We didn't start the fire...

…It was always burning
Since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No we didn’t light it
But we tried to fight it..


Adderley Street is one of the main avenues in Cape Town, running through the centre of the downtown core. Every year about two months before Christmas, a celebration is held to herald the turning on of the holiday lights that bridge the street.

In an attempt to get into the Christmas spirit (no small feat for Canadians who are accustomed to cold weather accompanying the season celebrating Christ’s birth, and for whom 30+ degree weather is generally more closely tied into our nation’s birthday), my housemate and two other Canadian friends headed downtown to scoop it out late last year.

One of the first things I noticed as we approached Adderley was how many coloured people there were. Everywhere we looked, everyone was coloured. It was an interesting experience. As mentioned in previous blogs, despite the ‘end’ of apartheid 14 years ago, people often still remain separated (metaphorically as well as demographically) with certain neighbourhoods being clearly dominated by one race or another. Working in Gugulethu, the primary ethnic group that I associate with is black, whereas living in Cape Town there is a much larger percentage of whites and coloureds. I have been to nightclubs in Athlone – a suburb largely populated by coloureds – where the majority of people there were coloured, and of course on a daily basis interact with coloureds in various capacities. This was the first time that I had been in an environment where there were so many coloureds and little else.

To put it into context, according to the newspapers that were out the following day, close to 50 000 people attended the switching-on event. I would wager that about 99% of those in attendance were coloured. During our close to 2 hour time there, I saw about 15 black people and about 5 other white people. I kid you not.

In a later conversation with one of my coloured friends, she explained to me that for many coloureds who live in the Northern suburbs, particularly those who come from working class and poor homes, this night is an event that is looked forward to for much of the year. It’s a chance to engage in a quasi-cultural event with the whole family. As many do not come into the city that often, it is indeed a special occasion.

While I did not at any time feel unsafe during this excursion, for some reason it got me to thinking about my safety.

By far, the most common question people (white Capetonians, many of whom who have never been into a township, equally as much foreigners) ask me when I tell them I am working in a township has to do with whether: a) it is safe and b) I feel safe.

My answer to both questions is always the same: Yes. That said, I do not drive into the heart of Gugulethu, I do not walk around beyond the school gates, and I do not drive to the townships at night alone. My school is enclosed by an electronic barbed wire-rimmed fence, and those at my school – students and staff alike – always look out for me. Before I had a car and would take public transport, they would never let me walk to the bus station by myself, despite it being a 4 minute walk in a strait line on a wide open road in broad daylight. You can literally see the bus station from the school gates. Regardless, I have been reminded countless times how easy it is to get robbed or worse, and have heard stories of students getting mugged steps from school property and how my white skin makes me an easily visible target.

As with any urban metropolis, it is important to have your wits about you when navigating the streets of Cape Town. I don’t take chances, nor do I believe in being overly-cautious. Crime happens everywhere, all the time. I know of friends here who have been robbed, hijacked, had their cars and homes broken into and held up at knife and gunpoint in every corner of the world. While the frequency of such crimes may not be the same in a city like Toronto, New York, Shanghai or London, the reality is that they still do happen.

The fact that where I work happens to be a black township I believe plays a significant role in people’s questions relating to my safety. There is a common belief, particularly among those Capetonians and South Africans who have never been into a township, that black townships are extraordinarily dangerous. This belief is to a large extent perpetuated by the media and the headlines that are regularly posted on signposts around the city having to do with murders, hijackings and theft in the townships. In no way am I disputing that these are dangerous places, but perhaps more pointing to the importance of contextualizing such incidences. Poverty and decades of oppression, understandably, leads to anger, resentment and desperation. Such emotions and sentiments lend themselves easily to crime and substance abuse as a (albeit extremely misguided) means of attempting to level the playing field and/or escape. Ostracizing a people, forcing them to live in areas away from the city centres, with education, health care facilities and everyday conveniences that are far substandard to those enjoyed by their white and (although to a lesser extent), coloured countrymen, only serves to further stoke the flames lit by this injustice.

All this said however, when I am in and around Cape Town, there are a few times that I have felt my safety may be at risk. Despite holding what I consider to be an extremely liberal ethos in all aspects, I would be lying if I said that I haven’t noticed a trend in the race of those around whom I have at times felt uneasy.

On those few occasions where I have thought I may be in danger, or felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, it has almost always been coloured – not black as many would and do believe – young men and women that have the source of this uneasiness.

This said, I feel it important to clarify that in no way do I feel uncomfortable around all coloureds, only that in these few instances I couldn’t help but notice the common thread. My liberal guilt forces me to question why this may be, and why I don’t feel the same threat around young white or black youth. Working with black youth accounts for the overwhelming majority of my interactions with young people, so perhaps this has made me more comfortable with young blacks than most living in Cape Town may be. I do not interact with white youth very often, aside from in shops, at concerts and out and about around the city. Coloured youth perhaps more so, although not a great deal.

So why the apprehension?

As mentioned in various blogs over the past year, race relations and their according power dynamic are inextricably linked to the history of this country. The apartheid regime indoctrinated a nation with an innate sense of self-worth – ranging from positive to extremely negative – depending on where one is located on the skin colour hierarchy.

To this day, South African blacks, for all intents and purposes, are and continue to be on the lower level of this hierarchy. They have been seen and treated as the lowest class, and kept in oppression through a range of means (an article on the current state of the education system and its continued devastating effect on black youth can be read here: http://www.news24.com/City_Press/News/0,,186-187_2448315,00.html). Most understand themselves in relation to this powerlessness, and many have accepted it as such. The immediate and undue respect I was accorded by my colleagues, as a white Westerner whom many assumed knew better than them, is perhaps one example of this acceptance. At the top rung are the whites, which will come as no surprise. The coloureds fall somewhere in the middle.

Perhaps similarly to the middle-child syndrome, I believe that the poorer coloureds of this country are the most affected by feelings of inadequacy, as while they are not as disadvantaged as the blacks, they are a far cry from the privileges enjoyed by the whites. For many on the lower end of the socio-economic scale, I believe this has created a deep-seeded resentfulness and sense of unfulfilled entitlement, particularly towards whites.

In no way do I claim to be a sociologist or equipped to make any kind of psychological analysis based on any of what I have written, these are only my thoughts. When a coloured girl swears at me in Afrikaans or a group of young coloured men walk a little too closely to me my heart beats a bit more quickly than usual. And not in a good way.

Am I foolish to think that [my believed theory of poor coloureds’] resentfulness means that I am any more likely to be harmed or have a crime committed against me by a coloured person than by someone who is white or black? Probably. Unsubstantiated fear is indeed a difficult thing to justify and understand.


…We didn’t start the fire
But when we are gone
Will it still burn on, and on, and on and on…

- Billy Joel

Welcome home!

I returned to Cape Town on Monday of this week, after being home in Canada for a month over the summer holidays. During that time my life here in South Africa might as well have been on the moon, so distant was it in my mind. Despite being sad to leave my loved ones in Toronto behind, I wasn’t dreading a return to a South African summer and going back to school. I am one of the fortunate ones who actually enjoys their job, I suppose.

