inspiration.

Many of the entries on this blog speak to the difficult issues that are faced by my students, to the injustices that are part of this country’s landscape, to the challenges that are part of the everyday for people living below the poverty line in South Africa.

But it is not all bad.

Frequently I have interactions, experiences, moments of revelation where I see the joy…beauty…inspiration that exists all around. It creeps out of the cracks, it grows from concrete and is resilient against even the most harsh of circumstance.
Thursday of last week a student came into my classroom during lunchtime. He had been one of the students who had taken part in the poetry competition earlier this year, although he had not been selected to go on to the final. He told me that he and some other students had been talking about starting a poetry club and that they wanted to know if I would take part and offer guidance and support as they felt things would run more smoothly if I was involved. Of course I accepted.

I told him that I would make an announcement the following day to call all those students who were interested in poetry to come to a meeting in my classroom at lunchtime. There we could brainstorm about what we (they) wanted to do with the poetry club and make a plan for when we would meet.

The next day about 15 students from all grades and social groups turned up for the lunchtime meeting. I had them move the desks into a circle so that we were all facing each other.

I introduced myself to the group for those I did not know, acknowledged the student whose idea it had been, then as I had been asked to do, briefly introduced what the poetry club was all about. In short, it is to be a forum for poets to read their work, get feedback from other poets and discuss poetry. I then suggested we go around the circle and one by one introduce ourselves, tell the group when we started writing poetry, why we enjoy poetry, if there is anything in particular we enjoy writing about, when we write, if there are any poets we admire, and so on.

At first some were shy, but as we went around the circle the students became more engaged and animated. It was beautiful. I then suggested that we decide on the house rules for the meetings of the poetry club, which we did. The rules, (which the students themselves chose), are below.

In order to offer a bit more structure to the club and its meetings, I suggested that we meet twice a week – Tuesdays and Fridays – at lunchtime. At the end of the Friday meetings, I would give students a topic on which they would be expected to write a poem for Tuesday’s meeting. Students would be free to interpret the topic in any way they saw fit. For Friday meetings, students could present any poem they liked – original or that of a poet they admire. My only caveat was that the poems that I assigned must be written in English. Friday’s poems could be written in any language the students liked.

For those who have not ever worked with young people or teenagers, particularly those who come from disadvantaged backgrounds, it is difficult to describe the flood of emotions one experiences when you are involved in something that causes the faces of those kids to light up. There was no denying the excitement that each of them felt at the prospect of having a poetry club, having an opportunity to create and share with others in the creative process.

Among the countless forms of discrimination that these kids face, perhaps most saddening is their creative and artistic suffocation. There are not many opportunities for youth to express their creativity and those programs that do exist do not have the resources to accommodate the number of kids wishing to take part.

Today was our first meeting and it went extremely well. Unsurprisingly the poems were incredible…possessing of great depth and power. Students presented their poems – some shyly, some more confident, and then gave each other feedback. All said that they couldn’t wait until the next meeting. I distributed notebooks that had been brought by a friend on a visit to Cape Town to each of the poets for them to keep their poetry in. Though she brought 12 I am on my way to Walton’s this evening to buy more. It was clear very soon into the meeting that one meeting a week wouldnt be enough for each of the students to read their poems, so we decided we would do the assigned poems for both meetings one week and poetry of their choice on alternate weeks.

Yesterday the young man whose idea the group had been approached me to tell me that he had a small drum at home and if I thought it would be a good idea for him to bring the drum for the meeting. I just smiled and nodded.

...

HOUSE RULES

1. All poems assigned by Miss Alex must be written in English.
2. Please be on time for all meetings.
3. Show professionalism and respect your fellow poets.
4. Encourage each other.
5. Be constructive with all criticism.
6. Be non-judgemental
7. What is said in the house, stays in the house.

...

your move...

About two months ago we began running an after school chess class. This was made possible through an EwB collaboration with Chess for Hope (http://www.ikamva.org/chess-4-hope/index.html), an initiative of Ikamva Labantu, an NGO that runs various programs for youth in the townships. As part of the Chess for Hope program, a teacher would come twice a week to work with the students and teach them how to play chess, while using this platform as a “vehicle for social and personal change”. The program has thus far only been operating in Primary Schools, as this is where they feel they can have the greatest impact (and the proof is in the pudding as their success in the schools in which they have been working over the past few years is astounding), they made an exception for Fezeka.

