כותרות TheMarker >
    cafe is going down
    ';

    nomen omen

    השם (nomen) הוא הגורל (omen) - קובעת הלטינית

    כמו למילה, לשם כוח יצירה המתווה גורלות וקובע מהויות, ובכך מעצב את העתיד

    והשם גל - עולה יורד, שוצף ורוגע - מסביר את כל הבלגן

    © כל הזכויות שמורות לגל וייס. כל הכתוב נוצר על ידי ושייך לי, אלא אם כן צוין אחרת.

    ו.. אני מעונינת בבקורות אמיתיות, בהערות נוקבות, בדברים שיוכלו לשפר את כתיבתי ולא רק בתשבחות המנומסות שמאד נעימות לי - מודה
    ותודה

    ארכיון

    invictus- William Ernest Henley , וקלינט איסטווד ונלסון מנדלה ומורגן פרימן

    2 תגובות   יום ראשון, 30/5/10, 02:59

    William Ernest Henley 1849 – 1903 

     

    Out of the night that covers me,
    Black as the pit from pole to pole,
    I thank whatever gods may be
    For my unconquerable soul.

    In the fell clutch of circumstance
    I have not winced nor cried aloud.
    Under the bludgeonings of chance
    My head is bloody, but unbowed.

    Beyond this place of wrath and tears
    Looms but the Horror of the shade,
    And yet the menace of the years
    Finds and shall find me unafraid.

    It matters not how strait the gate,
    How charged with punishments the scroll,
    I am the master of my fate:
    I am the captain of my soul.


     

    את השיר הנפלא הזה למדתי היום בסרטו המרגש של קלינט איסטווד - אינוויקטוס - על נלסון מנדלה

    הסרט לעתים מעט קלישאי אך מרומם נפש, אנושי ומלא אהבה וחמלה

     

    הסרט נעשה לפי ספר של ג'והן קארלין על בניית אומה מהמחנות השסועים והעוינים בדרום אפריקה בעזרת ראגבי ושני גיבורים אפריקנרים

     

    השיר הוצג בסרט כמה שסייע למנדלה לעבור את המאסר של כמעט 30 שנה בתא קטן ללא שנאה ובלי להישבר ולצאת מוכן להנהיג את עמו לקראת סליחה ובנייה ולמנוע בכל מחיר את מרחץ הדמים הצפוי

    שיר שהוא מעביר בדרכו הנעימה לקפטן של קבוצת הראגבי הכושלת כדי להוביל אותו למנהיגות מעוררת השראה מתוך הבנה שהמשחק הזה והקבוצה הזו, שהיו כה חשובים ללבנים וכה שנואים על השחורים, יכולים לסייע באיחוד ובגאווה משותפת

     

     

    דבריו של הקפטן - פרנסואה פינאר על מנדלה לכבוד יום הולדתו ה- 90

     

    הספר של ג'והן קארלין:

     Playing the Enemy: Nelson Mandela and the Game that Made a Nation

     

    ומתוכו:

     

    Nelson Mandela sat inscrutable as a sphinx, as he always does when the conversation turns serious and he is the listener. You’re not sure, as you blather on, whether he’s paying attention or lost in his own thoughts. But when I quoted Martin Luther King, he nodded with a sharp, lips-pursed, downward jolt of the chin.

    We met in the living room of his home in Johannesburg in August 2001, two years after he’d retired from the South African presidency. I was making my pitch about a book I wanted to write.

    I said it concerned South Africa’s peaceful transfer of power from white rule to majority rule. No country had ever shepherded itself from tyranny to democracy more ably and humanely. Much had been written about the nuts and bolts of “the South African miracle”; but what was missing was the human factor, the miraculous-ness of the miracle.

    I said I meant to frame my book around the drama of a particular sporting event – an occasion that evoked magically the “symphony of brotherhood” of Dr King’s dreams; one event where all Mandela had striven and suffered for during his life converged. I was referring to the final of the . . . Suddenly, his smile lit up the room and, joining his huge hands in happy recognition, he finished the sentence for me: “the 1995 Rugby World Cup!”

    My own smile confirmed his guess, and he added, in full voice, as if he were not 82 but 40 years younger: “Yes. Yes. Absolutely! I understand exactly the book you have in mind. John, you have my blessing. You have it wholeheartedly.” In high spirits, we shook hands and agreed we’d arrange another meeting soon.

