Waiting at my bus stop, with my students, in these winter morning
hours. Cold. Dark. Our breath dancing around us. One of my students
leans in and whispers to me, "Did you hear about Thuli?" Thuli: the 16
year old girl I've been trying to help. Her parents died of AIDS and
now she's living alone with no food. She had told me about her Aunti
coming home on the weekends and kicking her outside to sleep with the
dogs. She told me about her older boyfriend she has sex with so he
will continue to give her food and money. She told me she didn't want
to rely on him anymore for these things. I connected her to SWAGAA
(Swaziland Action Group Against Abuse). They gave her a years worth of
food. "Simphiwe. Thank you. Now I don't have to rely on him for
things. I wanted to stop having sex." The last thing she told me, she
smiled and said, "I can be a real Christian now."

"What about Thuli?" I ask.
"She got pregnant. She hasn't been back to school in over two weeks.
We think it may have been one of the teachers who impregnated her."
"Why isn't she in school still?" I ask knowing the answer. Here, in
Swaziland, when a girl gets pregnant she is no longer allowed to
attend that school again. She has to wait until her child is born and
then find another school. A punishment, a warning, a lesson to all
young girls. But what about the young men? Well, of course, they can
stay. Some head teachers allow the girl to come back and write her
exam (to finish each grade you must pass a final exam). This gives her
the chance to finish whatever grade she's in without actually taking
the classes the rest of the year. I know our head teacher and I know
he won't even allow that much for her. I also know Thuli wouldn't want
to finish the school year and face the ridicule of her classmates.

"Everyone’s talking. She tried to self-abort and fell sick." The girl tells me.
I remember Thuli called me last week. I missed the call and forgot to
return it. She was reaching out to me and I wasn't there for her. I
wasn't there for her.

But I can be there now. I have to plead with the head teacher to let
her come back and ATLEAST write her exams so she doesn't have to take
this grade again. It'll take a lot on my end. I've heard stories of
him impregnating school girls and paying them money for sex. He's told
me stories of young girls seducing older men. "This is why I am happy
you are here Simphiwe. Teach these girls how to act like ladies." He,
like many here, point fingers at the girls. Let’s not forget his
constant attention on my non existent breasts. He never takes me
seriously. But I know his weakness. Young, white, foreign, men. I can
use my PCV friend and co teacher. I become invisible, tits and all,
when standing next to my male friend in front of this head teacher. So
I will bring him with me to beg for Thuli's education.

Today, however, without him, I go to the deputy head teacher (vice
principal). She works out at the gym with me and I would even call her
a friend. I ask if we can talk in private. I keep things anonymous for
now. I tell her about teachers sleeping with students. She grabs my
arm, "I know about Thuli. Simphiwe, I want to help her, I do. But this
head teacher is so stubborn. He does nothing for these girls." I tell
her I want to bring SWAGAA to come and talk to the teachers and
explain to them the laws they are violating. There are laws out there
protecting these children, but in the rural areas they get lost along
the way and no one enforces them. "I'm worried there are people here
violating these laws." I point to the head teacher's office.
"Especially THAT one." She stands and closes the door. "I know
Simphiwe. I know." She takes a seat and continues, leaning in and
whispering."I know about him just as I know about our agriculture
teacher who was sleeping with Thuli and other girls. I have my
suspicions, but no proof. You know, the other day, the head teacher
beat these children for being tardy so badly that they couldn't sit
for a week. They showed me their rear ends. Open gashes and the skin
had turned green. I had to send them to the hospital. The hospital
told them they must go to the police, but they were too scared."

She shakes her head. "A neighboring school, their head teacher was
recently suspended for having sex with his students. One of them was
even his niece. She is schooling here now, and is even in one of your
classes. Since then, the Ministry of Education has sent the ROA to
come to schools in our area and tell them what has happened. He told
me he has heard stories about our school and our staff. When I told
the head teacher what the man told me he got very angry and shouted
that no one can over power him like that. He then blamed these girls
that tell on teachers. Then, during assembly, he gathered all the
students together and warned them not to call any help line or go to
the police. That he is allowed to strike children and if anyone
reports anything they are not allowed to come back to school. If you
want to bring SWAGAA here Simphiwe, we must make it seem like we did
not know they were coming. We cannot tell him anything."

I have to cut our discussion short. It's time for my classes to begin.
I arrange the chairs in a circle. Today I am not a teacher. I am a
friend. I shut the door and take a seat. I look at the back of the
door. Someone has drawn a teacher with a stick hitting a young child's
behind. The child is crying out. "Today I want to talk to you about
that." I point to the drawing. I tell my kids I am here for them. I
explain what abuse is. I explain confidentiality. "I know when I tell
you Swaziland carries the highest HIV rate in the world. You don't
believe me. I know when I tell you the average Swazi lives to be 33
years old. You don't believe me. When I tell you how it is in
Swaziland you don't believe me because I am not Swazi. And that's your
choice not to, and I completely understand. What does this young white
girl know? But, as an outsider, maybe you can believe me when I tell
you how it is OUT there. And what is going on in your schools is not
normal. And wrong. Abuse is universally wrong. Teachers sleeping with
students. Head teachers beating you so bad you can't even sit. This is
wrong and you need to know your rights." I explain to them what
happened in other schools in Swaziland. "Someone was brave enough to
speak out and the teacher was suspended. One voice can bring about
many and this is how change happens." As I'm telling them this though,
I feel like it's a lie. Here there isn't much power in one or even
many voices. There is little to no support out here. I have had many
meetings with SWAGAA about this. The idea of encouraging students to
speak out when there's no one there to listen. SWAGAA, in the city,
has a hard time reaching out to its other rural world. How am I going
to support them if and when they do speak out?

Back in the other world, I find Thuli at home. Her belly protruding
out of her torn and stained tee shirt. I hand her a coke.

"What happened Thuli?" I ask.
"I got pregnant." She won't even look up at me.
"Do you know who the father is?" I ask.
"Yes. The older boyfriend I told you about.
"But I thought because of the help you got you were going to leave him."
"I told him I was. I told him about the help I got from you and that I
didn't want to have sex with him anymore. We ended up having sex one
more time. A few weeks later, he kept asking me if I was pregnant. I
thought it was strange. How did he know I had missed my period? And
then I found out I was. I found out he had torn the condom before we
had sex. He didn't want me to leave him. He knew I didn't need him
anymore."

I walk home heavy with this lump in my throat, fighting back the
tears. What if I had never gotten her the help? What if I had never
came to Swaziland? What if I had done things differently? Would Thuli
be pregnant still? What if I hadn't intervened? I should have looked
closer.

Back to my primary school with three thousand books to
organize..alone. My school, two years ago, received 1500 books from
Wales. 1500 books sat in boxes collecting dust for two years. And I,
naive, got them 1500 more books from the US. Now, 3000 books sit in
boxes untouched, unloved. Twice a week I come and organize and clean
what I can. Without any help from the teachers, they tell me to hurry
up. "These children want to look at the new books. When are you going
to finish?" I tell them, "I'd probably be done if I actually had help
from staff." They laugh and walk away. Before Mid Service (the two
week workshop) I tell them not to touch any of the 300 books I have
organized on the shelves. "They are in order. We can't check any books
out until I have catalogued every book." I leave for two weeks. When I
return, I find books on the ground, on top of shelves, back in boxes,
out of boxes. An old, white, woman stands in the middle of the room
smiling. The head teacher introduces her as one of the people from
Wales who donated the books a few years ago. She leaves us alone to
talk.

The beaming woman shows me photos she had taken last week. "And as you
can see here they are checking out books to the students, every
Friday. Isn't that wonderful?" I pause. I could go one of two ways
with this. Let her go back smiling ignorantly or give her the reality
of the situation. Obviously these people from Wales are doing what
most charity organizations don't: monitoring and evaluating. They were
right to come here and see if their donations had actually done
anything. I watch her smile fade as I explain that these books have
been sitting in boxes for two years. That this is all a show. Next
time they should come unannounced. And that this parade of books has
actually taken my work back two weeks. There's an uncomfortable
silence.

It's half past ten. Lunch time. The students run outside with their
bowls in hand. Sour porridge for lunch. The staff and head teacher
enter the room. "Why are they eating only porridge today?" I ask the
head teacher.
"We have no more food Simphwie."
"But what about (insert NGO name)'s donations?"
"They only provide for the first and last terms... we always run out
in the second."
It blows my mind that this organization isn't providing food right
now. This isn't harvesting season. Nothing is growing. This is winter,
when we need food the most. School food is most of these students’s
ONLY meal for the day. Sour porridge. A watery slime leaks through the
children's fingers as they watch through the windows.

The lady from Wales is leaving tomorrow and the staff wants to show
their appreciation for the books. This organization had also paid for
one of the teachers to go to Wales for two weeks and watch how they
are teaching there. "When are YOU going to take one of us to the USA
Simphiwe?!" They laugh. I know this teacher has learned nothing over
there. I've watched teacher after teacher go to workshop after
workshop, paid for by outside help, on how to provide psycho-social
support to their students. How to engage the students. How to spot an
OVC or a child in need. I ask them what they learned when they get
back. One teacher draws a circle on the board.
"I learned what psycho-social support is."
"So, what's the circle for?" I ask.
"It's a cycle.. like a circle... you know cycle social support." The
topic of the seminar.. Psycho Social Support.. and she couldn't even
give me the definition of it.

