This weekend,

South Africans all over the world

are celebrating twenty years 
of our democracy.

Excuse-me if I get a little emotional,

because I'm celebrating with you.

I'm not back home, 
with my friends and my team,

but I'm here with you today,

and I hope all of you will celebrate

our twenty years of democracy.

(Applause)

When I was a teenager, 
twenty years ago,

my sister and I, on this very day,

were preparing, very busily, 
a lot of food

for the thousands of people that were 
going to be casting their vote

for the first time 
in South Africa's history,

the first time hundreds 
and thousands of South Africans

were going to vote.

And 67% of South Africa's 
voting population

voted for Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela,

fondly known to us as Madiba.

I met Madiba soon after he became 
president of South Africa.

I met him at Chief Albert Lutuli's house, 
in Groutville.

I lived close by.

And we talked about travel.

We talked about his favourite food,

which is beans, by the way.

And we talked about me 
wanting to be a designer,

and he told me about him studying law.

He said to me that it was 
very important for him to study law

and to know everything about it,

so he could change it for South Africa.

And so, as I grew older,

I started to reflect on this time 
with Mandela,

because he also told me -- which I didn't 
quite understand at the time,

because I thought we were a free nation,

back then, in 1994 --

but he reminded me,

he said that a lot of work 
still needed to be done.

And he said, "You wanted to be a designer?

We need designers.

We need so many people 
to do so much more."

Because he was saying to me 
that our democracy

was only a part of the journey to freedom.

I didn't understand it then.

And so, recently, I've been 
reflecting a lot about this,

about what he meant.

And I started to think about 
what I do with my life,

and how I've been...

maybe, what sacrifices have I been making?

You know, Madiba made so many sacrifices,

alongside so many other people.

And I wondered, what was I doing?

And so, when he died, last December,

I started to think 
about everything in my life:

my personal relationships, my work.

And I often would say to myself,

even in my darkest hour:

"What would Madiba do?"

You know, I come from a family 
that is a bit of a mixed bag.

We lived in tropical KwaZulu-Natal,

which is the province 
on the North East coast,

North East of South Africa.

I come from a small town,

and my mom is Persian,

and her mom is from Rangoon, in Burma.

And she's got flaming red hair,

a freckled face and amber eyes.

And my dad, he's South African 
of Indian descent.

His family has been in South Africa 
for four generations.

In our home, we spoke Gujarathi, 
and English, and isiZulu,

and we recited poetry in Arabic and Urdu.

So, we had a very colourful life.

Our home was very colourful, 
it was loud, full of debates,

and singing, and prayer.

And it was a happy childhood.

But outside, I knew that we were living 
a time of apartheid,

which was dark and gloomy.

It was a very ugly time in South Africa.

And I became aware, as a young girl, 
about apartheid,

because we were living 
in the Southern tip of Africa,

but I had to live in an Indians-only area,

and I had to go to an Indians-only school.

And every day, every moment, 
we had to classify ourselves,

we had to fill out forms,

always justifying who we were.

And we had these forms that were

"Engli..." Excuse-me,

"White", "Black", "Indian" and "Coloured".

And, sometimes, there would be "Other".

And I always ticked the "Other".

My dad was very frustrated.

And my dad loved to fish, you know.

He was quite a fisherman,

and so, we spent 
a lot of time on the beach.

We lived close to the Indian Ocean.

And I used to join my dad.

I don't think I was of any use,

but I went with him anyway.

On this one occasion, 
we got kicked off the beach.

Not very kindly, I might add.

And I asked my dad, I said, "Why are we 
getting kicked off the beach?"

And he said, "Zahira, we are Indian.

We're not allowed to be on this beach."

I said, "But dad, I learned at school

that this is the Indian Ocean.

I thought you owned the beach!" (Laughter)

And so, as a young girl,

I started to notice 
that something wasn't right.

And I didn't feel nice.

I didn't feel nice 
about what was happening.

I realized that what was in my home

was colourful, it was expansive.

What was outside was gloomy

and it was diminishing.

It was the dull times of apartheid.

And my family, 
like most South African people,

lived a life of awkward indignity.

We accepted very quietly 
our circumstances,

and it seemed also 
that the darker you got,

the worst you were treated.

We lived on the periphery of society,

with very little access 
to economic opportunity.

And so, as I grew older,

I became very socially 
and politically conscious.

I learned, while I was a teenager,

that Mandela was incarcerated,

and I learned why.

I learned that Chief Albert Luthuli --

who was our family friend

and who had lived in our family home

for several months 
when he was under house arrest --

when he was awarded 
the Nobel Peace Prize in 1960,

he had to be given 
"honorary white membership",

or "honorary white status",

just to travel to receive this prize.

I also learned that my uncle, 
Professor Kader Asmal,

was in exile for 37 years,

and he was living in Ireland.

And he was in exile 
because he was one of the founders

of the anti-apartheid movement in Europe.

So, I also learned 
that our phones were tapped.

Our house was visited 
by National Party officials

and my family was interrogated constantly

about my uncle's activities 
while in exile.

So, the government thought at the time

that my uncle should have been 
locked up with Mandela.

In those days, a group of black people

was considered an illegal protest,

instead of a social gathering and a party.

There was the Group Areas Act --

yeah, we had an act every so many years,

to restrain us and restrict us.

There was the Group Areas Act,

where we were forced to live 
with people of our own race.

Some of us were even forcibly 
removed from our homes

and made to live in squalor,

on the periphery of the cities.

