Utsi Umlungu: The White Person Says

3/3/10


Today


"Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you...." A three year old runs pass me laughing these fun words at me. He has no idea what they mean, only that it makes white people angry. I continue walking to my steash (bus stop), an eight year old walks pass with an empty bottle of Castle beer. I ask him, "You drank that?" He glares hard, throws his hands in the air P Diddy style and yells, "WHAT!" Thrusting his chest forward. A car in the middle of the dirt road....slowly inching its way to the right... starts and stops starts and stops. What is going on. Inside, a child, his head barely over the steering wheel, a look of horror on his face....struggles to drive this car. No one else inside with him.

Americans: most with their gradual introductions to the adult world: slumber parties,prom, movie ratings, a driver's permit, college. An introduction to the adult culture- a gradual shift from the kiddy table. Swazis: thrown out of childhood, kicked out..no time. All at once into this bare place where nothing was prepared for them. The reality: Birth, Suffering, Death.

They're running the show now. Who's going to stop them.

I wait with the school girls in uniform for a bus to drive pass or a willing truck driver. High pitch screaming is to our left now. A woman is beating a crying young boy. He runs free from her grip. She follows with rocks in hand. The girls are laughing as the boy runs pass us sobbing. The mother follows, stern. She sees me, an outsider, and laughs. She greets, "Unjani Gamadze?" I cross my arms and glare back. I mumble, "Ngiyaphilia." She continues to laugh. The whites don't understand our ways she thinks. And she's right. Violence with Violence- they're running the show now.

Today I'm teaching a quick lesson on STI's HIV and condoms to seventh graders. These kids are anywhere from 12 to 16 years old. The headteacher wants me to give my lesson to all her classes. I tell her I need a translator. "Sisi, these children are supposed to learn English- how can they do that if we are teaching them in Siswati?" I explain I am only asking one subject...one lesson.. be taught in Siswati. "It's important Head Teacher." She talks Babe Sviso into translating for me. He, of course, doesn't want to. He would rather sit in the staff room doing...nothing.

Babe Sviso, a character..a jokester....a clown. In his mid 40's, shorter than I, pot bellied and a mustache.. a clown. He's got the energy and enthusiasm of a five year old and I fear, like most male teachers, he will undermine me in front of the children. I begin to teach, Babe Jokester, at my side.

"Utsi umlungu." ...The white person is saying....He says before translating my words to the children. I let this go on for about twenty minutes. Then finally, I break. "Ngiva!" "I know what you're saying." The teacher hesitates unsure what to say, "Ah....we can talk about it after class." "No. You need to say, 'Utsi SIMPHIWE.'" He laughs. But he listens. I end my lecture emphasizing that these children can come to me about ANYTHING. "I live close to here. If you see me walking along the street, please stop and ask me anything. I love questions and I hope to get to know all of you. I know many of you are struggling and I hope I can help you get the help you need." After this I want to make one thing clear. "No one really knows where HIV came from. Unfortunately there are still Africans who believe HIV came from America in a laboratory by scientists trying to wipe out the African race. THIS IS NOT TRUE." Babe Sviso stands and stares at me. He doesn't translate. "And what are YOU?" He asks folding his arms against his chest. "I'm American." I say. "Exactly." He says. Stay calm Meredith...breathe....I explain massive amounts of people in the US have died of AIDS. "Just because your people are dying too...doesn't mean you didn't create it." He argues.

I hover over his fat little body and we "have it out" in front of the children. Another male teacher walks in. "We can discuss this after class....for now..I need you to translate what I just told them." I sternly demand. "Simphiwe...don't get cross with him." The other teacher warns me. Sakhile, the hip young male teacher who I had to convince to help me with my after-school health club. He sits on a desk of one of the students and asks me what's going on. Sviso goes outside to talk with another teacher. The kids look around..confused..."I just spent that past half hour with that man translating for me with Utsi Umlungu. I'm tired of being disrespected in front of the children. You have no idea what it's like being young, white, single and female in this country." Sakhile stands and puts his hand on my shoulder, "You're right. You're right." Sviso comes back into the room. He looks frightened of me. My head is blood warm, rushing emotions. I struggle to find fake, official ones. He tells the children HIV did NOT come from the States. Then turns to me and laughs.
"I was only joking Simphiwe."
"At my expense." I reply.

Class is dismissed...Sviso, Sakhile, and I walk to the teachers lounge. They ask me why I think HIV is so high in Swaziland. I choose my words carefully. For two hours we sit and talk. We debate we laugh we question.....
Sakhile says, "These kids are having sex so early. The fifth graders, six and seven."
My pot bellied friend gets angry, "No Sakhile! I refuse to believe this! These are OUR children! They cannot be doing that to themselves!"
"I live on school grounds Sviso...I hear EVERYTHING."
They argue back and forth...loud..sitting on tables their legs dangling. Quiet female teachers pass and they hassle them. The two men of the school...Kings.
They turn to me, "What do YOU think Simphiwe!?"
"The same thing happens in America. You find the more impoverished less educated and inequalities in gender..the younger kids are engaging in sex. I have to agree with Sakhile on this one."
"THERE YOU SEE!" Sakhile shouts jumping off the desk. Sviso stands scratching his head. Suddenly he slaps his hand on the table, "Simphiwe...let me show you these kids! You look at them, their young faces, and then tell me they're having sex."
A challenge. Sakhile yells, "LETS GO! COME SIMPHIWE...WE'RE GOING TO TAKE YOU TO GRADE 5 GRADE 6 GRADE 7...and you will see."
I'm sandwiched between the two kings as they herd me to a grade 5 class. We barge in. The teacher stops talking as these clowns demand all children stand and look at Simphiwe. The men walk back and forth..."Simphiwe. Look. Look at these faces. So young." Sviso points to a young girl. The sheep stand tall and silent. We move on to grade 6 grade 7. "Everyone stand!" Sviso yells. "Who here is having sex!?" I beg him to stop. The sheep stand tall and silent. "Who here has menstrated!?" "WHAT!" I exclaim. One brave girl...scared....slowly raises her hand. Everyone laughs. I raise my hand, "I menstrate too...."

We head back to the lounge. The Kings duke it out a bit more. Sakhile sits in a chair behind the desk. Silence. He sighs heavily. "We are dying Simphiwe." Elbows on the table he puts his head in his hands and exhales loudly. He sits back up, "WE....ARE....DYING...." Sakhile, bone-thin- it never occured to me to question... is he dying? Sviso laughs, "I'm 40 without children. When I was twenty, my friend says to me, 'Sviso, you had better have a child soon, before you get AIDS.'" He walks over next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder, "I was testing you back there. I needed you to EARN your respect. You've got it now Simphiwe."