"Indaba"

Justice takes me to the city to another NGO for reasons he won’t really make known to me. I know these organizations like when rural Swazis work with “outsiders”- proof that they’re trying and are worthy of said NGO’s donations. So today, I am trophy white. Whatever. I don’t mind playing the part.

He pushes me in front of a woman who we shall call: Gloria. I can feel Justice’s nervous energy. His head looks down as his tail goes between his legs. We take a seat in front of her big, shiny, desk. Her big person Director title plaque sits in front of her. Here we go. I think. The two sit and talk in English. The fact that she’s using English to communicate, making direct eye contact, getting to her point quickly, and dressed up in Africa’s bright colors, tells me….she ain’t from around here. I’m guessing eastern Africa. Maybe Kenyan. She has yet to even look my direction. Fine by me, I try not to take control anymore. I’ve learned. Justice tells her I help with the youth club at his youth center.

“And who are you?’ She turns to ask, looking me up and down. “They call me Simphiwe.” I smile sweetly and extend my right arm out. She ignores my attempt at a handshake. “No. I don’t want that name. I want your REAL name.” Justice continues to look down. “Meredith.” I tell her. “So. Meredith. What do YOU do for this youth club? What do YOU have to offer THEM?” Holy fucking fuck fuck. I’m being judged inside the walls of an NGO. I thoughts I was cushioned between walls made of sunshine rainbows and licorice. These people are supposed to love everybody. Hello, Peace Corps. You’re only supposed to judge and make fun of us behind our backs.

“Well I ah. I teach.” I say.
“Simphiwe teaches us about HIV.” Justice backs me up.
“I want to hear from her Justice.” Gloria snaps back.
I hate telling people I teach about HIV. There’s so much more to it than that.
I continue. “I teach about other things than HIV. I talk about the outside world. I talk about different cultures and people in the world. I try to…”
“You try to what? Teach them that YOUR culture is BETTER than theirs?” Gloria snaps. Justice’s head remains down. Thanks buddy. I sit back in my seat and fold my arms across my chest.
“No. I would NEVER do that Gloria.” I can feel my mother's look on my face when she's pissed at me. Shit. I've inherited it.
“OK. Good. Now we can press on.” She turns to Justice. “Tell me more about your youth center.” She asks him.

For the next 8 or so minutes I have no idea what the two are discussing. Only my Peace Corps reputation holds me back from walking out the door and showing her how we, in my culture, say fuck you without any words.

I’m shaken from my vengeful daydream when I hear Justice and Gloria arguing about god knows what. Justice, again talking in circles not really making any point and Gloria misunderstanding him because English isn’t his first language.

“I can’t believe you think AIDS isn’t a problem because of ARV’s. It’s people like YOU that are causing this virus to be such a problem. My own nieces and nephews aren’t scared because of those tablets. When they should be!” Gloria shouts back.
I try to explain to her that’s not what he meant but she cuts me off to start the discussion of who’s to blame for the spread of HIV. I hate this conversation.

“It’s the men.” She says. “Transactional sex. The girls are trying to survive.”
“Well actually. If you talk to the girls who tell the truth, you’ll find a lot aren’t doing it for food. It’s hair extensions and cell phones a lot are after. Not all. But a lot.”
“So it’s the girls.” She says.
“No. It’s everyone. There’s a lack of direction for the youth in the rural areas. Just the other day I had to teach my girls what the word passion meant. They couldn’t even translate it into SiSwati. You can say I teach HIV. But really, I’m just trying to teach direction. Passion. To open them up to themselves. To live with confidence when no one else believes in them. That’s real prevention.”

My words carried a certain tune that she finally agreed with. Singing the same language now, she sits back and nods her head. “Sorry about earlier. I know I can come off a bit brash at times. I used to be a lawyer. And I had to make sure you were serious.” She tells me. I wasn’t really sure how to respond to that, so I just waited.

“Now.” She’s talking to me now. “Justice tells me you need things for your youth center? I am going to donate computers, couches, chairs, books.” Justice grins and thanks her over and over again. “How are we going to pay the electricity bill for those computers Justice? I thought we were here to start up an income generating project.” I ask him.
Gloria interjects. “I also want to help you with a workshop.” Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Not another workshop. I scream inside my head.
“My organization will donate one cow and a few speakers if you hold a Health Day Event.”
“What’s a Health Day Event?” I ask.
“An all day workshop where NGO’s come to your community and talk about HIV care and prevention. They’ll be testing booths and condom distribution. You provide the drinks and we’ll bring the cow.”
I remember the last one of these I was a part of. People sneaking in after the lectures, demanding food. Caregivers were going for seconds when children hadn’t even eaten yet. People lined up shouting outside when the food ran out.
I just nod and smile. Sure whatever. Gloria tells me about a campaign coming up at the end of the month. “It’s called Indaba. Held by us and NERCHA. You and Justice should come. We’re spending two days talking about ways we can better prevention. We’ll be talking about EVERYTHING.”

Screw the free couches and books; I want to bring my youth club to this event. So they can witness it themselves. It's time the people we're talking about and studying see what is being said about.. them.
“Can I bring my girls?” I ask.
She sits and thinks. “OK. I don’t see why not. It’d be good for them. It’s in the city. I’m sure they’d love it.”
“And transport?” I ask with a big fake smile.
“Transport?”
“We live an hour from the city and it’ll cost about 25R a person to get there.”
Gloria finally agrees. I, Justice, two other volunteers, and 8 of my girls are going to the city in a few weeks and this time, I’m OK said NGO is picking up the tab.


“Prevention is becoming a challenge to everybody and to the world. It’s why we are here today. There is no answer yet. 1986 was our first documented HIV case in Swaziland. The ABC and condom approach was the first reaction. Uganda became our mentor. ‘It worked in Uganda.’ Everyone was saying. Why did it work there and no where else? Uganda had just gotten out of a civil war. Their army had become infected with HIV. A civil war was looming and this created a political commitment. Everyone mobilized and became involved. The ABC approach worked. Then in 1994 to 2006 this pandemic ran away with us. We asked ourselves, what’s the missing piece? We looked at all the angles. We realized most of those getting infected were heterosexual men and women. This became about controlling sexual behavior. Unfortunately sexual behavior is driven by norms and values in a society. Why was there such an HIV explosion in Southern Africa?

Colonization. Christianity. Education. Consumerism. Migration.

Colonization brought new government structures and authority. We weren’t managing ourselves, but rather being managed.

Christianity told us to change. Become re-born. Forget our ancestors and values. There became a new formula. ‘Do it like we do.’ They came and confused. 85% of us are Christian, but we aren’t behaving like it. The philosophy is right but the setting is wrong. The way it was introduced was wrong.

Then we followed the world into consumerism. We wanted everything they had. There became a huge emphasis on the disposable quick fixes. The media was confusing us. Every Swazi now watches MTV. Jerry Spaniel, or whatever the guy’s name is. The media tells us what is acceptable behavior. Whole societies became confused with stimuli.

Migration became the root of what changed norms and values in our society. In the 1980’s, 50,000 Swazi men left home. 9 month contracts into Jo’berg with no recreation. Nothing but sex and booze at these camps. It became their lifestyle. Mining meant more money and they brought all their diseases back with them. What did their absence from home do to their relationships? Sex became about money, procreating, and bonding. Sex became a commodity and a recreation because of absence. Marriage no longer meant sex. There became no need for a wife. 23% of men are married in this country. 22% of the Swazi youth grow up with two parents. 38% are only with their mother. 34% with no biological parent. Socialization is all messed up. Who are the role models?

Society has changed. Relationships between men and women have changed. Women’s rights are becoming promoted. Men’s dominance increases out of insecurity. Incest and child abuse have become the norm. It’s all emerging and it wasn’t there before.

This pandemic is in context of a changing society.

How do relationships work in Swaziland? We’re trying to figure it out. We’re recording conversations of school children, discussing their sex lives and sugar daddies. The youth and their unwanted pregnancies. Married men tell each other get yourself a wife and a school girl. One for fun , one who cooks, and one who is fresh. This is how they think.

People have become dependent on others for economic benefits. The 3C’s and recreation. Women living with men who can’t get out. Totally dependent. Teachers exploiting children. Police raping sex workers. Pastors and school girls. Sex used as power.

So how do we deal? Enforce paternity. Ensure every child has a father. Every father has responsibility. Create laws on alcohol to youth. These are all separate epidemics. Separate approaches. There is a lot our government can do but a lot we can still do ourselves.”

I turn my tape recorder off and sit in awe. Tingles. I’m in an audience of Swazis at what they're calling the: Indaba, alongside my youth club. Are they hearing this? Do they see? Surely by now.

Derek Von Wissel, a poet in this HIV analysis, is Swaziland’s leader in this battle against AIDS. The director of NERCHA and asked, expected, to lower the HIV rate in Swaziland. To perform the impossible. What tricks does he have up his sleeves today? I sit and wonder. Derek, seated at every campaign, every panel and every event on HIV. He sits, always, on stage in front of an audience. His usual face of distain. Another speech, another deaf audience. He rubs his brow, head down, half asleep as the other presenters talk. Always looking so depressed. But can you really blame him? He’s been asked to lower the HIV rate in a country that is disinterested. A country that is waiting for the outside world to fix their problems. He’s on his own.

I daydream, while he talks. I show up at his office in the city. I waltz in with a confident swagger. I carry a six pack of microbrews, sent from home, and dump them on his desk. I tell him, “I think you could use a drink.” He leans back in his chair, exhales loudly…. “Let’s talk.” He’ll say. And for hours he and I sit and talk about Swaziland. I’ll tell him to just be real, no one’s listening. The Swazi Times isn’t here. And he’ll say, “OK, here it is Mere. Here’s the missing piece of the puzzle…” Afterwards, I’ll walk out with a bounce in my stride. Relieved. Enlightened. Filled with hope. Alive again.

Just a silly dream.