    In that second interview, he explained how he had first formed an idea of the political power of sport while in prison; how he had used the 1995 Rugby World Cup as an instrument in the grand strategic purpose he set for himself during his five years as South Africa’s first democratically elected president: to reconcile blacks and whites and create the conditions for a lasting peace in a country that barely five years earlier, when he was released from prison, had contained all the conditions for civil war.

    To blacks, rugby was the hated symbol of apartheid. To Afrikaners, as Mandela put it, it was a religion. His job was to try to become the father of the whole nation: to make everybody feel that he symbolised their identity and values. He set himself the task of persuading the country to come together around the national rugby team – which he would achieve with startling success at the World Cup final, when hordes of Afrikaner fans sang the Xhosa words of the new national anthem, once the symbol of black defiance.

    Rugby was only part of the strategy. Before he even became president, he had to intervene personally to dissuade a powerful retired general from attempting a coup.

    How did one man achieve this? Much has been written about Mandela, who will be 90 on July 18, and about what has happened to South Africa since his retirement. But his rugby diplomacy during those early years of freedom is the key to it all.

    After he and I spoke, all sorts of people agreed to talk to me. In many cases there was a moment when the eyes of my interlocutor moistened, especially when it was someone from the rugby crowd. In all cases they relived the times we discussed in a buoyant mood that bordered at times on eu-phoria. Mandela mastered, more than anyone else, the art of making friends and influencing people. No matter whether they started out on the extreme left or the extreme right, whether they initially feared, hated or admired Mandela, everyone I interviewed had come to feel renewed and improved by his example. All of them, in talking about him, seemed to shine. He won over people who had applauded his impris-onment, who had wanted him dead, who were planning to go to war against him. That is what this story is about.

    DURING his 27 years in prison, Mandela got to know his enemy, the Afrikaners, and how important rugby was to them. Their children learnt the game barefoot on hard, dry pitches where if you fell, you bled. Successive South African national teams had a reputation as the most bruisingly physical players in the world.

    As a metaphor for apartheid’s crushing brutality, the Springboks worked well. Their distinctive green jersey was as detestable to blacks as the riot police, the national flag and the national anthem, Die Stem (The Call), whose words celebrated the white conquest of Africa’s southern tip.

    Mandela’s African National Congress (ANC) promoted an international boycott of the Springboks, which Niel Barnard, head of South Africa’s National Intelligence Service in the 1980s, said was “very painful to us Afrikaners”. After Mandela’s release in 1990 – when it was far from certain that most whites would accept the transition to black majority rule – the ANC agreed to convert the stick into a carrot by easing up on the boycott. Rugby would be used as an inducement for the Afrikaners to board the democracy train.

    Things did not go according to plan. Louis Luyt, the brash South African rugby president, flouted an agreement not “to promote apartheid symbols” and played Die Stem at the first serious international match for 11 years, converting a ritual of reconciliation into one of defiance as the white crowd bellowed out the anthem like a battle cry. Yet Mandela persuaded a “very negative” ANC to persist. He even secured the biggest, best and least-deserved gift white South Africa could have imagined – to stage the 1995 Rugby World Cup.

    Instead of responding with gratitude, the white right stepped up its resistance rhetoric. Within days of the rugby announcement, all the talk in political circles was of civil war. Mandela’s dreams of democracy nearly drowned in blood.

    Chris Hani was, next to Mandela, black South Africa’s greatest hero. He had led the two organisations the white regime feared most, Umkhonto we Sizwe (the ANC’s military wing) and the South African Communist party. This made him Mandela’s heir as “terrorist-in-chief” in white eyes. On April 10, 1993, he was shot down by a white assassin outside his home.

    Mandela received the news as he was having his usual breakfast of porridge, fruit and toast in Qunu, the village in the Transkei where he was born. Richard Stengel, who co-wrote his autobiography, was with him at the time.

    “He put the phone down,” Stengel recalled. “His mind was already spinning and working, and thinking, ‘What’s going to happen? What would this do for the na-tion? What would it do for the peace? What would this do for the negotiations?’ And he began a series of phone calls to aides and he saw immediately this could be the match that ignites the tinder, the revolution, God knows what. And he was completely the master of the political moment. And I almost felt I could see inside of this head and see all of these different gears whirring.”

    Mandela had never had greater power to define the course his country took. The easier option would be to make war. The difficult one, which he took, was to call to the angry masses to set aside the emotions of the moment in favour of the bigger goal. It worked. Black grief did not spill over into violent anger.

    Hani’s funeral was a massive affair that ended with a thrilling call for peace and unity from Desmond Tutu.

