to haunt me, I called Mr. de Klerk “a man of integrity.” These words were flung back at me many times when Mr. de Klerk seemed not to live up to them.
It was vital for me to show my people and the government that I was unbroken and unbowed, and that the struggle was not over for me but beginning anew in a different form. I affirmed that I was “a loyal and disciplined member of the African National Congress.” I encouraged the people to return to the barricades, to intensify the struggle, and we would walk the last mile together.
was evening by the time my speech was finished, and we were hustled
back into our cars for the trip to Bishop’s Court. As we entered its
pristine environs, I saw hundreds of black
faces waiting to greet me. When they saw us, the people burst into
song. When I greeted Archbishop Tutu, I enveloped
him in a great hug; here was a man who had inspired an entire nation
with his words and his courage, who had revived the people’s hope
during the darkest of times. We were led inside the house where more
family and friends met us, but for me, the most wonderful moment was when
I was told that I had a telephone call from
dream upon leaving prison was to take a leisurely drive down to the
I was scheduled to hold a press conference the afternoon after my release, and in the morning I met with a number of my colleagues to talk about scheduling and strategy. A small mountain of telegrams and messages of congratulations had arrived, and I tried to review as many of these as possible. There were telegrams from all around the world, from presidents and prime ministers, but I remember one in particular from a white Cape Town housewife that amused me greatly. It read: “I am very glad that you are free, and that you are back among your friends and family, but your speech yesterday was very boring.”
Before I went to prison I never held such a press conference as I did that day. In the old days there were no television cameras, and most ANC press conferences were conducted clandestinely. That afternoon, there were so many journalists, from so many different countries, I did not know whom to speak with. I was pleased to see a high percentage of black journalists among the throng. At the press conference I was once again keen to reassert a number of themes: first, that I was a loyal and disciplined member of the ANC. I was mindful of the fact that the most senior ANC people would be watching my release from abroad, and attempting to gauge my fidelity from a distance. I was aware that they had heard rumors that I had strayed from the organization, that I was compromised, so at every turn I sought to reassure them. When asked what role I would play in the organization, I told the press that I would play whatever role the ANC ordered.
I told the reporters that there was no contradiction between my continuing support for the armed struggle and my advocating negotiations. It was the reality and the threat of the armed struggle that had brought the government to the verge of negotiations. I added that when the state stopped inflicting violence on the ANC, the ANC would reciprocate with peace. Asked about sanctions, I said the ANC could not yet call for the relaxation of sanctions, because the situation that caused sanctions in the first place — the absence of political rights for blacks — was still the status quo. I might be out of jail, I said, but I was not yet free.
asked as well about the fears of whites. I knew that people expected me
to harbor anger toward whites. But I had none. In prison, my anger toward
whites decreased, but my hatred for the system grew. I wanted
my very first press conference I
noticed that journalists were as eager to learn about my personal
feelings and relationships as my political thoughts.
This was new to me; when I went to prison, a journalist would never
have thought of asking questions about one’s wife and family, one’s emotions,
one’s most intimate moments. While it was understandable that the press
might be interested in these things, I nevertheless found their curiosity
difficult to satisfy. I am not and never have been a man who finds it
easy to talk about his feelings in public. I was often asked by
reporters how it felt to be free,
and I did my best to describe the indescribable, and usually failed. After
the press conference, Archbishop Tutu’s wife telephoned us from
The following morning we flew by helicopter to the First National Bank Stadium in Soweto. We were able to make an aerial tour of Soweto, the teeming metropolis of matchbox houses, tin shanties, and dirt roads, the mother city of black urban South Africa, the only home I ever knew as a man before I went to prison. While Soweto had grown, and in some places prospered, the overwhelming majority of the people remained dreadfully poor, without electricity or running water, eking out an existence that was shameful in a nation as wealthy as South Africa. In many places, the poverty was far worse than when I went to prison.
circled over the stadium, overflowing with 120,000 people, and landed
in the center. The stadium was so crowded, with people sitting or standing
in every inch of space, that it looked as though it would burst. I
expressed my delight to be back among them, but I then scolded the
people for some of the crippling problems
of urban black life. Students, I said, must return to school. Crime
must be brought under control. I told them that I had
heard of criminals masquerading as freedom fighters, harassing innocent
people and setting alight vehicles; these rogues had no place in the struggle.
Freedom without civility, freedom without the ability to live in peace,
was not true freedom at all.
my return to
That night, I returned with Winnie to number 8115 in Orlando West. It was only then that I knew in my heart that I had left prison. For me, 8115 was the centerpoint of my world, the place marked with an X in my mental geography. The house had been soundly rebuilt after the fire. When I saw the four-roomed house, I was surprised by how much smaller and humbler it was than I remembered it being. Compared to my cottage at VictorVerster, number 8115 could have been the servants’ quarters at the back. But any house in which a man is free is a castle when compared to even the plushest prison.
That night, as happy as I was to be home, I had a sense that what I most wanted and longed for was going to be denied me. I yearned to resume a normal and ordinary life, to pick up some of the old threads from my life as a young man, to be able to go to my office in the morning and return to my family in the evening, to be able to pop out and buy some toothpaste at the pharmacy, to visit in the evening with old friends. These ordinary things are what one misses most in prison, and dreams about doing when one is free. But I quickly realized that such things were not going to be possible. That night, and every night for the next weeks and months, the house was surrounded by hundreds of well-wishers. People sang and danced and called out, and their joy was infectious. These were my people, and I had no right and no desire to deny myself to them. But in giving myself to my people I could see that I was once again taking myself away from my family.
did not sleep much that night, as the singing continued until the early
hours, when members of the ANC and UDF who were guarding the house
begged the crowd to remain quiet and allow us to rest. There were many
in the ANC who advised me to move to the home a few blocks distant,
in Diepkloof extension, that Winnie had built while I was in prison. It
was a grand place by
FIRST RESPONSIBILITY was to report to the leadership of the ANC, and on
February 27, when I had been out of prison a little over two weeks, I
While the members of the executive were pleased that I had been freed, they were also eager to evaluate the man who had been released. I could see the questions in their eyes. Was Mandela the same man who went to prison twenty-seven years before, or was this a different Mandela, a reformed Mandela? Had he survived or had he been broken? They had heard reports of my conversations with the government and they were rightly concerned. I had not only been out of touch with the situation on the ground — since 1984 I had not even been able to communicate with my colleagues in prison.
I carefully and soberly explained the nature of my talks with the government. I described the demands I had made, and the progress that had been achieved. They had seen the memoranda I had written to Botha and de Klerk, and knew that these documents adhered to ANC policy. I knew that over the previous few years some of the men who had been released had gone to Lusaka and whispered, “Madiba has become soft. He has been bought off by the authorities. He is wearing three-piece suits, drinking wine, and eating fine food.” I knew of these whispers, and I intended to refute them. I knew that the best way to disprove them was simply to be direct and honest about everything that I had done.
