Mandela the boxer inspires Soweto gym-goers

In a sweaty township gym where Nelson Mandela once trained as a young boxer, athletes are still pumping iron today, inspired by the peace icon’s example as he fights for his life in hospital.

In the early 1950s, a youthful Mandela worked out on week nights at the Donaldson Orlando Community Centre, or the “D.O.” as it’s still affectionately known.

Spartan and slightly run down, the walls ooze with the intermingled history of sport, community life and the decades-long fight against apartheid oppression.

It was here that Mandela came to lose himself in sport to take his mind off liberation politics.

A young Nelson Mandela in boxing gear. (Gallo)

Nestled in the heart of South Africa’s largest township just south of Johannesburg, the community centre was also where famous African songbirds like Miriam Makeba and Brenda Fassie first performed.

The 1976 uprising against the imposition of the Afrikaans language in black schools were planned from the D.O. as Mandela and other leaders languished in apartheid jails.

“Here, look, these are the very same weights Madiba used for training,” proud gym instructor Sinki Langa (49) says.

“They have lasted all these years,” he said as he added another set to a bar his fellow trainee Simon Mzizi (30) was using to furiously bench-press, sweat dripping down his face.

Nearby, other fitness enthusiasts worked out to the tune of soothing music which, unusually for a gym, included opera.

The 6m-high ‘Shadow Boxer’ sculpture in Johannesburg’s inner city was unveiled in honour of Nelson Mandela in May 2013. (AFP)

‘Drenched with sweet memories’
The D.O. – or Soweto YMCA as it is called today – opened its doors in 1948, the same year the apartheid white nationalist government came to power.

Built with funds donated by Colonel James Donaldson, a self-made entrepreneur and staunch supporter of the now governing African National Congress, the D.O. centre includes a hall, and several sparsely furnished smaller rooms like the one where Mandela sparred as a young man.

Today the gym is housed in an adjacent hall, which was the original building on the grounds erected in 1932.

Mandela joined the D.O. in around 1950, often taking his oldest 10-year-old son Thembi with him.

In a letter to his daughter Zinzi, while on Robben Island where he spent 18 of his 27 years in jail, Mandela recalled his days at the gym.

“The walls … of the DOCC are drenched with the sweet memories that will delight me for years,” he wrote in the letter, published in his 2010 book Conversations with Myself.

“When we trained in the early 50s the club included amateur and professional boxers as well as wrestlers,” Mandela wrote to his daughter, who never received the letter because it was snatched by his jailers.

Training at the D.O. was tough and included sparring, weight-lifting, road-running and push-ups.

“We used to train for four days, from Monday to Thursday and then break off,” Mandela told journalist Richard Stengel in the early 1990s, while writing his autobiography Long Walk to Freedom.

When he was handed a life sentence in 1964, Mandela kept up the harsh regime of his training to stay fit and healthy.

“I was very fit, and in prison, I felt very fit indeed. So I used to train in prison … just as I did outside,” Mandela said in a transcript of his conversation with Stengel, given to AFP by the Nelson Mandela Centre of Memory.

Mandela was eventually released from jail in 1990 and in 1994 he was elected South Africa’s first black president.

‘He’s a fighter’
In Long Walk to Freedom, Mandela admitted he was “never an outstanding boxer”.

“I did not enjoy the violence of boxing as much as the science of it… It was a way of losing myself in something that was not the struggle,” Mandela wrote.

“Back in those days, boxing was very popular – it was part of that culture,” Shakes Tshabalala (81) who has been involved with the centre from the start told AFP.

Nelson Mandela (C) pretends to fight former US world middleweight champion Marvin Hagler (R) in Cape Town on November 12 1997 while former five-time world champion Roberto “Hands of Stone” Duran (L) of the US looks on. (AFP)

Pugilism always played a big part in Mandela’s life. At his house-turned-museum at 8115 Orlando West, boxing-related items like the WBC World Championship belt donated by Sugar Ray Leonard are on display.

Back at the centre, a new generation of youngsters are training.

Although few of them box today, they draw their inspiration from Mandela’s example in healthy living.

While the ailing 94-year-old statesman is battling a recurring lung infection, the gym-goers firmly believe the liberation icon will return for one last round.

“Mandela was a sportsman. This is why today he is still alive,” said gym instructor Langa.

“I am worried about him, but I know he’ll win. He’s a fighter,” he said.

