*picture taken over a year ago. when we first arrived to swaziworld.
11/11/2010
After sharing her tales of protest and rally alongside Colbert and John Stewart,she pauses to take a breath and asks,“Why do you seem so adrift these days Mere?” I don’t know what to say to my mother anymore. I know what she’s asking, but I don't quite know how to respond. She continues, “We just don’t hear about your work anymore.” I collect my scrambled thoughts and try to make sense of it all. “What’s left to say?” I ask. You write about inspiration, change, and movement. When did I become so stagnant- just like them. A quicksand of misery and I’m waving my white flag up high. “It’s like the 5 stages of grief.” I tell her. First, you have Denial. “I’m going to start a girls club. Open their eyes and raise their voices. We’re going to march the streets and take back the night!“ You have anger next. “Why isn't the government doing anything?!” You find yourself placing blame and pointing fingers at everyone. Then comes Bargaining. You feel the guilt of the hatred that’s consumed you. The guilt of eating another home-cooked meal inside your little hut- your little escape- while there are those who crave just a few feet from your door. You give them the candy they ask for, some bread you just bought to the beggar right outside the store. A quick temporary fix to their pain and your guilt and now maybe you can sleep just a little better tonight. You bargain for that little voice of guilt to turn off. And then there’s the scariest, deepest, hardest to escape stage. Depression. A descent into a depravity for which, for some, there is no escape until they’ve returned home or maybe even never. You’ve heard every heartbreaking story. You’ve joined this culture of mourners. It feels as though this pandemic will go on forever. And all you can do is bear witness to it. Some volunteers seek refuge inside their huts- watching tv series after tv series or another gigantic Stephen King novel. Others turn to booze or reckless relationships. Anything to disconnect from it all.
And finally, Acceptance. You accept the goals you cannot reach and the things you cannot change. You accept you will fall again and again and put yourself, piece by piece, back together again and again. When the 5th person of the day has asked you for money, screamed umlungu, grabbed your breast, whistled, shouted, starred, and laughed at you and your display of being their new shiny toy. When you have gone through the routine and drill of the same dialogue over and over and over and over and over again. Why you are here. Who are you. What are you doing. Are you married. Do you have children. Do you know Siswati. What is your name. Their laughter and your words- a broken record. Another child doesn’t see their 6th birthday, another corrupt head teacher, another ignorant NGO. You learn to accept and you grow silent- just like them. And for the first time, you’re understanding their silence. I try to prevent this plague from consuming my life. It colors everything I believe, I think, I say. I have become what we- the outside negotiator and donator- has talked and written about: a product of AIDS fatigue.
And yet, I know as I write these very words. I have many African friends who are now gasping for a few more days of life. As I sit here writing on this bench, pen and paper in hand, Swazis peering over my shoulder and asking, as always, “Simphiwe. Why do you write?” My Swazi deputy teacher (vice principal) takes a seat next to me. She says, “Simphiwe. Thandiwe Dlamini passed away last night.” She was one of my form five students. As usual, I ask how. “She was born with HIV. Living with her aunti. Both her parents have already passed on.” Another student of mine has died. Another secret revealed. I had no idea of her pain. What she was living with. As I stood in front of the class preaching that AIDS is out there. 3 in 10 people now. A generation lost. Extended relatives having to take care of the orphans left behind. There she was the whole time sitting there- with this secret. Listening. Knowing. While the rest in her class doubted around her. And I couldn’t be there for her. All I did was assure her she was not alone. She had just finished her exams and about to graduate. But her life ended there. And I had no idea.
And there are SO many out there. Out there a child is being refused food by his step mom. A student is having sex with her teacher. A pregnant girl is being refused her education. A young man, who finally got tested, is contemplating suicide. A buisness man "working late" is sliding a cold beer across the table to the underaged confused youth. A preacher impregnates a 15 year old then denies. A gogo is stealing food from her orphaned grandchild. An uncle is molesting his niece. Another young teacher, determined to make a difference, is angry. She tries to help the orphans in her village, living alone in stick and mud shelters, but neighbors keep stealing the food she has donated to them. A young boy is molesting his younger sibilings because it is all he knows. A wife is accusing her husband of cheating and shoots him dead in front of their child. A volunteer is being harassed, mugged, and feeling discrimination for the first time in their life. Another, tired of holding it in for over a year, is screaming out his pain and frustration while the public stares- not understanding. "It's like we're on a sinking ship and no one notices. No one wants to see!!" And I personally know all these stories, and i've accepted them all.
I’ve stripped myself of the NGO bureaucratic gobbily gunk and their overblown ideologies of the aid providing world. I am starting to see reality- and quite frankly, it’s boring. So how do I talk about "work" without sounding like a broken record?