As my visa to be in South Africa was to expire on January 27th, 2009 (as stated on the visa that has been in my passport since late 2007) and applications for visa extensions must be lodged at least a month before the old one is to expire, I began the initial steps of my application before I left for Canada at the beginning of December. I was unable to complete the application before my departure as it required a Police Clearance certificate from my home country that was valid within the last 6 months (the futility of requiring such a thing when I have been living here for the last year seemed to be apparent only to me), and I would need to be in Canada to acquire said documentation. I was given an extension on my visa application, with the police clearance and the R11,500 repatriation fee (as I am without a valid return ticket), to be rendered upon my return and the completion of my application.

Our plane touched down in Cape Town around 6:45 am on January 11th, 2009. Bleary-eyed from the close to 12-hour sleepless flight, I made my way to customs, pleased with the place at the front of the customs line that my speedy exit from the plane had provided me with. I greeted the customs agent with a sleepy smile, and handed over my passport. On numerous occasions upon my re-entry to R.S.A. I have had customs agents who are from Gugulethu and some who even studied at Fezeka. They are always pleased that I am working there, and usually send me on my way with a big smile. Not this customs agent. As she checked my visa, her brows furrowed. She then asked for my return ticket. When I told her did not have one, and that my visa extension application was with Home Affairs in town, she looked even more confused. Oh boy.

She then called over who I can only assume was her superior, who curtly informed me that my visa was no longer valid. Say what?

Ignoring the preamble and the parts of the visa that give my name, passport and visa number, what is printed on my visa follows:

...

“Authority to proceed to the Republic to report to an Immigration officer at a port or port of entry has been granted by the Department of Home Affairs.

Number of Entries: Multiple Entry on or before 27/01/2009
Issued at: S.A. Consulate General Toronto on 28/12/2007

Conditions:
To be admitted for a period of twelve (12) months.

Volunteer at Fezeka S. School in Gugulethu Cape Town.

RETURN TICKET WAIVED. ”

...

Despite my pointing out to this ever-so-charming individual that it is clearly printed on the visa that it is valid until the 27th of the month, she refuted what I said, claiming that they pay attention to the ‘admitted for a period of 12 months’ part, and that since my first entry into the Republic had been on January 9th, 2008, my visa had expired on January 9th, 2009;

the day before yesterday.

I told her that I had spent time at Home Affairs in town prior to my departure, that they had scrutinized my passport, looked at my visa, and said that I had until the 27th of December to lodge my visa extension application (a month before my existing one expired). The agent was unmoved and advised me that Home Affairs and Customs were two separate things. Exhausted and uncharacteristically too drained to fight, I asked her what my options were.

“You can either go back to London (where my flight had just come from), or buy a one-way ticket home to Canada,” I was told.

I asked to speak with her supervisor, who, although friendlier, basically reiterated what she had said, with the added option of paying a R12,000 repatriation fee on the spot. When I told him I had this money at home to submit with my visa extension application, he asked me if there was anyone at home who could bring it to the airport for me. It was now 7:45 a.m. Feeling my anger rise, I told him that there was not, and that I lived alone. Could I put the fee on my credit card? Yes, he said, although it would be a mission to get back. What? He said that it takes time, it has to go to Johannesburg and that sometimes they take a fee. WHAT? This man was telling me that I could pay a deposit of which I might not get back the entire amount?

Fine, I acquiesced; I would buy a one-way fully refundable ticket, which I would refund as soon as my visa extension was approved. He then told me that he didn’t know if I could get a refundable ticket. It was at this point that I demanded to speak to a British Airways employee who could sell me the refundable ticket and get me out of the holding room they reserve for interrogating people they suspect of misdoings and illegally entering the country.
The BA employees were lovely women, who walked me passed the baggage reclaim, out the gates, through the airport and into the departure terminal, and helped me get my [indeed, fully refundable] ticket. When they found out that I was volunteering, they shook their heads in disgust at the fact that I had been denied entry. They told me they had heard all kinds of stories; of families being turned back because of a spelling error on one of the children’s visas; of people being sent back on the next flight because they didn’t know they had to have a return ticket and didn’t have the money to pay for one on the spot, or people being denied entry because they didn’t have any spare pages in their passport upon which to stick the 1.5 x 2.5 inch visa sticker.

I was then escorted back where I showed the customs agent my ticket and was given a 3 month visitors visa. After I collected my bags and was about to exit into the arrivals terminal, I was stopped by two men who check bags and asked about the contents of my luggage. Any alcohol, food, cigarettes or gifts?

“No,” I replied, “I prefer to support the local economy.”
“Oh do you live here?” One of them asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay then. Welcome home!”

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

On Wednesday I spent almost the entire (sweltering hot) day at Home Affairs in town waiting to submit the remainder of my visa extension application. I was a bit concerned that the fact that I now had a 3 month visitor’s visa might affect the fact that I was applying for an extension on a different visa that was apparently no longer valid, but wasn’t about to point that out to any of the officials with whom I spoke. My experience at Home Affairs and what I witnessed other applicants going through could fill another blog in of itself, but suffice to say that one would be hard pressed to believe that the Republic of South Africa welcomes visitors and those wanting to extend their stays, so rude and dismissive were many of the people behind the counter, particularly towards those whose grasp of the English language was not very good.

At precisely 12pm, 6 of the 8 staff who had been working behind the counter went on lunch, leaving 1 manager and 1 trainee to handle the 100+ crowd of people waiting in different lines. I didn’t say a word when I was sent to the wrong line twice and only told I was in the wrong line when I reached the front of the line as this had happened when I had been there to submit the first part of my application in early December. Not to mention when I was sent to the wrong office on the other side of town, only to be told when I arrived there that I couldn’t file the visa extension at that location. I later found this out to allegedly be untrue, but at this point I think it better to cover all my bases than to believe anything anyone who works for Home Affairs or Customs says. Finally, after waiting, starving and sweating for over 6 hours, my visa extension was in my passport. Success! This only happened because the 4th woman to handle my application was herself a former student at Fezeka and walked me up to the office on the floor above where the visas were physically put into the passports. After I paid my repatriation fee, the man behind the counter asked me if I hadn’t had to pay one in Canada when I made my initial application in late 2007. Indeed I had, I told him. He then informed me that the receipt for that deposit would have sufficed to pay my deposit here. Of course, I had not been told this by Home Affairs in Cape Town prior to my departure, nor was I informed of this little tidbit of information by the staff the South African Consulate General in Toronto, whom I spoke with on 3 different occasions during the month I was in Canada for the holidays, and as a result the receipt for my initial deposit is somewhere at my mother’s house in Toronto.

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

To add insult to injury, when the refund for my airline ticket appeared on my credit card statement yesterday (2 days after the initial charge had been processed), because of foreign exchange rate fluctuations, I ended up getting charged $55 CDN or close to R450 (almost a quarter of my monthly rent) for the ticket.

Lol…

And one more thing...

The insights into my students’ lives that I am privy to through reading their written work never cease to amaze, shock, and often dishearten me.

