the Kandinsky is painted on both sides...

It’s winter in Cape Town.

Normally, and for the better part of the last few weeks, this means torrential rain, wind, dampness and bone-chilling cold. As mentioned before, the vast majority of houses are not insulated, meaning it is often colder inside than out.

Today is an exception. An unseasonably warm 22 degrees and not a cloud in sight. To celebrate, I drove to Seapoint to take a walk along the seawall. Writing this, I am warmed by the huge sun setting in a pale blue sky while waves crash just below me and Feist sings about her moon and her man in my earphones.

Blissful indeed.

In taking in this picturesque setting however, I am reminded (as I often am, and as is so difficult not to be), of the great disparity between the haves and have-nots in this city. Walking along the seawall with a smile on my face, I pass joggers, yummy mummies pushing their designer babies in their designer prams, couples strolling hand in hand, kids playing football and people walking their dogs - a glaring distinction between this demographic and those among the crowds who clearly have very little. They are sitting on the ground half-asleep, lying on the beach fully asleep, or just walking along themselves. I did not see anyone asking for money.

When the rain fell in buckets the other night, fell with such a force that the house literally shook, we were inside. Warmed by food cooking on our stove and layers of sweaters, we were warm and dry. And yet, not 5 minutes from our house there is a group of about 60 people who sleep under a bridge, a thin piece of tarpaulin all that separates them from the elements. One cannot imagine what that night must have been like for those folk.

As I drive to work in the morning, cranking the tunes in my now affectionately-named car ‘Iron Fist’, I pass hoards of young men waiting in the cold to be picked up by bukkies. Once on the highway, I often find myself behind the same bukkies, their flatbeds crammed with young men en route to work, which is usually some type of job in the temporary manual-labor category. The safety issues around travelling like this, especially at the speeds at which they drive are tremendous, cemented by the horror stories I have heard when these trucks find themselves in accidents. And the cold they must feel in the freezing morning air?

Poverty is everywhere in this city. Urban planning by the old regime did a fine job of disguising it or at least taking it out of a perhaps obvious line of view, but a long time has passed since 1994. One never has to strain to see evidence of how far this city and country still has to go in its struggle for equality.

Today, on the 90th anniversary of the nation’s Grandfather’s birth, we celebrate Madiba’s many accomplishments and the inspiration he has and continues to offer both South Africans and the global community. We rejoice…against the stark backdrop of the reality that almost 20 years later, his fight is far from being won.

Chaos...control....chaos….control…

Ixnay the 'xenophobia'

June 6

Unless you have had your head in the sand for the past two weeks, you will have heard of the spate of violence that has been taking place in various parts of South Africa.

While the exact genesis event for this tragedy is unclear, the tension between South African blacks and African blacks from other parts of the continent has been brewing for some time. In 2004, Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu came under fire for comments he made about his concern over the simmering pot of hostility that existed in the poorer areas of the country, in large part created and fuelled by the growing disparity between the rich and the poor, which the government had thus far done a fine job of sweeping under the rug. Well, 4 years later, this aforementioned pot has not only boiled, but overflowed and flooded the kitchen.

Starting late week before last, I began getting emails from family and friends around the world enquiring about my well-being given what they had been seeing on TV and the Internet about what was going on in South Africa. Thankful for their concern, I had to tell them that were it not for bbc.co.uk, I wouldn't have known anything was going on (we don't have a television and I don't read the newspaper nearly often enough). Truth be told, here in Cape Town we felt far removed from the violence that was taking place in areas around Johannesburg, Durban, Pretoria and other parts of the country. The horrifying images of burning bodies and stories of brutality and vandalism seemed as far away to us as they did to the international community whose media outlets were reporting the latest.

Until the middle of last week.

When the violence hit the Western Cape and things exploded here too. Reports of looting, violence, and murder in townships outside of Cape Town spread like wildfire. And then began the mass exodus. Thousands of black Africans from other parts of the continent who had been living in CT-area townships were either forced out or their homes, or took no chances and upped and left taking with them only what they could carry. Many sought refuge at police stations that turned them away or told them they could do nothing to help them. On Friday, the Home Affairs office in Nyanga was attacked by gunfire while scores of refugees waited outside. By Saturday, 5000 Somalis had assembled at Belleville train station and refused to leave or go to one of the camps that had been hastily set up by the city of Cape Town as they feared being deported. As is often the case in situations like these, churches opened their doors to house the displaced and were quickly bursting at the seams, unable to accommodate the numbers seeking shelter.

On Saturday morning, my housemate Catherine and I bought a span of groceries, baby food, nappies, toilet paper, feminine hygiene products, toiletries and toys to drop off at the Methodist church in our neighbourhood that was housing some refugees. When we arrived we were told that our donation would be better put to use at another church in the next suburb where some women and children were being accommodated. When we arrived at SHADE (www.shade.org.za), we found one woman who had not slept in two days manning the phones and running the show on her own. It was immediately clear that she needed help so we dove in. From 10am until 8pm that night we undertook a variety of jobs between two sites, from answering phones and accepting and organizing donations, to deploying volunteers and helping the refugees at the church feel as comfortable as possible given the horrific circumstances.

The scene at the church in Observatory was relatively calm, given the situation. A group of about 70 people (almost all male, this having to do with the fact that many of those who come to SA from other countries are men who work and earn money here which they send home to their families), assembled in a church hall. On my way in I saw a young man sitting on a bag which I can only assume were all his belongings, with his arms wrapped around his torso and rocking back and forth. By contrast however, there were several groups sitting around playing cards and cracking jokes. Some Zimbabwean men in the kitchen were cooking up food for everyone while women peeled potatoes and sang. I found it impossible to understand how people could manage to laugh and keep high spirits in such dire circumstances, although as one later said, many had seen much worse in their own countries.

While there, I met an Angolan woman (one of only two women in the group). Overjoyed to be able to speak Portuguese with someone, she told me her story. She had been living in Phillipi for the past three years with her two-year old daughter and her daughter's father who was also Angolan. She worked in a shop braiding hair. When the violence started she was very afraid. She witnessed people being beaten and homes being destroyed. Although she wasn't beaten because those in her community liked her she said, they did tell her that she needed leave as the violence would only get worse.

Not long after, a young Zimbabwean woman arrived with a 2-month old baby in her arms. Frail and clearly exhausted, I have never seen a more bewildered look in someone's eyes than I did in hers. To say she looked terrified is an understatement. Bewildered. Frantic. Her baby was hungry and crying, she was cold and frightened, and she was by herself. Quickly given blankets and food, she was taken to the room where the few women and children were staying. Thankfully there were mattresses there, a luxury at that point for most of those in the main hall.

Thankfully food was not an issue at any of the places we were at, the outpouring of community support in this whole mess being one of the few rays of light. People mobilized quickly and countless donations were dropped off throughout the day. When we left on Saturday night the room in which we had been organizing food, clothes, toiletries, etc. was chock-o-block.

Back at SHADE early this morning, we were greeted with a report that there were 35 people at a police station needing somewhere to go. Once we were able to get a Minister at a neighbouring suburb to agree to open the doors of his church, various volunteers with cars went off to fetch and take the refugees to safety. Catherine was one of the drivers, and when she returned told of a conversation in the car en route to the church. The women were from Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), and speaking French among themselves. They asked Catherine where she was from. When she told them she was Canadian, they asked each other why she was not at risk. She too was 'foreign', so why was she able to escape unscathed? A completely valid question and one that we amongst ourselves (the majority of the volunteers that we had seen and been working with were themselves too, 'foreign'), had been discussing earlier. Upon arriving at the church Catherine said, the Minister unlocked the doors. They were then led into a large hall which while it had a kitchen and a bathroom, there was nothing else. The aforementioned chock-o-block full room of goods at SHADE was subsequently emptied and sent on to this location.

Throughout the day countless donations were dropped off and volunteers arrived, eager to lend a hand in whatever way they could. Then we got news that the old pipes at the church in Obs, unable to handle the demands that were being put on them had burst and there was now no hot water and only one functioning toilet. For 70 people.

As I answered calls, mass was taking place in the small church (which is currently doubling up as the place of rest for the Zimbabwean families who are staying there) that is attached to the main building that houses the kitchen and main offices of SHADE. Beautiful voices sang hymns which gave way to a rousing chorus of 'Happy Birthday'. I couldn't help but smile and feel my heart tighten. While not particularly religious myself, I have always been cognizant of the healing and strengthening power of religion, having witnessed it myself since I can remember. This experience has in many ways only served to further solidify this belief.

Later, a young Xhosa man came to the door saying that he had a terrified young woman and her baby in his car. He had been driving home when a young man flagged him down and begged him to take his wife and daughter to safety. He took them to the police station, who said to send them on over to us. We got the woman and her baby settled, then gave her a phone to contact her husband. Not long after, he arrived at SHADE as well, and told me what had happened to them that evening.