I was in charge of recruiting students for the chess club, which didn’t prove very difficult, although unfortunately we have yet to have a female member. There are a few girls that drop in from time to time, but generally the core group is all male. In total there are about 12-15 boys who come to my classroom to practice.

Unfortunately, their teacher was recently let go from his position, so the kids have been without a teacher for the past month. I have been assured from my contact at Ikamva Labantu that they are searching for another teacher. Regardless, the students continue to come and play at every opportunity.

For the first few weeks since the Easter Break, we were without Internet at school. Because of this, when we were back up and running late last week the emails to the school came flooding in. Among these was an email to all schools about a Chess Tournament taking place in Kraaifontein. I received the email on a Friday. The tournament was the next day, the deadline to register had been the week before. Undeterred, I tracked down the event organizer and was thankfully able to convince him to let us register anywayand pay a much-reduced registration fee.

The next morning at 7:45 am, my friend Carnita and I were at school to take the 9 students who had been able to go, to the tournament. Waking up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning doesn’t exactly rate highly on my list of favorite things to do but for my kids there’s little that I won’t agree to. We were on our way and the sun was shining brightly. A warm 24 degree autumn day. Gorgeous.

We reached Aristea Primary School around 8:30am. The difference between the school we had just left and the one we were walking into was impossible to ignore, as were the facilities. A green regulation football-sized field and a huge assembly hall greeted us up arrival. Though the students said nothing, I am sure I was not the only one who noticed the stark contrast.

In the hall rows upon rows of tables had been set up, with chess boards sitting atop the length of them. Kids as young as 5 were focused on their games and the din was barely above a murmur. I had told the students to come in full uniform as we were representing the school. As soon as we walked in it was clear we were the only ones who had felt the need to do so. Although I know none of them were pleased about wearing school uniform on a Saturday, none said anything to me. Personally I think they looked the sharpest of the bunch.

I spoke with the woman who appeared to be in charge and paid the registration fee. She informed me that the list of opponents would be posted outside shortly. When the time for this came it ended up there had been an error and all but one of our boys were without a match. They ended up playing each other for the first round. It was a fantastic experience watching all these kids play chess and definitely a first for our kids. It was obvious that many of these children had been playing chess for years and quite a few of them seemed to know each other. In regards to the racial demographic it was indeed mixed, although truth be told, the majority of the black kids were with us or had come as part of the Chess for Hope and Chess for Change (another NGO).

After the second round two of our kids had beaten their opponents, which we celebrated. It was the first time any of them had played against anyone but each other or friends and family members so their wins were especially sweet. As it was an all-day tourney, the time in between the games was quite lengthy. 2 hours was allocated for each game, with a half hour break in between. When it came time for lunch, Carnita and I surprised them by treating them to KFC. They were especially happy about this.

During the breaks the students would play chess with each other and many of the various other kids who were attending the tournament. A large group of children from Chess for Hope were there, many of them very young. These 7-year old girls were challenging our 19-year old boys group with a simple point of the index finger and “you’re next”. And they beat them badly. These kids have been playing for two years and aside from their chess skills, the confidence that playing (and winning) the game has given them is astounding.

The later rounds were not as successful for our boys. Regardless, it was a good day. The students left keener on chess than ever, as there is little that can force a 19-year old man to recognize the need to up his game than getting checkmated by a 7-year old girl in 4 moves.

The most interesting parts of the day came for me in conversations with the group. As I often do in discussions with my students, I gently prodded for information about their lives in an as non-intrusive way as possible. How did they all turn out so good? I asked them. All good students, without any records of truancy, no obvious involvement in crime or drugs, they clearly take their education seriously. Their reply to my question was simple:

Because they have support at home.

It didn’t matter if they came from single parent, grandparent or extended-family headed families, they all have support of some kind at home. This was both poignant and saddening as although this is hardly a surprise, hearing it from the mouths of these kids was for some reason more real, if that makes sense. None of them live in shacks either, I later found out on our car ride home. Carnita’s car rides were no less informative and entertaining. As she is equally interested in the students' lives, they had several great discussions in her car. Our favorite snippet of the conversation follows. Carnita asked each young man who is currently in grade 12 what they wanted to be doing next year and what they thought they were going to be doing next year. The most chatty and confident of the group wasted no time in replying:

“I want to be a civil engineer, but I think I’m going to be a sound engineer.”