The staff brings in traditional Swazi attire for the old lady from
Wales. They dress her up and do a little song and jive for her. A
child brings in a tray full of food, coffee, and tea. They sit to eat.
I look outside. Children watching through the windows with their food
snot in hand and empty stomachs.

We, as non African spectators, need to open our eyes.

NGOs litter this area. Money jumping out of foreigner’s pockets. It's
never enough. 15 billion for water canals and irrigation piping. Water
pouring into the sugar cane fields. Promised water taps on every
homestead will have to wait until the sugar has drunk. 15 billion
spent to bring in workers from neighboring countries: Mozambique,
South Africa, and Zimbabwe. Young hardworking men away from their
families. Away from their wives. Their camp site built directly across
the street from my primary school.

"I watch them Simphiwe." A teacher tells me. "Young girls coming out
of these camps. Our female students with money in their hands. They
hand over the cash to their mothers and aunties. I watch the men, with
cars and money, picking up young girls and driving off."

15 billion spent to bring water to a desperate community. Their money, their
labor, their disease.

Outside health organizations assigning us to do their data collection
for them. "Is what we're doing.. effective? Are the people getting the
food they need?" They ask us what they are doing wrong. A volunteer
says to me, "These organizations have absolutely no data on these
children. There is no monitoring and evaluating. They throw the money
and the food at these people and have no idea where it's going.
There's talk they want to pull out. I'll be so pissed if we do all
their data collection and then they just leave these people." Unmilled
maize thrown at the impoverished. Unmilled maize which they then have
to take to a mill and pay to be milled. With what money? Food
literally dumped off the back of pick up trucks and then being sold by
others. Never touching the hands of those who really need it.

"The Japanese came in and spent all this money building my community
an electric water system. Millions of dollars spent on a system that
provides water only if you can afford the electric bill every month.
All that money spent and no one uses it. We still walk miles and miles
for our water."

World Cup just around the corner. A volunteer working with a clinic
tells me, "There is so much TB in this area and people are spreading
it like crazy. We've asked for tents. Somewhere to separate those with
tuberculosis. The infected are going home to those with compromised
immune systems and spreading it which is killing them. But the
government won't allow us to get tents. With all the world cup
footage, with all eyes on southern Africa, they don't want this
country looking like a 'refugee camp'. So thousands will suffer."

An African tells me how much he loves President Bush for all the money
he's given to his continent. Funding, which we as volunteers can use
but only if we jump through its ignorant obstacles. To get the funding
we must preach an unrealistic message. Funding for a price. For a lie.

As volunteers, we are all stand ins for any foreigner who comes to
Africa trying to "help". Many of us have ignorantly, naively, and
idealistically traveled here with such a black and white, sweet and
sour, wrong and right interpretation of African reality. Aid work in
Africa, we are realizing, is grey. Is messy. Is forever changing. One
year ago, we finally felt alive.. free from school and the 9-5... in
what seemed like this exciting new world. But soon we became the
wide-eyed non-African spectator watching humankind succumb to its
worst instincts. We wanted to change things, but as a peace corps
volunteer you can't help but witness and get sucked into one trashy
development plan after another. You become a constant apologist for
the things you cannot change. For the things you did not see a year
ago. And for the things you will not see until a year from now when
you are on that plane and out of here.

Volunteers, aid workers, teachers... the foreign help, the foreign
money, are in this fight for Swaziland's survival. We are stuck in a
forest and we can only see the trees in front of us; unaware of
the bigger picture. The more time you spend here, however, you start to see past
the trees. You start to notice the donations collecting dust in a
corner, the water that never gets to the people, the food that gets
stolen and sold, the workshops to a deaf audience, the millions, the
billions wasted. And this is the nature of aid work. You can't just
click on a website and see a picture of smiling African babies, their
arms outstretched, and say.. wow they're changing people's lives. You
watch footage of Africa.. the turtle drums playing in the background.
Colorful. Tropical. It gets you thinking; maybe I should go to
Africa... and help.

We need to take a closer look.

I need to take a closer look.

I think about the past year. What have I done? Who have I touched?
Changed for the better? Have I monitored or evaluated any of my
actions? I remember Nonjaboliso. Thirteen years old. Raped by her HIV
positive grandfather. Cared for her parents until they died.. AIDS.
Then deprived of food and forced into bed with her grandfather. I
remember getting her out of there. I remember walking onto her
homestead and feeling in my gut something was wrong. I remember
shaking the old man's hand with thoughts of ripping his dick off. I
remember the threats and the warnings. "He is a witch Simphiwe. Stay
away." I remember the snake in my hut that night. I remember taking
Nonjaboliso to the half way house. Watching her cry while she told the
police her story. That was almost 9 months ago. And I’ve only been
back to see her once.

I last saw Nonjaboliso in January and I need to know, did I do the
right thing? Did my actions help? Is she finally living up to her
name- Nonjaboliso "Happiness"? I walk through Manzini up the long hill
to the chained fence that locks these unwanted children in. A young
boy wanders to me. He smiles and grabs my hand. His swaying movements
and constant humming show me his disability. The unwanted. "This one's
disturbed." A woman tells me. "He's dumb. Can't talk." The young boy
grabs my hand and puts it on the lock around the gate. He wants out.
He points to the sky and says, "Da da." He walks me to little naked
babies in the corner who cry at the sight of me. Someone turned inside
out; I’d scream and cry too if I saw me. Another woman walks towards
us. She remembers me. "Simphiwe. It's been a while." We shake hands.

"You're here to see that girl. The dark one?"
"Nonjaboliso. Is she here?"
"She left Simphiwe. In February. We got her a good home. A boarding
school with all her friends. Up north."
I smile.
"Is she happy?" I ask.
"Very happy Simphiwe." She smiles.
Tears start to collect in the corner of my eye and I ask, "Then I did the right
thing? Taking her away from her home?"
"Of cours!" She laughs and slaps me on the back.
"Was she still wearing the necklace I gave her?"
A St. Christopher pendant I put around her neck before I said goodbye.
"He protects you while you're away from home Nonjaboliso. He will
protect you while we're apart."
"It's still around her neck." The woman affirms me.

I walk down the hill. Back to town. People stare, wondering what this
white girl is doing in this part of town. I may never do anything
sustainable here . Maybe I won't change anyone. Maybe I won't help a
single person before I go. But Nonjaboliso, coming here for two years
was worth being able to reach out to her. Coming here will all be
worth it knowing she is out there with her name, and she's smiling
again.

Tonight I lie in bed thinking of all the OVCs (Orphaned Vulnerable
Children) out there. Their parents dead from this virus. They left
their babies alone, in the hands of relatives who promised to take
care of them but have failed to do so. I think of Nonjaboliso's story.
She lived on her grandfather's homestead with her parents when they
fell sick. Her mother chased away by her grandfather because she
wouldn't sleep with him. Her husband too sick to notice. She dies away
from her husband and child on her parent's homestead. She never sees
her daughter again. Nonjaboliso's father close to death. She's at his
side. She cleans his infected thrush. With a rag, she wipes away the
maggots coming out of his mouth. He begs his father to take care of
his daughter once he is gone. Nonjaboliso's father dies and the real
nightmare begins for her.

The ghosts of dead parents, I hope they can't see what's happening to
their babies. Does her father know, she's smiling now?

My phone rings. It's my Proud African.
"Simphiwe. Vula emehlo." He laughs.
"What?" I ask.
"Are your eyes open yet?"
"I'm getting there." I tell him. "I'm beginning to see."

"A Year Later and The Sidewalks Are Still Watching Me Think About You..

6/1/2010

“Any transition serious enough to alter your definition of self will require not just small adjustments in your way of living and thinking, but a full-on metamorphosis.” Martha Beck.

Down another bumpy road, an old man fiddles with his car radio as he tells me about the one that got away. “South Africans- they stay for no one. I guess I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t worth it. But man. SHE was the ONE.” The radio calls out, “Young men, come and work for your King! Be a soldier!” Swaziland’s occupations: teacher, nurse, soldier.

He puts his hands back on the steering wheel and begins the series of usual questions. A free ride ALL the way to town, I’ll answer any question he asks. Why, where, when, and what are you doing here?
“For how long?” He repeats.
“One year and one more year to go.” I reply.
“How long?!”
“Two years.”
“Two years away from home?! Why, you’ll go back a stranger!” He laughs.
I politely laugh back and shift in my seat with discomfort at this realization.
“But did you REALLY know yourself before you came to Africa?” He asks.

It was almost a year ago, when I didn’t really know myself. It was almost a year ago when we came to Africa. I remember shaking hands with “Season 6”. Shaking the hands of those who had been here a year. The circle of introductions, “I’m Meredith. From Seattle.”
“Me too!” A girl from Season 6 exclaims. We exchange addresses. Two years ago, only a block away from each other. “Can you explain it to me?” She asks me.
“Explain what?”
“Home.” She says smiling.

