PART B: FOCUS ON THE STORY

Long Walk to Freedom Nelson Mandela's autobiography Long Walk to Freedom is the story of Mandela's struggle

for justice and freedom for all the people of South Africa. He was an anti-apartheid activist

and the leader of the African National Congress. Mandela was convicted for sabotage and

other crimes in his "long walk to freedom" and he was sentenced to 27 years of

imprisonment. Mandela was released on 11th February 1990. He was the first President of

South Africa elected in a fully representative democratic election.

Mandela is regarded as a national hero for his ongoing struggle for a multi-cultural

democracy. All over the world he is celebrated as a great statesman. In 1993 he received the

Nobel Peace Prize in Oslo. To commemorate Mandela's contribution to peace all over the

world, the United Nations Council has decided that Mandela's birthday, 18th July, is to be

"Mandela Day".

I AWOKE ON THE DAY of my release after only a few hours' sleep at 4:30 A.M.. February 11

was cloudless, end-of-summer Cape Town. I did a shortened version of my usual exercise

regimen, washed, and ate breakfast. I then telephoned a number of people from the ANC

and theUDF (United Democratic Front) in Cape Town to come to the cottage to prepare for

my release and work on my speech. The prison doctor came by to give me a brief check up. I

did not dwell on the prospect of my release, but on all the many things I had to do before

then. As so often happens in life, the momentousness of an occasion is lost in the welter of a

thousand details.

My actual release was set for 3 P.M. At a few minutes after three, I was telephoned by a

well-known

SABC (South African Broadcasting Corporation) presenter who requested that I get out of the

car a few hundred feet before the gate so that they could film me walking toward freedom.

This seemed reasonable, and I agreed to do it. This was my first inkling that things might not

go as calmly as I had imagined.

When I was among the crowd I raised my right fist and there was a roar. I had not been able

to do that for twenty-seven years and it gave me a surge of strength and joy. Although I was

pleased to have such a reception, I was greatly vexed by the fact that I did not have a chance

to say good-bye to the prison staff. As I finally walked through those gates to enter a car on

the other side, I felt – even at the age of seventy-one – that my life was beginning anew. My

ten thousand days of imprisonment were over.

The reception committee had organized a rally at the Grand Parade in Cape Town. I raised

my fist to the crowd and the crowd responded with an enormous cheer. I spoke from the

heart. I wanted first of all to tell the people that I was not a messiah, but an ordinary man

who had become a leader because of extraordinary circumstances. I wanted immediately to

thank the people all over the world who had campaigned for my release.

It was vital for me to show my people and government that I was unbroken and unbowed,

and that the struggle was not over for me but beginning anew in a different form. I affirmed

that I was "a loyal and disciplined member of the African National Congress". I encouraged

the people to return to the barricades, to intensify the struggle, and we would walk the last

mile together.

At the press conference that afternoon, I told the press that I would play whatever role the

ANC (the African National Congress) ordered. I added that when the state stopped inflicting

violence on the ANC, the ANC would reciprocate with peace. I was asked as well about the

fears of whites. I knew that people expected me to harbour anger toward whites. But I had

none. In prison, my anger towards whites decreased, but my hatred for the system grew. I

wanted South Africa to see that I loved even my enemies while I hated the system that

turned us against one another.

The following morning we flew by helicopter to the First National Bank Stadium in Soweto.

The stadium was so crowded, with people sitting or standing in every inch of space. I

expressed my delight to be back among them. I ended by opening my arms to all South

Africans of goodwill and good intentions, saying that "no man or woman who has

abandoned apartheid will be excluded from our movement toward a non-racial, united and

democratic South Africa based on one-person one-vote on a common voters' roll." That was

the ANC's mission, the goal that I would work toward during the remaining years of my life.

It was the dream I cherished when I entered prison at the age of forty-four, but I was no

longer a young man. I was seventy-one, and I could not afford to waste any time.

That night, I returned with Winnie to number 8115 in Orlando West. It was only then that I

knew in my heart that I had left prison. For me, 8115 was the centerpoint of my world, the

place marked with an X in my mental geography. That night, as happy as I was to be home, I

had a sense that what I most wanted and longed for was going to be denied me, to visit in

the evening with old friends. In giving myself to my people I could see that I was once again

taking myself away from my family.

I VOTED ON APRIL 27. The images of South Africans going to the polls that day are burned in

my memory. Great lines of patient people, old women who had waited half a century to cast

their first vote saying that they felt like human beings for the first time in their lives.