At that session of the NEC I was elected deputy president of the organization while Alfred Nzo, the organization’s secretary-general, was named acting president while Oliver was recuperating. At a press conference after our meeting, I was asked about a suggestion made by Dr. Kaunda, the president of Zambia and a longtime supporter of the Congress, that the ANC should suspend armed operations inside South Africa now that I had been released. I replied that while we valued Mr. Kaunda’s wisdom and support, it was too soon to suspend the armed struggle, for we had not yet achieved the goal for which we took up arms; it was not the ANC’s job, I said, to help Mr. de Klerk placate his right-wing supporters.
began a tour of
enjoyed my travels immensely. I wanted to
see new — and old — sights, taste different foods, speak with all
manner of people. I very quicklyhad to acclimatize myself to world
radically different from the one I had left. With changes in travel,
communication, and mass media, the world had accelerated; things now
happened so fast it was sometimes difficult to keep up with them.
Winnie tried to get me to slow down, but there was simply
too much to do; the organization wanted to make sure we took advantage
of the euphoria generated by my release.
After my last stop in Africa, I flew to Stockholm to visit Oliver. Seeing my old friend and law partner was the reunion I most looked forward to. Oliver was not well, but when we met we were like two young boys in the veld who took strength from our love for each other. We began by talking of old times, but when we were alone, the first subject he raised was the leadership of the organization. “Nelson,” he said, “you must now take over as president of the ANC. I have been merely keeping the job warm for you.” I refused, telling him that he had led the organization in exile far better than I ever could have. It was neither fair nor democratic for a transfer to occur in such a manner. “You have been elected by the organization as the president,” I said. “Let us wait for an election; then the organization can decide.” Oliver protested, but I would not budge. It was a sign of his humility and selflessness that he wanted to appoint me president, but it was not in keeping with the principles of the ANC.
April 1990, I flew to
When I emerged from prison, Chief Mangosuthu Buthelezi, the head of the Inkatha Freedom Party and the chief minister of KwaZulu, was one of the premier players on the South African political stage. But within ANC circles, he was a far from popular figure. Chief Buthelezi was descended from the great Zulu king Cetywayo, who had defeated the British at the Battle of Isandhlwana in 1879. As a young man, he attended Fort Hare and then joined the ANC Youth League. I saw him as one of the movement’s upcoming young leaders. He had become chief minister of the KwaZulu homeland with the tacit support of the ANC, and even his launching of Inkatha as a Zulu cultural organization was unopposed by the organization.
But over the years, Chief Buthelezi drifted away from the ANC. Though he resolutely opposed apartheid and refused to allow KwaZulu to become an “independent” homeland as the government wished, he was a thorn in the side of the democratic movement. He opposed the armed struggle.
He criticized the 1976 Soweto uprising. He campaigned against international sanctions. He challenged the idea of a unitary state of South Africa. Yet, Chief Buthelezi had consistently called for my release and refused to negotiate with the government until I and other political prisoners were liberated.
Chief Buthelezi was one of the first people I telephoned after my release to thank him for his long-standing support. My inclination was to meet with the chief as soon as possible to try to resolve our differences. During my initial visit to Lusaka, I brought up the idea of such a meeting and it was voted down. While I was at Victor Verster, Walter had been invited by the Zulu king, Goodwill Zwelithini, to visit him in Ulundi, KwaZulu’s capital, and I urged him to accept. I thought it was an excellent opportunity to influence the head of one of the most respected and powerful royal families in the country. The visit was tentatively approved by the NEC provided Walter went to the king’s palace in Nongoma; it was thought that going to Ulundi would suggest recognition of the authority of the homeland.
When I returned from Lusaka I telephoned both Chief Buthelezi and the king, and explained that Walter would be coming to see the king, not in Ulundi but at Nongoma. The king said he would not accept Walter coming to see him anywhere else but in the capital. “I am the king,” he said. “I have invited him to see me in Ulundi, and he has no right to say I will see you elsewhere.” “Your Majesty,” I said, “we are facing a wall of opposition from our membership who did not want Mr. Sisulu to go to KwaZulu at all. We managed to get this compromise approved, surely you can bend as well.” But he could not, and he refused to see Walter.
Relations deteriorated after this, and in May, I persuaded the ANC of the need for me to make a visit to the king and Buthelezi. The king approved, but a week or so before the visit I received a letter from him saying I must come alone. This proved to be the last straw, and the NEC would not give in to such a demand. I told the king that I could not come unless I was accompanied by my colleagues; the king regarded this as another slight and canceled the visit.
My goal was to forge an independent relationship with the king, separate from my relationship with Chief Buthelezi. The king was the true hereditary leader of the Zulus, who loved and respected him. Fidelity to the king was far more widespread in KwaZulu than allegiance to Inkatha. In the meantime, Natal became a killing ground. Heavily armed Inkatha supporters had in effect declared war on ANC strongholds across the Natal Midlands region and around Pietermaritzburg. Entire villages were set alight, dozens of people were killed, hundreds were wounded, and thousands became refugees. In March 1990 alone, 230 people lost their lives in this internecine violence. In Natal, Zulu was murdering Zulu, for Inkatha members and ANC partisans are Zulus. In February, only two weeks after my release, I went to Durban and spoke to a crowd of over 100,000 people at King’s Park, almost all of whom were Zulus. I pleaded with them to lay down their arms, to take each other’s hands in peace:
your guns, your knives, and your pangas, and throw them into the sea!
Close down the death factories. End this war now!” But my call fell on deaf
ears. The fighting and dying continued. I
was so concerned that I was willing to go to great lengths to meet
Chief Buthelezi. In March, after one particularly horrifying spasm of
violence, Iannounced on my own that I would meet Chief
Buthelezi at a mountain hamlet outside of Pietermaritzburg. On a
personal level, my relations with Chief
Buthelezi were close and respectful, and I hoped to capitalize on that.
But I found that such a meeting was anathema to ANC leaders in
considered it dangerous and vetoed my meeting. I did go to
Pietermaritzburg, where I saw the burned remains of ANC supporters and
tried to comfort their grieving families,
but I did not see Chief Buthelezi.
In March, after much negotiation within our respective parties, we scheduled our first face-to-face meeting with Mr. de Klerk and the government. These were to be “talks about talks,” and the meetings were to begin in early April. But on March 26, in Sebokeng Township, about thirty miles south of Johannesburg, the police opened fire without warning on a crowd of ANC demonstrators, killing twelve and wounding hundreds more, most of them shot in the back as they were fleeing. Police had used live ammunition in dealing with the demonstrators, which was intolerable. The police claimed that their lives were endangered, but many demonstrators were shot in the back and had no weapons. You cannot be in danger from an unarmed man who is running away from you. The right to assemble and demonstrate in support of our just demands was not a favor to be granted by the government at its discretion. This sort of action angered me like no other, and I told the press that every white policeman in South Africa regarded every black person as a military target. After consultation with the NEC, I announced the suspension of our talks and warned Mr. de Klerk that he could not “talk about negotiations on the one hand and murder our people on the other.”
But despite the suspension of our official talks, with the approval of the leadership, I met privately with Mr. de Klerk in Cape Town in order to keep up the momentum for negotiations. Our discussions centered primarily on a new date, and we agreed on early May. I brought up the appalling behavior at Sebokeng and the police’s unequal treatment of blacks and whites; police used live ammunition with black demonstrators, while they never unsheathed their guns at white right-wing protests.
The government was in no great rush to begin negotiations; they were counting on the euphoria that greeted my release to die down. They wanted to allow time for me to fall on my face and show that the former prisoner hailed as a savior was a highly fallible man who had lost touch with the present situation.