In English, end-of-year exams are administered in 3 sections on three different days.

Paper One is based on Language. Here, spelling, grammar and reading comprehension are tested. Paper Two focuses on literature and students are asked questions about short stories and poetry that they studied over the year. Paper Three evaluates their writing skills through an essay, as well as transactional and functional writing tasks (letter-writing, dialogue, etc.). Students are provided with a range of essay topics, from which they can select one.

In Western teaching contexts, there is protocol for teachers who are confronted with personal disclosures of a serious nature made by students. If a student confides in a teacher that s/he is or has been abused, neglected, is involved in anything of an illegal nature, etc., or if the teacher has a reason to believe that any such thing may be taking place, we are legally obligated to report said information to the school social worker or the institution’s equivalent, so the matter can be handled by social or child services as need be.

At my school, and I would venture to say at the majority of other township schools, so lacking is funding that having something that even resembles a trained social worker is extremely unlikely. At our school one of our Heads of Department is responsible for addressing issues relating to students’ social welfare, bearing in mind that this is on top of her already very heavy teaching load. It is also doubtful that she is in any way technically qualified to perform such tasks, though not to undermine her ability to do so.

Of the close to 100 essays that I marked over the last month, I have read 5 essays that discuss incidences of abuse and rape by relatives, family friends (one of whom was named) and strangers, 4 about crimes being committed/witnessed, 3 about the death of a loved one, and one that described having sex with a well-known local rapper. This author of this last one is 16 years old. All are written in first person and vivid detail. It is not impossible that these may be works of fiction, although I am inclined to believe otherwise.

I discussed some of my findings with an English department colleague who empathized with the difficult situation we find ourselves in when we uncover revelations such as these. Unfortunately, unless a student actually verbally confides in a teacher that something is going on and that they want help or it is blatantly obvious that an intervention is needed, it is difficult for us as teachers and as a school to act. Most crushing is that because such occurrences and treatment are so common in students’ lives and in the experiences of those around them, many do not even think to reach out.

End of year rumination.

Friday November 7th, 2008, the last day of classes before final exams.

While the mood at the school was calmer than expected, there was an undeniable sense of anticipation in the air.

My first year Fezeka will soon come to an end. In the past 11 months I have borne witness to many new experiences and keenly observed a school culture which is in many ways foreign to those with which I am familiar.

It has been an interesting line to walk (tiptoe?), as being ‘the new [white] girl from Canada’ and in the interest of not wanting to ruffle too many feathers, more often than not I have remained silent when I see teacher practices and behaviors with which I disagree. This has not always been easy.

I have worked closely with hundreds of incredible, inspiring young people. Young people who live in environments that are often toxic, come from homes where they are paid little attention, are involved in activities or been subjected to experiences that no child (or adult for that matter), should ever be exposed to.

As mentioned in several writings over the past year, it is the strength and resilience of these adolescents and young adults that I find the most astonishing. Despite the constant hardships that are a part of many of their daily lives, I have difficulty remembering when I have ever heard any of them complain about their circumstances. Even once.

“Miss you have to be really careful when you’re in the townships. Don’t walk around by yourself. There are people that like to cut people’s eyes out to sell to other people. Miss you have beautiful eyes so you have to be really careful. They will cut your eyes out and leave you on the road.”

“My brother used to live with us but he had to go away. My sister found a big bag of Tik (crystal methamphetamine – a huge and rapidly growing problem amongst young people in the Cape Flats – see http://www.scienceinafrica.co.za/2005/june/tik.htm for further info) and lots of money under his bed and she threw him out. He tried to come home a bunch of times but she wouldn’t let him. I found out after that he was a really big gangster. Now he sends money to her but she won’t take it. I don’t see him very often. Sometimes he’ll come find me when I’m walking home from school. He’s always driving a fancy car and wearing designer clothes. Miss you know True Religion? And Hugo Boss? Yea. That’s what my brother wears. He’ll come find me and give me money and ask how me and my sister are doing. I don’t tell my her that I’ve seen him because then she’ll get mad and make me throw away the money that he gives me. Sometimes, when there’s fights with gangs, if they can’t find the guy they want they’ll take someone in their family. I miss him but its better that he doesn’t live with us anymore.”

“I used to live with my mom but then she sent me to live with my Stepfather’s brother. I didn’t like living with him because he wasn’t very nice. Then I went to live with my friend and her mother. Its better living with them even though her mother is sick (I later found out this friend’s mother has full blown AIDS). My mother keeps calling and saying she wants me to come back to the Eastern Cape to work in the fields with her and my younger sister. But I just want to go to school.” (15 year old student)

Laughter – not a search for sympathy or a handout – is generally what accompanies the snapshots from their lives they share with me. When they talk about how getting robbed, stabbed or even killed for as little as R2 (about $0.25CDN) is commonplace; about parents, siblings or relatives who have died – from illness or been killed in gang-related violence and car accidents; about their fathers hitting them in the face if they don’t clean the house; about friends who have dropped out of school because of drug addiction or pregnancy…they are not telling me to shock me or scare me. These are just simply part of their lives. More often than not I hold back tears and hugs for fear of overwhelming them, cognizant that the line between pity and compassion can sometimes be hard to interpret by someone who may have never felt the latter of the two.

But still they come to school. And they laugh. And [most of them] want to learn.

And, in light of these realities, I wind down the year feeling optimistic about next year at Fezeka. If these young people can continue to smile and laugh and try to learn, in the face of unbelievable adversity, how can I not?

Self-evaluation is customary at the conclusion of any undertaking. As I reflect and try to quantify what – if any – impact I have made during my first year here, admittedly I don’t think I am any more well-suited to answer that than I was when I arrived. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind, in my soul and in my heart however that Fezeka has made an impact on me. I now have another year to see if I can return the favor. Who knows if I will.

But I’m certainly going to try.

inside their minds...

a small selection of my students' words...both spoken and written.

...

"I want to know what it is like to have money...not that I will spend all of it, but I want to know what it is like to have money...to have lots of food...to have nice things...a nice car...a nice house..."

...

My First Prayer

Oh! Lovely bird,” oh lovely bird
Im Flying to no where”,
Im Flying to be there”,
But I can’t reach those Mountains
And inhale that brilliant climate
And Feel my mind by my own
But only that strong wind”,
Only that strong wind of that moving cloud
Over-powered my denstination.
I’m to weak to survive by my own
Oh! why these Earth is against me
Cause the more I goes higher my furthers
Becames wek, I can’t survive climate condistion
It becames “heavy”, oh these circumstances”,
how Can I handle these, to succeed these journey
Oh! I’m tired, “I’m tired,”
I can’t take these any “more”
I can’t handle these any “more”
Why? Can’t you take my breath
To land of peace
To the land of revealness
To the land of good hopes
To the land of no hunger
So that I can rest and pleased with peace
Please take me out of these land of ploughting and harvesting
I can’t fly any more
Even to reach the behalf of thee:
Mountain, “AMEN”

My Second prayer

Crying tears Are tired: ‘oh not’, the dams are drouned, is only vibration of voice that cannot be heard but only can be seen, Still there is no one can take out all her toilet-paper to take care of whom’s tears has been ignored.
but how can ‘it’ be?
but why it ‘supposed’ be?
but why ‘should’ it be
Like Im nothing to these earth
Like I do not belongs to human being
Like I was not borned by two people
Female and male, to come and be a hero of tommorow, be a gold in future a gold of those who loves gold
Oh! Why?
Oh!!! For what?
Oh!!!! like these?
But when it cames to ask myself
I get many answers that causes
My emotion to be eritated, oh!!!!!
Cause I don’t have loud voice?
Cause Im shot so much?
Cause Im born in a small township
Oh!! I cant get true answer that can
take me out of thse dark place that
cannot be seen or heard by an
of those who are passing.
but when I ask myself for the second time
I found one answer,
do not let the circumstances to determine my denstination.

