For anyone who cares, I have now added a bunch more entries to my blog, all in one giant post. These pieces were written as part of a large portfolio I had to put together as a requirement for the program I was on.
Most likely no one will ever read every chapter of this post. If you want to read the best stuff, let me recommend: Wednesday July 1st: The Pyramid; Sunday July 5th: Fireworks*; Sunday July 5th: Church*; Tuesday July 7th: Sickness; Thursday July 9th: Ikwezi; and Friday July 10th: Umlilo Means Fire.
Tuesday. June 30, 2009.
The World Cup
I woke up early this morning and went for a walk through downtown Durban. It was good to finally get a chance to spend time on my own, simply walking around wherever I wanted to go. From the hostel I walked downhill towards the city center. For part of the time I was walking right on the highway, which is a very common place to find pedestrians in South Africa—though it is less common to see someone of my complexion walking there. At one point I stood on a bridge overlooking the train tracks, and in the distance I could see the continuing construction on the new soccer stadium which is being built for the World Cup next year.
A lot is changing in South Africa in anticipation of 2010. In addition to new soccer stadiums and massive infrastructure investments, there is also a push to clean up the cities—to get rid of crime and other undesirable elements. This has meant hiring increases in the police force, the rounding-up and kicking out of child street urchins, and the proposed construction of a new shopping complex in place of the Warwick Triangle. The Triangle is a large fruit, vegetable, herbs, and everything else market, both open air and under cover, where mostly Africans come to buy and sell, many of them from out in the rural areas. For 99 years the market has been in existence, a providing a source of opportunity and income for otherwise underprivileged populations. I spoke with some carrot and cabbage merchants there today and they were none too pleased about this proposal to build a shiny new shopping center that will only benefit the wealthy. The merchants are organizing, and lawyers are volunteering to defend the Warwick Triangle in court.
Is South Africa ready to host the world cup? Will the Cup serve as the needed incentive to make important investments for the nation’s long-term well-being? Or will the Cup only serve to leverage power away from the already underprivileged as wealthy investors enhance their portfolios by investing in the new and glitzy face of South Africa?
Wednesday. July 1, 2009.
The Pyramid
When we first sat down in the meeting room of the BAT center, all the SIT students sat on one side of the circle and all the UKZN students sat on the other side. It wasn’t an intentional and certainly not a malicious thing: all groups of friends find it easier to stick with each other than branch out, and besides, the UKZN students had gotten there first and so naturally sat with each other in the absence of anybody else to sit with. But unintentional though it was, it was nonetheless a good illustration of how all people arrange themselves before they get to know each other. Over the course of the day we would have to get to know each other and break down any barriers there might be between us.
The games we played were fantastic. We introduced ourselves by telling everybody one reason why we like ourselves. We worked in teams to carry balloons around the space, we helped each other when we were blindfolded and accomplished tasks that were only possible through team work. The breakthrough for me came during the pyramid game. The game goes as follows.
There is a small wooden board with three holes on it. Stacked on top of the first hole are five wooden disks, arranged like a pyramid with the widest on bottom and the smallest on top. The goal is to move the entire pyramid onto the third hole, but the catch is that you can only move one disk at a time, and disks cannot be placed on top of disks that are smaller than themselves. If the game sounds easy, it isn’t. To make things harder, we had to solve the puzzle as a team, each person only getting one chance at a time to shift a disk.
Together our team had to race back and forth, trying to figure out how to move these disks the way we wanted them to go. The idea was to complete the exercise before the other team, but frankly I could have cared less about the other team: this pyramid needed to move and I was determined to see it happen. We all got so caught up in it, and every time we got a step closer all of us shouted in exhilaration. And once we had gotten the second largest piece onto the bottom piece in their new position, we knew the end was within our reach. Everyone’s eyes were fixed, breathless, on these wooden rings, until finally the pyramid stood there, successfully on the other side. When that moment came we all erupted, jumping and clapping hands and grabbing onto each other. And it was only afterward that I realized that while I had been so focused on moving the pyramid, a bond was silently forming between me and the rest of my team—because we were all equally focused on that pyramid. We were all so caught up in our collective goal that for a while we forgot ourselves, and by the time we came back to our senses we were already in each other’s arms.
Thursday. July 2, 2009.
Isaiah, the Master of Bation.
In presenting plans for what to do during our rural Life Skills camp, the idea that definitely stood out the most came from Isaiah—Isaiah, the one who conceals himself behind piercings, a hat and sunglasses; Isaiah, the one who doesn’t enjoy small talk so goes immediately into controversial debates with strangers. He is an odd fellow, that is for sure, but he is also charmingly off-beat. He has had a very difficult life, and for a person of his kind of troubled background to be doing this kind of work—giving his time and talents to helping underprivileged youths—is highly admirable. Nevertheless, his ideas often catch people off guard.
Isaiah’s idea was to teach masturbation to the high schoolers. How to do it, and why it is a good way of preventing the spread of HIV/AIDS. He proposed to do a condom demonstration, and he even offered to show how the sex act works using a model penis and vagina, which he happens to own. His proposal blind-sided just about everybody, and it sparked a passionate debate about why we could or couldn’t, and why we should or shouldn’t have a demonstration like the one he proposed. (The question that no one asked out loud during the debate but which I am sure many of us are still wondering, is why Isaiah happens to own anatomic models of human genitalia.)
Isaiah’s plan will undoubtedly never go quite the way he has envisioned, though he will surely take the chance to pull some kids aside during the camp and tell them about his “ABCD” plan (Abstinence, Be Faithful, Condomize, and—Isaiah’s addition—“Do it yourself”).
Friday. July 3, 2009.
Lecture Reflection
Development and Education in SA, Blessing Karumbidza
Blessing is hilarious. Controversial and well spoken, I don’t think anyone in the classroom agreed with everything he said but we sure did learn a lot from him.
I learned from his comments on “ideology.” Everyone has a different ideology, and it is informed by where one has been, whom one has talked with, what books one has read, what one has watched, etc. I like this idea because it makes ideology a potentially flexible thing. Yes, I already have a particular ideology or Weltanschauung, but it is exciting to realize that with every person I talk with or every book I read or every country I visit, my view of the world can and will shift and expand. It makes me all the more eager to learn.
With this in mind, it is easier to understand and appreciate the concept of “exchange.” My view of the world, my ideology, expands every time I enter a new community, and so does the ideology of the people I meet when they come into contact with me. We are not the paternalistic givers, shouldering the “white man’s burden.” We can both give and take, exchange with each other.
Sunday. July 5, 2009.
Fireworks
Yesterday was a 4th of July like none other. In the afternoon we arrived at Amatikulu, the rural township where I’ll be staying for the next week. I am staying with a large family that lives in a series of houses at the top of a hill, looking out over the Indian Ocean. It is beautiful, and the family seems nice albeit quiet (largely due to the language barrier), but the real memory of my first night here has to do with some bad milk I had that morning.
My first night with a new family, and I was sick as a dog, squatting in the dark outhouse, leaning with my face in the hole, trying to eject whatever was offending my stomach so badly. Then I stumbled back towards the houses only to heave a few more times by the side of the dirt road. While this was going on it started to rain.
There were five brothers at the top of the hill, standing for cover beneath the ledge of a thatched roof, chatting calming in Zulu and for the most part ignoring me. I was puzzled at their indifference, but didn’t mind too terribly—when I’m sick I actually prefer to pretend I am invisible.
Up until this point my attempts to clear the system were mostly fruitless. It was not until I got back to the bedroom and spent some time lying on the mat on the ground that the real 4th of July fireworks got started—all into the bucket next to me. With great force I declared my independence from the milk I had for breakfast, the mutton I had for lunch, and the two bites of rice I had for dinner—and I felt much better afterward. I went to bed at 7:00 PM, grateful for my freedom, grateful to be alive and in South Africa.
Sunday. July 5, 2009.
Church
The family we stay with is Catholic, and on Sunday we went to church with them.
