Dancing lessons
It was sometime in December 1989, the third month of my stay at the University of Stirling in Scotland, when the students decided to hold an African party. Purpose: to raise funds for the African National Congress whose leader, Nelson Mandela, was still languishing in the prison chambers of South Africa. It was a collaborative effort on all fronts – from the African students in my university to the British students still trying to work out what one of them called their white liberal guilt. We would visit an ancient printing press in Edinburgh, Scotland’s capital, as part of our practicum in Publishing Studies early the next day, but still I wanted to attend the party.
So that night, I wore my late 1980s party gear: canary-yellow T-shirt, jeans torn at the most appropriate places, and purple suede shoes. And since the party was for dear old Mr. Mandela, I decided to wear my cow-bone necklaces, the ones with messages of freedom inscribed on the back, hand-made by political prisoners of Ferdinand Marcos’s dictatorship.
When I arrived at Robbins Hall at 11 p.m., the party was just starting to heat up. My African friends wore the most colorful costumes. The women’s headgear looked like huge cabbage roses; their green satin shimmered, along with their beads, bangles, and bracelets. Some of the men wore short vests that showed off their washboard tummies and tighter-than-tight jeans. A Muslim from North Africa just went there in his usual daily wear: a white fez, a tent-like robe, and sandals with braided straps. Oh yes, there were also boys whose dreadlocked hair trailed all the way down to the floor. On the other hand, the white boys and girls came in ratty clothes dug up from the flea markets, layered them with something new, and strapped on their black shoes shaped like boats.
As they say over there, the party was a smash. People danced without any hint of self-consciousness, the way they would do it in class-conscious Manila. They just went to the floor, whether alone, in twos or threes, and began to jive. In the beginning, the deejay played some techno and house music — sounds I’d never heard before. But in the middle of the party, the deejay switched to “Free Nelson Mandela,” the South African anthem of protest. And the crowd just went wild. The song has a deep and fast thrumming rising to a refrain that urged, again and again, the white racist government in Johannesburg to free Mr. Mandela. Everybody was singing and dancing and jumping and hooting. The volts of energy that night were enough to make Robbins Hall burst into flames.
Five months later, the white government in South Africa faced the fact that it had to hand over power to the black majority. The first step in healing the injustice and pain of the years was to free Nelson Mandela after 25 years of imprisonment.
My African friends Peter, Femi, Mary, and Bookie were all watching TV on the first floor of Muirhead Hall, along with the other Africans who live in our building. Sue Joubaud, the brightest girl in our class who was descended from French settlers in South Africa, wasn’t there with us. She was in London, visiting her mum. The BBC covered the event live, and we all huddled together in the small TV room. Those of us who had lived through tyranny and oppression during the Marcos dictatorship knew how it was to finally take flight, on hope’s wings.
Later, back in my room, I wrote a poem in Filipino called “Kay Nelson Mandela (Para kay Sue, na wala roon).” It goes this way: “Nang pakawalan ka/ kasama ko sa Stirling/ ang mga kaibigang itim./ Malalim ang kanilang tinig,/ mabilis ang lukso/ ng mga patinig/ mula sa mga labi./ Lumatag ang katahimikan/ nang magsimula kang/ Lumakad palayo/ sa puting kulungan:/ maamo ang mukha,/ wala ni gatla/ ng pait o paghihiganti./ Nang itaas mo ang kamay/ bilang pasasalamat,/ bilang pag-aalay,/ sumabog ang ligaya/ mula sa aking mga kaibigan -- / mabalutan ng luha/ ang kanilang mga mata --/ ligayang sumabog/ tila mga ibong pabalik/ sa veldt at parang,/ bundok at kapatagan,/ ng mahal na inang Aprika.” This poem was published in my second poetry book, Black Silk Pajamas: Poems in English and Filipino (Anvil, 1996).
The English translation follows: “When they freed you, I was in Stirling/ with my African friends,/ their voices deep,/ swift the syllables from their lips./ Silence like a mat/ unrolled itself in the room/ when you left/ the white prison,/ your face calm,/ with no line of vengeance or bitterness./ When you raised your hands/ gratefully,/ like an offering,/ joy exploded from my friends/ their eyes /filmed with tears --/ joy that exploded/ like wings rushing back/ to the veldts and woodlands,/ the mountains and plains/ of beloved Mother Africa.”
After he was freed by the white government of South Africa, Mandela ran for office and won hands down, but then he did the unnamable — he did not stand again for reelection. It was something unknown among political creatures, especially the cunning and crusty ones made in the Philippines. But because he governed justly and governed well — even keeping a hands-off policy when his former wife, Winnie, was charged and tried for a political offense — the admiration and respect the world had for him endured.
Now past 90 years old and enfeebled by age, he nevertheless stands as an icon of democracy worldwide — living lesson for multicultural students 20 years ago dancing to an African song written for him, and living legend for students now and in the future, who know that destiny is not carved in the lines of one’s palm. Destiny is here, and you create it.