Despite his seemingly progressive actions, Mr. de Klerk was by no means the great emancipator. He was a gradualist, a careful pragmatist. He did not make any of his reforms with the intention of putting himself out of power. He made them for precisely the opposite reason: to ensure power for the Afrikaner in a new dispensation. He was not yet prepared to negotiate the end of white rule.
His goal was to create a system of power-sharing based on group rights, which would preserve a modified form of minority power in South Africa. He was decidedly opposed to majority rule, or “simple majoritarianism” as he sometimes called it, because that would end white domination in a single stroke. We knew early on that the government was fiercely opposed to a winner-takes-all Westminster parliamentary system, and advocated instead a system of proportional representation with built-in structural guarantees for the white minority. Although he was prepared to allow the black majority to vote and create legislation, he wanted to retain a minority veto. From the start I would have no truck with this plan. I described it to Mr. de Klerk as apartheid in disguise, a “loser-takes-all” system.
Nationalists’ long-term strategy to overcome our strength was to build
an anti-ANC alliance with the Inkatha Freedom Party and to lure the Coloured
Afrikaans-speaking voters of the
The first round of talks with the government was held over three days in early May. Our delegation consisted of Walter Sisulu, Joe Slovo, Alfred Nzo, Thabo Mbeki, Ahmed Kathrada, Joe Modise, Ruth Mompati, Archie Gumede, Reverend Beyers Naude, Cheryl Carolus, and myself. The setting was Groote Schuur, the Cape Dutch-style mansion that was the residence of South Africa’s first colonial governors, among them Cecil Rhodes. Some of our delegation joked that we were being led into an ambush on the enemy’s ground.
But the talks, contrary to expectation, were conducted with seriousness and good humor. Historic enemies who had been fighting each other for three centuries met and shook hands. Many wondered out loud why such discussions had not taken place long before. The government had granted temporary indemnities to Joe Slovo, the general secretary of the Communist Party, and Joe Modise, the commander of MK, and to see these two men shaking hands with the National Party leaders who had demonized them for decades was extraordinary. As Thabo Mbeki later said to reporters, each side had discovered that the other did not have horns.
very fact of the talks themselves was a
significant milestone in the history of our country; as I pointed out,
the meeting represented not only what the
ANC had been
seeking for so many years, but an end to the master/servant
relationship that characterized black and white relations in South
Africa. We had not come to the meeting as supplicants or petitioners,
but as fellow South Africans who merited an equal place at the table. The
first day was more or less a history lesson. I explained to our
counterparts that the ANC from its inception in 1912 had always sought negotiations
with the government in power. Mr. de Klerk, for his part, suggested
that the system of separate development had been conceived as a benign
idea, but had not worked in practice. For that, he said, he was sorry,
and hoped the negotiations would make amends. It was not an apology
apartheid, but it went further than any other National Party leader
ever had. The primary issue discussed was
the definition of political prisoners and political exiles. The
government argued for a narrow definition, wanting to
restrict the number of our people who would qualify for an indemnity.
We argued for the broadest possible definition and said that any person who
was convicted of an offense that was politically motivated should
qualify for an indemnity. We could not agree on a mutually satisfactory definition
of “politically motivated” crimes, and this would be an issue that
would bedevil us for quite a while to come.
the end of the three-day meeting, we agreed on what became known as the
Groote Schuur Minute, pledging both sides to a peaceful process of
negotiations and committing the government to lifting the State of
When it came to constitutional issues, we told the government we were demanding an elected constituent assembly to draw up a new constitution; we believed that the men and women creating the constitution should be the choice of the people themselves. But before the election of an assembly, it was necessary to have an interim government that could oversee the transition until a new government was elected. The government could not be both player and referee, as it was now. We advocated the creation of a multiparty negotiating conference to set up the interim government and set out the guiding principles for the functioning of a constituent assembly.
I went first to Qunu and the site where my mother was buried. Her grave was simple and unadorned, covered only by a few stones and some upturned bricks, no different from the other graves at Qunu. I find it difficult to describe my feelings: I felt regret that I had been unable to be with her when she died, remorse that I had not been able to look after her properly during her life, and a longing for what might have been had I chosen to live my life differently.
In seeing my village again after so many years, I was greatly struck by what had changed and what had not. When I had been young, the people of Qunu were not political at all; they were unaware of the struggle for African rights. People accepted life as it was and did not dream of changing it.
But when I returned I heard the schoolchildren of Qunu singing songs about Oliver Tambo and Umkhonto we Sizwe, and I marveled at how knowledge of the struggle had by then seeped into every corner of African society.
What had endured was the warmth and simplicity of the community, which took me back to my days as a boy. But what disturbed me was that the villagers seemed as poor if not poorer than they had been then. Most people still lived in simple huts with dirt floors, with no electricity and no running water. When I was young, the village was tidy, the water pure, and the grass green and unsullied as far as the eye could see. Kraals were swept, the topsoil was conserved, fields were neatly divided. But now the village was unswept, the water polluted, and the countryside littered with plastic bags and wrappers. We had not known of plastic when I was a boy, and though it surely improved life in some ways, its presence in Qunu appeared to me to be a kind of blight. Pride in the community seemed to have vanished.
month, I had another homecoming: I returned to Robben Island in order
to persuade twenty-five MK political prisoners to accept the government’s
offer of amnesty and leave the island. Though I had left the island
eight years before, my memories of prison were still fresh and untinged
by nostalgia. After all the years of being visited by others, it was a
curious sensation to be a visitor on Robben Island.
But that day, I did not have much opportunity to sight-see for I met immediately with the men protesting the government offer of amnesty. They maintained that they would leave only after a victory on the battlefield, not the negotiating table. They were fiercely opposed to this particular settlement, in which they had to enumerate their crimes before receiving indemnity. They accused the ANC of retreating from the Harare Declaration demand for an unconditional, blanket amnesty covering political prisoners and exiles. One man said, “Madiba, I have been fighting the government all my life, and now I have to ask for a pardon from them.”
I could sympathize with their arguments, but they were being unrealistic. Every soldier would like to defeat his enemy on the field, but in this case, such a victory was out of reach. The struggle was now at the negotiating table. I argued that they were not advancing the cause by remaining in jail. They could be of greater service outside than inside. In the end, they agreed to accept the government’s offer.
In early June, I was scheduled to leave on a six-week tour of Europe and North America. Before going, I met privately with Mr. de Klerk, who wanted to discuss the issue of sanctions. Based on the changes he had made in South Africa, he asked me to mute the call for the continuation of international sanctions. While we were mindful of what Mr. de Klerk had done, in our view sanctions remained the best lever to force him to do more. I was aware that the European Community and the States were inclined to relax sanctions based on Mr. de Klerk’s reforms. I explained to Mr. de Klerk that we could not tell our supporters to relax sanctions until he had completely dismantled apartheid and a transitional government was in place. While he was disappointed at my response, he was not surprised.
The first leg of the trip took Winnie and me to Paris, where we were treated in very grand style by François Mitterrand and his charming wife, Danielle, a longtime ANC supporter. This was not my first trip to the European mainland, but I was still entranced by the beauties of the Old World.
Although I do not want to stint on the loveliness of the City of Light, the most important event that occurred while I was in France was that the government announced the suspension of the State of Emergency. I was pleased, but well aware that they had taken this action while I was in Europe in order to undermine my call for sanctions.
