Still Looking for the Answer

12/26/09

Its been almost a month- and im home.

Almost a month from site and my bags are bursting open as I walk from the kombi stop. I round the corner. A left turn, onto my path now and my hut is in sight. I see seven children playing in a huddle in the middle of the homestead. They turn and see me. “SIMPHIWE!” They shout. They drop what they’re doing and run towards me. Hands out and wide smiles I am tackled to the ground. They quickly grab my bags and my now free hands as we walk down the long path. Shebali lovingly bites my ankles, her now rolly polly puppys follow close behind. The cows have recently given birth to their calves, the fields have been plowed, and the green is beginning to grow.

I worry about the condition of my hut. Unfortunately my thatch roof and circular wall don’t ever meet- leaving a huge gap between the inside of my hut and the outside world. Which means I have around five lizard pets, bats, beetles, a snake, and an assortment of hard shelled insects often the size of a candy bar. I quickly, and cautiously swing open my hut door and stand in attack pose, stick in hand, in the doorway. Nine children huddle behind me. They peak in through my legs and around my arms. They grab long sticks and run into my hut poking underneath my bed and behind shelves. One shouts out, “Simphiwe look!” A large snake skin dangles from the gap between my wall and roof- dangling onto my mosquito net above my bed. “Ah Simphwe! Looks like he left his clothes here!”

All is clear. No snake. I ask the children what they did for Christmas.
“We cooked and ate dinner together.”
“Where is Gogo?” I ask.
“She has been gone for weeks.”
Nine children. Alone on Christmas. I’m sad I wasn’t here.
“So I ran into Santa in town. He told me to come home and give you your presents immediately!” I exclaim. They run in and circle around my box of goodies. I’ve never seen such a reaction to a bag of marbles. The finale: A bottle of Nutella sent to me from home. We share spoonfuls until there is no more Nutella in sight. Mnotfo leans on my door giggling. “What is it Mnotfo?” I ask. “I am so filled with joy.” He says. “You’re home.”

10 tummy aches later…we drag ourselves to bed. I let Shebali and her pups sleep with me tonight.

It’s over 100 degrees, ten o’clock at night I’m sitting still in my undies- and sweating. Jesus. My phone rings. It’s Dumile. The reception is awful. All I can make out is, “Simphiwe…it’s Nonjaboliso…she’s in trouble…the abuse is worse…we need to get her out of there tonight. She tells me he’s going to abuse her.” Nonjaboliso: Her Life Story: the one living with her sexually abusive grandfather and his eleven year old daughter. The one we have been trying to get out of that homestead for over a month now. My phone, of course, cuts out. I have only a few minutes of airtime left on my phone. I call back to clarify a few things before I act. Dumile sounds frantic and I think what is happening is Nonjaboliso has escaped her homestead and is fleeing from her grandfather. I hang up and call the local police station. At this point I’m wandering around my homestead shouting English slowly and loudly into my phone. My family, my constant audience, starring and gawking as I shout words like RAPE GRANDFATHER HIV POSITIVE HELP at the police. They tell me to call the toll free line. The toll free line hangs up when they realize I am speaking English. Before I am able to throw my phone at a wandering cow I beg my bhuti (brother) to talk to the toll free police for me. The line is busy for almost an hour.

I make one last desperate call. Stella. Peace Corps Programming Manager. She’s Swazi and has amazing connections. She’s also been there for me throughout all my obstacles. She calls a woman she knows in Manzini who runs a halfway house. I wait for her to call me back as she organizes and plans with this woman. My phone battery is about to die and I am pacing. Stella calls back. She’s winded and frustrated. She tells me she got in an argument with the lady and the lady was very rude to her, but she thinks the lady will come out and get Nonjaboliso tomorrow. I find this all very hard to believe. City support and care coming to rural Swaziland- I doubt it. I don’t have time to question. My phone dies and then suddenly the power goes out.

