African countries must work together for peace: Defence Minister Motshekga
She reiterated the call to foster stability in conflict-ridden regions during the annual global commemoration of the International Day of United Nations (UN) Peacekeepers in De Brug Army Base in Bloemfontein on Thursday.
All the fallen soldiers who fought in peacekeeping missions since 1948 were honoured in a wreath-laying ceremony globally.
The country has also honoured the 14 soldiers who recently died in the east of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC).
"And as Africa, we are the epicentre of instability in the world. And so it's for us as Africans to work together to stabilise our problems for the sake of our children and for the sake of our future. And everybody has a responsibility to make sure that we don't become this continent with all its wealth that becomes this epicentre of which we are," said Motshekga.
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Daily Maverick
12 hours ago
- Daily Maverick
The man in the three-piece suit — imagery and identities in Mandela's leadership (Part 3)
The use of imagery is well interred within the history of the ANC. When Nelson Mandela came onto the scene, wearing smart suits, it's legitimate to read some of his identity from the clothes that he wore. This is the third in a five-part series on Mandela's leadership. Imagery has always been important in liberation movement politics and history. In the case of the South African Native National Congress (the name of the African National Congress at its inception), the question of dress was always important. Many people responded with ridicule, suggesting that ANC leaders were dressing like their masters to beg the king and his government to provide some reforms that benefited a section of the ANC. Cultural writer John Berger said that the suit emerged as the dress code of the ruling class. What one can legitimately say is that wearing the dress of the ruling class is in a sense a claim for rights which the ANC was making. Likewise, when they sang Rule Britannia, it's important to understand that the ANC was still grappling for its identity as an African organisation. But in the context of competing powers – the Afrikaner Nationalists and the British – the ANC sided with the British and played divide and rule in reverse (a phrase I owe to Professor Peter Limb, a very significant Australian historian of the South African Struggle), with a claim to British subjectivity, meaning the rights of the British men and women. Rule Britannia has such words as 'Rule Britannia, Britannia, rule the waves: Britons never, never, shall be slaves'. In other words, having the rights of the British meant one could not be a slave, one had to be treated equally. The use of imagery is well interred within the history of the ANC. When Nelson Mandela came onto the scene, a man who was very self-conscious about his dress, wearing smart suits and similar attire, it's legitimate to read some of his identity from the clothes that he wore. (On dress and other cultural representations, see Raymond Suttner 'Periodisation, cultural construction and representation of ANC masculinities through dress, gesture and Indian Nationalist influence': Historia 2009, vol. 54, n.1, pp. 51-91). From early in his life Mandela was very conscious of who he was in relation to others – his identity or identities and the imagery that he deployed to reflect these. Given the pre-eminence in leadership that Mandela attained in later life, how he was perceived could have real material effects on the success of the often-fragile transition to democracy. It could impact on the state of conflict, whether or not the violence would increase or be reduced and ultimately eliminated. In the eyes of many white people, Mandela was a dangerous man who threatened their wellbeing, or this idea of Mandela was conjured up to scare the followers of certain organisations. To secure peace Mandela and the ANC had to counter that. On the side of very many black people, Mandela was admired for representing implacable opposition to apartheid domination, manifested through his unrepentant stance in court, after being the founding commander of uMkhonto weSizwe (MK). (This is, of course a perception that is being challenged by a new generation and some commentators who see Mandela as having 'gone soft' and actually having compromised the freedom for which he had fought, a claim that does not stand up against the evidence. This and negotiations need thorough probing, especially examining the tactical and strategic objectives at stake). After 1990, following the release of his comrades, return of exiles and the unbanning of organisations, but also earlier, from prison, Mandela took actions aimed at unblocking the stalemate that had developed between the apartheid regime and the forces of liberation. These were manifested in various agreements but Mandela then, and indeed throughout his life, also deployed symbolic gestures, ways of being, ways of self-representation that communicated