There are no cathedrals in Amatikulu. In fact there isn’t even a catholic “church” as such. On Sunday the church-goers walk along dusty paths between the trees and the rolling purple-white fields of sugar cane until we meet in one of the barren classrooms of the local primary school. There is a priest who visits the small parish, but he only visits the congregation once every so many weeks. Otherwise the members of the church—by which I mean mostly the same family I am staying with plus a few of their neighbors—are left to themselves. They cover the desk in front with a white linen, and light a simple candle as their one ornamentation. They squeeze into the learners’ desks and sit on the benches to pray, to read scripture, and to sing hymns.
And, oh, the singing...with the voices of the elderly matriarchs, the one grandfather, my two brothers, and the children all blending, reverberating slowly around our small concrete classroom, the music sounds like it comes from the center of the world. Old, deep, African singing...it starts with one voice, usually a woman, and after the first phrase everyone comes in slowly in harmony. The elders and the children and everyone in between all sing together. There are no written words or musical notes, the songs are simply passed down from generation to generation. They sing with ancient, full voices. Their melodies are the color of wisdom.
Monday. July 6,2009.
Optimism about the Life Orientation Camp
The Life Orientation Camp is going to be a great success. The learners who came on Monday (about forty of them) are all exceptional. Every one of them seems engaged and excited to be there. Some of them are shyer than others, of course, but I haven’t spotted any true duds among the whole group. There is no one who seems cynical or “too cool for school.” Everyone is happy to be present.
The learners attending the camp are all from grade 10 or 11. We meet at a beautiful outdoor community center just near the ocean. Monday was the first day of the camp, and on that day the job of leader and master of ceremonies fell onto my shoulders. We had everyone introduce themselves and tell each other why they liked themselves. We played some ice-breaker games, and in the second part of the day we did some fun and colorful team-building exercises. (Balloons and flags are simple things, but I think just by adding color to an activity they help to open up the senses and the mind.) I led a discussion with all the campers about respect, team work, and trust. And the talk wasn’t just fluffy “roses and ponies” feel-good stuff: the learners took the topic seriously, and really contributed their thoughts. They are a bright group, and we have a good week ahead of us.
Tuesday. July 7. 2009.
Sickness
Saturday I arrived at the rural homestay in a sick condition. That was the night of fireworks. The next day I went to church and napped a little in the afternoon, and I felt like I was recovering. Monday was the first day of the camp, which verged on becoming the Chase Kimball Show, since I was in charge of MC’ing the whole day, explaining some of the activities, and guiding the afternoon discussion. I was super high energy the entire morning, which was fun and exhilarating, but in the afternoon I realized how wiped out I was. That night I started feeling sick again—not quite vomitrociously sick, but bubbly and uncomfortable sick. I didn’t touch my dinner and went to bed early, around 7:30 PM. The next morning I felt better, but tried to take it easy. By lunch time I felt like I had an appetite again, and ate the semp and beans that was served at camp. Boy was that a mistake.
I was still feeling fine until night began to fall, and I noticed increased pressure and bloating in my gut. It got to be somewhat painful. Before dinner I joined the family for a brief “family home evening,” where everyone came together to sing some songs, pray, and have a scripture reading, but by the end I could hardly move because the pressure was so extreme. I hobbled over to my bed, but the pressure showed no signs of subsiding. Gas wasn’t coming out from either end of me, so the pressure just kept building. I was writhing in my bed and after a while started thinking morbid thoughts, like what would happen if the pressure built up so much that my stomach just exploded...it would happen all in an instant and who knows what kind of damage it would do to the rest of my organs...I could be dead out here in this rural middle-of-nowhere before they ever got me to a hospital. (In retrospect I am sure my body was nowhere remotely close to this kind of danger.)
Encircled by this cloud of darkness I stumbled slowly and painfully down the hillside to the outhouse, hoping there to find some relief, but relief did not come. And so I journeyed back up the hill, but by now I could hardly move. With every step the pressure would seize me and I would stop. At some point that night I actually swore. “Damn.” It didn’t really do anything, but I felt like I was releasing pressure somehow. Once near the top of the hill I finally looked up from my stooped position, and there were five or so family members, all of them staring at me anxiously. Charles, who laughs at everything, started laughing at me. “Oh hi guys,” I said, “glad you could make it out to the show.” I took a few more steps towards my bedroom, then halted. Everyone leaned in, worried I was about to fall over. Everyone was silent. And then I let out a modest, but life-saving, fart. –and the crowd went wild. Everyone burst out laughing. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! And goodnight!” I swung the door open and keeled over into bed.
Eventually the pressure did go down, and just as I started feeling better Langa, S’du, and Shola came to check in on me. Their smiling, laughing faces were the real medicine I needed (along with some antacid tablets). The worst was over, and quickly fell asleep. Thankfully it would be the last night of sickness for me in the rural area.
Wednesday. July 8, 2009.
Exchange
On this night, my first real night of feeling healthy, Charles and I took our brothers to Evan and Randy’s home to make s’mores with all the rest of our Zulu friends. Ashley and Katie came by to take us all there. We hitched a ride with them on the back of “BIG’s” truck (BIG is the local DJ, and a member of Katie and Ashley’s family). Riding in the open air over a dirt road, with the stars brilliantly above us and the wind wrapping around me, I was in heaven. I was finally healthy and full of energy. When we arrived plenty of people were there already with the fire going. I set about finding some sticks for my brothers Bongani and Siphamandla to use to roast their marshmallows. Everybody loved them! They were an instant hit, and it felt good, after receiving so much from this community, to be able to show them something of ours that they would really enjoy: a classic American treat! We ate and we laughed, I learned the names of some of the stars, and I even learned a traditional Zulu dance. It involves a lot of foot stomping and chanting the words, “Open the door and eat the goat,” in Zulu. It was cultural exchange at its most exciting and tastiest level.
Thursday. July 9, 2009.
Ikwezi
Sometimes I feel at a loss for what to talk about with my host brother, Bongani. It was odd enough for me to be so sick at the beginning of the week, and from that we hardly started our relationship off on normal footing. And we are both quieter people. But I have noticed that no one here minds just taking time to look out over the natural world, and with Bongani I think we have shared some good times together simply in silence taking in the ocean, or considering the night stars.
One afternoon the four of us—Siphamandla, Bongani, Charles, and I—went to the beach and spent who-knows-how-long simply looking out over the water, watching the waves roll in and glide back again, creating new ripples across the water’s surface.
One night I was talking with Bongani about the stars and I learned that the morning star, which I have always noticed, has its own special name in Zulu. It is called “ikwezi.” At least this time of year, ikwezi always shows up just above and to the left of the sun as it is rising, and it is the last star to disappear into the morning light. I like that it has a name. I will never forget that name, nor that star, for it is my favorite of all the stars in this hemisphere.
Friday. July 10, 2009.
Life Orientation Camp Reflection
The Life Orientation Camp is now over, and I feel very pleased with it. Between SIT, UKZN, and the learners here in this area who attended the camp, I think we created something very special. We came away having achieved the goals we sought: we made new friendships, we had fun, we learned about each other’s cultures, we gave the learners a sense of optimism and drive for their future and provided them with some basic tools to channel that drive, and we got people thinking about how to be a good person—about how to work hard and with others.
This was the basic program as it happened: On Day One (the day my team led) we focused on get-to-know you games and team-building exercises. One highlight for me was a quick game about status in which everyone received a card from a deck and had to hold it face-out on their forehead. Then people walked around and greeted each other according to their “status”—people showed deep respect to “kings” and “queens” and “aces”, contempt and loathing to “twos” and “threes”, and indifference to the people in the middle. The catch is that no one knew what their own card was, but had to guess it based on how others treated them. The game is a very simple exercise, but it goes a long way towards getting people to think about status, and why people treat each other the way they do. A good conversation followed the game.
Day Two was sports day, and while I wasn’t feeling too healthy that day I still had a lovely time watching everyone fool around with soccer and rugby. The highlight was standing beneath the lodge while everyone else was upstairs doing aerobics: with every step the floorboards dipped down by inches...I’m sure that one day took at least 10 years off the life of the structure!