At the time, my mind was fresh with scenery, smells, and color. But now, I have difficulty remembering what it was I told her. Now I have difficulty remembering home (Seattle or Indiana). But I remember what she said to me after I talked her through a tour of how “home” was when I left it. She said to me, “Thank you. I needed that.”

And it was almost a year ago when our APCD, Chad, handed us a piece of paper with the Peace Corps logo on top. “A letter,” He told us. “A letter to your future self. What do you want to tell yourself a year from now?” After we’re done writing, he collects our letters. “I’ll return them to you in one year.” I can no longer remember what one year ago Meredith wrote to me. I wish I could.

And now, a year into service, Season Six is starting to leave. In just a few days, the first eleven will take their journey back home. Back to the routine, the order, the color of the outside world….. HOME.

Myself, many from my group, and many from group 6 leave for the weekend before their departure. A three day concert/festival: Bush Fire. For eleven group 6ers this will be their last experience here in Swaziland with us. We enjoy outdoors, music, over-priced arts and crafts all going towards a good cause, drinks, and camping. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around so many “white” people. I say white, not because all foreigners to Swaziland are white, but because visually it was shocking and at times hard to handle. Most of us have forgotten how to act around “Westerners”. We know how to act around our fellow PCV’s and the Swazis, but we haven’t been around anyone else in a long, long time. Socializing has always been easy for me, but now, I find myself incredibly awkward and unsure what to say. Watching men and women holding hands, holding their children, love and affection, direct eye contact. To me, this has become the abnormal. We run into other PCVs form neighboring countries: Mozambique and South Africa. Loud and in your face: Americans. I’m immediately turned off.
“So much public transport and so easy to get around! Beautiful mountains and nice weather! You guys got it SO good here!” They exclaim.
“Hold on. Wait. Is this where we, as Peace Corps Volunteers from different countries, get into a ‘brag off’? Who has it harder?! Who’s more hard corps?” My sarcasm is thick and for once I'm around people who can pick up on it. Peace Corps Volunteers: We love to get together and talk about who has it worse. It’s annoying.

It’s Saturday night at Bush Fire and tomorrow morning eleven volunteers from Season Six will be gone. As I’m watching the last performance on stage, a volunteer from my group nudges me. “Look Mere. They’re saying their goodbyes.” I look over and see the crowd of Group 6ers. A handful of them make their way to each person, hugging and crying. Words are being exchanged but I’m too far away to hear. I want to be there. I want to be in this moment with them, but this is THEIR group. I want them to experience it alone. I watch the handful that is leaving break apart from the other group 6ers and make their way to the taxi. One of them stops and turns. She stops to look at someone from her group that is not leaving and is actually staying another year with us. I know they were once in a relationship and I know it didn’t end well and they haven’t spoken to each other in a long time (which is difficult to do in such a small country). She walks up to him and he takes her in his arms. She’s wiping away tears as he makes funny hand gestures trying to make her laugh. They say goodbye. Their reconciliation brings tears to my eyes.

As she’s walking away I run up to her. We embrace and she tells me what every volunteer should tell another, “You are making a difference…. Just hang in there.”

And then they were gone.

Another workshop with my fellow Season 7ers. A year ago we began with Pre-Service training, then In-Service training, and now: Mid Service training. Peace Corps knows we’re all reaching that realization of, “Oh my God, I ONLY have one year left. Or, Oh my God, I have ANOTHER year left.” They gather us and our “counterparts” together. A two day workshop with a Swazi we’re working with in our community (a counterpart). They try to get us energized and organized about projects to start with them. Most volunteers bring the “counterparts” they were originally assigned. Most have not worked with these people at all because counterparts lack the motivation. Peace Corps explains to the Swazis that a volunteer is a CO facilitator a CO mentor a CO learner….. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO WORK WITH US! WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO WORK FOR YOU. Many volunteers roll their eyes. They know full well when they go back to their communities they’ll never hear from their counterpart again.

I bring Justice. Justice is motivated. Justice is empowering, wonderful, and my bright light. I’m lucky to have found him. Unfortunately, I’ve got a viral infection that’s been going around so I do what I can in between trips to the bathroom. “We have to start a club Meredith. Where in order to be apart of it you have to get tested.” I explain the dangers of forced testing, but I like his enthusiasm on getting people tested. We want to do a workshop for young men during the World Cup. Justice’s youth center is one of the only places in our area where people can watch it. We want to take advantage of the audience. When else can you get a hundred men in a room together?

Our counterparts leave us and our workshop turns into a two day Grief and Loss Bonding experience. We talk about the year ahead. We talk about Season 8 arriving in less than a month. “We have to make this transition as easy as possible for them. We have to be careful what we say. We have to be prepared for the tough questions they’re going to ask us about the realities here and our work.” Did Season 6 have this same conversation about our arrival?

Our country director steps in. She talks about perspective. She lies down sheets of paper. Written on them : “I want to go home.” “This is what I came here to do.” “What am I doing here?” “I can see the difference I’m making.” “What a great opportunity” “I made a commitment and I’m sticking to it.”

“These are quotes from other volunteers at their one year mark. I want you to find where you’re at, your perspective. Go and stand where you feel.” We all have difficulty with this. Everyday we go through every one of these perspectives. In this moment however, I’m at “What a great opportunity.” You can’t help but feel relieved and yet saddened at the few who have stepped on “I want to go home.” “What am I doing here?” and “I made a commitment and I’m sticking to it.” We are seeing we’re not alone in this struggle.
We get in a circle, hold hands, and begin the sharing. One volunteer, someone I have so much admiration and respect for and one of the strongest people I know, raises her hand. She has difficulty talking through the tears. “I love you guys. I do. And I don’t want to go home, but I’m finding it so hard to stay. What I’m going through, I don’t know how much more I can take.” Several of us get up to give her a hug. I keep my hand on her knee. We all want her to know she’s not alone in this.

Later, the few group 6ers running the workshop, ask me to be on a panel of those who have experienced grief and loss. “We know you’ve lost a lot of your dogs, and we thought you’d like to share. Maybe it’ll get other people to start sharing.” I feel kind of stupid. On the panel with me are my friends who together have lost a homestead sister to homicide, another promised her training homestead father she would come back and see him but he died before she could, and another who saw the hanging body of someone he knew who committed suicide. Then there’s me and my dogs. But I know I carry something WE all can relate with. Something we are ALL going through: Guilt.

“Back home, like I know many of us were, I was kind of the counselor. I was the one you went to lean on. I was the hand you held. I was THERE for them. For my family, for my friends. Leaving them for two years for people who often don’t even want my help, kills me. My inability to keep in touch. To write letters. To dig deep into their lives. To tell them about mine. I’ve lost that personal connection. I’ve lost my role in their lives. A few got angry. But now, they’re OK without me. And, I guess, that kind of hurts. And it shouldn’t. And my little sister. Alone. Going through puberty. No one there to tell her “they” don’t matter. You’re cool just the way you are. I feel so much guilt. And sometimes I feel like I don’t know myself anymore. Or maybe I’m finding out who I always was.”

We’re asked to close our eyes. Our group leader begins, “I want you to think of someone you’d like to see. Someone you wish you were there for. Someone who you’ve lost touch with. Someone you want to ask forgiveness from.” I think of my brother. I think of a dream I had just two nights ago. Another nightmare about him. He’s alone in an attic with pieces of tape covering every hole and crack in the walls and floor around him. My sister appears and is standing next to him as he sits hovered over on the edge of his bed. “He doesn’t want the voices to get in through the cracks, so he covers them with tape.” She doesn’t understand why I’m crying. I pick up the roll of tape on the ground and begin to help him cover the cracks, but my tape won't stick. It keeps falling and the voices are getting in. I have these dreams of those I left behind.

“I want you to stand in front of this person now. I want you to take their hand and tell them, “You’re sorry.”

And for the first time, in a long time, I let the tears come out. I hear others crying around me. I try to wipe them away before we’re told to open our eyes but they continue to pour out of me. I’m trying to let go of the guilt. We’re all trying to tell ourselves it’s ok. We did the right thing in coming here. We want forgiveness. I want to forgive myself.

Our PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer) stands to talk. “You are all bearing witness. You are bearing witness to a country that is experiencing massive die out. Generations are being lost. People are dying everywhere, and you’re all witnessing it. Let it out. You’ve got to let it out.” And that's just it. We're all just witnesses and we want to be MORE than that.

We light candles as each of us says something about our group. It's my turn, “A year ago, we said goodbye to our APCD, Chad. None of us really knew him that well but we all saw how much he meant to Group 6. At his ring out ceremony in September, he said something that didn't really resonate with me until now. He told us, choking back the tears, for a while he had given up on Peace Corps. He didn’t know if he believed in it anymore. But then he pointed to us and he said, ‘But you guys, volunteers, I never stopped believing in you.’ And that’s exactly how I feel right now. I love all of you and I am in such gratitude to be serving with people with such big hearts and SO much compassion. With all the apathy that surrounds us out there, it is so empowering to be with all of you now. Every one of you gives me strength and affirms my belief in humanity and in the people again. I am honored to be serving alongside all of you.”