...

50 tips to love a man/keep a man
Girlz feel free to give me one/two

1. Love him for him
2. Don't judge him
3. Always have a convicetion
4. Have something in comon
5. Don't be bossie to him
6. Please cheat on him
7. Don't be inocent to him
8. Know his bad side
9. Know him from A to Z
10. Know his family and friends
11. Don't sleep with him
12. Don't love sex to much
13. Kiss him only
14. enjoy his company
15. laughth at his jokes
16. always smill
17. Mic him a lot
18. Don't show him how much you love him
19. Be confident and self respective
18. Don't make him a fool
19. Be different every time you see him
20. Don't have sex on the car, kitchen, bathroom or toilet
21. Don't underestimate him
22. give him, his space
23. let him have fun with his friends
24. Drive him crazy a lot
25. Don't give him up on him
26. just be yourself
27. Have his time
28. love his pets
29. Don't fake your smile
30. Be easy to talk with
31. Don't 4get his birthday/ur anivesary day
32. Don't controil his life Plz girlz
33. Don't wait for Mr right be Mrs right
34. Never slap him
35. Don't compere hjim with someone else/with your ex
36. Don't let him see that you are desperete for him
37. Don't be too faithful

...

"If you want your dreams to come true, don't spend too much time sleeping. Open your eyes and realize."

...

My Dream Career

I would like to be a Pilot. the most I like about this career is to travel all over the world, going to other countries. because it's not easy for me to go anywhere I want because of the money but I once I get this opporturnity, I'll be able to go to those countries without paying a cent. also to experience to be on air, flying like a bird, looking down on earth. Seeing the clouds when I was young I thought the plane was not reaching the coulds, to me It was like the sky is very very far nobody can reach it. but one day I saw a plane disappear inside the clouds then come out on the other side. Since I was asking myself: "how did it happen?", until today I learned about it. but I'm waiting to be me who is doing it one day.

Oh: not forgeting to speak those different languages.

...

"In townships we don't really think much about things like dreams."

...

first look!

As mentioned in an earlier blog, the wonderful and talented filmmakers of CieL Productions (http://www.cielproductions.co.uk/), have been making a documentary about our choirmaster P., and the choir's trip to England earlier this year.

Here is the trailer, a first look at what is sure to be an incredible account of life at Fezeka, in Gugulethu, and the hope, strength and talent of our kids.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MmLtmAIjCWU

...

*click here to visit the website that has been set up for the film and to learn more about this incredible project.

Mid-morning mid-week musings

I feel sad for my students.

And not just my students but many students at my school. And since I'm pretty sure the situation that presents itself here is far from unique, by extension I feel sad for much of South Africa's black youth.

I am not even sure where to begin quantifying how deep this sadness runs.

Time and time again I am reminded of how disadvantaged these young people are, even aside from the obvious difficulties many of them face due to their socio-economic locations - hunger, neglect and the constant threat of violence leading the charge.

No, this particular sadness is more directly correlated to the realm in which I work - the education sphere - where every day I am shocked and disheartened at the utter disregard many of my colleagues have for the scholastic advancement of their students.

Teacher absenteeism is rife, with teachers missing days...weeks...even sometimes months at a time on a regular basis. And while in the contexts to which I am accustomed an absent teacher is expected to leave work for their students, in this environment - while technically a requirement - very seldom is this the case.

In addition to this problem however, there are many teachers who will be present at school but for whatever reason do not attend classes. The frequency of this occurrence is such that students are often left without a teacher for a number of their lessons in a given day. I have lost count of how many times my students have told me that I am the only teacher who has attended one of their lessons that day.

Further still there is the issue of teachers who will come to school, attend classes, but because they have not completed a certain task (i.e. tabulating end-of-term marks for the term that has just ended or marking tests), they spend the in-class time working on the task at hand and give their students worksheets (without having taught the background necessary to complete said worksheets), or sometimes nothing at all to do.

Yesterday I was in my classroom during a spare period and two Grade 10 students I had never met before came to my door to ask if they could sit and do some work in my classroom. As always I asked where they were supposed to be. I was answered with the expected reply of ‘in a class where the teacher was not attending’ and allowed them in. After a while I wandered over to see what they were working on. I asked what it was and they told me a project on Development. Development of what? I asked. Of anything, they said. They had been told that they had to interview people to ask them about development (Social? Political? Historical? Environmental?), but that they had not had enough time to complete the task and so they were taking notes from material research they had found on the Internet. I asked them if it was that they had not had enough time or if they had left it to the last minute. No, they told me, they really had not had enough time. When was it assigned? I asked. Friday, they told me. When was it due? Today, came their reply. Yesterday was Wednesday. This was a term research assignment worth a significant percent of their mark that clearly the teacher had forgotten to give them and so they are left to try and get it done in far less time then they should have been allocated. The most disturbing part is that the teacher would most likely mark the test in keeping to the prescribed evaluation standards (which assume they have been given adequate time and had access to the relevant resources necessary to complete the task), which will mean that most of them will fail.

I have seen teachers administer and mark tests that are far above the level of comprehension possessed by their students, with no regard for the fact that the language used is inaccessible. These are the same teachers who in no way see their students’ subsequent failures as a reflection of their teaching or who don’t recognize evaluation standards that are set unfairly high. Today a student who I don't teach asked me for help with an assignment. He is in Grade 12 and this was the final project for the year. It had been assigned 3 months ago and has 6 different phases. I sat down with him and read through the instructions. Although my knowledge of the assignment's subject area is basic, I was able to understand what was being asked of the students as the language used was regular English versus discipline-related jargon. This is not to say that the level of English was easy, far from it in fact. I asked him if he understood what was being asked of him, if it had been explained to him properly. 'No Miss', came his shy reply. I then noticed that the page for the 5th phase was separate from the stapled package of sheets explaining each of the other 6. When I asked him why that page wasn't attached he told me that the teacher had forgotten to give it to them. He then went on to explain how the teacher had come into class the day before and angrily demanded to know why none of them had completed the 5th phase. When they told him that they had not received the instructions on that part of the assigment the teacher went and photocopied the missing sheet, gave it to them, and set a due date of tomorrow. 2 days. They should have had 2 weeks.

