"Them"

4.23.10

"Swazi Students Slashed 39 Times by Teacher."

Headlines the Times today. No reaction by me of course. Everyday it's violence in the schools. Violence somewhere. Trading sex for good grades. Kid Trafficking. Today, just more beatings. Pictures of three children, their butt cracks blurred out but visible red marks shown, puffed and raised. I put down the paper and share coffee with other PCVs. This morning we're at our usual cafe sharing breakfast and horror stories.

"Typical." One says in response to the article.
"This IS Swaziland. What do you expect?" Another says.

We tell our latest encounters with Swazis. We tell ourselves how different we are from them. We laugh and end it with the usual, "Well what did you expect from THEM?"

This IS Swaziland.

Our faith is dwindling, our patience gone. I pause for a minute and think back to when my group, Season 7, first arrived to this tiny country.

"You know." I say. "I remember, just ten months ago, meeting Season 6 for the first time. Some of them were great. Excited to see some new faces in this small country. But many of them hit me hard with their realities. Their negativity. Speaking of Swazis with such hostility, with little faith, believing in nothing anymore. I remember feeling so angry with their attitudes. Their opinions towards "them". And now, almost a year later, Peace Corps Season 8 arriving in just a month, here we sit...theming "them". When did I become so cynical? When did I start theming them and when did we all loose faith in them?"

We discuss how much harder it is now to discuss these "issues" to those back home.

"It doesn't translate." One says.
"They just don't get it. They tell me to quit being so negative. To suck it up, hang on, or just come home. They have no idea."
"And they don't call much anymore."

No one's fault, just the natural cycle of being away from home...we realize more and more how "they" don't understand. "They" the ones we were once closest to. Our friends and family back home. "They" the people we are around daily now in our new world. Swazis. Our host families and co-workers. "They" don't get it either. PCVs floating in this confusing in between. Floating in a purgatory grey between two worlds. No one understands. Sometimes it feels like we only have each other to assure ourselves we aren't crazy. I email other PCVs in other African countries. It's always the same. Stories shared then, "Well you know how it is."

But sometimes I ask myself, Is it them? Aren't WE the lunatics? Driving around in expensive cars with fancy acronyms painted on the sides. We're the ones throwing garbage in the streets. We're the ones just barely skimming the top of this polluted ocean. Pulling weeds from the head instead of the root. We're the ones giving ourselves Swazi names and pretending to be someone we aren't. Sometimes I think it's not THEM. Sometimes I think, WE'RE the lunatics.

Peace Corps drives the concept of INTEGRATION into your brain from day one. The last thing you want to be seen as is an "outsider". Your want their respect, their trust. Integrate. Integrate. Integrate. Take this Swazi name. You have no opinions on politics. You have no opinions on religion. You are "them". I've lost who I am some where in this. My sense of identity gone. What happened to cultural exchange? Sharing ideas, knowledge, and opinions in a respectful manner? I no longer feel comfortable being called Simphiwe.

It's important we don't forget ourselves. Two years is too long to be someone else. I am still Meredith. Just in a new place.

After coffee, I go back to Siphofaneni to teach. Siphofaneni: the small town of acronyms. SWADE, ACAT, SWANNEPA, LUSIP. Saturated with outside help. White people in fancy cars driving down the tar road that divides this small town. Tour buses filled with big people and big cameras driving through filthy Siphofaneni photographing "them", with their buckets on their heads. The fancy on their way to a mirage.... game reserves and paradise. And me, in my white skinned coat, with some made up name. Walking around in circles. Swazis only seeing me as "them"...pockets heavy with money. This umlungu got seperated from the crowd and the tour bus of money. I have to prove myself everyday to my community that I am not "them". My own host family even, who has housed a previous volunteer, everyday I am proving I am not her.

Us, all of us, with all our pre-conceived notions, need to put our fingers down and stop theming "them". Just co-exist. But it's never that easy.

