"Hand in Mine"

*picture taken over a year ago. when we first arrived to swaziworld.
11/11/2010

After sharing her tales of protest and rally alongside Colbert and John Stewart,she pauses to take a breath and asks,“Why do you seem so adrift these days Mere?” I don’t know what to say to my mother anymore. I know what she’s asking, but I don't quite know how to respond. She continues, “We just don’t hear about your work anymore.” I collect my scrambled thoughts and try to make sense of it all. “What’s left to say?” I ask. You write about inspiration, change, and movement. When did I become so stagnant- just like them. A quicksand of misery and I’m waving my white flag up high. “It’s like the 5 stages of grief.” I tell her. First, you have Denial. “I’m going to start a girls club. Open their eyes and raise their voices. We’re going to march the streets and take back the night!“ You have anger next. “Why isn't the government doing anything?!” You find yourself placing blame and pointing fingers at everyone. Then comes Bargaining. You feel the guilt of the hatred that’s consumed you. The guilt of eating another home-cooked meal inside your little hut- your little escape- while there are those who crave just a few feet from your door. You give them the candy they ask for, some bread you just bought to the beggar right outside the store. A quick temporary fix to their pain and your guilt and now maybe you can sleep just a little better tonight. You bargain for that little voice of guilt to turn off. And then there’s the scariest, deepest, hardest to escape stage. Depression. A descent into a depravity for which, for some, there is no escape until they’ve returned home or maybe even never. You’ve heard every heartbreaking story. You’ve joined this culture of mourners. It feels as though this pandemic will go on forever. And all you can do is bear witness to it. Some volunteers seek refuge inside their huts- watching tv series after tv series or another gigantic Stephen King novel. Others turn to booze or reckless relationships. Anything to disconnect from it all.


And finally, Acceptance. You accept the goals you cannot reach and the things you cannot change. You accept you will fall again and again and put yourself, piece by piece, back together again and again. When the 5th person of the day has asked you for money, screamed umlungu, grabbed your breast, whistled, shouted, starred, and laughed at you and your display of being their new shiny toy. When you have gone through the routine and drill of the same dialogue over and over and over and over and over again. Why you are here. Who are you. What are you doing. Are you married. Do you have children. Do you know Siswati. What is your name. Their laughter and your words- a broken record. Another child doesn’t see their 6th birthday, another corrupt head teacher, another ignorant NGO. You learn to accept and you grow silent- just like them. And for the first time, you’re understanding their silence. I try to prevent this plague from consuming my life. It colors everything I believe, I think, I say. I have become what we- the outside negotiator and donator- has talked and written about: a product of AIDS fatigue.


And yet, I know as I write these very words. I have many African friends who are now gasping for a few more days of life. As I sit here writing on this bench, pen and paper in hand, Swazis peering over my shoulder and asking, as always, “Simphiwe. Why do you write?” My Swazi deputy teacher (vice principal) takes a seat next to me. She says, “Simphiwe. Thandiwe Dlamini passed away last night.” She was one of my form five students. As usual, I ask how. “She was born with HIV. Living with her aunti. Both her parents have already passed on.” Another student of mine has died. Another secret revealed. I had no idea of her pain. What she was living with. As I stood in front of the class preaching that AIDS is out there. 3 in 10 people now. A generation lost. Extended relatives having to take care of the orphans left behind. There she was the whole time sitting there- with this secret. Listening. Knowing. While the rest in her class doubted around her. And I couldn’t be there for her. All I did was assure her she was not alone. She had just finished her exams and about to graduate. But her life ended there. And I had no idea.


And there are SO many out there. Out there a child is being refused food by his step mom. A student is having sex with her teacher. A pregnant girl is being refused her education. A young man, who finally got tested, is contemplating suicide. A buisness man "working late" is sliding a cold beer across the table to the underaged confused youth. A preacher impregnates a 15 year old then denies. A gogo is stealing food from her orphaned grandchild. An uncle is molesting his niece. Another young teacher, determined to make a difference, is angry. She tries to help the orphans in her village, living alone in stick and mud shelters, but neighbors keep stealing the food she has donated to them. A young boy is molesting his younger sibilings because it is all he knows. A wife is accusing her husband of cheating and shoots him dead in front of their child. A volunteer is being harassed, mugged, and feeling discrimination for the first time in their life. Another, tired of holding it in for over a year, is screaming out his pain and frustration while the public stares- not understanding. "It's like we're on a sinking ship and no one notices. No one wants to see!!" And I personally know all these stories, and i've accepted them all.


I’ve stripped myself of the NGO bureaucratic gobbily gunk and their overblown ideologies of the aid providing world. I am starting to see reality- and quite frankly, it’s boring. So how do I talk about "work" without sounding like a broken record?
The new volunteers have arrived. It's been about four months now. And they're singing the same tune we once sang over a year ago. Their facebook statues tell the rest of the world the difficulties of hauling water, understanding the clicks in this new language, the mannerisms and spoken word of the people here. The “Shames” “Eeishes” and “Hows!” They’re asking, “How can he propose to me? He doesn’t even know me.” The humiliation of standing in front of 800 students laughing as soon as you say your name in Siswati. Gogo’s tits on transport and livestock between your legs. A live chicken as a gift. The Swazi lightening- as if heaven has been cracked open over your head and you stand in awe while your host family hides inside. An absent counterpart and you’re asking yourself, “What am I doing here?” Fridays in town. No. The last Friday of the month in town and your sardine packed bump and grind trip back home on public transport. The crazy thing your sisi said this week.

Season 8 assures us –we weren’t crazy in our observations. But soon their statuses will turn to work. And observation will turn to analysis. Anger/frustration. Thoughts of home. An everything bagel with salmon cream cheese. Christmas without the family. Then.. lots of nothing. Who knows if this is what we signed up for. And it doesn’t matter. Whether we expected this or not we still have to press on. We still have to wade through the shit and try, just try, to get some work done. To open at least one person's eyes. Including our own.
There are basically three parts of my work I write about. The big picture stuff. The sustainable and most likely out of reach part of any volunteer’s little grasp. The stuff that would slap anyone in the face and have them say, “Now they are making a difference. No. A change.” If you look closer, on a smaller scale, you have the community stuff. Dealing with caregivers, teachers, OVC’s, NCP’s of your community. And lastly, looking even closer and smaller- you have the individual. It’s my favorite to write about and sometimes gets me into trouble. The story of the individual. It’s the untold agony of this pandemic in this one person. Proud African. Citizen of the World. African Queen. Dare I say- privledged or the not privileged Swazi. Buhle and Nonjabuliso. Thembi. And Thuli.


Thuli.

I get a call from Dazi- the social worker who has taken her in. “Simphiwe. Thuli has stolen my mother’s clothes and run off. She cannot disrespect us like that. I was willing to take her in as my own. Why has she done this?” I explain I will find her and talk to her.

I find Thuli. Back and forth she tells me her side of the story. She didn’t steal the clothes. It was a neighbor. She tells me Dazi’s mother belittles her and calls her an orphan and she doesn’t like it. She wants to leave. “I found you a home. Now you don’t want to stay there. Think about your baby. Where do you want to raise this child? What choice do you have?” I ask her. Thuli, still a child, holds her unborn baby belly. Thuli about to be a parent herself with no parents or family to help. What happened? What went wrong?

I walk to the police station to find out why anyone hasn’t done anything. Moving from the individual to the community level. The station commander is shouting for a big campaign at the end of the month. “I want to combine HIV and crime. Show the community how these two are connected. Let’s get the NGO’s here! The people need to listen!” I suggest we bring in a certain NGO I have been working with in Manzini. The police are hesitant and I am told by others, “No one wants to share the spotlight.” I ask for clarification. “You see if you bring in that NGO from Manzini who specializes in child abuse that is taking away the spotlight of those who are putting on this event- the police. THEY want to be known as helping children who have been abused. They don’t want to share the spotlight.” It’s been explained to me as an, “NGO war”. Fighting for the credit and the territory. Here in a world where we are flooded by aid and donation. They are actually fighting over those to help. Certain NGO’s dropping off food to NCP’s (Neighborhood Care Points), when other NGO’s have claimed that NCP as “their’s”. No one has actually put onto paper who works with what areas. And who helps which OVC's (orphaned vulnerable children). Everyone is throwing food at the backdoor and not bothering to take a look inside. I ask how long has this been going on. “For years.” They tell me.

