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the passing of an icon gives time to pause and reflect. I was fortunate enough to interact with and photograph the late President Nelson Mandela on several occasions while working for a media group in South Africa in the 1990s. It was a time when the country was making its stuttering transition from an apartheid white-dominated regime to a new dispensation of black majority rule. Fears of a looming civil war were whispered in all the corridors and tensions were simmering. But Mandela showed forgiveness – making a visible and determined effort to lead by example. His actions shocked us all. While right-wing white South Africans were left unimpressed， the majority of whites realized that change was inevitable and here to stay – relegating the old life of segregation into the dustbin of history.
In all his dealings with the media， Mandela was always gracious， often remembering reporters and photographers by name. He would offer his incredibly soft hands in greeting and more often than not tell media workers it was“good to see you again” as if we were the guests of honor. I recall his patience and humor - at South Africa’s first free elections a white mother thrust her baby into his path asking for him to bless the child. Without hesitating he picked the baby up. It howled in indignation， to which he quipped，“You must belong to the opposition party.” Everyone broke into laughter， after which the baby stopped crying and began smiling， refusing to go back to its mother.
Mandela was a relaxed person， happy in his own skin， who when out visiting schools， would think nothing of wearing the school’s soccer jersey over his suit， or have hundreds of young students mob him for hours. I watched him at functions treat a young waiter and a head of state in exactly the same way and thumb his nose at official dress protocol by wearing his famous golden shirts.
But the most special memory I have of Mandela has to do with a poem I wrote about him after he was released from prison in 1990. The essence of the poem was a mother living in a rural South African village telling her daughter that she need no longer worry about her future， because “Nelson was home.” At the time I showed the poem to my mother， who after reading it suggested I send it to Mandela as a gesture of goodwill.
“It will make him happy to know people feel he brings hope to the nation，” my mother said. I posted off the poem to the President’s Office， forgetting all about it in the days that followed. To my surprise， two weeks later a letter was delivered to me from the President’s Office. The letter thanked me for the poem and said that it was encouraging words and gestures like these that make the job of President much easier. It was signed N. R. Mandela， President of the Republic of South Africa.
It remains my most prized possession. Mandela taught us all to forgive and to know that if your actions have positive intentions you need not fear the consequences. Take a good rest Tata Madiba – your infectious smile and long walk to freedom has forever enriched us all.
In all his dealings with the media， Mandela was always gracious， often remembering reporters and photographers by name. He would offer his incredibly soft hands in greeting and more often than not tell media workers it was“good to see you again” as if we were the guests of honor. I recall his patience and humor - at South Africa’s first free elections a white mother thrust her baby into his path asking for him to bless the child. Without hesitating he picked the baby up. It howled in indignation， to which he quipped，“You must belong to the opposition party.” Everyone broke into laughter， after which the baby stopped crying and began smiling， refusing to go back to its mother.
Mandela was a relaxed person， happy in his own skin， who when out visiting schools， would think nothing of wearing the school’s soccer jersey over his suit， or have hundreds of young students mob him for hours. I watched him at functions treat a young waiter and a head of state in exactly the same way and thumb his nose at official dress protocol by wearing his famous golden shirts.
But the most special memory I have of Mandela has to do with a poem I wrote about him after he was released from prison in 1990. The essence of the poem was a mother living in a rural South African village telling her daughter that she need no longer worry about her future， because “Nelson was home.” At the time I showed the poem to my mother， who after reading it suggested I send it to Mandela as a gesture of goodwill.
“It will make him happy to know people feel he brings hope to the nation，” my mother said. I posted off the poem to the President’s Office， forgetting all about it in the days that followed. To my surprise， two weeks later a letter was delivered to me from the President’s Office. The letter thanked me for the poem and said that it was encouraging words and gestures like these that make the job of President much easier. It was signed N. R. Mandela， President of the Republic of South Africa.
It remains my most prized possession. Mandela taught us all to forgive and to know that if your actions have positive intentions you need not fear the consequences. Take a good rest Tata Madiba – your infectious smile and long walk to freedom has forever enriched us all.