Our Grief and Loss ceremony is ending. One of the volunteers wishes to share a song with us, “This song always reminds me of us.” She plays a song by South African: Lucky Dube “Freedom Fighters”. As the song plays I open a letter our Country Director had passed to all of us. Inside is a piece of paper with the Peace Corps logo on top. It begins with, “Dear Future Meredith.”

“Do you remember a conversation you had with your best friend when you graduated high school? She asked you what you wanted to do with your life. You told her you were going to join the Peace Corps and she laughed and said to you, “Maybe you should just stick with Americorps…you can't handle something like the Peace Corps." I hope you are still here with the Peace Corps Meredith. I hope you know you FINALLY did it. And you are here because of YOU despite what everyone thought. I hope you are happy and smiling. And I want you to remember, FINALLY, I am proud of MYSELF.”

It truly has been a life changing year for me and I’m looking forward to the next one. Group 6 will be gone soon and we’ll be the ones welcoming Group 8 with open arms. And maybe this time, during our circle of introductions, someone will say their name and they’ll say they’re from Indiana or Seattle. And they’ll talk me through a tour of home. And I’ll smile and say, “Thank you. I needed that.”


"Freedom fighter standing on a mountain
In a foreign country
Trying to send a message
To his people, back in the ghetto
He had a home one time
Love of a girl
But he left that behind
Oh yes I can hear him clearly as he whispers in the air
His voice came out loud and clear
All he asked for was a prayer and as he turns to walk away he said

I'm still here in the house of exile
For the love of the nation
Sun went down on the mountain
Birds flew back to their hiding places
Leaving him standing there like a telephone pole
In the still of the night
You and I dream
Dreaming of Romeo & Juliet
All he dreams about is the freedom of the nation
When every man will be equal In the eyes of the law
As he closes his eyes
For the last time he said again"

Everyone Wears Purple

5/19/10

Shug: More than anything God love admiration.
Celie: You saying God is vain?
Shug: No, not vain, just wanting to share a good thing. I think it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple in a field and don't notice it.
Celie: You saying it just wanna be loved like it say in the bible?
Shug: Yeah, Celie. Everything wanna be loved. Us sing and dance, and holla just wanting to be loved. Look at them trees. Notice how the trees do everything people do to get attention... except walk?

Alice Walker's "The Color Purple" depicts the life for an African American woman in the early 1900's. The story focuses on a young woman named Celie. Celie, like many African American women of this time, endures abuse from both races and both sexes. She is unloved until she meets a woman named Shug Avery. Shug, a muse and beauty, shows Celie what it means to be loved. She empowers her. And then one day Celie stands up to her abusers and fights back.

SWAGAA (Swaziland Action Group Against Abuse) calls me again. I take a seat. Sviso sits behind his desk waiting for me to begin. Even though it is I who has been asked to come, I begin the conversation. "So. What can I help you with?"

Sviso tells me his plan to empower the young men as well as the women. He hopes to hold an event in the city and to talk to young men and their fathers about abuse. He stares at me waiting for a response. I have none. It's a ridiculous plan. Who's going to pay transport fees. Who's going to feed them once they arrive? Who's going to do the children's chores while they're away? Even if you can empower the child, what's going to happen when the empowered finally find their voice and begin to use it? When they finally tell the crooked cop or the tired teacher who does nothing. The "piplines" are all cracked here. Shouldn't we focus on getting the support teams together THEN giving the kids a voice. I've experienced first hand what happens when a scared child finally speaks out. And I watch as they fall and no one is there to catch them.

I nod my head and pretend to play along.

AIDS has quickly taken a back seat to abuse. Abuse and AIDS:

It's all connected.

It's all out of control.

I teach Form 4 and Form 5 every Friday (the juniors and seniors of Siphofaneni High). Both forms are broken up into two classes with around 50 students each. I reach 200 students in two and a half hours. I ATTEMPT to reach them as a foreign, young, single, white woman teaching them in their second language in a hot hot crammed classroom. The boys in the back yell, the girls in the front snicker. I struggle to hold their attention. I more importantly, struggle to gain their respect. They demand candy. They demand games. They don't care about a course they don't get a grade in. They don't care to discuss a topic they've had crammed down their throats since birth. Who is this outsider, this child in our world, to tell us how it is HERE in OUR world? In OUR home. My hands are empty- no stick to beat them like the rest of the teachers. And they know it. I try hard to show fear does not equal respect.

You have to remain calm no matter what they throw at you. A joke with a joke. Sarcasm doesn't fly in a second language unfortunately. But I was a teenager once, and an even better smart ass.

End of class, tired.. .. Exhausted. Did I reach anyone? Or have I just been dancing for the past two hours.. only entertainment. I grab my bags, my flip chart, and markers, and go. A young girl runs after me. "Simphiwe! Simphiwe!"

I recognize her. She is one of my students from form 5. 50 shaved heads, 50 pale blue skirts- it's hard to tell any of them apart. This one is different. Bushy eyebrows, gap between her two front teeth, dark in complextion... the awkward look that grows into grace. Only an outsider would notice her beauty. "Simphiwe, may I accompany you?" She follows me off school grounds and towards town. "You can call me Nicoleson." (The volunteer who worked in this school before me was Nicole) "Did you get that name from the volunteer before me?" I ask. "Who? No. I did not. I just like the sound of Nicoleson." She smiles.

"Simphiwe may I ask you something? Why are YOU here?"
"What do you mean?" I ask as I stop walking- a bad habit of mine when a conversation turns serious.
"I mean, we've had others. Like you. Volunteers. Trying to "help". Nothing changed."
I'm not sure how to react to this slap of reality.

She continues, "I have this friend. She liked sex with men. I warned her. I told her just as you tell us. She didn't listen. She got pregnant anyway. But I remained by her side. She got sick. Her baby got sick. AIDS. But still I remained by her side. She tells me, 'You're just jealous. You're ugly and nobody wants you.' I'm angry Simphiwe. What's the point anymore? No on listens. They didn't listen to the first volunteer. So this is why I ask you, Why are you here? They say the white people come to take pictures of our black babies and show the whites back home. To give us money and things. My mother abandoned me when I was young, my father left for South Africa when I was born. I work hard to pay my OWN school fees. To pay for food. I am a servant to a family. I don't ask for donations. I do it on my own. But these girls. They sleep around for money for hair extensions and clothes. These girls don't deserve your help. They are just as stubborn and stupid as the men."

We're walking again. She looks around as she speaks. Afraid other students will notice her with me. She'll quickly be called teachers pet- showing off how well she knows English. "Simphiwe. I watch you teach. God has blessed me with the gift of seeing and feeling people’s emotions. Other volunteers, when they teach I can see their anger, their frustrations. They want to give up. In you, I don't see. I only see what you show us. I don't see the frustration. You don't judge us." She looks down ashamed. "Jesus, he didn't judge and this is why I keep alone. When I am around all this ignorance- I judge. I keep alone so I don't hate, so I don't blame. What's the way out? How do I get out of all of this?"


A fork in the road, before we part she stands in front of me and says. "I think I was meant to help you. I think this is my purpose. Together maybe we can give them a message. To the girls. I don't want to blame anymore. I am so alone inside. I don't want to be alone anymore."

My message this week in girls club is simple. We sit and watch "The Color Purple". I translate the southern accent and we discuss the story every thirty minutes. My message IS the color purple. You are beautiful. You deserve respect. "All of us can be Shug. We must hold up a mirror for our friends. Show them that they too are beautiful. Show them their color." Sometimes when I speak I can see tears collect in these girls’ eyes. Sometimes I hit a cord that pains them. All of them long to connect but are afraid to try.

I open up clubs in three different schools. Children peer in through the windows, rooms are crammed. It's hard to turn them away but I know to be effective I have to cut back the numbers. But I cannot empower the African girl alone; she has to find power with others. So when she finally finds her voice, when she seeks out help from the crooked cop or the tired teacher who turns her away, she will have her friends to lean on.

Today I bring a friend, another volunteer, to visit my high school and watch me teach the Form 4 and 5's. Two classes finished. We debate the topic "HIV Affects Women More Than Men". People are pointing fingers, voices are being thrown around, minds are thinking.. QUESTIONING.. today was a success. I'm constantly trying to show them the bigger picture. You have a culture of people locked inside a room. You go to unlock the door. You leave the key inside the lock- hoping someone, just one person, will come and unlock the it. Unfortunatley, these children, these people, don't even notice the door is even locked. You can't open it for them. They've got to notice and do it on their own. It's a slow process.

Two more classes to go. As I'm leaving the second class, one of my male students grabs my hand. He begins to kiss it. He pulls me forward and tries to kiss me on the mouth. I pull away. This would never happen to a Swazi teacher. We had just spoken about sexual harassment in class. I use this as an example and pretend to knee him in the balls. "And this is how you defend yourself ladies." My friend and I make our way to the staff room to find there is no staff in the staff room. I ask the only two teachers around sitting doing nothing,
"Where are all the teachers today?"
"Today is pay day." They laugh. "The teachers go to town to get things that they need. They don't have to come into school today."

