That’s how this story ends. But not how it starts. The story starts with my dad, and it’s one I haven’t told much since moving to South Africa.
My dad was Deputy Chief Legal Officer at what is today the biggest bank in Spain. He spent virtually his entire professional life there, but that wasn’t all he did. He was a board member of a well-known NGO, and deeply involved with Amnesty International, where he served as President in 1982 and 1983. It sounds cool now, but at the time it was uncommon for an executive to be involved in these things.
It was around the end of 1989. I was 14, and my dad had just decided to open his own law firm. I remember the day he came to me and said: “I’m buying a fax machine for the new office. Do you want to come? I want to do something, and I might need some help.”
I was so excited. A fax machine sounds like ancient technology now, but it wasn’t then. It was a big deal, and I was fascinated by the idea of sending a “paper” anywhere in the world.
Why he bought it
The surprise wasn’t that he got the fax machine, or that we managed to install it. It was why he bought it: to be part of a campaign. He had a list of South African government institutions from Amnesty International, and together we sent faxes to every single one of them, demanding Mandela’s liberation. One by one, down the list. I still remember patiently waiting for the machine to print the “return receipt” after each one.
I remember the whole experience with a feeling I can only describe as being on the right side. Like doing something that mattered.
Little did I know that 20 years later I’d arrive in South Africa for what was meant to be a three-week trip, and I’ve been here ever since.
Thank you, Dad. I carry you with me every single day.