    But, rather than listen to Mandela and Tutu calling for calm, the rightwing volk tuned in to the calls for revenge from young ANC militants.

    General Constand Viljoen was retired but he had been head of the South African military during five of the most violent years of confrontation between black activists and the state. Failing to understand that the cries of “kill the Boer” at Hani’s funeral were the sideshow and not the main event, he decided the time had come to answer the call of nationalist duty.

    Viljoen turned up at a big rightwing rally of Boer resistance movements – a mini-Nuremberg, complete with flags, imitation swastika insignias, parade drills and long-bearded Boer “bitter-ender” warriors. They might have been dismissed as a bunch of wackos in fancy dress were there not 15,000 of them.

    Entering into the spirit of the occasion, Viljoen denounced the “unholy alliance” between Mandela and President F W de Klerk, who were negotiating the terms of free elections, and declared himself ready and willing to lead the Boer battalions.

    “The Afrikaner people must prepare to defend themselves,” the general cried. “Every Afrikaner must be ready. Every farm, every school is a target.”

    The crowd roared. Viljoen, who still commanded much respect within the officer class of the South African Defence Force, was the redeemer the volk had been waiting for. He was anointed the leader of the new “Boer people’s army”.

    In those first two months the Volksfront recruited 150,000 secessionists to the cause, of whom 100,000 were men-at-arms. In June 1993 – on the eve of a Springbok game against France – they undertook their first military action since Viljoen had been made bitter-ender-in-chief. Police stood aside as 3,000 Boer warriors stormed the World Trade Centre, a conference building near Johannesburg airport where the ANC and the government were negotiating.

    Viljoen’s twin brother, Braam, a theologian of contrasting liberal views, warned a senior ANC official that the general was travelling the country rousing the faithful for war. The ANC had ample reason to take the carrot of international rugby away and never give it back.

    Again Mandela prevailed. Through Braam Viljoen, Mandela met the general and charmed him by speaking Afrikaans and pouring him a cup of tea. “Do you take milk, General?” The general said he did. “Would you like some sugar?”

    Mandela – polite but decidedly not mincing his words – worked on making Viljoen like him. “Mandela began by saying that the Afrikaner people had done him and his people a lot of harm,” Viljoen recalled, “and yet somehow he had a great respect for the Afrikaners.”

    Long-cemented stereotypes were crumbling. What Viljoen could not see was that in political terms he was out of his class. Mandela, as a man of the world rather than a man of one volk, had a capacity the general lacked to penetrate the minds of people culturally different from himself. He knew when to flatter and soothe; he knew also when he could go on the offensive, without causing offence, thus conveying an impression of directness that he knew the general would take to.

    Years later, Mandela said: “I have worked with Afrikaners ever since I was in training as a lawyer, and I found them to be simple and straightforward. And if he doesn’t like you, an Afrikaner, he’ll say ‘gaan kak’.” “Get lost” would be a polite translation of the Boer original. “But if he likes you, then he agrees with you. They have the ability to stick to what they have undertaken.”

    The real substance of the encounter came at the end of their conversation over that same cup of tea.

    “I hope you understand how difficult it is for white people to trust that things are going to go right with the ANC in power,” Viljoen said, adding: “I am not sure if you realise it, Mr Mandela, but this can be stopped.”

    By “this”, Viljoen meant the peaceful transition to black rule. Gravely, Mandela replied: “Look, general, I know that the military forces you can muster are powerful and well-armed and well-trained; and that they are far more powerful than mine. Militarily we cannot fight you; we cannot win. If, however, you do go to war, you assuredly will not win either, not in the long run. Because, one, the international community will be totally behind us. And, two, we are too many, and you cannot kill us all. So then, what kind of life will there be for your people in this country? My people will go to the bush, the international pressure on you will be enormous and this country will become a living hell for all of us. Is that what you want? No, General, there can be no winners if we go to war.”

    “This is so,” Viljoen replied. “There can be no winner.”

    And that was it. Their meeting laid the basis for 3½ months of secret talks between delegations of the ANC and the Volksfront. The Volksfront wanted to establish the constitutional principle of an independent Afrikaner state carved out of South Africa, to which the ANC never quite said no and never quite said yes, their main concern having been to keep Viljoen’s people talking.

    Right-wing violence was far from over, however. In March 1994, weeks before elections were due, Viljoen mobilised more than 1,000 armed men to go into the black homeland of Bophuthatswana in support of its “president”. The whole thing turned into a fiasco when extremists among his force went on a “kaffirskietpiekniek” – a kaffir-shooting picnic.