Originally from Zimbabwe, when the violence started the husband arranged a room to stay in with a woman in Woodstock, packed his small family and all the belongings they could grab into a taxi and headed to Cape Town. The woman he had made the arrangement with said he and his family could stay there for a fee. Eager to get his wife and baby daughter to safety, he agreed. When they arrived however, after having unloaded all their belongings onto the sidewalk, the woman he had spoken with the day before told him she had never agreed to allow them to stay there. He said she was drunk, and called him all kinds of horrible names before slamming the door in his face. At that point, a group of gangsters descended upon the small family, sensing the opportunity to help themselves to the possessions that lay on the sidewalk. Suddenly surrounded by this group of young men, the husband panicked and stopped the passing car into which he put his wife and daughter and then went back to trying to ward off the gangsters. Neighbours, he said, were out of their houses watching the scenario unfold, but not one attempted to help him. Just as he was about to lose everything, a man came running down the street and chased the young hooligans away. He then helped the husband put all his belongings into his garage – which he promised to keep safe for him until things calmed down – and brought the husband to SHADE where his wife and daughter were waiting. Upon his arrival he was clearly and understandably shaken, but still ever so gracious and thankful to us for offering him and his family shelter and safety. 'I almost lost EVERYTHING,' he kept repeating as we led him to where his wife and daughter were waiting.

The following is an excerpt from an update email sent by Masiphumelele eMzantsi coordinator Rodney Ndyalvan recounting the state of affairs as of Monday morning.

…………

The good news: Masiphumelele
The bad news: Soetwater

1. Masiphumelele leads South Africa and restores our southern peninsula dignity.

Brief outline of events:

· Thursday night: relatively minor trouble in Masi following evacuation of foreigners by police - mostly young drunken 'tsotsis' taking advantage of the situation and looting.

· Friday: Yandiswa Mazwane, community leader, mobilises all other leaders for peace rally with help of the 'Ubuntu Coalition' (eMzantsi Carnival, Art of Living, other NGOs). Leaders address packed community hall at 6pm, vociferous support expressed for foreigners ("we want them in 2010, why not now?"), wonderful prayer and singing, and candlelit vigil (featured on eTV news Sat night). Tangible sense of calm restored on leaving at 7pm.

NO TROUBLE AT ALL IN MASI ON FRIDAY NIGHT.

· Saturday: community leaders hold two follow up meetings, first to allow their community to voice any concerns. Quite apparent this is not evidence of xenophobia, but rather persistent economic stress (NB no force was used against foreigners in Masi). 2nd meeting of all community structures made a plan to restore righteous order...

· Sat night: joint community and police effort to recover all stolen property by going door to door. Involving ANC, SANCO, Salvation Army - everyone. Street committees re-empowered. Masi pride restored.

· Sun morning: people still spontaneously bringing stuff back. All taken to Ocean View police station for safekeeping.

· Sun afternoon: Premier arrives to congratulate Masi community leaders. Deputation take memo to Soetwater to read to refugees to invite them back home. More than 70 people welcomed back to Masi with a KFC supper in the late evening.

PLEASE NOTE this was a community initiated, and community driven effort. eTV news on Sunday made out this was a police exercise, but the police supported the community, not the other way round. Masi leaders should be praised for doing on Friday what Mbeki had not had the courage to do - stand up and say "This is not acceptable here. We condemn it, and we will act immediately to make amends." We in the South should be proud of them.

2. Africa Day in Soetwater

As we drove into the refugee camp just before 10am on Sunday morning, the fog hung heavy over Soetwater, like some smoking post-apocalyptic movie set. But this was not Vietnam, or Pearl Harbour – this was Cape Town on Africa Day 2008. Six huge drafty tents emerged from the gloom, and suddenly we saw vast numbers of people, queuing up for a meagre meal from the makeshift soup kitchen, or hanging around looking completely lost. Such a beautiful setting, by the side of the ocean; yet such a site of horror as we began to hear the stories of people who'd arrived there from across the city.

There was Alvino from Angola, whose brother was killed on Friday, and who was so traumatised by the guilt of leaving the body to save himself, he could barely speak. There was Maria* from the Congo, who was raped on Thursday, didn't know where her teenaged son was and just wanted to be given a pair of panties and a place to sleep. There was Noor-Ali from Somalia, a very smart young man in a stylish leather jacket, who had spent years working his way up from cleaning cars for change to owning his own business, only to have absolutely everything he owned snatched away from him in minutes. They, and most of the estimated 1500 people there, were in an extreme state of shock.

Who was there to comfort and reassure them?

Stalwart volunteers from Ocean View Baptist Church and Living Hope were already tackling the most urgent needs of feeding people and attending to the sick. But there was a complete vacuum of any central authority. The police were waiting for orders, and seemed to have no idea what to do beyond patrolling the perimeter. As more volunteers arrived to help, there was no one to direct their energies, no one with a plan, no one even with an appropriate registration document ready to distribute in order to get a handle on the situation.

Disaster management were doing what they could, which wasn't much. A official from the province explained to me that they had staff trained to deal with a local disaster – but not a whole outbreak of them across the province, from Knysna to the south peninsula – and there just weren't enough people or resources available to cope. The poor man who had been designated 'in charge' was a housing officer, untrained in crisis management or trauma counselling, and he was doing a sterling job in impossible circumstances.

As we stood there wondering where to start, two more buses arrived, offloading yet more shell-shocked people. Tensions amongst those who had been waiting 24 hours already without a single word from the authorities on what was going to happen to them began to mount. Sharp words were exchanged between Somalians and Congolese, each feeling more vulnerable than the other. Making an attempt to understand their concerns, in my inadequate French (there wasn't a single translator available), I was led to understand by a group of about 50 angry, frustrated and articulate people that many of the refugees have survived genocide once already in Rwanda and DRC, and are just not prepared to risk it again.

Unlike the foreign residents of Masiphumelele, who were evacuated by the police on Friday as a precaution, these people - from Phillipi, from Du Noon, and from Khayelitsha - had been violently chased from their homes. They do not trust South Africans anymore. They want to leave this country. They do not trust the government. Why should they – the government had 2 weeks' notice to make a plan to safeguard them, and they didn't. They do not believe the local police can protect them, and fear a mob coming down and driving them into the beautiful sea.

In the late afternoon, the Premier finally arrived, ready for a triumphant photo opp as he planned to announce the Masiphumelele community leaders' magnificent mobilisation to restore the homes and property of those foreigners expelled last week. His staff had no idea the majority of the refugees were not from Masiphumelele and were completely unprepared for the hostile reception he got. But he responded well, sitting down cross-legged on the ground, first with Congolese leaders and then with the Somalians, taking the time to listen to their fears and their written lists of demands. He promised that the UNHCR would be here by tomorrow, that their concerns would be respected and their opinions consulted.

He left as the sun began to set and the cold fog began to creep back in. If by the time you read this, there are still people at Soetwater who don't know what the government's plan is, we should all be ashamed. Ashamed enough to stand up and act without them. There are pregnant mothers and children sleeping tonight on cardboard on the freezing floor whose only crime was to be born elsewhere on our continent.

Happy Africa Day.

* not her real name

NB: Reassuringly, local councilors Felicity Purchase and Nicki Holderness were on the ground as we left last night, local police were doing the best they could, and bakkie loads of officials had started to arrive... watch this space.

The Art of Living Foundation is offering trauma relief programmes in both Masiphumelele and Soetwater – contact Candi Horgan on 082 561 2879 for information. They would like to thank Cafe Roux, Noordhoek, for lending them their tent.

If you have food, clothes, blankets, heaters or baby supplies to donate, please take them to the Sun Valley Pick'n'Pay for distribution to those in need.
If you would like to volunteer an hour of your time, email sam@samp.co.za or leave your contact details on 021 789 1665. We will call you if and when we can use you.

Thanks,
Sam Pearce
from the office of the eMzantsi Carnival project
…………………….

When I arrived at SHADE after work on Monday, I went to greet the Angolan family that was staying in the attached church-cum-shelter. I found the three young boys with whom I had been playing and chatting in Portuguese with the day before sitting outside accompanied by a fourth boy I had not seen before. A few seconds into our conversation they informed me that this new boy did not speak Portuguese. I asked him his name and where he was from. He told me and said he was Zimbabwean. I asked him his age. ‘15’, came his quiet reply. I asked him where his family was, he said Zimbabwe. I asked him who had brought him to SHADE and he told me a white man had. Confused, I asked who he lived with in South Africa. He said his older brother. I asked where his brother was, and he replied that he didn't know. That when the violence had started his brother had left and never returned. He had no phone number for his brother, nor for his parents in Zim. A feeling of dread filled my stomach and I quickly did the math. This young man was on his own. Completely on his own in a foreign country with only the clothes he was wearing. Best case scenario his brother was in another shelter somewhere in the city and worst case…well…

I asked him to write down his brother's name and told him that we would try and locate him. As he did he told me that he thought his brother had gone back to Zimbabwe.

