Constitution Hill

Disclaimer: This entry is graphic, so please be warned. To be honest, censoring it wasn’t an option and I think it’s important to recognize the realities of prisons in South Africa during Apartheid. I wrote it as honestly as I can remember.

Background:

Constitution Hill was built on the site of the main prison in Johannesburg. The constructors left some of the old bricks and large parts of the prison in tact so that visitors could come and see what men and women went through before 1994. Now the site is home to the Constitutional Court of South Africa, the idea was to build a place for the future on the ruins of the past. Number Four was the prison for black males, with a separate section for political prisoners because it was thought that if they intermixed with the others they would gain support. This is my recollection.

I’ve known that I should write about the prison visit for a while. In the back of my head I told myself I was “processing it.” I don’t even know what that means. You can’t process such hideousness. I can’t explain what could make a human being do such horrifying things to another human being.

People frequently say that I’m innocent. In my heart I think it’s because I have never met someone that I thought was inherently evil. Someone who I could look at – truly look at -- and not see some remnants of humanity, some shed of light no matter how hidden.

But the men who monitored Number Four… there are no words that I have to describe these men. When I think that the cracked bricks still standing were once the caged in reality of political prisoners... that these men actually felt the end of the whips that now hang on display.. that these men stood on these steps and were forced to dance naked in front of each other, then bend over so that the guards could inspect their anuses… that these men, young and old, had to put their arms out like birds, spin in circles and jump--  their black naked bodies catching the light, humiliating themselves in front of the thousands of men around them…it makes me pause at the human condition that we could create such a reality.

It’s painful for me to write because I don’t want to romanticize it. The reality is sickening enough. We walked along the brick sidewalks, silent as our soft-spoken guide thoughtfully explained the lives of the men who lived in Number Four. They were cramped—60 peoople in a cell made for 20 with concrete walls and no windows, maybe 20 feet by 10 feet. With gang bosses who—rather than joining together—exploited new prisoners and established power. Yes, you say. That is a typical prison, what do you expect?

But is it typical to have a chamber only large enough for one man to stand inside with his hands and feet chained to the ceiling and the floor, spread eagle and naked like the Peruvian man? Is it typical for this metal chamber to be completely closed off except for “peep holes” just large enough to slide open and see the handcuffs and whips hanging from the ceiling-- to see only glimpses of the suffering inside? Because men were chained for hours, waiting until the guards came to whip and beat them over and over again. Did they die? Bodies were taken from the prison daily. 

Our guide tells us that some of the cells are haunted. Perhaps it’s because even the Universe can’t avenge such atrocities. 

Response

I was going to just write a response after the comments, but instead I'll just write a short post...

Thank you all for the sweet notes. It means so much to me that someone out there is reading these people's stories. I'm working on the pictures.. I actually haven't taken many because it isn't safe to take my camera in public. I'm finally over the fear of taking my computer out.. don't worry the camera will be next. I am terribly sorry that I have no pictures of Lindi and her family. Next time I visit I will definitely take some. Lindi's husband (to my surprise) lives with the family. My other host mother in Soweto, (her name is Tshidi) who lives with her 9 year-old daughter, is no longer married to her husband. She lives with Kabo and her older daughter in the small house. There was recently an article in the Times (kind of like the South African version of the New York Times) about the increase of families raised by single mothers. This is definitely the case. For the most part, the mothers take care of the families and the fathers work in the city.

Eric, who I described in the last two posts is our "guide" who has been taking us around and working out the homestays. He is from the Shangaan tribe, which is (as I mentioned) one of the darkest tribes in South Africa. During apartheid they were massively discriminated against by other blacks. They were seen as inferior because of their dark complexion-- a result of living further north than the other tribes. They are also incredibly open-hearted and welcoming-- perhaps because they have received such additional discrimination.

I am done with orientation now, except for going to the apartheid museum. We haven't completely found time for this yet because it takes about four hours. I'm still trying to prepare myself emotionally to see it.