Fights over turf and battles begin. “If you invite that NGO to your event Simphiwe, don't expect the other one to come. They don’t get along.” Adolescents managing donations. Higher up the ladder you start to question the donors. The business men gone humanitarian. Finally a heart, but still very much a business orientated brain. Again, the magic bullet approach. A temporary fix for your guilt. Another NGO plans to pull out. They’re angry with the “system” here. Nothing is making a difference. “Here’s an idea.” I shout at another meeting. “Why don’t these NGO’s provide these NCP’s with fencing?! (We can grow food but we can’t stop people from stealing. This is why fencing is KEY.) That way, WE, can grow our OWN food and not rely on donations or some Peace Corps Volunteer to write another proposal for expensive fencing.” Another volunteer pipes in, “People are complaining there is no water here. There IS water. Sudan Somolia. THEY have a problem with water. We just need to teach these people how to manage rainfall.” We’re starting to realize it’s not bags of maize we need. We need people teaching people. NOT ABOUT AIDS. About survival. Sustainable agriculture. Business and money management. NGO’s should be dropping this off instead. Then they can pull out with dignity instead of defeat like they are now.

NGO’s are scared when it’s the people who should be. They continue to point fingers at NGO’s. Blaming them for inadequate food and lack of accessibility. The fingers are being pointed in the wrong directions. But it’s all they know. They’ve grown up with NGO’s and volunteers and free food on the back of trucks. This is why they ask me, “Where does America get their donations from?” This is why when they ask me what I do here I can just say, “Oh. I’m a volunteer.” And they immediately understand. Can you imagine someone asking you in the States what you “do” and you reply with, “Oh. I’m a volunteer.” This is normalcy. I can see why they blame “them” why they blame “us”. And for a while, I was standing there right next to them, demanding the same unsustainable things.

But today I came to point fingers not at NGO’s or volunteers, but the community level. The police. I tell Thuli’s story. But they know it by heart. They know Thuli and have tried to help her in the past. I tell them about her abusive aunt who took her in when her parent’s died and refused her food. Kicked her out in the rain, made her sleep outside, and beat her when she came inside. “Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you arrest her.” I ask. “Because there are no laws to protect these children once their parents have died. Thuli was lucky to have someone take her in.“ I try to wrap my brain around this word, “Lucky”.

I run to my NGO contact in Manzini. Moving from the smaller to the bigger level:the NGO world. I go to the office of the two Canadian women volunteers doing work as “legal aid” here until January. “No laws protecting children?!” I shout. “Laws protecting children and women are actually fairly new in this world Meredith.” She tells me. “Technically, these police officers are right. There are no laws in Swaziland protecting children. But that doesn’t mean there is nothing they or you can do to protect them. There are case laws police and others can use in a court of law. They are just unaware these laws are out there.” After I have her explain to me what a case law is she says, “It took me six months just to get a copy of these case laws when they are supposed to be open to the public. We can use these to protect them for now. This is how change begins and laws are born.”

Back at school, my day to teach I find all the students outside. A large man dressed in royalty, purples and golds, stands before them. My headteacher walks over to me and slaps me on the back. "Sorry Simphiwe. These children have demons in them and I have called in these ministers to come and get them out. So you won't be teaching today." I grind my teeth and fake a smile. It's becoming harder and harder for me to paint a pretty face when i'm surrounded by idiots constantly. I take a seat and watch the madness. The minister demands the students to get in line and allow him to "get the demons out." All the girls stand as the boys sit, crossing their arms.. being "cool". As each girl stands before him he places his hand on her forehead and shouts out. Spit is flying everywhere and a woman stands behind the girl. The girl screams out, her arms are flaying around and she falls back into the woman's arms. One girl, i'm guessing she had a lot of demons, is convulsing in a corner her girlfriends holding her down. She's "speaking in tongues" and shaking violently. "What is she saying?" I ask one teacher. "I don't know. It's tongues I suppose." I laugh. "I can translate for you. She's shouting, 'YES! TODAY I DON'T HAVE TO GO TO GEOMETRY! THIS IS AWESOME!'"

I realize this is going to take a while so I take a seat in the staff room. The teachers sit, drink tea, and enjoy their day off. "So I guess you guys don't have any demons that need taken out?" I ask. They laugh.

As I sit seated and starring, another working day blown off, a young girl takes a seat next to me. The teachers shift in their seats as if bracing themselves for what is about to happen next. She looks into my eyes and softly says to me, "I love you." I smile. "Do I know you?"

"She's a student. Form three." A teacher tells me.
She holds my chin and turns it towards her again. "Why can't we just tell each other that? Why is there so much space between all of us?"

I'm in shock. Was this girl truly this profound? I've been asking myself the same thing about Americans and our little social cubicles.

"They tell me i'm crazy you know. I'm possessed. I'm the snake's child."
"Well.. do you think you're crazy?" I ask her.
"Why do you ask so many questions??" She smiles.
"Because I think you want me to."
She laughs.
"I see snakes in my dreams. I'm just so restless.... I can't sit still anymore. That's why I don't come to school anymore. I just need a rest. But I'm not crazy." She stands and leaves the room.

The teachers tell me this is why the head teacher invited the ministers. She's been getting worse and becoming violent lashing out at students and her family- accusing them of things. "Her voice is different if you notice Simphiwe. Her vocabulary. How she knows English so well. Her accent will change. I mean maybe she is possessed." I know this is Swaziland and these children are faced with horrible things. But I can't help but think back to my own brother. Maybe this isn't environmental. Maybe this is Schizophrenia. I think of him back home. The damage it would have done telling him yes- he does have ESP. Yes. He is a famous rapper. Slipping further and further away from reality. Telling this girl she's possessed is only making her delusions worse.

I step outside to be with her.
She turns, "Do you know our head teacher Simphiwe?"
"Yes" I tell her.
"No. Do you KNOW our headteacher?" She asks again.
I suspect she is referring to the corrupt things he has done. Sex with students. Beating them senseless. Deals made under the table.
"He won't stop. No one notices...."
Another teacher walks over. She's created an audience now. They stand and laugh at her. "And YOU!" She points to one of the male teachers. "I know about YOU." This particular teacher.. the one rumored to have impregnated Thuli. "I know what you did." The teachers stop laughing. "OK... you're done." They tell her.
She stretches her arms out into the air and looks up at the clouds.

"No. I'm not." She starts to take her shirt off.... She turns towards the students seated outside. The head teacher is speaking to them now. She runs with her arms outstretched screaming the head teacher’s name. "Simphiwe go get her." The teachers beg. I run after her. The whole school starring now. I grab her hand.

"Let's go talk. I want to know more about these dreams." I put one arm around her waist.
"No. I have to talk to them." She insists.
We go back to the the staff room.

"I once shouted 'I AM JESUS' in the middle of our bus rank." She tells me, exhaling loudly.
"Do you think you're Jesus?" I ask.
She laughs, "Of course not. But it got people's attention. It connected all of us that day. And that's all I want. To reach out and connect. Through my craziness."

I can't speak for those people in the bus rank that day, but today, I felt that connection she is forever seeking. That I too am forever seeking. Someone, who's basically grown up in Swaziland, once asked me after reading my blog, "If you hate it so much. Why do you stay here?" This question really stuck with me. I once asked a Peace Corps Volunteer if she thought i'd make it the two years. She responded with, "We all knew you'd stay the two years. You're a masochist Mere."

Why am I here if I am experiencing so much pain? Seeing so much pain. A few weeks ago a former PCV told me she went to India to work at Mother Theresea's Hope House. The madness that resided there. Nuns gone nurse. Untrained. Holding body parts together. Dirty bandages. Giving shelter to those near death so they don't have to die alone. The things she saw. Shoving a woman's uterus back inside over and over again because she had been raped so many times. Holding a man's brains in place. I sat in complete awe as other people tried to finish their dinner- disgusted. Why do I have the desire to go there and do these things? To stay here if it hurts so much?

It is through suffering, pain, and crisis, I find, that many of us feel this sort of connection. For the young girl- it was her "madness" giving her the release of feeling isolated and alone.

Group 7 volunteers, we are at that point. They make charts of our emotions. Staff holds up a diagram, "Now you guys should be right about HERE." A star at the peak of "crisis mode" and the peak of volunteers leaving and going home. Right on the money.

We ARE on this sinking ship surrounded by those that don't see. But we're together in this. We've all had our moments. One day you will wake up knowing. Today I'm going to freak out. Things are all coming to a head. Another volunteer you've known for over a year- is going home. The water is about to boil and you wait for one person to taunt you. To harass you. To give you just one reason to flip the fuck out. And then it happens. And you come crashing down on them. You scream you roll your fists. "THIS PLACE WOULDN'T EVEN BE HERE IF IT WEREN'T FOR THE OUTSIDE WORLD!! NO WONDER THIS PLACE IS GOING INTO THE SHITTER!" You're on fire and all you want is the comfort and assurance- you aren't the crazy one. A volunteer notices, walks over She holds your hand, and tells you, you aren't alone.

