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)