From the moment the results were in and it was apparent that the ANC was to form the

government, I knew that many people, particularly the minorities, whites, Coloureds, and

Indians, would be feeling anxious about the future and I wanted them to feel secure. At every

opportunity, I said all South Africans, must now unite and join hands and say we are one

country, one nation, one people, marching together into the future.

The policy of apartheid created a deep and lasting wound in my country and my people. All

of us will spend many years, if not generations, recovering from that profound hurt. But the

decades of oppression and brutality had another, unintended effect, and that was that it

produced the Oliver Tambos, the Walter Sisulus, the Chief Luthulis, the Yusuf Dadoos, The

Bram Fischers, the Robert Subokwes of our time - men of such extraordinary courage,

wisdom, and generosity that their like may never be known again. It is from these comrades

in the struggle that I learned the meaning of courage.

Time and time again, I have seen men and women risk and give their lives for an idea. I have

seen men stand up to attacks and torture without breaking. I learned that courage was not

the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel

afraid, but he who conquers that fear. I was not born with a hunger to be free. I was born

free - free in every way that I could know. It was only when I began to learn that my boyhood

freedom was an illusion, when I discovered as a young man that my freedom had already

been taken from me, that I began to hunger for it. I saw that it was not just my freedom that

was curtailed, but the freedom of everyone who looked like I did. That is when I joined the

African National Congress.

It was during those long and lonely years in prison that my hunger for the freedom of my

own people became a hunger for the freedom of all people, white and black. I knew as well

as I knew anything that the oppressor must be liberated just as surely as the oppressed. The

oppressed and the oppressor alike are robbed of their humanity.

I have walked that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter; I have made missteps

along the way. But I have discovered the secret that after climbing a great hill one only finds

that there are many more hills to climb. I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view

of the glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come. But I can

rest only for a moment, for with freedom comes responsibilities, and I dare not linger, for my

long walk is not yet ended.

Extracts from Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela, pages 769-773, 775, 777-779, 781-782, 848, 851, 855 and 857-859.

PART B: FOCUS ON THE STORY –

Nelson Mandela fights for freedom and justice for all. The kids in The Hunger Games

arefighting for their lives.

The Hunger Games In a future country called Panem we follow Katniss Everdeen on her way from home to

mortal combat in the capital of Panem, called the Capitol. Panem was originally divided into

thirteen districts. Then the districts rebelled against oppression from the Capitol. The

response was prompt. The thirteenth district was wiped out from the face of the earth.

As a cruel punishment the twelve remaining districts have had to send one girl and one boy,

randomly chosen, between the ages of 12 to 18, to take part as "tributes" in a reality show

called The Hunger Games every year. Some of the tributes are called The Careers, because

they come from the wealthiest districts and have been trained especially for the games for a

long time. The twenty-four tributes are on display for a week and then placed in a huge

outdoor arena where they fight for their lives. The rules of the games are simple, because

there is just one: kill or be killed. The game itself is neatly organized and broadcast. Support

from the viewers may be the difference between life and death and the winner becomes

very rich and very famous.

Extract from the book

Sixty seconds: That's how long we're required to stand on our metal circles before the sound

of the gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and landmines blow your legs off.

Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant

golden horn shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least seven

metres high, spilling over with the things that will give us life here in the arena. Food,

containers of water, weapons, medicine, garments, fire starters.

I hear the instructions in my head. "Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between

yourself and the others, and find a source of water." Something catches my eye. There

resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung,

just waiting to be engaged. That's mine, I think. It's meant for me.

I'm fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our school, although a couple can beat me

in distance races. But this forty-metre length, this is what I am built for. I know I can get it, I

know I can reach it first, but the question is, how quickly can I get out there?

Since that's the very weapon that might be my salvation. I know the minute must be almost

up and I'll have to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself positioning my feet to

run, not away in the surrounding forests but towards the pile, towards the bow. When

suddenly I notice Peeta. I can tell that he's looking at me, and I think he might be shaking his

head. But the sun's in my eyes, and while I'm puzzling over it the gong rings out.

And I've missed it! I've missed my chance! Because those extra couple of seconds I've lost by

not being ready are enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for a

moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take, and then I lunge forward, scoop

up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread.

A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same time I do and for a brief time we

grapple for it and then he coughs, splattering my face with blood. Then the boy slips to the

ground.

That's when I see the knife in his back. Already other tributes have reached the Cornucopia

and are spreading out to attack. Yes, the girl from District 2, ten metres away, is running

towards me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. I've seen her throw in training. She

never misses. And I'm her next target.