"You know you volunteers all you do is bitch about the harassment and the misery." Another "Host Country National" (god I hate this term.. but it's better than "native") says to me. And I see their point. I'd get so tired of hearing the same complaints. I'm hearing them all over again with the new group. But for me, this is connection. I may not desire the pain- but sometimes it's the easiest way to that sense of community. To ubuntu.

When I go to visit a young girl, I got out of an abusive homestead now living in a loving home, and I see her playing with friends- smiling for the first time, I know, it has all been worth it.

Most of us can understand the desire for connection. Whether it's in Chili with the miners, my mother, sign in hand, alongside Colbert and John Stewart, the young girl screaming madness and seeking someone's attention, or a handful of Americans wanting to help- longing to belong to something they believe in. Sometimes it's worth the pain and the suffering to hold someone's hand.

*We will miss you Sus and Kramer! Can't wait to see you on the other side... again.

Prologue

11/11/2010

There is a certain rhythm to speech that doesn't quite sit comfortably onto the page. The written word can often suck out the grace and the sincerity that the spoken word has to offer. I can only hope, for now, my text will suffice.

This is my attempt at an apology. I write not only as an apologist but also a devotee. Devoted to sharing my open mind. Forever learning. Forever growing. As a peace corps volunteer I have a duty- no an ethical responsibility- to paint a certain picture of my experiences here. It's only once I've left am I able to point out the failings of specific NGO's, organizations, most importantly Peace Corps- and suggest possible alternatives.

There is a tendency for beucracy to think, while employed, that criticism should be contained and censorship applauded. I find this to be incredibly challenging.

I wish to reflect on what I see while I am around those that may disagree or take offense. Hoping for a conversation, a debate, or even an argument. I have always been fully aware that individuals, agencies, even my own- may be rubbed the wrong way and even seek retribution.

But it seems to me- a true loyalist is one who is honest with those whom they are loyal to. So how do I speak candour with heart? Honesty without judgement? Observation without analysis? In this, I've failed.

I run risk in writing about the what, the who, and the why. Some of the things i'm writing people will disagree with. The NGO's, the the people, Peace Corps- hell even fellow volunteers- will read my writing and say, "You've said what I've been trying to say this whole time." Or sometimes they roll their eyes and think, "She just doesn't get it. I haven't experienced anything like that."

And then there are those you thought would never read your words. The individual- taking offense. With good reason. Talking about NGOs/Politics is one thing. But the individual. I've thought a lot about what I write about the individual and because I value the people I've been privledged to meet, I am seeing the value in censorship.

Which brings me to the beginning. An apology. There are certain facts and details- entire posts I have gone back and ommitted. Ethically- I owe it to the people I write about and who have trusted and confided in me.

I'm still a child in this world and I will continue to try my best and stay humble to that.

As my Proud African once said, "Vula Emehlo Simphiwe."

Onkhe emalanga ngizama kuvula emehlo ami.

"Small Numbers. Big Gain. I Hate This Title."

"Small Numbers. Big Gain. I Hate This Title."

Since I’ve returned from home, the States, I’ve found it incredibly hard to start “work” again. What’s the point, I think. Organize books in a library nobody cares about. Teach health lessons with a teacher who won’t translate for me. Another youth club who only wants Jacki Chan movies and candy. Peace Corps has given you resource after resource of how to teach LIFE SKILLS, Games and dramas about HIV, movies about teen pregnancy, drinking, and cheating. But scream “Jacki Chan!” “Chuck Norris!”.

What’s the point. I’m doing all this alone anyway. Workshops, clubs, libraries: all ways we’re trying to address HIV education but only skimming the surface with the same boring message everyone’s heard a thousand times. You write the appropriate grants, mini vasts, so you can have a workshop. But you can’t have a workshop without food because nobody will come unless there’s food. You think they care about your message? They come for the food. You hold off until the end of your lectures to feed them. Hoping they’re listening, dangling the meal at the end of the workshop like a carrot in front of a donkey. Listen to me and you’ll get your meat! Or maybe you get them 1500 books from the US and find them in boxes unused, unwanted, unloved.

This isn’t working.

But today I’m meeting Thuli. Thuli, my 17 year old neighbor, student, and now friend. The young girl I’ve written about many times. Parents dead. Living in her aunti’s home alone, with no food. Came to me not wanting to sleep with her boyfriend anymore for food and security, so I went to SWAGAA for help. They gave her a year’s worth of food. Thuli, the girl who ended up getting pregnant and kicked out of school. I plead with the head teacher to ATLEAST let her come back and write her exams so she can pass form 3 and not have to take it all over again. “It sets a bad example for the other girls Simphiwe. I cannot allow it.” The head teacher growls, his gaze on my breasts.

But today she needs help with something else.

“Simphiwe. I cannot live with my aunti anymore. I can’t go back there.”
She tells me her aunti has allowed another young girl to live with Thuli, alone in her home. The young girl is Thuli’s age and is “abusing her”.
“What do you mean ‘abusing’ you?” I ask.

“She steals my things. She sells my clothes. She stole my cell phone. When I complain she beats me with a wooden spoon. She took my key and locked me out. She even sleeps with men for money and she brings them to our house.” Thuli begins to cry. “I can’t go back there Simphiwe. You have to help me.”
Thuli holds her pregnant belly. 5 months pregnant. Alone. “Where will you go if you don’t stay at your aunti’s?” I ask.

“I can go back to my parent’s home. In Stiki.”
“Is there anyone on that homestead?” I ask.
“No. There is no one there. But maybe there is an open window I can crawl through.”
“Thuli. You have no phone. No food. What happens when you go into labor? What happens if you need something?”

She begins to cry even harder.

“You’re sleeping with me tonight. What’s your aunti’s number?” I ask.
I call her aunt to ask what the fuck is going on. Thank god her English is good enough to hear me over the phone.

“What do you mean Thuli is a liar?!” I yell in response. The aunt begins to laugh.
“That girl is a pain. I’m tired of dealing with her. She never cleans the house. You don’t know her like I do. I don’t want her anymore.” She tells me.
“Where do you suggest she goes?” I ask.
“I don’t care.”
“You’re family. You’re all she has. How can you do that to your sister’s daughter!?” I yell.
She continues to laugh and my airtime is slowly dwindling.
“You can meet me tomorrow in town so we can sit and talk about your niece’s future or you’ll be hearing from Child Protection Services. THE POLICE.”
The laughter quickly fades and she agrees to meet me tomorrow, 8 in the morning at a restaurant.

Just as I predicted. It’s now nine in the morning and I’m sitting alone. By then, I’m gone. I bring Thuli to SWAGAA (Swaziland Action Group Against Abuse) to tell the case workers, who I’ve become very close with, her story. When we arrive one of the social workers, Dazi, takes Thuli by the hand and they go inside the counseling room.
Having just ran through town, swimming in the insufferable heat, dirt is now sweating its way down my cheeks and off my legs. I can’t catch my breath. I scratch away the sweat behind my neck, leaving dirty grime underneath my fingernails. I can’t decide which is more urgent, finding a piece of paper to use as a fan or pick out this disgusting dirt from my nails.

Before I can decide, one of the case workers walks over and says to me, with a smile, “Follow me.” I walk with him into one of the back rooms where I find two young white ladies, roughly my age, sitting in front of computers. One is wearing a beautiful bright pink scarf around her neck, and the other colorful dangly earrings and a shimmery bangle. I look down at my cut off jeans smeared in, God what is that? How long has that been there? The case worker nudges me in front of them like a little kid showing off a two dollar bill he just found. He smiles big and says, “Here you go.” And walks away. The two women stare waiting for me to say something intelligent. As if I had some important message for them. “Ah. Hi. I’m Meredith. And I’m white. Which is why I’m guessing I’ve just been presented to you.” They laugh and introduce themselves. They’re from a Canadian organization that, like Peace Corps, finds young adults who want to volunteer in other countries. However, they are actually specialized in a certain area. Their field: legal aid. They are here to help SWAGAA protect children in court.

“Oh you’re the girl they’ve told us about. The one with all the cases down South. Suppose you’ve seen a lot. What’s it like out there.” They huddle like girl scouts around a camp fire waiting to hear another ghost story. Still trying to catch my breath and thinking about the dirt underneath my fingernails, I begin with, “Well EXHALE where do I begin EXHALE” Suddenly I’m spraying out a year’s worth of frustration. Case after case. Headache after headache. Nonjaboliso. Thuli. Nomfundo. Bhule. Snakes in my hut. Mean Gogo. Changing sites. Harrassment. Abusive head teachers. Lazy teachers. Older men younger girls. Why. Why. Why. What am I doing here. It’s all fucked.