We went to the room that was being used to store all the donations to get him sorted with some basic toiletries, blankets and clothing. As I kneeled on the ground and rummaged through the [once well-organized but now] pile of donated clothes, I was overwhelmed with sadness at imagining what must have been going through his head at that moment. The fear. The confusion. The loneliness. And yet he wasn't complaining. He wasn't making a fuss. He just stood quietly and watched. He asked me where I was from. He laughed when I handed him a pair of jeans about 8 times too large and said that we could fit both of us in them – each in one pant leg. When we were done he thanked me and headed back to the room where he would be sleeping.

Later I found out that he had been in South Africa less than three weeks.

And then there was the young Malawian man who had been in South Africa for two years on his own, working to earn money and send home to his two younger brothers. His parents had both died, so the responsibility for providing for the family was his. He said that earlier that day he had gone back to where he had been staying only to find that his house had been burned down. Everything he had was gone. 'I don't know what I am going to do now, but all I know for sure is that I can't go back there. I can't go back,' he said. Fighting some sort of cold since he arrived at SHADE, almost every time I saw him he was either lying on his mattress or sitting outside by himself, staring off into the distance.

People came and went throughout the evening, needing everything from food to nappies and clothing to soap. We would get a call about another church being opened and have to organize food to send over. I don't think I've ever handled more cans of baked beans, corned beef, tuna, peanut butter, long life milk, sugar, maize, rice, cooking oil, toothbrushes, toothpaste, toilet paper, bread or vegetables than I have in the last few days. Catherine's car has put more clicks on it and had more people in it since Saturday than in the past 6 months combined.

By early Tuesday things were looking up somewhat as news came through that some of the violence was calming down. Community leaders were making efforts to get talks going between those who had been perpetrating the violence and those who it had been committed against, and some stolen goods had been returned to local police stations.

And then there was the bad news.

The 'camps' that had been set up by the state Government were a mess. Overcrowded, dirty, not enough food, and cold. There were reports that media was being denied access into them. Outbreaks of diarrhoea were popping up everywhere. Basic medical care was inadequate, never mind the attention needed by those on anti-retrovirals. That evening, when Catherine went to pick up a few people who we had arranged to transfer from Soetwater to the Methodist church in Elies River, she was greeted by scores of people lined up for food, and begging her to take them with her.

That afternoon I had a conversation with the Zimbabwean husband. He asked me what I was doing in South Africa. When I said that I was teaching high school, he told me that he had been an Economics teacher in his country before he left. He came to South Africa 3 years ago, he told me, and set up a small barbershop business out of a ship container. Things were going well for him and his wife, and they were welcomed by the community. A few years later their daughter was born. Then his business went under and he got a job working construction at the site of the stadium that is being built for 2010. When the violence started everything changed overnight. The same community that had welcomed him were now strangers who were thirsty for his blood. His success, and that of any other non-South African-born black he said, was seen by community members as their failure. When the first house on his street was torched, he knew things were going to get much worse, and fast. He was the first one to the police station in his community he said, and half an hour after he arrived 2 Somalian men arrived bleeding profusely from their heads. I told him that I was worried about my students, as most of them lived in the communities where this was happening. He asked me how old my students were. When I told him he said that they were the main ones perpetrating the violence. The ones burning the homes, looting and attacking people were mostly teenagers.

Later that evening we drove out to the Elies River church to drop off supplies. We were pleased to find that the floor of the rooms where people were sleeping were wood rather than concrete, although even still, the church was cold. In the room where the women and children were staying there were about 6 children, all under the age of 8, and all of whom had been born in South Africa, and were being chased away from their homes with their families for being 'foreign'. How's that for irony?

As we unloaded the car the parish members who had mobilized and assembled there had a million questions for us regarding what they should do to get things going. On the car ride back to town we couldn't help being somewhat amused at how on Saturday morning our plan had been to drop off a donation of goods, and now 4 days later we were being sent to set up refugee shelters.

Well.

I began writing this post early Monday morning when we had returned from SHADE. It is now Wednesday and have only just had a chance to catch my breath. On both Monday and Tuesday I went strait to the church from work, and stayed until exhaustion got the best of me. I have spent almost every minute of the last 96 hours that I have not been sleeping or at school at SHADE, and while it has been overwhelmingly intense and devastating and draining, it has and continues to be, an incredible experience. The strength and resilience of the people I have met absolutely blows me away. In an instant many have lost everything, yet are not seeking pity, only food, shelter and safety. The four teenaged Mozambican friends who had fled Khayalitcha together and came to us for help were so thankful when I loaded them up with food, clothing and magazines, and I couldn't help but laugh when the last one in the group called me an angel and then cheekily grabbed my bum as he hugged me goodbye. And the faith. The one constant thread between all of the refugees I have come into contact with – be they Somalis, Mozambicans, Zimbabweans, Rwandan, Malawians, Angolans, or those from the DRC – is their unwavering faith that God will take care of them. 'Que Dieu vous benisse,' I have been told on more than one occasion. While he was talking about everything he had seen and experienced, the Zimbabwean husband interspersed his words with jokes and laughter and 'thanks be to God'. I told him how it amazed me how much laughter I had heard and smiles I had seen in the midst of all this chaos. We have to laugh, he told me, otherwise we will go crazy.

And then there are my students. All of whom, in some way have been affected by what is going on. Either as witnesses or in some cases active participants, it is in the very communities that they live that these atrocities are taking place.

On Monday's assembly at school, the Principal and English HOD (P.) had spoken about the attacks and violence that had taken place over the weekend. About how it was wrong and how students must stay away from it. 'Even if you only take a loaf of bread from a shop that has been broken into,' P. told them, 'you are just as guilty as the one who broke the window to get in'. The reaction from students had been mixed. It was clear there was a divide in where they stood on the issue. In my classes that day, I asked them what was going on.

'Xenophobia!' came their chorused reply.

'Okay,' I replied, 'now how many of us know what xenophobia means?'

Not one student in any of my classes knew.

And so, I wrote the definition on the board.

Xenophobia is a fear or contempt of that which is foreign or unknown, especially of strangers or foreign people.[1] It comes from the Greek words ξένος (xenos), meaning "foreigner," "stranger," and φόβος (phobos), meaning "fear." The term is typically used to describe a fear or dislike of foreigners or of people significantly different from oneself.

After we read through it, I asked them why, if it's a fear of that which is foreign or unknown, I am not under siege. I am clearly foreign, so why is my house not being burnt down?

'Because you are white, miss', they told me.

Okay, so how about the part where it says people significantly different from oneself? Are these people from neighboring countries not our brothers and sisters who happen to live on the other side of a border someone drew once upon a time?

It didn't take long for any of the discussions to take flight and become very heated. Their views came from both sides – those who were in favour of kicking out the Makwirikwiri (the word they use to refer to foreigners), and those who said they should stay and that the violence was wrong.

Those against the violence raised valid points about the fact that the people who are here are often fleeing violence and persecution in their own countries, that during the Apartheid era many South Africans sought refuge in neighboring countries, and that people were now doing to others what had been done to them under the old regime.

Those on the other side of the fence echoed the sentiments that we have seen quoted in the newspaper and that I heard even some of my colleagues discussing regarding their belief that foreigners come and steal jobs from them, commit crime and sell drugs, put South Africans out of business by selling their goods for lower prices, and – from the boys in the group – steal their girlfriends.

For the most part it was a gender divide, girls against the violence, boys in favor, although there were definitely boys on the anti-violence side as well. Those in favour, I imagine, are likely being used as pawns by older siblings and relatives, and have likely committed some of the crimes themselves. As always however, I do not ask or listen when they try to tell me as this is not something I want to know about them, and when some of the boys began talking about how the foreigners must go back or be killed, I felt sick to my stomach. Teenagers speaking in such a way, and with such conviction in their voices. Shocking. Equally awful was the calm with which one of my students told me that he had seen a Somalian man beat to death in front of him the day before, right after a group of tsotsis burnt the shack of a Congolese family to the ground. 'It is the gangsters doing this miss,' he told me, 'They like it. We can't tell them to stop or they'll hurt us too. That's just the way it is.'

And now….

It has now been close to five weeks since I began writing this blog. I added to it throughout the two weeks that we were immersed in helping out in whatever way we could, and as I recounted the events gone by, reality unfolded itself all around me. Since the day this all began, things have quietened down significantly and SHADE has gone back to its regular working hours. This is not to say that things have gone back to normal – far from it. While some people have moved back to the communities from which they were originally driven, many are still displaced, living in shelters or homeless. Some have been deported. Others have willingly returned to their home countries where despite likely facing persecution upon arrival, prefer this option to staying in South Africa and dealing with the aftermath of the attacks.