After stops in Switzerland, Italy, and the Netherlands, I went to England, where I spent two days visiting with Oliver and Adelaide. My next stop was the United States, but I would be returning to England on my way back to South Africa, which is when I was scheduled to meet with Mrs. Thatcher. As a courtesy, however, I phoned her before I left, and Mrs. Thatcher proceeded to give me a stern but well-meaning lecture: she said she had been following my travels and noting how many events I attended each day. “Mr. Mandela, before we discuss any issues,” she said, “I must warn you that your schedule is too heavy. You must cut it in half. Even a man half your age would have trouble meeting the demands that are being made on you. If you keep this up, you will not come out of America alive. That is my advice to you.”
I had read about New York City since I was a young man, and finally to see it from the bottom of its great glass-and-concrete canyons while millions upon millions of pieces of ticker tape came floating down was a breathtaking experience. It was reported that as many as a million people personally witnessed our procession through the city, and to see the support and enthusiasm they gave to the anti-apartheid struggle was truly humbling. I had always read that New York was a hard-hearted place, but I felt the very opposite of that on my first full day in the city.
following day I went up to Harlem, an area that had assumed legendary
proportions in my mind since the 1950s when I watched young men in
Soweto emulate the fashions of Harlem dandies. Harlem, as my wife said,
was the Soweto of America. I spoke to a great crowd at Yankee Stadium,
telling them that an unbreakable umbilical cord connected black South
Africans and black Americans, for we were together children of
After journeying to Memphis and Boston, I went to Washington to address a joint session of Congress and attend a private meeting with President Bush. I thanked the U.S. Congress for its anti-apartheid legislation and said the new South Africa hoped to live up to the values that created the two chambers before which I spoke. I said that as freedom fighters we could not have known of such men as George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Thomas Jefferson “and not been moved to act as they were moved to act.” I also delivered a strong message on sanctions, for I knew that the Bush administration felt it was time to loosen them. I urged Congress not to do so. Even before meeting Mr. Bush, I had formed a positive impression of him, for he was the first world leader to telephone me with congratulations after I left prison. From that point on, President Bush included me on his short list of world leaders whom he briefed on important issues. In person, he was just as warm and thoughtful, though we differed markedly on the issues of the armed struggle and sanctions. He was a man with whom one could disagree and then shake hands.
From the United States I proceeded to Canada, where I had a meeting with Prime Minister Mulroney and also addressed their Parliament. We were due to go to Ireland next, and before crossing the Atlantic, our plane, a small jet, stopped for refueling in a remote place above the Arctic Circle called Goose Bay. I felt like having a walk in the brisk air, and as I was strolling on the tarmac, I noticed some people standing by the airport fence. I asked a Canadian official who they were. Eskimos, he said.
In my seventy-two years on earth I had never met an Innuit and never imagined that I would. I headed over to that fence and found a dozen or so young people, in their late teens, who had come out to the airport because they had heard our plane was going to stop there. I had read about the Innuit (the name “Eskimo” was given to them by the colonists) as a boy, and the impression I received from the racist colonialist texts was that they were a backward culture.
in talking with these bright young people, I learned that they had
watched my release on television and were familiar with events in South
But it did not interfere with our meeting, except that she chided me like a schoolmarm for not taking her advice and cutting down on my schedule. Even though Mrs. Thatcher was on the opposite side of the ANC on many issues, such as sanctions, she was always a forthright and solicitous lady. In our meeting that day, though, I could not make the slightest bit of headway with her on the question of sanctions.
I RETURNED to
Mr. de Klerk’s lifting the State of Emergency in June seemed to set the stage for a resumption of talks, but in July, government security forces arrested about forty members of the ANC, including Mac Maharaj, Pravin Gordhan, Siphiwe Nyanda, and Billy Nair, claiming that they were part of a Communist Party plot called Operation Vula to overthrow the government. De Klerk called for an urgent meeting with me and read to me from documents he claimed had been confiscated in the raid. I was taken aback because I knew nothing about it.
After the meeting I wanted an explanation and called Joe Slovo. Joe explained that the passages read by Mr. de Klerk had been taken out of context and that Vula was a moribund operation. But the government was intent on using this discovery to try to pry the ANC from the SACP and keep Joe Slovo out of the negotiations. I went back to Mr. de Klerk and told him that he had been misled by his own police and that we had no intention of parting ways with the SACP or dropping Joe Slovo from our negotiating team.
In the middle of July, shortly before a scheduled meeting of the National Executive Committee, Joe Slovo came to me privately with a proposition. He suggested we voluntarily suspend the armed struggle in order to create the right climate to move the negotiation process forward. Mr. de Klerk, he said, needed to show his supporters that his policy had brought benefits to the country. My first reaction was negative; I did not think the time was ripe.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that we had to take the initiative and this was the best way to do it. I also recognized that Joe, whose credentials as a radical were above dispute, was precisely the right person to make the proposal. He could not be accused of being a dupe of the government or of having gone soft. The following day I told Joe that if he brought up the idea in the NEC, I would support him.
When Joe raised the idea in the NEC the next day there were some who firmly objected, claiming that we were giving de Klerk’s supporters a reward but not our own people. But I defended the proposal, saying the purpose of the armed struggle was always to bring the government to the negotiating table, and now we had done so. I argued that the suspension could always be withdrawn, but it was necessary to show our good faith.
several hours, our view prevailed. This
was a controversial move within the ANC. Although MK was not active,
the aura of the armed struggle had great meaning for many people. Even
when cited merely as a rhetorical device, the armed struggle was a sign
that we were actively fighting the enemy. As a result, it had a popularity
out of proportion to what it had achieved on the ground.
On August 6, in Pretoria, the ANC and the government signed what became known as the Pretoria Minute, in which we agreed to suspend the armed struggle. As I was to say over and over to our followers: we suspended armed action, we did not terminate the armed struggle. The agreement also set forth target dates for the release of political prisoners and the granting of certain types of indemnity. The process of indemnity was scheduled to be completed by May 1991, and the government also agreed to review the Internal Security Act.
Of all the issues that hindered the peace process, none was more devastating and frustrating than the escalation of violence in the country. We had all hoped that as negotiations got under way, violence would decrease. But in fact the opposite happened. The police and security forces were making very few arrests. People in the townships were accusing them of aiding and abetting the violence. It was becoming more and more clear to me that there was connivance on the part of the security forces. Many of the incidents indicated to me that the police, rather than quelling violence, were fomenting it.
the next few months, I visited townships all across the violence-racked
Vaal Triangle south of Johannesburg, comforting wounded people and
grieving families. Over and over again, I heard the same story: the
police and the defense force were destabilizing the area. I was told of
the police confiscating weapons one day in
one area, and then Inkatha forces attacking our people with those
stolen weapons the next day. We heard stories
of the police escorting Inkatha members to meetings and on their
In September, I gave a speech in which I said there was a hidden hand behind the violence and suggested that there was a mysterious “Third Force,” which consisted of renegade men from the security forces who were attempting to disrupt the negotiations. I could not say who the members of the Third Force were, for I did not know them myself, but I was certain that they existed and that they were murderously effective in their targeting of the ANC and the liberation struggle.
came to this conclusion after becoming personally involved in two
specific incidents. In July of 1990, the ANC received information that
hostel dwellers belonging to the Inkatha Freedom Party were planning a
on ANC members in
July 22, busloads of armed Inkatha members, escorted by police
vehicles, entered Sebokeng in broad daylight. A rally was held, after
which the armed men went on a rampage,
murdering approximately thirty people in a dreadful and grisly attack.