Today I attempt to teach this to my high school students. We are discussing HIV and women. The boys in the back, of course, don't believe HIV effects women more than men. "Simphiwe." They tell me. "When an HIV person has sex with a negative person then that person is giving it to them. Both are affected. It is 50 50. You cannot say women are getting it more than men. That THEY are affected more than men." I'm unsure how to react to this completely ridiculous statement. I need to get at these kids before high school age. They are not being taught how to think big picture, critically, or dare I say.. accurately. They are not being taught AIDS IN SWAZILAND. AIDS is different in every country. And should be taught accordingly. One girl stands, "HIV affects women more than men because it is up to US. Men are stupid." She trembles. "They are born animals. When they see a woman's leg or breast they cannot be controlled. They cannot be taught. They are conservative. You cannot change a man. It is up to US." She sits.

"How does this make you feel?!" I yell to the boys in the back. They laugh, "We don't care!" They shout, "It’s true! We know it!"

Hands on my hips, "Here's what I know. I know the rest of the world agrees with this girl. You see propaganda in every NGO office. Billboards, school buildings, pamphlets. EMPOWER GIRLS!! Everywhere you hear, how can we empower the girls? Empower, to give strength. Why? Why are we targeting the girls so much? Has the rest of the world given up on Swazi men? How does this make you feel BOYS? We've lost faith in you. You aren't man enough to change. To take responsibility and help the dying. Help your country. This girl has compared you to an animal. I can tell you, I know if I were a man.... I'd try and prove every outsider and Swazi woman wrong. I challenge you to prove me wrong."

Next class I tell them we're going to discuss culture. "Your homework. I want you to think about YOUR culture. Your gender roles. What does it mean to be a man to be a woman in Swaziland? How is your gender expected to act? Do you agree with this? Do you like it? Men are told they are not men if they cry. Women are told they are not women if they don't have children. This is what your culture tells you. I want you to think about it and tell me how it makes you feel."

"But Simphiwe." A boy in the back complains. "I don't understand. My culture is all I know. I don't know how to question it. All I know is...it is right."

I am not trying to change a culture. I am trying to enlighten them about their own and others. I printed photos of Myanmar women with their elongated necks of gold, young Amish boys in dress, Ancient Chinese binding shoes, the hijab for Middle Eastern women. Looking at the BIG picture will help them analyze their own little picture.. their own little world. I am trying to help them with the questions, not the answers.

After class I hitch to Madleyna Primary School. We've gotten 1500 books from the US. This school has only a tiny room for 1500 books and with only a few shelves. If staff and students prove themselves to be serious about starting a library I will do everything in my power to get them funding to build their own. For now, I sit in a tiny room organizing books. I have requested three teachers and a handful of students to make up a "library committee" (people like titles and committees). For now though, I sit alone, books scattered around me. I look out the window. School is ending and the children line up for announcements outside.

Suddenly, one of the teachers, Sakhile (my age), barges into the room with three young boys at his side and a fourth in his grip. He's screaming in Siswati. A young teacher, by my side, is translating for me even though I have not asked her to. "These children were caught trying to leave school early by the teacher." Sakhile grabs a large stick and begins whipping each kid on the behind as 700 students shake themselves from their lines and watch through the windows laughing. The other teachers have left. Its 2:30 and they want to get home. Loud whipping noises echo in this tiny room. One boy refuses to be whipped. He is asking the teacher why he felt the need to drag him into this room. Sakhile grabs him by the collar and begins dragging him again. The boy struggles to breathe. "Are you going to do something?" I ask the teacher translating. "What can I do Simphiwe?" She responds half laughing. The whole school watches at the abuse by my side. The teacher picks the boy up by the neck then kicks his legs out from under him. The child flies flat on his face and winces in pain. Sakhile goes to pick him up again by the throat. The rest of the teachers have all left. Once again I feel obligated to interject. I run over to the teacher and hold him tight against the wall until he lets go of the child.