However, the students are still required to come. Come to school to sit in a classroom and stare at a wall. My head teacher asks how my day is. I joke, "Oh just dodging kisses from students." A look of horror and shock on his face. "This will not do! This is sexual harassment!" He grabs his large wooden stick and pulls me outside. "He MUST be punished!" The bell rings and students lazily make their way back to the empty classrooms after break. Without teachers, what's the rush? The head teacher yells at them to run to class. He lets go of my hand to pick up large rocks. This overweight man begins to chase the laughing children, throwing rocks in their direction. They laugh as he trips and falls. I stand in the middle of this circus. Watching the herder herd his flock. As I stand alone in the middle of the fied- chaos tumbling all around, my friend stands amazed inside the staff room. She is sandwiched between two teachers trying to convince her that the entire world is controlled by two men.

"They work on wall street you see. This whole 'recession' thing is made up. It's all a conspiracy theory. We saw it in a movie once."

I run in to grab her. "Lets get out of here."

We grab our bags and walk the road back to town; trying to piece together what just happened. Searching for even one piece of logic within this crazy hour's events. A truck pulls up behind us and honks. It is my sweating head teacher. He rolls down his window, "Simphiwe, get in. I am taking you back to school. I found the boy. I want you to watch me give him four strong strokes on the back."

I respectfully decline and we continue to walk in silence.

We're on a bus going south. Tonight: Girls Night. Bottles of red wine, mature cheddar cheese, dark chocolate filled with almonds. We sit in our sleeping bags looking through an old Cosmo magazine. "Red Wine Helps Fight Tummy Flab" "Shoes Suck Out Toxins From Your Body!" "FIT FLOPS Tone Your Body!" Shinning shimmering lips, little white skinny bodies, Pantene pro-v hair, and creative sex positions for your pleasure. What is this world? I turn each glossy page and feel comfort in something that used to trick me into thinking I wasn't good enough. For now, I want to escape in this pristine plastic world. So much color- and we're all trying to remember.

We share our frustrations. I complain about the Swazi male students. "I'm spreading myself too thin. I need to focus on the audience I can reach. The girls. I need to quit teaching in the classroom and just work with the girls."

I ask them, "If Peace Corps didn't further your future career or education..would you stay?" Bodies shift.. an uncomfortable question. No one wants to think like that. Most say no. "Maybe if I were on a different continent. If I were in Jamaica or Eastern Europe. That'd be fun."

Tears collect in my eyes, "I guess I struggle with that. I can't be here if I'm not reaching anyone. It's not worth leaving those back home. I can't be in this for ME. Why should I stay if it helps no one?"

The best part about girls night is when someone hits this moment. Your girlfriend grabs your knee. She looks deep into your eyes with such determination to convince you and possibly even herself. And she says to you, "You ARE making a difference Meredith. You ARE."

"Don't give up on the boys Simphiwe." Another girl says. "They need your help too."

I return home and flip through my student’s homework. I had asked my class, boys and girls, "Why am I here teaching you about HIV?" The students wrote, "To teach us. We want to learn."

I had given up on teaching. I was ready to tell the Head Teacher on Monday, I can no longer work in the classroom.

Nicoleson had asked me, "Why are you here?" And it's a question we all struggle with everyday.

As Celie put it, "I may be black, I might even be ugly but dear God I'm here, I'm here."

I see what girls night can do for a volunteer. This is what I want to bring to the Swazi girl, a hand to hold. Someone to push you forward. A Sisterhood.

So I say to them, "I'm white, I'm a woman, and dear God.. I'm American. But I'm here, I'm Here."

"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?"

"The Ubuntu Club"

3/12/2010

"Why is HIV so high in Swaziland?" I ask my students. "This tiny country carries the world's...THE WORLD'S.. highest HIV rate. Why?"

A brave one raises her hand. "I think it is because of poverty."
"Yes. Good answer. I'm sure that has A LOT to do with it. But why then do other poor African countries, some poorer than Swaziland, carry such a small HIV rate? What is happening here?"

They scratch their heads and think. I jump down to the ground and give them their five promised push ups. My ploy in getting the sheep to speak out. I challenge the boys in my class who can do the most push ups in one minute. "If by the end of the school term I can beat him in push ups I will throw all of you a party. But you have to help me get there. I need practice. The more push ups I do the more likely I'll win and the more likely you'll get a party." They think I'm nuts, but agree to play along.

People ask me, "What happened in Uganda?" Uganda once carried the highest HIV rate and in a matter of just a few years it dropped significantly low. 60% lower. They ask me how did THEY do it.

"During the early 2000's, many AIDS experts traveled to Uganda to try to find out why the HIV rate there had fallen. Billions of dollars in funding for global AIDS programs were at stake, and the question soon became mired in controversy. Most public health officials attributed it to government commitment and condom programs. Evangelical Christians attributed it to abstinence programs in schools and churches. World Health Organization officials attributed it to new bureaucratic structures designed by WHO consultants, and so on. While all of those factors certainly mattered, they didn't seem to fully explain the decline, and eventually I would draw my own conclusions."

Writes Helen Epstein, author of The Invisible Cure. I continue to read Helen's words, with my injured foot, stuck in Mbabane, the capital of Swaziland, for a week. I'm on the edge of my seat asking myself: WHAT IS THIS INVISIBLE CURE?! I had no idea then but Helen's findings on pages 160 to 167 would shake my little Peace Corps soul to the core.

"It seemed to me that what mattered most was something for which public health experts had no name or program for. It was something like "collective efficacy."

AND THERE YOU HAVE IT. Helen had found the invisible cure. "...the ability of people to join together and help one another." I had just recently read an interview with South Africa's Archbishop, Desmond Tutu, on what he called, "Ubuntu". A person is a person through other people. Interconnectedness. Communal Harmony. So then what am I doing here Helen...Desmond? How do I teach Ubuntu?

Just seven pages had me so angry. It got me thinking. What am I doing here? Volunteers are teaching in a country where their students ask them, "Which country does America get its food from for free?" Where the abnormal becomes normal. As I'm writing you these words, SWAGAA has called me. "Simphiwe, we have a donor. A woman from America. She wants to help. She has asked for a child with no parents who needs help with school fees." I think of Thuli. "We thought you would know someone who needs this kind of help." I tell her I know someone. SWAGAA and I talk. Thuli's fees will be paid for. But not by her remaining family members. Not by her aunt who has only left Thuli with a scar above her left eye and taken EVERYTHING, including her two little brothers, from her. Don't worry Thuli, this ones on America, a complete stranger, because your family doesn't know Ubuntu. How do I teach them this? Where is their sense of compassion?

I'm angry. I'm pissed off.

Lets get back to Uganda. I mean they did it. How. People ask. How. How did Uganda beat AIDS. "During the 1980s and early 1990s, while people in most African countries were ignoring the AIDS crisis, hundreds of tiny community based AIDS groups sprang up throughout Uganda to comfort the sick, care for orphans, warn people about the dangers of casual sex, and address the particular vulnerability of women and girls to infection. World Health Organizations provided funding, but much also came from the pockets of the poor themselves. Their compassion and hard work brought the disease into the open, got people talking about the epidemic, reduced AIDS related stigma and denial, and led to a profound shift in sexual norms. The process was very African. The Uganda response to AIDS was vastly different from that taken in southern Africa. However, people in southern Africa have the capacity to respond to AIDS just as Ugandans did, and governments and foreign-aid programs can support them. However, they can sometimes undermine them."

So why can't Swazis do this? Why can't they ban together?

Swaziland does not know war. Because of the Apartheid, millions of South African parents were forced to abandon their children with their own parents, aunts, and uncles in the rural areas to search for work in the city. This left children vulnerable to the abuse neglect and exploitation of their extended family members. This then turned them into the hardened adults of today. This tiny country offers no jobs. Families are uprooted. Family members are shifted around while the healthy go look for work in South Africa. This causes a lack of communication and a loss of a sense of community. And maybe, just maybe, all this is not their fault. This lack of communal harmony may not be their fault. This is what keeps me here. Helen goes on to statistically prove that countries that have experienced war, or are currently enduring warfare, have a much lower rate of HIV infection. Could this be that warfare shocks the hearts of the people and encourages the Ubuntu way? Is this what this country needs?

"The open discussions led by government field workers and in small groups of women and churchgoers, the compassionate work of the home-based care volunteers, the courage and strength of the women's rights activists--helped people see AIDS not as a disease spread by disreputable high risk groups or 'others' but as a shared calamity affecting everyone. Behavior change then became a matter of common sense. IT IS A SPIRIT THAT FLOURISHES WHEN PEOPLE COME TOGETHER TO FACE A COMMON THREAT. IT IS NOT SOMETHING THAT CAN BE PACKAGED AND PAID FOR AND THEN SHIPPED AROUND THE WORLD."

So when my students tell me HIV is the highest in Swaziland because of poverty; I must teach them the facts, I must teach them "Ubuntu".