messages about what he exemplified. Insofar as he was the primary figure in the leadership of the ANC and many looked to him to give a lead, what he did and how he appeared often mattered as much for the success of steps forward as what was contained in organisational decisions. It used to be wrong, in the organisational self-understanding and practices of the ANC and the SACP, for an individual to loom larger than the organisation, but it was a fact that Mandela may well, at certain times, have enjoyed substantially greater popularity than the ANC itself. In fact, this was largely a result of the ANC's campaigning. It had decided to galvanise international solidarity around Mandela as a leading political prisoner. Conscious of the place he occupied in the international pressure it faced, in 1985 the apartheid regime offered him conditional release, requiring him to renounce violence. But he rejected the offer, making it clear that he and the ANC had not sought violence but responded to the attacks of the apartheid regime. His standing had political effects. How Mandela conducted himself had more significant consequences in many ways than decisions of conferences and National Executive Committees in the period after his release. Mandela was conscious of the need to bear himself and represent himself in a manner that was inclusive and reinforced a peace process. In many ways there was a break with the Mandela of before, especially the man who went to prison. But in many respects the identities and imagery associated with him earlier were not erased but would periodically reappear when required, as when he felt betrayed by the primary negotiating party, the apartheid regime. Radicalism, as we saw in this and other instances, does not mean lack of flexibility. Early life Throughout Mandela's early life until after he arrived in Johannesburg, he was very conscious of what he was destined to be, not what he considered as existentially desirable or undesirable for himself or in a human being more generally. This was because he was 'destined' to become a counsellor to the future Thembu King, Sabata Dalindyebo. In consequence of this responsibility, the regent had often told Mandela that it was not for him 'to spend your life mining the white man's gold, never knowing how to write your name'. Shortly after his initiation ceremony, he was driven by the regent to attend the Clarkebury Boarding Institute in the district of Engcobo. For the first time at Clarkebury Mandela encountered a Western, non-African environment. He understood his life to be governed by his lineage, what he owed in respect to people like the regent, what was expected of him and the respect owed to him by virtue of his own position. But Clarkebury was not run on this basis: 'At Clarkebury… I quickly realised that I had to make my way on the basis of my ability, not my heritage. Most of my classmates could outrun me on the playing field and out-think me in the classroom and I had a good deal of catching up to do.' Despite his attempts to meet the criteria for excellence at Clarkebury, he remained psychologically and socially located in a manner that displaced individual agency, for Mandela's life had been preordained: 'I never thought it possible for a boy from the countryside to rival them in their worldliness. Yet I did not envy them. Even as I left Clarkebury, I was still, at heart, a Thembu, and I was proud to think and act like one. My roots were my destiny, and I believed that I would become a counsellor to the Thembu king, as my guardian wanted. My horizons did not extend beyond Thembuland and I believed that to be a Thembu was the most enviable thing in the world.' (My emphasis). Healdtown In 1937, at the age of 19, Mandela joined Justice, the regent's son, at Healdtown in Fort Beaufort. Like Clarkebury, Healdtown was a Methodist mission school. The principal, Dr Arthur Wellington, claimed to be a descendant of the Duke of Wellington who had saved civilisation 'for Europe and you, the Natives'. Mandela joined others in applauding, 'each of us profoundly grateful that a descendant of the great Duke of Wellington would take the trouble to educate natives such as ourselves'. Mandela's pride in being Thembu was not seen to be incompatible with aspiring to British subjectivity, an aspiration that was common to the early bearers of African political thinking in the Cape and even later in the ANC (Raymond Suttner, 'African nationalism' in Peter Vale, Lawrence Hamilton and Estelle Prinsloo (eds), South African intellectual traditions, (UKZN Press, 2014), 125, 129-132). The 'educated Englishman was our model; what we aspired to be were 'black Englishmen', as we were sometimes derisively called. We were taught – and believed – that the best ideas were English ideas, the best government was English government and the best men were Englishmen.' At Healdtown, Mandela mixed with Africans from a range of backgrounds and started to develop a cautious sense that he was part of something wider than the Thembu people, an African consciousness, though