Next on the panel: Helen Jackson with UNAIDS. She’s here to lecture on the biomedical side of HIV prevention. With her thick British accent, I lean forward struggling to understand. “Male circumcision, PMTCT (preventing mother to child transmission), sexual reproductive health education, condoms, blood safety, and PEP. We know these work in the fight against this virus. STI management, HIV testing and counseling, microbicides, ARV/ART, and vaccinations are less evident to work.” I hear you Helen. I’m pickin up what you’re layin down. I look down at my girls. They’re long gone. Another world. Daydreaming of boys and cars. Can you blame them?

“Prevention equals reducing the incidence rate by reducing opportunities for infection. Lowering the infectivity of HIV positive people. And lowering susceptibility of HIV negative people.” She pauses to take a sip of her bottled water seated next to her.

“Is treatment prevention?” She asks. I remember my conversation with my UNAIDS Proud African Queen. “We need to stop letting these people live. We need to take away ARVs so people will start getting scared. That will change behavior. People will SEE what AIDS does to you and they will change how they behave.” Gloria said. The uninfected cracking a few eggs for the better of everyone. Helen asks us a good question. Is treatment prevention?

“ARV’s cause viral loads to go down. (Viral load: The amount of HIV living in the body. The less you have the less likely you are to get sick or pass it to others. ARV’s keep these levels down). ARV’s can make a person’s viral load go down so far it’s almost impossible for them to spread it. On the other hand, treatment can cause people to take more risks because they can.” She pauses to look up from her notes. Her glasses hang low, her hair in her face; it hasn’t been brushed in weeks. A true scientist: all the sex boiled right out of her. We wait for her to continue.

“All biomedical interventions require social and behavioral inputs as part of a minimum package.” She concludes, and takes a seat next to Derek on stage.

I look over at my girls. The only youth amongst 300 people in this conference center. Again, the world, the educators and scientists, talking at them as if they were American, French, or British. They (Swazis) need song. They need dance. They need rhythm. They need to feel the message being told.

A woman steps onto stage. She shines with copper and orange. Afro and bangles. She holds the microphone softly. She whispers at first. “I’d like to read you my poem.” She clears her throat. She unfolds and becomes alive. She emphasizes and sways at the rhythm of her words extending her arms out as if holding onto something fragile and precious.

“Not all that glitters is gold.
Live to tell the stories of our mothers
Our sisters
Our brothers
We’re burning for loss.
We’re hungry for life.
Kagema.
Kagema.
Hurry.
Hurry.
Don’t let it catch you.
This is our story.”

She steps down and I watch my girls in awe. It’s rare they see a woman with such confidence and grace. For the first time they’re feeling the message here today. I look back on stage. Derek, still seated with the rest of the panel, unphased with his arms folded against his chest leaning back in his chair. His head is down. Is he asleep?

Next, we break into groups. The men go with the men to one room. The women go with the women. The traditional healers leave with the traditional healers. And the youth go with the youth (or those working with the youth). The girls and I leave with the rest of those working with youth. For an hour we discuss issues such as: condom use, circumcision, PMTCT, MCP, and sex education. After an hour, we all return to the auditorium and share each group’s perspective.

And we’re talking. Finally, we’re talking together. For two days we have discussed all modes of prevention in this country. But right before us now we are doing it. If I had to pin point the biggest cause of HIV, in Swaziland, I’d say a serious lack of communication. And we’re doing it here. They call this campaign: Indaba. In SiSwati it means story. We all have ours and we all just need to share them.

Next on stage, we have the Dr. of Economics: Mr. Allen Whiteside. Born in Kenya, a citizen of South Africa, white, privileged?, and traveled up and down the northeast side of Africa. I’m curious to hear an economist’s view on this prevention campaign. What is HIS story?

He begins with a “global overview” of the pandemic. The incidence rate in Swaziland is this doctor’s main focus. With his power point presentation overhead and red laser pointer in hand, he takes us through chart after chart of Swaziland’s HIV incidence rate. Who’s getting it.

“When a person first receives HIV their viral load is incredibly high. After some time, however, that viral load goes way down. This makes it harder for this person to pass it on.” His laser pointer shows us the peak in the graph. “If we can control these people, the HIV incidence rate will go down, way down. How do we stop these people who’ve just become infected from passing it onto other people?” I can’t wait to hear this. Another shot at the impossible. My two favorite words they love to use: Behavior change. “We create a campaign that says, ‘A month of no sex!’. He yells, waiting for a response.

Say what!? Is this man mad? Spoken like a true economist. Absolutely no understanding of the people here. An uproar rises around me. Swazis and I, laugh. I look around at the few white faces around (I only say white because it gives me more opportunity to generalize and assume they have a distant view of the situation here....don't judge my judgment). They sit, calm and collected, almost confused by our reaction. One of them shoots me a nasty look and I start to feel like a fifth grader, laughing at the teacher and I’ve been spotted by one of the obedient ones seated in front. Can I help that I inherited my father’s obnoxious laugh?

“Oh come on,” Dr. Economics continues. “It can’t be THAT hard. We’re only asking for one month." I didn’t realize a transaction was being made. “If everyone stops for one month or engages in only safe sex, then fewer people are exposed during the recently infected’s high viral load. We need to cut them off at this peak.” Laser points to chart again. “We provide a one month condom pack. We encourage partners to test together. (Which we’re already doing. It’s called the ‘Love Test’. Romantic I know.) People will do it for their country.” He ends patriotically.

For hours we’ve heard the language of the US Universities, the Harvard grads, the economists, the scientists from France with their thick accents (“You ah.. take z… ah.. foreskin… and ah..). Everyone struggling to understand the echoes of international bureaucracies and their inane proposals. Talking at us. Us, the Swazi. You don’t need to speak SiSwati at Swazis. But you must be able to speak Swazi.

Before I give you my FULL reaction (which I’m sure by now you’re already getting), I want to share with you what the next presenter had to say.

A young Swazi man takes the stage. Baring no MD before his name, no title. Just Swazi. A nobody to the rest of the world, he looks scared out of his mind.

“Ah, hello.” He begins. “I am here today to talk to you about Multiple Concurrent Partners and HIV.” (MCP, a cheating web of sexual contact, and the biggest reason for the HIV rates here.) “Lets face it, we’re all doing it.” The audience braces themselves. They’re ready to listen and a discussion is beginning with clarity. The young man shows slides of newspaper clippings overhead. Story after story of those caught cheating and impregnating. Those using sex as power. The headline of the gospel singer, I met, pops on screen and the audience laughs.

“We’re all doing it.” He continues. “I know it because I live it. My boys and I joke. ‘She takes my HIV and gives it to you.’ We say to each other. One of my friends had sex with six different girls in one day.” The audience laughs in disbelief. “I’m not joking. He started north of Mbabane. He made his way down to Matsapha into Manzini then further south to Big Bend and that region. In one day he traveled the entire country for sex, and he didn’t even have a car.” We’re in awe; gasps of disbelief fill around us.

“Our socialization is facilitating this virus…..Thank you.” He steps off stage.

And there it was. Dr’s, lecturers, panel, are you listening? This disease is a reflection of what needs to change here. We cannot ignore the reasons and only do what is needed to TEMPORARILY fix the problem. “Donors are suffering from aid fatigue. The prevalence rate is not going down and they are now less inclined to donate anymore to this country.” Whiteside tells us. I can understand why this no sex for one month campaign can sound so appealing to those that are interested in more donations, whatever keeps the cash flow flowing. Donors are suffering from aid fatigue. Well the people here are suffering form AIDS fatigue. They don’t care anymore. AIDS is merely a symptom of what this culture has turned into. The people know condoms will save their life and yet they still refuse to use them. Why on earth would they care about their country’s well being and abstain for a month, if they don’t even care about their own? It’s like telling Americans not to use any electricity for one day to “Save the Planet”. We need to examine why AIDS is wiping out an entire generation here and go from there.

We’re treating them like spoiled children. You won’t use a condom, abstain, or be faithful? Then give us your foreskin and continue to behave the way you’re behaving. You won’t change, then just give us one month of no sex then you can continue to fuck your brains out.

“Are there any questions?” The MC asks the audience. A middle aged Swazi man stands. A young boy runs to hold the microphone to his mouth. “In our culture,” He beings softly. Nervous in front of a panel that comes from a culture where confidence, direct eye contact, and a college education is encouraged. “In our culture, we respect our elders. We obey them and we would never tell them what to do. Who are we to go out there and tell them now to circumcise? To not have sex? This is just not how it is done here. Ah. Thank you.”

We need to make sure our campaigns, our lectures, or “requests” do not seem so demeaning, so patronizing. These people are being asked to respond to an agenda imported from cities, do-gooder organizations, from Universities, from an ocean away with the “right” answers, from those who do not know their suffering. It’s obvious a change in mentality is needed, but it is needed in the hearts and minds of those with power- those that are not seated here today.

We break into groups again. We discuss similar topics and try to figure out a way to resolve the country’s social “problems”. When we return it’s the women’s group who takes stage. A delightfully, surprisingly, confident Swazi woman stands behind the podium. She tells us stories of women’s sexual dissatisfaction. A lack of communication in relationships. A curiosity of vibrators in a country that outlaws any and all sex toys. I hoot her on as the men chuckle in disbelief. She starts to loose her courage and laughs along with the men. I holler and whistle. I can’t believe what’s being said. The Swazi woman representing her Swazi women. The Swazi woman wants she’s telling them. The Swazi woman needs. The Swazi woman desires. The Swazi woman is not happy. This Swazi woman won’t keep quite anymore. Comments are being whispered in SiSwati amongst the men in the crowd. I make my youth group translate for me. I look down at the Swazi Times reporters ferociously writing. I can just read the headlines tomorrow. “Swazi Women Demand Vibrators! Swazi Women Sexually Unhappy! Professor of Economics tells Swazis ‘No more sex!’” I can just see it now.

The audience goes wild. And, again, I’m in love with dialogue.

Each group takes the stage and tries to give their solutions. Outsiders call it “Behavior Change”. It’s what needs to happen. But no one knows exactly how to do it. “We’ll fine anyone caught without condoms on them. We’ll have family monitors. People who go into homesteads and make sure they’re engaging in safe sex. Test or get fined! No sex for one month!” They scream.

