‘I last saw my mother on September 9 last year. After the interview I was able to look at her as she walked away toward the boat that would take her to the mainland and somehow the idea crossed my mind that I would never again set my eyes on her.’
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From a letter to K D Matanzima, dated 14 October 1968.
1. FROM A LETTER TO K D MATANZIMA, DATED 14 OCTOBER 1968, ABOUT THE DEATH OF MANDELA’S MOTHER1
I last saw my mother on September 9 last year. After the interview I was able to look at her as she walked away toward the boat that would take her to the mainland and somehow the idea crossed my mind that I would never again set my eyes on her. Her visits had always excited me and the news of her death hit me hard. I at once felt lonely and empty. But my friends here, whose sympathy and affection have always been a source of strength to me, helped to relieve my grief and to raise my spirits. The report on the funeral reinforced my courage. It was a pleasure for me to be informed that my relatives and friends had turned up in large numbers to honour the occasion with their presence and was happy to be able to count you amongst those who paid their last respects.
2. FROM A LETTER TO P K MADIKIZELA, DATED 4 MAY 19692
I had never dreamt that I would never be able to bury ma. On the contrary, I had entertained the hope that I would have the privilege of looking after her in her old age, and be on her side when the fatal hour struck. Zami and I had tried hard to persuade her to come and live with us in Johannesburg, pointing out that she would be nearer Baragwanath Hospital which would ensure for her regular and proper medical attention, and that moving to the Reef would enable Zami to give her effective and all-round attention. I further discussed the matter with ma when she visited me on 6/3/66 and again on 9/9/67. But she spent all her life in the countryside and became attached to its plains and hills, to its fine people and simple ways. Although she had spent some years in Johannesburg, she found it very difficult to leave the home and the family graves. Though I fully appreciated her views and feelings I still hoped I might eventually succeed in persuading her to go up [to Johannesburg].
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The first page of one of Mandela’s prison correspondence journals.
3. FROM A LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTERS ZENI AND ZINDZI MANDELA, THEN AGED NINE AND TEN, DATED 23 JUNE 1969
Once again our beloved Mummy has been arrested and now she and Daddy are away in jail. My heart bleeds as I think of her sitting in some police cell far away from home, perhaps alone and without anybody to talk to, and with nothing to read.3 Twenty-four hours of the day longing for her little ones. It may be many months or even years before you see her again. For long you may live like orphans without your own home and parents, without the natural love, affection and protection Mummy used to give you. Now you will get no birthday or Christmas parties, no presents or new dresses, no shoes or toys. Gone are the days when, after having a warm bath in the evening, you would sit at table with Mummy and enjoy her good and simple food. Gone are the comfortable beds, the warm blankets and clean linen she used to provide. She will not be there to arrange for friends to take you to bioscopes, concerts and plays, or to tell you nice stories in the evening, help you read difficult books and to answer the many questions you would like to ask. She will be unable to give you the help and guidance you need as you grow older and as new problems arise. Perhaps never again will Mummy and Daddy join you in House no. 8115 Orlando West, the one place in the whole world that is so dear to our hearts.
This is not the first time Mummy goes to jail. In October 1958, only four months after our wedding, she was arrested with 2000 other women when they protested against passes in Johannesburg and spent two weeks in jail. Last year she served four days, but now she has gone back again and I cannot tell you how long she will be away this time. All that I wish you always to bear in mind is that we have a brave and determined Mummy who loves her people with all her heart. She gave up pleasure and comfort in return for a life full of hardship and misery because of the deep love she has for her people and country. When you become adults and think carefully of the unpleasant experiences Mummy has gone through, and the stubbornness with which she has held to her beliefs, you will begin to realise the importance of her contribution in the battle for truth and justice and to the extent to which she has sacrificed her own personal interests and happiness…Since then Mummy has lived a painful life and had to try and run a home without a fixed income. Yet she somehow managed to buy you food and clothing, pay your school fees, rent for the house and to send me money regularly. I left home in April 1961 when Zeni was two years and Zindzi three months. Early in January 1962 I toured Africa and visited London for ten days, returned to South Africa towards the end of July the same year. I was terribly shaken when I met Mummy. I had left her in good health with a lot of flesh and colour. But she had suddenly lost weight and was now a shadow of her former self. I realised at once the strain my absence had caused her. I looked forward to some time when I would be able to tell her about my journey, the countries I visited and the people I met. But my arrest on August 5 put an end to that dream. When Mummy was arrested in 1958 I visited her daily and brought her food and fruits…She told me [during a visit to him in custody in 1962] that although she would most probably be arrested and sent to jail, as every politician fighting for freedom must expect, she would nevertheless remain in the country and suffer with her people. Do you see now what a brave Mummy we have?
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From a letter to his daughters Zeni and Zindzi Mandela, dated 23 June 1969.
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From a letter to Winnie Mandela, dated 16 July 1969, about his son Thembi’s death.