Day Three was leadership day. We played fun games of all sorts and managed to tie them into leadership eventually in our discussions. In one small group conversation we had to discuss questions like what it means to be a good leader, and who are some examples of good leaders. My group came up with some standard examples, like Nelson Mandela, Winnie Mandela, and Hector Peterson (who was not a leader per se but nonetheless became an important icon of the Soweto uprising), and there was another person I hadn’t heard of before named Zola. Apparently Zola used to be a gangster, and then he changed his life around and now hosts a television show where he helps people in desperate circumstances get assistance. On Thursday I actually watched an episode where Zola helps a homeless woman who is pregnant and can’t take care of the child get the assistance she needs, including temporary housing and foster care services. The show is structured almost exactly like “Pimp My Ride” except replacing old SUV’s with the sick and destitute.
Day Four was “controversy” day, where we discussed and debated a range of relevant issues, from the effect of the media on the youth to the spread of HIV/AIDS to gender equality to the debate about whether Zulu traditions were outmoded. It was exciting to see learners voice their opinions. We would set up a forum for debate where each team was assigned a side of an argument and had to argue for that side as best they could. Everyone was actively engaged. The highlight—and this may be the highlight of my entire week at the camp—was watching my team argue why it was better to live in a rural area than an urban area. By the time this debate topic came up they had already been debating for a while, and you could see how it had brought the team closer together. They are all physically connected to each other—some were kneeling on the grass and some were standing, leaning on each other. One boy had his arms resting on the shoulders of the boy in front of him. They were connected and unified. As it happened they were also all wearing colorful t-shirts, and the afternoon sun was hitting them from the side, illuminating the edges of their faces. They were all smiling and full of energy, determined to beat the other team by proving how good it was to live in the rural area. We live independently. We can take care of ourselves and hardly have to buy things from others. We raise our own food and drink water from the stream. Our home is beautiful, a tapestry of green trees and purple-white sugar cane and a bright blue Indian Ocean. I looked into their faces, and I could tell they meant it. They were proud of where they came from.
Day Five incorporated the matric students, and together we had them do more team building exercises and in the second half of the day gave them training in study skills and career planning. As far as I could tell, everyone had a great time. People got a lot out of our structured activities, and also from our informal time together. Throughout the week my favorite part of each day was often during lunch when I could sit with the learners and talk about their lives or about mine, and build friendships. To my delight I discovered that the grade 10’s were right in the middle of reading Romeo and Juliet in school. Just last year I took part in a production of R&J, playing the part of Friar Lawrence. I love Shakespeare, and I love talking about his works. What a dream it was to sit down with these young students in middle-of-nowhere Zulu-speaking rural Africa and debate with them about whether or not Romeo and Juliet were right to go behind their families’ backs to get married, and whether it was the Friar’s place to get involved with the deception. The students will finish the play after the break, and no one I spoke with knows how it ends... I wish I could heat their reflections once they get to the conclusion.
At the end of the camp, the campers left with newfound energy and enthusiasm, a vision for their future, and skills with which to get there. And along the way we made many friendships. The camp was a success.
Friday. July 10, 2009.
Umlilo Means Fire
I love learning languages. It is especially rewarding to learn a language like Zulu, because no one expects you to learn it, and if people hear you speaking just a little bit they get very excited. (Though my experience would be very different if I were black. For example a woman I met from Sierra Leone is studying in Durban. She is a black African, but because she can’t speak Zulu she gets ostracized. If you’re black and living in the province of KwaZulu-Natal you’re expected to know Zulu, and as a result this woman has no black friends here.) But for someone like me to speak a little Zulu is unexpected and exciting. One day while walking back home I talked with one of the neighboring families. To them I must have seemed like a small child, because all I could do was mimic the sounds they were making and try to write down the words they said so I could look them up later. I felt like a one-and-a-half year old again, but I believe picking up a language is a simple way to earn peoples’ affection.
Most of the members of my family do not speak English. My mama, whom I love for her big smile and laugh, doesn’t speak a word. Our most extensive conversation was the day I came home and she was busy burning some rubbish. “Umlilo!” I said, which means fire. I had just learned the word. She smiled and laughed. “Yebo, umlilo!” Then I quickly flipped through the flipbook I’ve been making for myself and put together this sentence: “Ubashani?” which means (more or less) “What are you burning?” “Epaypa!” She said, which is a cognate for “paper”. “Wonderful!” I said. And she smiled and laughed, and I smiled and laughed, and we both grew a little closer.
Sunday. July 12, 2009.
Scorpion
Our “safari” through the game park was relatively uneventful. We did see some rhinos, and some zebras, and a lot of buffalo, but nothing else special. Still I had a good time, and it was nice to drive around the beautiful scenery and reflect, and the animals I did see I have never seen before in the wild.
The most memorable animal I saw today was a scorpion. The little fellow was crawling on the logs in the fire pit as we held our debriefing session, and once he had crawled up one limb of a log and tried to turn around he discovered that the fire had grown, and there was now no way off the log except through fire. It was an odd experience, watching this beast which I had never seen before but instinctively feared from its menacing look and everything I had hear about it, trapped with nowhere to go. It was hard to think of the scorpion as anything but an enemy, so I watched him suffer there in captivity as the flames slowly rose to meet him with a kind of perverse indifference.
When the flames got too high he eventually fell from his branch and on to cold soil. (If only he had had the faith to jump down to safety in the first place—he would have been jumping into the unknown but would have suffered hardly at all compared to the flames and heat he had to endure). He crawled away from the fire, and while all of us jumped up and considered throwing him back into the fire, one level-headed Australian scooped up the injured scorpion in between a pair of Uno cards and tossed him back into the bush.
Sunday. July 12, 2009.
What did I learn?
In our very last debriefing, sitting around the nighttime fire, surrounded by the bush, we were asked a final question: What did you learn? Of course I learned many things, but out of all of them the response I gave that night by the fire distilled down into two points.
My mind has opened to the idea of civil society. I have known about NGO’s, and grassroots organizations for a long time, but I have never had as much firsthand experience, or constantly been exposed to so many people working in civil society as I have here in South Africa. Civil society is an integral part of the South African system—maybe more so than any other place I have travelled to—and without grassroots community work and political involvement the country simply would not be able to function. South Africa stands in sharp contrast to China, where I was studying immediately before I came to Africa. In China civil society is as nonexistent as democracy. In place of true political enfranchisement China engages its citizens by offering them the chance for prosperity. Economic growth and the bottom line are what’s important, and anything might be sacrificed in order to achieve it. But in South Africa things are different, and often the cause of equity takes precedence over the cause of efficiency. The question I am left with as I return to my own country is this: How can I speak convincingly to those with power (and money) on behalf of causes like education and other social goods? How can I help to build consensus around important issues, even when the issues don’t necessarily benefit a powerful man’s pocketbook?
The second lesson I have learned from this experience is more personal. Put simply, before this program I have had the idea that I would like to be an educator, and now that I have had my first formal experience studying education I have not been dissuaded. I still want to be an educator some day. This program has opened my eyes to many of the challenges that confront learners and educators, but I am not discouraged. Quite the contrary, my vision of becoming an educator has come into even greater clarity while being on this program.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Friday, July 03, 2009
Update
Today I will move in with a Zulu family living out in a rural middle-of-nowhere. I will be staying with them for one week, and during the day I will be helping to facilitate a large camp/workshop teaching life skills such as team-building, trust, leadership, etc. to local teenagers. I expect that my experience there will be very different from my experience up to this point in Durban, the urban center of the province.
There are many stories I have not yet posted on the blog, mostly because I still haven’t figured what the best angle is for telling them. But the following is a musing on the contrast between my time here and my time in Burma.
There are many stories I have not yet posted on the blog, mostly because I still haven’t figured what the best angle is for telling them. But the following is a musing on the contrast between my time here and my time in Burma.
South Africa versus Burma
As a visitor, I felt safer in Burma than I do in South Africa.
It is odd comparing the two countries.
South Africa is supposed to be the “better” of the two countries. South Africa is one of the world’s most important emerging economies, and the largest in all of Africa. The country is a democracy with outstanding levels of enfranchisement. It is the “Rainbow Nation,” the land where people of all colors, tribes, and religions strive to live together in harmony. South Africa is the standard bearer and the shining light to the rest of Africa. And with World Cup 2010 fast approaching South Africa wants to transform itself into a cosmopolitan hub of the southern hemisphere to rival Australia. South Africa is supposed to be a land of opportunity.