I stop. I catch my breath. “I’ve been here over a year. Sorry.” They chuckle. “We’ve only been here 4 months and we’re screaming the same things too. Well sort of. We live in the city.”

It’s been a few hours and I realize I need to get going. I knock on the door to tell ThuiI I have a few errands to run and I’ll be back. I open the door and look to my right, Thuli is crying. I look to my left and see Dazi who is also crying. “I had no idea.” Dazi tells me in between sniffles. “She can stay with my mother in town until we find her a home.”

A few days go by and I pop into SWAGAA to see how my Thuli is doing. “Simphiwe my friend! You have to come visit her!” Dazi shouts. She drives me to her parent’s homestead and leads me inside. Techno music is blaring and a young girl moves her hips to the beat while sweeping. She looks up and sees us. She drops the broom and begins to beam. “This is my niece, Zandi.” Dazi introduces me. Zandi runs over to shake my hand, her gaze and smile staying strictly on my face alone. “I am so happy to finally meet you!”

I see Thuli. She stands in the kitchen doorway, smiling.

“Thuli. Simphiwe is here to see you.”
“Hi Simphiwe.” Thuli beams back.
I take a seat and the two girls, Zandi and Thuli chatter away. Young Swazi girls NEVER chatter in the presence of adults. They lean into each other as they tell their stories. A baby is crying from the back bedroom. “That’s my little boy.” Zandi laughs. “Zandi’s twenty. She had her baby while doing form three. Just like Thuli. She’ll go back to school, don’t worry. This is good for Thuli. They can talk.” Dazi assures me.

Behind me, I hear the shuffle of old tired feet. Gogo stands in the door way, hunched over and smiling from ear to ear. “Mama!” Dazi shouts. Gogo extends her arms out. They hug and grab and shake and hug and kiss and shake some more. She wobbles over to me and I stand to shake her hand. She pushes my hand aside and wraps her little hands around my waist. Her head smudged between my breasts. “I love you!” She shouts. Her crooked fingers wrap around my big cheeks as she stares into my eyes. “Thank you.” She says. “Thank you.” She returns to her daughter and jabbers away in Siswati. I’m hearing the words wash, white people, love. Dazi translates, “She’s telling me she used to work for white people. She washed their dishes. She loves white people.” Not really knowing what to say, I settle for an, “Ohhh. I, ah, I see.” Gogo laughs. In English she says to me, “I love to work with water! I love to do dishes. That’s how I got this.” She slaps her hunch back. “Well Gogo.” I laugh. “One of these days you’re going to have to let a white girl do YOUR dishes for YOU because this white girl loves to do dishes.” Gogo laughs and begins to burrow in my breasts again. “Ngiyabonga! Ngiyabonga!” Thank you! Thank you! She shouts. I say goodbye to Thuli and tell her I’ll be back in a week to check on her.

I’m realizing now this is the kind of work I am here to do. As a volunteer, we’re told about the workshops other volunteers have put on. We’re encouraged to try health clubs and build libraries. Reach those BIG groups. Reach those BIG numbers for your trimester reports we send back to Washington. The reports that ask us, “How many people attended your workshop/event. How many people actually learned something about HIV or healthy living? Every three months we sit there in front of the computer plugging in numbers that mean absolutely NOTHING to us, and EVERYTHING to the people an ocean away. When it shouldn’t. As a volunteer, who has been here over a year, you see where these approaches fail. We spend all our time organizing events and clubs, writing vasts for them, setting the date, making sure people come, getting the food and the money all in order. It’s the day of the workshop and the beans that take 22 hours to cook haven’t been prepared, another NGO decides not to show up because they don’t have an extra vehicle and refuse to use public transport. There’s a shortage of food and the adult Swazis who are helping you put on this event are having second helpings of everything while the starving orphans sit in a corner being told there’s no food left. And you’re being told to take pictures of these orphans to send photos of them back home asking for money. “Try and get a picture of one shaking.” They tell us. And the entire time you’re trying to remember that one yoga class you took over a year ago because your best friend made you- where the instructor taught you how to properly breathe when in a panic. Was it in through the mouth out through the nose? Or in through the nose and out through the mouth? What was all that, envision my breath moving in a circle talk?

“What?!” Someone taps you on the shoulder.
“Um. These people want their food.”
“Well do they have their ticket that proves they sat through all the lectures?”
“Yes. But we ran out of plates to put the food on.”

In through the nose out through the mouth. Tiny circles. PANIC ATTACK!

Look, I’m sure SOME workshops work, but every single one I’ve done or been to has been a huge slap in the face for the person who puts it on.
Just the other day, a new volunteer comes to me and says, “We need to put on a workshop. Write a mini vast for me so we can get the money for it.” I ask, “Why do we need money for this workshop?” She’s impatient. “Just write it for me please. We need money for food. For notebooks and markers.” I explain I don’t do food for workshops. This information is benefitting them and if they can’t see that then it’s a waste of my time and yours. I have extra notebooks and markers we can use and there is no need to jump through the hoops Peace Corps Washington has set up for us to get the money for a few biscuits, juice, and notebooks. WE can do this alone. But straight out of training, I understand why she’s shouting MINIVASTS and WORKSHOPS!

Another new volunteer complains, “Oh she’s one of THOSE volunteers. Only here for the fellowship. Trying hard to get into John Hopkins. Here for the resume if you ask me. She NEVER leaves her hut.” God. The words I once said a year ago and now I wish I could go back a year ago and smack one year ago Meredith. It doesn’t matter WHY we’re here. If you’re here for the numbers, the resume, the experience, or for some “I just had to get away. Bad break up.” It doesn’t matter. We’re here and we can’t possibly estimate and calculate the numbers of those we’re affecting. And our goal should never be able to fit in a tiny box asking for a huge number.

For over a year I have stressed myself out trying to motivate big groups of people. This mzungu is walking in circles again.

My PCV friend hears my complaints… again…. and hands me our latest Peace Corps newspaper. “Read this.” Two RPCVs (Peace Corps volunteers who’ve served and gone back home- and who I absolutely adored/adore and don’t use facebook so I can’t get a hold of them!) wrote a small article for our newsletter. And this is what I read, “When we arrived in our community and began searching for ways to address the HIV/AIDS education, we noticed that many of the events we attended seemed to be scratching the same surface over and over again to promote healthy living. There was not much change occurring due to the information that was being taught. We decided we wanted to dig deeper in our interactions with community members. This meant stepping away from large meetings and towards individual relationships. We spent most our time helping on homesteads, farming, talking, learning Siswati and just hanging out with our community members. However, this led to low numbers on our trimester reports and occasionally feeling like we were not completing the task that we were asked to do. Our service was spotted with moments where we saw our work pay off in a good conversation about HIV or someone coming to us for help with a problem.”

And there it was. My very EXACT thought I had this month. My realization in someone else’s words. And I found this article at the EXACT moment I needed to find it. I came here for the work. To help people. And this past month I thought I wasn’t doing enough, and even worse, there was nothing I could do. I had serious thoughts of going back home. But this realization has made me see that it’s ok not to do my “work” in a large scale kind of way. I know this is what Peace Corps values. They subtly praise the volunteers that take out large vasts and put on huge events. They bring the ambassador or any VIP to “those” volunteer’s sites, t he ones doing this kind of work, to show them what PCVs are doing “out there”. They look at their trimester reports and their numbers and think, wow, now THAT’S a volunteer. And by no means am I belittling THAT work. I think it’s amazing volunteers can have the organizational skills and the patience to put on such things.

Every volunteer suffers from work insecurity. We sit around and talk about our work and every one of us, no matter how much work we’ve done in our community, cringes a bit when we hear one say, “(certain NGO) and I are putting on this huge meeting with all the caregivers in our area and we’re going to sit down and figure things out.” Or “I’m starting a huge soccer tournament with all these NGO’s and there’s going to be massive testing.” We all think, “Man… I need to do something like that too.” But I’m realizing, that was never me. Our first three months in Peace Corps, integration, we’re supposed to get to know people and open ourselves up to them. After that, go out there and spend PEPFAR money like crazy! That isn’t me, I’m stuck in integration. I’m ready to let go of this guilt and just focus on myself and someone who needs my help. As my African Queen once said , “Just show them who you are, and the rest will follow”

Inside Dazi’s car I tell her, “I have never seen Thuli smile like that. I’ve never seen her happy.”
“I know!” She shouts back. “After one day of being with Mamma and Zandi she is a chatterbox like the rest of us.”
“You did this Dazi.” I tell her. “You showed her love. I don’t think Thuli has ever seen love.”
“No Simphiwe. “ Dazi looks back at me and smiles. “WE showed her love.”
I grab Dazi’s hand and say, “We showed her Ubuntu.”

