"The Fire Inside."

1. What evidence is there that there was a big hot balloon that burst and all creation was created?
2. What makes another planets to appear on the sky of the planet Earth while they are supposed to have their own sky on which you can find their planets starts and moon?
3. How were the other planets created because in the bible it is only written about Earth only?
4. The Earth is round and the countries are shown on the edge of the Earth. So how come there is no end of the Earth
5.According to the scientific explanation of creation what made people to speak different languages?


I sit outside with Nobandile, her paper of questions in hand, struggling to answer them as simply as possible. “Well the evidence of the Big Bang Theory is observational- it‘s what we have seen and calculated. I mean… the universe is slowly expanding and always has been....OK....So…it began with just this tiny piece of matter and.. Well I think… Yeah, I mean...” Nobandile thinks for a moment. She crosses her arms, rolls her eyes and asks, “Well then where did that piece of matter come from?” Ahhhhhh….

As challenging as it is answering a teenager’s why and how questions; it’s a nice change from the struggles I have been enduring with my Primary level students the past few weeks. I’ve taken over Madleyna’s Health club after school each day. It was Dumile’s project but she has been transferred to another school. The head teacher has yet to give me another teacher who can assist me with the lessons. I cannot teach students about healthy living, growing up, and HIV when they don’t understand English. “How can a person get HIV?” I ask the 9 to 13 year olds. “Seminal Fluids” “Vaginal Secretions” They shout. “And what do those mean?” I ask. Blank stares follow. From grade 1 most Swazi children are taught in English. Swaziland is determined to have English speaking citizens. They assign a few students from each class to be what they call “Prefects” (which if I recall is a reference to the poorly made film “Minority Report” but not a reference from them- just my little observation) These “Prefects” tell on children who are caught speaking Siswati amongst themselves. I’m guessing they have very few friends. This system is nation wide. I really don’t have an opinion on the matter- weird, I know. All I care about is that these children understand HIV. They MUST MUST MUST understand- it‘s a matter of life or death. They cannot just memorize textbook definitions. I believe this is why so many students fail. So many students at the age of 18 can’t write a simple composition describing an event or photo. Why so many students don’t quite understand what HIV is. Why they can’t think critically or creatively or problem solve anything. Learning has become simply memorization. HIV has something to do with the words transmission and fluids but what do those words actually mean? Children aren’t getting an education and they aren’t comprehending anything because it’s being taught in a language they don’t fully understand. They’re being taught empty words in a loud voice. A stitch in time saves nine. A penny saved is a penny earned. They LOVE learning our expressions and are even forced to memorize them…but have no idea what they mean (neither do I really). Again, as a volunteer, this is an issue out of my reach. I do the best I can with exaggerated hand gestures and drawings to show these children what seminal fluids are. What a fluid is. What transmission means. I need a translator and it’s pissing me off that not even one teacher can take an hour after school to help me. My club is on school grounds and that’s where these teachers live.

The head teacher asks me to create an exam about HIV for her grade seven students. The last grade before going on to high school. I ask the receptionist to show me previous exams given to these students. All are multiple choice or true or false. Perfect for children who aren’t actually understanding anything they’re being taught. But this is my exam, and I have a point to prove. I ask the usual questions that are followed with textbook answers. Be faithful. Use a Condom. Abstinence. What does AIDS stand for? Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome. Human immunodeficiency Virus. OK….. “What is a fluid?” They write, “A fluid is a germ that causes HIV” “What does your immune system do?” They write, “My immune system eats the blood in my body.” “My immune system digests my food.” Not a single person knew what the word transmission was or understood the difference between HIV and AIDS. Most thought brushing your teeth was a way one could get the virus. And I found this out by asking them to put their own knowledge in their own words. I hand the graded exams to the head teacher. Every single person failed. She gasps. These students are about go to go into high school. She is outraged. “If you’re going to insist these children are taught in English then make sure they understand the English words you are using. This is Life skills we’re teaching. We’re trying to teach them how to survive.” She nods her head in agreement. I gave this exam to her seventh grade social studies class which are divided into two different classes. “I would appreciate the opportunity to teach them this subject myself next week then give them the test again. I’m going to ask them the why and how questions. I’ll make sure they don’t go on to high school without first understanding HIV.” Head teacher wants me to come back Tuesday. “Do you think you could talk about sexuality on Wednesday as well?” She asks me. I agree. “And a few of the social studies classes?” She pleads. I smile and nod. “OK Sisi, how would you like to be my seventh grade social studies teacher?” “I thought you’d never ask!” I laugh. A chance to talk about the world and how people interact in it. Different cultures and beliefs, human sexuality, taboo subjects and embarrassing discussions. I can’t wait! Little guy on my left shoulder reminds me….you’re supposed to be doing SUSTAINABLE work! Oh hush….I’ll do some sort of workshop for the teachers later. That’s a bit more sustainable right?

