Freedom Day Reflections: Listening, Feeling, and Wondering

This morning, like many South Africans, I turned on the television to listen to the Deputy President's Freedom Day address.

Freedom Day — a date etched into our collective memory with a mixture of pride, pain, and hope. It’s more than just a public holiday; it’s a reminder of what so many fought for, what so many never lived to see. It’s sacred ground, in a way.

I wanted, so badly, to be moved. I wanted to feel that surge of shared pride, the reminder that no matter how hard things are, we’ve come a long way. But as the speech unfolded, I found myself drifting. Not with anger. Not even disappointment, exactly. It was something softer and sadder — a kind of ache.

The words sounded right. Progress made. Commitments renewed. New programs announced. All the markers of a country supposedly moving forward.

And yet, it felt like something essential was missing.

I kept thinking about the streets outside my door, about the faces I see every day. I thought about the taxi drivers hustling for an extra fare. About the children selling sweets on the corner long after the school bell should have rung. About the friends and neighbors carrying invisible weights that no speech will ever quite lift.

It made me wonder: who are we speaking to when we craft these grand messages? Because the freedom that was described today — in bright, polished words — doesn’t always match the freedom I see around me.

That doesn't mean nothing has changed. It would be dishonest to deny the progress. We can vote. We can speak. We can dream bigger than before.

But it would also be dishonest to ignore the gaps.

Freedom isn't just the absence of oppression. It's the presence of dignity. Opportunity. Safety.

And if we’re honest, too many South Africans still live without these.

What I longed for — what I think so many longed for — was a speech that acknowledged that without fear or spin. A speech that didn’t just highlight milestones but mourned what’s still broken. A leader willing to say: "We see the gaps. We feel the weight too. And we are still walking this road with you."

Today, we didn’t get that.

And yet — and yet — after sitting for a while in that sadness, something unexpected stirred in me.

A quiet, stubborn hope.

Because maybe freedom, real freedom, was never meant to be handed to us from podiums. Maybe it lives out here — in the daily grind, in the small acts of kindness between strangers, in the unbreakable spirit of people who keep hoping even when they have every reason to give up.

Maybe real freedom is the young girl starting a food stall with nothing but a folding table and a dream. The old man who still votes every election, even when he wonders if it makes a difference. The teacher who stays late because she refuses to give up on the kids society has already written off.

Maybe we are the keepers of freedom now — not them.

Today’s speech didn’t move me. But the people I pass every day do. The hands that build, the hearts that refuse to give in, the laughter that bubbles up even in hard places — that's where the real story of South Africa lives.

And so, even when the official words fall short, the real work continues. Quietly. Relentlessly. Beautifully.

We are still here. Still dreaming. Still building.

And that — maybe more than anything said from a podium — is something worth celebrating today.

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