How many people benefited from your event/workshop?I know I have. I know Thuli has. But what about her unborn baby? I once asked Thuli if she will go back to school. She told me she would. She said she wanted to move to South Africa and get her education there. “And what about your baby?” I ask. “I will leave her with someone here.” To us this sounds selfish and unmotherly. But in this culture, it is what they do. Babies are handed over like sweaters. Thuli certainly wasn’t raised by her parents and maybe either were her parents. But because of mine and Dazi’s interference, we are showing her the importance of love and a mother’s love. Dazi has asked Thuli to stay and live with her parent’s. They want to help her raise this baby. So how many people have I benefited? Hopefully, Thuli will show this baby what love is and this baby will grow up and show her baby what love is, and maybe, just maybe…..a cycle has been broken.

"Hut Sweet Hut"

"Hut Sweet Hut"

9/11/2010

Raw bone, yes. An elbow in my neck, a tit in my face, a knee up my ass. The Swazi public transport soundtrack plays on and I’m pretty sure there’s a chicken somewhere between my feet. “STEASH!” I scream. (Stop!)The bus driver ignores. “I said STEASH!” The bus continues on pass my bus stop. “STOP!” I yell. With the little room they have, people’s heads adjust to stare at the screaming white girl, and laugh. “STOP THE BUS NOW!” I’m carrying with me three heavy bags and there’s no way I can carry it all back if this bus does not FUCKING stop NOW. It starts to slow down and I’ve had it. Being a foreigner, I’m naturally squeezed in the very back of the bus. I wait for body parts to shift so I can squeeze mine through. Nobody moves. Dead silence and wide open eyes..gawking. Why won’t anyone move for me? I open the window I’m smashed up against and throw my bags out. Then, despite the rather long way down, I throw myself out the window while it’s still in motion. Gasps of “Umlungu!” follow. I brush myself off, and search for my wallet. Damn. I don’t have exact change and I know this driver is PISSED. I open the driver’s side window as he continues to stare, mouth open, in amazement. I throw a ten at him. “KEEP THE CHANGE!” This umlungu screams. People are shouting at me in Siswati and I don’t care. I turn to walk away. Anger rises inside me. I turn back at my audience, “Oh and by the way….. ITS MY BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!” I jump in the air and shout. A sort of pout.
It’s always a hard way home. But being my birthday, MY day, made it even harder not to have it go MY way.
Twenty seven years old and today I jump out of a moving vehicle. I drag my bags and my sorry ass back to my homestead from hell, not looking forward to the dozen demanding children and gogo’s horrific disapproving glances. The only thing I have now are my two pups waiting for me at the end of this road. I stop and exhale. Here we go.

The dry dirt of the African savannah surrounds me and I’m missing my green oasis of the north. The sun is setting against the dust and on this particular evening it causes a wedge of violet sky to shine through. How much I wish to peel back that corner of violet sky and have my family appear. To be with me on this day. I round the corner to my two smiling dogs, jumping and kicking in the air. Gogo is away at a funeral with her eldest children. The grandchildren sit lazily on the front stoop and ignore my arrival. The eldest, Nobandile, walks over to me.
“I didn’t think you’d be home today.”
“Why?” I ask her.
“Oh. No reason.” She smiles.
I turn the keys and enter my hut. Dirty. Dusty. Lizard poo all over the ground. Hut sweet Hut. I sit on the edge of my bed in a stare. Flashbacks of the past week. An oasis. An interruption. A beautiful interruption. Banish these thoughts. Now. How do I delete it? It’s always easier to just ignore. I look down at my phone. 5 missed calls. Thuli, a local girl I’ve been trying to help, has been phoning me all weekend. I just wanted a weekend to shut this whole place out. But now the guilt rises. I’ve missed the first week of school. My dogs are hungry and scratching at the door. The starving animals on my homestead are calling. I rouse myself out of my daze to feed the deranged cow outside. The chickens scowl. The goats huddle. The phone rings, another student needs helps.

IM COMING. IM COMING.

I lie in bed and stare at the cobwebs hanging from my thatch roof. In 4 hours this birthday will be over. I am officially UPPER, no LATE… twenties. I realize, of course, my mother was this age when she had me. My mother was able to fall in love, get married, be married, then have a baby ALL before 27. Did I do the right thing? Coming here? At 26? Am I at that point in my life where I need to worry about these sort s of things? Babies. Clocks ticking. Mothers nagging. It’d be nice if my future kid could actually know MY grandparents.

Peace Corps. A sea of EARLY 20 something year olds, fresh out of college or over 50 year olds done with babies and awaiting grandchildren. And me, somewhere awkwardly in the middle of it all.

8:40 PM. 3 hours and 20 minutes until this birthday is over. Come on, I think….lets just get it over with so I can officially say TODAY was a shit birthday. Nothing special. Just a shit birthday. 27.

There’s a light knock on my door. I open it and find Ndimiso, the 12 year old boy, standing there in the dark. “Please can you come to the house?” He asks. “Nobandile needs you.”
I’m shocked. I’m never been invited INSIDE the house. Ndimiso takes my hand and I am led inside THE HOUSE. As I walk in I see a table set with 7 glasses of juice. The children sit around the table, smiling up at me. The radio is playing the same seven techno songs it always plays and Nobandile stands in the middle of the room holding a sign. In big colorful block letters it shouts, “HAPPY 27th BIRTHDAY SIMPHIWE. WE LOVE YOU. WE MISS YOU.” And all of the children have signed it. I had told Nobandile weeks maybe even a few months ago about my birthday and I told her my age almost a year ago. No reminders since then.

And she remembered.

She remembered.

She walks over and hands me a poem she had written.
“I wrote this poem for you. I need a title for it. Can you help me?”
I stand there in a daze. Almost shaking.

The poem read,
“Life is a journey
If you achieve in something
You are doing means and opening a new chapter
Turning another year is taking a step in your life
Your life is precious and others lives are precious
Some people are more precious and are who they are
Because of YOU
Some people have smiles on their faces just because you are HERE
You cannot see who you are benefitting now
But know you have people’s love and trust.”

Nobandile. The girl whose first words to me, just a year ago, were “We’ll see if you last the two years.” Her arms cross every time she speaks to me. Her eyes roll every time I greet her in public. Her written words, her letters, her art, always reach out to me though. Swazi on the outside, changing in the inside.
My chin begins to quiver and I don’t know if I can hold it in.

“I’m going to go put this in my hut. I’ll be RIGHT back.” I tell them.
9pm. I sit on the edge of my bed and cry. Maybe I can’t give her a title of this poem but I can tell her how much it meant to me. I know that she doesn’t like to show emotion with words, so I write her a letter back. And I know, through our letters, this is how we will love each other for the next year I am here.
I splash some water on my face and dry my eyes. Deep breaths. I go back inside THE HOUSE. And for the rest of my birthday we dance to the same seven techno songs and play Twister until 10:30 at night.
11pm. I sit on my stoop, outside my hut in a daze. The cool night air wraps its fingers around me. I look up and watch individual stars puncture the midnight blue canvas above my head.
It’s almost midnight now. And I can officially say today was not the worst birthday I ever had.
Today was the day my hut became my home.

"What's the Solution?"

8/28/10

Gone a month. I try to find the rhythm of this world where I used to live. I follow the current. I am silent. Attentive. I make a conscious effort to smile. Nod. Stand. Perform the millions of gestures and sometimes insincere kind words that constitute a Peace Corps volunteer in Swaziland. I study these gestures, these words, until they become reflexes again. But I am still haunted by the idea that life goes on back home.

My first week back in Swaziland, school is out, and I find myself with nothing to do. I feel uncomfortable. I feel alone. I’m trying to latch back onto this world but it’s difficult and the anxiety builds. Like going back home, coming back to Swaziland is a challenge after being in what seems like a dream for the past month. A dream filled with love, family, and friends. Back to the stares, the shoves, being naked in a crowd again. I walk along the tiny “bridge” that connects my community to Sphofaneni. The King Fisher is still hanging onto the phone line looking down at the watery dinner below. Jealous of his simple life. Eat. Fuck. Sleep. Samsara: Live. Die. Rebirth. I want someone to reach out to me. I need something. A young girl passes, a young boy by her side. She stops and whispers, “Simphiwe.” I look down. “Buhle!?” The girl that lived with Nonjaboliso. Both girls suffering from the old man’s abuse. Raped by her father and brainwashed to accept it. I struggle to ask her how she’s doing. Where she’s living. I ask her to follow. We find someone to translate.

“Can you ask her where she lives?”
“With her aunti.” The woman tells me.
“And where is her grandfather?” I ask.
“She says he is in jail.”