I visited the area the next day and witnessed
scenes I have never before seen and never hope to see again. At the
morgue were bodies of people who had been hacked to death; a woman
had both her breasts cut off with a machete. Whoever these killers
were, they were animals.
I requested a meeting with Mr. de Klerk the following day. When I saw him, I angrily demanded an explanation. “You were warned in advance,” I told him, “and yet did nothing. Why is that? Why is it that there have been no arrests? Why have the police sat on their hands?” I then told him that in any other nation where there was a tragedy of this magnitude, when more than thirty people were slain, the head of state would make some statement of condolence, yet he had not uttered a word. He had no reply to what I said. I asked de Klerk to furnish me with an explanation, and he never did.
The second incident occurred in November, when a group of Inkatha members entered a squatter camp known as Zonkizizwe (Zulu for “the place where all nations are welcome”) outside the city of Germiston, east of Johannesburg, and drove ANC people out, killing a number of them in the process. Inkatha members then proceeded to occupy the abandoned shacks and confiscate all the property. Residents of the area said that the Inkatha members were accompanied by the police. Once again, in the wake of this tragedy, the police and the government took no action. Black life in South Africa had never been so cheap.
Again, I met with Mr. de Klerk and his minister of law and order, Adriaan Vlok. Again, I asked Mr. de Klerk why no action by the police had been taken in the aftermath of these crimes. I said the attackers could easily be found because they were now occupying the shacks of the people they had killed. Mr. de Klerk asked Mr. Vlok for an explanation and then Vlok, in a rather rude tone, asked me on whose property the shacks were located, the implication being that these people were squatters and therefore had no rights. In fact, I told him, the land had been made available to these people by the local authorities. His attitude was like that of many Afrikaners who simply believed that black tribes had been killing each other since time immemorial. Mr. de Klerk again told me he would investigate and respond, but never did.
During this time, the government took another action that added fuel to the flames. It introduced a regulation permitting Zulus to carry so-called traditional weapons to political rallies and meetings in Natal and elsewhere. These weapons, assegais, which are spears, and knobkerries, wooden sticks with a heavy wooden head, are actual weapons with which Inkatha members killed ANC members. This gave me grave doubts about Mr. de Klerk’s peaceful intentions.
Those opposed to negotiations benefited from the violence, which always seemed to flare up when the government and the ANC were moving toward an agreement. These forces sought to ignite a war between the ANC and Inkatha, and I believe many members of Inkatha connived at this as well. Many in the government, including Mr. de Klerk, chose to look the other way or ignore what they knew was going on under their noses. We had no doubts that men at the highest levels of the police and the security forces were aiding the Third Force. These suspicions were later confirmed by newspaper reports disclosing that the South African police had secretly funded Inkatha.
As the violence continued to spiral, I began to have second thoughts about the suspension of the armed struggle. Many of the people in the ANC were restive, and in September, at a press conference, I said that the continuing violence might necessitate taking up arms once more. The situation looked very grim, and any understanding that had been achieved with the government seemed lost.
In December of 1990, Oliver returned to South Africa after being in exile from his native land for three decades. It was wonderful to have him near. He returned for an ANC consultative conference in Johannesburg, which was attended by over fifteen hundred delegates from forty-five different regions, home and abroad.
In the meeting, I spoke in tribute to Oliver as the man who had led the ANC during its darkest hours and never let the flame go out. Now, he had ushered us to the brink of a future that looked bright and hopeful. During the twenty-seven years that I was in prison, it was Oliver who saved the ANC, and then built it into an international organization with power and influence. He took up the reins when most of its leaders were either in prison or in exile. He was a soldier, a diplomat, a statesman.
Although I criticized the government for its orchestrated campaign of counterrevolutionary activities, it was Oliver’s address that created a storm. He opened the meeting with a controversial speech in which he called for our sanctions policy to be reevaluated. The ANC, he maintained, faced “international marginalization” unless it took the initiative to deescalate sanctions. The European Community had already begun to scale back sanctions. The countries in the West, particularly the United Kingdom and the United States, wanted to reward Mr. de Klerk for his reforms, believing that this would encourage him to go further. We felt this was the wrong strategy, but we had to recognize international realities.
Although Oliver’s speech had been discussed and approved by the NEC, his proposal was met with indignation by ANC militants, who insisted that sanctions must be maintained unchanged. The conference decided to retain the sanctions policy as it was. I myself was the target of complaints by those who charged that the negotiators were out of touch with the grass roots and that we spent more time with National Party leaders than our own people. I was also criticized at the conference for engaging in “personal diplomacy” and not keeping the rank-and-file of the organization informed. As a leader of a mass organization, one must listen to the people, and I agreed that we had been remiss in keeping the entire organization informed about the course of the negotiations. But I also knew the delicacy of our talks with the government; any agreements that we arrived at depended in part on their confidentiality. Although I accepted the criticism, I believed we had no alternative but to proceed on the same course. I knew that I had to be more inclusive, brief more people as to our progress, and I proceeded with that in mind.
Each day, each weekend, the newspapers were filled with fresh reports of new and bloody violence in our communities and townships. It was clear that violence was the number one issue in the country. In many communities in Natal and on the Reef around Johannesburg, a poisonous mixture of crime, political rivalries, police brutality, and shadowy death squads made life brutish and untenable. As long as the violence was not dealt with, the progress to a new dispensation would remain uneven and uncertain.
To try to arrest the spiral of violence, I contacted Chief Buthelezi to arrange a meeting. We met at Durban’s Royal Hotel in January. Chief Buthelezi spoke first to assembled delegates and media and in the process opened old wounds rather than healing them. He catalogued the verbal attacks the ANC had made on him and criticized the ANC’s negotiating demands. When it was my turn to speak, I chose not to respond to his remarks but to thank him for his efforts over many years to secure my release from prison. I cited our long relationship and underlined the many matters that united our two organizations rather than divided us..
Progress was made during our private talks, and Chief Buthelezi and I signed an agreement that contained a code of conduct covering the behavior of our two organizations. It was a fair accord, and I suspect that if it had been implemented it would indeed have helped to staunch the bloodletting. But as far as I could tell, Inkatha never made any effort to implement the accord, and there were violations as well on our own side.
The violence continued between our two organizations. Each month people were dying by the hundreds. In March, Inkatha members launched an attack in Alexandra Township north of Johannesburg in which forty-five people were killed over three days of fighting. Again, no one was arrested. I could not sit idly by as the violence continued, and I sought another meeting with Chief Buthelezi. In April I went down to Durban and we again made strong statements and signed another agreement. But again, the ink was no sooner dry than it was drenched in blood. I was more convinced than ever that the government was behind much of the violence and the violence was impeding the negotiations. Mr. de Klerk’s failure to respond put our own relationship in jeopardy.