…Check.

Eye on the prize.

Almost daily I am humbled in one way or another living in Cape Town and working in Gugulethu. These reminders of my privilege are generally administered by one of my students.

This morning one of my grade 11 students approached me to discuss his first term mark, with which he was unhappy. Not so much that he was unhappy with me, but rather that he was disappointed with himself and wanted to know what he could do to improve. He is genuinely dedicated to succeeding, despite the laundry list of challenges that lie before him.

He is a new student to the school this year, so I asked him where he had been before Fezeka. He told me that he and his mother had moved to the Cape Town area this year from the Free State province, located in the North West of the country and known as the Transvaal during the Apartheid era. To this day, Free State remains the most racist part of the country where the discriminatory beliefs of the old regime are still clung to by many of the Boers living there and it is where, as recently as last year, the 18 year old son of a white farmer opened fire in a black township and killed 6 – the youngest of which was 6 months old.

I asked my student what it was like growing up in Free State. “It was hard Miss,” was all he replied, though it was clear that he was understating the realities of just how bad. I asked him what he found hardest about the move to the Western Cape and Cape Town. He said that he was really struggling with the English, as the English he had been taught in Primary School was far more basic. For all intents and purposes the Bantu education system seemed to be alive and well in Free State, as this young man’s proficiency in the language is quite poor, despite the fact that he is clearly a student who is trying his best.

Then he told me where he lives.

Tokkai is located in the Southern Suburbs, about 30-odd kilometres from Fezeka. Every weekday morning, this young man leaves the house at 5:30 am and takes a bus, a train and two taxis to get to school for 8:00 am. I asked him why he then chose to attend Fezeka and not a school that was closer to home and he told me that he had heard Fezeka was the best so he knew it was the place for him.

He went on to tell me that he and one of his friends (another student of mine) have started an after school study group (of 2), so that they can help each other out in the subject areas with which they are struggling. Sometimes, he told me, they stay at school until 6:00pm or later. Stunned, I asked him what time this meant he got home.

Smiling, he looked at me and replied: “Miss, it’s okay if I’m at school late. I really want to succeed. I’m dedicated to succeeding. If I get home at 10pm its okay because I am coming from school. I’m not running the streets getting into trouble. I am at school, studying, trying to make a difference for my future. Because if I don’t, no one else will.”

Ray of Light

In preparation for a city-wide poetry, reading, speech-writing and art competition last month, we held an in-school tryout to determine which students would be representing Fezeka. I was asked to adjudicate. Initially reluctant (“How can I judge their poetry?!”), by the end I was so grateful to have been selected for the job. To say I was blown away by the quality of their works seems inadequate. Stirring, emotional, eloquently-worded original poetry flowed out of their young mouths like it had been doing so for years. Some had found out about the competition the day prior and written their pieces the night before. I could not tell which were which. Their poems left the audience in tears…wild applause and cheers. Absolutely fantastic.

The subject matters of the poems were of note as well. Of 17 poets, 2 wrote about experiences of rape, 2 about HIV and AIDS, 2 were about war, 3 were about identity and sense of self. The remainder touched on dreams for the future, fighting discrimination and the search for equality, among others.

After an extremely difficult selection process I was able to decide on the two winners. We entered one student from Grade 10 and one from Grade 11. Just before the Easter break respective school winners were invited to an event at the Cape Town Central Library, where students from different schools got a chance to see and hear the works of their peers. Of about 90 students, only 5 were asked to read theirs out loud. The poem below is our Grade 10 student’s entry, which was one of the 5 selected to be read. The poem that follows that is our Grade 11 students’ entry. No one winner was chosen from the group and all students were given R100 certificates to CNA, which is a book and stationary store. Our 8 students (2 from each of the poetry, reading, speech-writing and art categories), were all ecstatic about their prizes and when we took them to the store to use their certificates they literally were like kids in candy stores. Only this candy was books and school supplies. Which one could easily argue is much better for your teeth.

...

Will we ever reach the Promised Land?

Remember the days,
When Apartheid reigned?

People suffered and cried,
Till they couldn’t cry no more.
Parents were taken away,
And children left without hope.

