Bobby Seale to speak at MSU!!

*PLEASE FORWARD WIDELY!*

The W.E.B. Du Bois Society and the Young Democratic Socialists Present

Co-founder and former Chairman of the Black Panther Party for Self Defense

Bobby Seale

Thursday, January 15th, 2009

Join us for an inspiring lecture given by a historic icon and legend within the Civil Rights and Black Liberation Movements:

"The State of Black Politics in the 21st Century"

Lecture begins at 5pm in the Kellogg Hotel and Conference Center Auditorium, followed promptly by a Q&A Session.

Doors open at 4:45pm

For more information, please e-mail

msuduboissociety@gmail.com or

msuyds@gmail.com.

Also, see attached flier.

We would like to thank all

of our sponsors for their support:

The Office of Inclusion and Intercultural Initiatives• James Madison College • The Office of the Vice President for Student Affairs and Services • The Residential College of Arts and Humanities •The Multicultural Business Program • The African American and African Studies Program • Case Hall Government • Lyman Briggs College

Why the "white girl" joined "the Black struggle."

Last week I wrote about a certain transformation of mine--one of racial transcendence and of forming bonds of solidarity with African-African Americans. I told you how I overcame my fears about personally interacting with Black people and how I was able to build strong relationships with people I would have otherwise avoided, simply because they were “different” from myself. But what I failed to tell you was why I was moved to do it. Why was it so important for me to learn more about Black culture, or to truly understand the consequences of Black history in the United States? What motivated me from just knowing about the history of racial struggle in this country, to actively doing something about achieving racial justice in the present by joining Black organizations on campus? What moved me to study African American and African studies in school or decide to devote my life to working toward equalizing educational opportunity for children of color across the Diaspora? In a world where many would argue racism no longer exists, I can’t help but point to the overwhelming amount of racism that still exists. Though outward and obvious forms of racism such as slavery or segregation are no longer allowed, a new kind of racial exploitation has taken its place. Now it is through racist institutions and structures such as laws, public bodies, corporations, and universities that perpetuate racial disparities. The fact of the matter is my dedication to the Black liberation struggle is not one that is seen among the majority of white people in this country. I hope that by sharing my reasons and the stories of two other brave white women, Viola Liuzzo and Silvia Baraldini, I will be able to convince others to see the truth as I did, and to be moved away from the status quo and toward action against injustice.

In March of 1965, a group of peaceful protestors in Selma, Alabama were attacked by state troopers as they Marched toward Montgomery. A few days later another group of protestors, led by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., won a court order allowing for another march from Selma to Montgomery directing the state to protect the marchers. The Governor at that time, a well known racist, told the White House that the state couldn’t afford to pay for the mobilization of the National Guard, so President Johnson sent in 1,900 of Alabama’s National Guard, 2,000 regular army soldiers, and 200 FBI agents and US marshals to protect the march. Viola Liuzzo, a 39 year old housewife from Detroit watched the second march move toward the Alabama capital. Liuzzo had watched the disaster of the first march on TV and decided she needed to do something to aid the Civil Rights marchers. Against the wishes of her husband and five children, Liuzzo drove alone from Michigan to Alabama in her family’s car to assist where she could.

Earlier in the week before the second march, Liuzzo had spent most of her time working at the hospitality desk in Brown Chapel at Selma and used her car to take people back and forth to Montgomery’s airport. The last day of the march to Montgomery, she worked at the first aid station, aiding those who had fainted from heat or exertion during the march. She then watched Dr. King deliver his "How long will it take? ... Not long, because mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord” speech. When the march ended, there were thousands of people from across the country who had come to participate in the marche, just like Liuzzo, that needed to get out of the city. She loaded her car with passengers, mostly black, and headed back toward Selma. When the passengers were dropped off, Liuzzo and Leroy Moton, a black teenager, headed back to Mongomery to pick up more people. After being harassed several times before leaving Selma, they stopped at a traffic light. Soon another car pulled up beside them. When the lights changed, the car began to speed up and chased Liuzzo. The chase went on for almost 20 miles as she tried to outrun her pursuers. All the while she was singing “We Shall Overcome” at the top of her lungs. Soon the other car closed in—a car full of Klansmen. One of the men fired twice into Liuzzo’s car, killing her.

An all white jury in Alabama acquitted the four Klansmen for the murder of Liuzzo. Since they could not be charged with murder in federal courts, they were tried under another law with conspiring to deprive her of her civil rights. They were found guilty, and served only 20 years in prison. The punishment given to these men was hardly appropriate for such a heinous act of injustice.

Another great woman, Silvia Baraldini, gave up her white privilege to aid in the struggle for people of color. At 14, she moved to the United States from Italy with her parents. Later on in life she attended the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where she became a political activist. She became active in both the Black Power and Puerto Rican independence movements in the US between the 1960s and 80s.

In 1982 Baraldini was sentenced to 43 years in prison for conspiring to commit two armed robberies, driving a getaway car during the prison break of convicted murderer and fellow political activist Assata Shakur, who was wrongly accused of shooting and killing a New Jersey State Trooper, and for contempt of court for refusing to testify before a Grand Jury that was investigating the activities of the Puerto Rican independence movement.

Soon after her conviction, a campaign for her release began in Italy, mainly among leftist parties and movements. Her supporters claimed that the harshness of her punishment was due to her political beliefs and for her participation in the Black Liberation Army. Her punishment was seen as unfair and disproportionate to her “crimes.” Had she been convicted for the same crimes in Italy, her sentence would have only been a maximum of 25 years in prison.

After serving time in several maximum-security prisons, and after repeated petitions by the Italian government for her transfer, Baraldini was transferred to Italy to serve the remainder of her sentence. According to the terms of the agreement, she was supposed to stay in prison until 2008, but was released on house arrest in 2001. In 2006, she was released from detention in September of 2006 by a general pardon approved by the Italian Parliament.

Both of these women recognized the injustice that their brothers and sisters of color were facing in the United States. Both knew that despite what anyone else told them, they were doing the right thing by stepping up and taking on the burden of joining the struggle to end racism against people of color. They realized that the Black struggle is what American socialists and communists recognized earlier in US history: the struggle for true democracy. They struggled for a kind of democracy where racism, class division, and feelings of fear and hatred toward people “different” from the social norm were abolished. Viola Liuzzo and Silvia Baraldini were willing to give up the privilege that so many white women cherish and achieve freedom for all human beings at any price, including their lives. They believed, as I believe, that everyone on this earth deserves the right for equal opportunity. Seeing that such equality was being denied to people of color through racist institutions and structures, seeing the contradictions within our own government, we must be willing to face scrutiny and disapproval from the loved ones in our lives as well as expulsion and punishment from the society around us in order to do what’s right. In the face of great suffering, where do you stand? Are you willing to watch your brothers and sisters get beat down in the street, are you ready to watch democracy burn, or are you ready to take a stand and do something to change it?

Overcoming hate at first sight

Before most people meet me, they assume that I am Black. Take one look at my resume, academic major, class schedule, the walls of my room, or even my Facebook page interests, and if not accompanied by a picture or the real thing, people are often taken for surprise. I can recall several situations as I was going in for a job interview, or simply walking into someone's office when I was expected to arrive looking somewhat different. First there is a slight look of confusion. Then, the confusion quickly melts into an overly lit up expression of politeness, as a hand is extended, usually followed by the words: "Oh, you're Nicole!"

So before they meet me, people sometimes construct an image of me that isn't entirely true. Well, maybe not entirely untrue either. It really depends on how you view what “Black” is. Is it merely a skin color or can it also be an ideology, or a culture formed from hundreds of years of first physical and now economic oppression? To be Black, do I have to wear a certain type of clothing and listen to certain kinds of music? Can I only eat certain types of food, or only speak a certain way? I may define “Blackness” in ways different from some and others may embrace and share my definitions. In the ways in which I define Blackness, I could most certainly be a part of it. Blackness can’t be pinned down to one idea or to one word. There are only two things about Blackness of which I am certain—1) it is ever changing and evolving, and 2) having black or brown skin does not automatically make you understand the complexities of being "Black" in today's world.

Before coming to Michigan State and becoming more involved with classes, groups, and organizations dealing with African American studies and Black culture, I had relatively little interaction with people who were different from myself, both racially or ecnomically. The demographic simply did not exist in my quiet little farming town on the outskirts of Flint, Michigan. I grew up believing certain stereotypes and myths about Black people until I went to school. My ideas had never really been challenged and I had never interacted with Black people in any significant way that would have caused me to think differently. In the last 3 years that has changed dramatically, but it wasn't always easy. At least for me.

