"My Superheroes"

12/4/2010

I'm asked again to join the Hole in the Wall camp for children living with HIV. I wrote about this camp last year in December and it was probably the most profound, uplifting, inspiring three weeks of my entire service here.

And I couldn’t wait to be apart of it all again.


Day one. We all feel a great warmth, as if being welcomed back after a long and unforeseen separation. We are home again. Family. Hugs are being passed and new faces introduced. This time, with us, we have two people form Uganda, Alice and Roy, and a man from India, Satish. They hope to bring the “camp” idea back to their countries. I notice something else new in these faces of camp counselors. There are more men than last year. In fact, we are almost half and half. I know having young men working with children will give these kids great role models and show them that men too can be caregivers. However, these are not just men, they are Swazi. And I am cautious. I’m hesitant to be completely comfortable with any man at this point. 19 months with the Swazi man, I have become cynical and jaded. I know Peace Corps volunteers who now experience anxiety attacks if they enter a room full of Swazi men. We’ve all been hurt. Again, I am hoping to be proven wrong.


The same routine for the first four days. We play the role of “camper”. We go through the cheers, the dances, the games we’ll be teaching the children when they arrive.

And again, I am always amazed at how quickly Swazi staff and I are able to bond. If you put yourself out there in just the right way, making yourself vulnerable to laughter for sake of entertainment, you’ll be surprised at their reactions.

Our first four nights together, all the women caregivers share a dorm room before the children arrive. Like the Swazi women I’ve gotten to know at the gym inside the locker room, these women gather around me. Some at the foot of my bed, some in the bunk above, hanging down-listening. Their robes and face masks on and their scarves wrapped around their hair, they begin to open up to me as I have to them. Questions are asked. ‘Simphiwe. What is the white umpipi (penis) like?” “Simphiwe. Have you ever had the Swazi umpipi?” I do my gogo impersonations and explain to them what exactly oral sex and masturbation are. “They do that in America?!” They exclaim. “Here. It is only us who please the man.” They sit close and lean in to hear my whispers. The older women are trying hard to sleep, disinterested in a world an ocean away. A world of pleasure, hopes, and dreams. A world that can be all about YOU. “Simphiwe.” Tobi, a woman my age with a child at home, leans in even closer. She grabs my cheeks and whispers, “Do you know about the men here?” I shake my head no. She begins to tell me their stories. The women around her nod in agreement. In a country this small, everyone knows everyone’s secrets. There are no secrets here.
“Themba.” She begins.
“Oh no. NotThemba! I don’t want to hear his secrets. He’s so nice to me. Everyday always asking how Simphiwe is. Everyday telling me what a beautiful day it is. With that high pitched soft voice of his. I like Themba.” The girls laugh.
“Well. Did you know Themba is married?”
“He doesn’t have a ring. But I guess most married men around here don’t wear a ring.” “He DOES have a ring. He takes it off during camp.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because Simphiwe. For us. The women. He can’t help but try.”
Another girl chimes in, “Just yesterday he wrapped a blanket around me. He leaned in against me. And asked if I felt something hard.” The women laugh. “Here at camp they’re counselors like us, but they’re still MEN. They’re always grabbing me and proposing love. They know I’m a married woman. But they don’t care.”

It’s getting late.

“Tell us more about you know… the stuff we were talking about earlier.” They demand with embarrassment. “Tomorrow.” I tell them.

Lights out. We lie in bed giggling. Thinking of the stories we just shared. And man do they have them.

It wasn’t until after camp that I found out 4 of the male Swazi counselors were taking turns having sex with one of the female cooks of the establishment. They did this while the children were sleeping. And sadly, I was not at all surprised.

The next day Tobi pulls me aside during our rest hour. We lie in bed starring up at the ceiling, heads leaning in.
I wait for her to speak.
“My baby’s father just called.” She begins with a big sigh. “ He wants to see me when camp is over.”
All I know about this man is he is a truck driver in Matsapha- a hot spot for HIV and a place where truck drivers sleep with sex workers and spread disease. He and Tobi are no longer together and he pays “child support” when he feels like it. This means Tobi has to sleep with him when he’s in town in order to get money for her baby.
“Tobi. Why do you put up with this?” I ask.
“One night, Simphiwe. When he and I were together. He woke up grabbed a knife and slid the blade under my neck. He was pressing so hard I bled. He told me if I ever left he would kill me. I can’t leave him Simphiwe.”
I ask her if she’s ever been in love. She blushes and looks down.
“I am in love with someone. He told me he would take care of me and my baby. He doesn’t care that I already have a child. But I can’t. I can’t ever be with him. That’s just the way it is.”