My caring heart is happy the two girls are alive and well. My vengeful heart smiles that because of me he is in jail. I am starting to feel complete again. Have I become some vigilante/ Peace Corps Volunteer? Where’s the sustainability in that?

Back in action again. I have made friends with a nurse from Ghana. For three weeks he is working up north with doctors from all over the world. Here to take Swazi foreskins. 15 billion in US AID to take off every man’s little sheath of skin in this tiny country. It’s been interesting for me to study all the different solutions people in the outside world with money have for this HIV problem here in Swaziland. The UN thinks condoms and antiretrovirals are the solution. The Christians want chastity and fidelity. The Ugandans and Kenyans claimed they lowered their rates by what you call “Zero Grazing.” Don’t preach the unrealistic goal of abstinence, they say, just simply sleep with one person. The Christians, of course, hated this idea.

Since the 1960’s, money has been thrown at this continent, mostly by the American government, in very ineffective ways. With the question and aim, what’s fast and easy and requires billions of dollars? You have authors like, Dambisa Moyo, with her PHD in economics from Zambia asking non Africans with money to let the actual Africans figure it out.

“It has long seemed to me problematic, and even a little embarrassing, that so much of the public debate about Africa’s economic problems should be conducted by non-African white men. From the economists of Paul Collier, Jeffrey Sachs, William Easterly to the rock stars like Bono, Bob geldof, the African discussion has been colonized as surely as the African continent was a century ago.”

“In the past 50 years over US 1 trillion in development –related aid has been transferred from rich countries to Africa. The state of Africa is a scar on the conscience of the world. Aid has become part of the entertainment industry. Governments respond in kind, fearful of losing popularity and desperate to win favor. Aid has become a cultural commodity. Millions march for it. Governments are judged by it. Aid has been and continues to be an unmitigated, political, economic, and humanitarian disaster.”

In a similar corner of this debate, you have Helen Epstein who wrote “The Invisible Cure.” Whose book I still stand by. She asks the question, Why is HIV spreading so fast in eastern and southern African countries? She blames two practices that both regions have embraced. One, boys are not circumcised in these regions. Two, most of the populations there are engaging in MCP’s (Multiple Concurrent Relationships) or informal polygamy. HIV is more easily transmitted in the first few weeks of someone becoming infected. If this newly infected person has casual sex with anyone in this sexual web between people, the whole network will rapidly contract it. In the States we are seeing serial infidelity as well. However, the rate is much lower. If one person gets infected, in the States, it is likely they will pass it on to their partner but less likely they will pass it onto anyone else because by then they are less infectious. (Keeping up?) Her suggested solutions aren’t as sharp and painful to hear as Moyo’s (maybe because she's not actually African) but she too gives more responsibility over to the actual benefactors of this aid money: the Africans.

She gives example after example of the countries in Africa who have received expensive fancy free medical facilities and free antiretrovirals AND condoms that still suffer with incredibly high HIV rates. Higher than those in more impoverished areas and receiving less aid from the outside world. She preaches Ubuntu and explains the countries that helped themselves, that communicated, and spoke out about the problem of AIDS, are the ones that are surviving.

And now the outside world is singing “Circumcision for everyone!” in southern Africa. At first, I was skeptical especially when I heard the words 15 billion in AID. I worried if preaching, “Circumcision will lower the chances of a man getting HIV by 60%!” would encourage young men to forget about the condoms they don’t want to use anyway(which are higher in preventing transmission than wacking off the foreskin). Would people start to get offended by this message? Would they tell us their foreskin is part of their culture? Would they tell us American men with our circumcised penises and women who know nothing about the uncircumcised penis to FUCK OFF?

But I know why we were singing this tune. Because nothing else seems to be working. You can preach abstinence all you want but they won’t listen. They're poor, desperate, nothing to live for, "LIFE ENDS TODAY" and all they have is their personal relationships: their sex and greed. You can put free condoms in every shop every clinic every restroom and NCP but they’ll just use them as water balloons. "You can't eat the candy with the wrapper on it." You can encourage women to take matters into their own hands and use a female condom. But her lover will only accuse her of cheating or being untrustworthy and either be beaten or left behind. In some African countries women have taken these free condoms, taken out the ring, and actually sold them as bracelets. You can build your fancy free health clinics but you still won’t see a single man in there getting tested. Just a sea of pregnant scared women. You can hold soccer tournaments and demand these young men have to get tested in order to join but their actions won’t change whether positive or negative they will still fuck without protection. You can start girl empowerment clubs. Teach them the thrill of kicking the soccer ball around, knitting a scarf, drama classes, or pottery making. But at the end of the day, they're going home. Home: A male dominated society. And it doesn’t matter how much they love to dance, sing, or play soccer with you. In this world, it’s all about marriage and babies and what the man says goes.

So we must look at the facts. Southern and Eastern Africa has more AIDS. Why? These are countries where circumcision is almost unheard of. (Well they used to practice it but they don't remember anymore and you can blame "Christianity" for that one). It has been proven that being circumcised does lower your chances of getting infected. The foreskin carries receptors that actually attract the HIV virus and once the penis becomes flaccid, post sex, the virus becomes hidden inside the sheath sitting there for maybe days.

The outside world is shouting, Behavior Change! A workshop here a workshop there. A workshop on "Behavior Change"? When really they should be shouting, Culture Change! I mean that's what we're talking about here but no one wants to say it. We all know it takes TIME. So let them keep doing what they’re doing, having unprotected sex with EVERYONE, and all we ask is 15 minutes to take off your foreskin. Because we all know Cultural Change/Behavior Change is an unrealistic goal. But a procedure that takes only 15 minutes, come back two days later for a check up and you're done, that only costs 15 BILLION. Now THAT the money makin western world can do.

My Ghanian friend invites me to spend two days with him and the crew. There are 6 different stations throughout Swaziland performing these circumcisions during the school break. And their goal is to do 6,000 in just three weeks. I arrive in the evening to the Simunye Country Club. An oasis, mirage, of northern Swaziland. Full of color, grass, and greenery. Oh, and a POOL. A circle of introductions and we’re seated around picnic tables eating dinner and drinking our red red wine. I meet one of the American doctors, Jim, a urinologist (doctor of the pee pee we shall call him). Jim, middle aged with two kids back home. One of which is studying to be a doctor. “After paying thousands and thousands of dollars for that girl’s education, she’s going to go and blow it on something like Doctors without Borders. Making nothing.” Jim and I fundamentally disagree on a lot. However, we’re both here trying to do the same thing.

I listen to his stories after being here only a week and a half. Excited and curious. “Man. This place sure is every man’s dream. Men live like a King here. What they need is to switch out these Swazi women with African American women. Can you imagine the war?!” But soon Jim sings a different tune. He’s outraged at an article that made the cover of the Swazi Times. The headline read, “PSI (the organization performing all these circumcisions) Goes Wrong with Circumcisions!” He yells, “6,000 men circumcised and in 6,000 only four young boys were left at the bus rank and we were unable to see them that day.”

PSI not only circumcises for free but they provide free transport to pick up the patients at bus ranks. They provide a free emergency line to call if there are any problems. And even provide free house calls to check on them if there are any problems in the middle of the night. “6,000 men and only four we forgot to pick them up the following two days. We forgot to pick up four boys to bring them to a clinic built by US grants. To doctors brought over from across the world by US grants. Driven out to the clinic by US grants. Provided free medical care at their homes by US grants. And they have the right to bitch? Is any of this coming from their national budget? I don’t think so. Every dime from the US.” I laugh and say, “Welcome to Swaziland. In many ways, a spoiled child.”

I show him a different article that pissed me off. A reaction I feared would happen. Princes and leaders in the area questioning the motive of us outsiders and our call for circumcision. Claiming we're doing this only to make a profit. Theorizing if we provide free clinics and doctors, Swaziland will have to then purchase the equipment to do the procedures from America. When actually EVERYTHING scalpels and all, are free. The idea of doing something out of your heart is foreign here I tell him. “Why are you in the Peace Corps doing what you do?” They ask me. “Is it for the pay? For a job back home? Had nothing better to do?” They don’t believe me when I say, “It’s out of the kindness of my heart. I was given everything growing up and I want to return the favor.” “You must be a spy!” They scowl.

“A certain part of our national budget goes to making this world a better place.” Jim continues, “That’s all we want. 100,000 circumcisions means 25,000 people don’t get HIV. It’s about math. It’s about logic. It's about Reason.”

“This is Swaziland.” I tell him. “With all due respect, we don’t live in THAT world Jim.”