It wasn't much of a problem for me to get along with Black men. The guys that I hung out with at my residential college were pretty cool and were into a lot of the same things as I was. We would hang out after classes in the library, in the study lounges, and at meetings for groups such as the W.E.B. Du Bois Society and get to know each other. We would also go to Detroit on the weekends to tutor at-risk youth at a middle school. The car rides there and back were ways for all of us to bond and get to know one another. We talked a lot about race, and in many ways they helped me become more comfortable with relating with people that were different from myself. I grew very comfortable around them, but something was missing. I desperately wanted to be accepted by the seemingly elusive black women that were also in these groups, but they wanted really nothing to do with me. I can understand some of the historical reasons for this, but it didn't deter me from trying to become closer to them. At the same time, I was scared to death. Why should something so simple seem so impossible? When I walked into a room, I felt the eyes of every Black woman question my existence.

Every pair of eyes was asking...
whatchu doin' here, white girl?
whatchu lookin' at?
dontchu know you outta yo' mind to be here?
you can't talk like us
walk like us
look like us…
and don't even think about takin' our men.
you had yo' time to shine
when we was in the house
when we was in the fields
feedin' yo' babies from our own breasts
when ours went red faced and hungry.
nuh-uh white girl, get out.
where was you when we took to the streets
beggin 'for the lynchin' of our husbands and brothers and sons to stop?
you was too busy fixin' yo sashes and marchin' for yo' vote
you was too busy orderin' us to scrub yo floors like a dog
than to care about our losses or homes with no heat.
where was you when we needed you again, sister?
you told the world you was woman,
you made them respect YOUR rights,
but you kept us quiet.
what about us ain't woman like you?
white girl, you disappointed us.
white girl, you disappoint us.
don't call us Black bitch,
don't call us whore,
don't call us welfare lovers, ugly, fat, wide-nosed, dirty, lazy, ignorant,
big hipped, big lipped--
then come to our place lookin' for us to accept you.
girl, we don't wanna see yo' face.
we see it every day when we look in the mirror
makin' our hair stringy and straight like yours
bleaching our skin until our plastic blue eyes water.
white girl you best move on,
cuz we ain't got nothin' to say to you
and you go no time to listen.

I was patient, and eventually it paid off. Many events, protests, meetings, classes, study sessions, car rides, and girl giggle sessions later, I found myself in a very happy place. When it was obvious that I wasn't going anywhere and that I was seriously down with the cause, many of the black women really started to open up to me. I realized that for the majority of the time, it wasn't really that black women rejected me, but that I rejected me. As I accepted myself and the reasons why I was there, it became easier for all of us to open up to one another. When I stopped giving myself reasons to feel different, I immediately felt accepted. When I am in a room full of my best friends, many of who happen to be Black, I am not even aware of the fact that I have "white" skin. The only way I can really describe it would be... I see things through the common eyes of friendship and sisterhood... a powerful force that can only be built through struggling together and through building bonds of trust. I have few friends, but many sisters.

It would take books to describe how this transformation happened, to describe all the moments that built up to lead up to this becoming possible for any of us. Building sincere friendships that last, friendships between people from very different walks of life and those next door alike, isn't hard. You just gotta come to it with an open mind and put the heart into it. You don't have to prove yourself to anyone. Just let the work you do speak for you, and those you wish to hear it will listen.

Chicago workers shut down plant -- a sign of more to come?

On Saturday a group of 250 unionized workers peacefully shut down the Republic Windows and Doors plant after they were given 3 day’s notice that their factory was closing. They were also told that they would not be getting their severance packages or their vacation pay. With the thought of losing their jobs in an already unforving economy, workers decided to take action and are still protesting at this very moment.

So what started this mess in Chicago? As the workers closed down the plant in shifts, union leaders talked to the press outside and criticized the bailout of the plant that is leaving ordinary laborers behind while the head honchos on top leave with millions. The company claims that it can’t pay its employees because cancelled loans from the Bank of America won’t let them.

The Bank of America received $25 million by the US government in order to give out to corporations in the form of loans. Republic Windows and Doors was one of the many factories that was given tax payer money by the government during the bailouts, and their loans were to come from the Bank of America. When their loan money was cancelled and their monthly sales had almost fallen by half ($2.9 million), CEO Rich Gillman decided to close the doors of the factory. The Bank of America responded that they were not responsible for the factory’s financial obligations to its employees, therefore resolving itself of any guilt. It does seem rather ironic doesn’t it… taxpayer money being handed out to banks and corporations and not being used to better the working conditions for the TAX PAYING workers. Workers and protesters outside the factory realize how badly they had been exploited and carrying signs that say: “You got bailed out, we got sold out.”

Workers along with US Representative Luis Gutierrez (D) arranged for a meeting with company officials on Friday, but were angered when no officials showed up. Another meeting was scheduled for today in the afternoon.

The workers of the Republic factory are finding themselves in the national spotlight, providing hope and encouragement for workers across the country that find themselves without jobs. Many of the workers are surprised to see support coming from Rev. Jesse Jackson who has delivered food for the striking workers, the governor of Illinois, Rod Blagojevich who has urged all corporations in Illinois to not accept loans from the Bank of America, and even Barack Obama who spoke in favor of their strike. “The workers who are asking for the benefits and payments that they have earned, I think they’re absolutely right and understand that what’s happening to them is reflective of what’s happening across this economy,” he said at a news conference on Sunday.

Such action is reminiscent of the workers’ struggles in the 1920s and 30s. It has been compared to the 1936-37 sit down strikes by General Motors factory workers in Flint, MI as a way to unionize the Auto Industry. As the United States finds itself on the brink of another depression, is this a sign of things to come? Will similar protest be seen around the country as the economy continues to get worse?

We can only hope so.

It may be the only hope for the working class people of this nation.

Reflections of Zonke in August

As I lazily gaze out the window at my backyard, watching the wind blow through the leaves of the trees, it suddenly hits me--it doesn’t seem real that almost three weeks ago I was still working as an intern for VVOCF in South Africa. The last three months were completely real, but sometimes I feel like it was all a dream. Since I have returned to the US, I have woken up a few times in the middle of the night, disturbed by a dog’s bark, and I’ll think I’m in my bed back at my home in Zonke. I’ll hear a child laugh or scream, and I’ll think it’s one of the kids. I’ve even almost yelled at my young nephews in Zulu, almost telling them to “Hambani!”(“Get out!”) of my room when they were annoying me. It’s only been a few weeks, but I miss my family on the other side of the world.

I know that even though I’m not there, life goes on in Zonkizizwe. For some, that means so does the struggle to survive, to bring money into the home, put food on the table, all while trying to keep the family together. For Nomusa Buthelezi it means getting up every day at 7am to help seven children (her nieces, nephews, and her own children) get ready for school, clean the home, do the laundry, and get ready to run her NPO Vumundzuku-Bya Vana Our Children’s Future, of which she is the founder and director. Sometime during all that, she must also find the time to take care of her special needs; Nomusa is HIV+. Nomusa’s life has been closely affected by the ills of apartheid. She had to leave school at Grade 6 to take care of her younger sisters and brothers when her family went into hiding because of increasing violence in the townships. She has lived in Zonkizizwe her entire life, living through hardships and terrifying times that most could never imagine having to go through. She is a woman of endless energy and great determination, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for her. She taught me what it means to truly be dedicated to something. Her calling was to help the poor and vulnerable children in her township by starting her own non-profit that would cater to their basic needs of having food to eat, clothes to wear, people to call family, and a place have fun at and call home.

During the time I was working in South Africa, I learned a great amount about what it takes to run a non-profit organization. It seems like we were always filling out some form or correcting some mistake after paperwork was submitted, attending some meeting, or running off to Pretoria or Johannesburg to deal with various government departments. VVOCF is still a very new NPO, so our work included a lot of developmental things as well, such as organizing the office, learning how to use certain computer programs, or learning how to properly keep financial books. In addition to the office work there was creating educational and entertaining programming for the kids who came to the center. We also had to make sure we had enough food to keep the kids fed for an entire month at a time. Things were made more difficult by the fact that we didn’t always have a car to run and do these things. That meant that many a day was spent (and much time wasted) taking taxi from place to place. Often times we didn’t find what we were looking for, municipal workers were striking, or people didn’t show up to meet when they had promised. Despite the hardships, we kept chugging along. No matter what, the needs of the children and youth always came first—Nomusa always saw to that.

In addition to learning about what it takes to run an NPO in a developing country, I also learned a lot about myself during this internship. I learned where my passion lies—working in education, whether it be teaching or more administrative. I also learned the valuable virtue of patience. I tried to come to South Africa with an open mind, one that would be willing to learn about and embrace different people, different languages, and different cultures. Because of that, I think I was much more able to just roll with the punches. Things did not always go as planned, and though that would have bothered me before, I find it not to be such a big deal now. I learned to be flexible, that sometimes it’s necessary to stop and re-evaluate or alter the plan, and it reduced a lot of stress in my life. I also learned that sometimes you have to do things the hard way, because it’s the only way. There’s no reason to complain about it because it doesn’t help anyone and it just makes the work more stressful. This internship provided me with experience to learn a great many things, and I truly believe I grew from it.