Perhaps the most disheartening fact about all of this is that the vast majority of the kids aren’t even aware of the far-reaching consequences of the injustices that are being committed against them. Whereas in a privileged Western context where we are raised to know our rights as youth and as students and even as young men and women are fully aware of what we deserve, as previously mentioned, a similar culture of entitlement is glaringly absent here. When teachers don’t come to class, students kick back, chat to their friends, sleep. A stream of students milling about the schoolyard during class time is constant, a result of all the above-mentioned reasons. I see these kids sitting around…chatting…chasing each other…holding hands…flirting…laughing…and can’t help but feel saddened at how oblivious they are to what they are being denied. At how they will suffer because of this disregard.

Their learned acceptance of injustice enrages me. I encourage students to complain. To get their families to take up issue with the administration and to report those teachers who don’t come to class to the Principal. While this could be construed as a lack of loyalty to my colleagues, my primary concern is for the impact of their neglect on the kids who are here to learn and whom they are being paid to educate.

...and now the sadness has been replaced by anger.


I feel infuriated for my students.

Madame Deputy President, I presume?

On the final day of last term we had an assembly to celebrate Baleka Mbete, (South Africa’s new Deputy President)’s birthday. While this may sound strange, it happened to be something that was planned long before she was inaugurated as Deputy President and held her previous position as the Speaker of the National Assembly. Gugulethu and by extension Fezeka fell under her then-jurisdiction, and she has had a long-standing relationship with the school. Recently, and while she still held the Speaker position, a decision was made to donate some computers to Fezeka. Initially the pledge was to donate 12 computers, which was then upped to 20. When the day came however, there were 12 new computers that lay waiting in the gleaming and freshly-painted lab, waiting to be christened by Ms. Mbete.

The assembly that we had to accompany this visit was wonderful. Fully catered by the office of the Deputy President, we had about 500 students in attendance, and close to 50 officials from various positions within the Government. Speeches were made by the politicians and the Deputy President, as well as by our principal and English HOD. And then the students took over. The drama club performed, as did the choir, a ballet group of which one of our students is a part, and a couple students recited poetry they had read.

The day was capped off with lunch for everyone and the Deputy President ceremoniously cutting the ribbon that had been tied across the doorway of the computer lab, which was met with flashes and applause from the members of the media et al. who were also in attendance to capture the moment.

It was during the assembly that I came to find out that Fezeka holds a unique honor of being one of very few, and perhaps one of the only township schools in the Western Cape who has been visited by both the Deputy President and the President of the Republic of South Africa (Thabo Mbeki visited during his time at the helm). It was lovely to see the students swell with pride as this fact was brought to their attention, as it was (as always) to see their smiles and hear their cheers and laughter when they watched their colleagues perform.

It was only after the assembly however, after the cameras and bodyguards had left and school had reopened and we were back in full swing that I came to find out that despite taking the time to re-tile the floor of the lab, paint the walls, fix the broken desks, and install these shiny new flat screen PCs, they had not ensured that each of the computers was online, or bothered to install Microsoft Office on any of the new machines. Roughly half of the new computers cannot access the Internet, and none of them have Microsoft Word. Or Excel. Or PowerPoint. On high school computers at a school where we are trying to encourage digital literacy. After spending a tidy sum on the whole overhaul, they didn't think it important to invest another R1500 (roughly $200CDN), the cost of that a basic Microsoft Office 2003 package.

Seriously?

Like lambs to the slaughter...

For the past month and a bit, once a week I have been running an after-school basic digital literacy class. It is doubtful that the irony of me, an example of computer-ineptness at its finest, actually teaching anything to do with those plastic boxes is lost on anyone, least of all myself, but here we are. So far it has been going really well. The size of the group varies from week to week, sometimes upwards of thirty, others closer to three. Although I am fully aware that teachers – like parents – are not supposed to have favorites, I may have a few of my own. The computer class is composed of students from a variety of classes and grades, including each of mine.

Three young men from my Grade 11 class are the most consistent attendees of the computer class, all very eager and keen to learn as much as possible in the computer class, just as they are in English class as well. In the lesson where we set up email addresses they could not stop smiling. These three may be my favorites.

Last week was the last week of school before break, and as the norm, a notoriously low-attendanced time of the year. The turnout for the class was meager, more specifically, my three little stars were there alone. As the computer lab we usually have used was being renovated in preparation its big unveiling later in the week (more on that to follow), and students were writing an exam in the other, I opted to use an empty classroom and to change the lesson plan somewhat.

Earlier in the week, one of these three students had asked me for help with his CV. So we sat down and talked curriculum vitae. As none of them have ever had a job before, there was not much to list in that department. When we came to volunteer work, they were equally at a loss. I asked they what did when they weren’t at school. Other than watch TV, they said they played sports, and participated in their youth groups. I asked if any of them coached sports, and what sort of youth groups they were part of. One of them did indeed coach a sports team and all three were involved in youth groups related to their churches.

The conversation then snowballed into a particularly interesting discussion on religion. All three young men are Christian, though each belongs to a different denomination, none of which I had heard of before. Not wanting to pry, I asked very surface-level questions about their beliefs, and let them tell me what they wanted to. They asked me about my beliefs, and what church I belonged to. I told them that while I have been baptized as a Roman Catholic, growing up and today my church attendance has been generally limited to the big holidays (much to my devoutly religious Grandmother’s chagrin).

Then they asked me about religion in Canada, and the role it plays in people’s lives. As previously mentioned, religion has a large role of the day to day lives of the communities in which my students and colleagues live, with Christianity being the overwhelmingly dominant faith.

I talked about the religious diversity of Canada and in particular Toronto, and how we have such a cornucopia (say it with me now – cor-nu-co-pia) of people of different beliefs living together.

‘So Miss, you wouldn’t ever slaughter a sheep to celebrate an important event?’ They asked me next.

I attempted to broadly explain the Western world’s take on this sort of thing (the physical slaughter of animals for religious or cultural purposes, not to be confused with those animals who are slaughtered for human consumption, particularly on religious holidays - although in writing this now I find myself confused as to why and how the two differ). I also touched on groups like People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), and the importance of respecting the laws of the land. This then bled into an analogy on Female Genital Mutilation being practiced in Canada by Sudanese immigrants and the uproar that it created. Little did I know at the time that none of them were familiar with what FGM is. Oops.

In any case, the conversation was an interesting reminder of some of the stark cultural differences that exist between their lives and my own, or more specifically the social/religious mores and attitudes that are commonplace in and unique to each of our home environments.

Oh and I received an invitation to the next sheep-slaughtering ceremony that any of them attend.

Just another manic Monday...

About two weeks ago I left my house for school in the morning. I had driven about 2 blocks when suddenly my car just died. There was no big noise or warning, she just conked out. Had thankfully not yet reached the main road and was able to steer her off to the side of the street. Attempts to restart her were fruitless. Knowing I had been low petrol on the day before I thought this could be the problem. Walked to the Engen station only a short distance away, filled up a jug of petrol, walked it over to my car, poured it in (getting a span of it on myself in the process), and tried starting her again. Nothing.