For everyone who was wondering, I chose the second organization called Molteno and start work on Wednesday. Hopefully I will still have thoughtful things to share. It's kind of intimidating knowing that I'm going to be working 40 hours a week. So wish me luck! I love and miss all of you.

Em

Buckets and Huts

The rural communities of South Africa are different from the townships, but not exactly what I had expected.

Lindi

As we drive along the dirt road, swerving rocks and deep holes I watch the small cement houses pass by. Each seems to be connected to a large garden that produces enough to feed an extended family. I find myself crossing my fingers that Eric’s car will pull up to one of the round huts with grass roofs that appear from time to time intermixed with the other houses. I don’t know why but I have this incredible urge to sleep in a hut.

Ironically to my chagrin we pull up to one of the largest houses I’ve seen in the area. Of course they send the Americans to the nicest house, we start laughing in the car because it appears to be the most luxurious in the community.

We are greeted by Lindi who is the mother of the family. Her head is tied in a wrap and she has the same complexion as Eric: they are both from the Shangaan tribe. 

Lindi’s voice is deep yet light hearted. There is a power about her that seems both nurturing and commanding at the same time. Her one-year-old is tied tightly to her back and he smiles widely at us with big, engaged dark eyes.

The entire family welcomes us when we walk in to the house: Three older girls 14, 15, and 17 and the younger boys-- Bruce who is about 10 and his younger brother (whose name I can’t spell… Bafanas?) around 6, and the baby who wobbles around the living room . Sandra who is 15 has her hair half done in braids and her sister sits behind her on the couch helping her twist them in to her hair. They tell me it takes about three days to finish.

Bruce is quiet towards us at first, but there is such a gentleness and wisdom about him that I can hardly believe he’s only ten. His sister tells us he’s a great dancer and he grins, throwing himself back in the big chair. She starts playing an Usher song on her cell phone and he stands up and starts dancing with elegantly controlled movements. He moonwalks like Michael in small steps, then puts his hand to his heart contracting his rib cage and pulling his shirt with his hand in such a way that it appears his heart is pumping out of his chest.

He hasn’t had any lessons and we applaud when he finishes, completely impressed with his talent and style. Later, he sings the African national anthem to us. His voice is soft but I marvel at how uninhibited he is—something that I find myself noticing in so many African children since I’ve been here.

Lindi brings out the dinner she prepared: two spinach dishes, pap, and chicken, which she puts out on the table for us to serve ourselves buffet style. There is also a dish of small sweet potatoes—a staple that is always around the house like a sweet for everyone to eat even with coffee or tea.

“Pap” is probably like the dinner rolls of South Africa…or maybe the ranch dressing? If it’s not on the table, everyone is looking around asking where the pap is. It’s made of corn and probably closest in taste to polenta or grits but the texture is harder. Lindi serves it in round slabs that you pick apart with your fingers and use to scoop up the food. It can also be prepared to have the appearance of mashed potatoes.

I marvel when I see Lindi’s because I’ve never seen it in slabs before so I ask her if she’ll teach me how to make it after dinner. She agrees. The food is wonderful, some of the dishes are really salty (South Africans like their salt) but it’s so nice to have a cooked meal like this with nearly all of the makings coming from her garden. Talk about sustainable living the Oregonians would be proud.

No, I didn’t eat the chicken. But I don’t think anyone noticed.

 Shangaan

We talk late in to the night after dinner. Lindi’s brother comes over and the conversation switches from English to Shangaan. Jillian (the other volunteer) and I play with the littlest boys and make faces at the baby. I watch the family conversation intently—listening to their voice inflections, hand gestures and any English words I can make out. In my head I try to imagine what they’re saying.

When they notice how closely I’m watching them, they ask if I can understand. I tell them I was trying to guess in my head. What was my guess? Something about work because Lindi was talking about photocopies and gestured, adjusting an imaginary suit. They all started laughing and explained they were talking about the increase of identity fraud by Zimbabweans who were entering the country (they photo-copied the ID’s of South Africans and then made a business of selling them). I say I should stop trying to guess what they’re talking about and go look for my credit card. They laugh.