Ten pages in Word feel far from sufficient to address the full extent of what has been since termed as the “dark days of May” here in South Africa. In reading over the words I wrote what now feels like forever ago, I can only hope that they offer at least a glimpse of the horrors that the nation’s people – driven to such action by poverty and neglect created and maintained by their own government – inflicted on their neighbouring brothers and sisters in a turn of events that Dr. Tutu was chastised for prophesising almost 5 years ago.

a.

NB: see http://www.news24.com/News24/South_Africa/Xenophobia/Home/0,,2-7-2382,00.html for more up-to-date information on the current state of affairs regarding this issue.

Say: 'ENGLAND!'

Yesterday the school’s choir left for two weeks in England. A trip sponsored by benefactors on that side of the world, they have gone to Salisbury and London to participate in a music festival and competition taking place at the end of the week.

75 students. 3 teachers. Hec-tic.

The days leading up to their departure, the entire school was abuzz with excitement. A day-by-day countdown to Heathrow was written on the board in the staffroom. For most of the students this would be their first time on an airplane, let alone an 11-hour flight to a different continent. For many, they might as well have been going to the moon. And for all, every member of staff included, the anticipation was difficult to contain.

Each student had to get passports issued for this trip. Everything went smoothly in this process aside from two students who do not have birth certificates. In order to get a passport in this country you need an identity document. To get an identity document you need a birth certificate.
No birth certificate = no identity document = no passport.

Cognizant of this issue months ago, [choir director and English HOD] P., along with the two British filmmakers

(www.cielproductions.co.uk) who are making a documentary about P., the choir and the Salisbury adventure, embarked on what proved to be a frustratingly uphill battle with Home Affairs to get this problem rectified.

Countless trips to their offices, phone calls, emails, 2 newspaper articles published, favors being called in, weeks and weeks of headaches and stress and: nothing. Completely ludicrous amounts of red tape led to more red tape led to promises resulting in nothing. Those who could have made a difference in these boys getting passports did nothing. And worse still, none of them cared.

So yesterday, when the group of amped up and overly excited teenagers boarded the plane to Heathrow, those two boys were not among them. The Home Affairs department, for whom Fezeka choir has been asked to and diligently has performed on numerous occasions, denied these young men the experience of a lifetime. Because of bureaucratic bullshit. Completely heartbreaking and unfair.

The one hopefully saving grace to this fiasco is the effect that could materialize when the documentary is completed. Much of the interactions with Home Affairs were caught on tape, and the film will be released worldwide.

This travesty aside, for the other members of the choir, yesterday was the biggest day of their lives thus far.

In the staffroom there was singing and dancing. When each of the teachers who were going on the trip arrived, applause and cheers greeted their entry into the room. Before leaving Fezeka, the principal addressed the group who had gathered in the Science lab, and parents and community members offered words of encouragement, safe travel and prayer.

As we piled the students into the minibuses that would take them to the airport, the mood in the air was electric. Tearful parents telling me how their children were so wired that they hadn’t eaten or slept in days, students who weren’t travelling milling about giving high-fives and hugs to those that were, the entire scene being captured for posterity by our filmmaker friends. Finally we were on our way, a few students and suitcases that couldn’t fit in the buses piled into the back seat of my car.

If the scene at the school was electric, the scene at the airport was a lightening storm.

When our close to 100-strong (almost all staff plus a handful of parents went too), cavalcade rolled up to the international departures terminal at Cape Town Airport, suffice to say that we made quite an entrance. While I was inclined to suggest that they shared suitcase trolleys to as to minimize traffic, I decided not to deny them the full traveller experience, never mind the fact that it was difficult to move about the terminal due to the congestion the trolleys caused.

As I had planned on registering my car yesterday I had my passport in my bag, which proved extremely fortuitous as it allowed me through the gate they have at the airport that separates travellers from well-wishers. This enabled me to help get students organized with check-in, answer any last minute questions, store any liquids or sharp objects they had in their carry on until their return, try my best to alleviate any fears, and of course, snap a couple choice photos.

I stayed with them all the way until the last one was through the security checkpoint, hugging all of them and unable to wipe the smile off my face. Like an overbearing mother, I made them promise to take care of each other and not get separated, telling them we wanted them back the same way they were now, all the while holding back tears of happiness. Then they were through and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Have fun babies. The adventure of a lifetime awaits you on the other side…

After the rain...

Friday past was the last day of classes before exams and the Winter break. To say the students were antsy is putting it mildly. By lunchtime the school was akin to a barnyard and it soon became clear that there would be no teaching that afternoon.

For the three weeks prior, a group of American students from Old Dominion University in Virginia had been visiting Fezeka and working on a number of initiatives to improve the work/play balance of the school. A group of bright young women, with little direction they hatched a number of innovative ideas during their time here.

One such idea was a merit award ceremony. Based on marks from the first term, they had certificates of excellence printed for students who had performed well in each subject area.

As the group was leaving two days later, an assembly was hastily planned for that afternoon so as to allow the visiting young women to be involved in the presentation of certificates.

Students were corralled into the part of the courtyard where assemblies are held. As they waited, a game of soccer got underway. I stood with my students and watched and cheered. Everywhere I looked I saw smiles, aside from the faces of the players, whose were more accurately involved in intense concentration. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. I felt happy.

Suddenly, as I have come to learn is common during South African winters, dark clouds moved in quickly and let forth a mighty downpour. Students screamed and headed for cover under the awnings that line the walkways outside the classrooms.

Then they began to sing.
And dance.
And laugh.

A back and forth banter took up between those under the awnings and those looking out the windows of the classrooms opposite. Those ensconced in the relative warmth and dry of the building began a cheer. I asked one of my students what they were saying. He told me they were taunting the ones outside in the rain about how nice and dry it was in the classrooms.

All the while, the sound equipment and speakers that had been set up for the assembly were sitting under a tiny ledge, protected from the rain but dangerously close to getting wet. When one of my students ventured out to collect them, the crowd erupted with cheers and applause.

Eventually the rain slowed to a drizzle and the boys once again took up their game of soccer. As I watched this brief scenario unfold, I soon became aware that I had had a smile on my face the entire time. Seeing these young people behave like kids – the kids that they are and yet rarely get a chance to be – playing in the rain and being silly was solely responsible for my smile. And for the feeling of warmth that stayed with me for the remainder of the day, despite the fact that both the hems of my trousers and shoes were soaked right through.

"We have hope."

A few weeks into my time at Fezeka, after my students had overcome their initial shyness towards this new white teacher with the funny accent, they began asking me what my Xhosa name was. I told them that I didn’t have one, and that they must choose one for me. They agreed.

On the last day of classes before exams last week, when I walked into my grade 10 English class, they triumphantly announced that they had a name for me.

“Sinethemba,” they told me. “Your Xhosa name is Sinethemba.”

“Beautiful! What does it mean?” I asked.

“We have hope,” they replied.

My heart skipped a beat and I asked them why they chose this name.

“Because we have hope with you Miss. You give us hope.”

If I could have squished them all into a group and wrapped my arms around they ever-so-tightly at that moment I would have. Instead, I blinked back tears and thanked them. Told them that I too had hope with them and excused myself to step outside.

And then my heart exploded.

He got a leg!

My student who was missing one! He got one!

In the schoolyard a few weeks back, I noticed he was no longer walking with crutches under each arm, and now had only one – a new one – that his arm linked through and he held with his hand.

Later that day in class I called him over to ask what had prompted the change. It was then I noticed his shoe. More accurately, his shoes. He was wearing two.

“Nice shoes,” I commented as he approached.

A wide smile spread over his entire face. “Thank you Miss,” he replied softly.

Not wanting to pry too much into how he had gotten it, I asked him how he felt. He told me he felt good, but that the fitting was sore. His doctor, he said, had told him that this was common and that once his leg adjusted to the prosthetic he would be fine.

Two weeks later he tapped me on the shoulder.

“All good Miss. I feel great.”

And he hasn’t stopped smiling since.

Teen Sex

. . .

It may seem as if everyone you know has had sex or is involved in a sexual relationship. A lot of teenagers are sexually active, but many are not. When you make the decision to have sex, you have to think about the risks and consequences involved.

Sex can bring pleasure and closeness. But it can also cause an unwanted pregnancy, HIV or other sexually transmitted infections.

- From Unit 5 (Teen Sex), in the National Curriculum-Mandated Gr. 10 Life Orientation Textbook

. . .

South Africa is a country with one of the highest rates of HIV incidence in the world. Based on a 2006 study, rates of infection vary from 15.2% of the population in certain provinces to 39.1% in others, levelling out to a national average of 29.1%. While some studies suggest that on the whole these numbers are declining, it is still impossible to deny the severity of the epidemic in this country. Education has and continues to be one of the best tools in preventing its spread, particularly among youth. As such, one would imagine that a substantial HIV/AIDS education and awareness unit would play a part in high school Life Orientation curriculum, right?

Wrong.