Ended up having to her get her towed. A group of mechanics crowded around my car’s engine, tried starting her and had the same luck as me. They checked my petrol tank and told me I had no petrol. Impossible I told them, as I had manually just poured about R100 into it. Well, its reading as empty, they said. Fine. Poured in another R100. and still no reading on the gauge.

Then they looked under the car.

‘You know your petrol’s been stolen, hey?’ One of them told me.

Uh, no. Might have told you if I did, no?

In any case, apparently the night before, some sneaky thief had crept under my car, cut the wire connecting the petrol tank to the engine, and siphoned out the remaining (what I would guess to be not more than R20 worth’s of) petrol out of my tank. R300 to repair the damage. Good times.

back in the day...and how!

The day following our Sowetan tour, our gracious tour guides took us to yet another must-see on any first-time visit to Johannesburg, the apartheid museum. (http://www.apartheidmuseum.org/)

This museum documents the history of apartheid in this country – from its earliest roots to present-day, as well as the various systems of oppression upon which it was modelled (special shout out to Canada and its First Nations Reserves), with in-depth looks at key figures in its inception and implementation, countless images, reports, audio and video footage, eyewitness and survivors’ stories… a truly vivid and upsetting journal of South Africa’s history.

Authenticity and a brutal metallic aesthetic is consistent through the museum – from the separate entranceways for whites (blankes) and non-whites (nie-blankes) to the industrial high-ceilinged exposed-beam brick wall architecture and the prison bars that run throughout, to the stark and sometimes harsh lighting that you soon discover is often little more than natural light, varying between very bright and shadowy darkness.

The sections on Education* and transportation proved the most disturbing for me with discussions on the huge disparity between what was available to black (and to a lesser extent, coloured) children in contrast to their white brothers and sisters. A look at transportation offered insight into the lengths that black people had to go to to get from A to B, and the endless blockades that stood in their way of even earning enough to feed their children, let alone themselves. While I have been learning more and more about the history of apartheid during my time here, seeing photos and reading stories of people who lived in these times made it much clearer.

The exhibit ends on a positive note, with oral history stories from South Africans both young and old on their hopes and thoughts for the ‘new’ South Africa. I couldn’t help but notice how optimistic everyone was, given the realities of inequality that still exist, although I suppose, perhaps, in a comparative sense things are [inarguably] far better than they once were, and at the end of the day it is all but impossible to move forward without a hope that things will only continue to get better.

Sunday’s weather provided us with another stunning day, as we set out on yet another historical journey; though this time we were going a little further back.

The Cradle of Humankind (www.cradleofhumankind.co.za) is about an hour’s drive from Jozi. A UN World Heritage Site, it is the place on earth where the earliest human remains have been found. Along with landmarks and replica bones, there is a museum on location which traces humankind’s evolution to modern man. Special attention is also paid to the devastating effects humans have had on the earth since we arrived – particularly on the environment and animal and plant kingdoms – and to the inequalities in education, health care and standards of living that exist across the globe today.

...

*The history of the disparities in the education system (the Bantu Education Act in particular) in this country is an important one to know and understand to fully grasp any discussion on where things stand today. I will discuss in greater detail in a future blog, but in the interim, if interested, I would suggest reading the brief bit written about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bantu_Education_Act

SOuth WEstern TOwnship

About a month ago my friend Saf visited me in Cape Town for a few weeks. During her time here we flew to Johannesburg to stay with her friends Lisa and Angie for a weekend. Being my first time in South Africa’s biggest city, I was especially keen to visit Soweto, the largest township in South Africa.

Initially I was wary of the day-long tour of Soweto that Lisa had booked us on, my feelings on this sort of ‘tourism’ being somewhat mixed. As mentioned in previous blogs, the voyeuristic and often intrusive nature of ‘township/favela/slum/village tours’ is generally not for me. As it turned out however, the company that Lisa found (KDR – www.soweto.co.za ) was probably the best that she could have, as it is the only tour company that operates in Soweto which has an ongoing relationship with the communities which it visits, and donates a portion of its profits to the many initiatives that it has helped to develop and support.

The day began with our very knowledgeable and Sowetan born and raised-guide Bongani taking us through downtown Joburg and its CBD. Former colonial presence is evident in the architecture of the buildings we passed – from the South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC)’s head office and that of various banks, to the SA headquarters of Australia’s BHP Billiton – the largest mineral mining company in the world. In the middle of the last century Britain’s Barclays bank was one of the biggest in SA, but when Apartheid-related tensions grew hectic in the 1980’s the bank fled, abandoning all the buildings that they owned. Some still stand empty today, crumbling and decrepit skeletons of their former glory. Years later Barclays’ presence in South Africa has returned, in the form of one of its subsidiaries, ABSA – the Amalgamated Banks of South Africa.

As we drove around the city core Bongani asked us to keep the windows closed. Car jackings and theft – even in broad daylight in the middle of a busy street – are rife. Crime rates in the city have improved slightly in recent years (despite the international media and word of mouth continuing to propel the widely-held belief of Jozi as one of the most dangerous cities in the world), though it is definitely still a major problem and it is always better to be safe than sorry.

Past Nelson Mandela’s Peace Bridge and a long-defunct train station built by the Dutch using materials brought over from Holland, and we were soon on our way to Soweto. Driving through the sprawling metropolis and along the freeways towards the turnoff, Bongani gave us bits and pieces of information about the city and how it came to be.

Johannesburg (located in the province of Gauteng, known as Egoli (City of Gold) in isiZulu and isiXhosa, and more colloquially as Joburg and Jozi) was established as a mining town when gold was discovered by an Australian prospector in the late 1800s. This discovery soon brought people from all over the country and world, prompting the Witwatersrand Gold Rush (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Witwatersrand_Gold_Rush). Gold fever soon lead to the Boer Wars (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boer_Wars) between the Boer (Dutch word for ‘farmer’, came to be commonly used to denote ‘Afrikaner’) Government and the new British presence in the country. The Boers lost.

The most commonly (but not absolutely) accepted story of how Joburg got its name has to do with two men named Johann[es] who along with Paul Kruger (for whom Kruger Park is named) were involved in the inception and development of the city.

Currently the population of Johannesburg is estimated to be somewhere around 4 million, with about ¼ living in Soweto.

Soweto (SOuth WEstern TOwnship) began as a township that the apartheid government established to accommodate the massive influx of migrant workers that came to the area to work on the mines. With a population of around a million (2003), today it is the largest township in South Africa. The racial demographic is predominately black, a small coloured population and even a handful of white families as well.

As we drove into Soweto one of the first things I noticed was the lack of bars on the windows of the homes. There were no bars anywhere. What is commonplace in all areas of Cape Town and certainly of what I had seen of Johannesburg was nowhere to be found here.

As with Guguletu, there was a wide variety in the types of homes we saw – from the standard corrugated-metal shacks and informal settlements, to incredibly beautiful homes and manicured lawns. We stopped in front of one house that belonged to a famous architect. Wide glass plane windows on both the front and rear of the house allowed us a view into a sparkling swimming pool. And still no bars.

