The name of Robben Island is Dutch for “seal island.”  However, the island did not host seals. Instead, it buried one-third to one-fourth of the life span of many anti-Apartheid activists in South Africa.  Nelson Mandela was one of them.  He was imprisoned on the island with other political prisoners for 18 years before he was elected as the first black President of South Africa.

               We arrived at our destination after a half an hour-long ferry journey from the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront in Cape Town, a passage of no return if it was in the past.  A few seagulls flew by, trying to stay away from the past atrocities their ancestors had witnessed.  Bundles of sun beams roasted our skin gently and the sea breezes caressed our cheeks as we walked towards the stone complex.  They were being too kind by not giving us any hint on what is waiting for us inside the security prison. The outdoor area was covered by coarse sand and rocks with clusters of grasses scattered around the corner.  It was quiet. “Shack, shack,” our footsteps were the only vibration on this deadly land.

               The benches inside the communal room were fully occupied by tourists eagerly listening to the guide, who was a former prisoner himself.  I settled on the stone floor.  It shared the coldness of a giant ice block, which permeated the thin fabrics I picked for a South African autumn.  How did the prisoners tolerate the winters on this island?  My thoughts sank back into the room.  I could not catch up with his remark.  English was not my first language and he had a different accent from what I was used to.  A few sentences slipped into my ears, “...They beat us. They tortured us. They made us drink their pee...”  I looked up and searched for his eyes.  The glowing obsidians showed no signs of emotions.  Did I miss something?  He looked calm.  His tone was as usual as someone talking about a family picnic yesterday.  No micro-expressions nor other body language detected.  His feet firmly stood shoulder-width apart, his hands delivered gestures with confidence.  I was astonished.

               People said I was so brave to skydive in Cape Town and to jump off a cliff in Mauritius, as I have always been afraid of heights.  But only God knows how many gallons of courage it took for him to stand in front of a group of strangers, the majority white tourists, sharing the atrocities he suffered, constantly being reminded of his loss and pain.

               Maybe he was desensitized after such a long time.  Maybe he had no choice but needed this job to make a living.  Maybe he was simply hiding his PTSD symptoms under the shield of the blinding sun.  But I smelled the faith and determination with every breath he took.  He proved to us that there will always be a rainbow, no matter how rough the storm was. I admired the widespread ubuntu spirit embedded in this fertile soil.

“I am because you are.”

You knew you were never alone, even when you were isolated in this tiny cell

hundred miles away from your family and friends.

You belong to your community and their unconditional, endless support

will always be in your blood.

You were loved. You loved. You were healed.

Scars and stitches remained, but the humaneness triumphed.

               We walked through a narrow corridor to examine the individual cells across the prison.  They were pieces of rectangular area being separated by stone walls with an iron-fenced door in the front.  I estimated the length and width of the cells, quickly realizing that I would not be able to lie down naturally if I were to sleep inside the cell.  The prisoners were forced not only to bend their bodies, but also their belief in justice in this place.  The three pale, lifeless white walls encircling each cells reinforced the power of the dominators, enforcing and manipulating, feeling entitled because they were white.  The only company of the prisoners in the cell were a thin, rough rug that they slept on, a tattered blanket they covered themselves, a tiny table the length of my forearm, with a tin bowl and a tin cup on its top, and lastly, a bucket with a lid for excretion.  Under the surveillance of the security guards, they could not communicate with other prisoners, or otherwise they would receive violent punishment.  The only connection they had with the outside world was through the small iron-barred windows at the top of the wall.  Even though the physical bodies of the South Africans were imprisoned, their souls were free.

               As we were leaving the security prison, I took my last step away from the prison area which was guarded by a tall, extended barbed wire fence.  A line of seagulls flew across the sky, extending their wings, screeching for the freedom that nobody could ever strip from them.  They displayed a harmonious co-existence of white feathers, black back, and yellow beak on themselves.  This should be the future South Africa is heading to.

               A local driver warned me, “Apartheid is still here. It never goes away.”  While my tour guide explained to me, “It takes time and effort for the government to correct the wrongdoings in the past by institutional reforms.”  They were both categorized as “coloured” in South Africa. Yet, a former white South African judge of the United Nations told me, “Apartheid does not exist anymore.  You will not see black people and white people having dinner together in that period.”  Their responses left me with too many questions that I am still yearning for an answer.

               Robben Island was kind.  It offered its tourists breathtaking sceneries, fresh air, and sapphire - like ocean that we can never get tired of.  However, Robben Island was cruel.  It engulfed its own people’s faith against the Apartheid’s injustice.  Nonetheless, this land and its people deserve infinite remembrance on the history of homo sapiens.