Meanwhile Burma is the most repressive country in the world. They are at least half a century behind economically, and politically there is little hope of progress. Burma awards its most distinguished citizen—Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung Sun Suu Kyi—with decades of confinement either under house arrest or (at present) imprisonment.
But the great irony is that as a visitor I feel much safer in Burma. In Burma the military government is so omnipresent and brutal that very few people risk overtly breaking the law. In addition it feels like there is a natural friendliness inherent in the Burmese culture, perhaps inspired by peaceful teachings of Buddhism. Despite oppression, people seem to take care of each other, and there is very little crime. Meanwhile in South Africa every single house is surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. Very few places are safe to walk at night. It is never wise to talk on a cell phone while out in the open, lest someone come to stab you and take the phone from you.
In Burma, the oppressive junta regime claims the cause of peace and stability as the source of its legitimacy. Sometimes outsiders overlook the fact that there are many different ethnicities living in Burma with long and deep-seated hatreds towards each other. The junta claims that if there were no military rule, the country would fall into anarchy and strife along ethnic lines. Unfortunately they’re probably right. Meanwhile South Africa enjoys fully-enfranchised democracy, a democracy that only came about because of the sometimes violent actions of the African National Congress (ANC), the party that overthrew the apartheid regime and still has control over the country. In the minds of many South Africans there is something noble about the use of violence for the cause of social justice.
So crime runs rampant in South Africa, and the government is not strong enough to stop it. In Burma the government is so strong that there is little crime to be afraid of, but there is also little freedom.
It’s as if we’re forced to choose: peace or freedom?
It is odd comparing the two countries.
South Africa is supposed to be the “better” of the two countries. South Africa is one of the world’s most important emerging economies, and the largest in all of Africa. The country is a democracy with outstanding levels of enfranchisement. It is the “Rainbow Nation,” the land where people of all colors, tribes, and religions strive to live together in harmony. South Africa is the standard bearer and the shining light to the rest of Africa. And with World Cup 2010 fast approaching South Africa wants to transform itself into a cosmopolitan hub of the southern hemisphere to rival Australia. South Africa is supposed to be a land of opportunity.
Meanwhile Burma is the most repressive country in the world. They are at least half a century behind economically, and politically there is little hope of progress. Burma awards its most distinguished citizen—Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung Sun Suu Kyi—with decades of confinement either under house arrest or (at present) imprisonment.
But the great irony is that as a visitor I feel much safer in Burma. In Burma the military government is so omnipresent and brutal that very few people risk overtly breaking the law. In addition it feels like there is a natural friendliness inherent in the Burmese culture, perhaps inspired by peaceful teachings of Buddhism. Despite oppression, people seem to take care of each other, and there is very little crime. Meanwhile in South Africa every single house is surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. Very few places are safe to walk at night. It is never wise to talk on a cell phone while out in the open, lest someone come to stab you and take the phone from you.
In Burma, the oppressive junta regime claims the cause of peace and stability as the source of its legitimacy. Sometimes outsiders overlook the fact that there are many different ethnicities living in Burma with long and deep-seated hatreds towards each other. The junta claims that if there were no military rule, the country would fall into anarchy and strife along ethnic lines. Unfortunately they’re probably right. Meanwhile South Africa enjoys fully-enfranchised democracy, a democracy that only came about because of the sometimes violent actions of the African National Congress (ANC), the party that overthrew the apartheid regime and still has control over the country. In the minds of many South Africans there is something noble about the use of violence for the cause of social justice.
So crime runs rampant in South Africa, and the government is not strong enough to stop it. In Burma the government is so strong that there is little crime to be afraid of, but there is also little freedom.
It’s as if we’re forced to choose: peace or freedom?
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Musings from Durban
The following are some excerpts from e-mails I have recently sent to friends.
On where I am staying:
I am falling in love with Yvonne, my homestay mother. Yvonne is in her sixties. She’s a retired school principal and in fact she was the first female and coloured principal in South Africa. She is wise and funny and caring and powerful. She loves talking, and will go on endlessly telling stories, which is perfect because I love listening to her stories.
I live in the neighborhood of Wentworth, which is really an armpit of a place. Once a designated region for Coloureds to live, it is wedged in between two large oil refineries and a paper mill with the airport so close that there are always loud airplanes blaring overhead. About 80% of the school children in the area have asthma on account of the factories. And the crime is rampant: murders, rapes, car theft, drugs. Sometimes dead bodies show up in the gutter in the morning. And apparently it is often the case that a fight that starts Sunday night outside one of the clubs will conclude Monday morning at school—a boy’s enemies will show up at his school during the recess and stab him in full view of the others. And this has happened multiple times.
Yvonne knows all about it because she is the chair of the Community Policing Forum, a community group that teams up with the police to promote safety and justice. It’s important enough that she even has an office in the police station. She knows everyone in town. One time we were sitting in the parking lot when some large man got out of his car and walked towards the supermarket. “Oh that’s ‘Blacks’,” she said, “He’s involved with stolen cars.” All the drug lords in town know her, and she knows them, and they treat her with respect.
On education in South Africa:
The education system here suffers from a whole slew of problems. Many people say that since the end of apartheid in 1994 the quality of education has ironically gone down—even for the black and “coloured” schools which were systematically under-resourced under the repressive pre-’94 regime. While such a claim may be a slight exaggeration, it may also not be too far from the truth. The other irony is that education gets more funding from the government in South Africa than any other sector. Education even gets more money than the military. And of those funds, somewhere in the range of 80% of it is spent on teachers’ salaries—and yet there is still a teacher shortage in South Africa. When I confront figures like that, I begin to understand that there is something more fundamentally awry with the basic culture of teaching and learning in South Africa. Education is a cultural, societal problem, and it doesn’t just get resolved by throwing more money at it. But money is important too, of course, and it seems there is a constant back-and-forth debate between school administrators who say the problem is lack of funding and government officials who say the problem is bad management. Meanwhile, the national curriculum is based on a pedagogy called “Outcomes Based Education,” which many educators now agree simply doesn’t work well in the South African context.
On my adventures at the local elementary school:
Today I was at Collingwood Elementary School, where I will be this entire week, observing and learning about education. Except today was a field day: the entire school, 1200 students from kindergarten to seventh grade, came to the school’s field for sack races, three-legged races, spoon and potato races, etc. It was a fantastic day and the weather was perfect, and myself as well as the two other American students who were with me served as the judges at the finish line. But the most memorable moment was when the large tent that was standing in the middle of the field got knocked over by the wind and started rolling towards the students. I was actually faced the other way when the tent started flying, but from where I was standing I could hear a teacher over the speaker system saying, “Attention all teachers—will all the teachers please meet under...the TENT THAT IS FLYING AWAY RIGHT NOW!!!” And I spun around and there is was, this swirl of blue and gray, barreling across the field directly towards the bleachers where a thousand plus little people were sitting. With a look of horror on my face I sprinted as fast as I could to get my body in between the tent and the youngsters, and I got there just in time. All was well in the end, and we laughed about it afterwards, but man did it give me a little fright.
On the stars:
I look at the stars differently when I am in South Africa. The constellations in the southern hemisphere are entirely new to me, and I have no way of knowing when I will be here again, and so for the brief time I am here I have taken every available chance to gaze at the stars. I memorize their positions, I take note of which ones are last to disappear at dawn, I tie the stars together in my own made-up constellations, and I give each constellation its own story. Each star has significance. And unlike in the North, where the stars speak of constancy because they are in the same position they have always been in and will continue to be there for me to gaze at for the rest of my life, in the South the stars are foreign to me and remind me of how fleeting my time here is, and I feel an urgency to comprehend the significance of every star in the southern sky.
On where I am staying:
I am falling in love with Yvonne, my homestay mother. Yvonne is in her sixties. She’s a retired school principal and in fact she was the first female and coloured principal in South Africa. She is wise and funny and caring and powerful. She loves talking, and will go on endlessly telling stories, which is perfect because I love listening to her stories.