The new volunteers have arrived. It's been about four months now. And they're singing the same tune we once sang over a year ago. Their facebook statues tell the rest of the world the difficulties of hauling water, understanding the clicks in this new language, the mannerisms and spoken word of the people here. The “Shames” “Eeishes” and “Hows!” They’re asking, “How can he propose to me? He doesn’t even know me.” The humiliation of standing in front of 800 students laughing as soon as you say your name in Siswati. Gogo’s tits on transport and livestock between your legs. A live chicken as a gift. The Swazi lightening- as if heaven has been cracked open over your head and you stand in awe while your host family hides inside. An absent counterpart and you’re asking yourself, “What am I doing here?” Fridays in town. No. The last Friday of the month in town and your sardine packed bump and grind trip back home on public transport. The crazy thing your sisi said this week.
Season 8 assures us –we weren’t crazy in our observations. But soon their statuses will turn to work. And observation will turn to analysis. Anger/frustration. Thoughts of home. An everything bagel with salmon cream cheese. Christmas without the family. Then.. lots of nothing. Who knows if this is what we signed up for. And it doesn’t matter. Whether we expected this or not we still have to press on. We still have to wade through the shit and try, just try, to get some work done. To open at least one person's eyes. Including our own.
There are basically three parts of my work I write about. The big picture stuff. The sustainable and most likely out of reach part of any volunteer’s little grasp. The stuff that would slap anyone in the face and have them say, “Now they are making a difference. No. A change.” If you look closer, on a smaller scale, you have the community stuff. Dealing with caregivers, teachers, OVC’s, NCP’s of your community. And lastly, looking even closer and smaller- you have the individual. It’s my favorite to write about and sometimes gets me into trouble. The story of the individual. It’s the untold agony of this pandemic in this one person. Proud African. Citizen of the World. African Queen. Dare I say- privledged or the not privileged Swazi. Buhle and Nonjabuliso. Thembi. And Thuli.
Thuli.
I get a call from Dazi- the social worker who has taken her in. “Simphiwe. Thuli has stolen my mother’s clothes and run off. She cannot disrespect us like that. I was willing to take her in as my own. Why has she done this?” I explain I will find her and talk to her.
I find Thuli. Back and forth she tells me her side of the story. She didn’t steal the clothes. It was a neighbor. She tells me Dazi’s mother belittles her and calls her an orphan and she doesn’t like it. She wants to leave. “I found you a home. Now you don’t want to stay there. Think about your baby. Where do you want to raise this child? What choice do you have?” I ask her. Thuli, still a child, holds her unborn baby belly. Thuli about to be a parent herself with no parents or family to help. What happened? What went wrong?
I walk to the police station to find out why anyone hasn’t done anything. Moving from the individual to the community level. The station commander is shouting for a big campaign at the end of the month. “I want to combine HIV and crime. Show the community how these two are connected. Let’s get the NGO’s here! The people need to listen!” I suggest we bring in a certain NGO I have been working with in Manzini. The police are hesitant and I am told by others, “No one wants to share the spotlight.” I ask for clarification. “You see if you bring in that NGO from Manzini who specializes in child abuse that is taking away the spotlight of those who are putting on this event- the police. THEY want to be known as helping children who have been abused. They don’t want to share the spotlight.” It’s been explained to me as an, “NGO war”. Fighting for the credit and the territory. Here in a world where we are flooded by aid and donation. They are actually fighting over those to help. Certain NGO’s dropping off food to NCP’s (Neighborhood Care Points), when other NGO’s have claimed that NCP as “their’s”. No one has actually put onto paper who works with what areas. And who helps which OVC's (orphaned vulnerable children). Everyone is throwing food at the backdoor and not bothering to take a look inside. I ask how long has this been going on. “For years.” They tell me.
Fights over turf and battles begin. “If you invite that NGO to your event Simphiwe, don't expect the other one to come. They don’t get along.” Adolescents managing donations. Higher up the ladder you start to question the donors. The business men gone humanitarian. Finally a heart, but still very much a business orientated brain. Again, the magic bullet approach. A temporary fix for your guilt. Another NGO plans to pull out. They’re angry with the “system” here. Nothing is making a difference. “Here’s an idea.” I shout at another meeting. “Why don’t these NGO’s provide these NCP’s with fencing?! (We can grow food but we can’t stop people from stealing. This is why fencing is KEY.) That way, WE, can grow our OWN food and not rely on donations or some Peace Corps Volunteer to write another proposal for expensive fencing.” Another volunteer pipes in, “People are complaining there is no water here. There IS water. Sudan Somolia. THEY have a problem with water. We just need to teach these people how to manage rainfall.” We’re starting to realize it’s not bags of maize we need. We need people teaching people. NOT ABOUT AIDS. About survival. Sustainable agriculture. Business and money management. NGO’s should be dropping this off instead. Then they can pull out with dignity instead of defeat like they are now.