Is forcing and making things compulsory the answer? I think hard about the brave Swazi man who stood up before this panel of doctrines and questioned their tactics. This doesn’t happen here. There’s a naïve trust and confidence in the outside world that Swazis have. “Don’t piss them off. They give us money.” Some are even starting to believe they are biologically less smart than the rest of the world. Just yesterday a man, like everyday, tells me he wants me. I ask why. He says, “Because you are white and everyone knows white people are smarter than black people.” And I hear this all the time. They tell me, “Swazis have black hearts and small brains.” So many have told me sub-Saharan Africans are just dumber than the rest. They've lost all confidence in themselves and wait for the outside world to fix their problems.

Are we encouraging blind faith? The only way we’ll get through this is to help them understand. We need more Indabas. We need more communication.

Derek takes the stage to close the ceremony. “I’ve discussed the causes to our HIV pandemic: colonization, Christianity, migration, denial and consumerism. And now we’re looking forward. We’ve come together for two days and the response has been beyond our expectations.”

I look around the theater. 300 people stay seated, asking question after question when lunch was served over an hour ago. I’ve never seen free food put on hold because of a desire for more information. I’m just as blown away.

“We’ve seen the crowd react to certain things. There’s been lots of buzz around female sexual gratification. We shall write a report. Come up with new programs to create a higher communication level between partners in the future. We need to decentralize this Indaba. Bring it to the community level and out to the rural areas. We’d like to create a National Youth group that meets on prevention. We want to work on this month of no infection and no sex. You doubt, but it has been scientifically proven to work in other countries. It took us two years to organize this event. We’ll try to listen to your contributions and get back to you. We’re going to redirect our efforts. A new dedication has begun.”

Indaba over.

I can’t believe that took them two years to plan. The amount of money and time that went into this two day event blows my mind. A buffet feast awaited us at the end of each lecture. My girls had never seen food like this before, some never even to the city. The second day they came prepared with Tupperware in their purses- shoving chicken legs, pasta, cupcakes, and lamb chops into their bags. Where did this money come from? What else could it have been spent on? Why was there such a delay in getting 300 people together who were already bound together in their work in the health care field?

I recall a conversation with another volunteer I had recently. A certain NGO in her area was given $80,000 USD to collect information on the people in her community. After 4 months and $80,000 spent, the NGO came to her, a Peace Corps Volunteer, needing information. “They had nothing on these people. We had been here just two months, with no car to get around in and the language barrier and we were the ones supplying them with the information. For free.”

I realize I run risk in writing about the poor and powerless. What I write could be used against them. Taken in the wrong way. I could be totally wrong about EVERYTHING. I am only here to show you- that I was here. At the same time, it's incredibly hard to be a dispassionate reporter. I write on PERSONAL experience. What I have seen with my own two eyes. It's hard not to judge when your work becomes your life. And not just your life.. two years of your life.

I hope Derek is true to his words. A redirection and new dedication is strongly strongly needed. Are no sex campaigns and fining people the answer? I know confronting the big picture seems like an overpowering challenge, messy, and can’t be put so simply on power point. But we need a better comprehension of the societal causes of what’s going on around us and why there is such a tolerance for it.

Lost In Translation

His tongue glides across the bottom of his lip. His belly smiles big underneath his tiny polo. "I like your structure." He says looking me up and down. Another feast for the predator. I am gazelle again. He leans hard against the post next to my head and I am smelling his warm whispers. "I'm a musician." He tells me. I lean my head back- cautious but curious. He continues, "I sing with only the best." He tells me his name, smug and proud and I almost choke on my sandwich in hand. I know him. Well of him. I've read about him in the paper. Not for his musical talent but for his thirst in fifteen year old girls. Another one knocked up. Alone. Pregnant. And he's again, denying it's his. "Oh I know you. " I burst out. He smiles. "Of course of course. Im a famous gosspil singer. I sing with many in South Africa." Hands on his hips now. Pleased with himself.

"No. No.I don't think that's it." I say. "Something about a 15 year old pregnant girl and a famous gosspil singer swearing he didn't impregnate her." His smile fades and his body tightens." ‘Gosspil singer impregnates 15 year old girl.’ Yeah. That was the headline." I smile. His friend, busy juggling two young girls in the corner, puts his game on pause to defend his friend.

"These people," He begins. "They're just trying to make a bad name."
"So you didn't have sex with a fifteen year old girl?" I ask the singer.
"Now, this is my friend!" He says, slapping the notorious gosspil singer on the shoulder.

The employee of this establishment, and a friend of mine, pulls me aside. I can’t upset his costumers. His costumers: the cheaters, the married, the unfaithful, the religious, the parliament, the teachers and their students: all with their secrets looking for some place to hide. “I watch them.” He tells me. “A wife pulls in with her lover. An hour passes and then they go. Thirty minutes later her husband arrives with his secret lover. One of these days they’re going to arrive at the same time. And it’ll be a shit storm.”

And you read about these shit storms every single day. In the papers, at least six horror stories of shit storm relationships gone wrong. “Man Saws Off Girlfriend’s Head with Bush Knife”, “Head Teacher Has Sex With Pupil”,“Husband Watches Wife Have Sex in Bushes With Other Man”, “Two Year Old Beaten with Thorn Bush Left for Dead for Eight Days by Step Mother and Father. Dies of Starvation”, “Baby Beaten with Whip Aunt Rubs Salt in Wounds”, “Girl Whiped by Uncle. Tied to Tree For One Week.”, “Professor of University Sex Bribes Pupils”, “15 Year Old Boy Rapes Grandmother”, “75 Year Old Man Catches 20 Year Old Wife Sleeping With His Son”, “Wife Shoots Cheating Husband in Front of Children”. “Gosspil Singer impregnates 15 year old girl” And I, like them, no longer react to the horror. Just another story about someone you know.

These aren’t just headlines to us. These are our neighbors. Our students. Our family. In a country of a million people we’re all neighbors and we’re all killing each other.

I sit in the back of a restaurant where I usually go to write. A nice hiding place, far from the main “road” in Siphofaneni and won’t attract a crowd. A perfect storm for those who don’t want to be seen. A young girl sits at a table. Her breasts ooze out from her hot hot tank top. She nervously plays with a cell phone. A man, in suit and beer in hand, takes a seat next to her. He slides her a drink and kisses her on the neck. I watch him force himself in as she folds herself inside. A tight knot and he’s trying hard to undo it. I stand to intervene. Unsure what to say but hoping to prevent another headline in tomorrow’s papers. I push my chair out and stand to go.

“Ubuntu.” A young man calls from behind me. Sometimes I forget the written messages tattooed on my body.
“How do you know Ubuntu?” he asks me.
“I’ve lived here a year and a half.” I tell him. “I guess I’m still looking for it.”
He smiles.“I’ll tell you what Ubuntu is. It’s Nelson Mandela shaking the hand of F.W. de Klerk.”
“Who is that?”I ask.
“You Americans.”He laughs.“The president who supported the apartheid and segregation for so many years. Who finally backed down and turned it over to Mandela. Mandela openly shook hands with this man- the enemy. Now THAT’S Ubuntu. That’s forgiveness.”

I’ve never heard it described this way. But suddenly I felt warmth at the idea. Ubuntu is forgivness. As I read all these headlines, watch them play out in front of me, I become consumed with rage. I no longer want to help “these people”. Why should we help if they can’t even help each other. But I’m being reminded how un- Ubuntu-like that would be. It will be difficult, but I need to forgive.

Back in the city, another Peace Corps workshop. Group 8 has just finished their four day IST (In Service Training). If you recall over a year ago I wrote about this workshop, titled: IST: Penis Doodles. I wonder what kind of doodles they have drawn. How many notes have been passed. How any times they’ve been asked to count off into groups and write things on flip chart paper. Charts and graphs. Being talked at for four days. And now we’re here to join them at ‘All Voll”. All Volunteers Conference and end it with a Thanksgiving feast at the American Ambassador’s mansion.

Our Country Director, Eileen, opens All Vol with a brief break down of what’s going on “out there” in Swaziland right now.

40% of Swazis are unemployed
70% live on less than a dollar a day
1-5 billion in debt

“Soon the country won’t be able to make pay rolls or pay contractors.” She tells us. I am remembering reading it in the papers. New international airports being developed. Construction being put on hold because there no long is any money. Conflicting articles, “MP’s Getting Increase in Salary for Car and Phone Allowances”. Money going into the wrong pockets. Corruption all around. “Swaziland has the highest percent of civil servants in the world. Most countries are at about 8% where Swaziland is 18% of the population in civil servant jobs. Most are military related.” I turn to a Group 6 volunteer who’s been here longer than me. “So what does that mean?” I whisper to her. ‘It means corruption. People in power are giving these jobs to friends and family members and paying them to essentially do nothing.” And there isn’t enough revenue to spoil those in power’s friends and family. “IMF is telling them they must lay off 7-10,000 civil servants if they want the loan. Swaziland has promised this won’t effect the Ministry of Health or Education.” We all know it will. And we all know the wrong people are going to get laid off.

“The country is turning to IMF for help.” She continues. I look around the room. We’re all shaking our heads. I bang mine on the table in front of me. No. No. No. More donations, loans, hand outs are not the answer. Swaziland needs to increase taxes on things people with money can afford: cigarettes, booze, gambling, etc. We need more than one cell phone carrier in this country. We need to work with what we have instead of automatically looking overseas or South Africa for help.

The next day I open the paper. “The Director of NERCHA (National Emergency Response Counsel to HIV and AIDS) Derek Von Wissel is told to cut back on spending and lay off workers.” NERCHA is not an NGO. It’s one of the very few governmental organizations working on prevention in this country. I continue to read, “New Perks for Top Government Officials: Car and Cell Phone Allowances Doubled.” I turn the page. “Swaziland is rich and we should not be where we are today had it not been for corruption.” A quote by the Minister of Finances.

How did this country come to be so corrupt? So desperate? So co-dependent? I strongly believe its donations and hand outs that has brought this county to its knees. It has caused corruption. I recall reading Mobo’s words in “Dead Aid”.

“The trouble with the aid-dependency model is, of course, that Africa is fundamentally kept on its perpetual child like state.” Donations mean no accountability. No accountability means corruption.