I live in the neighborhood of Wentworth, which is really an armpit of a place. Once a designated region for Coloureds to live, it is wedged in between two large oil refineries and a paper mill with the airport so close that there are always loud airplanes blaring overhead. About 80% of the school children in the area have asthma on account of the factories. And the crime is rampant: murders, rapes, car theft, drugs. Sometimes dead bodies show up in the gutter in the morning. And apparently it is often the case that a fight that starts Sunday night outside one of the clubs will conclude Monday morning at school—a boy’s enemies will show up at his school during the recess and stab him in full view of the others. And this has happened multiple times.
Yvonne knows all about it because she is the chair of the Community Policing Forum, a community group that teams up with the police to promote safety and justice. It’s important enough that she even has an office in the police station. She knows everyone in town. One time we were sitting in the parking lot when some large man got out of his car and walked towards the supermarket. “Oh that’s ‘Blacks’,” she said, “He’s involved with stolen cars.” All the drug lords in town know her, and she knows them, and they treat her with respect.
On education in South Africa:
The education system here suffers from a whole slew of problems. Many people say that since the end of apartheid in 1994 the quality of education has ironically gone down—even for the black and “coloured” schools which were systematically under-resourced under the repressive pre-’94 regime. While such a claim may be a slight exaggeration, it may also not be too far from the truth. The other irony is that education gets more funding from the government in South Africa than any other sector. Education even gets more money than the military. And of those funds, somewhere in the range of 80% of it is spent on teachers’ salaries—and yet there is still a teacher shortage in South Africa. When I confront figures like that, I begin to understand that there is something more fundamentally awry with the basic culture of teaching and learning in South Africa. Education is a cultural, societal problem, and it doesn’t just get resolved by throwing more money at it. But money is important too, of course, and it seems there is a constant back-and-forth debate between school administrators who say the problem is lack of funding and government officials who say the problem is bad management. Meanwhile, the national curriculum is based on a pedagogy called “Outcomes Based Education,” which many educators now agree simply doesn’t work well in the South African context.
On my adventures at the local elementary school:
Today I was at Collingwood Elementary School, where I will be this entire week, observing and learning about education. Except today was a field day: the entire school, 1200 students from kindergarten to seventh grade, came to the school’s field for sack races, three-legged races, spoon and potato races, etc. It was a fantastic day and the weather was perfect, and myself as well as the two other American students who were with me served as the judges at the finish line. But the most memorable moment was when the large tent that was standing in the middle of the field got knocked over by the wind and started rolling towards the students. I was actually faced the other way when the tent started flying, but from where I was standing I could hear a teacher over the speaker system saying, “Attention all teachers—will all the teachers please meet under...the TENT THAT IS FLYING AWAY RIGHT NOW!!!” And I spun around and there is was, this swirl of blue and gray, barreling across the field directly towards the bleachers where a thousand plus little people were sitting. With a look of horror on my face I sprinted as fast as I could to get my body in between the tent and the youngsters, and I got there just in time. All was well in the end, and we laughed about it afterwards, but man did it give me a little fright.
On the stars:
I look at the stars differently when I am in South Africa. The constellations in the southern hemisphere are entirely new to me, and I have no way of knowing when I will be here again, and so for the brief time I am here I have taken every available chance to gaze at the stars. I memorize their positions, I take note of which ones are last to disappear at dawn, I tie the stars together in my own made-up constellations, and I give each constellation its own story. Each star has significance. And unlike in the North, where the stars speak of constancy because they are in the same position they have always been in and will continue to be there for me to gaze at for the rest of my life, in the South the stars are foreign to me and remind me of how fleeting my time here is, and I feel an urgency to comprehend the significance of every star in the southern sky.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
no longer as strangers
The following is a story I’ve been meaning to tell for at least a month now. It has to do with China, the Church, and my friend John. It is a story about what it feels like to realize that even to kneel down together in prayer was a crime.
About three years ago I was living in the small town of Emmen in the northeast region of the Netherlands by the German border when I came into contact with a Chinese student called John. His Chinese name is Zhan YuFeng, but we always called him John. I was serving as a missionary at the time for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and my companion and I had met John when we had come to his dormitory complex one evening looking for another student whom we had met on the street. The student with whom we had the appointment never showed up, but John was there and he wanted to know who we were and what we were doing. Naturally we were pleased to tell him.
We started meeting with John regularly, and pretty soon we could tell that his interest in our message and the Church was not just a trivial thing. Despite not being able to understand Dutch he started coming to Church regularly, where we would translate the entire three hour service into English for him. It was astounding to have the privilege of teaching him, to watch him grow in understanding, to listen to him pray for the very first time—a young man who had hardly even heard of the idea of God before we met him. I grew to love him deeply...in a way I cannot easily compare to other kinds of love. He also had a delightful sense of humor which when combined with the occasional translation error created a series of memorable lines. There was the time we taught him that the president of the Church, President Hinckley, was the only living prophet authorized to receive revelation on behalf of the entire earth. His response was, “Only one? So rare...like the panda!” Or the time a teacher got very angry at church after an argument with another member. We were concerned that seeing this contention would turn John off of the church, but he seemed to understand and take it in stride: “That teacher’s face didn’t look very much like Jesus’ face. His face looked all red and angry.” Then there was the confusion, as John was preparing to be baptized, when we told him that he would be dressed all in white and immersed in water and suggested that he bring an extra pair of white underwear. “White? But all my underwear is red,” he said, and when we asked how this could be the case he explained, “Well...it’s the year of the Pig.”
John did in fact get baptized. Later another friend of his, another Chinese student, also joined the Church after John had introduced him to it. John was a loving and dedicated young man, and I saw firsthand how the gospel changed his life. He read the scriptures, he prayed, he fellowshipped with the other members of the church. He had found a home far away from home, and most of all he had found his Heavenly Father. When it was time for me to leave and continue my service in a different city, he gave me an electronic wrist watch as a going away present. “Here,” he said, very solemnly and sincerely, “It was made in China.”
John and I kept up occasional contact after I left Emmen. He worked at a Chinese restaurant for a while which was a terrible job, and later got out of it. Eventually he stopped his studies early and came back home to China. He got a job working at the Olympics, and more recently has started a company that organizes a nation-wide singing contest. Sort of like American Idol, except it’s not televised. And then this spring I came to Beijing on the political economy seminar and for the first time in three years we were reunited again.
We had a wonderful time seeing each other. We went out to lunch together one day, and later we hung out in his apartment and played on the karaoke machine. Another day he cooked lunch himself, for me and his apartment mate and his apartment mate’s parents. It was a better meal than at any restaurant I had been in Asia (complete with frog’s legs!). But most of all I was keen on making sure that John reconnected with the Church, because since he returned to China he has not known where to find it.
It is difficult finding the Church in China. The Church exists all over the world in every country where the government will allow us, but in China the regulations on the Church are very strict. Members of the Church are allowed to worship together, but there may be no proselyting. The Church is not allowed to build formal meetinghouses, nor can there be any signage indicating where the church is. The church in Beijing for example is located inside an office building. I found the address on mormon.org, but it still took me an hour walking around looking for the place because I did not know what I was looking for. Even once I found the right building, it was only because I ran into other Mormons along the way that I knew to take the elevator around the corner to the fourth floor and then turn right and go across the hall. Nowhere was any of this information posted.
And while members of the Church are allowed to worship together, foreign passport-holding members are not allowed to worship together with Chinese nationals.
Here is the text printed on the back of every program:
“The branch presidency wishes to draw your attention to the following:
It is important for foreign members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints living in or visiting China to be aware of the unique restrictions on religious activities here. While China permits freedom of religious belief, it requires all religious activities in China to comply with relevant laws and regulations.
We would like to remind you of the following:
1. no active or passive proselyting is permitted among local nationals in China,
2. only individuals who hold foreign passports, and their spouses, may attend meetings or other activities of this branch,
3. no foreign nationals are permitted to participate in activities of any kind with Chinese nationals who are members of our church, and
4. religious materials may not be disseminated to Chinese nationals in China.
Your strict observance of these rules enables us to build a foundation of trust with government authorities and enables us to continue to meet together as the government permits us to do so.”
With all of these obstacles, it was difficult getting John linked up with the Church.