The house feels so warm and happy with everyone talking and joking. What was it like to be raised in this environment? There is no running water and the rats scamper across the roof and in the walls that the father made himself. But everything feels relaxed. The children have shining faces and hopes for the future: careers off in the distance they will pursue after school is finished. When we finally go to bed, I don’t brush my teeth because I don’t know where to get water.

The Bucket

Jillian and I wake up the next morning at 7a.m. Lindi is heating a kettle over a fire in her garden and the kids aren’t up yet. The kettle is so black and burnt that it’s hard to believe it was ever any other color. She pours water in to buckets for us to take back to our room and bathe. I am embarrassed that I forgot a towel and she brings two for us along with a bar of soap and some lotion.

Now I could barely take a bath effectively in a bathtub—let alone a bucket. So I stand in it and kind of brush the water up and down my legs. I grab the bar of soap and attempt a lather, which is only somewhat effective. Water sloshes on to the floor and I decide that I’ll shower when we get back to the house later that afternoon. I still feel like I wimped out.

Lindi takes us to the school where she teaches and tells us about the huge classes and problems with children misbehaving and using drugs in school. The community seems so united and peaceful it’s still hard for me to imagine this dark underbelly. 

I don’t really know how to describe the school. I guess it is what you would expect of a rural school in South Africa. Parts are dirty and falling apart, there are cracked windows… I didn’t see any of the classrooms and I really wish I had. Sorry I don’t have any pictures (big surprise) I forgot to charge my camera. It’s good to know that my forgetfulness transcends boarders, oceans and cultures.

Outside we could hear drums banging and shouting. One of the older daughters who is my age and out of the house takes us to the backyard of one of the houses where a group of men are practicing their traditional tribal dances. She says that these groups perform for tourists and it’s a good way to earn money because there are few other outlets to make money so far from the city.

I watch the group of five men, huge smiles spread across their face as they kick the air in unison. Their faces are bright in the sunlight and their dreadlocks smack against their faces as they turn. Each has his own swagger that gives the historic dance a modern feel.

Later we see property her grandparents own. Chickens run around in the yard and several large huts are on the property next to the main house. We go inside one and Basani tries to catch a cockroach with her foot. There are animal pelts on the floor, a huge snakeskin spread across the wall and chests filled with glass jars of herbal medicines and remedies covered with dust.

I wish I could stay on this land with the family. Sleep in the hut on the grass mats. I tell them I’ll come back and visit and stay for longer.

Later we return to Lindi’s house to leave. She packs us plastic containers filled with boiled sweet potatoes and a root vegetable that tastes kind of like a yam but not as sweet. She embraces me and I give her the rock with “strength” inscribed in it that I brought from the states. I know she doesn’t need it.

It's odd to feel nostalgic about a life that is so far from your own. But there is something about the simplicity of their lives that keeps grabbing me and pulling me in. In these small communities everyone is in it together. Mothers take in orphaned children as their own. Families have such light-hearted connections and unity that life seems so basic and easy. In America we try to emulate sustainable living by being "green". If you grow your own lettuce, you're progressive. But here it is all a given.

Yellow Lights

Yellow Lights

It was dark out by the time we headed in to Soweto. We were supposed to leave around six, but in South African time—that could really end up being anywhere in a five hour range. Eric is driving on my right. A short black man, his background stems from one of the darkest tribes in South Africa. His silhouette and dark skin seem to glow with the passing street lamps. He has a jovial look to his wrinkleless face and I watch the way his smile lifts his cheeks. I’m shocked to hear he’s fifty.

I find myself shooting questions at him, some he answers directly, some he side-steps vaguely. I can’t tell if it’s because of a miscommunication, or his refusal to take the questions head on. But he answers most of them with a forthright honesty I didn’t expect.