There was the Bantu Education Act,

that limited people's education,

black people's education,

hence perpetuating their persecution.

There was the Land Act,

that made it impossible for us 
to own land in South Africa.

And my favourite was the Immorality Act,

which made it illegal 
to love someone of another race.

Students all over the country 
in South Africa,

in the 1970's, were being killed

by the South African Defence Force.

They were "protesting": 
they didn't want to study Afrikaans.

Black people all over the country 
were being killed.

They were "protesting":

they didn't want to use passbooks

that limited their movement 
around the country.

We all wanted to be free.

But I realized, at that time,

that no one was free:

not the victims, nor the persecutors.

We were slaves of colonial masters;

our cultures, considered 
unsophisticated.

We had to use back entrances 
to restaurants,

if we were allowed in the first place.

We were forbidden 
to visit many parts of South Africa.

Can you imagine?

All this space in a beautiful country,

and we couldn't access it.

I protested because I believed 
there was better.

I wished to be free,

not only to move around the country

and see beautiful things,

but also to be free to express myself,

and to just be me.

I wanted my colour, my culture,

my heritage, my language 
to matter like anyone else's.

Or not to matter, if it didn't matter.

I didn't want to live in fear.

I remember too 
that we were called South Africans,

but we didn't know what that meant.

We were so harshly 
excluded from activities,

important activities in South Africa --

"How can we be called South African?"

It just wasn't possible.

So, this time in South Africa's history

was so painful for so many people

that some can't speak about it even today.

So, I wondered then, twenty years on,

"What does freedom mean to us?"

I feel free, I feel free now,

and I don't take my freedom for granted.

I know what it felt like before,

and I never want to feel it again.

I don't even wish anyone else 
to feel what I felt,

as a young girl, living in South Africa.

And so, I engaged with my freedom

every single day 
and every moment of my life.

And so, my friends and my colleagues 
call me an activist.

Some of them say to me,

"Your conversations about apartheid

make me feel a little uncomfortable."

And I say to this,

"If you're feeling 
a little uncomfortable now,

imagine what it felt like in reality."

Some of them say to me,

"Get over apartheid, Zahira. It's over."

And I say, "Apartheid isn't over,

if so many South Africans are still living

with these harsh realities."

And then, some of my friends 
and colleagues say to me,

"Zahira, with your work and what you do,
why do you bother?

Do something else more fun."

And I say: "Madiba reminded us

that the hard work is not done yet.

And besides, imagine if Madiba 
had to say, 'Why bother?'

Where would that 
leave South Africa today?"

So, I wonder, in countries 
like South Africa and Brazil,

what does freedom mean to us?

Both Brazil and South Africa

have the worst GD coefficient 
in the world.

In social economic terms, 
that means that our countries,

our societies are the most divided.

So divided, in fact, 
that they probably will never meet.

In Brazil, and allow me to say,

some of your buildings 
have two separate entrances,

(Portuguese) "Service" and "Social".

In fact, most of the buildings 
I went to in São Paulo have this!

This is unacceptable!

This is two separate entrances for people!

This reminds me 
of my childhood in apartheid!

Dangerously close.

And the designers in this room: 
change that!

(Applause)

Too many South Africans 
are living bellow the red line.

Too many South Africans 
are living without education.

And too many South Africans 
are living without dignity.

That is unacceptable.

So, with thirty years 
of democracy in Brazil

and twenty years 
of democracy in South Africa,

what does it actually mean for us?

The challenges facing our democracy

should be seen as opportunities,

not -- excuse-me --

and processes of engagement,

and not problems to be solved.

People are not problems.

Through my work, 
I discovered in South Africa

things that have equally warmed my heart

and things that have made 
my hair stand on end.

I have seen people live with such dire --

in such dire conditions and circumstances,

that it made me so sad

that even my own circumstances as a child

paled in comparison.

Yet, these people -- 
the thing that warmed my heart

was that they had so much hope

that there was going to be a better life.

If not for them, for their children 
and grandchildren.

They still have the hope 
that Madiba gave them

all those years ago:

that, through our freedom 
and through our democracy,

a better life will come to them.

And so, I realize at these moments,

when meeting these beautiful people

that share their lives with me 
so generously --

yet they have absolutely nothing --

I remember and recall 
Madiba's words to me

about the journey 
through freedom and emancipation

only started then, with our democracy.

So, freedom has to be 
negotiated, constantly.

And freedom has to be 
demonstrated, always.

But most of all, 
freedom needs to be shared.

For those of us with political freedom,

make certain 
that your governance policies

have the interest of all people at heart.

For those of us with economic freedom,

make certain that all people have homes,

that all people have access 
to quality services

and have access to education and learning.

For those of us with social freedom,

make certain you free yourself 
from hatred,

anger and jealousy.

Madiba reminds us that love

comes more naturally to the human heart.

Freedom isn't a competition,

and nor is it a race 
with a finishing line.

Our freedom should be like a relay:

we should pass it on to others.

So, I want all of us today,

while celebrating South Africa's 
twenty years of democracy,

that we should consider our lives,

we should consider our work.

Be sure to engage 
with your freedom, actively.

Be that activist!

Apply your craft 
for the emancipation of others,

whether you're a doctor, 
whether you're an engineer

a designer or an architect,

especially if you're a political leader.

Each day in our lives,

when we have moments of uncertainty,

or if we're looking for inspiration,

we should think to ourselves:

"What would Madiba do?"

Thank you.

(Applause)