"No Sakhile. No. Count to ten. Breathe and count to ten." I let go of his chest and walk over to the student who is now hunched over struggling to catch his own breath. I put my hand on his shoulder but Sakhile only makes it to two. He pushes past me and swirls the kid around bending him over the desk. He gives him five strokes. The four boys and Sakhile walk back outside to join the rest of the students. Sakhile turns to me. Tears collect in his eyes. "I'm sorry Simphiwe. I should not have done that." The female teacher shouts, "She is a witness! And SHE will tell the head teacher! They will believe HER!" Sakhile sighs a long sigh. Guilt in his eyes. "I'm not going to tell Sakhile. I won't say anything. If you tell EVERYONE what you have just told me. Publicly apologize and tell these children violence is not the answer. I won't tell on you."

I stand by Sakhile as he apologizes to 700 students and asks the young boy to forgive him.

Later, I sit in silence. Everyone gone. And I am trying to concentrate on organizing these books. Sakhile walks in and sits on the ground next to me (Swazi men do not sit on the ground, next to a woman.) "I know what I did was wrong Simphiwe. I think it is a difference of cultures. Why I do what I do and why you do what you do."

"I suppose." I say. Still organizing and not looking up.
"What do you mean?" He asks.
"I mean, sometimes you can't hide behind your culture. Sometimes it is a matter of right or wrong. Tell me....how many times have you beaten the SAME student?"
Sakhile smiles big, "You're trying to tell me beating them is not effective?"
"I'm trying to tell you, you are teaching violence. It seems to be the only thing taught well around here."
"I'll never do it again."
"Yes you will. In a way, you're right, it IS your culture. You were taught violence the same way you are teaching them violence. A cycle of violence. I know it's hard to escape."

This evening I take a different route home. It's becoming fall, and like autumn back home, the lazy red sun sits heavy on the horizon. I lean against the narrow bridge to Siphofaneni, drink in hand. There's something about holding a glass bottle that makes me feel masculine. Powerful. Leaning against metal, one hand in my pocket, the other taking swigs of this bittersweet ginger beer. Cool and casual. Sun in my eyes. And that fucking sunset. There's something about a sunset that cheers you up when you are low and celebrates with you when you are happy. I know this sun. I remember her face. It's been almost a year now since I've seen it. Coming back to Africa ten months ago, sitting alone outside my training family's homestead, and that smiling African autumn sun whispering to me, "Welcome back Meredith."

I stand alone in this rapidly fading twilight. I watch people pass gawking, laughing, and proposing to me. Not understanding their shared words fully, just recognizing their shared wide eyes and groans. Their nods and sighs in the typical appropriate places. I don't need to understand their language, their mannerisms say enough. Sharp pins of light in their smiling wrinkled faces as they pass. I watch the sun's fire reflect sizzles and waves against the river's dark blue edge. A power-line hangs across the water and a kingfisher sits backlit against the sun. I watch him watching the bubbling water below. Searching for his dinner. Only a meal on his mind. He has no idea about culture and AIDS, History or Gender. About the things I think about everyday. His ignorance becomes my comfort. I think of the small things that bring me comfort here. The assurance that there will always be fat happy cats sleeping outside the butcher shop. Seeing a MAN holding his child and smiling. A lucky dog sticking his head out the passenger side window. A mother goat standing between me and her newborn, horns down and ready to defend. My pups growing bigger and bigger, smiling up at me by my side as we take our evenings walks.

I join a gym, in town, to work out these everyday frustrations with "them". Big African men lifting weights are eager to show me "how it's done".

"What is your name?" They grunt.
"Simphiwe." I say.
They laugh. "Good name."
I turn to leave, but stop.
"Actually. No. It's not Simphiwe. My name is Meredith.... You can call me Meredith."
"Merey di eff?"
"We'll work on it later." I laugh. "For now, can you show me where the big punching bag is?"