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TRANSCRIPT
PART B: FOCUS ON THE STORY
Long Walk to Freedom Nelson Mandela's autobiography Long Walk to Freedom is the story of Mandela's struggle
for justice and freedom for all the people of South Africa. He was an anti-apartheid activist
and the leader of the African National Congress. Mandela was convicted for sabotage and
other crimes in his "long walk to freedom" and he was sentenced to 27 years of
imprisonment. Mandela was released on 11th February 1990. He was the first President of
South Africa elected in a fully representative democratic election.
Mandela is regarded as a national hero for his ongoing struggle for a multi-cultural
democracy. All over the world he is celebrated as a great statesman. In 1993 he received the
Nobel Peace Prize in Oslo. To commemorate Mandela's contribution to peace all over the
world, the United Nations Council has decided that Mandela's birthday, 18th July, is to be
"Mandela Day".
I AWOKE ON THE DAY of my release after only a few hours' sleep at 4:30 A.M.. February 11
was cloudless, end-of-summer Cape Town. I did a shortened version of my usual exercise
regimen, washed, and ate breakfast. I then telephoned a number of people from the ANC
and theUDF (United Democratic Front) in Cape Town to come to the cottage to prepare for
my release and work on my speech. The prison doctor came by to give me a brief check up. I
did not dwell on the prospect of my release, but on all the many things I had to do before
then. As so often happens in life, the momentousness of an occasion is lost in the welter of a
thousand details.
My actual release was set for 3 P.M. At a few minutes after three, I was telephoned by a
well-known
SABC (South African Broadcasting Corporation) presenter who requested that I get out of the
car a few hundred feet before the gate so that they could film me walking toward freedom.
This seemed reasonable, and I agreed to do it. This was my first inkling that things might not
go as calmly as I had imagined.
When I was among the crowd I raised my right fist and there was a roar. I had not been able
to do that for twenty-seven years and it gave me a surge of strength and joy. Although I was
pleased to have such a reception, I was greatly vexed by the fact that I did not have a chance
to say good-bye to the prison staff. As I finally walked through those gates to enter a car on
the other side, I felt – even at the age of seventy-one – that my life was beginning anew. My
ten thousand days of imprisonment were over.
The reception committee had organized a rally at the Grand Parade in Cape Town. I raised
my fist to the crowd and the crowd responded with an enormous cheer. I spoke from the
heart. I wanted first of all to tell the people that I was not a messiah, but an ordinary man
who had become a leader because of extraordinary circumstances. I wanted immediately to
thank the people all over the world who had campaigned for my release.
It was vital for me to show my people and government that I was unbroken and unbowed,
and that the struggle was not over for me but beginning anew in a different form. I affirmed
that I was "a loyal and disciplined member of the African National Congress". I encouraged
the people to return to the barricades, to intensify the struggle, and we would walk the last
mile together.
At the press conference that afternoon, I told the press that I would play whatever role the
ANC (the African National Congress) ordered. I added that when the state stopped inflicting
violence on the ANC, the ANC would reciprocate with peace. I was asked as well about the
fears of whites. I knew that people expected me to harbour anger toward whites. But I had
none. In prison, my anger towards whites decreased, but my hatred for the system grew. I
wanted South Africa to see that I loved even my enemies while I hated the system that
turned us against one another.
The following morning we flew by helicopter to the First National Bank Stadium in Soweto.
The stadium was so crowded, with people sitting or standing in every inch of space. I
expressed my delight to be back among them. I ended by opening my arms to all South
Africans of goodwill and good intentions, saying that "no man or woman who has
abandoned apartheid will be excluded from our movement toward a non-racial, united and
democratic South Africa based on one-person one-vote on a common voters' roll." That was
the ANC's mission, the goal that I would work toward during the remaining years of my life.
It was the dream I cherished when I entered prison at the age of forty-four, but I was no
longer a young man. I was seventy-one, and I could not afford to waste any time.
That night, I returned with Winnie to number 8115 in Orlando West. It was only then that I
knew in my heart that I had left prison. For me, 8115 was the centerpoint of my world, the
place marked with an X in my mental geography. That night, as happy as I was to be home, I
had a sense that what I most wanted and longed for was going to be denied me, to visit in
the evening with old friends. In giving myself to my people I could see that I was once again
taking myself away from my family.
I VOTED ON APRIL 27. The images of South Africans going to the polls that day are burned in
my memory. Great lines of patient people, old women who had waited half a century to cast
their first vote saying that they felt like human beings for the first time in their lives.