Blood was shed, sacrifices were made,
Some were failed and some were prisoners.
In the name of “inkululeko”, freedom.

Fists were lifted high, people screaming:
“Amandla, amandla nga wethu!”
The power is ours for they wanted to reach
the Promised Land,
Land of freedom.

Finally the day that all awaited arrived.
Freedom arrived, people jumped up and down saying:
“We are the Rainbow Nation”.

But what lies behind the rainbow?

We see crime and HIV seriously want to take control,
Rape and abuse are becoming a tradition,
Political intolerance is becoming fashion.

And now we cry everyday asking:
“Will we ever reach the Promised Land?”
Remember ‘Aluta continua’:
The Battle is still on.

...

African Girl

I am an African Girl.

I am proud to be an African Girl.

I live in Africa.
I dress like an African.
I speak an African language.
I eat African food because
I am an African Girl.

I am as black as black can be.
Dark as sunshine and lily flowers.

When it comes to reading I
usually go to the library to brush
dust from ancient texts.
Because I am and African and
I want to know my background.
From scrolls I will read about my past.

To new generations who are trying to
run away from their cultures,
I wish that they would follow and enjoy my culture.

I am a natural resource.

When it comes to hair, I am as natural as they come.
I don’t wear artificials because I can’t change my nature
or
because I want to look like
somebody that I am not
because
I am a natural girl.

When it comes to cosmetics,
I use Sunlight blue soap.

Because I am an African Girl.

Voting Day

Today is voting day. For the last few weeks there has been much fuss made about what its outcome will be, although it is of little doubt given that Dr. Mandela has now so publically lent his support to the ruling African National Congress party (ANC). This is troubling. Not so much for the party as for the man who will run the country should they win. Unfortunately, many people will vote for the ANC not because of what it and Jacob Zuma stand for, but rather based on the fact that they see the ANC as the party that brought Democracy to South Africa. Such politics do not bode well for the history of this country. As my housemate so concisely put it – the ANC of 1994 would never have wanted the ANC of 2009.

Similarly to other countries where issues around race are forever part of the landscape, people here tend to continue to vote along racial lines. In a conversation with one of my friends who is coloured, she told me that she has spoken with friends of hers who despite being educated and for the most part politically aware, refuse to vote for the Democratic Alliance (internet poll-elected ‘Mayor of the World’ Helen Zille – the current mayor of Cape Town who after today will either be Premier of the Western Cape or a member of the Provincial Legislature), is a DA party member and this part of the Western Cape is the only part of the country where the Democratic Alliance has any significant presence). My friend went on to say that she would indeed cast her ballot for the DA as her vote was based on service delivery rather than the historical race issues surrounding the various parties. As with those who will vote for the ANC for what significance it holds for them in history, for many the DA still to this day represents the white man.

Regardless of the outcome, today and every voting day since 1994 is a huge day in this country, having been declared a public holiday in order to give everyone ample chance to vote. People have come out in droves to exercise their democratic right today, with some polling stations taking hours to enter due to overwhelming voter turnout and lines of people rounding city blocks.

In spite of this significance, one cannot help but feel concerned (frightened?) at the very real likelihood that tomorrow this nation will wake up to find that their new leader is an accused (although later acquitted amidst great controversy) rapist who has hundreds of corruption and fraud charges brought against him* and whose very public and widely publicized HIV prevention method involves showering after unprotected sex.

...

* http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=3086&art_id=vn20090422051146846C870668

we are the world.

On Friday I got a phone call from a guy who works with the drama club from time to time. He told me that he had a group of American students with him and wanted to bring them to meet our Drama kids.

After school the 20-odd strong American contingent arrived, 18 students and about 5 adults from a small private drama school located close to Monterey Bay in California. All Juniors and Seniors, I would guess ranged in age from about 15-17 and were accompanied by two teachers, a photographer, a videographer, their South African contact, a Nigerian teacher with whom they were working, and my contact.

A very well-behaved group of teenagers, my first observation was on how smartly they were all dressed. Boys dressed in trousers, shirts and ties, girls in blouses and skirts. The group was overwhelmingly female and predominately Caucasian.