The first time I tried, I brought John along with me to the expat branch I had been attending, but we were stopped at the door. The brother who stopped us was kind and sympathetic, but had to remain firm in prohibiting John from worshiping with us. We understood, of course. One casual exception to the rule can turn into a pattern, which would jeopardize the Church’s ability to exist in China at all. It is in keeping with a common attitude throughout the Church, that we patiently and diligently adhere to established rules and policies, whether by external forces or by the Church itself, even if the policies are painful, until such a time as we can truly change the regulation forever.
And so that first Sunday we did not enter the chapel, but I did insist that John stay with me in the foyer long enough to take of the sacrament—those tokens of the blood and body of Christ. For him it was the first time in at least two years.
The next Sunday I went to the expat service by myself, but waited afterward for the Chinese service to begin. John showed up a few minutes before the first meeting got started and I took him by the hand and led him to the front of the chapel to where the branch president was sitting. The entire congregation was there watching us, and I was conscious that I had to be brief, for every second I spent on that podium was in public violation of Chinese law. One of the branch president’s counselors translated for me. I told them John was a member and I was his missionary. I put John’s hand into the hand of the branch president and said, essentially, “Here. He is yours. Treat him like your son. Look out for him. Help him find family here.” And then I gave John a hug and said goodbye. The counselor shook my hand, looked into my eyes and said, “Thank you.” “Thank you, brother,” I said, “God bless you.” And I left.
I walked across the hallway and turned left, and got in the elevator. As the doors closed I could hear the first few bars of the opening hymn. They were singing in Chinese, but I knew the words. “Now let us rejoice in the day of salvation. No longer as strangers on earth need we roam. Good tidings are sounding to us and each nation, And shortly the hour of redemption will come, When all that was promised the saints will be given, And none will molest them from morn until ev’n, And earth will appear as the Garden of Eden, And Jesus will say to all Israel, ‘Come home’.”
I took the elevator down four flights and walked through the main lobby. As I walked towards the door I passed a middle-aged Chinese woman dressed in her Sunday best, walking in the direction from which I had just come. Our eyes met, and we smiled at each other just briefly, just long enough to acknowledge that though we do not know each other, and though we cannot speak to each other, we are both children of the same covenant. And then we passed each other and I walked out the door, still smiling.
About three years ago I was living in the small town of Emmen in the northeast region of the Netherlands by the German border when I came into contact with a Chinese student called John. His Chinese name is Zhan YuFeng, but we always called him John. I was serving as a missionary at the time for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and my companion and I had met John when we had come to his dormitory complex one evening looking for another student whom we had met on the street. The student with whom we had the appointment never showed up, but John was there and he wanted to know who we were and what we were doing. Naturally we were pleased to tell him.
We started meeting with John regularly, and pretty soon we could tell that his interest in our message and the Church was not just a trivial thing. Despite not being able to understand Dutch he started coming to Church regularly, where we would translate the entire three hour service into English for him. It was astounding to have the privilege of teaching him, to watch him grow in understanding, to listen to him pray for the very first time—a young man who had hardly even heard of the idea of God before we met him. I grew to love him deeply...in a way I cannot easily compare to other kinds of love. He also had a delightful sense of humor which when combined with the occasional translation error created a series of memorable lines. There was the time we taught him that the president of the Church, President Hinckley, was the only living prophet authorized to receive revelation on behalf of the entire earth. His response was, “Only one? So rare...like the panda!” Or the time a teacher got very angry at church after an argument with another member. We were concerned that seeing this contention would turn John off of the church, but he seemed to understand and take it in stride: “That teacher’s face didn’t look very much like Jesus’ face. His face looked all red and angry.” Then there was the confusion, as John was preparing to be baptized, when we told him that he would be dressed all in white and immersed in water and suggested that he bring an extra pair of white underwear. “White? But all my underwear is red,” he said, and when we asked how this could be the case he explained, “Well...it’s the year of the Pig.”
John did in fact get baptized. Later another friend of his, another Chinese student, also joined the Church after John had introduced him to it. John was a loving and dedicated young man, and I saw firsthand how the gospel changed his life. He read the scriptures, he prayed, he fellowshipped with the other members of the church. He had found a home far away from home, and most of all he had found his Heavenly Father. When it was time for me to leave and continue my service in a different city, he gave me an electronic wrist watch as a going away present. “Here,” he said, very solemnly and sincerely, “It was made in China.”
John and I kept up occasional contact after I left Emmen. He worked at a Chinese restaurant for a while which was a terrible job, and later got out of it. Eventually he stopped his studies early and came back home to China. He got a job working at the Olympics, and more recently has started a company that organizes a nation-wide singing contest. Sort of like American Idol, except it’s not televised. And then this spring I came to Beijing on the political economy seminar and for the first time in three years we were reunited again.
We had a wonderful time seeing each other. We went out to lunch together one day, and later we hung out in his apartment and played on the karaoke machine. Another day he cooked lunch himself, for me and his apartment mate and his apartment mate’s parents. It was a better meal than at any restaurant I had been in Asia (complete with frog’s legs!). But most of all I was keen on making sure that John reconnected with the Church, because since he returned to China he has not known where to find it.
It is difficult finding the Church in China. The Church exists all over the world in every country where the government will allow us, but in China the regulations on the Church are very strict. Members of the Church are allowed to worship together, but there may be no proselyting. The Church is not allowed to build formal meetinghouses, nor can there be any signage indicating where the church is. The church in Beijing for example is located inside an office building. I found the address on mormon.org, but it still took me an hour walking around looking for the place because I did not know what I was looking for. Even once I found the right building, it was only because I ran into other Mormons along the way that I knew to take the elevator around the corner to the fourth floor and then turn right and go across the hall. Nowhere was any of this information posted.
And while members of the Church are allowed to worship together, foreign passport-holding members are not allowed to worship together with Chinese nationals.
Here is the text printed on the back of every program:
“The branch presidency wishes to draw your attention to the following:
It is important for foreign members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints living in or visiting China to be aware of the unique restrictions on religious activities here. While China permits freedom of religious belief, it requires all religious activities in China to comply with relevant laws and regulations.
We would like to remind you of the following:
1. no active or passive proselyting is permitted among local nationals in China,
2. only individuals who hold foreign passports, and their spouses, may attend meetings or other activities of this branch,
3. no foreign nationals are permitted to participate in activities of any kind with Chinese nationals who are members of our church, and
4. religious materials may not be disseminated to Chinese nationals in China.
Your strict observance of these rules enables us to build a foundation of trust with government authorities and enables us to continue to meet together as the government permits us to do so.”
With all of these obstacles, it was difficult getting John linked up with the Church.
The first time I tried, I brought John along with me to the expat branch I had been attending, but we were stopped at the door. The brother who stopped us was kind and sympathetic, but had to remain firm in prohibiting John from worshiping with us. We understood, of course. One casual exception to the rule can turn into a pattern, which would jeopardize the Church’s ability to exist in China at all. It is in keeping with a common attitude throughout the Church, that we patiently and diligently adhere to established rules and policies, whether by external forces or by the Church itself, even if the policies are painful, until such a time as we can truly change the regulation forever.
And so that first Sunday we did not enter the chapel, but I did insist that John stay with me in the foyer long enough to take of the sacrament—those tokens of the blood and body of Christ. For him it was the first time in at least two years.
The next Sunday I went to the expat service by myself, but waited afterward for the Chinese service to begin. John showed up a few minutes before the first meeting got started and I took him by the hand and led him to the front of the chapel to where the branch president was sitting. The entire congregation was there watching us, and I was conscious that I had to be brief, for every second I spent on that podium was in public violation of Chinese law. One of the branch president’s counselors translated for me. I told them John was a member and I was his missionary. I put John’s hand into the hand of the branch president and said, essentially, “Here. He is yours. Treat him like your son. Look out for him. Help him find family here.” And then I gave John a hug and said goodbye. The counselor shook my hand, looked into my eyes and said, “Thank you.” “Thank you, brother,” I said, “God bless you.” And I left.