this was limited. When Mandela and Justice fled to the Rand to escape forced marriages, Mandela's consciousness was still primarily that of a Thembu, not even an African. The 1950s: Peaceful struggle but preparation for illegality and war During the 1940s a new radical current of thinking emerged under the leadership of the ANC Youth League (YL) and Mandela, although a relative political novice, became part of this. It is interesting to note that radical though they may have been and critical of their predecessors, the dress code of the YL was formal and by no means represented the type of associations that later generations of radicalism would have with casual or military dress. The Youth League dressed very much like their predecessors, with the exception of top hats and bow ties. In fact, some of these individuals like Mandela, especially when he qualified as an attorney, paid considerable attention to their appearance and the suits they wore. Ellen Khuzwayo writes: 'I remember the glamorous Nelson Mandela of those years. The beautiful white silk scarf he wore round his neck stands out in my mind to this day. Walter Max Sisulu, on the other hand, was a hardy down-to-earth man with practical clothing – typically a heavy coat and stout boots. Looking back, the third member of their trio, Oliver Tambo, acted as something of a balance with his middle-of-the road clothes!' This was a period when dress clearly served as a signifier of specific identities, notably masculinities. It was a time when gangsterism was rife in the townships and the main gangs were always distinguished not only by their daring law-breaking, but their flashy clothing. The 1950s was an era that comprised lawyers in suits, defendants in many court cases, volunteers who engaged in mass democratic campaigns collecting demands for what later became the Freedom Charter, just one of a number of mass activities of the time. In some ways, the Fifties, which are generally portrayed as struggling legally and nonviolently, were an interregnum between nonviolent, peaceful activities and the formal adoption of armed struggle by the ANC in 1961. In this period the imagery around Mandela as a boxer, a sport in which he engaged with considerable discipline, prefigured his later becoming a fighter of a different type. The image of Mandela as a boxer coexisted with his wearing a suit as a conventional lawyer. It also resonated with his militant image. Letsau Nelson Diale, recruited to the ANC while working as a waiter, read the newspapers: 'The people I worked with said: 'This young man is very clever.' They asked me: 'What's in the Rand Daily Mail?' I told them: 'Mandela is coming to court.' They said: 'He will beat the hell out of the boers. He is going to beat them.'' Here we see this image directly translated in the minds of ordinary waiters and patrons into violent action against the apartheid regime ('the boers'). Mandela: Black man in a white man's court In the first of Mandela's cases, after the banning of the ANC, where he was charged with incitement, having been underground for 17 months, he appeared in Thembu attire. This was at once an assertion of his lineage, deriving from a long line of warrior-leaders, and a declaration of the alien character of the white man's (for it was an almost exclusively male) judiciary. The imagery associated with his dress was used to deny the power and authority of the alien court. He tells the court of the bygone days when men were warriors fighting for their people and their land. He asserts what often tends to be submerged by an overarching African nationalism, his identity as a Thembu. He shows that he was a person with multiple identities, suppressed under apartheid. Mandela took this defiance into court proceedings, where he challenged the right of the court to preside over the case, in applying laws that he, as a black person, had no part in making. It was Mandela the lawyer and also the revolutionary speaking. It was more radical than delegitimising the apartheid state for Mandela refused to recognise the right of a key state institution – the judiciary – to hear his case. Dancing for freedom vs dancing as threat: The toyi-toyi of Mandela and Zuma In the post-1976 period the toyi-toyi emerged as a dance accompanying militant and military action. When Mandela was released from prison, it was a time where many ANC cadres were geared for war and felt disappointment at the onset of negotiations. As indicated earlier, many had not been adequately briefed on this changed direction, for they had been instructed to prepare for insurrection. One of the manifestations of the militaristic orientation then prevailing was the toyi-toyi. The dance was accompanied by aggressive chants with words exhorting people to hit and shoot the enemy. Mandela entered the groups who were dancing with his distinctive 'shuffle dance', smiling to all South Africans, affirming and evoking inclusivity, reaching out and unthreatening, as was the case with military exhortations. Jacob Zuma also deployed the toyi-toyi, notably