When preparing for the Unit on Teen Sex, I was looking through the textbook to get an idea of what was covered. When I read the above first few lines of the unit chapter, I assumed it was a brief introduction (the bolded words are the publisher's own) to a more in depth unit to come. It wasn't. I flipped through page after page searching for the part of the textbook that covered HIV/AIDS and STIs, and soon found myself at the end of the book.

Soon the realization hit me. The second part of the italicized bit above is the extent – the ENTIRE extent – of the education students receive as part of their Grade 10 Life Orientation (LO) course.

There was.
Not one.
Single.
Page.
Dedicated to this excruciatingly important topic.

I was floored. Convinced there had been some error, and I was missing some supplemental information that would comprise a unit on this subject, I approached the head of the LO department. She confirmed for me what I had discovered. But not to worry I was told, "They get a lot of information on HIV and AIDS in grades 8 and 9."

I won't bother getting all riled up about how ludicrous and inexcusable I found this, as there is no point in reliving that experience for you, dear reader. I decided then that at least for my students, learning about changing roles and responsibilities and traditions in the life cycles were going to take a backseat for a few classes, as we would together embark on a crash course in Teen Sex, Pregnancy, Condom use and yes, STIs and HIV/AIDS.

To the textbook's credit, there is a fair bit dedicated to the importance of not rushing into sex, and understanding that the decision to do so is theirs and theirs alone, as well as some discussion on pregnancy and methods of contraception. That said, I do take somewhat of an issue with the fact that along with Condoms, the Pill, and the IUD, they also list THE RHYTHM METHOD. That's right. 'Natural Family Planning' as they term it.

Natural Family Planning – Rhythm Method

Avoiding sexual intercourse during fertile days of the menstrual cycle.

Chances of becoming pregnant:

• 1-9% if very careful every month
• 20% or more if you are not

Advantages

• No costs
• May improve couple's communication
• No delay when ready to become pregnant

Disadvantages

• Body temperature and vaginal mucus must be tested every day
• Does not usually work if periods are not regular
• Sexual partner must be completely cooperative
• Special teaching required
  (And oh yea, nice of them to mention):
• Does not protect you against HIV or other sexually transmitted infections

Seriously?

Including one of the most risky methods of 'birth control' in a high school textbook for teenagers? And as the first advantage, listing the fact that it is free? But these kids are poor, right? Wow. Wowowowowowowow.

As with a previous lesson/discussion on Puberty, before delving into the unit on Teen Sex it I gave them the whole ‘we’re going to talk about things that make us giggle, we’re going to use words that make us blush, and that’s okay,’ bit. I indicated that they were encouraged to ask me anything or feel free to discuss a topic that they were curious about. No personal questions though. Had to reiterate this idea the and importance of boundaries and what is and is not appropriate in this context moments later when one of the more cheeky students in the class raised his hand to ask:

“Miss, how does it feel when you are having sex with your boyfriend?”

As of today, we have spoken about issues and questions to consider when making the decision to have sex and the importance of being comfortable with the decision to do so. We’ve talked about pregnancy (and dispelled a number of myths many of them believed about how easy it is to become pregnant), methods of contraception, the emergency contraceptive/morning after pill, adoption and abortion. I have introduced them to the dangers of pre-ejaculatory fluid/pre-cum and the difference between penetrative versus oral sex and the risks that each of them carry.

I feel it necessary to interject here and say that when discussing these topics with my students, while on the outside I am generally calm and collected, at times inside I am blushing terribly and giggling uncontrollably at the words that are flying around in this classroom of 50+ teenagers and me. In no small part I have to thank the sexual education educator’s training I received at Trails Youth Initiatives (http://www.trails.ca/) at a very young age, for helping me to feel comfortable doing so.

Next up is Sexually Transmitted Infections (STIs). When I asked them to tell me the name of an STI other than HIV/AIDS (as they have received ample education on this and are already somewhat familiar with it), not one student could give me an answer. Not one. This is especially frightening given how easy STIs are to pick up and spread, and how devastating many of the consequences can be if left untreated.

As such, when I met the class on Friday, I gave them homework for the weekend that consisted of:

a) finding out the name of one STI (not HIV or AIDS)
b) how it is transmitted
c) what/if there is any treatment/cure
d) bringing one condom to the next class

They have informed me that there are clinics all over the townships where they can get information and condoms for free, so this shouldn’t be too difficult of a task. We shall see. In case they weren’t successful however, thankfully my housemate who works for the Department of Health was able to provide me with a stack of Government-issued condoms.

My plan is to spend the next couple lessons looking at various STIs, HIV and AIDS, and to tie in an exercise practicing how to use condoms correctly using bananas as penises.

Now.

I am fully aware that I am deviating significantly from the established curriculum and that perhaps some parents may not be happy with the fact that their child’s teacher is asking them to bring prophylactics to school, but I’m willing to take the chance given what I think can be gained. Even if its only a little bit, and even if only one student decides to use a condom next time s/he has sex that maybe they wouldn’t have before. It’s worth it, right? Besides, as for the parents, didn’t a wise person once say that it’s always easier to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission? Ehm, maybe not.

In any case, I better run. Class starts in an hour and I’ve got a whole bunch of bananas to buy.

The ties that bind...

Over the past few months, during which the weather has been absolutely stunning, when Capetonians would ask me what I thought of their city and I exuberantly replied how gorgeous and breathtaking everything was, my enthusiasm was inevitably met with: ‘Have you spent a winter here yet?’

Well, as of last week, autumn has officially arrived here in Cape Town. And if the weather we have been getting is any indication of the shape of things to come (it is), I think I understand what they meant.

Rain, wind, damp grey skies. The sun did not come out once all weekend. And to make matters worse, most houses (ours included), for some reason are not insulated. Which amazes me to no end, as it’s not like it hasn’t always been this cold in the winter months. Moreover, most houses (again, ours included), do not have central heating. Single-paned windows too. So, the cold gets in the house and doesn’t leave. Ugh.

As I was commenting on the cold to my housemate yesterday she laughed (in a not-unkind way) and told me that this wasn’t even cold. That when I could see my breath in the air IN THE HOUSE, then I could talk to her about the cold. Ughhhhhhhhh.

The point of this entry however is not to complain about the weather (well not much), but more about something it has led me to think about lately.

As the weather is getting poorer and today my ride told me that she is moving to Kuils River at the end of the month, I am realizing that I may have to purchase a car. Aside from transport to work, the mobility it will provide during the cold winter months, (particularly when it gets dark before 5pm) is important I think.

I have not missed not having a car this past little while. In fact, I am very grateful for the experiences it has allowed me out of serendipitous necessity. I have learnt and continue to learn a great deal about the cultures and context within which I am working from my shared-commute colleagues, and feel so fortunate to be privy to their worlds and part of the daily banter (well the parts I understand anyway).

A few weeks ago, S. one of the women who I ride with every day, told me that she had learnt something that morning. Roads all throughout Guguletu are named and numbered some variation on NY#. We have NY4, NY16, NY8, and so on. She told me that she had always wondered what the NY meant for but never knew. That day, she said, she had found out that NY stood for Native Yard, and that the streets had been named as such during the Apartheid era by a regime who didn’t think it important to give actual names to the township roads.

Last week, when the weather turned cool, we were riding to work in the morning and commenting on how the temperature had dropped. On our way before 7:30AM, the sun had not yet fully risen and the mist was so dense that we could not even see the mountain which normally poses as an impending backdrop to the skyline on our way out of the city. An impossible-to-ignore dampness filled the air.

“You know Alex,” she began, “when we were kids, we used to walk to school in this sort of weather barefoot.” I shivered at thought and asked her how far of a walk it was. “About 45 minutes,” she replied. She went on to tell me how they didn’t have shoes. And if they were lucky enough to get a pair of Bata shoes,

(side note – I find it so interesting to note the various threads that in some way connect us all. Bata http://www.bata.com is the Canada-headquartered shoe company started in Czechoslovakia in the late 1800s that by the early 1930s was the world’s leading footwear exporter. A revolutionary company in not only how it industrialized rapidly and expanded internationally, but in its commitment to community-amelioration, customers-first motto and the ways in which it offered employees profit-sharing at a time when such a thing was unheard of. Bata stores can be found in many developing-world nations, and I even noticed a retail outlet on a recent visit to Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe. The tie-in here comes from the fact that at one point, the sporting goods chain Athlete’s World was owned by Bata. I worked at Athlete’s World for 3 years when I was in high school, can vividly remember learning about the Bata Empire at training seminars at the Bata head office in Toronto, and remember being surprised to learn of its far reaches.)

But back to the car ride.

If they were lucky enough to get a pair of Bata shoes, S. told me, they saved and took great care of them. The only time they would wear them would be to church. And they knew, because if they didn’t their mothers would be quick to remind them, that the minute they left church, the shoes came off. When the shoes got holes in them, they would cut out some cardboard and fit the bottom of them with a piece. And if their feet outgrew the shoes, they wore them anyway.

The commentary on the culture and context that S. grew up in that was offered by this memory was most enlightening, and obviously thought-provoking as I write about it and make the linkages between the forces of international capitalism and its effects on our lived experiences across the planet.