Tobi goes on to tell me about the first time she had “sex”. She was 16 and he was her school teacher and a pastor. He raped her. But she struggles with saying this word. “Forced himself on me” Were her words. She tried to tell her mother, who refused to believe that a man of God would do such a thing.
Sadly, this is the story of many Swazi women.

And that’s just the way it is.

The next day we prepare for the campers arrival. As I’m hanging up another decorated banner, Themba walks past.
“Good morning Simphiwe.” He says in his soft voice.
“Whats up Themba?!” I exclaim back.
“Simphiwe. I think I will come visit you in Siphofaneni and see you in your little hut.”
I laugh. “Yes. And bring the Mrs along.”
“The who?”
“Your wife.” I say.
Themba laughs, “Oh Simphiwe. I don’t think I shall ever forget you.”

Another counselor, Buhle, walks past. He looks me up and down as I am struggling to tape the banner up high. My shirt is riding up and I can feel his stares. I quickly pull my shirt down.
“Let me help you with that sweetheart.” He whispers.
“Let me help you with that Simphiwe.” I correct.
“Is it offensive for me to call you ‘sweetheart’?” He smiles back.
“Yes Buhle. And you know that. You grew up in the city. You’ve been around. You know that’s a term for a girlfriend- not a co-worker.”
Buhle leans in. He moves to wrap his arms around my waist. “Oh come on baby.” He grunts.
I jump back.“You touch me and I’ll kick in your parts so hard you’ll sound like Themba.”
The women around snicker and Buhle gets the message. Well, for now. They say the best way to train a dog is through repetition and authority? This will take some time.


And the day is here! And just like last year, I stand in position, filled with hope. Filled with excitement. Filled with anxiety that I won’t be able to connect with these children. To make them smile and give them hope. Wigs, smiles, costumes are on. We stretch our arms out and in unison we sing our song. One by one, the children step out of the bus. It’s always a mixed reaction. Half in a disbelieving daze at all the clapping, cheering, and high fiving. The other half smiling along and holding hands. These children have witnessed absolute horrors. Have lived the horror. At first you have to be gentle. You learn not to run over and throw your arms around a child. The moment you raise your hand they cower waiting for a beating. You can only extend your hand out and wait for them to come to you. I haven’t forgotten the feeling of the first arrival. Their blank little bodies. Who they are is unknown to me. All I can see is AIDS just like the rest of the world. Their glossy eyes, stunted growth, the rashes and bumps. The outside exposing and I can’t wait to see past it all. I can’t wait to see what’s inside. Because, as I recall, in about two hours, I won’t see it anymore. I will see them.

I’m amazed at the contrast of economic backgrounds these children come from. Some with hair extensions, cell phones, and caboodles of accessories. Others arrive with literally only the clothes on their back and needing to borrow underwear for the next four days. We witness that this virus has torn its way through all classes.

I’ll never forget Adele. Adele is thirteen year olds but if you saw her, you’d swear she was no more than six. Her big eyes and cheeks on her tiny little body. She reminds me of a Pixar character. Her belly pokes out from her torn shirt. Malnutrition. Adele comes from extreme poverty, and yet is constantly laughing. She carries one of those deep bellied contagious laughs that I love. The best part wasn’t exactly the sound of her laugh. It’s her reaction to her own laughter. Every time I pretend to throw up my food onto her lap, dance like a baboon, or slip on an imaginary banana peel she leans her body to the side laughing, holding her stomach. She closes her eyes and gives an exhausted, “Wooo..” And ends it with a sigh. I hope I never forget the image of Adele’s laughter. It’s the reason we do these camps.