He tells me he was part of the student uprisings and the development of the ANC before apartheid. He tells me about being caught without a pass pre-1994 when he was crossing the street. He left it in his car. The policeman didn’t care. He hit him over the head with the butt of his gun. It was nine days in prison, and torture for his association with “communist” (aka anti-government) organizations. He survived.

I ask him about forgiveness and look at my white reflection in the window. He says it’s resilience and that he holds no hostility. I scrutinize his face when he says this, looking for a disconnect or lack of focus that might insinuate a disingenuous statement. But his eyes are bright and his face is relaxed with unassuming contentment.

We’re going down the freeway and it’s dark, save a few factory lights. Then, in the distance I see a sprawl of lights that go as far as my eye can see.

“Do you see how the lights are yellow?” Eric asks.
I nod.
“That’s Soweto. They made the street lamps where the blacks live yellow, and the ones in the white neighborhoods white. That way if a white man got lost, he would know not to stop where the lights are yellow.”

I look out the window at the flow of yellow lights that go for miles, the largest township in Johannesburg. Gradually the white freeway lights fade away, a detail I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed.

Soweto

I got used to the stares after a while. It’s funny that even as I caught the glances through my car window, I didn’t sense hostility. But it wasn’t curiousity either, just a stare, as I watched them, wondering what the old man’s life was like. Wondering how long that child had been standing there, holding on to the fence with a far-away look in her eye. Wondering how the women could effortlessly carry such obscurely shaped objects balanced on their heads.

There are no white people who live here. How many people live in Soweto? Millions. In tiny two or three room houses stacked next to each other where extended families of six or seven crowd in. In the morning I notice the colorful rooftops that give the houses a slight appeal.

“It’s so the tourists would come and remark pre-apartheid ‘See how well these South Africans treat their blacks!’” From the road, you can only see the rooftops.

The woman walks barefoot down the side of the street where the concrete is unfinished and her feet pick up dirt. Men and women drag themselves from work back to the townships from the taxi stations.

“Here the sidewalks are not finished, but see how many people walk! In Melville your sidewalks are finished, no cracks... but no white people walk.”

I watch through the window at the market on one of the side streets. Shocked but not shocked because it was what I expected. This is Kliptown, one of the most poverty stricken areas of Soweto. I get so caught up looking out the window that when we pull to a stop, I hesitate to enter this world I’ve been a spectator of.

When I step out on the street I look at the rows of fly-covered fruit stands and blankets laid down covered with old clothes: hand-me downs for sale. I feel the eyes on me. I feel the clothes that I am wearing. I cover my white hands with my sleeves, as if shielding most of my skin will mask my race, my wealth, my nationality.

I feel a surprising sense of peace. This is what I came for.

Let God in this Place

“Are you a Christian?” My host mother asks after I tell her I’m a vegetarian.
“My Dad’s Jewish.” I tell her the history of my eating habits.
“Oh. We were hoping you would come to Church with us on Sunday.”
I feel a smile spread across my face then she quickly writes off my worries of what to wear. In retrospect, this was a ridiculous concern.

She knocks on my door at seven a.m. and says she’s drawn me a bath. I realize I don’t really know how to bathe without a post-bath shower. I also realize she has no shampoo, just soap. Even if she did have shampoo, it wouldn’t suit me. (As my old roommate Amber would say.. I “got that white girl hair.”)

So I get out with greasy hair and my host mom is running around because we are late and her nine-year old daughter isn’t wearing her sweater.

“Kabo doesn’t think you’re going to stand when they ask who is new to the church.” She has a wide smile that shows all of her teeth and crinkles her eyes. I feel like a giant next to her short stature.
I laugh and tell her daughter I’ll stand up.

We drive to the church and she laughs at me saying I’m so safe because I put my seatbelt on. I look out the window and can’t believe how many people are out. Runners, children, people waiting for taxis to take them to church, people coming from church, people at fruit stands along the side of the street.

When we pull up to the building, there is a man directing people where to park. Already there are easily several hundred cars parked in the dirt lot. I look at the church and realize it is a coliseum. This isn’t an exaggeration or an adjective: the building really is a coliseum.