It’s over 100 degrees, midnight, I’m sitting still in my undies- sweating. Jesus. Shebali’s growling. She’s scratching behind my bookshelf. Shit- I think. It’s late at night, everyone’s asleep now, I’m in my sweaty undies and there’s a snake behind my bookshelf. Going to have to tackle this one alone. I grab the curious pups and throw them behind me. Shebali doesn’t stand down. She tries hard to get at it. I pull her by the scruff of her neck and drag her back. Again I stand in attack pose, sweating in my undies, frying pan raised high over my head. Batter up! I kick the book shelf over and scream ready to strike. I look down and there was the little bastard.

It was big. It was black. It was just a scorpion.

It’s been almost a month…and I AM home.

The next day, I take a long walk. I remember Sisana (the Swazi woman at the camp who told me about the Mctosa volunteer she met). “He didn’t knock on doors to get things done Simphiwe. He broke them down.” It was time to break down doors. I am walking to the police station today.

When I arrive, child protection services is busy. Good to know they’re taking care of some of these kids on their own. An hour of sitting in the waiting room- listening to people laugh as I tell them my Swazi name, asking if I’m married, WHY am I not married, why don’t I know better Siswati- an hour later- I’m seated before the Child Protection Officer: Smomo. She leans back, arms crossed over her chest, her lips are pursed in that “Who does this white girl think she is” sort of way. I ask her name. She says her first and last very quickly letting them run together- hoping I won’t catch on. Hoping to get a kick out of this white girl unable to pronounce Swazi names. “Oh. I used to be a Dlamini when I lived in Nkiliji.” I say. It’s important she knows I’m trying. I’m always trying. I tell her what I know. I start from the beginning. “It started with the Life Stories. No. It started with Dumile.” Smomo realizes my testimony is not good enough. Even though I carry Nonjaboliso’s written life story which speaks of her grandfather kissing her- it’s not enough. Smomo wants to speak with Dumile and the neighbor Nonjaboliso confided in about the abuse.

“Well, that could be a problem. I’m the only one not scared of this man. Even Dumile doesn’t want to go on record. He has convinced everyone he is a witch.” Smomo crosses her arms again, purses her lips, “No matter.” She says. “They cannot defeat us! We will get them to talk.” Smomo tells me she is going to go talk to Nonjaboliso and Bhule tomorrow. I try to keep my respected tone but really I’m absolutely annoyed. “Oh please don’t do that! We cannot let the grandfather know Nonjaboliso has said anything. You go in there questioning the children in front of him- and he will know. This puts their safety at risk. They won’t say a word to you. This is sexual abuse. These are children." I plead. "Then what do we do?" She asks me. "Before we do anything we need to have a safe place for them to go. Please give me a day to find a place.” Smomo agrees.

Next day, in Manzini, I meet Dumile to discuss Nonjaboliso and the upcoming club she and I are starting in just a few days. My phone rings , it’s Smomo. “Simphiwe. We have Nonjaboliso. We need to speak with you and Dumile. Meet us in Manzini.” Dumile and I wait outside by the curb. A police car with two women in front and Nonjaboliso in the back pulls up. “Get in.” They tell us. I sit to the right of Nonjaboliso, Dumile on her left. The two police women turn around. Their police faces on. They are stern. They are serious. They mean business. They look at me. “What did Nonjaboliso tell you?” I can’t believe they’re doing this right in front of the child. The three of us, shoulder to shoulder, squished in under the spotlight in this tiny car. “I think it is Dumile you should be speaking with. She was the one that noticed Nonjaboliso's behavior changing in school.” I say. "Who is Nonjaboliso?" One of the officers asks. "You're kidding right?" I ask. They turn to Dumile and speak in Siswati. When you’re constantly around conversations in a language you don’t really know, you become very familiar with body languauge. You learn to read it quite well. Dumile’s is telling me she is unhappy. She is uncomfortable. The police women don’t care. They continue to interrogate her. “You WILL testify. How can you report such things to us and not go to court? You are a teacher! Your job is to protect children. This man needs to go behind bars!” They wanted these words to be spoken in English. They wanted me to hear this. Dumile is meeting a friend in town. The police let her go while we drop Nonjaboliso off at the halfway house. "We WILL be back for you." They tell her.