My schedule now: Tuesdays and Wednesdays I teach Seventh graders “Social Studies”. Tuesdays and Thursday’s I teach a Health Club from 2-3 then a drama club 3-4. Mondays and Fridays I teach highschoolers “Life Skills”. But soon will be meeting after school for a debate team I’m starting. I don’t know much about acting, singing, sports, or art…but I know how to use my voice. That will be my biggest challenge. Teaching these kids to speak out. Primary level students, especially the girls, can be incredibly shy. I’ve enrolled my Health Club in a drama competition in a few months. They will be the youngest performers and I had to convince to get them in there. So they need to shed their quiet voices and their hands over their mouths. I bring bags of candy, popcorn, and tortillas to the club every Tuesday and Thursday. The carrot dangling in front of a donkey. Before we begin, everyday, I have them stand in a circle. I walk up to each student. “What is your name?” I ask. A young girl covers her mouth, looks down and whispers… “Zodwa.” “What is your name?!” I yell. She whispers, “Zodwa.” I run and jump onto a large rock and scream, “MY NAME IS SIMPHIWE! SIMPHIWE!” The students laugh. I stand in front of her again.
“I want the Universe.. God.. Clouds.. The birds and the skies to hear you.”
She loudly replies, “Zodwa.”
“Hands down!” I shout.
“Zodwa!”
“What?” I scream.
“ZODWA!” She tilts her head high, bending her knees, hands down at her side.
“Good. Now you can take a handful of candy.”

I move to the next person. I move to all 40 students until every person has found their voice. I hear my old dance instructor inside my head. I’m 11 years old, the only white girl in an African Dance ensemble. I cross my arms across my chest and cower in the back. Flamboyantly “something” dance instructor struts towards me. “Na ah honey. You NEED to put those arms down. Don’t no one want to get to know you when you’ve closed yourself off like that. You are a dancer. You need to make people interested, curious, with your body. You need to be PROUD. Stand tall girl. You are SO beautiful.” To this day, you will never see me stand with my arms crossed. They ask me why I look them in the eyes. They tell me they aren’t allowed to- it’s disrespectful. I explain my culture. Direct eye contact means strength and confidence and as a woman this is important to have. I encourage them to look me directly in the eyes when speaking to me. I’m breaking a cultural norm but their body language reeks of low self-esteem and lack of confidence. And that is what abusers look for. This is one cultural norm I’m ok with breaking.

I loosen them up before each class with one song. One of my favorite songs and yes- I have it on my I-pod. I have them stand behind me in three lines. "Now follow me. Do as I do!" 5.6.7.8....."MORTAL KOMBAT!" The theme song to Mortal Kombat blares out of my little speakers. A shuffle here a jive there...everyone's laughing. I'm trying to shake them up. Break down walls.

40 students. 40 students stay after school because they want to be there- eager to learn. Everyday, after school, they sweep and clean out the classroom. Right now we focus on self esteem, finding our voice, and team building. This generation needs to be there for each other because no one else will. By the end of the day they’re mocking my constant, “Find your voice!” “Let me see your beautiful faces!”

Madleyna is too far from my home to walk and it’s easy to hitch a ride in that direction. I find even in the back of pick up trucks and inside stranger’s cars I am teaching.

A man pulls over. He asks me where Madleyna is. He offers to give me a lift to school. He’s a soldier along the Managa Border. While he talks, I pay attention to his sunken in face, enlarged cheek bones, and a pack of ARV’s next to the stick shift. He’s telling me a story of a girl he met at the border. “She is beautiful. A beauty. I am on my way to visit her. I think I will love her.”