We walk in and I keep my head cast down. I don’t make eye contact or look up because I’m afraid of what the glances will say. We take Kabo to her youth class then walk back to the main building. My host mom shows me all of the overflow rooms with projecor screens where they show the service because everyone cannot fit in the main building.

There are now blacks everywhere, hundreds and hundreds pouring in to the building--easily over two-thousand people. I can not see any other white face.

We line up at the door for the first service to end, I’m shaking slightly thinking that I will have to stand in front of all of these people.

When we go in it is a mad dash for seats, I momentarily lose her then find her again.

The chorus starts to sing and I look around as thousands of blacks rise to their feet singing and swaying and dancing. Raising their hands up. I feel so aware of my white-girl shuffle. But I also feel so carried by the tone in their voices that I lose myself in the emotion and energy of it all.

“Let God in this place...”

The singing and unity is unlike anything I have ever witnessed. These are some of the most poverty-stricken people in the world. Here in this room, their voices carry their desperation, their hope and completely unrestrained passion. The sound in the room seems to go on forever and my chest fills up with the emotion and pain as the room flows together carrying itself to higher place that I have never before experienced.

I stand when they ask who is new, a man waves to me and the woman in front of me turns to shake my hand. Welcome.

Arrival

I have no time to write a new message but I'm copying the email I sent to my parents. I miss you all!

Mommy! I so wanted to call you this afternoon, but then I realized it was about three in the morning your time so I thought I would email you instead! I hope you are doing well and enjoying your new purse, I soooo wish you could explore this place with me but I guess I will have to describe it for you the best that I can. I just decided that I would copy Dad, Claire and Ben on here as well so hello to all of you as well!!

So the flight went really well, surprisingly well-- I was so expecting to be stopped in customs because I didn't have this paper or that paper and sent back to the US. But I made it through after
1. Sitting next to an Indian man whose cologne sadly didn't mask his hideous body odor.
2. Sitting behind a woman (on the next flight) who was morbidly obese and I have deducted was the only possible source of the whiffs of gas that I kept getting throughout the flight. But
3. I did meet a lovely steward on South African Air and we chatted for a bit by the bathroom (half an hour) because he seemed more excited about my trip than I was.

I was also able to fanangle (sp?) the last vegetarian meal from him that one of the muslim passengers passed up. Thank Allah. The flight was a total of 18 hours after stopping for gas in Senegal for a crew change.. etc etc.

We arrived nine hours later in Jo'burg and my biggest fear was realized when I went through the gate: the people who were supposed to get me-- the long brown-haired girl in the orange sweatshirt as she self-described in the email-- was no where to be seen. I waited with my two gigantic backpacks, teetering back and forth near all of the African men holding signs with last names that I couldn't make out. Half an hour passed. One man with a red hat started eyeing me. I moved to the other side of the circle outside the gate. I tried to smile at the people I recognized from my flight, trying to ask in my glance: "Please take me home with you?" But they all shook me off, no one wanted the American girl with the backpacks that were bigger than her small frame. Finally a curly haired girl walked up with a large black man with dread locks and asked if I was Emily. I thanked Allah once more.

And we drove to the Visions House QUITE the experience, but we survived. The house.. the house is nothing to write about. Except that our electricity was shut off today and we all have agreed that we're being ripped off. But I have a bed, a heater that doesn't like to work at night, and three pounds of blankets/towels that I can use to keep me warm.

I just realized there are going to be a million spelling errors in this email because I can't check the spelling and I don't want to go back and re-read it because It's 10R for 30 Mins. Sorry Mom.