In April, at a two-day meeting of the National Executive Committee, I discussed my doubts about Mr. de Klerk. The NEC believed that the government was behind the violence and that the violence was upsetting the climate for negotiations. In an open letter to the government, we called for the dismissal of Magnus Malan, the minister of defense, and Adriaan Vlok, the minister of law and order; the banning of the carrying of traditional weapons in public; the phasing out of the migrant-worker hostels, where so many Inkatha members lived in the townships around Johannesburg; the dismantling of secret government counterinsurgency units; and the appointment of an independent commission to probe complaints of misconduct on the part of the security forces.
gave the government until May to meet our demands. Mr. de Klerk
responded by calling for a multiparty conference on violence to be held
in May, but I replied that this was
pointless since the government knew precisely what it had to do to end
the violence. In May, we announced the suspension
of talks with the government.In July 1991, the ANC held its
first annual conference inside
Cyril Ramaphosa was elected secretary-general, evidence that the torch was being passed from an older generation of leadership to a younger one. Cyril, whom I met only upon my release from prison, was a worthy successor to a long line of notable ANC leaders. He was probably the most accomplished negotiator in the ranks of the ANC, a skill he honed as secretary-general of the National Union of Mine Workers.
In my speech I expressed my appreciation for the great honor that had been bestowed on me, and spoke of how difficult it would be to follow in the large footsteps of my predecessor, Oliver Tambo. Though we were then at loggerheads with the government, negotiations in and of themselves, I said, constituted a victory. The mere fact that the government was engaged in negotiations at all was a sign that they did not have the strength to sustain apartheid. I reiterated that the process would not be smooth, as we were dealing with politicians who do not want to negotiate themselves out of power. “The point which must be clearly understood is that the struggle is not over, and negotiations themselves are a theater of struggle, subject to advances and reverses as any other form of struggle."
But negotiations could not wait. It was never in our interest to prolong the agony of apartheid for any reason. It was necessary, I said, to create a transitional government as soon as possible. The conference underlined one of the most important and demanding tasks before the ANC: to transform an illegal underground liberation movement to a legal mass political party. For thirty years, the ANC had functioned clandestinely in South Africa; those habits and techniques were deeply ingrained. We had to reconstruct an entire organization, from the smallest local branch to the national executive. And we had to do so in a matter of months during a period of extraordinary change.
A large part of the ANC and Communist Party leadership had been in exile. Most of them had returned for the conference in July. They were unfamiliar with present-day South Africa; it was a newfound land for them as well as me. There was, however, an extraordinary crop of young leaders of the United Democratic Front and COSATU who had remained in the country, who knew the political situation in a way that we did not..
These organizations had in some measure been surrogates for the ANC inside South Africa during the 1980s. The ANC had to integrate these men and women into the organization as well. We faced not only logistical problems but philosophical ones. It is a relatively simple proposition to keep a movement together when you are fighting against a common enemy. But creating a policy when that enemy is across the negotiating table is another matter altogether. In the new ANC, we had to integrate not only many different groups, but many different points of view. We needed to unite the organization around the idea of the negotiations.
In the first seventeen months of legal activity, the ANC had recruited 700,000 members. This was an impressive number, but there was no room for complacency. A proportionately low number of these members were from the rural areas, the regions where the ANC had historically been weakest. At the same time, the National Party was throwing open its doors to nonwhites and was busily recruiting disaffected Coloureds and Indians.
Ever since my release from prison, the state had continued its campaign to discredit my wife. After the alleged kidnapping of four youths who were staying in the Diepkloof house and the death of one of them, Winnie had first been vilified by a whispering campaign and was then charged with four counts of kidnapping and one of assault. The continuing aspersions cast on her character were such that both Winnie and I were eager for her to have her day in court and prove her innocence of the charges.
My wife’s formal trial began in February in the Rand Supreme Court in Johannesburg. I attended the trial on the first day, as did many senior figures in the ANC, and I continued to attend as often as I could. I did this both to support my wife and to show my belief in her innocence. She was ably defended by George Bizos, who attempted to demonstrate that Winnie had no involvement with either the kidnappings or the beatings.
After three and a half months, the court found her guilty of kidnapping charges and being an accessory to assault. The judge, however, acknowledged that she had not taken part in any assault herself. She was sentenced to six years in prison, but was released on bail pending her appeal. As far as I was concerned, verdict or no verdict, her innocence was not in doubt.
December 20, 1991, after more than a year and a half of talks about
talks, the real talks began: CODESA — the Convention for a Democratic
South Africa — represented the first formal negotiations forum between
the government, the ANC, and other South African parties. All of
our previous bilateral discussions had been laying the groundwork for
these talks, which took place at the World Trade Centre, a modern exhibition
The opening of such talks was an historic occasion, certainly the most important constitutional convention since that of 1909 when the British colonies of the Cape and Natal and the former Boer republics of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State agreed to form a single union. Of course, that convention was not a tribute to democracy but a betrayal of it, for none of the representatives there that day were black. In 1991, the majority of them were.
Our planning delegation, led by Cyril Ramaphosa, and including Joe Slovo and Valli Moosa, had been engaged in weekly discussions with the government on the issues of elections, the constitution, a constituent assembly, and a transitional government. Delegates from twenty different parties including the homeland governments had already agreed on the ground rules for the convention.
optimism at the opening of the talks could not be dampened even by a
few spoilers. The PAC decided to boycott the talks, accusing the ANC
and the National Party of conspiring together to set up a multiracial
government. This occurred despite the formation, a month before, of the Patriotic
Front, an alliance of the ANC, the PAC, and the Azanian People’s
Organization around a declaration of common goals. The PAC feared democratic
elections because they knew such a vote would expose their meager
popular support. Chief Buthelezi also boycotted the talks on the
that he was not permitted three delegations: for Inkatha, the KwaZulu
government, and King Zwelithini. We argued that the king should be above
politics, and that if he were included then every tribe in
In my own opening remarks, I said that with the dawn of CODESA, progress in South Africa had at last become irreversible. Governments, I said, derive their authority and legitimacy from the consent of the governed, and we had assembled to create such a legitimate authority. I said that CODESA marked the beginning of the road to an elected assembly that would write a new constitution, and I did not see any reason why an election for such a constituent assembly could not occur in 1992. I called on the government to usher in an interim government of national unity to supervise such an election, control the state media and the military, and generally oversee the transition to a new, nonracial, democratic South Africa.
On the convention’s first day, the lion’s share of the participating parties, including the National Party and the ANC, endorsed a Declaration of Intent, which committed all parties to support an undivided South Africa whose supreme law would be a constitution safeguarded by an independent judiciary. The country’s legal system would guarantee equality before the law, and a bill of rights would be drawn up to protect civil liberties. In short, there would be a multiparty democracy based on universal adult suffrage on a common voters’ roll. As far as we were concerned, this was the minimum acceptable constitutional threshold for a new South Africa. Inkatha refused to sign on the grounds that the phrase an “undivided” South Africa implied that a federal system was off-limits..
The cnvention created five working groups that would meet in early 1992 to prepare the way for the second round of CODESA scheduled for May 1992. The groups would explore the question of creating a free political climate, the future of the homelands, the restructuring of the South African Broadcasting Corporation, the examination of various constitutional principles such as federalism, and the creation and installation of an interim government. The parties agreed that decisions would be taken by “sufficient consensus,” which was never defined, but in practice meant an agreement between the government and the ANC and a majority of the other parties.
