Morola and community

It all happened way to fast
But I will never forget that day in the past
The image I see haunts me still
When my father was murdered against his will
“A masterpiece of justice” was her excuse
For continuing the cycle of crime and abuse
I became a victim of my mother’s fear
For we both knew that her end was near
Brother would come and reclaim his name
And spill my mother’s blood without guilt or shame
Here I stand before you now
To work through the pain someway, somehow.
I am the bullet, my life is the gun
I must move forward. Whats done is done.
I have worked past the pain through the words I have spoken
Finally the circle of crime has been broken

This poem recaps the story in the drama we read called Morola. The theme in this play revolves around crime, which is a common problem in South Africa. The conclusion ends with peace instead of repeating the cycle of violence and death. Through the help of the Truth and Reconcilliation Commission, Elektra is able to forgive her mother for the murder of her father. I enjoyed reading this book because it revealed how the TRC can help move forward towards a community of hope. My experience in South Africa, especially in the townships, reflected this idea of community. If crime was not a factor, I truly believe South Africa reflects a clost community.
Kirsten Russell

Object Paper :: The Boats of Robben Island

by Kael Wanamaker

This story is written through the imagined eyes of the ships, the new that carries the tourists and the old that carried the prisoners to Robben Island.

…

On and off and on and off.

The old women sway and click their tongues- Oh no, nothing like in my day; this girl, she doesn’t know. They sway and sigh, casting long and heavy glances my way. Ah, me!

I hear and turn away, focusing on feet- on and off and on, wood to iron, iron to wood. Their glances brush my back, following me as we grow small into the horizon. What don’t I know?

On and off, on and off- until the stars- on and off, and on and off. 

We settle in beside one another in the misty cold. We sway, I ask- What don’t I know?

Oh! they sigh. Oh! they laugh. What doesn’t she know? They settle, with a slow groan of iron. We shall tell you, child.

Do you see how many each day step on and off, on and off? Do you see how you guide them safely back from our island home to their own?

Yes, I do. That is my task, that is why I am here.

Ah! they whisper. Ah. Though we no longer leave our comfort here, though they treat us well enough now, we, too, used to see on and off, on and off. The feet, though- the feet came on bound. Feet came hurried on in the dead of night. Do you see how carefully you count, the same feet getting off here to go back on home? Oh no, not so. The feet came on here, never to go. No, we did not expect to see the same feet again Do you see, child, how the dark, the feet of the land, guide the light, the feet from afar? Ah! It was not so. Oh no, it was not so. The light feet, how they pushed, darkened and other light, how they pushed them on and off. So many, on and off. Sometimes we held the feet of loved ones- carefully, carefully, on and off, then so quickly again, on and off, back to their home. 

We groaned under our heavy duty. We sighed for the feet still gone, always gone to the island. Until, one day, at the breaking of dawn- we saw, oh we didn’t believe our eyes!- the feet come dancing, once again back on! To leave the island, forever unbound! After so many years, dancing, back on, feet unbound! Ah, now that was a day to remember!

Their salty, care-worn faces drift into smiles.

Now you see, girl, you see how he feet on you are but echoes of the feet from us. Be glad, my girl, to see so many, to hold so many who seek to walk the path of the feet we carried. 

They sway and sigh, sway and sigh. A gentle yawn with the lapse of tide, rocking slowly into rest. 

The stars in the velvet blue begin to dance, and I gaze at them as I begin to dream of on and off, on and off, until I float slowly towards my sleep.

Robben Island

by Kael Wanamaker

19 June 2009

. . .to walk back freely and reclaim the land that held you in chains for so many years. . .

We toured Robben Island today, the infamous home of a “hellhole” of a prison, comparable to Alcatraz in its locale, that was used to house political prisoners during apartheid. Being sent to Robben Island meant an indefinite length of imprisonment, with no chance of escape. As we rode the ferry across the rough waters out to the island, I began to appreciate why an escape attempt meant almost certain death. Even in the newly commissioned tourist vessel, the dismal grey waters rocked us about, nearly to the point of seasickness. The journey to the island took longer than I imagined, as well- by swift boat, nearly 30 minutes.  The magnitude of the stretch of sea between mainland and island sunk deep into my consciousness as the waves pounded ceaselessly against the metal, even on this, a calm winter’s day.