I look around his car, “Then that means you’ve brought her flowers yes?”
“No. I did not. Should I?”
I point to a store on the right, “Well you need to get her SOMETHING. Stop here.”
We go inside.
“In America, men like to give ladies chocolate.”
He laughs, “In Swaziland. We like our meat.”
“Buy her a chicken.” I laugh.
In the end, we go with old reliable: Cadbury Chocolate.

We get back in the car and I point to his tablets.
“Will you tell her?” I ask.
He sighs for a moment. He jostles the packet of pills around then puts his hand back on the steering wheel.
“Yes. I will tell her. It’s important she knows. So then she can get tested like I did. But these tablets,” he points to the packet of pills. “ Eeesh....these ARV’s. Should I be taking them? I haven't started yet, but the doctor tells me my count is too low. What if I start taking them and then Swaziland runs out of ARV’s? They say you cannot stop taking them once you start. “
The car stops and we’re outside my school. I sit and listen to his concerns. I give him the best advice I can and try to reassure him to take the medication. A moment of silence, his turn to argue with me again why he should not take them. He stares into my eyes though- looking for something. Questioning… do I really know what I’m talking about…little white girl. I hear his thoughts. I stare back. I always stare back.
He sighs, “OK teacher. I think I will start the ARV’s.” I encourage him to talk to his doctors more and only to start if he’s REALLY ready.
“And tell her she has a beautiful smile….girls love that.”
“I will tell her. And I will give her the chocolate.”
I shut the door and wave goodbye.

Health club is over. With no teacher to assist me and limiting resources, today I spin straw into gold. The kids left smiling and still singing the songs I taught them. Bags and flip charts in hand, I wave down another trucker. The usual introductions. The HIV topic has wiggled it’s way into all my introductions now.
The trucker points his big finger in the air and asks, “Why is it you think women with HIV live longer than men?”
“Because women go to the clinic and seek help. Therefore they live longer.”
He laughs, “No no no.. Actually it’s because they menstruate. They loose a little bit of the AIDS every month.” The man laughs a deep bellied laugh. We reach my stop and he continues to laugh as I shut the door and thank him.

I’m starting to love these funhouse turns. I never know what’s going to happen next or who I will meet. My days are still filter grey but punctuated with these tiny bright moments that keep me smiling. I’ve been having these amazing conversations with the Swazi people that leave me with a fire inside. A deep body shiver and a warmth and a glow. I used to get this feeling talking about religion with my step father. Like we’re both detectives and we’re on the edge of discovering something true real and revolutionary.

I meet a new man today. He calls himself Justice. He was a counterpart to a previous volunteer and he was given my phone number. He wants me to help him with his youth center. Justice is incredibly motivated and dedicated. I’m in complete awe at all the work he’s done and of course without pay. Every caregiver, every teacher, every cook, at these Neighborhood Care Points don’t usually get paid. If they do, by the government, it’s pennies. Pennies. I ask him, “What exactly does the government do with their money as far as social welfare goes?” We take a seat and talk about the fucked up world. “I don’t get it Justice. How can you live in a country that you know has the highest HIV rates in the world and still choose to have sex without a condom. How?!” He tells me they don’t see it that way. “Ten years ago when people got HIV, they died. People weren’t living long. And they certainly didn’t look healthy if they had the virus. ARV’s are keeping people alive and looking healthy. So people say oh that beautiful one she surly doesn’t have it. I can have sex with her without a condom. They don’t know how severe HIV is here. They don’t see anyone dying.”
I disagree. “But the bomake and the bobabe. Child headed homesteads. The parents, a whole generation, is dying, is gone, because of AIDS. How can they not see that?!” He shakes his head, “And when you ask these children, their neighbors, and their friends how these people died….what do they tell you?” I look down and sigh, “A stomach ache.” Justice laughs, “You and I both know…it was NOT a stomach ache. They keep it secret and nobody knows just how bad it really is.”

People are blaming the new king for how bad HIV is now. They say when the old king was here HIV was not so bad. But it has nothing to do with the king (to an extent). A new culture is being formed here. One that is waving the flames of AIDS. I ask Justice if he’s married. No. But he has a child. Just like everyone else. And that’s just it. Years ago you wouldn’t dare have a child out of wedlock. And many more people had multiple wives. Now it’s multiple partners. I believe, because of poverty, these people can’t afford to have multiple wives- let alone one wife. But they are continuing to have multiple partners. As a man, you don’t have to pay for multiple partners. Multiple partners is free and lots of sex….perfect environment for this virus to survive and grow. If you have multiple wives and everyone is faithful to each other…no AIDS. And I believe that is how it used to be. “Where is your counterpart?” Justice asks me. “I don’t have one. Never did.” Justice smiles, “Well…now you do.” I smile back, “It’s probably not culturally appropriate..but can I hug you Justice?!” We hug and laugh. Justice and I, on the edge of something real and revolutionary…. And we can feel it.