The first day of CODESA 1 was uneventful, until it came to a close. The night before the convention I had been negotiating with Mr. de Klerk on the telephone until after eight in the evening. Mr. de Klerk asked me whether I would agree to permit him to be the final speaker the next day. Though I was scheduled to give the concluding remarks, I told him that I would take up the matter with our National Executive Committee. I did so that evening, and despite their misgivings, I persuaded them to permit Mr. de Klerk to have the last word. I did not see the issue as a vital one, and I was prepared to do Mr. de Klerk the favor..
At the end of the session, all seemed well; I spoke about the importance of the talks and I was followed by Mr. de Klerk. He proceeded to underline the historic significance of the occasion and discuss the need for overcoming mutual distrust. But then Mr. de Klerk did a curious thing.
He began to attack the ANC for not adhering to the agreements that we had made with the government. He began to speak to us like a schoolmaster admonishing a naughty child. He berated the ANC for failing to disclose the location of arms caches and then rebuked us for maintaining a “private army,” Umkhonto we Sizwe, in violation of the National Peace Accord of September 1991. In intemperate language, he questioned whether the ANC was honorable enough to abide by any agreements it signed..
This was more than I could tolerate and I would now be damned if I would permit Mr. de Klerk to have the last word. When he finished, the meeting was meant to be over. But the room had grown very quiet; instead of allowing the session to end, I walked to the podium. I could not let his remarks go unchallenged. My voice betrayed my anger.
gravely concerned about the behavior of Mr. de Klerk today. He has
launched an attack on the ANC and in doing so he has been less than
frank. Even the head of an illegitimate,
discredited minority regime, as his is, has certain moral standards to
uphold. He has no excuse just because he is the head of such a
discredited regime not to uphold moral
standards. . . . If a man can come to a conference of this nature and
play the type of politics he has played — very few people would like to
deal with such a man.
I said it was unacceptable for Mr. de Klerk to speak to us in such llanguage. I reiterated that it was the ANC, not the government, that started the initiative of peace discussions, and it was the government, not the ANC, that time and again failed to live up to its agreements. I had told Mr. de Klerk before that it served no useful purpose to attack the ANC publicly, yet he continued to do so. I noted that we had suspended our armed struggle to show our commitment to peace, yet the government was still colluding with those waging war. We told him that we would turn in our weapons only when we were a part of the government collecting those weapons.
I added that it was apparent the government had a double agenda. They were using the negotiations not to achieve peace, but to score their own petty political gains. Even while negotiating, they were secretly funding covert organizations that committed violence against us. I mentioned the recent revelations about million-rand payoffs to Inkatha that Mr. de Klerk claimed not to have known about. I stated that if a man in his position “doesn’t know about such things, then he is not fit to be the head of government".
I knew I had been harsh, but I did not want to capsize the whole ship of negotiations, and I ended on a more conciliatory note.
I ask him to place his cards on the table face upwards. Let us work together openly. Let there be no secret agendas. Let him not persuade us that he would be the last speaker because he wants to abuse that privilege and attack us in the hope that we won’t respond. I am prepared to work with him in spite of all his mistakes.
CODESA convened the following day for its final session, and both Mr. de Klerk and I took pains to show that no irreparable harm had been done. At the beginning of the session, he and I publicly shook hands and said we would work together. But much trust had been lost, and the negotiations were now in a state of disarray.
Six weeks after the opening of CODESA 1, the National Party contested an important by-election in Potchefstroom, a conservative university town in the Transvaal, traditionally the party’s stronghold. In a stunning upset, the Nationalists were defeated by the candidate of the right-wing Conservative Party. The Conservatives resolutely opposed the government’s policy of negotiations with the ANC, and were composed mainly of Afrikaners who felt that Mr. de Klerk was giving away the store. The election result seemed to cast doubt on Mr. de Klerk’s policy of reform and negotiations. The National Party was alarmed; these were their own voters in their own heartland rejecting their policies.
de Klerk decided to gamble. He announced that as a result of the
by-election in Potchefstroom he would call a nationwide referendum for March
17 so that the white people of
The ANC opposed the referendum on the principle that it was a vote that excluded all nonwhites. At the same time, we were realistic: we certainly did not want white voters to rebuff Mr. de Klerk’s efforts to pursue negotiations. Though we disdained the election on principle, we urged whites to vote yes. We saw such a vote as a signal of support for negotiations, not necessarily for de Klerk. We watched Mr. de Klerk’s campaign with interest and some consternation. He and the National Party conducted a sophisticated, expensive, American-style political campaign accompanied by extensive newspaper and television advertisements, bumper stickers, and colorful rallies. We saw this as a dress rehearsal for the campaign Mr. de Klerk would wage against us. In the end, 69 percent of the white voters supported negotiations, giving de Klerk a great victory. He felt vindicated; I think the margin even swelled his head a bit. His hand was strengthened, and as a result, the Nationalists toughened their negotiating positions. This was a dangerous strategy.
On April 13, 1992, at a press conference in Johannesburg, flanked by my two oldest friends and comrades, Walter and Oliver, I announced my separation from my wife. The situation had grown so difficult that I felt that it was in the best interests of all concerned — the ANC, the family, and Winnie — that we part. Although I discussed the matter with the ANC, the separation itself was made for personal reasons.
read the following statement.
The relationship between myself and my wife, Comrade Nomzamo Winnie Mandela, has become the subject of much media speculation. I am issuing this statement to clarify the position and in the hope that it will bring an end to further conjecture.
Comrade Nomzamo and myself contracted our marriage at a critical time in the struggle for liberation in our country. Owing to the pressures of our shared commitment to the ANC and the struggle to end apartheid, we were unable to enjoy a normal family life. Despite these pressures our love for each other and our devotion to our marriage grew and intensified. . . .
During the two decades I spent on Robben Island she was an indispensable pillar of support and comfort to myself personally. . . . Comrade Nomzamo accepted the onerous burden of raising our children on her own. . . . She endured the persecutions heaped upon her by the Government with exemplary fortitude and never wavered from her commitment to the freedom struggle. Her tenacity reinforced my personal respect, love and growing affection. It also attracted the admiration of the world at large. My love for her remains undiminished.
However, in view of the tensions that have arisen owing to differences between ourselves on a number of issues in recent months, we have mutually agreed that a separation would be best for each of us. My action was not prompted by the current allegations being made against her in the media. . . . Comrade Nomzamo has and can continue to rely on my unstinting support during these trying moments in her life.
I shall personally never regret the life Comrade Nomzamo and I tried to share together. Circumstances beyond our control however dictated it should be otherwise. I part from my wife with no recriminations. I embrace her with all the love and affection I have nursed for her inside and outside prison from the moment I first met her. Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you will appreciate the pain I have gone through.
As I later said at my daughter Zindzi’s wedding, it seems to be the destiny of freedom fighters to have unstable personal lives. When your life is the struggle, as mine was, there is little room left for family. That has always been my greatest regret, and the most painful aspect of the choice I made.
"We watched our children growing without our guidance,” I said at the wedding, “and when we did come out [of prison], my children said, ‘We thought we had a father and one day he’d come back. But to our dismay, our father came back and he left us alone because he has now become the father of the nation.’ ” To be the father of a nation is a great honor, but to be the father of a family is a greater joy. But it was a joy I had far too little of.
In May of 1992, after a four-month interruption, the multiparty conference held its second plenary session at the World Trade Centre. Known as CODESA 2, the talks had been prepared by secret meetings between negotiators from both the ANC and the government as well as talks between the ANC and other parties. These meetings culminated in a final session between me and Mr. de Klerk the day before the opening of CODESA 2, the first time the two of us had met since before CODESA 1.