“You could throw a billion bucks at this country and it’d never hit the ground.” Group 6 volunteer once told me.

Our world wide pity is retarding this country’s development.

“African governments view aid as a permanent reliable, consistent source of income and have no reason to believe that the flows won’t continue into the indefinite future. There is no incentive for long term financial planning no reason to seek alternatives to fund development, when all you have to do is sit back and bank the cheques.”

“Another NGO is pulling out of our region.” I tell the caregivers at my neighborhood carepoint. “What will you do?” I ask them. “We’ll find someone else to donate food for us.” They tell me. Instead of figuring out how to feed themselves. What Moyo is describing, I am seeing on a smaller scale. NGO’s dumping food off at NCP’s and warning the caregivers that soon donations will be cut off and they need to “make a plan”. Their way of thinking reeks of dependency. But it’s all they know. NGO’s should be throwing out the expensive fencing, and teaching sustainable agriculture..water management. The idea of self-sufficancy is foreign to them. I am constantly screaming, “This is a nation of 15 year olds!” Are you starting to see why? Treat someone like a child, and they’ll act like it. We have created this culture of aid dependency and stunted their growth.

And other volunteers are seeing it. “The reality is, while some aid is well done, the vast majority is just making the situation worse. As distasteful as it may seem, the best long-term solution is to pull out aid. Swazis need to start expecting more from their King and less from NGOs and foreign aid.” Writes one volunteer.

“Aids tends to increase corruptio.It reduces public spending and aid programmes lack accountability and checks and balances.” Today we’re being told IMF wants to hand out more money. More debt. “Donors have the added fear that were they not to pump money in poor countries wouldn’t be able to pay back what they already owe and this would affect the donor’s fiinancing themselves. This circular logic is exactly what keeps the aid merry-go-round humming.”

Vula emehlo. Open your eyes. This is the vicious cycle of aid and we’re seeing it all- here and now. But the money holders are blind to it.

Increase tax revenues. Fuel. Gambling. Alcohol. Increase competition in business. “African countries need a middle class that can hold its government accountable. But in an aid environment governments are less interested in fostering entrepreneurs and the development of their middle class than furthering their own financial interests… The middle class pays taxes in return for government accountability. Foreign aid short circuits this link because the government’s financial dependence on its citizens has been reduced. It owes its people nothing.”

Read the papers, talk to the people, live here, with the people, for a year and a half and you will begin to see.

“If the world has one picture of African statesmen, it is one of rank, corruption, on a stupendous scale. There hardly seem any leaders who haven’t crowned themselves in gold, seized land, (the papers report everyday of the land their King is taking back from the people, “his land” kicking them out), handed over state businesses to relatives and friends, (18% civil servants- most military working for the King), diverted billions to foreign bank accounts (we’ve all heard about the account his Majesty opened up in Switzerland in case shit goes down), and treated their countries as personalized cash dispensers. (Beemers for all his relatives and his own private jet).

It’s happening here.

Aid should not be stopped- but changed.

Our next lecture of the day: Circumcision. It’s EVERYWHERE. The world wants your Swazi foreskin! The Swazi man is panicing. “I won’t get an erection anymore!” “I won’t go to heaven!” “You just want to decrease our sex drive so we will stop having sex.” “You’re trying to take away our culture and bring yours.” “You Americans are trying to make a profit off of our foreskins.” “You’re stealing our foreskin to use as spices for the rice.” (I’m not making this up.) This is what they’re whispering amongst themselves.

The over-eager funders behind this campaign come to preach circumcision at All- Vol and ask us.. how can we convince “them”…the Swazi man? An American woman jumps out. She bounces off the walls with excitement. I never knew circumcision could be so….. exciting? She raises her fists in the air jumping up and down shouting, ‘We can do this!” I feel like I’m in a beer commercial. “I’ve ALWAYS wanted to be a Peace Corps volunteer.” She tells us. “I am in awe of you guys.” The words every director of some NGO tells us. So do it, we think. There’s no expiration date and you people sure could us a trip out from behind your desk and get an education on what it’s really like “out there”.

“We’re excited about this new campaign!” She shouts at us. We sit and listen- doodling a foreskin gobblin with an American Flag banner around his sagging foreskin body. “Give me your foreskin!” The goblin shouts. She continues, “PEPFAR, USAID, the CDC, FLAS,PSI, we’re all dedicated to this cause. There are 240,000 men aged 15-49 years (this is the age range when most are getting infected or transmitting HIV to others) in this country of a million people. By 2011 we want 152,000 men circumcised.”

Insert cliché “cricket cricket” noise. She stares and waits for our reaction. I lean back in my chair, hands behind my head, a tiny burst of laughter slips out. We’ve become a chorus of laughter and doubt at these workshops. ‘Well why not?!” She shouts back. “We’ve already done 20,000. We can prevent 88,000 new HIV infections. Reduce the HIV incidence rate by 75%. Save 650 million USD in HIV care and treatement. Identify 20,000 clients living with HIV already by encouraging them to test before they are circumcised.”

Statistics have such a graceful way of making everything sound so…..easy. It sounds wonderful on paper. Which I’m sure is all she knows. We’ve circumcised 20,000 in just two years. However, I guarantee..most of them were under 19 years old. The younger they are, the easier they are to convince. How do we convince the MEN?

A group 8 volunteer raises her hand slowly- unsure- she’s only been here 4 months. Don’t worry, I think, I guarantee this lady has only been here for 4 days, in the city. “This is probably a stupid question, but how are we going to convince them- especially as young foreign women? I mean do you guys provide prizes for the boys who circumcise? A hat or t-shirt?” The volunteer asks. The woman presenting laughs. “Why would we need that?” She asks “We can convince them through knowledge. Making them understand.. this will save their life, and others. That alone should get them in the clinics.” Again, a chorus of laughter and doubt. I whisper to a fellow PCV next to me, “She doesn’t know Swazi. You give every man an autographed soccer ball with Rooney’s signature on it or a plate of meat for their foreskin (meat for meat you could call it.. come on- now that’s funny) I guarantee they’ll bring in their foreskin and all their friend’s to the chopping block.”

I remember going to Simunye to interview the African doctors and nurses cutting off young boy’s foreskins. I asked every man there, working with PSI and preaching the circumcision message, if they were circumcised. “Of course not!” They’d yell. ‘Why would I do that? This job pays me three times as much as my last job did.” NGO’s pulling out the skilled from where they are needed- paying them triple to do something they don’t believe in. Who’s filling in for these nurses while they’re away? If we can’t convince them, the King, the ministers of parliament, the chiefs, hell.. even the soccer players… how are we going to do this? You cannot walk into a country, especially one as proud as Swaziland, and just say “Circumcision will save your life.” Because if you do, you will get most shouting what they have been shouting to me and others in the education field. They’ll come up with ridiculous answers and conspiracy theories. Fund it. Fine. But it’s the King the MPs that need to spread this message- not the foreign aid. I’m constantly telling them, “I don’t give a shit about your foreskin. Keep it if you want. But here’s the facts. THIS IS OUR LAST RESORT. NOTHING ELSE IS WORKING. We’ve tried the ABC approach. We’ve tried the Ugandian approach- zero grazing. We’ve tried empowering young girls. Nothing seems to be working.” But facts don’t work here. The logic we have back home- does not exist in this country. They’re wanting us to talk to them like they’re American. These are Swazis. This is why understanding the people and the culture is the FIRST STEP.

Again, it’s not the idea of circumcision or “aid” I have a problem with it’s the way it’s being rolled out. Foreigners from a country where they culturally circumcise should not be the ones convincing. Otherwise you’ll get them all of a sudden claiming they have a “culture of foreskin”. (When in reality the Zulus used to cut. Because, oh yeah, cultures change.)

“I’ll come to each of your villages and help YOU convince if you need me to!” She tells us. I commend her enthusiasm. And I appreciate that they have come here to ask us what they should have asked a long time ago…. “Who is the Swazi man?”

“We want you to portray the average Swazi man. The young and the older Swazi man. The Swazi woman and the Swazi child. How would you convince a mother, a school boy, a factory worker, his employer, the farmer in the rural world?” She asks us. They want us to let go of being “culturally sensitive. “We want one of you in each group (because we had to count off by four again) to act out each of these characters and how they would respond to being told about circumcision. My group: the 45 year old man, some what educated, and the boss of a factory. My group nominates me to be the dude and I can’t wait because this one is the hardest to convince. And I’m not going to sugar coat it for her. I stand up in front of my PCVs, peace corps staff, NGO people, and actual 45 year old educated city Swazi men. I put on the accent, the mannerisms, and play out every conversation I’ve ever had with this man. Every other person ends their skit with their Swazi character saying, “Wow. OK. I think I’ll get circumcised.” I say, “There’s no need for me to get circumcised. I’m not like them.. those in the rural area. I’m educated. My wives are faithful to me. The young school girls I sleep with are too young to get infected. You’re just here trying to brainwash us. Tying to get Swazi men away from sex! Eeeish. No. I won’t. I won’t get circumcised.” Surprisingly it was the Swazi men in the room laughing and agreeing. “She’s right. That’s how it is.” They mumble.

Foreskin gobblin doodle completed. I’ll add it to my collection of “workshop art” created by PCV’s boredom during lecture after lecture. (I’ve saved it all).

Unlike our visitors, the outside foreign aid eager to throw out money at another expensive preventative procedure, upbeat energy and grace. Group 7 is dragging. There’s obvious tension and the air is thick with distain. Our faces, we look like we’re all suffering from indigestion. We’ve been here 17 months (almost a year and a half) and we’ve taken a huge bite out of Swaziland and it’s taken a huge bite out of us.