So yes, life goes on in Zonkizizwe. I wish I could be there to help the children succeed, and to help Nomusa achieve her dream of eradicating the suffering of children in Zonkizizwe (and maybe someday, the rest of the world), but it’s not yet my time. I must finish my undergraduate education, among other things. I made positive contributions to the development of the center while I was there, and now I trust Nomusa and the rest of the staff to continue the work we were doing. Even though I cannot go back for as long as I’d like to now, I will still be closely connected by other means. I am helping campaign to raise money for our education fund, and possibly working alongside another student organization to raise funds for general programs at the center. Who knows, maybe someday I will be able to go back and work for a long period of time; it really depends on the state of the NPO. In the meantime, I will do what I can for the center with what I have, and I know it will be good enough. Life goes on all across the world-- and we all do what we can.

Saturday August 9, 2008

On my last full day here in South Africa, I decided to take my little sister Zinhle to Johannesburg. She rarely ever gets to leave Zonkizizwe, so I thought it would be treat for her to get out of the township and have a little fun. Back home in the United States, my immediate family is rather small. I have an older sister, but she is much older than me. She was 16 years old when I was born, and moved out of the house when I was 2. Because of that, I have always been raised as an only child. I had a lot of cousins, but it was never the same growing up. I always wished that I had little brothers and sisters to play with. Coming to South Africa, and living with the people I am working with has given me a chance to extend my family. Nomusa, who I now view like a second mother, has three children—Zinhle who is going on 12, Sphe who is 10, and Sinethemba who is 5 months. I think of them like my little brothers and sisters now and use every chance I can get to spoil them! I think of it as making up for lost time…

Before Zinhle and I left for Johannesburg I had her ask Gogo for permission to come. Gogo gave the go ahead, so Zinhle quickly washed up and we were on our way by noon! We took a taxi from Zonki to the MTN taxi rank in downtown Johannesburg. I was afraid that Zinhle would get car sick, because she is not used to riding in cars, but she did fine. She must have been very excited. We got off at the MTN station and she quickly grabbed my hand. She certainly wasn’t used to all the commotion of the streets of Johannesburg, despite the fact that Zonke streets can be pretty crowded sometimes.

We walked quickly through the rank to Noord Street where there was a huge marketplace. Before we went shopping we stopped at Chicken Licken and I let her order whatever she wanted. She ordered the biggest sandwich they had on the menu! I just smiled and placed the order. We finished eating (and I finished eating her meal, because as I suspected she couldn’t finish it—“Nicole, I’m so suthi (full). You can eat this…”) and headed out to the marketplace. I told her that she could pick out any one thing she wanted, but to keep a look out for a South African flag for me. It’s ridiculously hard to find a flag in South Africa, unlike the US where even gas stations have flags for sale. At first she wanted jewelry but when she couldn’t find anything she wanted she changed her mine to shoes—not just any shoes but a special pair of white shoes with hot pink straps and flowers on them. We went up and down the streets into all the stores and looked through all the stands trying to find her size. I didn’t want to venture too far away from Noord Street because we weren’t in the greatest part of Johannesburg and I wanted to make sure we stayed close the taxi rank. Now that I look back on it, we probably shouldn’t have gone to some of the areas that we did. We were put into one particularly shady situation when I went into this tent to ask if they had South African flags. One guy told us to follow him because he knew where they sold flags. Two other guys start yelling at me not to go with him because he is a tsotsi (gangster). “If you go with him,” the one man said, “you’ll be finished.” That was a cue to get the heck out of that area and to get Zinhle out of danger by staying close to the main road.

The entire time we were walking Zinhle was holding my hand and talking up a storm. She’s usually so quiet, so it was nice to see her talking and laughing. We kept laughing because people were looking at me and yelling “HEY UMULUNGU!” People were probably wondering what a white girl was doing in downtown Johannesburg with a little Black African girl. A few people asked Zinhle who I was and she proudly answered: “She’s my sister!” One Indian man had the nerve to contradict her and tell her there was no way I could be her sister, I was white and she was black. Zinhle just shrugged and smiled. We walked past him and I said “Like they say, that’s democracy man…” He just shook his head and watched us walk away. Our skin colors had never been an issue between us—it was invisible. I love her and see her as my little sister. The fact that people kept pointing it out to us wasn’t surprising to me, as the country still has a lot of healing to do since the end of apartheid, but sometimes it did catch me off guard. When will people understand that love doesn’t discriminate, that love comes in a color all its own?

Finally we found the shoes in a shop a few streets over from Noord. We had been everywhere but still couldn’t find a flag—we decided we had enough of shopping and it was time to go home. I found the taxi back to Zonke and Zinhle fell asleep in the taxi, head on my shoulder and hand still pressed into mine. I couldn’t help but smile the whole way home.

Friday August 8, 2008

I’m back in Zonkizizwe now, and it’s been a few days since I’ve returned from Lesotho—I’ve been tired from my journey but I will recount what has happened on the rest of my trip as best as I can. I decided to leave the lodge on the third day because I had done everything I wanted to do, and I was anxious to get back to the center. I wanted to spend more time with the kids before I leave in two days.

Mafa and I ended going on the village trek that last day in the morning. I made him a lunch and also gave him some food to bring to his family. Now that I look back I wish I would have made him some more sandwiches. I told him I wish I could give him some money for a tip, but I was running low and I still needed to get back to Maseru. He laughed and told me that lunch was fine—he wasn’t too greedy for money because it “couldn’t replace the feeling one gets from living a good life.” Anyways, he took me to the home of the sangoma, and when we got there he was tending to his garden. We went into his home and Mafa translated for me, because the sangoma couldn’t speak English very well. He shook some seashells and predicted that I would be married soon (gee, just what I’ve always wanted) and have two children, one boy and one girl. He also told me that God and all my ancestors have been very good to me, and I must throw a party for them to thank them for my good fortune in life. I thanked him, and then Mafa and I rode back through the village and then to Mafeteng Primary School.

At the school I took some time to talk to the teachers. They told me that their biggest hardship was their salary—they only get paid about the equivalent of 300 - 400 US dollars per year! The schools are desperately underfunded as well, and many times the teachers finding themselves paying out of pocket for the learners’ various school costs. I said my goodbyes and we made our way back to the lodge.

When I got back I found that there were hundreds of kids waiting outside of the lodge for school shoes. Apparently some random Dutch guy had donated R 40,000 worth of shoes to the schoolchildren in the Malealea area! I could see at least four different kinds of school uniforms. Some of the children had walked very far that day in order to receive shoes.

As much as I would have liked to stay at the lodge for another night, it was time to go. Mafa helped me find a taxi going back to Maseru. I was very sad to leave Mafa—he was such an awesome guy—but we did part all smiles.

During my short stay at the lodge, I wasn’t really able to gauge how much of asset to the community it really was. The lodge does employ many people from the surrounding villages, but the people are being paid pittance wages in comparison to the amount of profit that the lodge is raking in. The lodge promises to offer guests a taste of “The Real Africa,” but I’m still not quite sure what that means. Though the staff is mainly African, the majority of people who stay there are—you guessed it—white people. They are mainly Europeans from Holland, France, Spain, the UK, and Italy—I was the only American there as far as I knew. These people come to experience “The Real Africa,” but I’m not sure they’re getting it. Pony Treks to the falls or bushman paintings are awful nice, but it’s not something the average African can afford. The huge, delicious meals are wonderful, but the majority of people in Africa aren’t eating that well every night. Nor do many Africans have clean running water, electricity, or a luxurious roof over their heads. Most Africans (most people in general, with the exception of the rich few) are worried about keeping food on the table and their family together, or worried about dealing with poor health and HIV/AIDS. Sure, the lodge is providing jobs for people in the community and giving donations to local schools, but I must keep in mind that while I stay warm and well fed in my hut after a nice long, hot shower, or when my holiday is over and I go back to my comfortable home, some of these people working at the lodge have a long distance to walk home in the dark. And when they get home, they may not be met with dinner, a warm shower, or a bed to sleep in. I must not forget my privilege—I must not forget that sometimes I benefit from someone else’s sacrifice, and I must make amends.

On the taxi to Maseru I met a woman named Clara who was from Zimbabwe, and she helped me find my way when we transferred taxis and when we got to Maseru. She told me how she comes to South Africa and Lesotho to sell things so she can go home and pay her children’s school fees and pay for food. Clara exchanges most of her Rand for Zim dollars on the black market because the banks in Zimbabwe don’t have any money. Needless to say, she was not a Mugabe fan. We shared my left over bread and peanut butter on the way to Maseru, and I gave her some Rand to get back home.