NGO’s are scared when it’s the people who should be. They continue to point fingers at NGO’s. Blaming them for inadequate food and lack of accessibility. The fingers are being pointed in the wrong directions. But it’s all they know. They’ve grown up with NGO’s and volunteers and free food on the back of trucks. This is why they ask me, “Where does America get their donations from?” This is why when they ask me what I do here I can just say, “Oh. I’m a volunteer.” And they immediately understand. Can you imagine someone asking you in the States what you “do” and you reply with, “Oh. I’m a volunteer.” This is normalcy. I can see why they blame “them” why they blame “us”. And for a while, I was standing there right next to them, demanding the same unsustainable things.
But today I came to point fingers not at NGO’s or volunteers, but the community level. The police. I tell Thuli’s story. But they know it by heart. They know Thuli and have tried to help her in the past. I tell them about her abusive aunt who took her in when her parent’s died and refused her food. Kicked her out in the rain, made her sleep outside, and beat her when she came inside. “Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you arrest her.” I ask. “Because there are no laws to protect these children once their parents have died. Thuli was lucky to have someone take her in.“ I try to wrap my brain around this word, “Lucky”.
I run to my NGO contact in Manzini. Moving from the smaller to the bigger level:the NGO world. I go to the office of the two Canadian women volunteers doing work as “legal aid” here until January. “No laws protecting children?!” I shout. “Laws protecting children and women are actually fairly new in this world Meredith.” She tells me. “Technically, these police officers are right. There are no laws in Swaziland protecting children. But that doesn’t mean there is nothing they or you can do to protect them. There are case laws police and others can use in a court of law. They are just unaware these laws are out there.” After I have her explain to me what a case law is she says, “It took me six months just to get a copy of these case laws when they are supposed to be open to the public. We can use these to protect them for now. This is how change begins and laws are born.”
Back at school, my day to teach I find all the students outside. A large man dressed in royalty, purples and golds, stands before them. My headteacher walks over to me and slaps me on the back. "Sorry Simphiwe. These children have demons in them and I have called in these ministers to come and get them out. So you won't be teaching today." I grind my teeth and fake a smile. It's becoming harder and harder for me to paint a pretty face when i'm surrounded by idiots constantly. I take a seat and watch the madness. The minister demands the students to get in line and allow him to "get the demons out." All the girls stand as the boys sit, crossing their arms.. being "cool". As each girl stands before him he places his hand on her forehead and shouts out. Spit is flying everywhere and a woman stands behind the girl. The girl screams out, her arms are flaying around and she falls back into the woman's arms. One girl, i'm guessing she had a lot of demons, is convulsing in a corner her girlfriends holding her down. She's "speaking in tongues" and shaking violently. "What is she saying?" I ask one teacher. "I don't know. It's tongues I suppose." I laugh. "I can translate for you. She's shouting, 'YES! TODAY I DON'T HAVE TO GO TO GEOMETRY! THIS IS AWESOME!'"
I realize this is going to take a while so I take a seat in the staff room. The teachers sit, drink tea, and enjoy their day off. "So I guess you guys don't have any demons that need taken out?" I ask. They laugh.
As I sit seated and starring, another working day blown off, a young girl takes a seat next to me. The teachers shift in their seats as if bracing themselves for what is about to happen next. She looks into my eyes and softly says to me, "I love you." I smile. "Do I know you?"
"She's a student. Form three." A teacher tells me.
She holds my chin and turns it towards her again. "Why can't we just tell each other that? Why is there so much space between all of us?"
I'm in shock. Was this girl truly this profound? I've been asking myself the same thing about Americans and our little social cubicles.
"They tell me i'm crazy you know. I'm possessed. I'm the snake's child."
"Well.. do you think you're crazy?" I ask her.
"Why do you ask so many questions??" She smiles.
"Because I think you want me to."
She laughs.
"I see snakes in my dreams. I'm just so restless.... I can't sit still anymore. That's why I don't come to school anymore. I just need a rest. But I'm not crazy." She stands and leaves the room.