We sit in the Peace Corps office, resources surrounding us. Books, flip chart, computers, discs on sustainability: agriculture, teaching with soccer, magazines, teaching aids, pamphlets, books: our weapons in this battle. Once reading through it all, shoving items into our bags, eager to unfold them in our little huts in the middle of no where. Now we sit and stare.. in silence. Tired, unphased, we can portray the average Swazi for you, we can tell you what it’s like “out there”. What’s ‘working” what’s failing. We’ve got so many stories but we don’t feel like sharing them anymore. One volunteer, sits at the computer writing her recommendation letter- looking forward to grad school after two years of.. this. Structure and routine awaits. She slams the keyboard in frustration. “Ah! I can’t even write English anymore. My brain has turned to fucking mush being here this long. How the hell do they expect us to get into grad school after this?!” The rest of us lie on the floor in a daze. We laugh at nothing. Another volunteer picks up a large stack of circumcision pamphlets we’ve been asked to hand out. She giggles to herself and chucks them into the air laughing harder. She grabs flip chart and throws it across the room. Suddenly, a giant educational material aid fight breaks out. We’re throwing our useless weapons across the room. We don’t care anymore. Finally, we come to a still. We exhale low and long. We no longer dialogue. Some of us tear up. We look into each other’s eyes and know what point we’re all at. We’re wading knee deep in it, the finish line isn’t quite visible, but we know it’s just up ahead. It’s there waiting for us.

And today, to make matters worse, we’re saying goodbye to two people in our group 7. Sus and Chris Kramer: the cute young married couple, chaco wearing and patchouli smelling, our bright lights in this thick forest of contempt. Today- they’re going “home”, and without us. 8 months early. We all received the text. Just two days prior our phones read, “Sus and Chris Kramer will be ringing out if you’d like to come and say goodbye at the office.” Ringing out: a tradition our new country director, Eileen, brought to Swaziland. A large metal, motorcycle wheel hangs outside the deck of the office. On it are signatures of all previous volunteers who have COSed (Completion of Service) and returned home. A ceremony where those leaving (because in our final weeks we leave in 5’s every day until we are no more) stand inside a circle of all us while all of us, staff included, say something nice about this person. We hold a metal rod in our hands and speak, then pass it to the next person. The last person will hand it to those leaving who then say a few words about their service. They walk over to the wheel, rod in hand, and sign their names. Deep breath, they hold on tight to the rod and bang the wheel. They’ve ringed out and their service is complete. Then, we all say goodbye.

But today- we don’t want to say goodbye. We’re all in shock. The Kramers are leaving us so soon. A decision made by Washington Head Quarters over Eileen’s head and our hands are all tied. The moment has come. We stand in a circle outside, Sus and Chris in the center. Staff starts, rod in hand. Eileen is trembling. Our country director is crying. Tears stream down her face as she speaks to them. I look around. We’re all suffering. Tissues are being passed. I lean hard on my closest friend who ia very close to them. I feel her tense up- trying hard not to cave into the overwhelming emotion. Staff finishes and the rod is passed to us now- volunteers- friends. Some can’t even get their words out. We lean into each other hand in hand- shoulder to shoulder. We bury our faces into each other. The rod is passed to me and I am trembling. I try to speak. “Tomorrow we’re celebrating Thanksgiving. A family tradition for many of us. But tomorrow we will all feel an incredible void. During the rest of this workshop, we will feel an incredible void. And we are all ready to COS and say goodbye to this country, we shall feel an incredible void. Because we are a family and today we are saying goodbye to two of our family members. It just won’t be the same without you guys.” I’m trying to continue without breaking. The tears stream down my face and I feel the hand of another volunteer holding onto mine.

The rod is passed to them. We are ready to listen. Sus looks around at us. We all came here today for the. She trys hard to collect herself, “You know. When we arrived here in Swaziland, 17 months ago, we were told to integrate integrate integrate. We knew we could never fully integrate. But going back now- I feel like we’re not quite American anymore either. Now we have two homes. Just as we have gained two new families. And we’re grateful for that. When I first arrived here I felt such a vulnerability. I came here with my wounds open. And it was so hard to accept the things we have all faced here. But I’d like to end my service with my favorite quote from the Indigo Girls, ‘We’re better off for all that we let in.” She says with a tearful smile.

It’s coming to an end now. The Kramers walk to the hanging wheel. Eileen whispers to a woman from Washington Head Quarters here to visit for a few weeks, “I’m glad you’re here. Washington needs to see what happens when they make a decision an ocean away and how it effects people.” Sus holds on tight to the rod in her hand. I watch her take a deep breath. And then just like that. They ringed out and added their names to the wheel.

They gather their belongings and shove them, once again, into the great white chariot that awaits to take them to the airport. Hugs are being shared. I wait for my turn. Sus turns to me and we embrace. I bury my face into her arms, the tears won’t stop. “Thank you.” I tell her. “For sharing your vulnerability with us. Everyday I feel it too.” She holds me tight and looks into my eyes. “People are attracted to you Mere. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Keep your wounds open. It’s ok to be vulnerable.” I nod my head. “Sometimes. I feel like. I just can’t take it anymore.” I reply. “You’ll be fine. And we’ll see you soon, on the other side.” She says smiling. She’s always smiling.

And then. Just like that. They were gone.

A volunteer turns to me and says, “In just 8 months, we’ll be doing this again. In just 8 months we’ll be back to our worlds. Can you imagine?”

“No.” I tell her. “I can’t.”

"Hand in Mine"

*picture taken over a year ago. when we first arrived to swaziworld.
11/11/2010

After sharing her tales of protest and rally alongside Colbert and John Stewart,she pauses to take a breath and asks,“Why do you seem so adrift these days Mere?” I don’t know what to say to my mother anymore. I know what she’s asking, but I don't quite know how to respond. She continues, “We just don’t hear about your work anymore.” I collect my scrambled thoughts and try to make sense of it all. “What’s left to say?” I ask. You write about inspiration, change, and movement. When did I become so stagnant- just like them. A quicksand of misery and I’m waving my white flag up high. “It’s like the 5 stages of grief.” I tell her. First, you have Denial. “I’m going to start a girls club. Open their eyes and raise their voices. We’re going to march the streets and take back the night!“ You have anger next. “Why isn't the government doing anything?!” You find yourself placing blame and pointing fingers at everyone. Then comes Bargaining. You feel the guilt of the hatred that’s consumed you. The guilt of eating another home-cooked meal inside your little hut- your little escape- while there are those who crave just a few feet from your door. You give them the candy they ask for, some bread you just bought to the beggar right outside the store. A quick temporary fix to their pain and your guilt and now maybe you can sleep just a little better tonight. You bargain for that little voice of guilt to turn off. And then there’s the scariest, deepest, hardest to escape stage. Depression. A descent into a depravity for which, for some, there is no escape until they’ve returned home or maybe even never. You’ve heard every heartbreaking story. You’ve joined this culture of mourners. It feels as though this pandemic will go on forever. And all you can do is bear witness to it. Some volunteers seek refuge inside their huts- watching tv series after tv series or another gigantic Stephen King novel. Others turn to booze or reckless relationships. Anything to disconnect from it all.


And finally, Acceptance. You accept the goals you cannot reach and the things you cannot change. You accept you will fall again and again and put yourself, piece by piece, back together again and again. When the 5th person of the day has asked you for money, screamed umlungu, grabbed your breast, whistled, shouted, starred, and laughed at you and your display of being their new shiny toy. When you have gone through the routine and drill of the same dialogue over and over and over and over and over again. Why you are here. Who are you. What are you doing. Are you married. Do you have children. Do you know Siswati. What is your name. Their laughter and your words- a broken record. Another child doesn’t see their 6th birthday, another corrupt head teacher, another ignorant NGO. You learn to accept and you grow silent- just like them. And for the first time, you’re understanding their silence. I try to prevent this plague from consuming my life. It colors everything I believe, I think, I say. I have become what we- the outside negotiator and donator- has talked and written about: a product of AIDS fatigue.


And yet, I know as I write these very words. I have many African friends who are now gasping for a few more days of life. As I sit here writing on this bench, pen and paper in hand, Swazis peering over my shoulder and asking, as always, “Simphiwe. Why do you write?” My Swazi deputy teacher (vice principal) takes a seat next to me. She says, “Simphiwe. Thandiwe Dlamini passed away last night.” She was one of my form five students. As usual, I ask how. “She was born with HIV. Living with her aunti. Both her parents have already passed on.” Another student of mine has died. Another secret revealed. I had no idea of her pain. What she was living with. As I stood in front of the class preaching that AIDS is out there. 3 in 10 people now. A generation lost. Extended relatives having to take care of the orphans left behind. There she was the whole time sitting there- with this secret. Listening. Knowing. While the rest in her class doubted around her. And I couldn’t be there for her. All I did was assure her she was not alone. She had just finished her exams and about to graduate. But her life ended there. And I had no idea.


And there are SO many out there. Out there a child is being refused food by his step mom. A student is having sex with her teacher. A pregnant girl is being refused her education. A young man, who finally got tested, is contemplating suicide. A buisness man "working late" is sliding a cold beer across the table to the underaged confused youth. A preacher impregnates a 15 year old then denies. A gogo is stealing food from her orphaned grandchild. An uncle is molesting his niece. Another young teacher, determined to make a difference, is angry. She tries to help the orphans in her village, living alone in stick and mud shelters, but neighbors keep stealing the food she has donated to them. A young boy is molesting his younger sibilings because it is all he knows. A wife is accusing her husband of cheating and shoots him dead in front of their child. A volunteer is being harassed, mugged, and feeling discrimination for the first time in their life. Another, tired of holding it in for over a year, is screaming out his pain and frustration while the public stares- not understanding. "It's like we're on a sinking ship and no one notices. No one wants to see!!" And I personally know all these stories, and i've accepted them all.


I’ve stripped myself of the NGO bureaucratic gobbily gunk and their overblown ideologies of the aid providing world. I am starting to see reality- and quite frankly, it’s boring. So how do I talk about "work" without sounding like a broken record?
The new volunteers have arrived. It's been about four months now. And they're singing the same tune we once sang over a year ago. Their facebook statues tell the rest of the world the difficulties of hauling water, understanding the clicks in this new language, the mannerisms and spoken word of the people here. The “Shames” “Eeishes” and “Hows!” They’re asking, “How can he propose to me? He doesn’t even know me.” The humiliation of standing in front of 800 students laughing as soon as you say your name in Siswati. Gogo’s tits on transport and livestock between your legs. A live chicken as a gift. The Swazi lightening- as if heaven has been cracked open over your head and you stand in awe while your host family hides inside. An absent counterpart and you’re asking yourself, “What am I doing here?” Fridays in town. No. The last Friday of the month in town and your sardine packed bump and grind trip back home on public transport. The crazy thing your sisi said this week.