When I got to Maseru I decided it was too late to try and go home now, so I booked a room at the Victoria Hotel in downtown Maseru. The hotel was very costly, but it was getting late and there was no guarantee that there would be open rooms at any of the guesthouses. It was nice to sleep in the big queen bed with soft sheets and take a hot shower in a bathroom indoors, so I can’t complain too much. I stopped at a Shop Rite and picked up some food for dinner and breakfast, ate dinner, watched some really bad movies, and went to sleep.

I woke up early the next morning and found a taxi back to Joburg. On the taxi I met this really awesome girl named Emerald who had also been vacationing by herself in Lesotho. She offered to drive me home when we found out halfway back to Johannesburg that a national COSATU strike was in effect, keeping the taxis from running all day. When South Africans strike, they really strike! Emerald said that if someone was found breaking the strike, other people would “beat them to death.” I’m really glad I met Emerald that day or else I don’t know how I would have gotten back to Zonke. She and her friend Choma who drove me home refused to take any money for driving me back—I was very grateful to them. We exchanged information and I promised her that I would keep in touch. Never before coming to South Africa had I been shown so much kindness by strangers.

I’m really glad that I decided to make this trip on my own. It gave me a chance to reflect and think about the summer, and I was able to prove to myself that I can do anything and go anywhere on my own. It’s a wonderful feeling, being able to trust oneself!

***

Today was the last day I would be here while the kids were at the center, so I said my goodbyes. I cried a little, but I stopped when I convinced myself that it won’t be so long before I see them again. I’m happy that I came back early to say goodbye to them. I only wish I could tell each and every one of them how special they are to me, and how much they have taught me this summer.

I can’t believe this summer has gone by so fast! At times it was very hard to be here, but overall I am glad I came to work at the center. I have grown so much, and I now realize that I can truly do anything once I set my mind to it. I will not let myself be scared to experience living in the world anymore. These kids at the center have given me a strength I have never believed I could achieve—this center has changed me for good. Each little step I took—traveling through Zonke on my own, then to Germiston, then to Lesotho, or taking care of the children, teaching a class, getting the guts to have a conversation with someone different from myself, learning a new language, riding a horse up the side of a mountain—all of it and more!—all of these little steps have brought me to this moment of contentment and clarity with who I am as a person. I am so thankful for having this opportunity, and I am indebted to all who helped me get here.

It’s so quiet here tonight… Nomusa went to her mother’s village to see her great-grandmother for the first time, Phindile is in Kwa-Zulu Natal burying her grandmother, and Bongi is in Germiston, so it’s just me, Gogo, and the kids here tonight. It’s nice when it’s quiet here, but when I go home I know that sometimes I am going to miss the noise of Zonke. Noise equals life.

Monday August 4, 2008

Last night was pretty chilly, but my blankets and the thick walls of the hut kept me pretty warm. It was a nice break from freezing in the cold Zonke nights. I woke to the sound of birds calling and the neck bells of a nearby grazing heard of cows. I had a quick breakfast of PB & J and an apple, then I made my way to the TACK shop, where they kept all the ponies and the saddles. There I met my guide for the trek to Botsekoua Falls, named Mafa. He showed me how to get onto my pony and some basic controls of the reigns. I was very excited to start the trek! I would be going by myself with Mafa, which would give me a lot of time to think and take in the beautiful country on my own.

My pony’s name was Sophie and she started off the trek with a stubborn streak. She kept breaking into gallops and prancing about in someone’s field as we rode down the road to the mountains. I hadn’t ridden a horse since I was a Girl Scout in the 5^th grade, so I was a little uneasy as she was tossing me all over the place. Finally Mafa took the reigns and guided her for awhile, with the promise that I would get them back after she calmed down. We passed through some of the village homes of Malealea and Mafeteng Primary School. I watched children run through the schoolyard and wished I could get off my horse and go talk to them and see the inside of their school.

Just as we were entering the valley a group of dogs came running and barking at us. We were riding over eroded limestone and loose rock, the last thing I needed was the horse getting spooked and bucking me off! Their owner called them away and I was able to relax again. We were descending quite rapidly now, and I was trying not to show Mafa how scared I was. I’m sure he has to deal with a lot of whiny, screaming tourists and I was determined not to be one.

When we came to the river, he let me have the reigns back, promising the journey would be easier from here. Sophie pretty much knew the way from this point and I only had to manually guide her a small bit. We began to climb up the mountain, and going up was much less scary than going down, though Sophie was still slipping a lot on the loose rock. As sure footed as horses are, I realized that sometimes even they make mistakes. I didn’t even want to think about what that would mean for me! We went along, and Sophie drove me straight into two trees. Mafa kept laughing and told me that I must control her, and that horses only think for themselves. Eyes watering and face stinging from several cuts to the forehead and cheeks, I thought to myself that I would love to control her, but I am too busy concentrating on the fact that I am on the side of a huge mountain with only inches to spare from the edge of my path!! It was fine though, as we were all still in good spirits.

Finally we reached the point where I would dismantle and walk the rest of the way to the falls. There was this random guy sitting on top of a mountain that came down to take me to the falls while Mafa looked after the horses. He said his name was Thembizo, but that might have been one of the few things he knew in English. We descended down a steep, narrow path to the valley. Still a bit wobbly from riding a horse, I kept slipping. I kept up with him pretty well, however, and I was proud of myself. I could hear the sound of running water, faster than the regular bubbling of the river, and my heart began to beat faster. We turned a rocky corner and pushed aside some brush on the path, and there I saw Botsekoua Falls! They were very small, but they were absolutely beautiful. The river poured out from between two rocks about 30 feet above my head and splashed down into a shallow pool before recollecting into a small river bed at my feet. Thembizo sat on a rock while I took some pictures and I attempted to touch the waterfall. I wish I had my bathing suit with me… what a wonderful sensation it would have been, splashing around in the middle of a waterfall! After about 10 minutes we started to climb back up to where Mafa and the horses were. I lost my breath rather quickly (another wake up call for MORE EXERCISE) but still kept up with him. Thembizo laughed and turned around and said: “Whew, I’m tired.” He was trying to make me feel better, because he wasn’t even breaking a sweat! Mafa came with the horses and we said goodbye to Thembizo.

I felt much more confident behind the reigns now, and going back down the mountain wasn’t so bad this time—but it was still a little scary. Mafa must have felt confident in my riding because he asked me if I wanted to try and gallop. I said yes! It was really fun and horse responded well to me, but it kind of hurt because my butt was really sore from riding a horse for the first time in ages. He left me on the road to the lodge for a few minutes to talk to a man cutting limestone. I found out later that he was looking for good bricks to make a new home for his family because his existing one was getting crowded.

I really enjoyed my day with Mafa, as he was one pretty cool guy, and I learned a lot about him. He grew up in Malealea, went to school there and passed the Matric, but decided to stay around the are and do the same job at the lodge as his father did—taking care of the horses and being a guide. He lives with his brothers, sisters, and his sisters’ children. I asked him how well the lodge pays him to take people out on the treks He told me of the R 180 the lodge charged me for this trek, he may get R 50. He said the pay is not much, but it’s enough to eat and not go to bed hungry. He was mad when we found out the lodge was charging me the price for a 2 person trek, and that they would be keeping the extra profit. I told him that I wouldn’t mind being charged if he would be paid more as well, but we both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

We made it back to the lodge and we arranged, if he’s available to go on a village pony trek tomorrow, where he will take me to the sangoma (a kind of traditional healer in Southern African countries) and to the school. He realized quickly that I wasn’t into the touristy stuff, so he promised to extend the trek and take me to some extra places in the village to see more accurately how people live. This includes actually taking me to the sangoma’s home. Normally I wouldn’t go to a sangoma for services because it would be seen as disrespectful—many people consider their medicine to be legitimate. However, I wanted to see where the sangoma lived and worked, and it would have been rude of me to come to his home and not oblige him to perform some small service for me. Usually the lodge will order the sangoma to come to the actual lodge, or take a group of tourists to the schools, but I don’t want to be a part of those organized tours. The people in this area are probably sick of seeing white faces popping up in groups all the time, no matter how thankful they are for the money that tourists bring.