Dinner and serious discussions over. The wine is getting to our heads and I ask the Swazi nurses if they’ve ever skinny dipped. “Skinny what?” They ask. I explain. “But Simphiwe, it’s too cold. It’s winter.” They say. I tell them, “That’s the best time to do it.” One brave girl agrees to do it with me. Surrounded by all the nurses and doctors, with their wine in hand, a young brave Swazi woman and I take off our clothes (undergarments left on- come on now i'm not THAT bad) and jump into the freezing pool. She screams and runs to get out. "Just wait." I tell her. "Don’t get out, once your body is completely numb, lie on your back and stare at the stars." We studied the southern stars salting the night sky, imagining we were floating up above with them. Our breath circling around us and about a dozen eyes starring and mouths dropped.

The next morning, my body hates me. Hung over I make my way to the clinic to witness my first circumcision and interview some of the young men going under the knife. You can tell which ones have not yet gone, fear in their eyes. They look down holding on tightly to their file. Other boys walk around limping, walking proud, encouraging the scared ones it doesn’t hurt. I run down the halls high fiving the brave young boys. “You guys rock!” I shout. One of the nurses walks over to me, “Simphiwe, put these on.” He hands me scrubs. “Today you’re going to be a runner. You’re the nurse’s assistant.” I think I’m still seeing double at this point unsure which end needs to let something out. But I agree anyway.

Scrubs on. I feel ridiculous. An assembly line of cots around me. Four stations in two rooms. A nurse at each station and two doctors going from cot to cot. Jim tells me to come closer to watch. A young man lying there. He doesn’t seem to mind I’m standing there hovering. He tells the boy to keep his head down and not look. After numbing the area he grabs the foreskin with a clamp-like instrument and with his other hand he holds what looks like a box cutter. I’m starting to feel REALLY hot. My head is on fire, my palms are sweating, and I try not to show how much I need to gag. One quick swipe and it’s gone. The nurse comes in does a few stitches and he is done.

And then, just like that, I’m done. I’ve had enough with the circumcision witnessing. I got my interviews and I hope to properly debunk these articles in the paper.

What’s even more exciting however…. Group 8 is here. Officially. And today they are being sworn in as OFFICIAL Peace Corps Volunteers. It was incredibly surreal sitting there in the audience watching this time. Their faces, excitement, standing, taking oath. I was there, just a year ago. Everything just seems to be falling right into place. Unlike our Swear In, they have managed to get the Prime Minister to come and speak. The King’s right hand man. And there he was. You see him all the time in the papers. But there he stood. At the podium. Welcoming this new group. And just like every other Swazi speaker at these events he spoke of how important our American Swaziland connection is. How friendly and welcoming Swazis are in this country. After each comment I knew who to look over to and subtly give a look. And that was the theme of the day. Subtle. I tried to keep everything subtle. These new kids (I say kids because everyone, no matter what age, is a kid when they first arrive to Swaziland) need to figure this puzzle out on their own. It’s important. And they will. Just as I did.

Then the head of a very important NGO stands to speak. He spoke at our Swear In last year. I watched him sit there on the panel waiting to speak last time. His head down, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. I know he too wants to roll his eyes at the things said from others.. the sugary lies they tell.. but he can’t. He, like me, is not very good at faking the looks. Last year he stood up and gave one of the best speeches that day. “You’re going to see the worst. You’re going to witness the worst of mankind. You’re going to hate it at times. You’re going to come to my office and you’re going to ask me, ‘Why isn’t the government doing anything?!” Just wait.” And that pretty much summed up his speech. His words and our gulps of fear. This year, the same speech provided. However, because of all the circumcision hype, and the Prime Minister being there, I guess he felt it necessary to take advantage of the spotlight. “And if you don’t know anything about science or circumcision," He shouts. "Just SHUT UP!... Thank you.” I watch the Swazi Times and The Observer reporters scribble down these words. Oh boy, I think. What WILL the papers say tomorrow?

“Head of NGO says SHUT UP!” Titles tomorrow's paper that BRIEFLY mentions the new volunteers in this country. Inside a direct quote of him saying, “If you DO know anything about science or circumcision, SHUT UP!”

Like I said. This is Swaziland.

After having a few conversations with the new group I realize they are going through the same struggles I went through as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the beginning. Things they shouldn’t be battling. Things that have nothing to do with what’s going on outside but what’s happening WITHIN Peace Corps. That night I break down, finally, to MY group. “I’m sick of it! Sick of it! Something needs to happen. This isn’t right.” I shout. The room divides, and those who have had bad experiences agree, and the others, not so much. And all I can do is cry. As much as I HATE doing it in front of friends. (Family is another story. You take the best bite of my sandwich, and you’re family, I’ll cry) But friends. I don’t want to put them through this, it’s my job to comfort them.

I go and lie down, away from everyone. Another volunteer follows and sits next to me. She runs her fingers through my hair. She tells me she gets it. She and I both know so many back home won’t, Swazis don’t , the Office doesn’t, and sometimes even other volunteers don’t. “This culture is killing itself.” She says. “And we don’t know how to stop it or even know if it’s the right thing to do.”

“It’s hard enough feeling that this culture and these people are against us, I don’t need to feel it from our employers and co workers.” I tell her through my boogery sniffles. I know this reaction is just all part of coming back from home and reintegrating. Taking your head out of the muck for even a few days and then coming back to the muck… sometimes you don’t want to open your eyes to the outside world. Sometimes you just want to sit in the filth without knowing it’s filth.

Another PCV friend of mine,she went home when I did,sits with me on our stoop, watching the sun go down.

“Sure missed that African red sun.” I tell her.
“Yeah.”
“It was hard being home.” I say.
“Yeah. It was.” She says.
“They don’t get it.”
“No. They don’t”
I look down at the tattoo on my arm which reads, “Vula Emehlo”. Open Your Eyes.
“I want to make them get it." I tell her. "Everyone. I want the whole world to see.”
She leans her head on my shoulder and exhales.
“Good luck.”

"Over There"

7/30/10

Home. Even the word sounded strange to me. How unfamiliar would it be? How long had it been? Did it matter? Would it matter?

I soar up the green glaciers of Africa. Splinter past the tropical sun, past the jumping Massai in Kenya, through the pyramids of Egypt. My feet dangling over the African world below. Then, over the exotic taste of the Medeterranian, until finally I land into the heart of Italy: Rome.

I hadn't taken a vacation in over a year. The last volunteer to leave Swaziland. I can't recall the last time I had stayed put in one place for so long. Just a few moments ahead, waiting for me, my mother, Jesse, and little sister, Helen. But I had forgotten that also ahead of me was Italy. My life dream had always been to wrap myself in the shade and seduction of this country. The history. The beauty. But all I could think about was their faces. To smell and touch it again. Home home home.

I stand outside the hotel waiting for the airport shuttle to drop my family off. Anticipating.. waiting for our first embrace. Two hours pass and my tiny pea size bladder can't hold it anymore. I move from my spot and hope I don't miss this soon to be epic arrival. I round the revolving door starring down at the fancy tiles along the floor. The door circles round and I am pushed into the hotel lobby. My gaze moves upward and there in front of me I see myself. I see my home. I see my mother. At first I feel nothing. But as she holds me tight in her arms I begin to feel everything again. I feel the fall breeze and the turning leaves of our Indiana autumn. I hear Paul Simon's Graceland playing on our record player in our living room. I feel the wind blowing through my hair as I make the drive down the country roads to my father's house in our convertible. I feel and therefore I am home. The tears stream down my face and an audience gathers. People stare and tilt their heads in sympathy. Stares and curiosity are nothing new to me anymore. This is MY moment.

Inside the streets of this Gucci, Avante Garde city, in my avocado stained jeans, I round every epic corner, pass every epic building. Every inch is art. Instead of Starbucks on each corner there stands a museum. The cobble stone streets, the gargoyles, the weinerless naked man statues, gelato, pizza, pasta, Armani, Gucci bags and toy poodles in every woman's grasp. The beautiful men and women. Suits and heels riding little vespas around town. Their language flowing up and down. Traffic is no headache. Just tiny cars playing with each other. Women begging for change in Chanel. I wait and anticipate the culture shock everyone warned me about. I struggle to look inward this time. Is it effecting me? Am I still human or just another walking zombie, another product of Swaziland? One foot here in Rome, the other still in Swaziland. Two complete opposite worlds. Feel something please. Anything. I need to feel alive again.

I continue to walk up and down these streets, my neck in pain from staring up at the flying buttresses above. As I lower my gaze I am stunned and absorbed by something unfamiliar to me. Something I haven't seen in over a year. An old man stands talking with friends. His overweight yellow lab at the end of his leash struggling to grab a floating plastic bottle in the gutter beneath him. He pulls and stretches. His paws struggling until finally the bottle lands in his mouth. Success. He looks up at his owner, smiling and wagging his tail. The old man pets his proud pup and smiles. I steer off course to follow this smiling pair. Intrigued. People pass and smile. Some stop to pet this chubby lab.