Season 8 assures us –we weren’t crazy in our observations. But soon their statuses will turn to work. And observation will turn to analysis. Anger/frustration. Thoughts of home. An everything bagel with salmon cream cheese. Christmas without the family. Then.. lots of nothing. Who knows if this is what we signed up for. And it doesn’t matter. Whether we expected this or not we still have to press on. We still have to wade through the shit and try, just try, to get some work done. To open at least one person's eyes. Including our own.
There are basically three parts of my work I write about. The big picture stuff. The sustainable and most likely out of reach part of any volunteer’s little grasp. The stuff that would slap anyone in the face and have them say, “Now they are making a difference. No. A change.” If you look closer, on a smaller scale, you have the community stuff. Dealing with caregivers, teachers, OVC’s, NCP’s of your community. And lastly, looking even closer and smaller- you have the individual. It’s my favorite to write about and sometimes gets me into trouble. The story of the individual. It’s the untold agony of this pandemic in this one person. Proud African. Citizen of the World. African Queen. Dare I say- privledged or the not privileged Swazi. Buhle and Nonjabuliso. Thembi. And Thuli.


Thuli.

I get a call from Dazi- the social worker who has taken her in. “Simphiwe. Thuli has stolen my mother’s clothes and run off. She cannot disrespect us like that. I was willing to take her in as my own. Why has she done this?” I explain I will find her and talk to her.

I find Thuli. Back and forth she tells me her side of the story. She didn’t steal the clothes. It was a neighbor. She tells me Dazi’s mother belittles her and calls her an orphan and she doesn’t like it. She wants to leave. “I found you a home. Now you don’t want to stay there. Think about your baby. Where do you want to raise this child? What choice do you have?” I ask her. Thuli, still a child, holds her unborn baby belly. Thuli about to be a parent herself with no parents or family to help. What happened? What went wrong?

I walk to the police station to find out why anyone hasn’t done anything. Moving from the individual to the community level. The station commander is shouting for a big campaign at the end of the month. “I want to combine HIV and crime. Show the community how these two are connected. Let’s get the NGO’s here! The people need to listen!” I suggest we bring in a certain NGO I have been working with in Manzini. The police are hesitant and I am told by others, “No one wants to share the spotlight.” I ask for clarification. “You see if you bring in that NGO from Manzini who specializes in child abuse that is taking away the spotlight of those who are putting on this event- the police. THEY want to be known as helping children who have been abused. They don’t want to share the spotlight.” It’s been explained to me as an, “NGO war”. Fighting for the credit and the territory. Here in a world where we are flooded by aid and donation. They are actually fighting over those to help. Certain NGO’s dropping off food to NCP’s (Neighborhood Care Points), when other NGO’s have claimed that NCP as “their’s”. No one has actually put onto paper who works with what areas. And who helps which OVC's (orphaned vulnerable children). Everyone is throwing food at the backdoor and not bothering to take a look inside. I ask how long has this been going on. “For years.” They tell me.

Fights over turf and battles begin. “If you invite that NGO to your event Simphiwe, don't expect the other one to come. They don’t get along.” Adolescents managing donations. Higher up the ladder you start to question the donors. The business men gone humanitarian. Finally a heart, but still very much a business orientated brain. Again, the magic bullet approach. A temporary fix for your guilt. Another NGO plans to pull out. They’re angry with the “system” here. Nothing is making a difference. “Here’s an idea.” I shout at another meeting. “Why don’t these NGO’s provide these NCP’s with fencing?! (We can grow food but we can’t stop people from stealing. This is why fencing is KEY.) That way, WE, can grow our OWN food and not rely on donations or some Peace Corps Volunteer to write another proposal for expensive fencing.” Another volunteer pipes in, “People are complaining there is no water here. There IS water. Sudan Somolia. THEY have a problem with water. We just need to teach these people how to manage rainfall.” We’re starting to realize it’s not bags of maize we need. We need people teaching people. NOT ABOUT AIDS. About survival. Sustainable agriculture. Business and money management. NGO’s should be dropping this off instead. Then they can pull out with dignity instead of defeat like they are now.

NGO’s are scared when it’s the people who should be. They continue to point fingers at NGO’s. Blaming them for inadequate food and lack of accessibility. The fingers are being pointed in the wrong directions. But it’s all they know. They’ve grown up with NGO’s and volunteers and free food on the back of trucks. This is why they ask me, “Where does America get their donations from?” This is why when they ask me what I do here I can just say, “Oh. I’m a volunteer.” And they immediately understand. Can you imagine someone asking you in the States what you “do” and you reply with, “Oh. I’m a volunteer.” This is normalcy. I can see why they blame “them” why they blame “us”. And for a while, I was standing there right next to them, demanding the same unsustainable things.

But today I came to point fingers not at NGO’s or volunteers, but the community level. The police. I tell Thuli’s story. But they know it by heart. They know Thuli and have tried to help her in the past. I tell them about her abusive aunt who took her in when her parent’s died and refused her food. Kicked her out in the rain, made her sleep outside, and beat her when she came inside. “Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you arrest her.” I ask. “Because there are no laws to protect these children once their parents have died. Thuli was lucky to have someone take her in.“ I try to wrap my brain around this word, “Lucky”.

I run to my NGO contact in Manzini. Moving from the smaller to the bigger level:the NGO world. I go to the office of the two Canadian women volunteers doing work as “legal aid” here until January. “No laws protecting children?!” I shout. “Laws protecting children and women are actually fairly new in this world Meredith.” She tells me. “Technically, these police officers are right. There are no laws in Swaziland protecting children. But that doesn’t mean there is nothing they or you can do to protect them. There are case laws police and others can use in a court of law. They are just unaware these laws are out there.” After I have her explain to me what a case law is she says, “It took me six months just to get a copy of these case laws when they are supposed to be open to the public. We can use these to protect them for now. This is how change begins and laws are born.”

Back at school, my day to teach I find all the students outside. A large man dressed in royalty, purples and golds, stands before them. My headteacher walks over to me and slaps me on the back. "Sorry Simphiwe. These children have demons in them and I have called in these ministers to come and get them out. So you won't be teaching today." I grind my teeth and fake a smile. It's becoming harder and harder for me to paint a pretty face when i'm surrounded by idiots constantly. I take a seat and watch the madness. The minister demands the students to get in line and allow him to "get the demons out." All the girls stand as the boys sit, crossing their arms.. being "cool". As each girl stands before him he places his hand on her forehead and shouts out. Spit is flying everywhere and a woman stands behind the girl. The girl screams out, her arms are flaying around and she falls back into the woman's arms. One girl, i'm guessing she had a lot of demons, is convulsing in a corner her girlfriends holding her down. She's "speaking in tongues" and shaking violently. "What is she saying?" I ask one teacher. "I don't know. It's tongues I suppose." I laugh. "I can translate for you. She's shouting, 'YES! TODAY I DON'T HAVE TO GO TO GEOMETRY! THIS IS AWESOME!'"

I realize this is going to take a while so I take a seat in the staff room. The teachers sit, drink tea, and enjoy their day off. "So I guess you guys don't have any demons that need taken out?" I ask. They laugh.

As I sit seated and starring, another working day blown off, a young girl takes a seat next to me. The teachers shift in their seats as if bracing themselves for what is about to happen next. She looks into my eyes and softly says to me, "I love you." I smile. "Do I know you?"

"She's a student. Form three." A teacher tells me.
She holds my chin and turns it towards her again. "Why can't we just tell each other that? Why is there so much space between all of us?"

I'm in shock. Was this girl truly this profound? I've been asking myself the same thing about Americans and our little social cubicles.

"They tell me i'm crazy you know. I'm possessed. I'm the snake's child."
"Well.. do you think you're crazy?" I ask her.
"Why do you ask so many questions??" She smiles.
"Because I think you want me to."
She laughs.
"I see snakes in my dreams. I'm just so restless.... I can't sit still anymore. That's why I don't come to school anymore. I just need a rest. But I'm not crazy." She stands and leaves the room.

The teachers tell me this is why the head teacher invited the ministers. She's been getting worse and becoming violent lashing out at students and her family- accusing them of things. "Her voice is different if you notice Simphiwe. Her vocabulary. How she knows English so well. Her accent will change. I mean maybe she is possessed." I know this is Swaziland and these children are faced with horrible things. But I can't help but think back to my own brother. Maybe this isn't environmental. Maybe this is Schizophrenia. I think of him back home. The damage it would have done telling him yes- he does have ESP. Yes. He is a famous rapper. Slipping further and further away from reality. Telling this girl she's possessed is only making her delusions worse.

I step outside to be with her.
She turns, "Do you know our head teacher Simphiwe?"
"Yes" I tell her.
"No. Do you KNOW our headteacher?" She asks again.
I suspect she is referring to the corrupt things he has done. Sex with students. Beating them senseless. Deals made under the table.
"He won't stop. No one notices...."
Another teacher walks over. She's created an audience now. They stand and laugh at her. "And YOU!" She points to one of the male teachers. "I know about YOU." This particular teacher.. the one rumored to have impregnated Thuli. "I know what you did." The teachers stop laughing. "OK... you're done." They tell her.
She stretches her arms out into the air and looks up at the clouds.

"No. I'm not." She starts to take her shirt off.... She turns towards the students seated outside. The head teacher is speaking to them now. She runs with her arms outstretched screaming the head teacher’s name. "Simphiwe go get her." The teachers beg. I run after her. The whole school starring now. I grab her hand.

"Let's go talk. I want to know more about these dreams." I put one arm around her waist.
"No. I have to talk to them." She insists.
We go back to the the staff room.

"I once shouted 'I AM JESUS' in the middle of our bus rank." She tells me, exhaling loudly.
"Do you think you're Jesus?" I ask.
She laughs, "Of course not. But it got people's attention. It connected all of us that day. And that's all I want. To reach out and connect. Through my craziness."