in his rape trial, but it was very different. Zuma's demeanour was aggressive (then as it is now). After emerging from court Zuma would sing his 'favourite song' – Umshini wam/Bring me my machine gun. Singing about machine guns was itself at one level a manifestation of male power over women, a symbolic representation of the power of the gun – a phallic symbol. The firing of the gun is a well-known representation of ejaculation. In effect the song was a re-enactment of a rape (that the court found did not take place). Unlike Mandela's toyi-toyi-ing, Zuma's was threatening. Mandela's legacy of peace Mandela's gestures were never random and ad hoc. He knew that how he represented himself and how he was understood by others was important, bearing symbolic importance. He did not want a civil war. Whites had to be reassured, while simultaneously having his base constituency among oppressed black people understand that what he wanted to do would lead to political freedom. Graça Machel remarks: 'He knew exactly the way he wanted to come out, but also the way he addressed the people from the beginning, sending the message of what he thought was the best way to save lives in the country, to bring reconciliation.' Many people have remarked on the stolid, sometimes tedious way in which Mandela delivered his speeches. This, he told Richard Stengel, was deliberate in that he wanted to impress upon people that he was serious and could be relied upon and did not resort to rhetoric in order to please. (Nelson Mandela: Portrait of an Extraordinary Man. 2012, page 51). At the same time, in this period, some of what had been part of Mandela's private self became part of his public persona. In Fatima Meer's biography of Mandela, one sees the tenderness towards his children (Higher Than Hope: The Authorised Biography of Nelson Mandela, 1990). One of the features of Mandela as president and retired president has been his obviously unaffected love and gentleness towards children. What we see here is how aspects of his personality that had been submerged under the tough image of guerrilla leader and uncompromising triallist became foregrounded in the context of his changed life conditions. The Mandela who was imprisoned was remembered as a dignified yet angry man. The Mandela who emerged had become sober and evoked gravitas. He would often smile, yet the angry Mandela had not disappeared and could re-emerge where conditions made that necessary. On occasions where he felt betrayed by the last apartheid president, FW de Klerk, Mandela's anger would rise to the surface. In general, however, when we review the imagery surrounding Mandela, we see, as suggested earlier, a series of journeys, where he constantly changes, but without abandoning everything that he has been before. Even in his last days he remained attached to his Thembu identity and was buried near his place of birth. The Mandela who found peace for the country also found peace with himself as a man. DM
eNCA
15 hours ago
- eNCA
UN debates future withdrawal of Lebanon peacekeeping force
The United Nations Security Council began to debate Monday a resolution drafted by France to extend the UN peacekeeping force in south Lebanon for a year with the ultimate aim to withdraw it. Israel and the United States have reportedly opposed the renewal of the force's mandate, and it was unclear if the draft text has backing from Washington, which wields a veto on the Council. A US State Department spokesman said "we don't comment on ongoing UN Security Council negotiations," as talks continued on the fate of the UN Interim Forces in Lebanon (UNIFIL), deployed since 1978 to separate Lebanon and Israel. The text, first reported by Reuters, would "extend the mandate of UNIFIL until August 31, 2026" but "indicates its intention to work on a withdrawal of UNIFIL." That would be on the condition that Lebanon's government was the "sole provider of security in southern Lebanon... and that the parties agree on a comprehensive political arrangement." Under a truce that ended a recent war between Israel and Iran-backed Hezbollah, Beirut's army has been deploying in south Lebanon and dismantling the militant group's infrastructure there. Lebanon has been grappling with the thorny issue of disarming Hezbollah, with the cabinet this month tasking the army with developing a plan to do so by the end of the year. The Iran-backed group has pushed back. Under the truce, Israel was meant to completely withdraw from Lebanon, though it has kept forces in several areas it deems strategic and continues to administer strikes across Lebanon. Israel's forces have also had tense encounters with the UN blue helmets. The draft resolution under discussion also "calls for enhanced diplomatic efforts to resolve any dispute or reservation pertaining to the international border between Lebanon and Israel." Council members were debating the draft resolution seen by AFP Monday ahead of a vote of the 15-member council on August 25 before the expiration of the force's mandate at the end of the month.