In 2003 the HIV rate in Botswana was six times higher than in Uganda- a much poorer country. Botswana did not talk about AIDS. Botswana had all the packaged elements though. It had the condoms, the testing centers, the things paid for by outside help. "Uganda's campaigns built upon the personalized, informal, intimate, contingent, reciprocal nature of African society, while Botswana mainly focused on mass media campaigns, the distribution of condoms and other commodities, and HOSPITAL based services. These services failed to stir the nations conscience. HIV was everyone's problem."

"Development is good, but we have to ensure we don't lose the ability to care for one another. Down the line, we will realize that development is not only about how good your infrastructure is; it's also about the heart."

I sit on these words with my right foot elevated and iced. "It's not something that can be packaged and paid for and then shipped around the world." I feel like such a commodity. Was Helen referring to us? I have to give them something more than just a library- I have to give them fire, inspiration. I have to teach them ubuntu.

Torn ligaments. Mbabane for a week. I stay at a nice cozy bed and breakfast with other Peace Corps Volunteers. Between us we have: torn ligaments, scorpion bites, ulcers, and parasites. At first I find anxiety in this world of toilets, tvs, cafes, and just another white person in the city. Here I am no one. But now I'm finding comfort in this place. Which I know will make it harder to go back to site. The longer a PCV stays away from site the harder it is to go back. You hear the story of the volunteer who had just a few months left of service. He goes to spend a few weeks in Spain before being tied down to his site for the next two months. He never comes back. It's easier to forget the outside world and live in your routine roundavel hut surrounded by the Sawbonas and Unjanis. Naked in a crowd. You have to forget. You have to forget your old comforts and make new ones.

While in Mbabane, I visit a friend I had made from the Baylor Camp. She is one of the Swazi camp counselors: Thembi. She's been in the hospital for weeks and would not tell me over the phone why. I'm afraid its domestic abuse. Last time I was in town she was walking around with egg yolks in her hair. His retaliation to her accusations. She feared he was cheating on her. I find her at work behind her desk. We embrace and go for a walk. She shows me pictures of her swollen discolored face in the hospital. "I looked through his cell phone to see who he had been texting. So he got angry." She tells me he's moved out for now. She grabs my arm. "Meredith I think I'm pregnant. We were trying for a baby before this all happened. And now I'm two weeks late." She's been too afraid to take a test. We pace outside the pharmacy. Back and forth, back and forth. "I can't go in there. I can't." She says. I walk in and buy two tests. "We'll do it together." I assure her.

One shared carton of Lichi Juice later, we sit on our seperate toilets. Stalls apart...worlds apart. For her, this will be the longest minute of her life. I sit tapping my feet. A flash of some weird adult feeling creeps inside me. A life I am not ready for. Delaying as long as I can, ignoring that clock that just gets louder and louder with age and my nagging mother, "I want grandbabies!" You're never completely carefree when you pee on that stick. Doesn't matter how much sex you're NOT having. Your heart always stops for a split second as you stare at the stick and quickly grab the box again fumbling with the instructions that you ve read and re read over and over again. One line is good? Two lines....is that TWO LINES? OH SHIT..WHAT?...No..ok..exhale. She slides her stick under my bathroom stall. "I can't look Meredith. What does it say?"

I step out of the stall, her stick in hand. A co worker walks in. We quickly hide the evidence behind our backs. "Sawbona Ma?" "Unjani Sisi?" "Ngiyaphilia Ma." OK. She's gone. Thembi stands in front of me. "Well?" She asks. "You're pregnant Thembi." She puts one hand on her belly and slides down the wall to the floor, tears in her eyes. She won't look at me. Her head tilts to the side as tears collect in her eyes. I sit next to her holding her hands.

"I'll be right here with you no matter what you choose to do." I assure her.
"What I choose to do? I don't have a choice Meredith. This isn't America. This is Swaziland. It's illegal here. I could get ten years in jail. No. I HAVE to do this now."
We continue to sit holding each other. We both know this baby, this lump of cells, is going to bind her to this man. This will be his and so will she.

I return to the bed and breakfast. Another tragedy. Another solution out of my volunteer reach. Silly little white girl. The owner of the bed & breakfast asks if me and the other volunteers wouldn't mind sharing dinner with two new guests of hers tonight. "They are doing work like you. They are working for an NGO." She beings to pull out her fancy dinner plates and fancy wine glasses. It won't be cheeseburgers tonight. No. The VIPS are here and they've asked to dine with US.

We are moved from the kiddy table.

A woman and man take the heads of the table. My twenty something year old brain tells me they are over their mid thirties so I cannot compute their age. After the mid thirties it all seems to run together for a mid twenty year old. Red wine tonight. I inhale my food and watch as the adults eat.

The woman is Shantha, working with UNICEF. The man seems to just be along for the ride. They aren't married. They have a wife and a husband back home with their kids. She is living in the US and he is South African. Today they were shown what it was like "out there". They visited a community some what close to where I stay. "We saw such horrific things." They tell us. We explain what it is we do. We explain what it is we have seen. They seem very interested in...us. Shantha points at the man. "THIS ONE, he is an AMAZING photographer. He's done some amazing work. He wrote a book...." She talks as he humbly keeps his head down chuckling. "Can we find it on Amazon?" I joke.

"It's called The Bang Bang Club." She tells us. "Wait a minute!" PCV shouts. "My friend is reading that book right now." She texts her friend who immediately calls back, "You are eating dinner with the author of The Bang Bang Club?! He's kind of a big deal!"

Greg Marinovich is his name. Greg is one of two surviving members of the four photographers that were part of The Bang Bang Club. Called this by the South African Government because of the high risk situations they put themselves in in order to capture amazing photographs during the apartheid between 1990 and 1994. It was Kevin, Greg, Ken, and Joao. In 1994, crossfire kills Ken and seriously injures Greg (shot three times). The book was later written by Greg and Joao. They describe the difficulties of how far one person can and should go to capture an image for others to see. Kevin goes on to take a world famous photograph of a starving Sudanese boy being stalked by a large vulture. He wins a Pulitzer Prize for it but later commits suicide. Greg also received a Pulitzer for his photography. His book was turned into a South African documentary and now, 2010, is going Hollywood. Ryan Philippe will be playing Greg.

I, of course, have excused myself from the table and am in the bathroom googling Greg's life through my little internet phone. I come back to the table and take a seat....speechless...for once. "What do you want to do after Peace Corps?" He asks me. "Ahh..." The famous Greg Marinovich, Pulitzer Prize winner, author, shot three times, has seen death and more, going to be played by the gorgeous Ryan Philippe is asking ME what do I want to be when I grow up?! "Ahh....There's life after this?" I laugh. "It sounds silly. It sounds like common sense at this point, but I want to teach people how to treat each other. I think it would be fun to create a nationwide curriculum for American children. It's ridiculous we're taught algebra. EVERYONE is taught fucking algebra but never are we taught how to treat each other. Something Montessori like. The Scandinavians, I'm sure, have got it figured out. They're always one step ahead. Or maybe I'll just do like everyone else...go back to school." Peace Corps, a two year long study hall. A two year prep for taking the GRE MCAT LSTAT. He asks us what we studied. "Psychology, Art, Environmental Science." "Sociology and chose Kiswahili as my language. Which got me a swat over the head and my dad yelling, 'Be practical you twit! Spanish...social work!" "Your dad's a lawyer? A doctor?" He asks. "Public relations actually."

Greg asks about the Peace Corps. We spend hours explaining to him what it's like to work for the US government. The papers you have to sign the promises you have to make. The only benefit is the benefits. "Wait a minute. You have to sign something saying that you will ALWAYS use condoms?! You could get kicked out for not?!" He shrieks. We laugh. "AND you have to take antimalria drugs for TWO YEARS!? That's insane!" We ask, "So if my PCMO asks why I have stopped taking my antimalaria pills I can just tell her dude with a Pulitzer told me it was INSANE to continue taking them?"

I think about the reports we have to write for the government. Counting children. Volunteer Report Files. Don't worry...we're spending PEPFARs money wisely. The government wants numbers. How many children have you helped?!

Peace Corps: Numbers, Rules, Files

"So much regulation, so many rules." He continues. (I would say more but as a Peace Corps Volunteer our words are monitored and checked. Which is ironic that I'm mentioning this now. I should emphasize, US embassy, I am still taking my doxy.)

We have a good time with Shantha and Greg. The next day they leave and it's time for me to go back to site. The anxiety creeps up. I sit out by the road waiting for a kombi to pass. A van pulls over with Greg and Shantha inside. "Hop in." He and the Swazis who visited some homesteads the previous day are discussing what they saw. "A young girl living with an uncle sexually molesting her. She got out of that homestead but is now living with her older sister." Shantha explains. "Hardly adequate accommodations." Greg replies. The Mbabane Swazis nod their head in agreement. Mbabane Swazis, like these, might as well be living in South Africa or America. They have no idea, that this sad story has a happy ending. This young girl is still with family. Has been taken in by family. Is not living under a tree eating garabage. Sleeping with older men for food and security. This girl has a chance because of a family member. To me, this is rare.