4. FROM A ‘SPECIAL LETTER’ TO WINNIE MANDELA, DATED 16 JULY 1969, ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON THEMBI4
This afternoon the Commanding Officer received the following telegram from attorney, Mendel Levin:
‘Please advise Nelson Mandela his [son] Thembekile passed away 13th instant result motor accident in Cape Town.’
I find it difficult to believe that I will never see Thembi again. On February 23 this year he turned 24. I had seen him towards the end of July 1962 a few days after I had returned from the trip abroad. Then he was a lusty lad of 17 that I could never associate with death. He wore one of my trousers which was a shade too big and long for him. The incident was significant and set me thinking. As you know he had a lot of clothing, was particular about his dress and had no reason whatsoever for using my clothes. I was deeply touched for the emotional factors underlying his action were too obvious. For days thereafter my mind and feelings were agitated to realise the psychological strains and stresses my absence from home had imposed on the children. I recalled an incident in December 1956 when I was an awaiting trial prisoner at the Johannesburg Fort. At that time Kgatho was 6 and lived in Orlando East. Although he well knew that I was in jail he went over to Orlando West and told Ma that he longed for me. That night he slept in my bed.
But let me return to my meeting with Thembi. He had come to bid me farewell on his way to boarding school. On his arrival he greeted me very warmly, holding my hand firmly and for some time. Thereafter we sat down and conversed. Somehow the conversation drifted to his studies, and he gave me what I considered, in the light of his age at the time, to be an interesting appreciation of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar which I very much enjoyed.
We had been corresponding regularly ever since he went to school at Matatiele and when he later changed to Wodehouse.
In December 1960 I travelled some distance by car to meet him. Throughout this period I regarded him as a child and I approached him mainly from this angle. But our conversation in July 1962 reminded me I was no longer speaking to a child but to one w
ho was beginning to have a settled attitude in life. He had suddenly raised himself from a son to [a] friend. I was indeed a bit sad when we ultimately parted. I could neither accompany him to a bus stop nor see him off at the station, for an outlaw, such as I was at the time, must be ready to give up even important parental duties. So it was that my son, no! my friend, stepped out alone to fend for himself in a world where I could only meet him secretly and once in a while. I knew you had bought him clothing and given him some cash, but nevertheless I emptied my pockets and transferred to him all the copper and silver that a wretched fugitive could afford.
During the Rivonia Case he sat behind me one day. I kept looking back, nodding to him and giving him a broad smile. At the time it was generally believed that we would certainly be given the extreme penalty and this was clearly written across his face. Though he nodded back as many times as I did to him, not once did he return the smile. I never dreamt that I would never see him again. That was 5 years ago…Never before have I longed for you than at the present moment. It is good to remember this in this day of bitter misfortune and reverses. The writer, P J Schoeman, tells the story of an African Commander-in-Chief who took his army of magnificent black warriors for a hunt. During the chase the son of the Commander was killed by a lioness and the Commander himself was badly mauled by the beast. The wound was then sterilised with a red-hot spear and the wounded dignitary wreathed [sic] with pain as the wound was being treated. Later Schoeman asked how he felt and he replied that the invisible wound was more painful than the visible one. I now know what the Commander meant.
5. FROM A LETTER TO EVELYN MANDELA, DATED 16 JULY 1969, ABOUT THEMBI’S DEATH
This afternoon the Commanding Officer informed me of a telegram received from attorney Mendel Levin of Johannesburg in which he reported the death of Thembi in a motor accident in Cape Town on July 13.
I write to give you, Kgatho and Maki5 my deepest sympathy. I know more than anybody else living today just how devastating this cruel blow must have been to you, for Thembi was your first born and the second child that you have lost. I am also fully conscious of the passionate love that you had for him and the efforts you made to train and prepare him to play his part in a complex modern industrial society. I am also aware of how Kgatho and Maki adored and respected him, the holidays and [the] good time they spent with him in Cape Town.
In her letter written in October 1967 Maki told me that Thembi helped you in buying them all they needed. My late Ma gave me details of the warm hospitality she received from him when she visited me on the Island. Throughout the last five years up to March this year, Nobandla gave me interesting accounts of his attachment and devotion to the family and the personal interest he took in all his relatives. I last saw him five years ago during the Rivonia Trial and I always looked forward to these accounts for they were the main channel through which I was able to hear something of him.
The blow has been equally grievous to me. In addition to the fact that I had not seen him for at least sixty months, I was neither privileged to give him a wedding ceremony nor to lay him to rest when the fatal hour had struck. In 1967 I wrote him a long letter drawing his attention to some matters which I thought were in his interest to attend to without delay. I looked forward to further correspondence and to meeting him and his family when I returned. All these expectations have now been completely shattered for he has been taken away at the early age of 24 and we will never again see him. We should all be consoled and comforted by the fact that he had many good friends who join with us in mourning his passing away. He fulfilled all his duties to us as parents and has left us with an inheritance for which every parent is proud – a charming Molokazana and two lovely babies.6
Once more I extend to you, Kgatho and Maki my sincere condolences and trust that you will muster enough strength and courage to survive this painful tragedy.
