Nelson Mandela's legacy will be measured in symbolic moments

Massive structural symbolic changes in South African life are Mandela’s legacy, and for too long their importance has faded, but this is a moment to remember the momentous change that opened up the country to a different level of freedom, writes Rachael J

There it was, a Mandela legacy, up front and centre, hitting my eyes, as I squeezed into the back seat of a tiny car with five companions, on a whistle-stop sunset tour of the packed city streets of Durban in 1996. But it was what I didn’t see that was surprising – no sign any more telling my companions that they couldn’t go where I could go.

"That was the beach that we weren’t allowed to be on, there were signs right there that said ‘whites only’," one of the guys told me as we headed away from the huge surf haven of the Kwazulu Natal seafront, where we had all been hanging out watching the surfers climb on top of massive curving waves.

These guys, who were all part of Durban’s Indian community, had just adopted two foreigners, news reporters at a big South African conference attended by people from around the world, and insisted they showed us around their country. We crammed into the car as they argued about where to take us, immensely proud of the bustling seaside city they lived in, proud to show it off its spice markets and its Victorian architecture and its thriving bar scene to the kind of international visitors who for decades had stayed away while the barriers of the apartheid regime split the white and the non-white communities as effectively as the Wall had split Berlin.

It was almost impossible to believe that just months earlier these overflowing streets, packed shoulder to shoulder with people of black, brown and white skins, had been forcibly divided, by rule of law in a state of but limited democracy, into separate and deeply unequal societies.

At first glance, the enormous rolling sandy surf beach could have been on a seafront in Australia or in California, packed as it was with surf dudes, crashing waves, and with a cool café where everyone hung out at the end of the day. But our adoptive guides knew that the monumental physical changes that had happened in their country in the past few years were just one outcome of Nelson Mandela’s fight for their freedom.

What you felt fizzing in the air, in the conversation, and in hearts was the pure joy of that precise historical moment, where suddenly there was opportunity, and the barriers that said “whites only” had been taken away. No longer was public transport separated by colour of your skin; now the national parliament held representatives of all communities, not just one. Nelson Mandela had made these things happen, and that made him something more than just an average politician.

This was only a year or two after the first open election in South Africa, and South Africans felt that they were living through an historic time. And because of that their pride in their country was infinite; everywhere I went, and year after year as I returned later, I would run into someone whose pride in that change overflowed: they always insisted on showing me a landmark of the struggle – a Soweto bar, where the owner wanted to talk about where her clientele came from and who they were, a house, a museum or a beach where one of those physical signs of their second-class status in their own country had been pulled down.

In his autobiography, Nelson Mandela talks about his personal motivation to become involved with the ANC and the fight to overthrow apartheid. It was fired, he wrote, by the unfairness of the life he and those all around him were forced to live: “I yearned for the basic and honourable freedoms of achieving my potential, of earning my keep, of marrying and having a family –  the freedom not to be obstructed in a lawful life.” His eventual leadership of the struggle finally resulted in a general election, open to all, in 1994.

The miles-long, winding lines of people queuing for hour upon hour determined to vote in South Africa’s first free election, in 1994, are one of the most iconic and enduring images of the second half of the twentieth century. There were those, old and young, similarly fired by that sense of unfairness, willing to wait days and hours to go to the ballot box.

20 years after his inauguration the words of the first President of a free South Africa still have the power of something magnificent achieved. He describes being saluted by the South African generals and the highest commanders of the police, and being mindful of how a few short years earlier they would have arrested him, as their predecessors had imprisoned him. “The sun shall never set on so glorious a human achievement,” Mandela said as thousands of television cameras, and through them, hundreds of thousands of eyes, focused on him.

Mandela has ever since been a guiding presence at epic, and emotional moments, in his country’s history.  South Africa’s victory at the Rugby World Cup in 1995 was so much more than a sports team winning a trophy: it came only a year after Mandela’s election, and rugby, more than any other sport, had been a symbol of division, a game for white men only and one in which South Africa had not been allowed to compete in the international arena since the late 1960s because of apartheid. Yet here was a dancing, cheering black president lifting this sporting cup into the hands of the huge, white Francois Pienaar: the sight of the two of them, one so small, one so tall,  swept up in a cloud of sound, symbolised the overwhelming joy of a new nation with a growing belief in itself and its future.

When Mandela handed over political power to others, commentators and the public questioned whether South Africa would change, or if the symbolic power he had instilled would slowly evaporate, the sense of moral good fade into corruption and despair.

Those concerns have again risen viscerally among those who yearn for South Africa to succeed. But, contrary to those who fear that Mandela’s passing may mask a moment when all that Mandela has achieved will start to slide away, Nic Dawes, editor-in-chief of South Africa’s Mail and Guardian newspaper, is optimistic. He believes that the severe illness of the ex-president has brought his achievements back to the attention of those in authority. “His legacy has not had the prominence that it ought to have done in public life. It has been too easily dismissed by many South Africans and political leaders. They have spoken of him as too easy on reconciliation or that he got it wrong on economic issues, and they have not put it front and centre in their own decision making.

“But it is being brought back to us in a way that it hasn’t been for a number of years, so there is optimism that we can recall again the value of his approach and contribution in a way that we haven’t always done recently.”

Nor does Dawes feel that this is a moment when the wheels will come off; he is confident that South Africa’s institutions, despite their flaws, are strong enough to help citizens to resist corruption and authoritarianism.

If Mandela’s legacy is summed up by one thing, it will be in symbolic moments, like the times when those “whites only” signs were torn down, no longer shouting that South Africa was a society where only its white people had opportunity, and aspiration, and when a reborn nation began its journey on a previously uncharted road to greater freedom.

