“Creating a culture of community,” I heard these words falling down from the voice above me, descending upon the ears of the room around me. A man spoke from above us, standing upon the table where our food was supposed to be on. Nelson Mandela, preached to us as if he were on a podium. “Possibly the most important part of our change, the culture of our country. The culture the white man has torn down. The community we’ve lost as it dissipated into thin air by the rich man’s hand.”

The room in the stale prison chambers had been filled with my peers, and the persecuted masses of the country gripped onto his every word. “This country's residents are wealthy. This country's residents are powerful, but we are not this country's residents.” I considered, in my heart, as well as my head, why I would be here. I was reminded of how society sees me, and as I looked around and saw my friends, fellow teenagers, and other kids, but to everyone else? Everyone else just saw us as prisoners, criminals caught by the law. 

“Africa is not a poor country, never has it been in history. Only the rich man has taken what belongs to Africa. The wealth of our people, of the African man, of the black man, has been openly stolen, declared proudly to be held by the white man.” As the people gathered, political prisoners, revolutionaries, black men, communists, freedom fighters, protesters, African people, and the lives they fought for. “I understand, we cannot end the nightmare by surrendering ourselves into passion of hatred and the spirit of vengeance and retribution.” He stepped down, crouching and pushing himself onto the floor with everyone else, before approaching me 

“You, sir, why are you here?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer, but I didn’t have to after one of the guards approached the crowd. He moved past me, walking straight up to the speaker. Several other guards surrounded the room, and had been somewhat listening, without really giving it much thought.

“Prisoner 46664, go back to your cell now.” He pointed at Mandela, looking as if he was about to snap. 

“No,” Nelson Mandela stayed exactly where he was, “That is not my name.” 

The crowd seemed to stir at this. Why should he go back to his cell and not us? He's no different than any of us, we all are victims. He had opened our eyes to our connectedness, the prison no longer was an isolating experience, and he had created a culture of community between us. I finally knew the answer to Nelson Mandela's question. I'm here because the residents of this country put me here, and I want out.