I have lunch with two volunteers who last week held a MCP, Multiple Concurrent Partners, workshop. They wanted to ask people why they were cheating. What did THEY think were the problems. The men all agreed, “When my wife refuses me in bed one night, I have every right to seek out someone else who will pleasure me.” They also mentioned one of the biggest problems was having sex with their wife in front of their children.

Is this a nation of 15 year olds? This pornographic world with no real people just simple bodies. Just holes to fuck. It’s come down to food and sex. I look around the restaurant as I talk with the other volunteers. I watch “them” eating. Tearing apart their chicken. Their greasy wet lips sliding over the bubbly flesh. Even the way they eat is almost pornographic. I pull my skirt down to cover an exposed knee. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to not fear being wanted. To embrace and be flattered by the attention of a stranger. As a white woman in Swaziland you distrust the sexual aspects of your body. You hide them in loose clothing. I remember being breasts, ass, and soft delights once. Now, just meaningless elbows and ankles.

Volunteers bring their heads in. We are whispers now. "We’ve wondered if there would be political instability while we were here.” The PCV’s whisper to each other. Disease and poverty seems like a decent explanation for all that is wrong here. A revolution of souls is what they need. Is what we all hope for while we are here. But it won’t happen. They’re producing robots and soldiers. Creativity and speaking out is discouraged. The teachers are just government’s worker bees, hating their jobs. And the students are just a knot of embarrassed sheep. No one will die courageously. Not like my Proud African. Even he won’t. Their eyes are closed.

I am teaching high schoolers now. I've been waiting for this moment a long time. They're brats at first. I am feeling what a substitute teacher goes through. Right now, to them, I am just an American sickness: porn, 50 cent, guns, fancy white cars, gas stations and strip malls.... Budweiser. I’m nervous. I feel the sweat start at my scalp, my inner palms moisten. "Do you like sexxxxxxxxxxxx!?" One boy screams from the back...it's always the boys in the back.... I walk over and open the classroom door. "Get out." I look at him and say. He cowers and walks out. My brats quickly become sheep again, and I am a teacher. They're in high school now. From birth, AIDS has been crammed down their throats. They are suffering from severe AIDS fatigue. I stand before all of them and begin, "I am NOT here to teach you AIDS. If you don't know by now.. that's your own fault." "How..." They whisper to each other- confused. "Instead. I'm going to have you teach me. I want to know why the HIV prevalence is so high in Swaziland. Why the average Swazi lives to be 33 years old." "How...." They whisper again. "They haven't told you this?" I point to one of the cool kids in the back.
"How old are you?" I ask.
"Twenty- two." He says.
"Eleven more years.......huh....No. I'm here to help you understand, comprehend, think for yourselves. I want you to challenge me. I want you to raise your hand and say, 'Simphiwe- I disagree! Simphiwe no..that's wrong.' I reward those who ask questions with a loud voice and direct eye contact."

Each day, before class, I write something controversial on the board. I want to talk about condoms today. I write, "You can't eat the emasweeti (candy) with the wrapper on." What Swazi boys tell each other and girls when they don't want to use a condom while having sex. They walk in and immediately start talking about it. It begins a discussion. The next day I write, "HIV effects women more than men." I ask them, "How does this statement make you feel?" The next day, "People living with HIV should be branded." I'm preparing them for what I hope to start... a debate team centered around topics such as: Sexuality, HIV, and Gender. A chance to be heard.