Rachael Jolley is the editor of the Index on Censorship magazine

Well-wishers release balloons for Nelson Mandela in June 2013. Photograph: Keystone / Getty Images
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The far right rises as the Nordic welfare model is tested to breaking point by immigration

Writing from Stockholm, the New Statesman’s editor observes how mass immigration has tested the old Scandinavian model of welfare capitalism.

In the summer of 1999 I was commissioned by a Scandinavian magazine to write about the completion of the longest road-and-rail link in Europe, connecting Denmark and Sweden across the Øresund strait at the gateway to the Baltic Sea. I was a guest at the ceremony, along with assorted Swedish and Danish royalty, at which the final girder of the concrete and steel-cable-stayed bridge was fitted into place.

It was a cold day but the mood was joyful. The Øresund Fixed Link symbolised the new Europe of open borders and free movement of people. There was much excitement about the creation of an economic zone centred on Copenhagen but incorporating Malmö and the university town of Lund in Sweden. The Øresund Bridge has since become an icon of Scandinavian culture, in part because of the success of the noirish television crime series The Bridge, starring the blank-eyed Sofia Helin as the Swedish police detective Saga Norén, which fetishises the structure in its brilliantly stylised opening credits.

Emergency measures

Last autumn, after Angela Merkel declared that Germany’s borders were open to Syrian refugees, it was across the Øresund that tens of thousands of desperate people began arriving in Sweden, straining the country’s habitual openness to incomers. They were arriving not just from Syria but from Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, Eritrea and elsewhere in Africa – sometimes as many as 10,000 a week. In 2015, 163,000 people registered for asylum in Sweden, including 36,000 unaccompanied children. Many others are presumed to have entered the country illegally. (The comparative figure registering for asylum in Germany was 1.2 million and in Denmark 25,000. David Cameron has pledged to resettle 20,000 Syrian refugees in Britain by 2020.)

There was a sense last November that Stefan Löfven’s minority Social Democratic government was losing control of the situation. As a result, Sweden was forced to introduce emergency border controls, as well as security checks for those arriving across the bridge from Denmark. The rules of the Schengen passport-free area allow for such measures to be enacted in a crisis. Denmark responded by tightening border controls with Germany as fences and barriers were erected across Europe in an attempt to stem the flow of refugees heading north along the so-called western Balkan route.

Sweden’s Blair

To the outsider, Sweden no longer seems to be a country at ease with itself. Mass immigration has tested the old Scandinavian model of welfare capitalism to near breaking point and resentment is festering. “Immigration is now the number one issue facing our country,” Johan Forssell told me when we met at the Riksdag in Stockholm. He is a former chief of staff for Fredrik Reinfeldt, prime minister from 2006-14. As a former leader of the Moderate Party, Reinfeldt is a conservative, but, in his commitment to free markets and open borders, the politician he most resembles is Tony Blair. I was a guest at a lunch for Reinfeldt in London last autumn, and, as he defended his immigration policies, I was struck above all by his liberalism.

In August 2014, in a celebrated speech, he called on his fellow Swedes to “open their hearts” and “show tolerance” to immigrants and asylum-seekers. The speech was received with derision. It surely contributed to the defeat of the Moderate-led centre-right coalition in the general election in which the far-right Sweden Democrats, led by Jimmie Åkesson, recorded their best ever performance, winning 49 out of 349 parliamentary seats. “It was a brave speech, but Freddie didn’t prepare the people for it,” one senior Swedish politician said to me.

Editorial positions

One afternoon I visited Peter Wolodarski, the 38-year-old editor-in-chief of Sweden’s leading quality daily newspaper, Dagens Nyheter (“Today’s News”), at his office in Stockholm. The son of a Polish-Jewish architect who came to Sweden in the 1960s, Wolodarski is highly influential: editor, columnist and television commentator, and an unapologetic liberal internationalist. He likened his politics to David Miliband’s. In the past, Dagens Nyheter, which is privately owned by the Bonnier family, supported the then-hegemonic Social Democrats but, reflecting the fluidity and shifting alliances of Swedish politics, it now pursues what it describes as an “independently liberal” editorial position.

Wolodarski, who used to edit the comment pages, is slim and energetic and speaks perfect English. We discussed the EU referendum in Britain, which alarmed and mystified him, and Islamist terror as well as the rise of the anti-immigrant Sweden Democrats. Security at the Dagens Nyheter offices has been tightened considerably since the Charlie Hebdo massacre – Wolodarski’s paper as well as others in the group republished Charlie cartoons – and it has been reported that as many as 300 Swedish nationals are fighting for Isis in Syria. One Swede, Osama Krayem, is suspected of being part of the group that carried out the Brussels attacks in March. The Sweden Democrats have seized on this as further evidence of the failures of Nordic multiculturalism.

A refugee’s story

One morning I visited a refugee registration centre in Märsta in the northern suburbs. The people there were fleeing war or persecution. Each was waiting to discover where next they would be moved while their asylum application was processed.

One young, secular Muslim woman from Gambia told me she was escaping an arranged marriage (to her mother’s polygamous brother, who was in his sixties) and the horror of female genital mutilation. Articulate and frustrated, she wept as we talked. The next day, I received an email from her. She was now in a small town in the far north. “It is remote here and cold,” she wrote. And then she wished me a “safe return journey” to London.

Jason Cowley is editor of the New Statesman. He has been the editor of Granta, a senior editor at the Observer and a staff writer at the Times.

This article first appeared in the 05 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The longest hatred