After saying goodbye to Mafa, I had lunch and then decided to take a walk. On my way down the road I was intercepted by a young boy asking if I would like to see the village. I was fine with it, so I agreed. He told me his name was David, but I wanted to know his African name. People are always giving me their English name because they are expecting that because I am white, I will be too lazy to learn their African name. He told me it was Tshebo (pronounced Tay-boh). Soon we were joined by an older boy whose name was Jack—he wouldn’t tell me his African name. They took me to their home where they showed me the baskets they had weaved out of grass from the mountains, and colored plastic strips from mealie bags. They sold them as a way to bring some income into their home, as well as collect money to support a local center that was purchasing food and clothing for orphans and vulnerable children (I asked to visit this center, but there wasn’t one actually built at this time. It’s still be developed. Right now it’s being ran out of a local woman’s home, but when we went to see here she wasn’t there). I asked them how long it took to make them. Tshebo said one would start at 8am and maybe finish around 2pm for one basket. And for all that work, they were only selling it for R 25! I decided buy one because I knew the money would be used well. I respected the amount of work that went into the little pot, and I know I will treasure it.

The boys were not related but they lived together with their sisters and brothers. Tshebo is an orphan, I found this out after they asked me what I was doing in South Africa and I told them about the children at the center. Jack still has his mother, but she is very sick. He told me that his father died from “being sick from AIDS.” They were very open about talking about HIV/AIDS I found out, because they have a subject in school much like our Health in the United States. Also, Lesotho has the highest infection ratio in the world (1 in every 3 people is infected), and the kids are taught from an early age to take extra care not to contract the virus. Jack also said his mother is very good at talking to people about being careful in life and to take care of themselves.

We left the village and Tshebo and Jack showed me some shortcuts to the village museum and the chief’s house. The chief is an 85 year old woman! In Basotho culture it is tradition that you ask the chief’s permission to marry, to go to them if someone steals something in order to bring about justice, among other things. It was really awesome to walk around on the sides of mountains with them and use all of the paths that lodge tours won’t take you on. They asked me a lot of really good questions and answered all of mine—we kept a conversation going almost the whole time. Jack said he wants to be a soldier or someone who works at the bank, and Tshebo wants to be a doctor so he can “help sick people and those people with HIV.” Jack is 16 and Tshebo is 13.

They took me into the museum and we found that no one was there. Usually there is an R 8 entrance fee, but since there was no one home to give the tour, I got one for free! Plus, I had two pretty knowledgeable tour guides with me. They showed me what all the things were inside of the museum and then made me some Basotho tea. To show them I was thankful for their company, I gave them each a fatcake that I had bought from a store in the village. They gobbled them up fast and were off. We walked back to the lodge through some shortcuts in the fields and they dropped me off at the gate. These kids were the real deal, and they had spent quite a bit of time with me so I decided to give them a small token of appreciation. Sometimes kids will play up their situation to make tourists feel sympathy for them, but not these guys. I gave them R 10 each for accompanying me. I wished I could have given them more but I only had R 20 on me at the time. I told them I had really enjoyed their company, and I was touched that they were willing to be so kind to someone they didn’t know. Jack tried to reject the money, but I pushed him to take it. We parted ways, and I was genuinely sorry to see them go.

Sunday August 3, 2008

I have decided to take a trip back to Lesotho. Last time I went I had Alex with me and we pretty much stuck to the capital city of Maseru. Now I am going back alone, and this time staying at a lodge in the rural areas. I first heard of the Malealea Lodge from a guy name Darren that I met at one of our guesthouses we stayed at in Durban. Apparently what happed was some 20 years back the lodge was started by people in the rural village of Malealea and the surrounding villages because there were no jobs for people. Now all the jobs at the lodge are staffed from people from the community. I called about a week ahead of time to book a place to stay at the lodge, but those were the only preparations I made ahead of time. This was to be the first time I traveled alone on such a large scale, except for the time I traveled to NYC by myself.

***

Right now I’m in the taxi on the way to Maseru. Things went smoothly getting to this point, I just asked around Zonke to get the taxi to Johannesburg, then found the taxi rank to Lesotho on my own—I remembered it from the last time. Due to rising oil prices, the price of a taxi to Maseru went up R 140 to R 150 this time, but I’m still getting a good deal. I got really lucky this time and got one of those new, big taxis. I snagged a window seat with a lot of space right away—no way was I going to put myself through 5 hours of a cramped taxi ride in the back where 4 people have to sit. This taxi had seatbelts, and they wouldn’t let us leave until we had fastened them! That was the first time I had used a seatbelt in South Africa! Step one of Journey to Malealea Lodge complete. The fun part starts when I get to the border. Ok wait… the entire van prayed before we left the taxi rank in Joburg. Seatbelts and praying?? Is someone not confident we’ll make it to Maseru alive?!

***

Wow! What a day! We left Joburg at about 10:30am and I finally arrived at the lodge at 6pm! The sun was just getting ready to go down, and my goal the entire day had been to get to Malealea before dark. The trip into Maseru was fine, as I have done it before and I remembered how to get around. When I got to the border I went through customs correctly this time (hooray for not being an illegal immigrant!). I caught a 4+1 taxi to the taxi rank and attempted to find a taxi to Motsekoua. When I couldn’t find one I decided to talk a walk back to the marketplace where I hoped to find a familiar face. I finally found the guy I was looking for—he sold Alex and I T-shirts last time we were in Maseru, and he remembered me! He agreed to take me to find a taxi to Motsekoua and I bought another shirt to thank him for his help. They changed the taxi to Motsekoua a few times but each taxi I was riding in would just drive me to the new location in the rank each time. When I found the right one, I paid the driver R 17 and we were off—but not before he made me sit in front! When we got to Motsekoua I had to transfer to another taxi to get to Malealea. Sign—Malealea Lodge, only 33 km!

The taxi packed as many people as possible in an we were off. We kept driving father and father into the mountains. Soon I saw a sign—Malealea Lodge, only 22 km! We slugged our way over hills, picking up people off the side of the road and dropping them off. We drove through some of the most beautiful farmland I have ever seen. Fields hugged the edges of cliffs and below you could see tiny rivers cutting through huge canyons. Unfortunately the fields have all been harvested by this time, and brown stalks and dark red, tilled earth was all that remained.

The terrain started to get rocky and the mountains began to creep up around us. After what seemed like an hour of driving, I saw another sign—Malealea Lodge, only 7 km. We were getting closer! At this sign I transferred to another taxi waiting for us. The music was blasting so loud I couldn’t even think! I laughed to myself as I glanced at the taxi wall and saw a sign that said: “Certified to carry 15 passengers seated.” We had almost 20 people in the taxi and in all actuality it was standing room only. We started to climb up and up, and I saw a sign saying we were now entering the Gates of Paradise Pass. Almost instantly, as we came over a small hill, the taxi was hugging a small road on the side of the mountain! It was the first time in my life that I can actually remember my breath being taken away. What I saw must have been one of the most beautiful sights on this earth. Down below the fertile basin was filled with patchwork fields and small homes and huts. The setting sun splashed its last bit of light on the gigantic mountains in the distance (some covered with snow at the top!), their smooth, crinkled red surfaces dotted with shadows and a golden glow.

Up and down we went until we reached the end of the road and where I entered the Malealea Lodge. A small boy sitting outside the lodge greeted me with a warm smile and a wave. It was a nice gesture to brighten my weary self after I had literally been traveling all day. I entered the Lodge where I met Bokon who helped me get checked in. There was some mix up with my rooming situation, as apparently they were not expecting me until tomorrow and they had me in a super expensive suite hut. Thankfully we were able to fix it and now I have the basic Basotho forest hut with community bathrooms. It’s really nice, and I don’t think I would have needed all that extra stuff anyways. Bokon took me to my hut and I got settled in. I then walked through a small patch of forest and up a hill where I saw a local band and choir performing for the people at the lodge. I met some of the guys who work here doing the tours and who live in the village down the street. They were pretty cool, I might have one of them as a guide for my Pony Trek to the falls.

After listening to the music I went into the dining room to have dinner. When I got there I noticed that the tables were labeled by groups and families. I didn’t have anyone to sit with, so I asked a lone woman if I could sit with her. She couldn’t speak much English but she was more than happy to allow me to join her at the table. Soon her husband came to join us as well. Their names are Aya and Take and they are from Japan. They are on holiday for 3 weeks, visiting several countries in Southern Africa. We had a really good time at dinner. All through the meal we were laughing because we kept stealing bread from other tables for our lunch tomorrow and hiding it from other people. They were surprised when Take said the rice soup looked like miso soup and I said: “I love miso!” They asked me about my work in South Africa and I asked them about theirs in Japan. Aya is a house wife and Take teachers Japanese at a high school. After the main dish was served—pap, spinach and corn, steak, and banana bread with custard, I said goodbye and came back to the hut to write. The power goes out at 10—the huts only have power from 5 to 10pm because of a generator. When the lights go out everything will be dark, and you’ll be able to see every star in the Southern hemisphere.