    The homeland’s security forces turned their guns on the Volksfronters, and Viljoen’s men fled the field in disarray.

    This is often given as the sole reason why Viljoen decided to abandon the Boer resistance struggle. He confided, however, that, having got rid of the hooligan element in the “Bop” fiasco, it would have remained within his means to carry on. “We had the arms, we had the tactics, and we had the will . . . to prevent the elections from taking place successfully.”

    He added: “During those final weeks before the election, opinion was divided in the Afrikaner Volksfront, 50-50 between those who wanted the violent option, disrupting the elections and the whole democratic process in South Africa, and those who wanted a negotiated solution.”

    As their leader, Viljoen personally took the decision to negotiate. “I always took the view that war or violence is not an easy option. I know war. So I told my supporters that I would take it upon myself whether to go to war or not to go. It was the most difficult decision I had to take in my life.

    “In the military you must understand that before making up our minds on a question like this we weigh up all the factors, we evaluate, we think hard, and it is only after a long process that we decide.

    “I considered that the right option was negotiations, and participation in the elections. I considered that it was best for the country, and best for the Afrikaner people.”

    But what was the decisive factor? He replied without hesitation: “The character of the opponent – whether you can trust him, whether you believe he is genuinely for peace. The important thing when you sit down and negotiate with an enemy is the character of the people you have across the table from you and whether they carry their people’s support. Mandela had both.”

    On April 27, 1994, Mandela was elected president. Viljoen’s new party, the Freedom Front, won nine seats in parliament. But 50% of his former supporters had not voted, and even the majority of white people did not shake off their inbred mixture of guilt and fear overnight.

    They began to worry whether this might not be the calm before the storm. There had been bombings during the election campaign and the terrorist threat was by no means over. WHILE the Springboks made up for the lost years of isolation with a sudden blur of international games, Mandela regularly took tea with Viljoen, who was anxious about the potential for violence his well-armed and, in some cases, half-crazed former allies might pose.

    Their fears were confirmed on the evening of November 5 – just after the Springboks had annihilated a Welsh team with style and passion – when Johan Heyns, a former moderator of the Dutch reformed church who had turned against apartheid, was assassinated.

    Mandela was outraged. Heyns, whom he had met many times, had been his favourite kind of Afrikaner. Morally and physically brave, honest to the core, he’d had the courage late in life to admit to the error of his ways.

    Three days after Heyns’s death, Mandela announced a crackdown on the far right. He began by wielding the axe on the police, from whose ranks he suspected complicity in Heyns’s killing as well as an unwillingness to seriously uncover the culprits.

    Mandela was prepared to swallow a lot for the cause of peace, going so far as to name the Zulu Inkatha leader, Mangosuthu Buthelezi, minister of home affairs. But Heyns’s death had stretched his patience.

    “We cannot allow a police force to develop in opposition to government,” he declared and fired the national police chief, Commissioner Johan Van der Merwe, who had headed the notorious security police in the 1980s.

    Expecting a backlash, Mandela received reports two months later of what sounded like a serious plot against his government. “I checked and cross-checked with the intelligence people and this was what I found: One group of rightwingers was saying, ‘Let us join with Inkatha and attack the ANC. The United Nations would not interfere because it would be blacks attacking blacks. They won’t interfere. And we must topple this government because it’s a communist government.’

    “But other rightwingers were saying, ‘No you can’t do that! Look at what they have done for rugby, look at the international rugby they have given us.’ ” Mandela went on the political offensive, with rugby once again as his instrument, his carrot. But his next proposal was a concession to the whites that blacks found extremely hard to stomach. Even the ANC’s usually meek leadership was in open rebellion.

    “You would not believe it! They came out and attacked me!” he remembered.

     

    © John Carlin 2008

    Extracted from Playing the Enemy: Nelson Mandela and the Game that Made a Nation by John Carlin

    דרג את התוכן:

      תגובות (2)

      נא להתחבר כדי להגיב

      התחברות או הרשמה   

      סדר התגובות :
      ארעה שגיאה בזמן פרסום תגובתך. אנא בדקו את חיבור האינטרנט, או נסו לפרסם את התגובה בזמן מאוחר יותר. אם הבעיה נמשכת, נא צרו קשר עם מנהל באתר.
      /null/cdate#

      /null/text_64k_1#

      RSS
        31/5/10 00:29:
      I am the master of my fate:
      I am the captain of my soul.

       

       

      הלואי עלי

        30/5/10 09:53:

      תודה.

      שוקי