Make a difference.

Am I able to?

It’s tough to say. Most days I can’t tell, some days I am sure not, many days I feel like a fraud. And then there are the other days. The few. Where I have a moment and think maybe – just maybe – I am.

Friday was one of those days.

The bell indicating the change of class had rung late, meaning I left my previous class after the next one had started. Making my way to the lesson, I was intercepted by one of the students from that class who had been on his way to fetch me.

‘You’re late miss!’ he said, ‘We are all waiting for you!’

As I apologized and quickened my step, I couldn’t help but smile. This particular student (Z), the one who had come to fetch me, was one who I had seen a notable difference in since the beginning of the year. I had been told about Z by other teachers, as he was known at Songeze (our sister feeder school) for being a trouble-maker. In the early days of last term, it was apparent that this behaviour had carried over to Fezeka. He was also often absent from class. His work was weak and he clearly struggled with the language. I heard whisperings that he was involved in gangsterism, though as with other students which I have heard this about, I never asked him for fear of hearing something I didn’t want to.

As the term progressed however, I began to notice a change in Z. He was showing up for class more – and increasingly on time. He would answer questions that were posed to the class, [perhaps] encouraged by my mantra of: ‘if you aren’t sure, its okay to guess’. Z would do his in-class work, and even call me over to ask if it was right. A firm believer in positive reinforcement, even when students’ work is wrong I let them know what is good about it and how to get back on the right track. As English is difficult for Z, this was common with him, but when he did get it right, my comments would be met with an ear-to-ear grin and an almost imperceptible-but-there blush. The fact that it was Z who had been fetching me further reaffirmed that he was making an effort now that previously he had not.

While the impetus for this change is anyone’s guess, at the end of the day his visibly improved commitment is what matters most.

When I get to class, the first thing I do after greeting students, making any announcements and going over the plan for the days’ lesson, is to check homework.

I assign it about 50-60% of the time, and I sign their books if they have completed it. Despite the frequency with which it is given, many students often do not do it. I have spoken to them about the importance of completing all assigned work and what it means for their participation marks on a number of occasions, yet this often falls on deaf ears. Regardless, I continue to reinforce the message that they are intelligent young people and put the onus of responsibility for completing their work on them. Unlike the social and cultural capital which surround schools in more privileged environments, this is not a situation where parents may be counted upon to support the pedagogical achievements of their children. Moreover, as with tardiness and attendance, I could easily spend a majority of the time dealing with these issues if I was so inclined.

On Friday however, when I asked them to show me their homework, the sweet sound of 34 notebooks obligingly opening greeted my ears. Aside from 2 students – one who had been absent and one who had forgotten his book at home –

all.
of.
them.

Did their homework.

While something so small and seemingly expected in another context may seem insignificant, to me in that moment, it made my heart skip. Granted it wasn’t a difficult assignment (Write 5 sentences using the Conditional Form), but they did it. And it was something I taught them.

And almost all of them got it right.

...and death.

On Wednesday we were informed that one of our students died over the Easter break. A girl in grade 10, she was killed when the shack she lived in burned to the ground while she slept. Fires are common in the poorer areas of the townships. With endless natural and synthetic material to fuel them, they start easily and spread quickly.

She was 16 years old.

As it turned out, this student was in my Life Orientation class, although I am ashamed to say that I do not know who she is. In my defence, this is a class of 54 that I have seen fewer than 10 times since the middle of last term when I was given the lesson, and apparently she was frequently absent from school, but still. It saddens me that I cannot remember her face.

Thursday, when I saw the class for the first time since the holiday, I offered my condolences and expressed my sadness at their loss. They clearly appreciated this although I was surprised at how normally they were all carrying on. While this could have been attributed to a number of reasons, I believe that the most glaringly obvious is the reality that this sort of tragedy is not uncommon in their worlds.

As such, their attitudes towards death are often vastly different than that which my Western understanding affords me. Here, life is often seen as fleeting, hence the common lack of thought about the future and according disinterest in school. I am not saying that this is the case for everyone, though it most certainly is for some – as demonstrated by a conversation with a student that I referenced in an earlier entry.

This particular in-class experience only reinforced my understanding of how for far too many, the casual views on the value of life that their social locations have shaped allow (force? require?) death to be digested with a similar apathy.

Looking back

over the last three months of my time at Fezeka, more than anything I am astonished at how quickly the time has flown by. It seems like just yesterday I was visiting the school for the first time, being presented to the entire staff while nervous butterflies fluttered around in my stomach.

Now I am part of that same staff, and feel a sense of integration into the school culture in more ways than I thought possible in the beginning. Although the conditions of my S.A. Visa and the Western Cape Department of Education prohibit my assuming a full teaching schedule, and creates a distinction in the responsibilities between the other teachers and I which is beyond my control, in most every other way I do feel that I have been accepted into the Fezeka family.

This is not to say that the process has been a smooth one. There have and continue to be – shall we say – hiccups along the way. Hiccups which are primarily due to my need to understand and adjust to the ways in which the school culture differs from the Western North American environment in which I was educated. For example, the attitude towards punctuality to and attendance of classes – from both teachers and learners – was something I found difficult to understand at first. Simply put, it is a very lax. Attending and being punctual to class, while theoretically mandatory, weren’t.

I use the past tense as yesterday, the first day of classes after the Easter Break the faculty was joined by the new Principal of the school. Mr. B appears to be a keen disciplinarian who is well aware of the areas that Fezeka needs to work on. At the top of this list is the issue of punctuality and class attendance mentioned above. In addition, upon returning to school today, teachers were greeted with brand new timetables, which now include a 7-day cycle of classes as compared to the 10-day version that had been used for years. Start and finish times of classes have changed as well depending on the day of the week, and the school day has been extended. I am optimistic and about how these changes will go over, although nervous at the same time about how easy it will be to make these adjustments. Having school and lessons start and end at different times every day seems to be somewhat in opposition to the spirit of consistency that we are striving for but only time will tell.

As many of us had hoped, the new Principal appears forceful and first impressions demonstrate that he has strong leadership skills – something that if I may be so bold to say – Fezeka was sorely missing. Again however, only time will tell how this will pan out, although my initial intuitions are encouraging.

Since making the move to South Africa and Fezeka, I have been asked many times about what it is like to do so. What is Cape Town like? Is it dangerous? Are you scared? What it is like to teach in a township? How do the staff receive you? How do the students treat you? How does it feel to stand out because of the colour of your skin? What is the teaching like? Is it hard? And so on and so forth.

My answers, as they have been given time and time again go something like this:

It’s amazing. I feel so fortunate to be able to experience something like this. Cape Town is stunning…breathtaking…a city of many faces and endless contradictions.

It is dangerous, yes, but so is any big city. Fortunately I have not yet had any serious experiences with that side of it although I have several friends who have. As with any large metropolis, it is important to keep your wits about you and not let your guard down too much. I don’t go walking alone at night, and we always lock our front gate even if we are just running inside for a minute. I do not walk around Guguletu by myself even in the middle of the day and not even along the short distance on the large road that runs from Fezeka to the bus station, having been warned against doing so time and time again. ‘You are a target Sisi (sister),’ they tell me, ‘There is no need to tempt fate.’

Working in a Township school is quite different from any school I’ve been in before, for many of the reasons I have mentioned above and in earlier posts. At Fezeka both staff and students have received me very well, and seem genuinely happy that I am here and taking an interest in them and their community. They are eager to learn anything I have to offer, although I am often wracked with insecurity about whether or not I am doing a good job or if I am deserving of their interest. The novelty that I think I was when I first started is beginning to wear off for learners, but this was only to be expected. My skin colour has not been a major issue, although stares are common from passers-by, especially upon my commute to work with other teachers. I can usually count on one hand (that is if there are even any to count), number of other White faces I will see on the drive into school once we turn off the N2 and into Gugs. Whenever I take a taxi by myself in and around Cape Town, I will usually sit in the front seat next to the driver. More often than not the driver is Black, which garners endless stares from those who observe us and are not used to seeing a White woman and a Black man sitting side by side. On that note, it is worth mentioning how rarely I have seen interracial couples here in Cape Town. Before moving here and having a better understanding of the current state of race relations in this country and city, that they would be common. From my experience however, they are not.

The teaching itself is difficult but for reasons that are far beyond me, my students and the school itself. The hardest and most frustrating part of the whole thing is my forced acknowledgement of how much of a disadvantage my students are at because of the legacy of Apartheid. The damage that has been done will take – in my opinion – generations to undo. These students have been raised in a ‘Free’ and ‘Democratic’ South Africa, yet for every Rand that is spent on their Education, 5 is spent on educating a White child. My students share books…desks…sometimes even chairs. For many of them, their only exposure to English is in the 40 minutes a day I have with them, and the music and other forms of media they enjoy. As a result, for many of them, their reading, written (and sometimes spoken) grammar is very poor. At times I am overwhelmed with frustration at the difficulty they have understanding a verb or a concept or even a word that given other opportunities they would have learnt years ago. And yet, our hands are tied. Given such small slots of time with them, with such large classrooms and often inadequate resources, how much can one really accomplish? I refuse to adopt a defeatist attitude about anything, as this doesn’t help anyone and is not why I am here, but when people ask me ‘is it hard?’, this is what I tell them. Yes it is hard, but the most difficult part is how hard life is going to be for the majority of them.