Bongani told us that the sense of community in Soweto is so strong that there is no need for bars. For those that do venture to commit crime or theft, the police are rarely called. As Bongani somewhat morbidly put it, a criminal would be lucky if the police were to arrive before members of the community found him. Nuff said.

Down a hill and into a clearly less affluent area – with row houses that looked similar to the barracks one might see in a movie about holocaust-era Germany, reminders of the living conditions the apartheid Government saw fit for miners. We got out of the van and walked around, both Bongani and ourselves being warmly greeted everywhere we went. His connection to the communities is clearly real, which only further helped to cement our comfort with our visit.

We stopped at a shipping container-cum-primary school which has been established and supported by KDR. Here Saf and I were pretty much in heaven. About 20-odd amazingly energetic children, ranging in age from about 3 to 10. They were equally happy to see us, wrapping themselves around our legs, holding out their arms to be picked up. We played and chatted with them, and they sang us songs. Our stay was perhaps slightly longer than Bongani had anticipated but that’s what you get when you put teachers with kids.

Reluctantly we unwrapped the little ones from our limbs and headed off to visit a local market. We tried some local (1% alcohol content) beer that was served in milk containers and extremely bitter.

Moving on from the market we next stopped in Kliptown, an informal settlement that is one of the largest and oldest areas of Soweto. We then stopped for a visit at the Kliptown Youth Program (www.kliptownyouthprogram.org), another initiative that is financially supported by KDR. This organization works with youth in the community, engaging them through the use of sport, educational support and skills development. There was also a youth-maintained vegetable garden on site. One of the guys in charge took us on a walking tour of the area, where we were again greeted by smiling faces and adorable children. We passed the local telephone booth – a rotary dial telephone sitting on a cardboard box and attended by a young man. Locals could pay for three minutes of phone call use at a rate far less than what any mobile phone provider or Telkom would charge.

Our new friend then took us into his house – a small one room shack that housed him and his 7 siblings. As we took in our surroundings, I couldn’t help but wonder how many of my students live in similar settings. Outside the sun shone a beautiful and sunny 24 degrees. Inside the home was sweltering hot. One can only imagine what it must be like in the 35+ degree days of summer…or the cold, damp and rainy nights of winter.

Next stop was lunch – delicious Sowetan buffet style. Bongani’s eyes widened at the amount of food on our plates, and then again when we went for round two, obv.

Sufficiently stuffed, we headed off to the afternoon portion of our tour – a visit to the Hector Pieterson museum.

For many, the word Soweto is inextricably linked to the events that transpired there on June 16th, 1976.

Fed up of being forced to learn with Afrikaans as the official language of instruction, on this day students from Soweto-area high schools engaged in a non-violent march to demonstrate their opposition. They numbered in the thousands and marched peacefully, singing songs and carrying homemade signs. This well-planned exercise in civil disobedience soon turned ugly as students found that police had barricaded their planned route. Undeterred, they changed course, ending up near Orlando High School. The police had other plans. Although the students continued peacefully and non-confrontationally, police released dogs and tear gas in an attempt to disperse the crowd. Students threw rocks at the police, and eventually one of the dogs was caught and killed by the crowd. Things then escalated quickly as police fired shots into the crowd. Then all hell broke loose. Terrified, students began screaming and running in all directions. Police fired more shots, killing two students.

One of the first students killed was 12-year old Hector Pieterson.

For 2 days following the initial clash, the violence continued at a hectic pace. Riots broke out all over Soweto, and police were brutal in their retaliation. Shots were fired at random, killing many and wounding countless others, mostly children. The anger that had been a longtime brewing had erupted. Trickle-down effects of the Soweto uprising were felt all over the country in various forms and capacities and things continued to worsen for months to follow. Final estimates put the number of dead somewhere around 600, although no one can really know for sure. In the aftermath of these tragic events, June 16th - the first day of clashes between youth and police - has come to be known as the Soweto Uprising, commemorated in South Africa on a yearly basis with a statutory holiday, Youth Day.

Today, the Hector Pieterson museum (http://www.soweto.co.za/html/p_hector.htm)
stands as a monument, educational centre and reminder of one of the darkest days in this country’s struggle for equality. A devastating but extremely interesting stop on our tour, I would definitely call it is a must-see for anyone going to Johannesburg and Soweto.

In the somber wake of this visit, we were all in need of a drink. On the way to our last stop at a local pub, we drove by Vilakazi street – a small non-descript road that holds the distinctive honor of being the only street in the world to have housed two Nobel Peace Prize winners – Dr. Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela and Archibishop Desmond Tutu. We saw the house that Dr. Mandela had lived in and took a minute to appreciate the greatness that had once walked our very steps.

At our final stop we enjoyed some local beer (this time out of bottles), watched the opening ceremonies of the Olympics and talked about all we had seen and done that day. Outside I met a man who had been born and raised in Soweto and like Bongani worked as a tour guide for KDR. His English was impeccable and when I complemented him on this, he said that he had spent many years living in Boston. When the Apartheid regime became too much for him and his small family to bear he had moved there in the early 1980s. His children were born and raised in the US. He returned in 1994 and today the whole family lives in South Africa. ‘It is home.’ he told me at the end of his sentence. ‘It gets under your skin. It’s in our blood.’

As we finished our drinks in silence and watched the sun set over the quiet cul de sac street the bar was on, I reflected on what he had said and what I had seen that day. I thought to myself about my own attachment to my home country, and wondered whether I, given a similar reality and my country a similar history would have done the same thing in his place. One never knows for sure, although I certainly couldn’t argue with his comment about South Africa getting under your skin.

This country may not be my home, and indeed has and continues to have its fair share of ills and misfortunes, but seldom has a day gone by where I am not reminded of its warmth, beauty, and above all the strength, resilience and hope of its people.

...

NB: In regards to the Soweto Uprising, I have written but a small overview of this historic and infamous event. For a day-by-day breakdown of what happened, please go here: http://www.sahistory.org.za/pages/governence-projects/june16/june16.htm

For a broader overview, there is always good old wiki: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soweto_uprising

my world...

Last week I collected my year 11 students’ books for marking. What follows is a verbatim excerpt from one of their responses to the question of how they identify themselves.

How do I identify myself?

i am a gud person, i’m adorable even if im ugly i love people who treats me gud and i also love the ones who treats me bad because they show me how life is. i don’t lyk school but it’s the must going to school because i don’t want to end up in the street there are sumthings that im good at but i haven’t seen them yet and im also a loving passionate Boy. I have a gud heart in people but i also have a bad sight but show them when you make me. My dream is to be a drug lord and make the world mine.

acting out.

As is my practice when they haven’t finished their assigned classwork and it’s the last period, a few students were kept behind the other day to complete the work they had been given. Unless they have to catch transport, they must stay until they are done. And I have double checked with the office who does and who doesn’t as they have tried to trick me on more then one occasion. They don’t try anymore.

On this particular day, one boy told me he couldn’t stay because he had to get to drama practice.