Friday August 1 and Saturday August 2, 2008

Friday

Today was the last day I volunteered at the schools. I decided to go back to Zonkizizwe Prinmay one last time to say goodbye to the kids and the teachers I’ve become friends with. I wasn’t able to stay long, but I had an extremely interesting experience for the time I was there! I was put in charge of teaching and Arts and Culture class for a group of Grade 6 learners. I asked them where they had left off in their books and in unison the learners yelled out “Page 56 Ma’am Nicole!” I borrowed a book from one of the learners in the front row and opened the page. To my surprise I found that the unit they were working on was dance, and styles of dance. Today’s dance-- break dancing.

For a moment I was stuck. What did I know about break dancing? Taking a deep breath, I told myself it would be fine, and that improvisation would be best! The learners would never know the difference. So I begin reading the lesson from the book and all of a sudden the lesson came easily to me. The words came out just right and the ideas molded together to make sense in a way that they could understand. I know they understood because when I asked questions later, hands shot up across the room to give answers.

Part of the lesson was to give a short history of hip hop, the style of music that influenced break dancing. I was all over that! The book gave the basics—how hip hop started in NYC in the 1970s, DJing, dance halls, break dancing on the street, etc., but since I was alone in the class I threw in my own tidbits of information! I explained to the learners that hip hop was born out of a culture of oppression, and that it was one way for poor black people to express themselves through story telling. I also talked about the influence of the griots from West Africa (trying to build a little Africa pride).

When one of the learners asked why the book stated that most break dancing was done without music, but with the beat counted out, that was when I talked about how early hip hop was created with few instruments because the people creating it weren’t too wealthy. We then talked about how you can make music without instruments, using one’s body: beat boxing, clapping hands, whistling, rapping, etc. So the book gave some of the essential information, and I filled in the gaps!

After that I had learners come to the front of the room and practice some of the popping, locking, and breaking moves in the book associated with break dancing. Then I had kids come up to the font of the class to do some traditional Zulu dancing called “jive.” Some of the learners pointed out on their own, without my prompting, that there were some similarities between break dancing and jive. It was truly an incredible experience, interacting with the kids, making connections to the outside world, and feeling like I was actually able to teach them something.

Saturday

Happy Birthday VVOCF! Today is the 1 year anniversary of the center and we threw a party at the local community hall. There were performances by the kids in the form of dancing, poetry, and a play. The play was re-written by Rachel and I both Rachel and I helped design and build the props along with the kids. Overall, everything was a success! Many of the parents and guardians came out to watch the kids in their performances, and we had close to 150 people there. After all the performances we had birthday cake and fruit salad.

After the party we did house visits with our pen pals. Since Alex is in Mozambique, I did the house visit for both Shongane and Lungisani. I met their mother and their two older sisters. Their home was sparsely furnished, but very clean. Their older sisters were very nice and did a lot of translating for me for their mother. Their mother thanked me over and over for helping Shongane learn English and for buying her some nice clothes. After having a glass of Coca-Cola I purchased for the family and chatting for a bit, I left to go back to the center. Shongane and Lungisani walked me back to the center, but had to go straight back home after that because it was getting dark. I waited at the center with some of the older kids who had come back to say goodbye to the MSU students, who were leaving tomorrow. I watched as they all said their tearful goodbyes and tried not to cry. I know I’ll be crying next week when it’s my turn to say goodbye.

I have mixed feelings about leaving this place. On one hand I am ready to see my family, friends, and all the places that are familiar to me in the United States. On the other hand, I don’t want to leave this place when there is still so much work to be done. I also don’t want to be parted from these kids—they have become like my little brothers and sisters, and I love them so much! I want to be here to help them and see them succeed and grow… but I know they must learn to do these things on their own. I will be able to support them with the education fund, Our Future is in Our Hands, when I am back in the US, but it will not be the same as being here. Even so, I know that when I say goodbye next week, it won’t be forever. I know I’ll be back someday soon.

Thursday July 31, 2008

History was made in Zonkizizwe today! VVOCF was able to get over 60 people in the community tested for HIV/AIDS at the two local clinics. At times the day was chaotic, but it ended up being a huge success in the end. Best of all—it was the start of what will become a greater community effort in the future between VVOCF and other people in the township.

In preparation for Zonke testing day, a team of people made signs and hung them up around the township at all the local businesses, the library, and the clinics. We also sent letters to all the schools letting them know we were coming to pick up our children in the morning. At 11am four teams of VVOCF interns and MSU study abroad students headed off to the schools to pick up our children for “Health Day.” We decided to call it health day so that the children on the list could escape some of the stigma that might be attached to the words “HIV testing.” Though part of the reason for even having Zonke Testing Day was to help reduce the stigma of getting tested, we didn’t want to run into any problems before we even got the kids to the clinic.

I was assigned to pick up the kids from Zonkizizwe Primary. When we go to the school, we were met with no problems whatsoever. One of the teachers helped us fetch all the kids from their various classrooms. I was even asked by the principal how they could refer more needy and vulnerable children to the center. It’s wonderful to know that there are people out there who care about the welfare of the kids. I hope that the relationship between the schools and VVOCF will continue to strengthen from things like the volunteer corps and Testing/Health Day. We walked back to the center with our group around 11:30am where they were supposed to have lunch and wait for the secondary school group. Those groups were to be tested first at the clinics.

Things didn’t go so smoothly at first. Some complications went down as soon as we brought our group to the center. The food wasn’t ready yet, so the younger kids had to sit around and wait for a few hours. The older group came back from testing and the little ones still hadn’t eaten yet, so things were slowed down a bit. Finally the food was ready and we ate quickly and loaded the little ones in the van. When we got to Clinic #2 they said there were running out of testing supplies. This was very frustrating as we had checked with the clinic multiple times before in the week and they assured us they would be prepared to handle the amount of people we were bringing. We were able to leave 3 children there with a few adults and then started to head to Clinic #1.

On our way to Clinic #1 we saw Sly in the other van and he said only send a few kids because 17 were already waiting, but we might be able to sneak a few in. We took another 3 from the van and put them in Sly’s van. I went with them. We met Alex, Jack, Christa, and Katie at the clinic and helped with the testing of the other kids. It was my job to hold the little ones down as the nurses pricked their fingers to take the blood samples. I even had to hold a few of the bigger ones as well. Now I know how painful it is to be a mother and watch one’s baby get poked with needles for their shots! Finally not everyone was needed at the clinic, so I walked a group of children back to the center to work on props for our play that we will be performing next month. As we were walking back we saw that another vanload of kids were heading over to Clinic #1 for testing. Success! That meant that all of our children present at the center that day were able to be tested!

Out of all the people we tested today only 3 tested positive! What a blessing, but at the same time, so surprising. I had expected a higher number to test positive because many of the children look somewhat sick. Problems like kids being too small for their age or having sores that come and go must be due to other health problems or malnourishment. We know that several of our children have had TB in their early years, and this could cause problems as well.

Two of the older women who tested positive were already suspicious of their status, but the third surprised us all. She’s already 14 years old and has had few health problems in the past. She will be taken to the hospital tomorrow to get a CD4 count and possibly tested again. Nobody would have ever guessed that she was positive. Wow, I still can’t believe it. She was very upset when she first came back, and so was I. I held her in my arms as she cried into my shirt, and then I found myself crying as well. When she left later on, however, everyone was all smiles. We all agreed that it’s better to know our status than not know, and now that we know we can give her the care she needs now—not when it’s too late. Now she has the opportunity to live a long and healthy life! One of the other women who tested positive was also very upset a first, but then she brightened up. She said she never wants to see her children watch her suffer and be sick to death—so it is better to know her status now.

How brave they all are! How would I react if I found out I was HIV+? How unfair for my friend who was born with it, not even given the chance to choose! Is she angry at her mother and father who passed away a few years ago? Is she angry at the world? …Would I be? I hope she’s not feeling any of these things. She is such a beautiful, strong, and intelligent girl who really understands the meaning of holding her future in her hands. With the help of the center, she will be able to make it. With the help of the center and the support of the family we’ve helped build here… we’ll all be able to make it.

Wednesday July 30, 2008

Today we went to the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg and a tour of Soweto Township. Alex and I stayed the night with the MSU students at their hotel in Johannesburg the night before so we would be ready to depart with the rest of the group early in the morning. Our group loaded up the two vans with several tour guides who grew up in Soweto. Our first stop was the museum.

When you first get to the apartheid museum, you are given a card with a fake identity on it, both in English and Afrikaans. You are either white (blankes), or non-white (nie-blankes). I happened to get a white card. Then you are ushered through one of those regulated rotating entrances. Some of the students were cracking jokes, calling each other “Whitey” and “Darky,” and I was trying to get someone to trade cards with me. The atmosphere was light, but I couldn’t help but be reminded that not so long ago in South Africa, this separation was very serious and very real. Real people were losing their lives every day in the fight for racial justice and freedom in apartheid South Africa.