JO'Burg..
This city is amazing. It's like New York except when you drive down the street after a while you realize that you have only been seeing black faces. I thought I would feel awkward about standing out, but it's to the point where it's so blatant that I don't really care anymore. There are a couple downsides to the city, which I'll probably write about in my blog. The main one is that there is NO public transportation system that is safe. So imagine travelling around NY without public transport. Pretty much your only option is drive your own car or take a "taxi" which is like VW bus packed with people that you pay 7R for and it drops you off like a bus, at certain places. I'm still getting experience with these, some people (and guidebooks) say they're dangerous, but I think they're pretty harmless. Maybe I'll make friends?

I interviewed with both of my organizations today and I am so torn over which one to choose. One would be working with kids, the man was a little bague about what I would actually be doing, but he said that I might be able to visit some of the prisons etc which would be so cool. The thing I liked is that there are a ton of programs that they have ALL of which would be really really interesting. I just don't know exactly what he would want me to do.. we threw around the idea of giving the kids cameras and teaching them basic photography techniques and then I could compile a book or a slideshow with their work. I thought it sounded very NPR (giving street kids marantz recorders and producing a show about their life). So I was excited, a little hesitant because he was so vague. Another plus is that they would provide transportation.

Option number two would be working with a pretty large organization that teaches English in rural areas in South Africa and about four or five other countries in Africa. The feeling I got was that they were VERY eager to have me and my multi-media skills and that I would essentially be doing PR for them. They would take me to all of the provinces around South Africa and I would interview the teachers and the children to show what they're doing-- do photography video etc. It sounded amazing because they would pay for all of my travel and accomodations-- but I wouldn't be actually working with the kids, just interviewing doing press releases etc. They are a pretty well-established organization but have no communications area which is where I would come in.

I'm really torn, let me know what you all think. I pretty much have to decide by tomorrow and I think both would be amazing. One would be a great resume builder and has great opportunities, very straight forward, office building etc. The other.. more vague probably working with kids, and prisoners?? I don't know. But I'm having a very hard time deciding. There is so much more to say, but I don't really know where to start. I love it here. I don't even really know why. I can't pinpoint it. But every once in a while I have to stop and pinch myself and realize I'm actually in Africa and that there is something intrinsic about that that I still can't completely grasp. I love you all, and I miss you. Please tell Mimi I'm safe and forward this to Sheryl so she can read it.

Hopefully I'll update soon. Emily

Gratitude

Two days until departure.

The emotional rollercoaster continues. I don’t know how to describe it. Some of this is so hard to grasp that there’s almost no point in trying. In my mind, I classify it like leaving for college. I remember making the rounds to say goodbye to everyone, not completely knowing who I would be when I came back. Back then, I was determined not to change and now I’m welcoming the transition.

The biggest difference: this journey is with my heart, not my head.

It boggles my mind how many people have come up to me and said, “This is perfect for you.” The words always catch in my chest, and part of me is speechless. Not just because I was somehow able to manifest this dream, but because so many people see that in the deepest recesses of my soul, this is what I have been longing to do. 

I was telling my mom the other day that it has felt like a journey to the journey. For the last three months I’ve been meeting with so many people who have helped to make this trip possible. Even before I knew exactly where I wanted to go, or how I was going to do what I want to do, it was everyone’s enthusiasm that reminded me of the goal and helped me persist.

Words cannot express my gratitude to everyone. I have never felt so supported and loved in my entire life. It is all of you who I want to tell these stories to and share my journey with. 

I don’t know what these next few months will bring. Last night I was so anxious I felt like I could feel my blood surging through my body. It could have been my blood pressure going up because of the numerous pretzel cheese sandwiches I ate (we were out of animal crackers Whit)… but more likely it is this anticipation that keeps curdling in my stomach.

I don’t know if I will write again before I leave on Sunday. I love writing on the plane, and chances are I’ll have some thoughts to put down. This is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done (yes, harder than the marathon) but I am so thankful that I am able to do it.

To everyone I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to, please know that I am thinking about you and taking you with me. To everyone who is holding me in their thoughts: I couldn’t do this without you.

Your reason and your passion are the rudder and sails of your seafaring soul.

If either your sails or your rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.

For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.

Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion, that it may sing;

And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes. - Kahlil Gibran