When school had let out our kids joined the group in my classroom. I suggested we move into a circle to better facilitate conversation. The American teacher then put them into groups that were mixed with students from both schools. Students spent some time chatting, learning about each other and finding common interests. When we returned to the circle the teacher asked them to volunteer some information about what they had learned. Tastes in music were quite similar, types of school that the two groups of students attended were not. The American school is apparently quite small, with only a couple of a hundred students, and is located in the middle of lush Californian forest. In contrast Fezeka has over 1100 learners is located in the middle of a township with no forests and very little greenery for miles.

The conversation was candid and warm, all students clearly happy to learn about a new culture. A drum was brought in and our students, with no hesitation began singing and dancing for the visitors. Initially our students were standing on one side of the class and the Americans on the other, but soon they were again in a circle. One by one our students went into the middle of the circle while the drum beat played and danced, then pulled various American students into the circle to dance with them. It was lovely.

The American students, having been in South Africa for the better part of 3 weeks, had been trying to learn the South African national anthem. They had succeeded in learning the first verse, which is no small feat. They asked our kids to sing with them, and our kids obliged. Afterwards, I told them that it was only fair that they now sing their national anthem for the Fezeka students. They decided against this because of its high pitch and instead opted to sing a song from Rent.

Afterwards the Fezeka students performed a couple of short drama pieces that they had written for the visitors. Again, I urged the Americans to reciprocate. As it turns out, a huge part of their school drama program is a 3 hour Indian play which they have been putting on for 30 years. When students arrive at the school in kindergarten they play a certain role in the production, and this role changes according to their age and grade. As it was such a long play, they decided to do a short piece from it that involved singing and dancing. Afterwards a very talented young man in the American group did some incredible break dancing, which blew everyone in the room away.

At the end of the shared time students sat in a circle and had the opportunity to say anything they wanted, many offered words of thanks and appreciation for having had the opportunity to share with each other, if only for a couple hours.

It was what one of the American students said that struck me the most and is the impetus for this blog entry. Reflecting on the time they had spent together, she told the Fezeka students how this had been her favorite experience of the whole trip. Before visiting Fezeka, the teacher had told me, the students had been to Kruger national part and seen the big 5; spent time visiting various tourist destinations and that very morning had had a private audience with Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Yet, this experience had been her favorite. She then went on to say how inspired she had been by our kids and how confident and warm they had been when asked to perform. When the American students had sung and performed, many were giggling, looking at each other and blushing in shyness. Very few were confident enough to sing in their loudest voice.
By contrast, she continued, the South African students were unabashed in their singing, dancing, acting and friendliness. Almost all sang in their loudest voices, clapping and cheering others on while they did the same. They were not shy, reserved or apprehensive about getting up and dancing in front of strangers.

Her observation was quite astute and got me to thinking about the reasons for this. Obviously singing and dancing plays a prominent role in South African culture, but is that all? In the Western world, most children of privilege are raised to believe that they can do anything! The world is your oyster! You are capable! You have potential! From my experience, this is rarely the case with the students I teach and one would most certainly assume others from the townships. Yet it was the drama students from the private school in the woods who had a harder time performing in front of strangers than the economically deprived drama kids from the township.

It should be said that in no way am I trying to pass any sort of judgment here – all the students were incredible and talented and wonderful – merely that their differing levels of willingness to perform was an interesting notion to consider while speculating on the basis for these differences.

touch.

In Western teaching contexts teachers are discouraged and often fearful from having any direct physical contact with students. A hand on the shoulder could be misinterpreted as a come on, paying too much attention to a particular student could be seen as inappropriate. While granted there are incidences where such over-caution is warranted, the majority of it is characteristic of the Western World’s oft sterile and individualistic cultures. Take away touch and you take away the warmth of human contact. Stay away from me you have germs.

Such phobias are unheard of here. Touch is an integral part of the cultures and communities within which I work. Students are extremely affectionate with each other, constantly holding hands, arms draped over and around each other, regardless of gender. Teachers are the same with one another, and constantly speak to each other using such affectionate terms such as ‘sweetie’, ‘baby’, ‘darling’ and ‘my angel’. The issue of personal space is a foreign concept. Behaviour that may be considered improper on a different latitude is part of the everyday. Being a very tactile person by nature, I thrive in such a context, particularly with my students who smile when I call them sweetheart or greet me with hugs after an extended break from school.

