"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.