6. FROM A LETTER TO THE COMMANDING OFFICER OF ROBBEN ISLAND PRISON, DATED 22 JULY 1969
My eldest son, Madiba Thembekile, aged twenty-four, passed away in Cape Town on July 13, 1969, as a result of injuries he sustained in a motor-car accident.
I wish to attend, at my own cost, the funeral proceedings and to pay my last respects to his memory. I have no information as to where he will be buried, but I assume that this will take place either in Cape Town, Johannesburg or Umtata. In this connection I should be pleased if you would give me permission to proceed immediately, with or without escort, to the place where he will be laid to rest. If he will already have been buried by the time you receive this application, then I would ask that I be allowed to visit his grave for the purpose of ‘laying the stone’, the traditional ceremony reserved for those persons who miss the actual burial.
It is my earnest hope that you will on this occasion find it possible to approach this request more humanely than you treated a similar application I made barely ten months ago, in September 1968, for leave to attend my mother’s funeral. Approval of that application would have been a generous act on your part, and one which would have made a deep impression on me. Such a humanitarian gesture would have gone a long way in softening the hard blow and painful misfortune of an imprisoned man losing a mother, and would have afforded me the opportunity to be present at the graveside. I might add that I saw my late son a little more than five years ago and you will readily appreciate just how anxious I am to attend the funeral.
Finally, I should like to point out that precedents exist when Governments have favourably considered applications of this nature.
7. FROM A LETTER TO NOLUSAPHO IRENE MKWAYI, DATED 29 SEPTEMBER 19697
Ten months before this I had made a similar application when my mother passed away, although the authorities had then adopted a hard line in refusing what I considered in all the circumstances to be a reasonable request, I nonetheless vaguely hoped that this time the death of two members of the family occurring so soon after the other would probabl[y] induce the authorities to give me the one opportunity I had in life of paying my last respects to Thembi…my application was simply ignored and I was not even favoured with the courtesy of an acknowledgement. A further request for permission to obtain copies of press reports on the fatal accident were turned down, and up to now I have no authentic information whatsoever as to how Thembi died…Not only was I deprived of the opportunity of seeing for the last time my eldest son and friend, and the pride of my heart; I am kept in the dark on everything relating to him and his affairs.
8. FROM A LETTER TO IRENE BUTHELEZI, DATED 3 AUGUST 19698
I was moved by the message of condolence contained in the telegram sent by my chief, Mangosuthu [Buthelezi], on behalf of the family and which I received on July 18 (my birthday), and I should like him to know that I deeply appreciate it.9 1968 and 1969 have been difficult and trying years for me. I lost my mother only 10 months ago. On May 12 my wife was detained indefinitely under the Terrorist Act [sic], leaving behind small chdn [children] as virtual orphans, and now my eldest son is gone never to return. Death is a frightful disaster no matter what the cause and the age of the person affected. Where it approaches gradually as in the case of normal illness, the next-of-kin are at least forewarned and the blow may not be so shattering when it ultimately lands. But when you learn that death had claimed a strapping and healthy person in the prime of his life, then one must actually live through the experience to realise how completely paralysing it can be. This was my experience on July 16 when I was first advised of my son’s death I was shaken from top to bottom and for some seconds I did not know exactly how to react. I ought to have been better prepared for Thembi was not the first child I lost. Way back in the Forties I lost a 9 months baby girl.10 She had been hospitalised and had been making good progress when suddenly her condition took a grave turn and she died the same night. I managed to see her during the critical moments when she was struggling desperately to hold within her tender body the last sparks of life which were flickering away. I have never known whether or not I was fortunate to witness
that grievous scene. It haunted me for many days thereafter and still provokes painful memories right up to the present day; but it should have hardened me for similar catastrophes. Then came Sept[ember] 26 (my wife’s birthday) when I was advised of my mother’s death. I had last seen her the previous Sept when she visited me on the Island at the ripe age of 76 having travelled alone from Umtata. Her appearance had much distressed me. She had lost weight and although cheerful and charming, she looked ill and tired. At the end of the visit I was able to watch her as she walked slowly towards the boat which would take her back to the mainland, and somehow the thought flashed across my mind that I had seen her for the last time. But as the months rolled by the picture I had formed of her last visit began to fade away and was altogether dispelled by the exciting letter she wrote thereafter testifying to her good health. The result was that when the fatal hour struck on Sept[ember] 26 I was again quite unprepared and for a few days I spent moments in my cell which I never want to remember. But nothing I experienced in the late Forties and in Sept[ember] last year can be likened to what I went through on July 16. The news was broken to me about 2.30 pm. Suddenly my heart seemed to have stopped beating and the warm blood that had freely flown in my veins for the last 51 years froze into ice. For sometime I could neither think nor talk and my strength appeared to be draining out. Eventually, I found my way back to my cell with a heavy load on my shoulders and the last place where a man striken with sorrow should be. As usual my friends here were kind and helpful and they did what they could to keep me in good spirits.
Conversations with Myself Page 12