The teachers tell me this is why the head teacher invited the ministers. She's been getting worse and becoming violent lashing out at students and her family- accusing them of things. "Her voice is different if you notice Simphiwe. Her vocabulary. How she knows English so well. Her accent will change. I mean maybe she is possessed." I know this is Swaziland and these children are faced with horrible things. But I can't help but think back to my own brother. Maybe this isn't environmental. Maybe this is Schizophrenia. I think of him back home. The damage it would have done telling him yes- he does have ESP. Yes. He is a famous rapper. Slipping further and further away from reality. Telling this girl she's possessed is only making her delusions worse.
I step outside to be with her.
She turns, "Do you know our head teacher Simphiwe?"
"Yes" I tell her.
"No. Do you KNOW our headteacher?" She asks again.
I suspect she is referring to the corrupt things he has done. Sex with students. Beating them senseless. Deals made under the table.
"He won't stop. No one notices...."
Another teacher walks over. She's created an audience now. They stand and laugh at her. "And YOU!" She points to one of the male teachers. "I know about YOU." This particular teacher.. the one rumored to have impregnated Thuli. "I know what you did." The teachers stop laughing. "OK... you're done." They tell her.
She stretches her arms out into the air and looks up at the clouds.
"No. I'm not." She starts to take her shirt off.... She turns towards the students seated outside. The head teacher is speaking to them now. She runs with her arms outstretched screaming the head teacher’s name. "Simphiwe go get her." The teachers beg. I run after her. The whole school starring now. I grab her hand.
"Let's go talk. I want to know more about these dreams." I put one arm around her waist.
"No. I have to talk to them." She insists.
We go back to the the staff room.
"I once shouted 'I AM JESUS' in the middle of our bus rank." She tells me, exhaling loudly.
"Do you think you're Jesus?" I ask.
She laughs, "Of course not. But it got people's attention. It connected all of us that day. And that's all I want. To reach out and connect. Through my craziness."
I can't speak for those people in the bus rank that day, but today, I felt that connection she is forever seeking. That I too am forever seeking. Someone, who's basically grown up in Swaziland, once asked me after reading my blog, "If you hate it so much. Why do you stay here?" This question really stuck with me. I once asked a Peace Corps Volunteer if she thought i'd make it the two years. She responded with, "We all knew you'd stay the two years. You're a masochist Mere."
Why am I here if I am experiencing so much pain? Seeing so much pain. A few weeks ago a former PCV told me she went to India to work at Mother Theresea's Hope House. The madness that resided there. Nuns gone nurse. Untrained. Holding body parts together. Dirty bandages. Giving shelter to those near death so they don't have to die alone. The things she saw. Shoving a woman's uterus back inside over and over again because she had been raped so many times. Holding a man's brains in place. I sat in complete awe as other people tried to finish their dinner- disgusted. Why do I have the desire to go there and do these things? To stay here if it hurts so much?
It is through suffering, pain, and crisis, I find, that many of us feel this sort of connection. For the young girl- it was her "madness" giving her the release of feeling isolated and alone.
Group 7 volunteers, we are at that point. They make charts of our emotions. Staff holds up a diagram, "Now you guys should be right about HERE." A star at the peak of "crisis mode" and the peak of volunteers leaving and going home. Right on the money.
We ARE on this sinking ship surrounded by those that don't see. But we're together in this. We've all had our moments. One day you will wake up knowing. Today I'm going to freak out. Things are all coming to a head. Another volunteer you've known for over a year- is going home. The water is about to boil and you wait for one person to taunt you. To harass you. To give you just one reason to flip the fuck out. And then it happens. And you come crashing down on them. You scream you roll your fists. "THIS PLACE WOULDN'T EVEN BE HERE IF IT WEREN'T FOR THE OUTSIDE WORLD!! NO WONDER THIS PLACE IS GOING INTO THE SHITTER!" You're on fire and all you want is the comfort and assurance- you aren't the crazy one. A volunteer notices, walks over She holds your hand, and tells you, you aren't alone.
"You know you volunteers all you do is bitch about the harassment and the misery." Another "Host Country National" (god I hate this term.. but it's better than "native") says to me. And I see their point. I'd get so tired of hearing the same complaints. I'm hearing them all over again with the new group. But for me, this is connection. I may not desire the pain- but sometimes it's the easiest way to that sense of community. To ubuntu.
When I go to visit a young girl, I got out of an abusive homestead now living in a loving home, and I see her playing with friends- smiling for the first time, I know, it has all been worth it.
Most of us can understand the desire for connection. Whether it's in Chili with the miners, my mother, sign in hand, alongside Colbert and John Stewart, the young girl screaming madness and seeking someone's attention, or a handful of Americans wanting to help- longing to belong to something they believe in. Sometimes it's worth the pain and the suffering to hold someone's hand.
*We will miss you Sus and Kramer! Can't wait to see you on the other side... again.