We passed through an outside exhibit before we entered the actual museum. Before we entered the actual museum, we were shown pictures of bushman paintings and a short film to show how some of the people of South Africa lived before the Dutch came to colonize. After that we were free to wander around as we pleased. The way the museum was set up wasn’t like how most museums are set up. There were few artifacts, as the majority of the things in the museum were signs, pictures, and video. It allowed one to move at a slow pace, absorb information in his or her own time, and reflect.

There was one part that hit me quite hard emotionally. In one room there were three large screens that were showing footage of conflicts between people in the townships and between the police and people in the townships during the early 1990s. One showed the conflicts between the African National Congress (ANC) and the Inkatha Freedom Party (IFP) supporters in Thokoza, a township right outside of Zonkizizwe. This is also where much of the recent xenophobic violence broke out in the last few months.

These film clips really struck me because I remember that the “wars” between the ANC and IFP were the reason why the children in Nomusa’s family had to hide in the woods or in a drainpipe for most of their earl lives. Nomusa had to leave school after Grade 6 to care for her younger brother and sister when they were on the run. Her family had to dress her little brother, Bongani, in dresses so that men supporting the ANC wouldn’t kidnap or kill him. She told me stories about how the police would incite rioting in the township between the two groups to create chaos. Sometimes the police would participate in the violence, backing the ANC, and sometimes they would back the IFP. This not only created hatred between one political party and another, but ethnic hatred as well since mainly Xhosa people supported the ANC while Zulus supported the IFP.

I still can’t believe that all of this violence was going on less than 20 years ago—happening in my lifetime. It doesn’t seem real. It’s easy for Americans to forget or to not care about the lasting effects of apartheid because we are not reminded of it in our daily lives, but what about the South African? How often is it mentioned? Are people so worried about forming a new “Rainbow Nation” or developing “democracy” that they are forgetting what happened in the past to get them to this point? How can we make sure that something like apartheid can never happen again, anywhere on this earth? The museum is a start to remember the wrongs committed by the apartheid government, but it’s not enough. South African politicians need to stop embracing liberalist tendencies and think outside the box to really meet the growing needs of the people in this country. The public education and health care systems need serious restructuring. Entire generations of people are suffering from unemployment because of poor education or dying because of lack of access to adequate health care. Failure to see such disparities and do nothing cannot create positive results. People will not stay downtrodden for long—not while the rest of the world moves forward.

RESPECT
DEMOCRACY
EQUALITY
RECONCILIATION
DIVERSITY
FREEDOM
RESPONSIBILITY

-printed on marble pillars outside of the Apartheid Museum

After we left the museum we headed over to Soweto. We stopped at a restaurant inside of the township to eat lunch. That was the first restaurant I had ever seen inside of a township. It took almost 2 and a half hours for everyone to get their food and get out. After that we drove around various parts of Soweto. I never realized how massive it was!

The first stop was the Hector Pieterson memorial and then Nelson Mandela’s old house. Mandela’s house was being remodeled so we couldn’t go inside of it, but we stopped and got out of the van to take pictures anyways. The Hector Pieterson memorial was built on the spot of the June 16th youth uprising, when children protested the use of Afrikaans as the medium of education in schools. As the children were protesting, police officers opened fire on the children, killing 23 and wounding hundreds. Hector Pieterson was among the youngest, being only 13 years old. It was chilling to see how the memorial had marked off where the police were firing and where the students were marching. As I closed my eyes I could almost feel the spirit of revolution those students felt as they were marching through Soweto, burning symbols of apartheid as they went. The same spirit still very alive in the country—the time needs to come when it is made known to the people again.

The next stop on our tour was Kliptown. Kliptown is the first actual squatter camp I have ever seen. It literally popped up our of nowhere in the middle of Soweto. People lived on top of one another in tin shacks or whatever they could piece together to find a house. Apparently the movie called “Tsotsi” was filmed there and won several awards, including an Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film of the Year. Since Kliptown is technically an illegal settlement, they have no electricity, no schools, no plumbing, and no clinics. The only water source in the entire camp can be found in the middle, and everyone must share it.

We left Kliptown and visited the Freedom Charter monument. At the monument there was looked like an abandoned convention center. I went inside to find some random guys practicing gumboot dancing—the kind of dancing that men used to do in the gold mines of Johannesburg. I watched them for a bit, and then it was time to go. From there we drove through was it called the “Beverly Hills” of Soweto. Some of the most expensive homes there were R 1 million and above (about $150+ US). The value of the Rand is much below that of the dollar. It’s nice for tourists who can turn their US dollars into a lot of Rand, but a lot of things then go home, but it’s not so good for your average South African laborer who may only make something like R 50 (approx $7) a day! Sad as it is, it made me realize that if my family lived in South Africa, we could possibly be millionaires!

Monday July 28 and Tuesday July 29, 2008

Monday

Today Nomusa and I went to all the schools to drop off letter explaining VVOCF’s testing day. We are going to pull all of our kids out of school early and take them to the clinics to be tested for HIV. We’ve already held a parent/guardian meeting and sent home information, so everything should be cleared with the children’s families. In the letters we called it “Health Day” in order to reduce any stigma the children may face from school officials. The schools seemed more than fine with allowing the students to leave school and go to the clinics. Zonkizizwe primary school was also very warm and accepting of me, and they gave me and the rest of the MSU students permission to volunteer in the school tomorrow. They wanted to know why I hadn’t come to the schools earlier, since I’ve been here for three months. I told them I didn’t know I could! I wish I would have known that I would be so welcomed into the schools earlier… but it’s irrelevant now.

The rest of the day was spent playing soccer with the kids at the field. The MSU students finished the cement walkway they were building outside of the center and organized the financial books in the office. I can’t wait to go back to the primary school tomorrow! It was so much more cheerful than Zonkizizwe Secondary. The classrooms are packed full of kids, so much that the schools built shacks and rent containers to accommodate the extra learners. From what I can see, this school has more resources than the secondary school. Kids were working on assignments on photocopied sheets of paper, sharing textbooks, and were writing in notebooks—a new one for each subject. There were many educational posters hung up around the walls and all the chalkboards were full of information. I’m crossing my fingers that Zonke Primary goes much more smoothly than Zonke Secondary…

Tuesday

Overall, today was a beautiful day. What an experience! I walked up to the primary school this morning shortly before 8am to hear the children singing inside of their classrooms. I checked in with the vice principal at the office and we assigned the other MSU students to classes and then she asked me to choose mine. I told her I would be best at English, Social Sciences, and Arts and Culture. I was placed with a teacher named Ma’am Manyane (all female teachers are Ma’am as opposed to Miss or Mrs.) for several of my classes. My first class was English for Grade 4. Ma’am Manyane stood right next to me and told me what to do. She stayed close the entire class period, not leaving me alone like the teachers did at the secondary school.

First I read a story out loud about a shoemaker and a rich man. Then we read the story sentence by sentence together as a class. After that we went over tricky vocabulary words and reading comprehension questions. Each student was given a photocopied sheet with the story on it along with the questions, and they were to answer their questions in their notebooks. When they were through the learners brought their books up to me and I corrected their sentences. Ma’am Manyane took a small group aside as I was doing this to work on them with their phonics. She told me that sometimes she gets frustrated because she has close to 50 learners per class, so that gives her very little time to spend with the ones who cannot read English, and many children are falling behind. You could see that she desperate wished she had more time to spend with needy learners, but the short class periods and too many students kept her from doing so.

The next class was Social Sciences with Ma’am Zulu. The learners sat in groups of two and shared one textbook, but they all had their own notebooks. We read a passage in the book about subsistence farming (following the same structure as the English lesson) and then answered questions prepared by Ma’am Zulu herself. She didn’t like the questions in the book, so she made her own and photocopied them for all the learners in the class to put in their notebooks. So far both teachers I worked with were extremely engaged with their learners, unlike what I witnessed at the secondary school.

The last class I helped out with was Arts and Culture, and I was back with Ma’am Manyane for this one. We learned about Miming and read and performed Zulu poetry. We read the meaning of mime together as a class in both English and Zulu. The kids really enjoyed the miming activity! They performed the emotions from their seats and copied the following notes into their notebook: don’t talk, facial expression, body language. Then they made their own miming skits and performed them in front of the class! Some of them got very creative, and I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s a shame they don’t have a theater program here, some of them are so talented and are able to use improvisation with such ease. The poem we read in Zulu was about HIV/AIDS. We then went over it in English, because I was there and curious to know the meaning.

Maye! Sphela Isizwe!—AIDS! Affecting the Nation!

Kukhulunyiwe ngawe – We talked about you
Saziba—We ignored you
Kufundisiwe ngawe—We’ve learned about you
Sangalalela—We’ve never listened
Bagula abantu—People got sick
Seriza ihlaya—We joked
Bashona ngapha nangapha—People died here and there
Saqala ukwethuka—We started to be scared
Westatshwa izwe lonke—You are scaring the whole nation
Mashayabhuqe!—Incurable thing!

