I was a freshman in college when I was introduced to South Africa, through a Desmond Tutu book we read in my Human Rights class first semester. You might say there was no excuse for the fact that it took that long, especially since I was in Model UN in high school. In fact, I'd represented South Africa at a conference once, but it was kind of awkward, because I'd gotten an old book out of the library for my research and basically ended up representing the former apartheid government. (My partner and I won that conference, my first and only gavel, and I'm not sure what that says about anyone involved.)
But it was the Tutu book freshman year that hooked me on South Africa, its history and contemporary struggles. And soon I was writing every paper I could about South Africa: the ethics of its Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Its level of economic development. The liberation theology that arose from its struggles. And I went there, too: just for a week at the end of a summer in Lesotho, but I went to the Apartheid Museum and ate lunch in Soweto and stayed in a big house on a shady street on the other side of Joburg that was surrounded by high walls and barbed wire.
I read Long Walk to Freedom between freshman and sophomore year of college. I already loved Tutu--it was time to get to know Mandela. It was slow at the start, which I didn't think boded well for the next 600 pages or so. But the more I read, the faster I turned the pages; I got to accompany Mandela and his contemporaries as they organized peaceful protests, orchestrated sabotage from exile, risked their lives, and found reasons to survive and hope during decades in prison.
It's been a long time since I've read that book and since I wrote my last research paper, and I don't remember many of the names or dates or details, anymore. What I remember about Long Walk to Freedom is that it made me want to be part of it all. It made me wish I had lived in that time and place, risking my life and safety for justice, being part of the struggle with those other people who believed so strongly in the same things. It's the same way I felt reading Harry Potter, only this was real.
The truth is I'm not sure I would have been part of the anti-apartheid struggle, if I had lived at that time and in that place. I would have supported it, of course. Maybe I would have attended a few protests, made my opinion clear to those who would listen, given some volunteer hours. Planning sabotage from exile? In real life, I'm not that radical. Maybe I'm better at studying these things from a place of privilege half a world away.
And yet I wish, sometimes, for something that would make me radical, to be drawn into that struggle between clear right and clear wrong and be willing to risk everything in it. But Jesus said that whoever is faithful in small things will be faithful in big things, and maybe someday my big thing will make itself clear.
Here's what I know: reading Mandela's story in his own words made me believe that a new kind of world was possible. After years of struggle and violence and setbacks, it was possible. That's why he was so beloved, I think; he made us all believe that. And he made me (us?) believe that it was worth the risk and sacrifice.
South Africa still needs that hope, and the world still needs that hope, and I still need that hope. That's why Advent seems like an appropriate time to be thinking about these things, because that's an Advent kind of hope. God comes and brings redemption to a broken world, and we wait for the day when God's kingdom is fulfilled, and if we do things right, we wait actively by anticipating that future in how we live today. And I'm thankful today, for those who have struggled for justice much harder than I ever have, and who have helped me believe that this world is being made new, and who have made me want to be a part of that.
But it was the Tutu book freshman year that hooked me on South Africa, its history and contemporary struggles. And soon I was writing every paper I could about South Africa: the ethics of its Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Its level of economic development. The liberation theology that arose from its struggles. And I went there, too: just for a week at the end of a summer in Lesotho, but I went to the Apartheid Museum and ate lunch in Soweto and stayed in a big house on a shady street on the other side of Joburg that was surrounded by high walls and barbed wire.
I read Long Walk to Freedom between freshman and sophomore year of college. I already loved Tutu--it was time to get to know Mandela. It was slow at the start, which I didn't think boded well for the next 600 pages or so. But the more I read, the faster I turned the pages; I got to accompany Mandela and his contemporaries as they organized peaceful protests, orchestrated sabotage from exile, risked their lives, and found reasons to survive and hope during decades in prison.
It's been a long time since I've read that book and since I wrote my last research paper, and I don't remember many of the names or dates or details, anymore. What I remember about Long Walk to Freedom is that it made me want to be part of it all. It made me wish I had lived in that time and place, risking my life and safety for justice, being part of the struggle with those other people who believed so strongly in the same things. It's the same way I felt reading Harry Potter, only this was real.
The truth is I'm not sure I would have been part of the anti-apartheid struggle, if I had lived at that time and in that place. I would have supported it, of course. Maybe I would have attended a few protests, made my opinion clear to those who would listen, given some volunteer hours. Planning sabotage from exile? In real life, I'm not that radical. Maybe I'm better at studying these things from a place of privilege half a world away.
And yet I wish, sometimes, for something that would make me radical, to be drawn into that struggle between clear right and clear wrong and be willing to risk everything in it. But Jesus said that whoever is faithful in small things will be faithful in big things, and maybe someday my big thing will make itself clear.
Here's what I know: reading Mandela's story in his own words made me believe that a new kind of world was possible. After years of struggle and violence and setbacks, it was possible. That's why he was so beloved, I think; he made us all believe that. And he made me (us?) believe that it was worth the risk and sacrifice.
South Africa still needs that hope, and the world still needs that hope, and I still need that hope. That's why Advent seems like an appropriate time to be thinking about these things, because that's an Advent kind of hope. God comes and brings redemption to a broken world, and we wait for the day when God's kingdom is fulfilled, and if we do things right, we wait actively by anticipating that future in how we live today. And I'm thankful today, for those who have struggled for justice much harder than I ever have, and who have helped me believe that this world is being made new, and who have made me want to be a part of that.