They look at me. "These are my neighbors." I tell them. I tell my sad stories. I tell them about Nonjaboliso and her grandfather and Bhule and Thuli and all the others whose names I no longer remember. Kevin was given a Pulitzer for his world famous photograph of a Sudanese boy being stalked by a vulture. Here we don't have vultures stalking our children. We have humans. Their family members preying on the orphans left behind- turning them to slaves. We have dogs. A two year old boy left to die outside an abandoned homesetead was found just as a pack of dogs were surrounding him. PEOPLE left him to die. Our people are our vultures. The people who break into the homes of orphaned children with no security and steal all their food. Who rape our young girls.

Here, WE are the vultures.

On my way back to Manzini now. Back to the filth and grime. The old man pissing in the street. The legless people dragging their bodies across the piss and filth covered roads, hands outstretched begging. That complicated human smell I once found so comforting. No more crystal glass filled with wine. No more talk of how horrible it is "out there".

I'm there. I'm here. I'm home.

I get a call from my neighbor PCV. His voice is shaking. "Someone I knew." He tells me. "Was receiving help from Save the Children. They noticed he was loosing lots of weight. They think he found out he was positive. He hung himself last night."
"Oh god. I'm so sorry." I interject. He continues, " I went with Save the Children to his house. Mere his body was still hanging from the rope." He pauses and exhales. "I've seen corpses before Mere. (His family...all in the medical field) But I've never seen a BODY. There's a big difference between a corpse and a body. Hanging there and then cut down. His hand. I've shaken that hand before." I can hear him trembling. "I'm on my way home. Just hang on. I'll be there soon." I tell him.

The kombi can't get there fast enough. I fidget, shaking my foot up and down. It's Sunday morning which means the the drunks from last night are still drunk. I hear them yelling in the back of the kombi. I sit amongst the other women starring straight ahead. I hear the shouting stop and then gasping. They have spotted me. Two of them grab empty seats behind me and an elderly woman. They shout loudly amongst themselves, "I like a white pussy!" They gurgle. "I don't like a black one..loose and a forest. A white pussy has money and it is so tight!" They laugh. None of the sober men in the front say anything to these loose cannons. The women stay looking forward, unphased. It's incredible the things you being to tolerate the longer you're here. You become THEM. The silent. The accommodating. The submissive. They grab the woman's shoulder next to me and spray their drunken filth on her. "I want to fuck Obama's wife's pussy!" His friend interjects, "Wait. She's black!" The other one laughs, "OK then. I want to fuck Bush's wife's bush! Ha ha ha!" They continue to grab the woman next to me. It's incredible what OTHER people begin to tolerate the longer they are here.

I stand and turn, "I feel sorry for these Swazi women. All they have to choose from are you Swazi men: Twiddle Dumb and Twiddle Dumber!"
"Hello white pussy! I AM a man!"
"You are an embarrassment. I hope you never reproduce."
One of the men stands face to face with me now. I stare at the pool of spit resting on his large lower lip. Disgusted.
"You know it's unfortunate. The fastest way to Heaven is only through Death. We're stuck here until then."
The kombi stops and we are here. One tries to touch my cheek as they climb out. "Take care of your tight pussy, neh?" They laugh and leave. An old gogo grabs my arm as she climbs over me. "Mandla Sisi. Mandla."

One more kombi ride to go. I'm almost there. A packed kombi yelling: Umlungu! Greets me. "No no no....I am Simphiwe." I correct them. I sit next to a woman with an infant in her arms. She burps her drunken, slurred words all over me. "Sisi, umlungu...Ngicela...Ngicela umlungu," She is asking me to feed her child. I look down at her baby. The drunken woman's sagging wrinkled breast flops on top of her baby's tiny head. Her unloved body. Wrinkled and puckered: elephant like. dried apricots. Her baby: Bone thin. The skin sagging off every limb. The light brown hairs and bloated belly indicates she is iron deficient and malnourished. The mother takes her two fingers and wraps them around the child's upper arm. Her baby won't live long. For twenty minutes she begs me, in SiSwati, to give her money to feed her dying baby. She begs me with every drunken breath. I clinch my face hard and try to stay focused on something outside..holding the tears back. That familiar lump in my throat, I search for something pleasant in this mess. But this is home.

Then I feel something light and soft brush my arm. Her baby looks up at me. I'm surprised. She is smiling....at me. Instead of crying in horror, like most infants, at something that, to them, looks like someone turned inside out..this baby is smiling..no laughing at me. She grabs my finger hard and smiles big. But you're dying..I think. I tell her I'm sorry. You were born in the wrong country baby. Hang on. Just hang on.

"When the Americans come, we sing, we dance, they take our picture, and they go back and show everyone how they are helping the poor black people. But then all they do is hijack our projects and count our children."

Peace Corps. Rules. Numbers. Files. How many children have I helped. I don't know. I so long to be apart of Greg's "Club". To see the horror and tragedy without the files rules and regulations and my constant concern IS MY WORK SUSTAINABLE?! I so long to capture the horrors of this world, risk my life, and show those back home what it is like "out there". I asked Greg, "How do you do it? How do you manage the two dreams? Family and adventure. Travel and home." He tells me, "You've got to find someone who's down for the ride. Who will do it with you. You take turns with the family part and the adventure part." His parting words to us volunteers," Always use condoms!" He laughs. "Don't quit. Don't you DARE quit. Stay for the two years, or you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Sometimes I wish I could be a journalist or a photographer. Stay behind that expensive glass. The published pen and paper. Just a little more detached from it all. Show you what is happening OUT THERE. Let YOU decide what to do with it all and how to feel about it.

But I'm not. I'm a VOLUNTEER. It's up to me. It's up to us. Yes. Every three months we count those we've "helped". Yes. We write reports for the government. Yes. Sometimes our "help" comes down to the material worth: a library, a bore hole, school supplies.

But we are volunteers. We ARE Ubuntu. And all we can do is show them that.

"Show them who YOU are...and you can change the world."

"It Takes A Queen To Notice A Queen"

3/13/10

Thuli: A girl in one of my classes, 16 and a neighbor to my homestead. My student, my neighbor, and now my friend.

I invite her over for dinner. We sit on the floor of my hut eating our beans and rice. "What happened?" I ask as I place my finger on a puffy scar along her right temple. She looks down. "When my parents died I was ten. It was just myself and my two younger brothers and all of our parent's belongings. People, strangers to us, started coming to our home and taking our things. My aunti comes over one night taking EVERYTHING. I began to make a fuss about it. She took a large piece of wood and smacks me over the head with it. I fall to the floor...I wake up to her children splashing cold water over my face. My aunti took my two younger brothers. She didn't want me but left me on her homestead where I live now. She has another home where she works and visits this one on weekends. When she's home she locks me outside."
"Why does she allow you to stay in her home here?" I ask.
"I'm a security guard. During the week she needs someone to watch the house."
"Does she feed you?"
"No."
"Where do you get food?"
"Save the Children gives me a bag of millie meal every month. But I want to tell you a secret. Im a born again Christian now Simphiwe. I have an older boyfriend. He's very kind to me. He gives me food when I ask. We have sex...." She looks down, embarrassed. "Im a Christian now and I don't want to sleep with him anymore. But I'm afraid...he won't give me food if I stop."
I tell her I'll speak with SWAGAA. "There are other ways Thuli. You don't have to sleep with him."
"How do you do it?" She asks me.
"Do what?" I ask.
"You are strong. You tell us about transactional sex....you tell us there are other ways. You are old...you don't have anyone. But you are always smiling."

I think. I'm relieved. She has no idea about the mess inside my chest. Tangled feelings. Preaching to girls about independence when I find solitude to be so difficult. Trying hard to forget the past. The past: You think things are settled and then suddenly they come alive. A familiar sound, a smell...His mannerisms on someone else's face. The things he would like behind a store window. Sitting, waiting for him to discover them- without my help now. I have these feelings, useless and heavy, and I don't want to get rid of them just yet. Weakness. I'm smiling, but I'm not strong.

No more shoe-boxes full of memories you can just slide under your bed. Facebook: a slap in the face....the bearer of bad news. I sit in front of the computer. His Relationship Status: ENGAGED. I settle into this ever constant feeling: sorrow. I pick apart its pieces. I get comfortable with it. I am trying to empower young girls. I am trying to empower myself. I remember once being reduced to the touch of him. I remember everything I ever did for a man. His ideas, his beliefs, his family, his life. It's not just these African girls. It's every woman.

I'm a hypocrite. Who am I? 26 asking myself this question. My life, since 15, has been interrupted. My ideas, my beliefs, my family, MY life. And I still want to go back, to a place I can find him: Indiana. But in waking life and in my dreams I know, he is never coming back. I'm feeling a door shut inside me. A lock turning. Not just on him but everything we liked. The wheel is making a complete turn, a realization. He is gone for good. And I must be happy with this. I have faith time will work its slow erosion on me just as it has always done. But for now...there's comfort in memory. Weakness. My secret.

To them: I'm 26, alone, and smiling.

