The Unsustainable Suit of Armor

7.8.09

Her name is Thabeela (Tab-ee-la). She is 18 and reminds me everyday she is stronger than me. She is Nelly’s niece and one of my closest friends here. My homestead is one of the farthest from any other volunteer’s- which I am grateful for- it allows me to be closer to my family. I unlike most of the PCT’s, spend almost every moment with my family. I have heard so many horror stories from other PCT’s. Gogo’s screaming when women pull out their pants form the suitcase. Mkhulu’s screaming at the PCT wife handing her huband juice, “You will kneel and bow when you serve your husband!” Some slaughter on their homesteads. Their families hassle them everyday for money and either ignore or demand all of their attention. “Dance little white girl dance!”

My family and I stay up until ten at night in the outdoor kitchen- just me and the ladies laughing and dancing. “You look so smart in pants Simphiwe!” They apparently like how loud and engaging I am- love how much I eat. Other families have told mine they wish they had me. I wish this would be my two year family. But this is only the 9 week one. It will be so hard to leave Thabeela in August.



One night Thabeela and I sit at the kitchen table having another one of our heart to hearts. She tells me her mother left she and her brother here with their Gogo- a year ago. Her mother didn’t say goodbye- just dropped them off. When she asked her Gogo where her mother was she told her she went to look for work in South Africa. Thabeela has not seen or spoken to her mother since. Looking away from me now, her voice cracks, tears collect in her eyes. She looks down and whispers, “I will forget her now. There is no point. No point in remembering her now. It gets in the way of school. I want to forget her. Will you forget your mother Simphiwe- after two years?” “No. I wont Thabeela. I don’t have the anger you have. My mother is very much apart of my life- even when I am not with her.” She responds, “This is good” Her eyes tear. “This is good.”

I ask Thabeela about the Peace Corps Volunteer doing HIV education in her school. I ask what is she teaching you exactly? “Seminal fluids, transmission, prevention, breast milk, contraction.” Thabeela just re-sighted the first chapter of HIV 101. But does she know what any of those words mean? Turns out she didn’t. It’s pretty entertaining watching the face of a 17 year old virgin (we’re talking the utmost virgin) when your describing what semen is and how it comes to….well be.

But why are we even teaching the technicals of HIV when it is the relationship dynamics of Swazi culture that is causing the virus to grab ahold of them? I ask her, “Do Swazi boys and girls know HIV is out there?” “Everybody knows. Only the girls are scared. Their boyfriends threaten to beat or kill them if they do not sleep with them. We hear stories of girls bodies found in the mountains- who said no.” Sex is everywhere in this country. Many are not married with out children- multiple partners. Teen pregnancies- drop outs.

In class today we are told to come up with a small problem in our community and to solve it together. It’s just an exercise to get us thinking about the appropriate steps. Me always jumping ahead- I find it a waste of time. I distract my group with questions such as, “So what are we going to do about the ‘men’ problem?!’ “I mean I know Peace Corps is all about empowering women, soccer clubs, sewing clubs, giving them the skills and the courage to be independent. HIV theatre and HIV camps. But who is out there talking to the men?! I mean it brings me back to my high school experience. During PE all the girls had to leave and be taught how to scream effectively and quickly get away from a rapist. While the boys continued to play kickball for the hour. WHO’S TALKING TO THE MEN. I can help build these suit of armors for women- but I wouldn’t have to build them if the men would just wake up. Let’s go straight to the source here. I want to have a conversation with them.” One PCT looks at me, hands in the air, and says, “Wow Mere- if that’s your goal for the next two years- you’re going to be sadly disappointed. Im not even going to try and approach that subject. It’s a loose loose.” And this is sad. Think about how many more men he could reach- as a young white male. Wishing I was man.

Im not trying to change a culture into a more American one here. This is not about women doing all the dishes and men sitting at the head of the table. What is happening here- is a universal wrong. The idea of universal anything- is one that bothers me. I remember having a conversation with my step father- Jesse- about it many times. The topic was female circumcision. I explained to him the idea of female circumcision is not ultimately an immoral one. It is tradition and I tried to look at it from all angles. As a woman, this was especially difficult. I am always in fear of imposing my cultural beliefs onto anyone. Jesse believed there was a universal morality- whereas I did not. It was up to each community to figure out collectively what was “right” or “wrong”.

Swazi morality is what a man says is right or wrong. So if there is no universal morality- the Swazi “Right’ must be the moral one and no need for us to intervene. But this belief is causing almost half of the population to die before the age of 32. This cannot be moral. This is not about politics- people are dying.

I cannot just empower women with sewing machines and condoms. I want to start a conversation with these boys. But how do I do this as an outsider- and even worse- a woman.

After dinner Thabeela wants me to help her with her homework- away from the others. She tells me she and her friends believe I am easy to talk to. They want me to come to their school- to talk. I explain, as soon as I have a free moment, and given permission- I am there. Her assignment, “Why is the HIV rate so high in Swaziland.” In my head im screaming the answer. It’s a controversial answer. So I let her answer.

The sun is setting now. My hut door is open and I am writing by candlelight. I hear Gagash whistling and ticking at his cows. Everyday, 5 pm, he herds the free ranging, free grazing beasts into their sleeping pin right outside my hut. I can hear the cows one by one slowly walking up the hill, brushing against the tall dry grass- obeying little man whistles. Turing right- turning left- in unison- until they are fenced in ready to sleep. Gate closed. The African sun gracefully puts herself to sleep. She whispers to me, “Welcome back home Mere.” A brush of wind slides over me as I breathe in Africa. I look down at the red soil underneath my barefeet- the southern night sky above my head. Always the same- like a crystal ball shattered into a million pieces lingering above- twinkling secrets of a time when they too were once apart of something bigger.

It’s a harvest moon tonight. My favorite moon. Everytime I see her warm face I remember being six years old- away from my mother. She would tell me whenever I missed home to look up at the harvest moon and sing our song, “Shine on Harvest Moon”. That she would be doing the same wherever she was. On the other side of the world though- she wouldn’t be tonight- at this moment. So I sing solo tonight mom.

“For me and my girl…”