One morning, however, eating our breakfast of eggs, cereal, and sausage, the children gorging themselves, Adele, seated next to me, drops her fork only three bites in. She leans back grabbing her belly and says something in Siswati to her new friends. “What did she just say?” I ask a girl fluent in English. “She says her stomach doesn’t know what to do with all this food.” The young girl pauses and looks down. “And?” I ask her. “And, at home they only eat once a day in the morning. And it’s just porridge, it’s all they have.” A moment of silence. Adele looks up at me with her big Pixar eyes. A burp slips out her mouth and so the laughter begins. I laugh alongside her, but inside I’m breaking.

In ways, camp is an extreme version of your Peace Corps service. Your heart will break over and over and then, when you least expect it, someone comes along and helps you put it back together. With each of Adele’s laughs I am brought back together again.

At first, I always doubt the children will be able to reach out to me. But by the day’s end we sit on the floor watching the camp counselors perform their hilarious skits. I sit alongside my girls. Three are trying hard to sit on my lap. Two lean on each side of me with their fingers laced between mine. Most of these children have already lost their parents and now a “burden” to their relatives. I say burden only because, in this world, this is what their relatives will tell them and often they treat them like servants. Like I’ve written before, the real nightmare begins once the parents have passed away. These three weeks are about showing them love because many of them have never witnessed it.

And just like that, we become friends. Hand in hand. Side by side.

At night their sickness becomes real to me. The throat rattling coughs, unable to catch their breath, you think they’re on the verge of death. It scares you, but they’re used to it and the other children laugh. You bring them water and sit by their side. The next night another one cries out. Nightmares. You can make sure they have nothing but joy during the day, but at night, they’re alone in their dreams. They fear death. They cry out. I’m on the bottom bunk next to Pilele and she wakes from her scary dreams. I reach out my hand and hold her arm. Without saying anything, she takes my hand and gently rubs the hair on my arm. She places my hand next to her head and cups it to her face. For the next three nights we lie in separate beds with my hand cradling her face.

The next day, more sports and arts and crafts. We ask them to make masks of their superheroes: Who they want to be like and why. They draw the faces of WWF wrestlers, Kings and Princesses. We ask for volunteers to present their mask and tell us why this person is their superhero. One of my girls stands and holds her mask high. In English, she says, “This is aunty Simphiwe. She is my superhero. She shows us love and holds us when we need it. She tells us if we have nightmares or feel lonely at night to wake her up. She shows us she loves us.” The other counselors in the room awe and go to high five me. And just like last year when this happened, I am torn. I’m touched, but it’s sad that it has to be us that shows them the love they deserve. I am seeing their pain. They’re hurting. At night we end each day with a question. We ask them, “What do you love about yourself?” Not a single girl can say. They respond, “We love how much you love me aunty.” Again, your heart breaks.

Day four we split the children into groups. We let them choose if they want to play sports, do arts and crafts, or have a spa make-over day. Not surprisingly, most my girls have chosen spa and make over day. All except one, Futhi. Futhi is the tomboy in the group. Whenever the girls gather together singing songs in chorus, Futhi stands in the back making fart noises and giggling. As you can imagine, Futhi and I have a strong bond. Today she decides she wants to play soccer with the boys. She chases after the ball charging any boy, regardless of his size, screaming in their faces challenging them. Every goal scored she throws her arms in the air and runs to me as I scream her on from the sidelines. Today though, after an attempt at a slide tackle, she falls and busts her knee. Blood is pouring out. I pick her up and sit her on a chair. In Swaziland, when a child hurts themselves, you find that many adults will put their hand on the wound and rub. For some reason they think it stops the bleeding and makes the pain go away. Themba rushes to my side and begins to rub her wound, without a glove. Again, we no longer see AIDS. I quickly grab his arm and tell him to wash his hands immediately.