I promise Thuli to talk to SWAGAA. I hand her eggs, onions, cans of tuna, mustard...she squishes her face together. "OK..I'll keep the mustard."
"Come back when you're hungry. Remember, there are options Thuli." We hug goodnight.

A week later, I injure my foot and am sent to Mbabane. The doctor tells me I have to stay in town for physical therapy. The radiologist looks at my foot x rays. I stand next to her. "They look fine to me..can I go back to site now?" She laughs, "You were a dancer weren't you?" I tell her yes. "Let me show you a NORMAL foot x ray." The normal and abnormal hang in front of us. "Oh Jesus." I gasp. PCMO wants me to stay at a certain backpackers. I protest, "That place is a giant frat house....it's Friday. Please put me somewhere else." This backpackers is the cheapest. Doctor insists I try it out for tonight. I reluctantly go.

I arrive. Apparently the kids here are filming a movie that I'm sure only Youtube will ever see. Girls from Finland (Finland provides a lot of volunteers to teach HIV prevention in schools here in Swaziland) and boys from Italy gather around outside to the thumping music by the pool. Cane juice and Akon. Tall Finish blondes...nothing but legs and short skirts. Suave Italian men, hair slicked back, smoking cigarettes like the movies. The butt end buried deep in between index and middle finger. I have a seat at a table and watch the sex circus around me. A Swazi man sits next to me, his long dreads are pulled back. He comes from money. Family works with the UN. He's international. He calls himself Phumi. Phumi talks and I half listen. I'm distracted. I can't take my eyes off a certain woman. She stands tall, the wind blowing the thin fabric wrapped around her body. A beautiful afro and large earrings. Milky skin. The worker bees swarm around their Queen as she laughs- spouting Shakespeare to the sheep. I'm in love. And I'm caught. She notices my stare.

She walks over and places her hand on my shoulder, leans down close to my right ear- her afro barely brushing my face- and whispers, “It takes a Queen to notice a Queen.”

I’m not really sure what to say. I try to follow with equal grace and confidence. Just as I have noticed her, she has noticed me. The words tumble out of my mouth, “I, ah, was just admiring you. Everyone seems to just gravitate to you.” She takes a seat next to me. She says nothing as she pulls out a cigarette leaning her head to the side and lighting it with one eye closed. I’m Bond- James Bond- and I’ve discovered my sexy heroin. She inhales deep, exhales and glides the tip of her tongue across her lips- preparing for the introduction.

“I’m Tonya.”

Tonya. Thirty years old. Her father German, her mother Swazi. Tonya. Previous owner of Café Lingo- a very hip very Western restaurant with Jazz night on Fridays. Panera Bread with attitude and sexy outdoor seating. I sip my boxed wine out of a Dixie Cup as she speaks. I’m an impostor. Doesn't she know?
“And you are?” She asks. Cigarette finished- she holds her crystal of sparkling shimmering wine now. How did I escape the kiddy table? I like it here.
“They call me Simphiwe.” I say.
“And what do you call yourself?”
“Meredith.”
“Well Meredith, I hope you know who YOU are.”
“I’m confused. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I don’t see Meredith. I see Simphiwe. These fake braids…the skirt and scarf. Where are YOU in there?”
I’ve been caught. I knew I didn’t belong here…pretending
“I want to see YOU.”
“I don’t know anymore.” I say.

The Finish Females, the short sexy skirts buzz around us. Like the bull frogs, the insects, the night life- “I’m here…fuck me.” They call out. The Italian men….drunk…listen to their bodies- their calls.

But it’s my African Queen I’m interested in. My constant Swazi shadow- Phumi- is getting annoyed with my lack of attention on him. One of the drunk short skirts, trips and falls, the men are quick to help her up. I burst out laughing. Her fuck me calls… now ruined.
“Ah. There you are.” Queen says to me.
Confusion on my face.
“That laugh. Abrupt and bursting….and sometimes- unforgiving. THAT is YOU.”
I rest my head on my knees, fetal position, and listen.
“Even the way you sit…is YOU. It’s the outside I’m having trouble believing. But I see you now.”

She leans back gliding her index finger across the lip of her crystal glass. She wants silence. She wants me to think about her words. I look up at the night sky. The clouds are breaking- illuminated by the full moon. Cities and continents – stars and clouds. The natural night life is coming alive. The bats play above our heads. And who are YOU I wonder…tell me your secrets. It’s midnight- pre party over. My shadow pulls on my arm…. “Asembe.” “Lets go! Lets go!” He wants me to follow the short skirts to another house party. “I’m OK here.” I say. My Queen agrees, “I think I’ll stay too.”

Defeat. Swazi dreads sighs heavily and takes a seat next to me. I urge him to go and have fun but he doesn’t listen. A stubborn one. The short skirts and Italian men, dumb and dumber, make sure to kiss the Queen on each cheek before they leave. “Goodnight Love.” She says to each bee. No one kisses my cheek, no one notices me. I’m an impostor. With my fake hair and mustard stained attire…I’m America…just America. Not a mixture of anything. Not a little bit of this and a little bit of that…making a fancy blue cosmopolitan. Budweiser. I’m just Budweiser.

Our love triangle stays seated.

I tell her my stories…my time in Swaziland. I make her laugh. I make her tear. She is a city girl with a rural heart. Two hearts. German and Swazi…a beautiful blue Cosmo.

“You know Meredith. I am dating a Spaniard right now.” I like how she says right now…at any moment this powerful woman could easily be dating someone else..could have anyone. “You know, I love him. And I would never allow him to date another while dating me. But as strong and confident as I seem…if I were to marry a Swazi man, I would be OK with him taking on another wife. You would find me covering my mouth and looking down as I speak to him….like you do the girls in your class.”

Defeat. She sees the shock and horror in my face. She too, with that tangled mess in her heart. Her secret- like mine- weakness. Every woman: conditioned.

“It’s our way Meredith and you can’t change that.”
“But it doesn’t have to be YOUR WAY…it can change.” I plead.
She smiles at me as though I were some puppy with her favorite pair of shoes in my mouth. So cute- but so wrong. “No Meredith.” She lowers her voice. “That is where you are wrong. You can dance around these children and demand they look you in the eyes and demand confidence- but you’re not going to change anyone. You are here to TEACH not CHANGE people. You must realize, those are two different things."

Im 15 years old. My first boyfriend:The troubled kid in class. Smokes cigarettes, drinks…broken home. Abusive parents. Of course, I’m attracted to him. I do his homework …I try to show him what it’s like to be loved. I’m standing in the kitchen, my step mom is chopping onions. “I’m worried about you Meredith. This boyfriend of yours. He has a lot of problems and you can’t get involved.” She warns me. “But I can help him. I can change him.” I plead. She reminds me of her first husband. “I was like you too. I thought I could change Bob. You can’t change people Meredith. Only yourself.” My step mother, a counselor, telling me you can’t change people. This angered me. Until recently, I refused to accept such heart-breaking advice.

What the hell are we doing here.

“This one’s too hard headed Tonya. Don’t waste your time with her.” Phumi mumbles.
Tears collect in my eyes. “I’m a child in your world. I’m learning.”
Tonya smiles, “Just yesterday, I was a child. My car was being repossessed by the police. I found myself pleading with them on the side of the road. People were starring. But the police weren’t going to listen. My car was being taken away. And it was my fault. So you know what I did? In public, I, a Swazi woman, pull out a cigarette. I lean my back against the side of a building and ask the policeman for a light. I stood there smiling. I gave up caring who saw…proud to be a child again…learning another lesson.”

She looks down and tears begin to fill her eyes.

“Meredith. You’ve got to sit back and enjoy this ride. You can’t get caught up in trying to change people. Keep dancing and pushing them. You got it girl.” She smiles. “Show them who YOU are and so many will follow.” Her tears come back. “Show them who you are…and you can change the world.” I swallow hard trying not to cry. I don't think it was just me she was trying to convince tonight.Swazi dreads shrugs, “Ah, you can’t change this one- she’s just here to help us poor Africans who can’t help ourselves…like the rest.” Tonya grabs my arm, “This one’s important Phumi. I know it.”

It’s three in the morning. She stands to go. “I know we’ll see each other again Meredith.” I walk her to the door. "Put this one to bed...he's too drunk." She points to Phumi. He helps her with her jacket.

“You’ve touched me. You’ve made me feel like a Queen..." I tell her."I’m so inspired.”
“And that’s what you’ve got to do for our African girls Meredith. Show them, they too, are queens.”
We hug goodbye. She holds me hard. Don’t leave me with these toddlers. Face to face now. She holds the right side of my face with one hand. “Show them who you are….and they will follow.”

And then…my African Queen….was gone.

I stand alone with Phumi now by my side. He sighs, "Well...now what?" He asks. "I'm not sleeping with you." I say, and walk away. The insects the bull frogs the confused twenty something year olds. Again, I go unnoticed.

“It takes a Queen to notice a Queen.” I stand in the bathroom…my reflection in front of me. I grab a handful of braided extensions…Show them who you are……and I begin to cut.

"I've never been so alone. But I've never been so alive."