So,

I kind of fell in love with one of my students today.

Not in an inappropriate way, more of a maternal 'I just want to wrap you up in my arms and give you a huge hug' sort of thing.

It was after class and following another hectic discussion, this one revolving around condoms usage, or perhaps more accurately, the lack thereof.

Ironically enough, this was the same student who a few short classes ago I had wanted to throttle for the things that were coming out of his mouth. Today however, I saw something different in him. A vulnerability, a sadness behind his eyes, that came with the reminder (which I think perhaps we as teachers and adults can sometimes forget), that he is, just a kid. A kid with a life that is far more difficult and challenging than anything I can even begin to imagine.

It is of no news to anyone that this is a country with exploding incidence of HIV, with women often the ones most at risk. There are many factors that play a role in this, not least of which is the power dynamic in many male/female relationships. Women are frequently voiceless when it comes to asserting their rights with their partners, even over their own bodies. Infidelity runs rampant, and condom use in and outside of the relationship is rare, regardless of the women’s’ wishes. It has been made clear to me by my students and in conversation with others who have had experiences working in township communities, that many men – in this instance and because it is my most direct experience, especially Xhosa men – do not like to use condoms. ‘It is not natural Miss,’ one boy told me. ‘God didn’t make condoms,’ said another.

But back to the falling in love.

After class ended and this young man along with a couple others stayed behind to continue speaking, he was telling me how he didn’t believe in condoms and he didn’t believe in God because God made HIV and HIV was killing his people. I asked him if we know that condoms can help us protect ourselves, then why wouldn’t we use them, regardless of who made them. He told me that men and women were made for making babies. That it was not right to try and stop that. He then went on to tell me that he wanted a kid. Right now. That all he wanted was to hold a baby in his arms. As he did this he cradled his arms and rocked them back and forth.

I looked at him and asked him who would take care of a baby. He said and his family would. I asked who would support him and the baby. Who would make the money to pay for the nappies and the food and the clothes? He said he would. He said he would get a job.

'But what about school?' I asked him.

'Aich Miss whatever for school. What is the point of going to school? Aside from you, teachers don’t even care if you’re there. All they do is get mad at you and pick on you.'

My heart was breaking. I asked him if he thought he tried when he was in class. If he actually came to school to learn and focus on getting an education, keeping in mind that this is one of the most disruptive students in the class.

He thought about this for a minute, then went on. 'What is the point Miss? I come to school but what do I learn? What good is it doing me? Am I going to go out and get a good job? No. I have to find other ways to earn money.'

It doesn’t take a genius to read into what he was saying. Other teachers have already told me that this young man is a gangster. I have asked students to tell me in their own words what it means to be a gangster.

'You are in a gang Miss. You fight other gangs, you rob people, and you stab people. You do whatever you need to do to make money,' they told me.

I didn’t ask him to confirm or deny what I had heard as I don’t really want to know.

He then told me that it would be so easy to rob a bank. Just one time. Just do it and get money and then be fine.

I asked him what made him think it would be so simple. That if it was so easy to do why everyone wasn’t robbing banks all the time. I asked him if he had thought about what the consequences for something like that could be. He said yes he had and he didn’t care. That it would be worth it if he got away with it. If he went to jail, if he got killed, it wouldn’t matter. That if that is what was supposed to happen that is what would happen. If he got killed then it was meant to be. Similar to what he said about if he got HIV. If he didn’t die of HIV he said, then he would die some other way.

Looking at his young face (on which I counted at least 8 visible scars), in his eyes – doe-like with long lashes – and the glaring lack of long term vision and belief in himself or any sort of future that was presenting itself to me in his words were indescribably tragic.

Perhaps the saddest part of this whole exchange was not only the feeling of helplessness I experienced in talking to him, (as of course I wanted to tell him believe in himself! That he could do anything he put his mind to! That Education is the answer! But I was afraid my voice would betray me and I didn’t want to lie to this young man against whom the odds are so greatly stacked), but the realization and acknowledgement that his story – and attitude – are not unique. That his lack of confidence and sense of despair about the future is rampant in these communities, and is I believe in large part responsible for the skyrocketing incidence of HIV, pregnancy, violence, substance abuse and drop out rates that we see every day.

So you see, while I am very aware that I am not going to change any of this during my time here, and that it may take generations for this country to rebuild itself and reinstill in its most marginalized people the important qualities of self-confidence and worth, in that moment all I wanted to do was gather this young man up in my arms and hug him tight. Granted I didn’t and granted even if I had it would have been hellishly awkward as he towers about a foot above me, but you get the idea.

Le sigh…

Love hurts.

This afternoon I had a disturbing experience. In my Year 11 English class we have begun using the new textbooks provided and authored by a collaborative under the umbrella of the Western Cape Department of Education (WCDE) and a program called Zenex (http://www.zenexfoundation.org.za). Published in 2007, the material and information within is quite relevant and uses a variety of ways to hit the WCDE-mandated learning targets.

Comme example, there may be a reading passage with follow up comprehension and vocabulary questions for the students to do individually and in pairs, as well as class discussion, oral presentation, take-home assignment and debate topics, among others.

The particular one that we were working on today was a story about a young couple – Sam and Sindiswa. Sam is a basketball player and Sindiswa a dancer. The passage traces the development of their relationship, through meeting and falling in love, to when Sam wants to take their relationship to a further physical level, and Sindiswa is not ready. As the story goes on, it comes to light that Sindiswa was raped when she was 13, and ever since then has had a difficult time trusting men. For her, dance is a way of getting her body back and rebuilding her self-confidence. Upon hearing this disclosure, Sam is respectful of her boundaries, offers his support and promises to be patient until she is ready.

The discussion questions that were tacked onto this narrative had to do with being in a relationship and expectations…what do learners look for in a relationship…what is important to them…from that I steered it into a bit of a talk on healthy v. unhealthy relationships as not only was I interested to hear the students' thoughts, but reminders on what is healthy and what is not (in a relationship) are in my opinion useful at any stage of life.

In talking about relationships, I was careful to use the word ‘partner’ rather than boyfriend and/or girlfriend, as I think the ambiguity is fairer, plus the fact that I am aware of at least two gay students in my class. I reminded them that relationships do not always constitute of a man and a woman, and that no one way is more right than another. Tricky ground that I was tiptoeing delicately on given that I am in a predominately Christian community, where religion and God are revered in the highest. To my surprise however, when I used the term partner they responded with the same chorus of ‘yesmiss’ that I have mentioned in earlier entries.

So we spoke about relationships, and what they look for in them…the women in the class saying things like ‘respect’ and ‘honesty’, while the men yelled ‘sex!’ and ‘big bums!’.

This then turned into a discussion on healthy vs. unhealthy relationships, and once again I was impressed at the maturity of some of their answers. They seemed to have a pretty good grasp on the most important elements of being in a healthy relationship.

Then we moved onto unhealthy relationships. The first thing anyone said when I asked what to them would constitute one, was abuse. And then, things got a little hectic.

“But miss,” asked one of my typically disruptive, rarely participating male students in absolute seriousness, “What if your girlfriend won’t listen to you? The only way to get her to listen is to hit her! To make her listen!” he said, while punching his hand to his palm [hard] for emphasis.

As my eyes widened in a combination of disbelief, shock, and confusion as to whether or not he was joking, the class erupted in laughter, high fives (between the men), and yelling.

“I’m sorry,” I asked, “are you being serious?”
“Yes miss! Yes I am! If all you do is talk she will never listen!” he responded.

Clearly the look of confusion on my face let them know that I was a bit lost, so he went on.

“Miss, it is part of our culture. We saw our mothers get beat by their husbands and boyfriends, so this is how we handle things. You only hit a girl because you love her. If she cheats on you, you have to make her afraid to do it again. If all you do is talk, she will never listen. You have to show her that you are in charge.”

My mind was racing. I had definitely not expected this, or the nodding of [male] heads that were agreeing with what this 16 year old student was saying.

Then the girls got involved.

“Miss, it is not part of our culture. The men think it is okay, and we know it is not, but then the women don’t leave. They don’t go to the police. So the men keep doing it.”

Torn between trying to remain objective as a teacher should and violently shaking some sense into these young men while attempting to stay in control of this rapidly exploding discussion, I drew on my own Grade 10 English experience through channeling Lord of the Flies. My pocket dictionary became our surrogate Conch shell, and it was only with this in hand that students were allowed to talk.

