South Africa was supposed
to be different. We attained our freedom, such as these things are, after
everyone else but Palestine. It was late in the day but the afternoon sun was
glorious and the best people, people who had passed through the long passage of
struggle, told us that we would be able to avoid the mistakes made everywhere
else.
There was a mass movement
that, whatever its limits, had won tremendous popular support and carried some
noble ideals through its travails. Its leaders cast long shadows. Our
Constitution, we were always told, was as good as they get. Liberalism,
apparently vindicated by history, had its evident limits but there was, it was
said, lots of room for deft manoeuvre within those constraints. We were assured
that there was room for everyone at what Aimé Césaire had called the
‘rendezvous of victory’.