Eyewitness News
17 hours ago
- Eyewitness News
Rethinking social literacy in post-apartheid South Africa
Jamil F. Khan 19 August 2025 | 10:27 Literacy Department of Basic Education (DBE) colonialism Picture: Education has always been a political space in South Africa. The battle for custody of knowledge has, in many ways, shaped the society we live in today. Within this battle, ways of knowing and unknowing, remembering and forgetting, are equally valuable commodities. Related to knowing is the practice of literacy, by which many countries measure their social development. This literacy refers to our ability to read and count words and numbers. Literacy in post-1994 South Africa has been a contested space, with our Department of Basic Education having restructured and redefined the education system a number of times. The definitions of milestones and passing requirements have also evolved, the enduring impact of one being the introduction of a 30% pass mark implemented under former Minister of Basic Education, Angie Motshekga. This decision has had an enduring impact, having made its way into social discourse as a signifier of the decline of education in South Africa. Though I would agree that it is a very low bar, this regulation has interacted with the social landscape in an interesting way. It has become a racialised accusation of incompetence and stupidity that is said to be a part of the mediocrity that comes from Black governance. This idea also interacts with the disdain expressed towards Black Economic Empowerment as an aid to Black mediocrity and corruption. Though the mechanics of the pass mark requirement (which is much more complex) are completely misunderstood, ignoring that a report card with a 30% aggregate will not get someone into university, the narrative that all education is inferior makes education a form of corruption itself. Though our literacy rates have shocked us when announced, there is an arena where we are consistently failing: social literacy. South Africans are deeply estranged from each other, with very few tools to read our society the way we would read books. The destruction of a shared social literacy might be one of the biggest prices we paid through colonisation and apartheid. While we might want to focus on seemingly more important things like the economy, we must realise that the social, which is the practice of being human, affects everything else, for as long as humans run those systems. To co-operate in efforts to truly "fix" our country, we must get to know each other better. The motto on our coat of arms says "!KE E:/XARRA //KE" which translates into "diverse people unite" in the indigenous |Xam language. While, of course, profound and beautiful as a sentiment, not least for being expressed in one of our oldest indigenous languages, it is not easy to achieve. The diversity we have comes with deeply painful histories, and in many ways, it was foisted on us with violence. What we hope to celebrate is how we have survived, despite it. To acknowledge these complications when we engage with our diversity, requires a critical diversity literacy (CDL). A framework developed by Wits Professor Emeritus Melissa Steyn, CDL suggests a way for us to read our society better and so become more literate in our engagement with diversity. In order to be critically diversity literate, there are ten criteria that we must commit first is that we must understand that our differences are constructed by unequal power, and they affect us differently and have different meanings attached to them. The second is that we must be willing to recognise that categories, such as race, gender, sexuality, class, ability, with which we name each other, are not just names; they are attached to different levels of privilege and oppression and that they determine our life experiences in various ways. Criterion three demands that we learn ways of analysing privilege and oppression while acknowledging that they are dynamic systems that work together to have cumulative effects on people's lives. Fourth, we must also understand that oppressive systems are not only a part of historical legacies, but they still operate today, right now. Fifth, we are a product of our social experiences and environments. This understanding hopes to steer us away from the totalising discourses that produce stereotypes. Number six asks us to focus on the languages we use to voice our relationships to each other's differences. This does not only, but can, refer to the modification of our diverse group of South African languages, but also learning a vocabulary to speak about and describe privilege and oppression, in any language. Language must evolve to help us meet each other in our interactions. The seventh criterion requires that we, through the use of our newly acquired vocabularies, learn to see through the ways that power has normalised oppression and sanitised privilege, as a natural state of the world. This requires a rejection of the explanations that maintain the status quo. Number eight reminds us that different locations in the world have produced different hierarchies of inequality, and therefore, we cannot apply the same analysis to each location. Here, a historical analysis becomes important again. It also reminds us that people's shared experiences of oppression and privilege across contexts show us that it is not coincidental, but the outcome of coordinated systems of unequal power. The second last criterion, nine, requires an engagement with our emotions. Not only in the sense of expressing our emotions, but also understanding how our emotions towards people who are different to us, shape our actions and reactions towards those people. Being critically diversity literate is as much about feeling as it is about thinking our way to a better place. That better place is envisioned with the tenth and final criterion of CDL, which requires us, while having hopefully internalised the previous criteria, to channel it into our efforts to transform every level of our society into spaces of deepened social justice. The importance of our social literacy and our ability to see ourselves and the divisions that separate us lies in the price of an ever more fractured social contract, that we cannot afford to pay. This is a test we cannot fail because the success of our country relies deeply on our ability to co-exist equitably. To be literate in this way is for us to truly confront the estrangement that still makes co-existence amongst South Africans a difficult task. Jamil F. Khan is an award-winning author, doctoral critical diversity scholar, and research fellow at the Johannesburg Institute for Advanced Study.