Tonight is their last night and their opportunity to show their talent. We call it Stage Night. The children come up with dances, songs, and plays. The first performance is a play by the boy’s group. Another camp counselor leans in and translates for me. The story is about a young girl who gets pregnant, is kicked out of school and from home. She eventually goes to her boyfriend’s house begging for help when he and his family turn her away. The audience, the children and counselors, are laughing. And this is how it is here. Every play I’ve seen the youth put on is always about abuse (usually sexual), murder, rape, teen pregnancy, or alcohol abuse. And every play causes the audience to laugh. The next skit is put on by my girls. Lilly, who I’ve become incredibly close with, has written this skit. And of course, it’s about a young girl whose parents have died. She stays with her grandfather. She is raped and beaten almost everyday. The young girls act out the rape scene. They act out the beatings. Lilly is the main character. She pretends to scrub the floors as her aunt beats her. She acts out washing her cousin’s clothes as her aunt continues to yell. She sleeps outside watching her aunt hug and love her daughter. And again, the audience is laughing. I look at my friend, another Peace Corps volunteer. Tears are streaming down her face and she tries hard to cover it. I grab her hand and we look at each other. No words are needed. I know why she’s hurting. She turns to me and asks, “Mere. Do you remember what our plays were about growing up? Fairytales. Princes and Princesses. But not here. It’s always the same. And they always laugh.” It’s a coping mechanism. When the abnormal becomes normal. Nobody sees the tragedies anymore.

Since it’s the girls last night, I let them bathe for as long as they like. The five of them squeeze into the tiny boxed shower- singing their songs and giggling. I sit outside watching the stars make lines over ahead. I look over and notice the owner of this establishment get out of his BMW with his wife and child beside him. His daughter, with her long hair, skips around dancing and playing with her dolls. How unfair I think. A life these girls will never know. I wish I could give it to them.

Lilly is the first to come out. She asks, like always, “How are you aunty?” I tell her I’m fine. She sits on her bed starring at the ground. Tears begin to stream down her face. I take a seat next to her and put my hand on hers. “Lilly,” I begin. “I have to ask. The play you wrote. It was about you wasn’t it?” She begins to cry even harder. “Yes aunty.” She whispers.

The night before, a person from the leadership team (our boss) told me that Lilly was trying to tell her a “sob story” and she just redirected the conversation. She felt Lilly was only trying to get attention and advised that I not give her the attention she was seeking. Before camp, all of us were told if any child reports abuse to bring it to the leadership team.

Having lost faith in leadership, I take out a sheet of paper and do what we were told never to do. I write down my phone number. I hand it to Lilly. I tell her there are people that can help. That I will do my best to help and to call me if she needs me. Her tears finally stop as she leans hard into me and I put my arm around her. I think back to the young girl I met at school. The one they called "crazy". The one who told me "I love you" when we first met. How odd I found it, to love someone you have never spoken to. "It's sad." She told me. "We never say it enough. Why can't I just tell someone I love them? Why can't I tell you I love you?"

With my head now leaning onto Lilly's, I whisper, "I love you." And I fear, this could possibly be the first "I love you" she has ever heard.

We, as caregivers, will never truly know their suffering. We all try to do our part. To do more than just bear witness. In Peace Corps, you find yourself only playing the role of witness. You’re limited in how much you can REALLY help. I think the reason I need this camp so much is because for once, I am doing more than witnessing.

It’s difficult to imagine how restricted of a life many of these children lead. What little living they manage to do. Busy struggling to survive. Maybe they have some affection from some relative. Maybe some schooling and a bit of disrupted play. But most struggle to go on. Chores, insults, stigma, sleepless nights, fear of death, the physical and emotional pain of living with HIV, of living with HIV without your parents. And then things end. Without any mumble. The world goes on as if nothing has happened. With this camp, we can only hope to interrupt their in between life and death. Their routine of pain and misery. We can only dream to bring them laughter for the present and hope for their future.


But they don't want your pity. These children are survivors. ARVs, in Swaziland, didn't become readily available until around 5 years ago. Most of these children are older than ten which means they grew up without treatment. When a child is born with HIV and he or she is not immediately treated, there is a 50% chance they will see their second birthday. If the child does make it, there is then an 85% chance they will not make it to their tenth birthday.

These children are survivors. When we ask them to draw their superheroes, they draw the faces of celebrities, doctors, and caregivers.

But, it is these children that are the REAL superheroes.



A poem by Lilly, performed during stage night:


A Rose in heaven

Here we are red
Here we are not beautiful
But we will be roses in heaven
We will be beautiful in heaven
No one will be a red rose like us
No one is red like us
Here we are red
Here we are not beautiful
But we will be red like a rose in heaven.