Jan Hennop for AFP

12 years ago

Facebook courting, Mogadishu-style

A tall figure in a black hijab and face veil strides confidently towards 20-year-old Ahmed Noor’s computer terminal. Only her dark brown eyes and eyelashes, thick with mascara, are visible.

On reaching Noor, she lifts her hijab to reveal manicured nails and gold rings on her fingers. In her hand she’s holding a folded white piece of paper. With a wink she passes it to Noor and walks off into the busy street outside.

Noor unfolds the paper. There’s a Facebook profile link and an email address written on it. It’s now up to him to take the next step.

This is post civil-war courting, Mogadishu-style.

In the conservative Muslim society, social networking is a popular and easy way through which Somalis can interact with members of the opposite sex.

Slow internet speeds – fibre optic cables are yet to reach us – and expensive internet café rates of up to 60 US cents per hour do not deter Somalis from staying connected. Internet penetration in the country is only at about 2% but it’s growing, especially among the youth. Currently there are more than 130 000 Facebook users in Somalia and more than half of them are between the ages of 18 and 24.

Despite the hardline al-Shabab group no longer controlling the Somali capital and imposing its own version of Sharia law, many women still wear the face veil. The only place their faces are visible is on their Facebook profiles. Even then, they’re a step ahead in concealing their real identity thanks to photo-editing software.

“Many girls come to us to have their photos altered. We exchange, for example, the head of an actress with theirs so the picture has their face on an actress’s body,” says Sharif Hussein (24) who runs Satellite Photo Studio. It’s conveniently located next to an internet café.

“They usually tell me they want me to photoshop their pictures so they can send it to potential boyfriends or husbands on Facebook.”

Some university students and working professionals prefer studio shoots instead of what Hussein calls a ‘virtual body part swap’. They stop at the Mogadishu Beauty Salon a short drive away to have their hair and make-up done professionally before arriving at his studio.

Saida Ahmed, a colourful woman in both appearance and personality, runs the popular beauty salon. She’s wearing a bright orange dress, her hair is dyed orange with henna and her ear lobes stretch under the weight of gold earrings.

“Some girls come here black and want to look white, so I make sure they leave the salon white. I’m here to help other sisters succeed with their Facebook missions,” she tells me while applying cream on a client’s face.

(Graphic: Kenny Leung, M&G)

But Somali guys aren’t impressed with the visual tricks girls are employing on Facebook. “They look like Iman [the Somali supermodel] on their Facebook profile and they sound like Farxiya Fiska a [popular female singer] on the phone, but in reality they are neither,” complains Noor.

Back at the internet café where I’m hanging out with him and his friends, all the females are wearing face veils. One of them, Amina (19), is chatting on Facebook and showing off her two Chinese-made smart phones to friends over a webcam.

I ask her about Somali women’s preference for digitally enhanced photos and she retorts that Somali men shouldn’t complain.

“Men in Mogadishu tell lies to your face, we at least tell it behind a screen. They have two, three, four wives and still tell you they are single,” she says, breaking into high-pitched laughter.

Her friend Shamsa calls me over to her terminal and shows me her Facebook friends list. Most of the men on it look more like Arnold Schwarzenegger than typical Somalis.

“Guys do the same thing that we do! And worse,” Shamsa points out, clicking through the men’s photos. “They all look like wrestlers. You will not find a skinny Somali man on Facebook. They don’t look like Mo Farah.”

Hussein concurs with Shamsa and admits to helping many men doctor their photos. “Plenty of them come to my studio too. They usually ask me to swap their torsos with those of bodybuilders.”

With these tricks up their sleeves, courting on Facebook can be entertaining and exciting but religious leaders in Mogadishu aren’t happy about it. Sheikh Abdi Haji, a religious studies lecturer at Mogadishu University and imam of Zobe Mosque is vocal in his opposition to youngsters searching for life partners on the social network.

“There is a guy who wanted to marry a lady he met on Facebook. He paid the dowry only to find out on the wedding night she is a cripple. She didn’t tell him before they got married, nor did the pictures on her Facebook show she is a cripple.” Youth should stay away from Facebook, Sheikh Abdi says, because it’s full of “hypocrites”.

Noor, Amina and Shamsa wouldn’t reveal whether flirting on Facebook has paid off for them. They, like other young Somalis, are ever wary of the “religious police” and prefer to keep their relationships quiet to avoid trouble. There’s no way they’ll give up Facebook, though.

Noor takes out the piece of paper that the mysterious young woman had handed to him earlier. He’s going to take the next step. And, he tells me quietly, he’s come up with a solution to avoid being duped by Somali ‘supermodels’.