From the moment the results were in and it was apparent that the ANC was to form the
government, I knew that many people, particularly the minorities, whites, Coloureds, and
Indians, would be feeling anxious about the future and I wanted them to feel secure. At every
opportunity, I said all South Africans, must now unite and join hands and say we are one
country, one nation, one people, marching together into the future.
The policy of apartheid created a deep and lasting wound in my country and my people. All
of us will spend many years, if not generations, recovering from that profound hurt. But the
decades of oppression and brutality had another, unintended effect, and that was that it
produced the Oliver Tambos, the Walter Sisulus, the Chief Luthulis, the Yusuf Dadoos, The
Bram Fischers, the Robert Subokwes of our time - men of such extraordinary courage,
wisdom, and generosity that their like may never be known again. It is from these comrades
in the struggle that I learned the meaning of courage.
Time and time again, I have seen men and women risk and give their lives for an idea. I have
seen men stand up to attacks and torture without breaking. I learned that courage was not
the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel
afraid, but he who conquers that fear. I was not born with a hunger to be free. I was born
free - free in every way that I could know. It was only when I began to learn that my boyhood
freedom was an illusion, when I discovered as a young man that my freedom had already
been taken from me, that I began to hunger for it. I saw that it was not just my freedom that
was curtailed, but the freedom of everyone who looked like I did. That is when I joined the
African National Congress.
It was during those long and lonely years in prison that my hunger for the freedom of my
own people became a hunger for the freedom of all people, white and black. I knew as well
as I knew anything that the oppressor must be liberated just as surely as the oppressed. The
oppressed and the oppressor alike are robbed of their humanity.
I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter; I have made missteps
along the way. But I have discovered the secret that after climbing a great hill one only finds
that there are many more hills to climb. I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view
of the glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come. But I can
rest only for a moment, for with freedom comes responsibilities, and I dare not linger, for my
long walk is not yet ended.
Extracts from Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela, pages 769-773, 775, 777-779, 781-782, 848, 851, 855 and 857-859.
PART B: FOCUS ON THE STORY –
Nelson Mandela fights for freedom and justice for all. The kids in The Hunger Games
arefighting for their lives.
The Hunger Games In a future country called Panem we follow Katniss Everdeen on her way from home to
mortal combat in the capital of Panem, called the Capitol. Panem was originally divided into
thirteen districts. Then the districts rebelled against oppression from the Capitol. The
response was prompt. The thirteenth district was wiped out from the face of the earth.
As a cruel punishment the twelve remaining districts have had to send one girl and one boy,
randomly chosen, between the ages of 12 to 18, to take part as "tributes" in a reality show
called The Hunger Games every year. Some of the tributes are called The Careers, because
they come from the wealthiest districts and have been trained especially for the games for a
long time. The twenty-four tributes are on display for a week and then placed in a huge
outdoor arena where they fight for their lives. The rules of the games are simple, because
there is just one: kill or be killed. The game itself is neatly organized and broadcast. Support
from the viewers may be the difference between life and death and the winner becomes
very rich and very famous.
Extract from the book
Sixty seconds: That's how long we're required to stand on our metal circles before the sound
of the gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and landmines blow your legs off.
Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant
golden horn shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least seven
metres high, spilling over with the things that will give us life here in the arena. Food,
containers of water, weapons, medicine, garments, fire starters.
I hear the instructions in my head. "Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between
yourself and the others, and find a source of water." Something catches my eye. There
resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung,
just waiting to be engaged. That's mine, I think. It's meant for me.
I'm fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our school, although a couple can beat me
in distance races. But this forty-metre length, this is what I am built for. I know I can get it, I
know I can reach it first, but the question is, how quickly can I get out there?
Since that's the very weapon that might be my salvation. I know the minute must be almost
up and I'll have to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself positioning my feet to
run, not away in the surrounding forests but towards the pile, towards the bow. When
suddenly I notice Peeta. I can tell that he's looking at me, and I think he might be shaking his
head. But the sun's in my eyes, and while I'm puzzling over it the gong rings out.
And I've missed it! I've missed my chance! Because those extra couple of seconds I've lost by
not being ready are enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for a
moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take, and then I lunge forward, scoop
up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread.
A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same time I do and for a brief time we
grapple for it and then he coughs, splattering my face with blood. Then the boy slips to the
ground.