What happened after we read the poem was really interesting. The learners had to answer comprehension questions in their notebooks, questions like: What is AIDS? Who can get AIDS? How do you get AIDS? How do you prevent AIDS? Is it OK to discriminate against people who have AIDS? The learners were getting exposed to issues dealing with health, life skills, and also to poetry and literature in their native tongue at the same time, which I thought was genius.

Since today went so well I think our volunteer corps will come back for one more day of assisting the teachers in class. I was very happy with the way things went today but I still saw many things about the school that made me sad. Even though the learners were given more materials to work with here than what I had seen at Zonkizizwe Secondary, the conditions of the classroom were still very Spartan. There still were no computers or other kinds of multimedia equipment in the classrooms, still only wooden desks and chalkboards. Ma’am Manyane told me that sometimes if they learners don’t come to school with the proper materials, and the school does not furnish them, that many of the teachers will pay out of pocket for the children’s things. Also, during the day Ma’am Manyane showed me the forms she has to fill out when she notices a child is having a learning problem. Even though she makes it her priority to follow up with children having learning issues and attempts to assist them in class, there is only so much she can do with the limited time she has with her overcrowded classrooms. I would imagine that many teachers are facing the same issues. Seeing these things makes me want to become a teacher with the Peace Corps or World Teach even more…

Thursday July 24, 2008

Recently I was able to visit two schools in Zonkizizwe, the township where I have been living and working for the past months at Vumundzuku-Bya Vana Our Children’s Future (VVOCF). Myself, along with 5 MSU students on a study abroad program visited both Zonkizizwe Primary and Secondary School as a part of a volunteer corps. I had wanted to get involved with the schools in the community for the majority of the summer, but there never seemed to be enough time to do so, and I was under the impression that I should go with someone else from the community to organize school visits. In order to get into the schools I simply had to drop off a letter and ask permission from the principals, who then asked permission of the teachers and the management teams of the schools. Neither school hesitated at all to let us come into their schools to help, but there was some confusion at first. The first school we visited, Zonkizizwe Secondary, thought we were teachers, while Zonkizizwe Primary was better informed that we were still students and did not possess the necessary skills to run a class. We had two very different experiences at the two different schools, and were allowed an inside look at the public school system of South Africa.

Thursday

Today I visit the schools for the firs time—today was Zonkizizwe Secondary. Sometime next week will be the primary school. I wore up at about 7:15am and got dressed and walked out of the door in about 20 minutes and began the 15 minute walk to the school. I made it right on time, right before they closed and locked the gates. I felt like I was in grade school again, getting up early, scarfing down breakfast and getting dressed in the cold of the early morning hours. It was the first time I had ever walked to school. Kids here in Zonkizizwe do it every day—I always had a car or rode the bus. Some of the kids have to walk several miles to get here, as the schools in Zonke are the only schools for students from Zonkizizwe II and other surrounding townships. Some of the lucky ones get bus transport, but the majority of them walk.

Waves of children ranging from every size and age were walking in both directions down the streets, dressed in bright green, blue, and orange, depending on what school they were going to. It was a beautiful sight to watch—learners making their way to school, running laughing, screaming, and jumping up and down to keep from being cold. All the time I am watching them, I can’t help but think: The whole world is theirs, but do they know it? Can they even imagine the doors that will open for them through their education—all the places they can go? Their future is truly in their hands.
***

Here I am at Zonkizizwe Secondary and I’ve just sat with two teachers on the school’s management team-- Miss Mtetwa and Mr. Malefe. I was here early to get the assignments for the rest of the volunteers that are coming. We assigned the 5 MSU students to classes according to their preferences. I told the teachers that we would be willing to observe and assist the rest of the teachers, and that we were not qualified teachers. Things seem to be in order so I leave to attend my classes now. The others will arrive shortly before 10am.
***

Apparently there has been a change of plans. I’m now waiting in the office right now for Miss Mtetwa to fetch me to teach something called Life Orientation classes. I am expected to teach the course for the entire 30 minute period! Needless to say, I’m extremely nervous right now. I told them that I’m no teacher, I’m still a university student, but they’re not listening. They said I will be teaching LO to Grade 10, because that grade doesn’t have any teachers available to teach them that subject.
***

Well, today has bee a bit stressful. I wouldn’t call it a complete disaster, but it definitely did not go as I had planned. So, my first class was kind of bad, I had no idea what to do or what to talk about. I noticed that many of the students in the class were around my age, so it was kind of awkward talking to them about life. I was told by Miss Mtetwa that I should talk to them about the importance of doing well in school now so they could do well on their Matric exam, get into a good university, then get a job where they could support themselves—then she left the room. The two classes after that I had another MSU student named Sly with me, and they were excellent. He really helped me get a stimulating conversation going. The classes after that I was on my own again, and I decided to free form them a little more. I told the students to give me topics and I would just help facilitate a conversation, rather than lead it. They could also ask me questions as well. Some classes were much less awkward than others. All I know is… I am mentally exhausted. I asked to be put with a teacher tomorrow teaching social sciences. I will feel much more comfortable actually assisting in the classroom rather than leading everything myself—I think I need a little more structure to the day.

I guess a lot of the MSU students experienced similar days. Though it was frustrating at times, I learned a lot about the South African education system in general and a lot about the state of Zonke schools as well. I learned that there are 12 grades that learners must complete. Grades 1-11 being regular grades, and then grade 12 being the Matric exam prep grade. The Matric is a test that all grade 12 learners must take around the country in order to pass from secondary school. The score they get on this exam also determines what university or college they get into. The letters that appear after the grades mean something as well. They correspond to the tracks that each learner chooses. An A, B, or C means the learner is going into science, math, or engineering. A D, E, or and F means they are going to into what the teachers called commerce.

The day is split into 11 periods, all about a half an hour each. I can’t help but wondering, how can a student fully learn what they need to about a given subject in only 30 minutes? The day seemed very rushed. The learners stay with their class all day in the same room (for example, grade 11A will stay in room 101 for the entire day, with the same people). The classes are determined by both the tracks the students chose for themselves, and their African language. This mean that if a learner picks Sesotho as their African language, they will be in a classroom with people who have done the same. The same for those who chose languages like isiZulu, Afrikaans, or any of the other languages offered at that campus. At first I thought the learners were being split into classes based on their ethnicity and I was angry, then I found out that they are split up by the language they chose. If no teacher is available to teach in the language the learners chose, the medium of instruction is English.

The classroom set up here is very simple. Simple wooden desks, no computers in the classrooms, plain chalkboards, no overhead projectors or TVs. I haven’t been to the library yet, but I was told by one of the teachers that there aren’t any books yet. I haven’t seen a single text book all day—only notebooks that the students write in to take notes from the board. Teachers do not have desks they move from class to class and keep a locker in the staff room. Zonkizizwe Secondary just opened this year, so I’m not sure if the sparse conditions are due to the fact that things haven’t come in yet, or if most secondary schools in impoverished communities face the same problem.

This entire day has made me think a lot. I’ve seen many things that have disturbed me. First was the fact that we were left alone in our classrooms. This says a lot about the morale of the teachers. Teachers will leave during the middle of the day to go home, or will stay in the staff room instead of going to class to teacher. Some may not even show up to school at all on any given day. Many schools simply just don’t have enough teachers to go around, and students have multiple free periods (this was the case for my grade 10 learners who had no Life Orientation teacher). I can understand the frustrations of an underpaid teacher working at an under resourced school, but I was still shocked to learn about the behavior of some of the teachers. One would never see a teacher in the United States leave their classroom because they “had some things to do at home.” We were afraid that the teachers would try to overly impress us today, but that was not the case. I wonder what the real reason was. Did they make us to their job because they wanted a day off? Did they think we were smarter, or more educated then them (this would be another, deeper problem all together)? Or do they normally just blow off their classes? How can this kind of behavior, no matter for what reason, be tolerated by the learners and their parents or guardians?

The second thing I thought about were the extreme lack of resources in the school. I realize that this is not the school’s fault, but the government’s. According to many of the local newspapers, the government is three months late on giving the public schools their money, and many schools are finding it hard to pay their teachers and their bills. It frustrates me to realize that almost an entire generation is growing up with a mediocre education because learners cannot afford basic school supplies like pens and notebooks, and their schools are not providing them with textbooks, or even the opportunity to learn how to use a computer. How can a group of people lift themselves out of poverty when their basic need for education is not met? If this is happening all over South Africa that means possibly millions of children and youth—the future of this country—are being largely disadvantaged and disenfranchised by their own government, which is supposed to be protecting them.