“I don’t go for girls with very pretty profile photos. They’re photoshopped. If she’s average-looking with spots on her face, I talk to her.”

Hamza Mohamed is an independent Britishi-Somali journalist. Connect with him on Twitter.

12 years ago

After tears: Mandela’s middle-class legacy

One of our neighbours had an after-tears function at their home on Sunday. It’s when people get together after the funeral of a loved one in vibrant (and often raucous) acknowledgement of life and the person who has passed on.

I’ve only known the sombre solemnity of the aftermath of Muslim funerals, so to hear vibey gospel music and the chatter of relatives on lawn chairs filter through our bedroom curtains was something of a novelty.

Our neighbour was considerate enough to ask us beforehand if her guests could park on the area just outside our house.

Of course, it’s the neighbourly thing to do. We pardon the inconveniences.

Quid pro quo.

I also live across the road from a recently built mosque in a neighbourhood that, during apartheid, was classified as a whites-only suburb.

With the growing number of Muslims in the area, every Friday, cars choke both sides of our street for the Jumuah prayer.

One of the other neighbours has short driveway pillars placed along the grassy embankment outside his fence.

Whether his decision was motivated by a Stonehenge design aesthetic or a desire to not have people park outside of his house, we can’t say for sure.

If he ever required the use of our space for extra parking, that would be okay too.

While we aren’t the type of neighbours who gossip and philosophise with each other over the boundary wall, it’s a convivial non-complicated relationship. Like nice, friendly Muslims, we send over small gifts at Eid, wave and nod at each other, are polite to their dogs and go about living as quietly and non-disruptively as possible.

Our neighbourhood is mild, middle-class and multiracial.

An impossible scenario 30 years ago, when the house we now live in was built (complete with an outside Bantu toilet in its blueprints).

An old blueprint of our house in Ridgeway, Johannesburg South. (Saaleha Idrees Bamjee)

And while I can’t speak for those less fortunate or the well-monied, where the balances are still so severely skewed, the middle is where it’s at.

It’s where me and my black and white neighbours are at.

In the middle, all together.

Saaleha Idrees Bamjee is a freelance wordworker/IdeaGirl who also dabbles in writing, rhyming/speaking words, crafting, upcycling, cooking, and peak-time-traffic karaoke. This post was first published on her blog Electric Spaghetti. Connect with her on Twitter.

12 years ago

In Pictures: Egypt #June30 protests

In protests reminiscent of the revolution that toppled Hosni Mubarak in 2011, millions of Egyptians took to the streets on Sunday, this time calling for Mohamed Morsi – the country’s first democratically elected president – to resign.

Morsi’s first year in office has been anything but smooth, with opposition activists who supported him during the 2011 revolution now against him for championing the Muslim Brotherhood’s interests over democracy. He has also come under fire for his Cabinet appointments, judicial independence, women’s and religious rights, and his failure to tackle the country’s economic crisis.

The increasing unhappiness with Morsi’s leadership has fuelled a number of protests in Egypt – and his opponents have even tried to send him to outer space.

His supporters, however, are adamant he should be allowed to complete his term which ends in 2016, and say they will not allow a “coup”.

The opposition movement behind Sunday’s protests, Tamarod (Arabic for ‘rebellion’), has given Morsi until Tuesday 5pm to quit, threatening a civil disobedience campaign if he doesn’t.

Anti- and pro-Morsi groups clashed during yesterday’s protests, which is being billed as the largest in history. The young and old, nuns and dogs camped out (a few brought their sofas) across the country. Some spent the night, saying they’ll remain there until Morsi steps down. – AFP, Reuters, M&G

Follow the #June30 and #Egypt hashtags on Twitter, which is abuzz with live updates and photos from protest sites.

Protesters are seen on Monday morning in Tahrir Square in Cairo, where they camped out for the night. (Reuters)

Anti-government demonstrators calling for Morsi’s resignation sleep outside the presidential palace in Cairo on Sunday night. (AFP)

The crowd in Tahrir Square, Cairo on June 30. (Reuters)

Opponents of President Morsi shout slogans while holding a giant Egyptian flag outside the presidential palace in Cairo. (AFP)

Women protest against Mohamed Morsi outside the presidential palace. (AP)

Supporters of President Morsi in their protective gear as they prepare to protect the presidential palace in Nasser City, Cairo. (AP)

A man walks his dog wearing a sign that says ‘Leave’ as demonstrators gathered outside the presidential palace, calling for President Morsi to resign. (AFP)

Members of the opposition group Tamarod prepare to head to the presidential palace with a signed petition demanding the departure of President Morsi. (AFP)

Egyptian protesters direct laser lights on a military helicopter flying over the presidential palace. (AFP)

A protester waves a flag over a swelling crowd in Tahrir Square. (AP)

12 years ago

Fine wines flourish in Muslim Morocco

Vines stretch to the horizon under the hot summer sun in a vineyard near Casablanca, one of the oldest in Morocco, where despite the pressures from a conservative Muslim society, wine production – and consumption – is flourishing.