As we drive they express their frustrations to me. “Who does she think she is? Hoping you could take all the blame and then she wouldn’t have to testify. She won’t tell us who this neighbor is that Nonjaboliso confided in. You must help us get it out of’ her.” They tell me they took Nonjaboliso to the hospital. “She tested positive. She has definitely been raped.” I ask if they found blood, semen, or hair. “Screw the testimonys. We won’t need them if you match his with what you found.” I say. “No. We didn’t. Only her hymen was broken. She says he hasn’t raped her since August.” They start writing a report with my name on it. They want me to sign what I have told them. A flashback, a hazy memory of training. Safety and Security officer- another boring lecture- “You are not to sign anything without me being their first!” Is that what they told us in training? I can’t remember. I call country director. “I want you to stay out of this Meredith.” She tells me. “I know that’s hard for you. But I don’t want your safety at risk again. I do NOT want your name on anything. I am afraid these police officers will tell the grandfather a volunteer was involved in this. If you feel unsafe AT ALL. Contact us. We can have you stay in Mbabane until this gets cleared.” I assure her he lives a neighboring village. He doesn’t know where I stay and when I was on his homestead talking with Bhule and Nonjaboliso he was convinced I was only there to survey his homestead’s shortage of food.

I tell the police I can’t sign anything or testify, as much as I’d like to, but will help convince Dumile to convince the neighbor to step forward. Nonjaboliso we can get out of there. She has come forward. But Bhule is brainwashed. She won’t say anything. So we need to use Nonjaboliso’s testimony to put the old man behind bars and then we can get Bhule out of there. I explain all this to the police as we drive. I ask them how long the half way house will hold Nonjaboliso. “I don’t know.” They say. I ask them what they plan on doing with her once this investigation is over. “We don’t know.” They say. I ask them what they told the grandfather when they took her from the homestead.
“We told him nothing. He was not home. We told Bhule to tell him we have her and if he has questions to come to us.”
“So you just took the child? Without getting the legal guardian’s permission first?”
“Yes. What do you think we should do with Nonjaboliso?” Child Protection Services asks me. I can’t tell you how many times a Swazi in authority, with a badge, with a certificate, a degree, an oficial stamp of approval has asked me the question, “Well, what do you think I should do?”

We arrive at the half way house. I haven’t really had time to look at Nonjaboliso. She steps out of the car. She has her usual face on. Everytime I see her, even on her own homestead, she’s always wide eyed- curious- lips slighlty parted and looking around. But not once has she ever looked sad. When writing her sad story. When telling her sad story. Her story of taking care of her sick father. Wipping maggots away from his mouth as he lied dying in bed- his thrush so badly infected inside his mouth. Loosing her father, then her mother being chased away by her grandfather. Her mother eventually dying. Then her grandfather- that sick bastard. But throughout it all- it’s the same face. I see no sadness. I grab her hand and we walk inside. Children ranging from one to twelve run around the house half naked. The police officers, Nonjaboliso, and I take a seat.

Smomo fills out some paper work for the woman who runs the halfway house- Maureen. For the next twenty minutes Maureen interviews me. Where I’m from. What I’m doing here. Will I marry a Swazi. What do I cook. What do I eat. I try to steer the conversation towards Nonjaboliso. I tell her about Bhule. I ask if I can visit Nonjaboliso. But I’m also curious about this place. There are many children in my area who need somewhere to go. “What is the age limit here?” I ask. “The eldest is fifteen. But the limit SHOULD be ten.” Maureen tells me. The adult age…..10?

The police officers speak to Nonjaboliso as we get up to leave. Nonjaboliso stares hard at the ground, twisting a teddy bear’s ribbon tightly around her index finger. She looks up and I see it. Tears pour out from her eyes. I see her sadness. I grab her hand and tell her I WILL be back.

We pick up Dumile on the way. Dumile signs her testimony. But she doesn’t want to. She gets out of the car quickly. I ask her if everything’s all right. “We will talk.” She tells me. The police got the neighbor’s name out of her. They plan to blame Nonjaboliso. Say that it was she who told them the name. I ask them to keep me informed and we say goodbye.