Unable to fight the urge, I asked the male students to explain to me how seeing their mothers get beaten made them think that it was okay for them to do the same. Why seeing them in pain wouldn’t make them want to be the kind of man who would never do such a thing (sidebar – it should be noted that it wasn’t all the males in the classroom that were agreeing with this student, although the fact that any of them were is disturbing nonetheless).

The girls asked the boys why they would want to stay with a girl who cheated on them…that if a girl did that, why would they want to be with her?

Then one of my male students asked me – “But miss, what if she is your only one? What if she has charmed you?”

“Charmed you?” I asked, “What do you mean, charmed you?”

“You know, bewitched.”

“Bewitched?”

“Yes miss, bewitched. Sometimes girls go to the witch doctor and get them to mix a potion or put a spell on you that gets her into your head and makes it impossible for you to think of anything else.”

Well.

Now I know I’ve mentioned the importance of cultural sensitivity, and being culturally aware and respective, but come on. In the most delicate way, after acknowledging that I didn’t want to offend anyone, I let them know that I don’t know anything about witch doctors. That such a thing is not part of my culture, and difficult for me to wrap my head around.

What I was more concerned with at that point however, were the female students in the class. Time was running out and I could sense the bell was to soon ring. Further, it became clear after some time (and in the interest of being concise – HA! – what I have outlined above is but a snapshot of the conversation), that the majority of these young men were set in their views. That they honestly believed that it was okay to hit and beat their partner if she or he didn’t listen to them. That this was how they got respect, and completely acceptable relationship behavior.

I appealed to the women in the class and said that this was a huge, huge topic that clearly we did not have enough time to get properly into (and again, which I had not seen coming), but that I hoped that they knew and understood that no one has a right to hurt them...abuse them…violate them…in any way. That no matter what they did, they did not deserve to be abused. They nodded and listened but I couldn’t help but wonder how much it was resonating.

Returning to the staffroom, clearly shaken by what I had just experienced, I spoke with a colleague about what had just gone down in my class, and she confirmed what my students had said – that in this context, domestic [and the cycle of] violence in homes and relationships, is extremely common. That for the most part, there is a hectic patriarchy in the township communities, and that many women accept abuse as part of being in a relationship. Further, she substantiated something else my students had said which both saddened and shocked me even more.

When we were talking about being in a relationship versus not being in one, and what students who were not in a relationship liked about being uncommitted, I was given a range of responses, from ‘valuing my independence’, to ‘less stress and worry’, to ‘love is dangerous’. Thinking they meant it figuratively in that giving your heart to someone leaves you open for hurt, I asked them to explain.

“Well sometimes if you love someone, or love them too much, or love them too little, it can get you killed.” Said one.

“Killed?” I asked, “You mean like heartbroken?”

“No miss, killed for real”, he replied while making a gun out of his hands.

I asked my colleague about this and she said that yes, this was common as well. Sometimes if a woman wants to leave a man, he will kill her, kill her kids, then kill himself. Domestic disputes are often resolved not by the law, but with violence and often tragic outcomes. Of course, this is a worldwide problem that is hardly unique to Townships or Cape Town or even South Africa, but the ease and acceptance with which these young men spoke about such behavior was shockingly tragic and definitely not something to which I am accustomed.

Am now at somewhat of a crossroads on what to do about this, as next Thursday is the last day of term before the Easter break and we are very limited on time. That said, I can’t help but feel that a can of worms was opened today that are now all slowly slithering their way out. Have been contemplating taking a period to speak with the class, though only the girls (the males clearly need a talking to but perhaps that would better handled by a male teacher), and get their thoughts on all this. See where their heads are at and if they too feel that such behavior is acceptable in relationships. Gosh only knows what I could accomplish in only one period but I feel it negligent of me to not at least try, non?

Dr. Alex

Part of the Grade 10 Life Orientation curriculum is a unit on Puberty and Sex Education. 54 teenagers and early 20-somethings and me, talking about testicles and menstruation and ejaculation and sex and penis growth. Fun times! Before getting underway I gave the whole “It’s okay to giggle, but we’re all adults here so lets try and behave appropriately” schpeel. Then we dove in.

While some of them were aware of the changes that bodies go through during this period of physical maturation, for many of them I believe this was the first time someone had actually spoken about why and how these things happen. This class of 54 hormone-riddled young adults were silent as I spoke about semen and fertilization and conception and wet dreams and pubic hair. There were giggles of course, but for the most part they were well into it.

When talking about the widening of the hips that happens to women in preparation for carrying a child, one of the boys asked me if a woman’s hips didn’t widen a lot if it was bad or wrong. Clearly the most narrow-hipped woman in this class of gorgeous curvy African girls, I resisted the urge to yell “I sure hope not!”, and instead responded that no, it’s not bad or wrong. That there is no right or good way to be. Many things influence how we are shaped and look (even gave a very brief explanation of Genetics – Saf you would have been so proud!) That every woman (and man’s) body is different, and that is okay. No one is perfect and yet at the same time we are all perfect. Looking at their curious wide-eyed and impressionable young faces, I started to get a bit carried away in telling them how beautiful they all are but stopped myself before it got out of hand.

When the bell rang I told them that I would see them next week (as they only have Life Orientation twice a week). “Not until next week?!” a couple of them exclaimed. Awwww :)

Am unsure if it is my teaching or the prospect of talking about sex that has them engaged, but either way, I’ll take it.

In short[s],

On Friday morning my alarm didn’t go off, and I awoke 5 minutes before my ride was to arrive. Warp speed in full effect, I got dressed, made my lunch and was out the door. As the planned going-away braai for one of the departing teachers was taking place straight after work that day, and also given that it was a Friday, I tugged on a pair of tailored knee-length denim shorts and didn’t think much of my clothing choice. Especially since the shorts were paired with a tank top and button down shirt.

Well.

The second I walked into the staffroom, I could tell that I had perhaps been a tad hasty in my assumption. All eyes were on me (and more specifically, my shorts). Smiling and taking my seat, I asked my table-mate colleague J. if my shorts were a problem. She laughed and said no, not a problem, its just that we are not used to seeing someone wearing them. Too casual? I asked. ‘Yes,’ came her one-word reply. O-kay.

And then I went to class.

If I had thought that the teachers were staring, I had another think coming. As I entered my year 11 English class, students immediately began buzzing and chatting, while clearly focused on my shorts. The lesson began something like this...

“Good Morning Comrades!” (this is how I always address them now)
“Good Morning Comrade!” came their hearty reply.
“How are we this fine Friday morning?”
“Fine thanks and you?” (and so on..)

I then introduced them to the notion of cultural sensitivity, and what it meant and entailed. Talked about the importance of recognizing that when you are someplace other than home, it is important to understand and respect the customs of that place. That just because things are done a certain way where you come from, one must not assume that this is the case wherever you go.

As a case in point I offered them two examples. One of which was my experience at the parent’s evening that I (and several of their parents), had attended a few nights prior. How the format had been quite different from what I was used to, and how surprised I was at the way the meeting concluded. That while ending with the singing of the National Anthem and a prayer was standard here, where I come from it is much different. They were very intrigued by this. What I stressed most was the fact that it is important to be sensitive to these cultural differences, and respect whatever practices may be the norm.

Then I mentioned my shorts.

“Another example of the importance of cultural sensitivity in practice,’’ I said, “is respecting what is seen as acceptable forms of dress. Some of you may have noticed that I am wearing shorts today.” They responded with wide grins and tittering laughter. I went on to tell them about the practice of casual Fridays, and my hurried foresight into dressing comfortably for the braai after work. “However,” I went on, “it has become obvious to me that this sort of dress is not seen as appropriate for work, right?” Nods and the common chorus response of “Yes miss.”

(On an aside, I must mention how cute this is. Students have a habit of constantly letting you know if and when they agree or get something you are saying with a “yes miss.” This can be in any context from when I am explaining something on the board, disciplining the class, in a one-on-one, talking to the class as part of a lesson, or even just prattling on about something or the other. I find this very endearing. Moving on.)

I went on to say how today’s clothing choice was a mistake and neglect of proper culturally sensitive behaviour on my part, and that I should not have assumed that just because it may have been okay for me to dress the same way at home, that it would be so here. Even on a small scale, when one is in someone else’s metaphoric home one must take care to be aware and respectful of the house rules.

Soo yea. In short, les shorts won’t be making another in-school appearance, although in some ways I am glad to have worn them, if only to prompt the brief in-class discussion that arose following the admission of my gaffe.

PS. it should be noted that none of the teachers or students made me feel bad about my shorts, in fact they were big fans and wanted to know where I had gotten them. When I flushed in embarrassment, at the Math HOD’s comment of: “Hey girl! Looking good! Are you going to the beach?” which was met with staffroom-wide laughter, I was quickly told not to worry and that it was not a big deal, just that it was not something they were used to. “Ndisafunda,” came my red-faced reply.