After class, I stop by the police station to check on Nonjaboliso's case. The police officer who helped me with her has left. No one sticks around the rural area too long. There's a new woman in charge of Child Protection Services and Domestic Violence. She's heard of me and asks to speak with me. We take a seat. "Simphiwe, I have so many cases." She spreads files across the table in front of us. "And I don't know what to do with these kids. One girl, puss coming out of her vagina. We think it's gonorrhea from her father. Four children abandoned by their mother under a tree. A young boy, his father dies, his mother remarries his uncle (custom here). His uncle refuses to feed him or his siblings because they are not his own. He won't pay for their school fees. The boy wants to kill himself. What is a child to do here without an education? He's been sleeping here.. let me go get him so you can meet him." I grab her arm, "No no no.. that's not necessary." I know if I see his face.. it'll only hurt me more. She gets him anyway. He looks down and whispers when he speaks. "Simphiwe, I've been calling SWAGAA and they have not returned my calls.. please can you try them?" She asks. I agree. I was planning on visiting this NGO tomorrow anyway.

SWAGAA, Swaziland Action Group Against Abuse. One of the biggest NGO's protecting Swaziland's youth here. In the late 90's, SWAGAA conducted surveys that found the Social Welfare Department (government agencies) were not doing their job. They didn't offer counseling to victim's of abuse. They didn't protect these children in court. And most cases were lost. I meet with Xolili. A young beautiful woman with a South African accent more than willing to meet with me. We talk for hours about "the system." "What exactly does Swaziland's governmental organizations do as far as social welfare?" I ask. There is one tiny home that the government pays for, for children to go if they don't have parents or cannot return home. It's the home I took Nonjaboliso to. It holds around 12 children and if they're over 14 cannot stay. And the stay is temporary. Every other orphanage, service, and donation is provided by OUTSIDE help. I am realizing more and more how little this country provides for its people. I can't imagine what would happen if the outside world pulled out. She tells me everything SWAGAA does. I'm astonished. No one is taking advantage of these services in the rural world- because they don't know about it. "Yes, we're having trouble with those in authority out there. You'll find the police don't bring the women who are being beaten by their husbands to us. They know we can provide a safe place for them, but they don't bring them here. The chiefs and the inner councils won't work with us. They don't consider child abuse to be a priority. Land disputes are more important." I remember Vanessa, PCV, telling me the other day she got some new kids, at an "orphanage" she works at, from my chiefdom. "They were living alone under a tree." She tells me. "So what.. there are hundreds like that." I say. "Yes, but these children lived close to the umphagatsi and the Chief didn't want them there. It made him look bad." I laugh, "Oh you mean the chief who, when I told him horror stories of the kids in this area, told me he had no idea kids were being abused and abandoned in his chiefdom..."

I ask Xolili, "Why someone who works for Child Protection Services at the police station is coming to me, an outsider, for advice on what to do with these children? Why aren't they being trained?" She tells me no one sticks around long enough to be trained. I'm realizing more and more the lack of connection between organizations. I want to find a way to connect the parents, the teachers, the caregivers, the NGO's, to these children. It would not be something I could conquer as a volunteer right now. I daydream about extending another year here and working directly with SWAGAA, helping to decentralize their services.

I notice a scar on Xolili's neck. Puffed, light in color. "Is it dangerous pulling these children out of homes and challenging authority figures in communities?" She stares for a moment. Searching for the right words. As she speaks she brings her hand up to her scar and feels it... a constant reminder to her. "It can be very dangerous. I get threats all the time. Occupational hazard." She laughs. She promises me she'll send someone to my schools to talk.

"Abuse is incredibly high where I live." I say
"Oh Simphiwe, it's high everywhere." She responds.
"My high school. I've gotten close to two girls. They are telling me horror stories about the head teacher there. He bribes the girls with money..a thousand Rand to sleep with him. He impregnated one girl. Then paid a male student to say the child was his. He sent the girl to another school, when she graduated he took her on as his second wife. He only comes to school to beat the children. And I believe them. He has that certain vibe. His gaze always a little too low for my liking."
"That happens a lot in schools these days." She tells me.

We talk about inspiring the youth. We talk about speaking out. Events and marches. I'm getting that fiery feeling inside me again.

I leave Xolili uplifted and colored in. We told our horror stories, but we still had hope in our voices. We shared an excitement for change and for the hope that change is within reach. For so long, so much has been out of reach for me. So many ideas, so many in need of help, so hard to keep track of. I was bleeding like ink on a wet page. I'm starting to see direction now. The path...

I walk back home. The split dead trees are showing me their green hearts. Life is still within these dead trees. I am seeing life underneath all this death. A secret I wasn't meant to see. There is good here.

There are still good people out there. There is still hope...and the fire inside me is growing.