I can't speak for those people in the bus rank that day, but today, I felt that connection she is forever seeking. That I too am forever seeking. Someone, who's basically grown up in Swaziland, once asked me after reading my blog, "If you hate it so much. Why do you stay here?" This question really stuck with me. I once asked a Peace Corps Volunteer if she thought i'd make it the two years. She responded with, "We all knew you'd stay the two years. You're a masochist Mere."

Why am I here if I am experiencing so much pain? Seeing so much pain. A few weeks ago a former PCV told me she went to India to work at Mother Theresea's Hope House. The madness that resided there. Nuns gone nurse. Untrained. Holding body parts together. Dirty bandages. Giving shelter to those near death so they don't have to die alone. The things she saw. Shoving a woman's uterus back inside over and over again because she had been raped so many times. Holding a man's brains in place. I sat in complete awe as other people tried to finish their dinner- disgusted. Why do I have the desire to go there and do these things? To stay here if it hurts so much?

It is through suffering, pain, and crisis, I find, that many of us feel this sort of connection. For the young girl- it was her "madness" giving her the release of feeling isolated and alone.

Group 7 volunteers, we are at that point. They make charts of our emotions. Staff holds up a diagram, "Now you guys should be right about HERE." A star at the peak of "crisis mode" and the peak of volunteers leaving and going home. Right on the money.

We ARE on this sinking ship surrounded by those that don't see. But we're together in this. We've all had our moments. One day you will wake up knowing. Today I'm going to freak out. Things are all coming to a head. Another volunteer you've known for over a year- is going home. The water is about to boil and you wait for one person to taunt you. To harass you. To give you just one reason to flip the fuck out. And then it happens. And you come crashing down on them. You scream you roll your fists. "THIS PLACE WOULDN'T EVEN BE HERE IF IT WEREN'T FOR THE OUTSIDE WORLD!! NO WONDER THIS PLACE IS GOING INTO THE SHITTER!" You're on fire and all you want is the comfort and assurance- you aren't the crazy one. A volunteer notices, walks over She holds your hand, and tells you, you aren't alone.

"You know you volunteers all you do is bitch about the harassment and the misery." Another "Host Country National" (god I hate this term.. but it's better than "native") says to me. And I see their point. I'd get so tired of hearing the same complaints. I'm hearing them all over again with the new group. But for me, this is connection. I may not desire the pain- but sometimes it's the easiest way to that sense of community. To ubuntu.

When I go to visit a young girl, I got out of an abusive homestead now living in a loving home, and I see her playing with friends- smiling for the first time, I know, it has all been worth it.

Most of us can understand the desire for connection. Whether it's in Chili with the miners, my mother, sign in hand, alongside Colbert and John Stewart, the young girl screaming madness and seeking someone's attention, or a handful of Americans wanting to help- longing to belong to something they believe in. Sometimes it's worth the pain and the suffering to hold someone's hand.

*We will miss you Sus and Kramer! Can't wait to see you on the other side... again.

Prologue

11/11/2010

There is a certain rhythm to speech that doesn't quite sit comfortably onto the page. The written word can often suck out the grace and the sincerity that the spoken word has to offer. I can only hope, for now, my text will suffice.

This is my attempt at an apology. I write not only as an apologist but also a devotee. Devoted to sharing my open mind. Forever learning. Forever growing. As a peace corps volunteer I have a duty- no an ethical responsibility- to paint a certain picture of my experiences here. It's only once I've left am I able to point out the failings of specific NGO's, organizations, most importantly Peace Corps- and suggest possible alternatives.

There is a tendency for beucracy to think, while employed, that criticism should be contained and censorship applauded. I find this to be incredibly challenging.

I wish to reflect on what I see while I am around those that may disagree or take offense. Hoping for a conversation, a debate, or even an argument. I have always been fully aware that individuals, agencies, even my own- may be rubbed the wrong way and even seek retribution.

But it seems to me- a true loyalist is one who is honest with those whom they are loyal to. So how do I speak candour with heart? Honesty without judgement? Observation without analysis? In this, I've failed.

I run risk in writing about the what, the who, and the why. Some of the things i'm writing people will disagree with. The NGO's, the the people, Peace Corps- hell even fellow volunteers- will read my writing and say, "You've said what I've been trying to say this whole time." Or sometimes they roll their eyes and think, "She just doesn't get it. I haven't experienced anything like that."

And then there are those you thought would never read your words. The individual- taking offense. With good reason. Talking about NGOs/Politics is one thing. But the individual. I've thought a lot about what I write about the individual and because I value the people I've been privledged to meet, I am seeing the value in censorship.

Which brings me to the beginning. An apology. There are certain facts and details- entire posts I have gone back and ommitted. Ethically- I owe it to the people I write about and who have trusted and confided in me.

I'm still a child in this world and I will continue to try my best and stay humble to that.

As my Proud African once said, "Vula Emehlo Simphiwe."

Onkhe emalanga ngizama kuvula emehlo ami.

"Small Numbers. Big Gain. I Hate This Title."

"Small Numbers. Big Gain. I Hate This Title."

Since I’ve returned from home, the States, I’ve found it incredibly hard to start “work” again. What’s the point, I think. Organize books in a library nobody cares about. Teach health lessons with a teacher who won’t translate for me. Another youth club who only wants Jacki Chan movies and candy. Peace Corps has given you resource after resource of how to teach LIFE SKILLS, Games and dramas about HIV, movies about teen pregnancy, drinking, and cheating. But scream “Jacki Chan!” “Chuck Norris!”.

What’s the point. I’m doing all this alone anyway. Workshops, clubs, libraries: all ways we’re trying to address HIV education but only skimming the surface with the same boring message everyone’s heard a thousand times. You write the appropriate grants, mini vasts, so you can have a workshop. But you can’t have a workshop without food because nobody will come unless there’s food. You think they care about your message? They come for the food. You hold off until the end of your lectures to feed them. Hoping they’re listening, dangling the meal at the end of the workshop like a carrot in front of a donkey. Listen to me and you’ll get your meat! Or maybe you get them 1500 books from the US and find them in boxes unused, unwanted, unloved.

This isn’t working.

But today I’m meeting Thuli. Thuli, my 17 year old neighbor, student, and now friend. The young girl I’ve written about many times. Parents dead. Living in her aunti’s home alone, with no food. Came to me not wanting to sleep with her boyfriend anymore for food and security, so I went to SWAGAA for help. They gave her a year’s worth of food. Thuli, the girl who ended up getting pregnant and kicked out of school. I plead with the head teacher to ATLEAST let her come back and write her exams so she can pass form 3 and not have to take it all over again. “It sets a bad example for the other girls Simphiwe. I cannot allow it.” The head teacher growls, his gaze on my breasts.

But today she needs help with something else.

“Simphiwe. I cannot live with my aunti anymore. I can’t go back there.”
She tells me her aunti has allowed another young girl to live with Thuli, alone in her home. The young girl is Thuli’s age and is “abusing her”.
“What do you mean ‘abusing’ you?” I ask.

“She steals my things. She sells my clothes. She stole my cell phone. When I complain she beats me with a wooden spoon. She took my key and locked me out. She even sleeps with men for money and she brings them to our house.” Thuli begins to cry. “I can’t go back there Simphiwe. You have to help me.”
Thuli holds her pregnant belly. 5 months pregnant. Alone. “Where will you go if you don’t stay at your aunti’s?” I ask.

“I can go back to my parent’s home. In Stiki.”
“Is there anyone on that homestead?” I ask.
“No. There is no one there. But maybe there is an open window I can crawl through.”
“Thuli. You have no phone. No food. What happens when you go into labor? What happens if you need something?”

She begins to cry even harder.

“You’re sleeping with me tonight. What’s your aunti’s number?” I ask.
I call her aunt to ask what the fuck is going on. Thank god her English is good enough to hear me over the phone.

“What do you mean Thuli is a liar?!” I yell in response. The aunt begins to laugh.
“That girl is a pain. I’m tired of dealing with her. She never cleans the house. You don’t know her like I do. I don’t want her anymore.” She tells me.
“Where do you suggest she goes?” I ask.
“I don’t care.”
“You’re family. You’re all she has. How can you do that to your sister’s daughter!?” I yell.
She continues to laugh and my airtime is slowly dwindling.
“You can meet me tomorrow in town so we can sit and talk about your niece’s future or you’ll be hearing from Child Protection Services. THE POLICE.”
The laughter quickly fades and she agrees to meet me tomorrow, 8 in the morning at a restaurant.

Just as I predicted. It’s now nine in the morning and I’m sitting alone. By then, I’m gone. I bring Thuli to SWAGAA (Swaziland Action Group Against Abuse) to tell the case workers, who I’ve become very close with, her story. When we arrive one of the social workers, Dazi, takes Thuli by the hand and they go inside the counseling room.
Having just ran through town, swimming in the insufferable heat, dirt is now sweating its way down my cheeks and off my legs. I can’t catch my breath. I scratch away the sweat behind my neck, leaving dirty grime underneath my fingernails. I can’t decide which is more urgent, finding a piece of paper to use as a fan or pick out this disgusting dirt from my nails.

Before I can decide, one of the case workers walks over and says to me, with a smile, “Follow me.” I walk with him into one of the back rooms where I find two young white ladies, roughly my age, sitting in front of computers. One is wearing a beautiful bright pink scarf around her neck, and the other colorful dangly earrings and a shimmery bangle. I look down at my cut off jeans smeared in, God what is that? How long has that been there? The case worker nudges me in front of them like a little kid showing off a two dollar bill he just found. He smiles big and says, “Here you go.” And walks away. The two women stare waiting for me to say something intelligent. As if I had some important message for them. “Ah. Hi. I’m Meredith. And I’m white. Which is why I’m guessing I’ve just been presented to you.” They laugh and introduce themselves. They’re from a Canadian organization that, like Peace Corps, finds young adults who want to volunteer in other countries. However, they are actually specialized in a certain area. Their field: legal aid. They are here to help SWAGAA protect children in court.