I walked across the hallway and turned left, and got in the elevator. As the doors closed I could hear the first few bars of the opening hymn. They were singing in Chinese, but I knew the words. “Now let us rejoice in the day of salvation. No longer as strangers on earth need we roam. Good tidings are sounding to us and each nation, And shortly the hour of redemption will come, When all that was promised the saints will be given, And none will molest them from morn until ev’n, And earth will appear as the Garden of Eden, And Jesus will say to all Israel, ‘Come home’.”
I took the elevator down four flights and walked through the main lobby. As I walked towards the door I passed a middle-aged Chinese woman dressed in her Sunday best, walking in the direction from which I had just come. Our eyes met, and we smiled at each other just briefly, just long enough to acknowledge that though we do not know each other, and though we cannot speak to each other, we are both children of the same covenant. And then we passed each other and I walked out the door, still smiling.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Kennedy Road
Today we went to a neighborhood in Durban called Kennedy Road—a huge shantytown community situated on a hill, under the shadow of the city’s garbage dump. Hundreds of small shacks, pieced together out of corrugated steel and bits of wood, packed densely together with only narrow pathways and open streams of sewage separating the dwellings. It was my first time seeing something like this. In my travels I have seen many forms of poverty. I have been to poor villages without clean water or other precious resources, I have been approached by crippled beggars in many cities of the world, I have helped feed the homeless of my own community, and today I have observed a new category of poverty.
Unlike the rural poor, these slum dwellers enjoy the benefits of a larger community. When they need to they can even organize themselves into a critical mass of protesters to get the attention of the government –we met some of those community organizers today. They are also closer to the city, which means increased job opportunities, and increased access to healthcare and education (not that they are always able to take advantage of these services, but such services are nonetheless closer within reach than they would be in rural communities). Perhaps the largest downside to living in communities like Kennedy Avenue, at least when compared to other forms of poverty, is the density with which people live. What can be a blessing when it comes to political organization can become a terrible curse when it comes to sanitation, disease, and crime. Crime can be especially bad in South Africa, and of all crimes the one most prevalent (yet least talked about)—in this environment with so many women and children alongside so many unemployed and idle young men—is sexual harassment and assault.
What can be done to improve the lives of the people in the Kennedy Avenue shantytowns? It’s a complicated question. One organization, Abahlali baseMjondolo, formed four years ago by slum dwellers themselves, claims the answer is simple and can be summed up in two straightforward demands: land and housing. We met with members of the movement that is fighting for these things. Most vocal was the president of the movement’s youth league, a young man from a nearby shantytown. He’s a real firebrand. He held forth for the hours that we were with him, deploring the state in which he and the rest of his community are allowed to live in and calling repeatedly for the right to land and housing. He explained to us the work they have been doing in collaboration with the government to get these demands realized. And when they feel that the government is not listening they march—sometimes as many as 10,000 strong they march. And if they continue to feel that government is not listening to them, they have other tactics as well...they admitted that if they felt the situation called for it, they would even consider violence against the state. Actually I don’t think he intended to tell us that (in the States it would be a federal offense to have such a conversation, and the same is probably true here), but at one point it was I who asked him directly, “Would you ever consider violence?” He danced around the question for a while as one can imagine, but eventually his firebrand nature got the best of him and as he got so worked up in speaking he told us that yes they absolutely would consider it if need be. Violent protest, after all, is not without precedent in South Africa.
I felt conflicted about what I was hearing. Beyond my concerns about the effectiveness (leaving aside the morality) of violent protest—which can summed up by saying that I am much more of a “work the system” type than a “fight the system” type—I am also aware that while land and housing are certainly two important needs of the community, having the government build new homes does not necessarily address the more systemic factors that led to mass homelessness in the first place. People need income. They need jobs. With enough income people can become independent and buy their own land and build their own houses. So what is stopping people from getting these kinds of jobs? I would rather have that conversation than a conversation about a relatively unsustainable government housing proposal that would perpetuate people’s dependence on the state instead of helping them to become self-sufficient. Affordable housing is important, don’t get me wrong, and the right to land can give someone independence in a way few other privileges can. The point is these are complicated challenges whose only hope of resolution comes when the brute force of a movement can be married to a nuanced understanding of intricate problem.
Unlike the rural poor, these slum dwellers enjoy the benefits of a larger community. When they need to they can even organize themselves into a critical mass of protesters to get the attention of the government –we met some of those community organizers today. They are also closer to the city, which means increased job opportunities, and increased access to healthcare and education (not that they are always able to take advantage of these services, but such services are nonetheless closer within reach than they would be in rural communities). Perhaps the largest downside to living in communities like Kennedy Avenue, at least when compared to other forms of poverty, is the density with which people live. What can be a blessing when it comes to political organization can become a terrible curse when it comes to sanitation, disease, and crime. Crime can be especially bad in South Africa, and of all crimes the one most prevalent (yet least talked about)—in this environment with so many women and children alongside so many unemployed and idle young men—is sexual harassment and assault.
What can be done to improve the lives of the people in the Kennedy Avenue shantytowns? It’s a complicated question. One organization, Abahlali baseMjondolo, formed four years ago by slum dwellers themselves, claims the answer is simple and can be summed up in two straightforward demands: land and housing. We met with members of the movement that is fighting for these things. Most vocal was the president of the movement’s youth league, a young man from a nearby shantytown. He’s a real firebrand. He held forth for the hours that we were with him, deploring the state in which he and the rest of his community are allowed to live in and calling repeatedly for the right to land and housing. He explained to us the work they have been doing in collaboration with the government to get these demands realized. And when they feel that the government is not listening they march—sometimes as many as 10,000 strong they march. And if they continue to feel that government is not listening to them, they have other tactics as well...they admitted that if they felt the situation called for it, they would even consider violence against the state. Actually I don’t think he intended to tell us that (in the States it would be a federal offense to have such a conversation, and the same is probably true here), but at one point it was I who asked him directly, “Would you ever consider violence?” He danced around the question for a while as one can imagine, but eventually his firebrand nature got the best of him and as he got so worked up in speaking he told us that yes they absolutely would consider it if need be. Violent protest, after all, is not without precedent in South Africa.
I felt conflicted about what I was hearing. Beyond my concerns about the effectiveness (leaving aside the morality) of violent protest—which can summed up by saying that I am much more of a “work the system” type than a “fight the system” type—I am also aware that while land and housing are certainly two important needs of the community, having the government build new homes does not necessarily address the more systemic factors that led to mass homelessness in the first place. People need income. They need jobs. With enough income people can become independent and buy their own land and build their own houses. So what is stopping people from getting these kinds of jobs? I would rather have that conversation than a conversation about a relatively unsustainable government housing proposal that would perpetuate people’s dependence on the state instead of helping them to become self-sufficient. Affordable housing is important, don’t get me wrong, and the right to land can give someone independence in a way few other privileges can. The point is these are complicated challenges whose only hope of resolution comes when the brute force of a movement can be married to a nuanced understanding of intricate problem.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Getting to Durban
In my white plastic bag there were
two boxes of salt water taffy,
three specialty bars of scented soap,
and two maple leaf-shaped 1.7 fluid once glass containers of Vermont maple syrup:
these are the items I have been carrying with me at all times for the last five days as I have tried to get from Boston, Massachusetts to Durban, South Africa—a more challenging journey than I had anticipated.
A week and a half ago I was in Hong Kong. After a rich and even magical experience in Asia, we flew from Hong Kong to Boston, where it was my delightful obligation to attend my brother’s wedding. The wedding was beautiful. It was simple and short, in the company of loved ones, and even more exciting than the wedding is the marriage—the promise of a lifetime of married days to come: ordinary days, made special because they are shared. After the reception the bride and groom escaped, and the next day, Sunday, I departed for South Africa to join an SIT (School for International Training) program studying the educational system there. This is when things started to go wrong for me.
There were several times I felt like swearing this past week:
The first was when I got off the plane from Boston to Atlanta only to be told that I could not board the connecting flight to Johannesburg because I did not have a sufficiently blank visa page in my passport. In a panic I ran to the business office on the other side of the airport, which offered to get extra pages added to my passport –but it would cost me 700 USD. I forwent that option, in favor of going back to Boston where I could go to the U.S. Passport Agency in person (there wasn’t one in Atlanta) and have them add the pages for a mere 60 USD. (Who knew how long that would take though.)