“Drama practice?” I asked, “Where?”

“Drama club Miss,” he answered, “in 10B.”

Drama club? The school had a drama club? This was news to me. Once he had finished his work and ran off, I locked my classroom and made my way over to 10B to see if he had been telling the truth. Indeed he had. Here I found about 15-odd students milling about and chatting animatedly. There was one young man who was clearly in charge. I asked if I could watch and they quickly agreed. As I sat down they began a series of warm up activities and short comedy skits. All of them were in Xhosa, but I could still get the meanings of what was being conveyed.

Next, they began rehearsing their play. Similarly to the skits, aside from the random word of English that often intersperses the language, the play was also entirely in Xhosa. One of the students sat next to me and explained bits and pieces of what was going on. Although I didn’t understand any of what the actors were saying, with the help of my interpreter I was still able to get the overall gist of what they were trying to convey. They are incredible actors. And funny! Oh my, are they ever funny. Very expressive and ever-so-animated and serious when need be. On more than one occasion I found myself almost on the brink of tears, I was laughing so hard.

When they broke for the day two hours later, I asked them what member of staff had been helping them. They replied that they had none. There had been a teacher, they told me, whose name I recognized as one who left the school 4 months ago. This means that for the past four months, they have been rehearsing almost everyday after school, sometimes as late as 5 or 6pm, on their own. I then found out that the play they had been performing – a hilarious and socially-conscious piece about the importance of students taking pride in their environment and respecting each other – had been written and directed by the one I had noticed as being the one in charge at the beginning. Amazing.

Then they asked a favour of me. Would I be their new teacher support? Help them and give them my input? After the overwhelming pride and admiration I felt for this group of earnest young learners, how could I say no? I told them that I would be flattered and made them promise that if I agreed, they must practice their English when I was there and that the one student in the group who was in one of my classes (the one who from whom I had first heard of drama club), must change his behaviour in my class immediately. A few weeks later, while the speaking English part is still lacking somewhat, the behaviour and attendance of this one student have seen a noticeable improvement.

They are scheduled to perform their production for the school in the coming weeks, and have been marketing themselves to perform at other schools all over Gugulethu. About their home turf debut they are over the moon excited, and I am right there with them.

a Room with a View

A couple days into the first week back, it was announced that there would be a shift in the Matrix. Rather than continuing with the current system of classroom movement, whereby students stayed in one class all day and teachers went to them depending on what lesson it was, each teacher would now be given a classroom of their own. Upon hearing this news, I was ecstatic. Aside from the sense of ownership over their learning space and belonging in their classrooms that both teachers and students would now [hopefully] feel, on the most basic of levels it would allow students to get out of their classrooms. Even if only to walk the distance between classes and various departmental blocks that had now been set up, I thought it a good thing, since for some it is the only physical activity they get at school during the day (we don’t have physical education as a learning area). Further, I hoped that this may help with the issue of absenteeism – both student and more importantly teacher – since once would always know where a teacher ought to be when it was his or her lesson.

My classroom finds itself in the English block at the very back of the school property line. Until I was given the keys, I had never even been to that part of campus. Upon unlocking the door, it was clear that this room had not been used for a while. Freezing cold, no electricity, broken windows, graffiti-covered walls, not even one piece of furniture, and the ceiling was caving in not one but two parts of the room. But I didn’t care. It was mine. And I had free reign to decorate it.






Unlike the amusement park playground of Western classrooms – with colourful posters and decorations covering the walls, modern facilities and indoor heating, these classrooms have none of that, and instead have more of an institution-like feel. There are many reasons for this, lack of funding and resources being a frontrunner. Moreover, there is the issue of theft, as being situated in a community with many more have-nots than haves, it is difficult to leave anything of value in the classrooms as it will more than likely get stolen. After school on the day that we were given our keys, I drove straight to Walton’s, the South African equivalent of Grand and Toy. Here I bought a roll of newsprint to cover the graffiti, a world map and one of Africa, brightly coloured paper and pens, a stapler, scissors, and various other organizational tools. Was so excited that I had to stop myself from getting too carried away. As no budget exists in the school’s resources to fund any of this sort of thing, clearly all these purchases are out of pocket. I was very aware of the fact that few, if any of my colleagues would be able to afford similar accoutrements for their own classrooms. Spent that night at home stuck into some arts and crafts fun – cutting out letters to spell Life Orientation and English. The next day at school I had a couple students help me staple the newsprint over the graffiti-covered corkboards, and then set about gluing the words I had so painstakingly cut out the night before. Already it was looking better. Used images from an old calendar I found at home to stick up around the classroom and give it some colour. When students came in that day, it was clear that they not only noticed, but appreciated my efforts. Before getting started, I gave them all the same speech about this being their classroom as well, and my wanting them to feel at home in it. By the same token, they must respect it and take care of it the same way I did. They agreed, and have more or less held their word ever since. In the weeks following, bits and pieces have gone up to continue the classroom’s evolution. A poster here, some student work there. Week before last my grade 11 students were the first to put their individual mark on the classroom. As previously mentioned, in order to do anything in this country, citizens must have an Identity Document (ID). This passport-like item lists one’s ID number, Name, Gender and Date of Birth. After a mini-lesson on identity and how they identify themselves, I asked them to create figurative ID documents. Each was given a piece of paper in the colour of their choice, and given the sole direction of ‘Create something that represents you’. They could use any medium and were encouraged to get creative. The results were impressive and now adorn one corkboard under the heading (again in my carefully cut out letters): ‘Who am I?’ Despite the shivering temperatures in the early-morning classes or on rainy winter days, when the sun shines in the one wall of the classroom that is covered in windows that face onto the school property line bordered by some grass with a backdrop of shacks, it’s almost poetic. Despite its ragamuffin aesthetic, there is no other classroom in the school that I would have preferred. Now that all my students (well almost all), have desks, chairs and even a desk, chair and storage cupboard for me, slowly but surely it is all coming together.

In the weeks to come I will give my other two classes an opportunity to put their own personal stamp on the classroom as well. By bringing in colour and the chance to feel connected to their learning environment, ultimately I want it to be someplace that my students feel at home in, and maybe [hopefully], somewhat inspired. Along those lines, I have also introduced the “Quote of the Day” activity to the class., Each morning I write a new quotation (that I think relevant or that they may connect with in some way) on a small whiteboard which students copy into their notebooks. The quotes come from a variety of sources – from Ghandi to Wayne Gretzky to Michael Jackson and Confucius. We discuss the quotes’ significance, where they originated and a bit about the person who said them, if this information is available. Students are encouraged to come up with their own inspirational quotes for the quote of the day, which they are expected to explain to the class, along with why they chose it. When I next have some money burning a hole in my pocket, I plan to buy another white board, this time for a “word of the day”, as I did when teaching in London, and as my friend and colleague Safia has her in classroom back in Canada.

Speaking of the homeland, a very important addition to the classroom décor is on its way to me in a few short weeks courtesy of my aunt and a care package being brought over by my friend Rosalind. Three guesses as to what it is…