When freedom is born: from Mathuras chains to Madibas liberation

THE air is thick with the scent of wild grass and the faint, earthy aroma of rain-soaked soil, as though the land itself exhales the memories of a struggle etched into its very core. Above, the sky stretches in a vast, unbroken expanse of cerulean blue, punctuated by the occasional drift of cotton-like clouds that seem to pause, as if in reverence.

A lone Hadida circles high above, its piercing cry echoing across the rolling hills of Groutville, KwaZulu-Natal, where the final resting place of Inkosi Albert Luthuli is located - a simple yet profound memorial of stone, weathered by time but unyielding in its dignity. Bees hum lazily around clusters of wildflowers, their golden petals trembling in the breeze, while a chorus of cicadas thrums in the background, an ensemble of life that feels both timeless and urgent.

The tombstone, modest yet commanding, bears the name of a revolutionary and Nobel prize recipient who walked the tightrope of resistance and reconciliation, a patriot whose life was a testament to the unyielding pursuit of freedom. Standing here, I feel the weight of history pressing down, not as a burden, but as an invitation - to ask, to reflect, to challenge.

Thirty-one years since the dawn of democracy, the right to choose our government has been secured, but has it truly dismantled the architecture of inequality, the lingering shadows of disrespect, the scars on the collective soul?

As I stand before Inkosi Luthuli’s grave, a question hangs in the air, as palpable as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings or the distant call of a mourning dove. It is a question not just for him, but for all of us who inherit this fragile, hard-won freedom. Is freedom the mere casting of chains or is something more profound?

Freedom, as a concept, has long been a site of contention and redefinition. In the pre-World War II era, thinkers like Isaiah Berlin, in his seminal work “Two Concepts of Liberty” (1958), distinguished between negative liberty, the absence of external constraints and positive liberty, the capacity to act autonomously in pursuit of one’s goals. Berlin’s framework emerged in a world grappling with the rise of fascism, where freedom was often sacrificed in the name of security or ideological purity.

Similarly, Hannah Arendt, in “The Origins of Totalitarianism” (1951), warned of the dangers of ideological extremism, arguing that totalitarian regimes thrive by dismantling the very institutions that safeguard individual freedoms. Fast forward to the contemporary global climate, and these warnings feel eerily prescient. The resurgence of conservative right-wing ideologies, marked by xenophobia, religious intolerance, and ethnic cleansing, echoes the pre-war conditions that Arendt and Berlin dissected.

Scholars like Pankaj Mishra, in “Age of Anger: A History of the Present” (2017), argue that the current wave of populism and ethno-nationalism is a reaction to the failures of globalisation, which promised freedom but delivered inequality and alienation.

Meanwhile, Achille Mbembe, in “Necropolitics” (2003), critiques the modern state’s ability to decide who lives and who dies, a chilling reminder that freedom is often contingent on power structures that exclude and dehumanise. In this context, freedom is not merely the absence of oppression but the active dismantling of systems that perpetuate exclusion, whether through racial hierarchies, economic exploitation, or political disenfranchisement.

Here at home, political survival has introduced a rising tide of tribalism which endangers our "rainbow nation" ideal, rooted in the Freedom Charter and our constitutional democracy.

Initially, the ANC combated tribalism by uniting ethnic groups against apartheid, championing non-racialism under leaders like Inkosi Luthuli and Tata Mandela. However, divisive politics has reemerged as a political tool, undermining the nation’s unity-in-diversity foundation and the Freedom Charter’s covenant of equal rights and inclusive governance is now threatened by divisive ethnic exploitation.

Reflecting at Luthuli’s grave, the urgent question arises: How can freedom be reclaimed when it’s very meaning is under attack, both globally and domestically?

President Nelson Mandela explains in the Long Walk to Freedom, that true liberation requires removing bitterness as freedom transcends physical chains; it demands inner emancipation from hatred and fear. This echoes in the Srimad Bhagavatam when Sri Krishna’s imprisoned parents where mysteriously set free upon the lords birth, symbolizing that divine virtues and good character project true freedom. Swami Vivekananda affirmed that all religions seek freedom, reflecting humanity’s unyielding desire to transcend limitations. Whether through faith, philosophy, or justice, the universal struggle for freedom proves the human spirit’s resilience against oppression.

And yet, freedom remains elusive, a concept both tangible and illusory, much like the haunting refrain of the struggle song Freedom is Coming Tomorrow. The melody, pregnant with hope, carries within it a dichotomy, a promise of liberation that feels both imminent and perpetually out of reach. It is a song that sustained generations through the darkest nights of apartheid, yet its lyrics also remind us that freedom is not a destination but a journey, one fraught with contradictions and complexities. Tomorrow, always tomorrow, freedom is coming. But what does it mean when tomorrow arrives, and the shadows of inequality, disrespect, and indignity still linger?

On one hand, we have achieved political freedom, the right to self-determination, and the dismantling of apartheid’s legal framework. On the other, we grapple with systemic inequities and external pressures that threaten to destabilise the very foundations of our democracy. The freedom we celebrate is incomplete, a work in progress, and the forces that seek to throw us off balance, whether corruption, inequality, or global coercion are relentless.

Yet, as I stand before President Luthuli’s grave, on the 70th anniversary of the Freedom Charter, the Sun, the ancient witness and keeper of history, reflects the legacy of Chief Luthuli's illustrious life and his unalloyed fight for nonviolence, non-racialism, equality not only against the regime, at times within his own movement, I am strongly reminded that freedom is not a static achievement but a dynamic process.

It is a continuous struggle to prevent these forces from derailing us, to create the conditions where growth, individual, and societal can truly take root. The long walk to freedom, as Tata Mandela envisioned, is not a straight path but a winding road, fraught with obstacles and setbacks. And as the sun descends over Groutville, casting long shadows across the land, I am left with another question that demands both introspection and action: How do we, as inheritors of this hard-won freedom, ensure that it is not just preserved but nurtured, so that it may grow and flourish for generations to come?

As I stand here, the wind passes through the grass, carrying with it the message of President Luthuli’s courage, President Mandela’s wisdom, and the voices of countless others who dared to dream of a better tomorrow.

Their legacy is not just in the freedoms we enjoy today but, in the questions, they compel us to ask, questions that demand we look inward, confront our own weaknesses and prejudices, and continue the long walk toward a freedom that is as much about the mind and spirit as it is about the body. The journey is far from over, and as the sun dips low on the horizon, casting a golden glow over Inkosi Luthuli’s grave, I am reminded that the true measure of freedom lies not in what we have achieved, but in what we are yet to become.

Yogan Naidoo is a Graduate of International Relations (LSE), and activist for peace and harmony through spirituality.

** The views expressed do not necessarily reflect the views of IOL or Independent Media. 

THE POST