South Africa has lost our hero, muse, mentor and guardian. We are unlikely to witness a man of his stature, integrity and honour in our lifetimes and even in the next few generations to come. We have lost our Tata, Our Madiba … We have lost Nelson Mandela who after his long walk to freedom is finally free and at peace.
It still brings tears to my eyes as I think if how little I knew of the struggles this man endured so we could enjoy a free and democratic country, how naive was I to not comprehend the hatred and violence surrounding me as I grew up – a sheltered white South African.
It is because of this that I must share a story with you, a true story and one that does being a tear to my eye … Take a minute to read it and reflect on the authors words, feelings and experience – she is after all one of my favorite writers! Her honesty, transparency and use if words to paint a picture so clear and vivid both amazes and motivates me in my writing. Here is a snippet read the full story here
My Experiences as a White South African
The death of Nelson Mandela – my hero and the world’s icon – brings to the surface the deep shame I have carried with me for all of my adult life. I was once a typical white South African – privileged and spoiled – who learned by example to treat with disregard the needs and feelings of black people.
Having spent 29 years living under the Apartheid regime before immigrating to Canada almost 40 years ago, it is with pain and penetrating regret that I reflect upon my experience and transgressions.
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