Mad World

11.03.09

I would like to start this entry simply by describing the things I have seen while writing to you.

On a kombi, in Manzini, trying to jot down a few thoughts in my notepad, outside my window a young man gets hit by a car. The car continues on. I watch people pass by with no reaction as this man lies on the pavement in the middle of the road unconscious and bleeding from the head. Two young men walk to him, lift him up by the arms and drag him away- laughing. A trail of blood left behind.

In Siphofaneni, at the restaurant I go to EVERY morning to drink coffee read, write, and be approached by the obnoxious, a man puts down his fork in the middle of his meal and runs to the young lady behind the register. He starts screaming in some made up language- I mean tongues. He's shaking the woman, spit is flying out everywhere and she and I are trying hard not to laugh. A few minutes of shaking, screaming, and spitting- he goes back to his seat, picks up his fork and finishes his meal.

In Manzini, while pounding out these stories I write to you in my computer lab, BAM! The large window wall in front of me- a man's head being smashed into it. Blood bursting and the right side of his face already starting to swell from previous blows. A crowd has formed- the mob is shouting and aiding a large woman to beat up this young man. So of course I do the right thing. I stay seated. I stay safe.

A PCV once told me, "Mere when you see a bomb- you do what everyone else doesn't do. You run towards it."

I jump out of my seat and join the thickening crowd. They take turns throwing punches at this man. He's being jossled around like those punching bag clowns that never want to stay down. I try to push my way forward- maybe there is something this white girl can do. Someone grabs my arm. The owner of the internet cafe says to me, "Simphiwe, no. He tried to steal this woman's purse. This is justice."

This is Swaziland.

I'm in Swaziland and I must see it their way. If I don't, the anger and the frustration will consume me. Getting angry at their apathy- is this not apathetic of me? I need to understand where this apathy steams from.

This is Swaziland.

Children raising children. One volunteer lives in a community of 1900 people. 1450 of these people are children- under the age of 15. Sometimes you walk into a village and go a whole day without seeing more than one mother or father.

Swaziland has lost a generation- like the aftermath of a civil war. My homestead now? Nine children and Gogo. Where are their parents? They're getting infected between the ages of 15 and 24. But they don't know it. They have their children then die. Leaving them with the gogo's. This is why NERCHA has come up with neighborhood care points (NCP's) for orphans and vulnerable children (OVC's). They offer food and sometimes a bit of schooling. A one roomed building sometimes made of brick and sometimes made of sticks and mud. Many abandoned though- and no one there to take care of the children. It is my job to find the ones that are not functioning and find out why. Sometimes they need water to start a garden to feed the children.

I may not have fish. I may not know how to fish. But I know those who do. I'm a social networker. This is why I sit at the SAME restaurant every morning. People know where to find me. And they do. This morning a man approaches me. A man i've never met. He says to me, "Simphiwe. We have a support group meeting tomorrow. We would like you to come." He was sent by someone I do know. The people know where to find me. This is important.

A woman approaches me. She tells me her story. She and three widows go to homes to find those dying with AIDS. Too sick to make it to the clinics. These women are not paid. I ask, "Who are you with?" "No one Simphiwe. It's just us. Can you help us start a garden for them?" I ask her to take me to these people. Just as it is important for the people to be able to find me- I need to know where to find them. Once I track down the RHM's (Rural Health Motivators) in the area- I can tell these gogo's where the sick are living....trying to live- waiting to die.

I go to every school within reach. I shadow, I survey, I interview. I see how they do things. I take their ideas and I spread them to other schools. I'm asked every day, "Do you have this?" And I respond, "No. But I know who does."

There's a lack of communication that is killing these people. So many have given up. Rightfully so. I watch a woman crawling to town on her hands and calloused knees. Her crooked legs dragging behind. People pass- uneffected. This is everyday life.

I stand in front of an entire high school during assembly. The first part of school when teachers give their announcements for the day. I introduce myself. The head master follows with anger in his voice. An alarming message. "20 of you did NOT pay your school fees! This means the rest of the students have been paying for your meals! Shame! I told you. I warned you." I watch a teen boy in the back covering his head as he cries. "Now GET UP HERE! I want the school to see those who did not pay!" It's hard enough being a teen. But a teen in Swaziland?

As an outsider, you get angry at the abuse. The neglect of the mentally and physically disabled. The Swazi women and children being treated like cattle. The stigma and discrimination. I ask my class, "Can you get AIDS from buying food from a grocery clerk with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!" "Can you get AIDS from sitting next to someone with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!" "Can you get AIDS from sharing a meal with someone with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!" "Would you share a meal with someone with AIDS?" They shout, "NO!"

It's incredibly hard, especially as an American woman, not to get angry. Previous volunteers have thrown in the towel- hating male Swazis. And I understand. More than anyone really. I have spoken with the women from my group and the women from the previous group. What I have endured certainly tops it all. But I can't get stuck in my anger.

My bhuti, his mother in jail. She shot and killed his father. You read about the domestic assault and murders weekly. Pouring hot oil, boiling water, a bullet to the head of your partner and then to your own....all headlining the papers every week. My bhuti learns that I am trying to get Gigi a wheelchair. He sits down next to me and asks, "So if I broke my arm....you would go with me to the hospital?" I tell him of course. "You would pay for it?" I tell him I would do everything I could. His eyes open wide- stunned. You see little African babies running up to the white people. Grabbing their hands, looking up and smiling. But the teens. They stay back, confused when you greet them. Hands cover their mouths when they respond back. The babies haven't been burned yet. The baby walls aren't up- ignorantly going through the motions of their African baby life.

How do I break down the teenage walls? The defense and the callouse that these children have worked so hard to maintain in a Mad World.

So how do I get angry at the apathy? Who is here to teach them otherwise? These people have been pushed to the edge. How can I blame them for giving up? I must see it their way. I must understand the apathy and teach them empathy. They must
vula emhelo- open their eyes.