South Africans often kiss on the lips when they greet. There is nothing sexual about this. Family members do it. Friends do it. Sometimes people who are meeting for the first time do it. Having first being exposed to this practice when I lived in Australia among many Zimbabweans and South Africans I was not surprised the first time a man I had just met (a friend of a friend) kissed me on the lips when we parted ways. I can’t help but laugh however at the thought of how such a custom would be interpreted back home...

Systemic Discrimination.

The other day after class, one of my Grade 10 students shyly approached me to tell me that she couldn’t read. I asked her if it was the order of words she had trouble with, for if she was mixing up the words it would likely be dyslexia rather than illiteracy. She said no, that it was the words themselves. The smaller ones she was okay with but the bigger words she simply could not understand.

Spending time dwelling on how this young woman has made it as far as Grade 10 without being able to read is futile. This harsh reality serves as only another reminder of how sub-par the education that black children receive in this country. She is unable to read in High School because in Primary School she wasn’t properly taught the fundamentals.

This student is not unique in being a victim of this injustice. She is just the only one who has been brave enough to speak up.

"What a strange thing a dead bodies."

After a lesson discussing the use of imagery and painting a picture for readers in creative writing, students were asked to write something beginning with the following sentence:

“I turned the corner and couldn’t believe what I saw…”

...

I turned the corner and I could’nt believe what i saw. Last weekend i saw two people were drunk, they were drinking alcohol one of them drink too much than other one. So Sipho beat Xolani. I ran to tell my parents they were in the dark place, my heart was beating fast beacose Sipho was having gun, and Xolani was having knife. I was afraid as if they will shot me then my parents go to that tavel so they were stopping them but Sipho did’nt listen to them. He shot Xolani and he died immediately. At that night I did’nt sleep beacose it was like Xolani is in side the house I was sweating and I did’nt even breath beacoze I was scard.

…

I turned the corner and could’nt believe what I saw…

A young lady was beaten by her boy-friend, her mouth was red like a tomato. People were watching that scary thing. Her boyfriend was like a lion seeking for a meat, everybody was scared at the beach. The boy took the young lsay and they went to the sea to wash the young lady’s face because, here face was stll full of blood. I was very very angry that day I felt like that boy is beating me. What is worse is that the young lady was wearing swimming clothes and it was a hot day.

...

I turned the corner and couldn’t believe what I saw, The guy that I dreamed about yesterday at night and I was very shocked because it was my first time seeing him, I saw him once on my dream and I couldn’t believe it. I never talked with him, I never walked with him but I dreamed about him, why? The answer is... I’m in love with him. It was like i’m seeing the president or someone special, I had that feeling when the world is smilling and you and you’re smiling back. It was a sunny day, and I was walking alone same as he. When I looked at him i blushed and he smiled back at me, I thought he loved me be he didn’t because I found out that he has a gal of his own, I was very disapointed and sad Because I never felt that way in my life. The moment he pass through me I was like i’m in heaven where there’s only happiness not sadness but all I had was a dream.

...

I turned the corner and couldn’t believe what I saw The beuatiful child and who was the girl. She cried so sad and with a sad face. And she was so hungry. If think she is about 7-8 monts her mother left her in the dump. Becouse the boyfriend left the mother of the child. He said this child is not my.

...

I turned the corner and couldn’t believe what I saw a beatiful moon and stars in the blue sky and I felt like I was dreaming. Because I never saw the darkenss of the night. What a romantic night to day. Just me chiling on the beach. But most people were enjoying the part in the beach near to me. But on my mind therse something is telling me that something is going to happened. But I didn’t mind for that. People were swimming other enjoying their drinks. And this thing in my mind keeps going and now I felt so afraid and cold. Then I feel the wind after that I started shaking. One of the girls asked me What is going on you seemd like you afraid of something? then I said yes, I feel like therse some thing is gion to happened. And the wing was too strong. Therse nothing I can all I have is to worn those people to hide now because now I have I huge feeling that it is not wind only. I sai hide, hide. One of them said what. Then I speak loudly every on hide, hide. But they were not strong enough to high. The what a dark huge rain and block of ice were falling down. Then I hide for my self with the others that they have power to stand up. But when the wind, ice and rain was gone in the morning. What a strange thing a dead bodies. Some of them they fell under the bottles of alcohol and glasses. What a strong blood of people. Then after that my hope was gone I felt therse no one left.

...

heat.