Something begins to move inside me. My heart moves upward and presses against my throat. I struggle to hold back the tears. I am affected. People are happy at this dog's happiness. Connected. I am once again connected. I am feeling again.

My shock didn't come like Tom Hank's in "Cast Away": turning on and off light switches, fascinated by the ease of a lighter. It certainly wasn't the material and ease of Rome that shocked my heart. It was love. Simply love that brought tears to my eyes. Love between a man and his dog. Most of us have gone a long time without seeing love. To go from a country that has found survival in apathy, that literally has no word that distinguishes like from love, to a country that is written about in books and film for its passion, love, and grace. To me, this was the shock. This was that moment. And I allowed myself to sink into it, get comfortable with it.

Suddenly home again. As if I had never left. Swaziland. Peace Corps. Some weird lucid dream I've awoken from. My once 11 year old sister now 16, with a license, bra and attitude. No longer thinks I'm the coolest, smartest, person on the planet. The rest of the world, however, jaws drop when Peace Corps is mentioned. PEACE CORPS AFRICA?! "I can't believe you're over there. They got libraries over there!? And roads too?!" People ignorantly impressed by another charitable organization and your under qualified overachieving work of the past year. You hang on and try to endure the "they got that over there?!" questions. You skim over your experiences over the past year. You take a deep breath when they ask, "What's been your favorite part so far?"

"You know, the other day, I read somewhere that babies can be born from an HIV positive mother without getting it." You think, well duh obviously, when they share facts with you about HIV. But you have forgotten what you once knew before you started this journey. You have forgotten this isn't an AIDS world over here. You go through your old bedroom. Your closet. Your journals. You try to remember who you were before you left it all. It's been a year and you're bitter, angry. Things aren't easy. You realize there is no magic bullet way of fixing anything "over there". People hear the frustration in your voice and struggle to relate, to try and comfort you. But that's not fair, and that's not what you're looking for. You just want to be heard when you haven't been heard in such a long time. "We need to quit blindly throwing money 'over there'." I explain. "Swaziland is AID addicted and we're only making matters worse." My parent's biggest fear. They ask me, "Have you gone republican Mere?!" I could live my life penniless, a lesbian, a pot smoker. "Just don't kill anyone and for gods sake, don't become a republican." They mistake my realistic words for cold, callous, uncaring. When really what anyone who has been 'over there' for more than a few months living IN it will tell you the exact same thing. Our actions need to change because it's not working.

I try not to go into it with anyone beyond the parents. I tap into the bitterness a bit when friends and family ask. I watch their reactions, their faces carefully. Their eyebrows turn in, begin to un-soften and cringe downward. Their lips tighten and their gaze slides off my trailing words. Searching for what to say. Uncomfortable silence. I wrap it up with a quick, "But I'm learning so much over there...." OR "But its been an interesting year and looking forward to the next one." A quick but something.. to give this twisted tale a happy ending for their ease.

My friends embrace me,I hear them exclaim, "MERE!" Something I've waited a long time to hear, fantasizing about it in my hut night after night. I fear they will just be strangers with familiar faces to me. Awkward moments and interactions with x boyfriends. Hugs turn into side hugs. We try to keep it short and simple. Home for a beautiful wedding to tie us all together.

To remind us what we have all been through: the beauty and the pain of growing up together.

The things you regret doing, the things you WILL regret saying once you get back, the break ups, the fights, we have to put those aside for two people’s love. I sit and take stock. They haven't changed in so many ways but in so many ways they have. I fit right back into this puzzle of ours. We sit around the table sharing stories. Sleeves roll up and shirts are lifted. We show off our new tattoos. Like my favorite scene in the movie Jaws. Men bonding over their scars. Do they notice a change in me? Will they still be here when I get back? How much have I missed?

It's the evening before I go back to my world and that last light of the sun smolders blood red against the tops of the green green trees. Their after images are burning blue and black. I think back. This past month feeling so apart of something so familiar and yet, at the same time, so alone, so isolated, so ignored by relation. Sometimes incapable of entering into communication with anyone here. I fear going back. I remember the others telling me they could never go back home in fear they wouldn't return to Swaziland. I reach the deepest animal stages of exhaustion. Non stop going all month. In fact, non stop going since college. I have yet to just be home with my family. Traveling, searching, wanting to connect with every corner and person of this world. Trying to reach out the only way I know how. Finding myself through others.

And we're back. We're back in that moment again. Security and bag check ahead of me. Passport in one hand, carry on in the other. I have to branch off and leave my parents behind, one more time. It's hard for me to look into my sister's eyes. If she sheds even a single tear, I don't know how I'll get back on that plane. I want to tell her I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not here holding your hand while you grow up. I'm sorry I've chosen to be with people who most often don't even want me around. Who don't appreciate. I want to tell her I'll always be her Sissy. I would die for her. I would kill for her. She is my everything. I want to tell my mother that I DO need her. I DO miss her. I am still her little girl. I want to tell my step-father thank you. For EVERYTHING he has EVER done for me. And there's no way I can put any of this gratitude into any sort of audible word. I know if I do i'll collapse and I need to be strong for her, for Helen.

It's harder to leave them a second time. This time I know what I'm getting into. There's no exotic mystery up ahead for me. It's going to be a struggle. And I know it. We hug, and I see them fighting the tears back. I quiver as I try to keep the tears in. We hug. I turn to walk away. I let the tears loose. My mother shouts behind me, "When you come back.... You're back for good!" I turn to her and say, "For good. I promise."

And just like that, their faces were gone. And I was back on that plane. Horrible turbulence. A tiny plane. The irony is, I am horrified of flying. I hold onto the arm rests, I close my eyes, I hold my breath and count as I usually do letting out slow exhales through my mouth. A sweet southern savanna speakin woman pats me on the back. "It's going to be all right suga. We'll get you there. Don't you worry." She asks me where I'm from and where I've been. I don't mind the little conversation this time. I need the distraction. "Peace Corps Africa?! Well God Bless your little heart. Aren't you somethin." She asks me what they eat 'over there'. "Lots of Maize I tell her." She looks confused. "Corn." I say.

"Well goodness me!" She shouts. "They got teeth over there?!"

I land in South Africa. Here we go... I think. "Where are you going?" The man behind the glass asks. "Swaziland." I say. "Swaziland? How long are you visiting?" He asks. "Two years." I tell him. He hands me back my passport. "Well Ms. Brooks. Welcome home."

Shoved, pushed into the back of another kumbi (mini bus). Pressed up against the window, no matter which way I turn uncushioned bone pressed against me. The groaning soundtrack begins and is surrounding me again. The subcontinent's most distinctive gestures follow. "Ahhh wena!" "EEEshh!" They yell. A young man snuggles unnecessarily close to me. I'm missing the decent snug of humanity back home. I'm back in the scent of unwashed humanity after feeling the sterility of the altitude up above. Lost in contemplation. I want it back. I want it back. How am I going to do this?! I snap out of it. I have to. I need to keep moving. I need to be me again. Within twenty minutes I've made friends with everyone on this kumbi. I'm putting myself back together again. "Is polygamy Christian?" I shout. Not that I have a problem with either, just a question to get the ball rolling. Solomon, from the Bible, as usual, is brought up. The same arguments. The same mannerisms.

"What is that written on the back of your neck?" The young man asks me. "Ubuntu." I tell him. They are familiar with this Zulu word. Communal Harmony.Interconectedness. Working together to help each other. "I try to live by it." I tell him. "Well it doesn't matter what it says." He tells me. "You're still going to hell." I laugh. "And all that drinking and screwing around you just told me you do?" I ask. "Well of course, I'm going to hell too. We all are."

I've spent over a year trying to understand and study this culture, these people. I live in constant frustration trying to solve this puzzle with the rest of the world. Keeping this separation between me and THEM use to make it easier. However, being away for a month has made me realize I need to slow down and just appreciate what I'm "studying". I need to stop studying. I probably won't ever solve this problem. But I'm here and I can no longer look at these people as goals, as problems to fix. For the first time, crammed in this kumbi together, shoulder to shoulder with them, I simple saw them as they were. And it was overwhelmingly beautiful.

I said goodbye to my grandfather before I left. In his old age and diminishing health, I worry, will I see him again? He hugs me goodbye and thanks me for my writing that my father shares with him every Sunday morning over breakfast. Before I go he grabs my arm and say to me, "I know you're struggling over there. I know it's hard. But you're learning so much. Don't quit. Don't you dare quit."

I've got another year to go. For my grandfather, for these people, and most importantly, for myself, I know I can't quit.

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."