The following evening Vanessa, PCV friend and neighbor. Comes over. She brings tuna. She knows me so well. We sit on my hut floor, tuna, cheese, and crackers.. and a bottle of wine. We vent. We talk about the volunteer from our group that just went home. Our first one. Like loosing a family member. I had recieved a text from Vanessa while I was at camp informing me she had left. Tears filled my eyes as I told the volunteers I was with at camp that she was gone. This volunteer endured harrasment in her village like I had. I tried to bond with her. I tried to help her. But not enough. I had been there once too. But she couldn't take it anymore. I'm angry with what female volunteers have to endure here. We're trying to help while these Swazi men walk around with their dicks on their foreheads. It's not fair.

I'm angry. So I have Vanessa over so we can vent. Work through the anger. Recognize that it's not ALL Swazis. It's like a carton of curdled milk. You gotta shake it up, see that there are individual pieces. That's how you get through this. You gotta shake that carton.

We haven’t seen each other since the camp. “Where do I start?” I ask. “From the beginning….the middle.. how about the end and work your way to the beginning?” I envy Vanessa’s ability to put up with my stories. The content is always so dramatic and hard to handle. And my ability to tell it….like a six year olds. She’s constantly having to ask, “Ok..who? What? Wait back up….Oh….ok!” I rant about the Swazi staff at the camp- some of their incompetence and apathy. I rant about the police officers inability to figure things out on their own. She shares my frustrations. I ask, “Are you worried that we’re on our way to becoming like some of those…many of those…in season six…who are constantly trash talking the people and culture here. Who are constantly on the verge of throwing in the towel and shouting…WHAT AM I DOING HERE?!” I ask because I know she will say no. I know she will give me assurance and hope.

“Yes. I am.” She says.

Well, shit. “I AM becoming less sympathetic. AND more annoyed.” She tells me. She says she had to spend four days at Cabrini, where the American nuns work and live, to “get away from it all”. “Swazis don’t know how to problem solve." She continues. "They were never taught it in school. I’m seeing the same things where I work. The schools don’t believe in participatory learning and they get in trouble for asking questions. A student asking a question means the teacher most have taught it wrong. This is defying authority. My students, teenagers, ask me how to write a composition. I tell them you need a teaser. A beginning middle and end. They say ok thanks. I tell them now write one for me. And they can’t. Learning to them is just being told how but not actually doing it. This leaks into their adult life.”
“Is this why the police officers ask ME what THEY should do?” I interrupt.
“Yes.”
“So doesn’t this make you less bitter Vanessa, less jaded? It’s not their fault. It’s what they learned. Its culture?” I plead.
She exhales slowly.“Not really. It can just as easily be unlearned.”
This isn’t just Vanessa talking. She works with two American nuns who have been here for years and years. They know. And they haven’t given up. I need to speak with these women. I need to speak with those who have been here for years and are still going to be here for years. Like Kathy. My woman who owns the world that I met in training and who I still hear such tales about. Someone asks me the other day, “Have you heard about this Peace Corps Volunteer here in Swaziland, back in the 80’s. One day a man shows up at her doorstep with a child. He claimed they were both refugees. He asks this volunteer to watch his daughter for one night- he’ll be right back. He never returns. The volunteer does everything she can to find a home for this girl. But no one can take her. So what does she do? She ends up taking the girl and raising her. And now this child, who once had nothing, travels the world with her Australian husband.” Another person interjects, “Yeah. That’s Kathy.”

Kathy: The Legend. I fantasize what her house looks like up north. Her three dogs. I’m sure there’s a record player somewhere in there, on a table, in a corner. I come over. She puts on Billie Holiday as we eat sharp cheddar cheese and sip on red wine. I lie on the floor with her dogs as they eat the crumbs off my flannel. I ask questions and she gives me the answers.

“And that’s the key." She says to me. "That’s what you gotta do Meredith.”

And I walk away feeling more connected. More apart of this mad world.