February is often the hottest month in Cape Town. With the mercury hitting 38 degrees over the past few days, 2009 looks to be no exception.

At school, in a loose blouse and skirt, I am sweating. Yet my students – in some combination of polyester tracksuit, poly blend skirt (with nylons) or trousers, button down shirt, wool sweater, tie and blazer – rarely make any adjustment to their uniforms. When I tell them they can take off their jackets and sweaters or loosen their ties, none of them do, even when they are constantly fanning themselves and perspiration is visibly forming on their faces.

At home sitting in our kitchen, my feet on the cool tiled floors, every available door and window open and a fan in my face, the heat is not unpleasant. Take away these luxuries, replace windows and doors and cool tiles and fans with corrugated metal walls and a tin roof and this scene does a complete 180.

In seeking relief from the scorching temperatures, many Capetonians head to the beach and the more affluent lounge by their pools. For most of my students, this is simply not an option. Despite being less than a half hour drive for most, beaches are generally out of reach due to lack of transport. Camps Bay is not a popular route for the mini taxis that go to and from the townships…

in the staffroom during lunch just now,

some colleagues sitting around me were deeply involved in a conversation of a serious matter. As they were speaking in Xhosa it was their body languages and hushed tones that conveyed the topic of their discussion to me rather than their words.

When they stopped, I asked the one closest to me what they had been talking about.

"Death," came her reply. "Death and breavement."

Death is an inescapable part of township life. It is everywhere - from the dead dogs that are so common on the roads into and around Gugulethu, to the shack fires that regularly destroy homes (the most recent a mighty blaze that erased 200 shacks and left over 1000 homeless), to the teacher absences several times a month for bereavement, to the metaphorical death of potential so visible in the countless young adults - high school dropouts or grads - I see wandering around the townships during the day, desolate and unemployed.

I asked my colleague what she would guess the leading cause of death to be in those that are dying before their time.

"HIV, especially young women," she replied without a moment's hesitation.

I asked her if she knew many people who were positive.

"Yes. And who have died. We all do."

She spoke of how women are the more easily infected and how the power balance in sexual relationships is so extremely far from equal.

"It is not even a surprise," she said, "to hear of a married woman who has been infected by her husband."

This increasingly common occurrence is of course due to the husbands in these relationships being unfaithful, not using protection in these extra-marital affairs, and refusing to use condoms with their wives.

My colleague continued. “Men - especially married men - do not like to wear condoms. They say that they do not enjoy sex with them, and find it an insult to even be asked."

Confirmation of this behavior by adult men comes as little surprise. I have often seen evidence of these learned attitudes and beliefs exhibited by my male students who spout a similar rhetoric when justifying their unsafe sex practices.

happy new year!

At Fezeka we spent the first few days of this week preparing for a new school year. Monday and Tuesday were dedicated to planning, timetabling and analysis of last year’s (rather discouraging as failure rates were quite high) student reports.

In these meetings I learned that I would not be teaching my 2008 Grade 11 English students, despite what I had been previously advised and what I had subsequently told my students. The reason for this decision was explained as follows. Grade 12 is the Matriculation (exams students must pass in order to graduate high school) year for students and as such is a very important milestone in their education. Those who teach Grade 12 are subject to rigorous and continuous evaluation and monitoring by the Western Cape Education Department (WCED). When Fazeka’s Senior Management Team (SMT) met after the close of school last year, they decided that my students should be taught by a teacher who is actually registered with the WCED (versus myself, who since I am not, am not technically qualified to teach in a Western Cape school), to avoid any issues with departmental officials.

While I was disappointed to not be spending another year with this group of students, I understood the reasoning behind their decision. On the plus side, I am still teaching 2 of the classes I had from last year – those from my grade 10 English classes who were promoted to grade 11 (sadly, only about 60% of them), and those from my grade 10 Life Orientation class in the same situation (a slightly better average with about a 68% pass rate). I am also teaching a new grade 10 class – a mixture of new students from our [feeder school that teaches grade 8 and 9] Songeze campus and repeater students from Fezeka who did not pass grade 10 last year. Further, fortunately the teacher who will be teaching my Grade 11s from last year is my closest colleague and we have since discussed ways that we can share the teaching of this group of students.