All the general fear I've been feeling condenses into an immediate fear of this girl, this

predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack

over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the blade whistling towards

me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head: The blade lodges in the pack. Both

straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees.

I continue running until the woods have hidden me from the other tributes, then slow into a

steady jog that I think I can maintain for a while. For the next few hours, I alternate between

jogging and walking, putting as much distance as I can between myself and my competitors.

The ground slopes down. I don't particularly like this. Valleys make me feel trapped. I want to

be high, like in the hills around District 12, where I can see my enemies approaching. But I

have no choice but to keep going.

What I want most, right at this moment, is water. I won't last long without it: for a few days,

I'll be able to function with unpleasant symptoms of dehydration, but after that I'll

deteriorate into helplessness and be dead in a week, tops. I carefully lay out the provisions.

One thin black sleeping bag that reflects the body heat. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried

beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of

sunglasses. And a two-litre plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone dry.

No water. How hard would it have been for them to fill up the bottle? I become aware of my

dryness in my throat and mouth, the cracks in my lips. I've been moving all day long. It's been

hot and I've sweated a lot. I do this at home, but there are always streams to drink from, or

snow to melt if I should need it.

Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will have food, an abundance of water from the

lake, torches or flashlights, and weapons they're itching to use. I can only hope I've travelled

far and fast enough to be out of range.

I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in a clump of other willows, offering

concealment in those long, flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to the stronger branches close

to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. Now, when it is dark, and I have travelled far,

and I am nestled high in this tree, now I must try and rest.

A few hours later, the stampede of feet shakes me from slumber. I look around in

bewilderment. It's not yet dawn, but my stinging eyes can see it.

It would be hard to miss the wall of fire descending on me. My first impulse is to scramble

from the tree, but I'm belted in. I shove in the belt, hoist the bag over my shoulder, and flee.

The world has transformed into one of flame and smoke. All I can do is follow the others, the

rabbits and deer, and I even spot a wild-dog pack shooting through the woods. I trust their

sense of direction because their instincts are sharper than mine. But they are much faster;

flying through the underbrush so gracefully as my boots catch on roots and fallen tree limbs,

that there's no way I can keep apace with them.

I know I need to keep moving, but I'm trembling and light-headed now, gasping for air. You

get one minute, I tell myself. One minute to rest. My minute's up. I know it's time to move on,

but the smoke has clouded my thoughts.

The wall of fire must have an end and it won't burn indefinitely. If I could get back behind the

fire line, I could avoid meeting with the Careers. I've just decided to try and loop back around,

when the first fireball blasts into the rock about half a metre from my head.

The game has taken a twist. The fire was just to get us moving; now the audience will get

some real fun. When I hear the next hiss, I flatten on the ground, not taking time to look. My

muscles react, only not fast enough this time. The fireball crashes into the ground, but not

before it skids my right calf.

Seeing my trouser leg on fire sends me over the edge. I twist and scuttle backwards on my

hands and feet, shrieking, trying to remove myself from the horror.

My visibility is poor. I can see maybe fifteen metres in any direction. I hate burns, have

always hated them. It is the worst kind of pain to me, but I have never experienced anything

like this.

I'm so weary I don't even notice I'm in the pool until I'm ankle-deep. I plunge my hands into

the shallow water and feel instant relief. Despite the pain, drowsiness begins to take over. I

neatly arrange my supplies. I spot some water plants with edible roots and make a small

meal with my last piece of rabbit. Sip water. Where would I go, anyway, that is any safer

than here? I lean back on my pack, overcome by drowsiness. If the Careers want me, let them

find me, I think before drifting into a stupor. Let them find me.

And find me they do. It's lucky I'm ready to move on because when I hear feet, I have less

than a minute head start. The moment I awake, I'm up and running, splashing across the

pool, flying into the underbrush. My leg slows me down, but I sense my pursuers are not as

speedy as they were before the fire either. I hear their coughs, their raspy voices, calling to

one another.

Still they are closing in, just like a pack of wild dogs, and so I do what I have done my whole

life in such circumstances. I pick a high tree and begin to climb. If running hurt, climbing is

agonizing, because it requires not only exertion but direct contact of my hands on the tree

bark. I'm fast though, and by the time they've reached the base of my trunk, I'm six metres

up. For a moment, we stop and survey one another.

Extracts from The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, pages 179-184, 186, 188, 207-208, 210-

211, 215 and 218-219.

If you want to know what happens next, you will have to read the book.