By Chris Chivers
There can be no doubt that South Africa and South Africans held a very special – indeed a considerable – place in the heart of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, who has died after an unmatched reign in the UK’s history of 70 years.
It was as a 21-one-year-old that she first visited South Africa with her father and mother, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, and her sister, Princess Margaret-Rose. The year was 1947. Jan Smuts was prime minister. Apartheid was a year away but the long rumbles of an emerging racist state were already sounding.
Sitting on the grounds of Government House in Cape Town, she broadcast to the then Empire – which during her reign became for her a beloved Commonwealth of nations, at first seven, and now 54 strong.
“I declare before you all,” she said, “that my whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service and the service of our great imperial family, to which we all belong. God help me to make good on my vow, and God bless all of you who are willing to share in it.”
These oft-quoted words will always remain emblematic of the devoted service that was the hallmark of her reign and of who she was for over 96 years. They represent a solemn vow, a sense of calling, an unchangeable steadfastness.
Using such language is, of course, counter-cultural. In an internet age characterised by anything throwaway, junk food and the tyranny of narcissism, which is the selfie, she offered a continuity of self-sacrifice – built on the rock of her Christian faith – that represented eternal, not ephemeral values.
All this will rightly be emphasised in this moment of her passing. It must be. The world right now needs to be reminded of such values. But it would be a mistake not to look beyond the foundations of a life which was always an outworking of straightforward Christian intent to follow divine commandments to love God, neighbour, and self – and in that order – and not to see the change she underwent and of which she was a critical part.
She adored the South African landscape on that 1947 visit, but she cannot, for instance, have been blind to structures that were already so obviously racist. She was greeted in South Africa’s cities by crowds predominantly of white people – often flag-waving white children. She knew this was far from being the whole picture, however, since coloured, Indian, and black South Africans so often lined the train routes to wave too.
As South Africa’s queen for nine years from 1952 – 1961 – critical years in the construction of the hideousness of apartheid – her well-documented encouragement of an ever-increasingly diverse Commonwealth of nations – sought to have Britain support the building in Africa of positive, inclusive, relationships to transcend the awfulness of colonialism – was already offering a counterpoint to state-sanctioned racism.
She never commented directly on political contexts or situations. As a constitutional monarch, she was bound not to do so. But as head of the Commonwealth, she consistently showed an ability to galvanise and encourage in subtle and transforming ways.
This was never clearer than at the time when the policy of sanctions against South Africa to force a change of heart and a fundamental change of direction on the part of the apartheid government was being destabilised by leaders who did not support such an approach – not the least of whom was her own prime minister, Margaret Thatcher. Only those most directly involved know the full story, but they have said enough to indicate that the queen’s role was influential.
Her delight at South Africa’s eventual transformation was obvious. When she returned in 1995 for Human Rights Day and was welcomed to St George’s Cathedral, Cape Town, by Archbishop Desmond Tutu almost 50 years after she had attended a rather dismal service of matins in the same cathedral, the contrasts were obvious, and not simply musical or liturgical. She loved Arch’s infectious humour and his energy.
Her soft spots for him – he received the Companion of Honour from her – as also for Nelson Mandela – who received the UK’s highest honour, the Order of Merit – showed just how important she believed to be the wholescale change of South Africa from pariah state to justly feted democracy. In this, she doubtless walked her own journey of transformation.
Brought up in a context where white deference was paramount, the decolonisation which was the characteristic of the early years of her reign, and the mass migration of peoples and the growth of multiculturalism which saw her own nation struggle to transcend racism meant that a new approach was needed.
Her own experience of an ever more diverse world gave her perspectives, and an understanding of contexts far from her own, which was a developmental backdrop of some significance to a necessary change in the UK itself. She travelled widely, listened unfailingly, questioned searchingly and befriended African leaders from Nyerere to Kenyatta, Nkrumah to Mandela. The sheer scale of the institutional memory that she carried with her, as it were, meant that she understood far more than people supposed and was able to share insights that surprised her and often, therefore, offer necessary nudges in important conversations. She could often bring leaders together to talk because her longevity made her a trusted matriarch. Such was the soft power that she possessed.
For Mandela, she had particularly high regard, of course. He was certainly the only person in the world apart from her beloved late husband, Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, who called her Elizabeth! But she transcended her attention merely on the leaders of nations, African or otherwise, with a particular desire to focus on the development of young people.
For her, the Commonwealth came alive when young people of different nations were realising their hopes. I recall being near her at a Commonwealth Day Reception in St James Palace in London, when her smooth progress through the room greeting High Commissioners, was considerably delayed by a group of late teenage South Africans, a mix of emerging sporting, academic and musical stars.
Here lay her real passion and interest. She sparkled with them because she simply loved to hear the stories of those whose dreams were being brought to fulfilment. In a life of so much routine and sheer hard work, seeing others thirst to serve seemed to make all that she did come alive for her.
When she had reigned for 50 years, and I was on the staff of Westminster Abbey, designing and choreographing the service that would celebrate the anniversary of her coronation, I agonised over which text to ask the composer Jonathan Harvey to set to music.
I wanted something that would be emblematic of the quality of service she lived by – and which spoke beyond her Christian context as Supreme Governor of the Church of England to that service which she wished people of all faiths and world views to share. She rarely answered questions about her faith directly. But I enquired if I was right in thinking that particular prayer was one of her favourites.
Quoting the words, I received the somewhat enigmatic reply that I wouldn’t perhaps be wrong if I supposed this to be the case. As it happens, I asked a South African couple who were friends to pay for the commission. When she greeted the three of us after the service, she was clearly touched with an intimate yet soaring musical setting of words that resonated not only with her own in 1947 but with her whole life’s calling:
“Remember, O Lord, what thou hast wrought in us and not what we deserve; and, as thou hast called us to thy service, make us worthy of our calling.”
Few have ever surely been more worthy of their calling or more humble in approaching it than Queen Elizabeth II, once monarch but more importantly true and loving friend of South Africa and South Africans.
Chris Chivers teaches religion and philosophy at UCL Academy, London.
* The views expressed are not necessarily the views of IOL or Independent Media.