The second time I felt like swearing was at the hotel in Atlanta where Delta put me up for the night because there were no more flights to Boston. I was tired, stressed, and hungry, and the only thing to eat was vastly over-priced food at the hotel restaurant.
The next time was the following morning, now back in Logan International Airport. After a long time on hold, the woman on the phone at the U.S. Passport Agency told me I could only come in if I had an appointment, and that the next available appointment wouldn’t be until Friday. Did I mention that because of Peter’s wedding I was already late for my South Africa program to begin with? And a Friday appointment would have translated roughly into missing a third of the entire program.
I went to the Passport Agency anyway, for lack of any other option. By 1:00 PM I finally got to the front of a very slow moving line, where they told me the only way I could get an appointment was if I could show an itinerary proving I was leaving the country the next day, but that they stopped allowing appointments after 1:30. Sort of a catch-22 if you ask me, as I wasn’t exceptionally keen on booking a flight out of the country if I wasn’t sure I could leave the country. Nevertheless, with no other option I called Delta on my cell phone to get a new ticket while running down the street looking for somewhere that would let me on the internet to print out the itinerary Delta would hopefully e-mail me. Somehow, through luck and miracle, things fell into place within the half hour and I made it back to the Passport Agency just in time. And after much more standing in line, and waiting, and standing in line, and waiting, I finally had the extra pages in my passport. It was Monday afternoon by this time. It was actually not much more than 24 hours since I had left Boston for the first time, but it felt like an eternity had passed. That is how it feels when every minute seems urgent.
I took the T out to Belmont, where my sister and her husband have been living in a condo. They were out of town, but I found the spare key and slept there that night.
The next morning I tried to do the trip all over again. There are certain perks to going back and forth as much as I did, such as getting to know the airports really well. I can tell you, for instance, exactly where to find The Economist—they don’t sell it at the Newslink in Boston, but they do sell it at the CNN store in Terminal E in Atlanta. They also sell it in the Borders just after the security check in the Boston airport, but it’s sort of hidden away beneath the cash register area.
Our flight from Boston to Atlanta took longer than scheduled on account of bad weather along the east coast, but the flight to Johannesburg was delayed by two hours as well, so I didn’t miss it. I did however miss my flight to Durban when I finally arrived in South Africa. They had to put me up at a hotel in Joburg because the next flight out wasn’t until the morning, but by this point I had become so used to missed connections that I didn’t feel like swearing anymore. (I never actually did swear anyway.) The next morning—Thursday by now—I flew to Durban (on the second flight out instead of the first because no one ever gave me the wake-up call I had requested). There in Durban, finally, I joined my fellow students and began my South African adventure in earnest.
...of course, I do not yet have my checked baggage. It is now Friday night, and I may or may not get them tomorrow. They have been sitting in Atlanta since last Sunday, and all that’s with me are my carry-ons: a backpack filled with books and a laptop, and a plastic bag with a few gifts for my home stay families that I purchased Sunday in the Boston airport gift shop. It is an odd selection of items to have clung to so tightly throughout this whole adventure, from airport to airport, from one random hotel room to another, and across the Atlantic—simple mementos from New England: some soap, some taffy, and some maple syrup.
two boxes of salt water taffy,
three specialty bars of scented soap,
and two maple leaf-shaped 1.7 fluid once glass containers of Vermont maple syrup:
these are the items I have been carrying with me at all times for the last five days as I have tried to get from Boston, Massachusetts to Durban, South Africa—a more challenging journey than I had anticipated.
A week and a half ago I was in Hong Kong. After a rich and even magical experience in Asia, we flew from Hong Kong to Boston, where it was my delightful obligation to attend my brother’s wedding. The wedding was beautiful. It was simple and short, in the company of loved ones, and even more exciting than the wedding is the marriage—the promise of a lifetime of married days to come: ordinary days, made special because they are shared. After the reception the bride and groom escaped, and the next day, Sunday, I departed for South Africa to join an SIT (School for International Training) program studying the educational system there. This is when things started to go wrong for me.
There were several times I felt like swearing this past week:
The first was when I got off the plane from Boston to Atlanta only to be told that I could not board the connecting flight to Johannesburg because I did not have a sufficiently blank visa page in my passport. In a panic I ran to the business office on the other side of the airport, which offered to get extra pages added to my passport –but it would cost me 700 USD. I forwent that option, in favor of going back to Boston where I could go to the U.S. Passport Agency in person (there wasn’t one in Atlanta) and have them add the pages for a mere 60 USD. (Who knew how long that would take though.)
The second time I felt like swearing was at the hotel in Atlanta where Delta put me up for the night because there were no more flights to Boston. I was tired, stressed, and hungry, and the only thing to eat was vastly over-priced food at the hotel restaurant.
The next time was the following morning, now back in Logan International Airport. After a long time on hold, the woman on the phone at the U.S. Passport Agency told me I could only come in if I had an appointment, and that the next available appointment wouldn’t be until Friday. Did I mention that because of Peter’s wedding I was already late for my South Africa program to begin with? And a Friday appointment would have translated roughly into missing a third of the entire program.
I went to the Passport Agency anyway, for lack of any other option. By 1:00 PM I finally got to the front of a very slow moving line, where they told me the only way I could get an appointment was if I could show an itinerary proving I was leaving the country the next day, but that they stopped allowing appointments after 1:30. Sort of a catch-22 if you ask me, as I wasn’t exceptionally keen on booking a flight out of the country if I wasn’t sure I could leave the country. Nevertheless, with no other option I called Delta on my cell phone to get a new ticket while running down the street looking for somewhere that would let me on the internet to print out the itinerary Delta would hopefully e-mail me. Somehow, through luck and miracle, things fell into place within the half hour and I made it back to the Passport Agency just in time. And after much more standing in line, and waiting, and standing in line, and waiting, I finally had the extra pages in my passport. It was Monday afternoon by this time. It was actually not much more than 24 hours since I had left Boston for the first time, but it felt like an eternity had passed. That is how it feels when every minute seems urgent.
I took the T out to Belmont, where my sister and her husband have been living in a condo. They were out of town, but I found the spare key and slept there that night.
The next morning I tried to do the trip all over again. There are certain perks to going back and forth as much as I did, such as getting to know the airports really well. I can tell you, for instance, exactly where to find The Economist—they don’t sell it at the Newslink in Boston, but they do sell it at the CNN store in Terminal E in Atlanta. They also sell it in the Borders just after the security check in the Boston airport, but it’s sort of hidden away beneath the cash register area.
Our flight from Boston to Atlanta took longer than scheduled on account of bad weather along the east coast, but the flight to Johannesburg was delayed by two hours as well, so I didn’t miss it. I did however miss my flight to Durban when I finally arrived in South Africa. They had to put me up at a hotel in Joburg because the next flight out wasn’t until the morning, but by this point I had become so used to missed connections that I didn’t feel like swearing anymore. (I never actually did swear anyway.) The next morning—Thursday by now—I flew to Durban (on the second flight out instead of the first because no one ever gave me the wake-up call I had requested). There in Durban, finally, I joined my fellow students and began my South African adventure in earnest.
...of course, I do not yet have my checked baggage. It is now Friday night, and I may or may not get them tomorrow. They have been sitting in Atlanta since last Sunday, and all that’s with me are my carry-ons: a backpack filled with books and a laptop, and a plastic bag with a few gifts for my home stay families that I purchased Sunday in the Boston airport gift shop. It is an odd selection of items to have clung to so tightly throughout this whole adventure, from airport to airport, from one random hotel room to another, and across the Atlantic—simple mementos from New England: some soap, some taffy, and some maple syrup.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
travels
Burma was about a month ago now. Since then I've been back to Beijing, I've visited Shanghai, Suzhou, and Hong Kong. I have flown to Boston for my brother's wedding, and three hours from now I will be boarding a plane headed to Durban, South Africa.
I will be in SA for the next six weeks, and will continue blogging from there. I will also try to retell some stories from the last month of my Asian trip.
Until next time!
I will be in SA for the next six weeks, and will continue blogging from there. I will also try to retell some stories from the last month of my Asian trip.
Until next time!
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