“Oh you’re the girl they’ve told us about. The one with all the cases down South. Suppose you’ve seen a lot. What’s it like out there.” They huddle like girl scouts around a camp fire waiting to hear another ghost story. Still trying to catch my breath and thinking about the dirt underneath my fingernails, I begin with, “Well EXHALE where do I begin EXHALE” Suddenly I’m spraying out a year’s worth of frustration. Case after case. Headache after headache. Nonjaboliso. Thuli. Nomfundo. Bhule. Snakes in my hut. Mean Gogo. Changing sites. Harrassment. Abusive head teachers. Lazy teachers. Older men younger girls. Why. Why. Why. What am I doing here. It’s all fucked.

I stop. I catch my breath. “I’ve been here over a year. Sorry.” They chuckle. “We’ve only been here 4 months and we’re screaming the same things too. Well sort of. We live in the city.”

It’s been a few hours and I realize I need to get going. I knock on the door to tell ThuiI I have a few errands to run and I’ll be back. I open the door and look to my right, Thuli is crying. I look to my left and see Dazi who is also crying. “I had no idea.” Dazi tells me in between sniffles. “She can stay with my mother in town until we find her a home.”

A few days go by and I pop into SWAGAA to see how my Thuli is doing. “Simphiwe my friend! You have to come visit her!” Dazi shouts. She drives me to her parent’s homestead and leads me inside. Techno music is blaring and a young girl moves her hips to the beat while sweeping. She looks up and sees us. She drops the broom and begins to beam. “This is my niece, Zandi.” Dazi introduces me. Zandi runs over to shake my hand, her gaze and smile staying strictly on my face alone. “I am so happy to finally meet you!”

I see Thuli. She stands in the kitchen doorway, smiling.

“Thuli. Simphiwe is here to see you.”
“Hi Simphiwe.” Thuli beams back.
I take a seat and the two girls, Zandi and Thuli chatter away. Young Swazi girls NEVER chatter in the presence of adults. They lean into each other as they tell their stories. A baby is crying from the back bedroom. “That’s my little boy.” Zandi laughs. “Zandi’s twenty. She had her baby while doing form three. Just like Thuli. She’ll go back to school, don’t worry. This is good for Thuli. They can talk.” Dazi assures me.

Behind me, I hear the shuffle of old tired feet. Gogo stands in the door way, hunched over and smiling from ear to ear. “Mama!” Dazi shouts. Gogo extends her arms out. They hug and grab and shake and hug and kiss and shake some more. She wobbles over to me and I stand to shake her hand. She pushes my hand aside and wraps her little hands around my waist. Her head smudged between my breasts. “I love you!” She shouts. Her crooked fingers wrap around my big cheeks as she stares into my eyes. “Thank you.” She says. “Thank you.” She returns to her daughter and jabbers away in Siswati. I’m hearing the words wash, white people, love. Dazi translates, “She’s telling me she used to work for white people. She washed their dishes. She loves white people.” Not really knowing what to say, I settle for an, “Ohhh. I, ah, I see.” Gogo laughs. In English she says to me, “I love to work with water! I love to do dishes. That’s how I got this.” She slaps her hunch back. “Well Gogo.” I laugh. “One of these days you’re going to have to let a white girl do YOUR dishes for YOU because this white girl loves to do dishes.” Gogo laughs and begins to burrow in my breasts again. “Ngiyabonga! Ngiyabonga!” Thank you! Thank you! She shouts. I say goodbye to Thuli and tell her I’ll be back in a week to check on her.

I’m realizing now this is the kind of work I am here to do. As a volunteer, we’re told about the workshops other volunteers have put on. We’re encouraged to try health clubs and build libraries. Reach those BIG groups. Reach those BIG numbers for your trimester reports we send back to Washington. The reports that ask us, “How many people attended your workshop/event. How many people actually learned something about HIV or healthy living? Every three months we sit there in front of the computer plugging in numbers that mean absolutely NOTHING to us, and EVERYTHING to the people an ocean away. When it shouldn’t. As a volunteer, who has been here over a year, you see where these approaches fail. We spend all our time organizing events and clubs, writing vasts for them, setting the date, making sure people come, getting the food and the money all in order. It’s the day of the workshop and the beans that take 22 hours to cook haven’t been prepared, another NGO decides not to show up because they don’t have an extra vehicle and refuse to use public transport. There’s a shortage of food and the adult Swazis who are helping you put on this event are having second helpings of everything while the starving orphans sit in a corner being told there’s no food left. And you’re being told to take pictures of these orphans to send photos of them back home asking for money. “Try and get a picture of one shaking.” They tell us. And the entire time you’re trying to remember that one yoga class you took over a year ago because your best friend made you- where the instructor taught you how to properly breathe when in a panic. Was it in through the mouth out through the nose? Or in through the nose and out through the mouth? What was all that, envision my breath moving in a circle talk?

“What?!” Someone taps you on the shoulder.
“Um. These people want their food.”
“Well do they have their ticket that proves they sat through all the lectures?”
“Yes. But we ran out of plates to put the food on.”

In through the nose out through the mouth. Tiny circles. PANIC ATTACK!

Look, I’m sure SOME workshops work, but every single one I’ve done or been to has been a huge slap in the face for the person who puts it on.
Just the other day, a new volunteer comes to me and says, “We need to put on a workshop. Write a mini vast for me so we can get the money for it.” I ask, “Why do we need money for this workshop?” She’s impatient. “Just write it for me please. We need money for food. For notebooks and markers.” I explain I don’t do food for workshops. This information is benefitting them and if they can’t see that then it’s a waste of my time and yours. I have extra notebooks and markers we can use and there is no need to jump through the hoops Peace Corps Washington has set up for us to get the money for a few biscuits, juice, and notebooks. WE can do this alone. But straight out of training, I understand why she’s shouting MINIVASTS and WORKSHOPS!

Another new volunteer complains, “Oh she’s one of THOSE volunteers. Only here for the fellowship. Trying hard to get into John Hopkins. Here for the resume if you ask me. She NEVER leaves her hut.” God. The words I once said a year ago and now I wish I could go back a year ago and smack one year ago Meredith. It doesn’t matter WHY we’re here. If you’re here for the numbers, the resume, the experience, or for some “I just had to get away. Bad break up.” It doesn’t matter. We’re here and we can’t possibly estimate and calculate the numbers of those we’re affecting. And our goal should never be able to fit in a tiny box asking for a huge number.

For over a year I have stressed myself out trying to motivate big groups of people. This mzungu is walking in circles again.

My PCV friend hears my complaints… again…. and hands me our latest Peace Corps newspaper. “Read this.” Two RPCVs (Peace Corps volunteers who’ve served and gone back home- and who I absolutely adored/adore and don’t use facebook so I can’t get a hold of them!) wrote a small article for our newsletter. And this is what I read, “When we arrived in our community and began searching for ways to address the HIV/AIDS education, we noticed that many of the events we attended seemed to be scratching the same surface over and over again to promote healthy living. There was not much change occurring due to the information that was being taught. We decided we wanted to dig deeper in our interactions with community members. This meant stepping away from large meetings and towards individual relationships. We spent most our time helping on homesteads, farming, talking, learning Siswati and just hanging out with our community members. However, this led to low numbers on our trimester reports and occasionally feeling like we were not completing the task that we were asked to do. Our service was spotted with moments where we saw our work pay off in a good conversation about HIV or someone coming to us for help with a problem.”

And there it was. My very EXACT thought I had this month. My realization in someone else’s words. And I found this article at the EXACT moment I needed to find it. I came here for the work. To help people. And this past month I thought I wasn’t doing enough, and even worse, there was nothing I could do. I had serious thoughts of going back home. But this realization has made me see that it’s ok not to do my “work” in a large scale kind of way. I know this is what Peace Corps values. They subtly praise the volunteers that take out large vasts and put on huge events. They bring the ambassador or any VIP to “those” volunteer’s sites, t he ones doing this kind of work, to show them what PCVs are doing “out there”. They look at their trimester reports and their numbers and think, wow, now THAT’S a volunteer. And by no means am I belittling THAT work. I think it’s amazing volunteers can have the organizational skills and the patience to put on such things.

Every volunteer suffers from work insecurity. We sit around and talk about our work and every one of us, no matter how much work we’ve done in our community, cringes a bit when we hear one say, “(certain NGO) and I are putting on this huge meeting with all the caregivers in our area and we’re going to sit down and figure things out.” Or “I’m starting a huge soccer tournament with all these NGO’s and there’s going to be massive testing.” We all think, “Man… I need to do something like that too.” But I’m realizing, that was never me. Our first three months in Peace Corps, integration, we’re supposed to get to know people and open ourselves up to them. After that, go out there and spend PEPFAR money like crazy! That isn’t me, I’m stuck in integration. I’m ready to let go of this guilt and just focus on myself and someone who needs my help. As my African Queen once said , “Just show them who you are, and the rest will follow”

Inside Dazi’s car I tell her, “I have never seen Thuli smile like that. I’ve never seen her happy.”
“I know!” She shouts back. “After one day of being with Mamma and Zandi she is a chatterbox like the rest of us.”
“You did this Dazi.” I tell her. “You showed her love. I don’t think Thuli has ever seen love.”
“No Simphiwe. “ Dazi looks back at me and smiles. “WE showed her love.”
I grab Dazi’s hand and say, “We showed her Ubuntu.”

How many people benefited from your event/workshop?I know I have. I know Thuli has. But what about her unborn baby? I once asked Thuli if she will go back to school. She told me she would. She said she wanted to move to South Africa and get her education there. “And what about your baby?” I ask. “I will leave her with someone here.” To us this sounds selfish and unmotherly. But in this culture, it is what they do. Babies are handed over like sweaters. Thuli certainly wasn’t raised by her parents and maybe either were her parents. But because of mine and Dazi’s interference, we are showing her the importance of love and a mother’s love. Dazi has asked Thuli to stay and live with her parent’s. They want to help her raise this baby. So how many people have I benefited? Hopefully, Thuli will show this baby what love is and this baby will grow up and show her baby what love is, and maybe, just maybe…..a cycle has been broken.