Although I know teachers are not supposed to have favorites, I must admit that I was particularly saddened to find one of my brightest pupils from grade 10 last year had not made the grade to pass on to grade 11. On the first day of classes one of the class teachers (Fezeka’s equivalent of a homeroom teacher) was absent. As I am not a class teacher, I was asked to mind the class for the day. I won’t get into the chaos that reigned supreme on day one of the 2009 school year, but suffice to say that things could have been far better organized. When the dust settled, the group I had herded into my classroom was composed of about 48 students who had chosen this classroom based on a sign I had held up during morning assembly that listed the subjects students who chose this classroom would be taking. (At least most of them did. Once inside my classroom I informed them that I wouldn’t actually be teaching them and that I was just filling in for their actual class teacher who was absent, 4 students asked to be excused and never came back). Other teachers also held up signs with course lists on them, and students grouped accordingly. In this class I spotted about 10 students who had been in my English class last year. I was surprised to find this particular student among them as I had assumed based on his performance in my class last year that he would have breezed into the next year.

I could tell as soon as I saw him that he was embarrassed to be there. He didn’t speak once during class, even when his colleagues were chatting away noisily while I distributed their school-issued stationary and books for the year. When it was his turn to collect his allocation, I quietly asked him what had happened.

“Maths, Miss,” he immediately replied without looking up, as if he had known I would ask and was too shy to make eye contact. “Math is not my thing,” he continued.

I asked him what else he had failed, for as far as I knew if students failed one subject but attained at least a level 4 (40% and above) in all other subjects, they were promoted to the next grade. He said only Maths. This both confused and surprised me, and as he shuffled back to his seat I made a mental note to explore this further.

After school I went to speak to relevant department Head (incidentally, the same person who is responsible for students’ social welfare is also the year head for grade 10), to ask her what had gone on. We looked up his report card from last year and found that not only had he failed Maths, but History and IT as well. I also noticed that the mark he had received in my class was the highest of the lot, and that he had only passed [Home Language] Xhosa by the skin of his teeth (Home Language is often one of the highest marks students receive). Hm.

The next day I found him in the schoolyard during lunch and asked him to come to my classroom. When we were inside I asked him why he had told me that he had only failed Maths. Though his skin is quite dark, I could still notice a reddening in his cheeks.

“Because Miss, I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. I wanted you to find out for yourself.”

We then spoke about the year ahead and what he could do differently to ensure that the same mistake doesn’t happen. He said he was going to be more focused this year and try harder. I asked him about his Xhosa mark. He said that before Fezeka he had been at an English school (which explains his strength in English), and that when he was put into Xhosa class here at Fezeka it had been difficult for him because it had been some time since he had studied the language.

Before we parted I told him that I would be keeping an eye on him this year and checking in with him every once in a while to see how he was doing on his studies. He thanked me for this and said he would not let me down. I reminded him that it was himself more than anyone that he should be worrying about letting down but whatever works as the motivating factor works for me, so long as he tries his best.

And so, we start the New Year. At the beginning of the second week of school, things are beginning to calm down somewhat, as students are moved around to best accommodate their desired areas of study as well as class sizes, and timetabling kinks are ironed out.

Over the next stretch some of the initiatives that Education without Borders, www.educationwithoutborders.ca has been the catalyst for in a variety of ways will begin to take flight. After school photography workshops with a fantastic local photographer www.vanessacowling.com and a chess cum life skills program (Chess 4 Hope, a community project being offered by Ikamva Labantu www.ikamva.org/index.html) are due to get going in mid-Feb. The procurement and distribution of English dictionaries to all students at Fezeka (something I am extremely excited about and have been advocating for some time), will hopefully come to fruition in the next few weeks. We are continuing with the very successful dance workshops that began last year with ikapa Dance Theatre www.ikapadancetheatre.co.za, and once school has settled into a more stable routine, I will resume my after school computer classes, meet with the students who had expressed an interest in starting a school magazine, and check in with the Drama Club to see how things are going.

Despite the fact that this year has only just begun and I have said that my time at Fezeka will likely come to an end at the conclusion of this school year, people (students, staff, family and friends both here and at home), have already asked me about where next year (2010) will find me. Although it is indeed far too early to tell, the warmth that I felt from staff and students who welcomed me back and eagerly shared their summer holiday stories with me while asking about mine, coupled with the familiar high I experienced during a terrific class last week give me the impression that I may not be going anywhere fast…

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.