Only days before CODESA 2 was to begin, the government was hit by two scandals. The first involved the revelation of massive corruption and bribery at the Department of Development Aid, which was responsible for improving black life in the homelands, and the second was the implication of high government security officials in the 1985 murder of four UDF activists, the best known of whom was Matthew Goniwe. These revelations were added to the recent evidence implicating the police in murders in Natal and suspicions that the Department of Military Intelligence was conducting covert operations against the ANC. These two scandals coming together undermined the credibility of the government and strengthened our hand.
Over the previous months, the government had made numerous proposals that fell by the wayside. Most of them, like the idea of a rotating presidency, sought to preserve their power. But through negotiations over the past months, the ANC and government teams had put together a tentative agreement involving a two-stage transitional period to a fully democratic South Africa. In the first stage, a multiparty “transitional executive council” would be appointed from the CODESA delegations to function as a temporary government in order to “level the playing field” for all parties and create an interim constitution. In the second stage, general elections would be held for a constituent assembly and legislature in which all political parties winning 5 percent or more of the vote would participate in the cabinet. Half the members of the assembly would be elected on a national basis and half on a regional one, and the assembly would be empowered both to write a new constitution and to pass legislation. An independent commission would preside over the election and make sure it was free and fair.
Yet there were many matters on which the ANC and the government could not reach agreement, such as the percentage of voting necessary in the assembly to decide constitutional issues and to agree on a bill of rights. Only days before CODESA 2, the government proposed a second body, a senate, composed of regional representatives, as a way of ensuring a minority veto. They also proposed that before all this, CODESA 2 first agree on an interim constitution, which would take months to draw up.
All of this bargaining was going on behind the scenes and by the time CODESA 2 opened on May 15, 1992, prospects for agreement looked bleak. What we disagreed about was threatening all that we had agreed upon. Mr. de Klerk and I had not managed to find a consensus on most of the outstanding issues. The government seemed prepared to wait indefinitely; their thinking was that the longer we waited, the more support we would lose.
The convention was deadlocked at the end of the first day. At that time, the two judges presiding over the talks told Mr. de Klerk and me to meet that evening to attempt to find a compromise. We did meet that night over coffee, and though we did not find a way out of the impasse, we agreed that the negotiations must not founder. “The whole of South Africa and the world is looking at you and me,” I told Mr. de Klerk. “Let us save the peace process. Let us reach some kind of agreement. Let us at least fix a date for the next round of talks.” We decided that we would each speak the following day in a spirit of constructive compromise.
The next afternoon we spoke in the reverse order that we had agreed to at CODESA 1: Mr. de Klerk first and I last. In his remarks, Mr. de Klerkinsisted that the National Party did not seek a “minority veto,” but that he did want a system of “checks and balances” so that the majority would not be able “to misuse its power.” Although this certainly sounded to me like outright opposition to the idea of majority rule, when I spoke after Mr. de Klerk, I merely said we needed to work in a constructive manner and dispel the tensions around the negotiations.
our attempts to put a positive face on the matter, the convention ended
the second day in a stalemate. The impasse, as I saw it, was caused
by the National Party’s continuing reluctance to submit their fate to
the will of the majority. They simply could not cross that hurdle.
Ultimately, CODESA 2 broke down on four fundamental issues: the government’s insistence on an unacceptably high percentage of votes in the assembly to approve the constitution (essentially a backdoor veto); entrenched regional powers that would be binding on a future constitution; an undemocratic and unelected senate that had veto power over legislation from the main chamber; and a determination to make an interim constitution negotiated by the convention into a permanent constitution.
These were all difficult issues, but not insoluble ones, and I was determined not to let the deadlock at CODESA 2 subvert the negotiation process. The government and the ANC agreed to continue bilateral talks to work toward a solution. But, then, other matters intruded to render this impossible.
With negotiations stalled, the ANC and its allies agreed on a policy of “rolling mass action,” which would display to the government the extent of our support around the country and show that the people of South Africa were not prepared to wait forever for their freedom. The mass action consisted of strikes, demonstrations, and boycotts. The date chosen for the start of mass action was June 16, 1992, the anniversary of the 1976 Soweto revolt, and the campaign was meant to culminate in a two-day national strike set for August 3 and 4.
But before that happened, another event occurred that drove the ANC and the government even further apart. On the night of June 17, 1992, a heavily armed force of Inkatha members secretly raided the Vaal township of Boipatong and killed forty-six people. Most of the dead were women and children. It was the fourth mass killing of ANC people that week. People across the country were horrified by the violence and charged the government with complicity. The police did nothing to stop the criminals and nothing to find them; no arrests were made, no investigation begun. Mr. de Klerk said nothing. I found this to be the last straw, and my patience snapped. The government was blocking the negotiations and at the same time waging a covert war against our people. Why then were we continuing to talk with them?
Four days after the murders, I addressed a crowd of twenty thousand angry ANC supporters and told them I had instructed ANC secretary general Cyril Ramaphosa to suspend direct dealings with the government. I also announced an urgent meeting of the National Executive Committee to examine our options. It was as if we had returned to the dark days of Sharpeville. I likened the behavior of the National Party to the Nazis in Germany, and publicly warned de Klerk that if he sought to impose new measures to restrict demonstrations or free expression, the ANC would launch a nationwide defiance campaign with myself as the first volunteer.
At the rally, I saw signs that read, “MANDELA, GIVE US GUNS” and “VICTORY THROUGH BATTLE NOT TALK.” I understood such sentiments; the people were frustrated. They saw no positive results of the negotiations. They were beginning to think that the only way to overthrow apartheid was through the barrel of a gun. After Boipatong, there were those in the NEC who said, “Why did we abandon the armed struggle? We should abandon negotiations instead; they will never advance us to our goal.” I was initially sympathetic to this group of hardliners, but gradually realized that there was no alternative to the process. It was what I had been urging for so many years, and I would not turn my back on negotiations. But it was time to cool things down. Mass action in this case was a middle course between armed struggle and negotiations. The people must have an outlet for their anger and frustration, and a mass action campaign was the best way to channel those emotions.
When we informed the government that we were suspending talks, we sent Mr. de Klerk a memo outlining the reasons for our withdrawal. In addition to resolving the constitutional deadlocks at CODESA 2, we demanded that the people responsible for the violence be tracked down and brought to justice and that some mechanism be found for fencing in and policing the hostels, the seedbeds of so much violence. Mr. de Klerk sent us back a memo asking for a face-to-face meeting with me, which we rebuffed. I felt such a meeting would suggest that we had something to talk about, and at the time we did not.
mass action campaign culminated in a general strike on August 3 and 4
in support of the ANC’s negotiation demands and in protest against state-supported
violence. More than four million workers
stayed home in what was the largest political strike in South African
history. The centerpiece of the strike was
a march of one hundred thousand people to the Union Buildings in
the face of this mass action, Mr. de Klerk said that if the ANC made
the country ungovernable, the government might be forced to consider some
unpleasant options. I warned Mr. de Klerk that any antidemocratic
actions would have serious repercussions. It was because of such
threats, I said, that it was absolutely
critical to set up a transitional government.
by the success of the mass action campaign, a group within the ANC
decided to march on Bisho, the capital of the