“In Morocco we are undeniably in a land of vines,” says wine specialist Stephane Mariot.

“Here there is a microclimate which favours the production of ‘warm wines’, even though we aren’t far from the ocean,” adds the manager of Oulad Thaleb, a 2000-hectare vineyard in Benslimane, 30 kilometres northeast of Casablanca, which he has run for five years.

The social climate in the North African county is less propitious, however, with the election of the Islamist Party of Justice and Development in 2011, and the fact that Moroccan law prohibits the sale of alcohol to Muslims, who make up 98% of the population.

In practice though, alcohol is tolerated and well-stocked supermarkets do a brisk trade in the main cities where there is a growing appetite for decent wine.

According to some estimates, 85% of domestic production is drunk locally, while around half of total output is considered good quality.

“Morocco today produces some good wine, mostly for the domestic market, but a part of it for export, particularly to France,” says Mariot.

Moroccan women pick grapes on September 14 2009 at the Ferme Rouge domain in Had Brachoua. (AFP)

Annual output currently stands at about 400 000 hectolitres, or more than 40 million bottles of wine, industry sources say, making the former French protectorate the second biggest producer in the Arab world.

By comparison, neighbouring Algeria, whose vineyards were cultivated for a much longer period during French colonial rule, produces 500 000 hectolitres on average, and Lebanon, with its ancient viticulture dating to the pre-Roman era, fills about six million bottles annually.

Some of Morocco’s wine regions – such as Boulaouane, Benslimane, Berkane and Guerrouane – are gaining notoriety.

Already it has one Appellation d’Origine Controlee – controlled designation of origin, or officially recognised region – named “Les Coteaux de l’Atlas”, and 14 areas with guaranteed designation of origin status, most of them concentrated around Meknes, as well as Casablanca and Essaouira.

And in March last year, an association of Moroccan sommeliers was set up in Marrakesh bringing together 20 wine experts.

French legacy
In the central Meknes region, nestled between the Rif Mountains and the Middle Atlas, there is evidence that wine production dates back some 2 500 years.

But the industry was transformed during the time of the protectorate (1912-1956), when the kingdom served as a haven for migrating French winemakers after the phylloxera pest decimated Europe’s vineyards around the turn of the 20th century.

As in Algeria and Tunisia, the French planted vineyards extensively, with Morocco’s annual production exceeding three million hectolitres in the 1950s.

The main grape varieties used to produce the country’s red wines are those commonly found around the Mediterranean, such as Grenache, Syrah, Cabernet-Sauvignon and Merlot.

Mariot, the manager of Oulad Thaleb, boasts that the domain, which he says has the oldest wine cellar in use in the kingdom, built by a Belgian firm in 1923, produces one of Morocco’s “most popular wines”.

Standing by a barrel, he casts a proud eye on the vintage, describing it as a “warm and virile wine”.

Abderrahim Zahid, a businessman and self-styled “lover of fine Moroccan wines” who sells them abroad, says the country now produces “a mature wine which we can be proud of”.

A man pours wine into a glass inside a wine cellar in the Moroccan town of Benslimane in the Casablanca region. (AFP)

Morocco’s wine industry now employs up to 20 000 people, according to unofficial figures, and generated about $170-million in 2011.

But the remarkable progress made by the sector in recent years has taken place within a sensitive social environment.

While alcohol production is permitted by state law, and supermarkets and bars enforce no special restrictions on Muslim customers, officially the sale and gift of alcoholic drinks to Muslims is illegal. They are unavailable during Islamic festivals, including throughout the holy month of Ramadan.

Separately, the Islamist-led government decided last year to raise taxes on alcoholic drinks from 450 dirhams ($53) per hectolitre to more than 500 dirhams.

So far this has not noticeably deterred consumption among Morocco’s population of 35 million, although economic realities certainly influence local drinking habits.

The wine favoured by Moroccans is a cheap red called Moghrabi, which comes in plastic bottles and costs 30 dirhams (about $3.50) a litre.