On the Passing of Nelson Mandela

Nelson Mandela, 1918-2013 (Creative Commons)

Of course he was a towering figure, a complex man, and a public hero. But the hagiography of Nelson Mandela is somewhat disturbing, not unlike the media outpouring following the death of Ronald Reagan -- or even recently the death of actor Paul Walker.

Wait, wait, I keep saying, this is celebrity myth making in overdrive. Is this really honoring the dead, or is it make-believe about the dead?

It was hardly a shock when news of Mandela's passing reached these shores. He'd taken ill quite some time back, and his recovery never seemed likely. His family and many of his admirers had long since accepted the fact that he was old and subject to the limitations of the old and frail, and in the end, his passing would be a blessing on him. Those who have dealt with end of life issues for loved ones know that the period is an emotional roller coaster. Staying centered is sometimes difficult. On the other hand, for many of those whose life is ebbing away, the end can be a welcome respite from the struggle to hang on.

What I've noticed about so much of the hagiography of Nelson Mandela is a nearly complete neglect of the story of the end of his life, and an obsessive focus on his "peacemaking" with his white tormentors.

Practically every picture I've seen of Mandela during the period since his death has shown him hobnobbing with some white politician or pooh-bah; on occasion, there will be other black faces among those with Mandela, but for the most part, it's just him and some white person.

There's nothing wrong with this on the surface, but it's a very incomplete picture. Worse, it's propaganda for an agenda, one that "unites the races" on behalf of... the oligarchy/kleptocracy that rules us with rod and staff. Let's not fool ourselves. Just as the stories and legacies of Gandhi and King have been expropriated by and for the ruling class, so now will Mandela's be.

This is perhaps a necessary thing, for if the masses were to understand the depth of feeling and the revolutionary nature of Mandela's efforts in South Africa, the rising of the oppressed and exploited majority around the world would be nearly impossible to suppress. By transforming Mandela into the Elder Peacemaker Between the Races -- and ignoring all the rest of his life and legacy -- and by making myth around that single aspect, the  Overclass seeks to maintain control of the restive rabble who otherwise might take courage...

I don't know whether it will work this time, though. Mandela was, it seems to me, both wiser and subtler than most of those who seek to maintain power over us now.

His spirit may yet have some surprises in store for us all...

Rest in Peace, Old Man, you did more than most mortals.

OT: The Cat

This is Mao:



He hated having his picture taken, always expressing his supreme annoyance by cutting his eyes and turning away.

He was 16 1/2 years old, been at Casa Ché since he was born, and he died this afternoon and was buried in the back yard with his favorite red bird and yellow squeaker mouse toys, and with a stick, for nothing at all made him happier than playing "Stick!" any time of the day or night all the way up to nearly his last days.

He was the smartest cat I think I've ever known, and one of the most loving. Whenever I picked him up, he would wrap his arms around my neck, rub my cheek with his, and proudly pose there like I was his trophy, and wait for others to admire his prowess.

He knew many words in English and could say some of them. "No!" for example. And "Out!" He would query carefully if he wasn't sure of something or someone, and chat almost mindlessly when the spirit moved him.

His mother was purebred Siamese; his father was a drunkard and a brawler from the alley, but who's to complain. He ran off and we didn't hear any more of him. His mother wound up going back to San Francisco when her "owner" decided he wouldn't be a reliable caregiver.

Mao was truly the friend of nearly everyone -- except other cats, who he would drive off his property with a furious outrage that was a wonder to behold. He was the best friend the residents of Casa Ché.

As I mentioned, home hospice care has been under way here since October for an elderly relative, a woman who adored Mao. When she was in the hospital this last time going through constant torments, she said one night when she was feeling particularly horrible, she heard a voice, not a human voice, a cat's voice, and she said, "Is that you?" The cat responded softly, "Mao..." She said, "Are you here? How did you get in here? They don't let cats in the hospital!" She heard him say, very softly, "Mao..." She said, "Let me touch you to be sure." She said she thought he was on the bed, but she felt all over and couldn't find him. She's blind so she couldn't see him. She heard him say, "Mao..." softly, and she said she reached over the side of the bed and she said she touched him. He was on the floor, and he rubbed her hand and she could feel him purring. She said she heard him say, just as plain as day, "You're going to be all right, and you're coming home. I'm going to make sure. I'll stay with you tonight, but don't tell anyone. It's a secret. Just you and me." And she said she broke down crying, because he'd come to visit her and promised she would come home again.

And he was right there when she arrived home from the hospital, so weak she couldn't hold her head up. And he stayed with her for day after day, drawing the illness out of her, giving her strength. If she needed anything, he would call out or go get someone to help. He slept with her, stroked her with his own paw, and he "helped" when she was strong enough to stand, and "helped" some more when she took her first few steps after coming home. She's been devastated today, disconsolate -- like everyone else around here -- but she said she was so grateful he had been so determined to get her to come home and had done so much to help her get better.

I said, "If Mao had been a person, he would have been a doctor. As a cat, he was a natural healer."

During his last illness, he made clear what his wishes were. He didn't want to see the vet unless there was no other choice. He wanted to feel feline to the end and he wanted to be warm and he wanted to be with the people who loved him. The last couple of days, weak as could be, he wanted to go outside, and go next door to Joe's house. Joe was our neighbor until three years ago in January, when at the age of 100, he fell and broke his hip and had to be placed in a residential care facility. He and Mao were good buddies, and Mao used to sit on his porch and watch the clouds roll by while Joe trimmed the hedges or puttered with his flowers. Joe died a year after he went to the home, and Mao seemed to sense his passing. He didn't go over to Joe's house very often, and when new people moved in, with their own cats, he stayed well away. But he decided he wanted to go back and sit on Joe's porch and watch the clouds again, and he did for a little bit. And then he gave me a look that said, "I want to see Joe again."

And I said, "You will, you will." And I held him so close, tears rolling down my cheeks and I took him back home, where he was warm and with the people who loved him, and this morning, he went outside one more time, and he came in and lay down and said his good byes, so softly, and he did not get up again.

I hope he's with Joe now, and I hope they're sitting on a porch watching clouds roll by and listening to the mocking birds and thinking about playing "Stick!"

You're both missed, buddies.