That's when I see the knife in his back. Already other tributes have reached the Cornucopia
and are spreading out to attack. Yes, the girl from District 2, ten metres away, is running
towards me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. I've seen her throw in training. She
never misses. And I'm her next target.
All the general fear I've been feeling condenses into an immediate fear of this girl, this
predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack
over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the blade whistling towards
me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head: The blade lodges in the pack. Both
straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees.
I continue running until the woods have hidden me from the other tributes, then slow into a
steady jog that I think I can maintain for a while. For the next few hours, I alternate between
jogging and walking, putting as much distance as I can between myself and my competitors.
The ground slopes down. I don't particularly like this. Valleys make me feel trapped. I want to
be high, like in the hills around District 12, where I can see my enemies approaching. But I
have no choice but to keep going.
What I want most, right at this moment, is water. I won't last long without it: for a few days,
I'll be able to function with unpleasant symptoms of dehydration, but after that I'll
deteriorate into helplessness and be dead in a week, tops. I carefully lay out the provisions.
One thin black sleeping bag that reflects the body heat. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried
beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of
sunglasses. And a two-litre plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone dry.
No water. How hard would it have been for them to fill up the bottle? I become aware of my
dryness in my throat and mouth, the cracks in my lips. I've been moving all day long. It's been
hot and I've sweated a lot. I do this at home, but there are always streams to drink from, or
snow to melt if I should need it.
Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will have food, an abundance of water from the
lake, torches or flashlights, and weapons they're itching to use. I can only hope I've travelled
far and fast enough to be out of range.
I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in a clump of other willows, offering
concealment in those long, flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to the stronger branches close
to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. Now, when it is dark, and I have travelled far,
and I am nestled high in this tree, now I must try and rest.
A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me from slumber. I look around in
bewilderment. It's not yet dawn, but my stinging eyes can see it.
It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending on me. My first impulse is to scramble
from the tree, but I'm belted in. I shove in the belt, hoist the bag over my shoulder, and flee.
The world has transformed into one of flame and smoke. All I can do is follow the others, the
rabbits and deer, and I even spot a wild-dog pack shooting through the woods. I trust their
sense of direction because their instincts are sharper than mine. But they are much faster;
flying through the underbrush so gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen tree limbs,
that there's no way I can keep apace with them.
I know I need to keep moving, but I'm trembling and light-headed now, gasping for air. You
get one minute, I tell myself. One minute to rest. My minute's up. I know it's time to move on,
but the smoke has clouded my thoughts.
The wall of fire must have an end and it won't burn indefinitely. If I could get back behind the
fire line, I could avoid meeting with the Careers. I've just decided to try and loop back around,
when the first fireball blasts into the rock about half a metre from my head.
The game has taken a twist. The fire was just to get us moving; now the audience will get
some real fun. When I hear the next hiss, I flatten on the ground, not taking time to look. My
muscles react, only not fast enough this time. The fireball crashes into the ground, but not
before it skids my right calf.
Seeing my trouser leg on fire sends me over the edge. I twist and scuttle backwards on my
hands and feet, shrieking, trying to remove myself from the horror.
My visibility is poor. I can see maybe fifteen metres in any direction. I hate burns, have
always hated them. It is the worst kind of pain to me, but I have never experienced anything
like this.
I'm so weary I don't even notice I'm in the pool until I'm ankle-deep. I plunge my hands into
the shallow water and feel instant relief. Despite the pain, drowsiness begins to take over. I
neatly arrange my supplies. I spot some water plants with edible roots and make a small
meal with my last piece of rabbit. Sip water. Where would I go, anyway, that is any safer
than here? I lean back on my pack, overcome by drowsiness. If the Careers want me, let them
find me, I think before drifting into a stupor. Let them find me.
And find me they do. It's lucky I'm ready to move on because when I hear feet, I have less
than a minute head start. The moment I awake, I'm up and running, splashing across the
pool, flying into the underbrush. My leg slows me down, but I sense my pursuers are not as
speedy as they were before the fire either. I hear their coughs, their raspy voices, calling to
one another.
Still they are closing in, just like a pack of wild dogs, and so I do what I have done my whole
life in such circumstances. I pick a high tree and begin to climb. If running hurt, climbing is
agonizing, because it requires not only exertion but direct contact of my hands on the tree
bark. I'm fast though, and by the time they've reached the base of my trunk, I'm six metres
up. For a moment, we stop and survey one another.
Extracts from The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, pages 179-184, 186, 188, 207-208, 210-
211, 215 and 218-219.
If you want to know what happens next, you will have to read the book.