When we did arrive at the island, the shore felt to me quietly chaotic. Perhaps it was the jetlag-induced mist surrounding my thoughts, but I felt a sudden and unexpected apprehension rising in my stomach as we disembarked onto a gangway, making our way from boardwalk to dry, red-white sand and rocks, strewn with sparse, low-lying vegetation, to a row of awaiting buses.

The size of the island took me aback. I suppose I expected a small, mean chunk of rock, grey and drab, surrounded on all sides by barrack-like walls and barbed wire. (This expectation in spite of reading up on the history, natural and political, of the place.) It seemed such an open, peaceful place. I was having difficulty reconciling the serene image before me with the pain and torture I had read in the stories of the island. It felt nothing short of absurd to me to spot penguins and peacocks darting about the rocks and brush, so carefree. Didn’t they understand the weight of the history of their island home? The word surreal came to mind as our tour guide paused in the middle of his talk about the leper colony formerly housed on Robben Island to point out the penguins sliding on their white, freckled bellies next to our bus.

Our bus guide was a young black man of about thirty. He wore the blue fleece of a tour guide, and must have had some fairly fantastic dreadlocks hidden under a towering knit hat he wore. With the magical voice of a storyteller, he wove a tale of Robben Island and apartheid for us, as we wound our way slowly around the main sites of the island, tracing the red, dusty roads.  His eyes scanned ours as he told us a little about himself. Though he himself was never imprisoned on the island, he grew up in a township under the apartheid regime. He remembers when he was twelve, dancing in the streets at the news of Nelson Mandela’s release.

When we stopped at a scenic photo shoot, I talked to him a bit more about his work and life. When I asked if he liked his job, he paused. It was a likable job, he said, a bit of a commute, but a more interesting job than others. He feels he learns from each new group of tourists that comes through, and that he also must constantly guage the emotions of each, so that he can tailor his talks accordingly.

Some white people come, and, even if they are not from South Africa, he says he can sometimes see their faces fall and their voices grow quiet as an oppressive sense of guilt overcomes them. Others come in more ignorant, he told me, then paused again, his eyes trying to read my face. “They just aren’t ready, you know? They just aren’t ready for this. They come in, and say, ‘I just wanted to see Mandela’s cell. I wasn’t ready for all this sh*t that comes with it.’” He pauses again, “You know?”

But, he said, it gives him great hope to see so many people, from all over the world, come to the island and learn. That they are there, and interested, is enough to give him hope for the future.

After leaving the bus, we toured the prison itself. Even throughout this experience, though, the story of our guide, Thamos, played in my mind. Hope was the word that came to it as our prison guide, a former inmate, told us his story, talked us through life on the island. Hope is what I saw in the houses of the island dwellers, former inmates and guards, living pieces of history. Hope was in the buildings, the boats, the faces. History was not finished, but living, breathing, waiting to be told.

Family Ties in South Africa

Walking through the township of Mfuleni where we worked with Habitat for Humanity I found a sense of comfort in being there. The atmosphere, places of living, and people remind me so much of Mexico that I have actually started to feel a quench for the country. The tropical look of the cities surrounding it reminds me of the tourist part of Mexico; and as you go deeper into the heart of South Africa you find the townships and like Mexico, the people who make this country beautiful because of their culture and tradition.

Of course, every place has its wealth, but I always found myself begging my father to let me stay in Torreon, Coahuila (the poverish side of my family) than to visit my family on my mom’s side in Charcas, San Luis Potosi. I feel like the the wealthy, or those more fortunate, are more likely to rely on material things and technology to keep them busy. I know because I am fortunate to have things that I want and take things that I need for granted. My family in Torreon, just like the beautiful children that I’ve seen in Mfuleni, find ways to keep themselves not only satisfied, but busy.

I see children of all ages running around playing some kind of sport or finding pieces of string to play with for hours on end. I have to admit, every time I visit my family in Mexico and the townships in South Africa, I feel a bit jealous. Although it does sadden me to know they are most likely freezing in the winter with minimum water supply and food, they are much more resourceful. Instead of sulking or whining when they cannot find snacks to munch on, these incredible people are finding ways to stay healthy and nourished on minimal amounts of money.

Each side of the money train has its ups and downs. But I think it would really be nice to go back to my roots, so to speak. But going to live off of necessities is hard for those who are accustomed to a certain way of living. Just like my new friend, Bantu, said

I do not like living here…because there is no food.

This child of nine years of age is the most sweetest child ever…But knowing that his mother and father probably worked all day because of two jobs and were never home made me sad to know that he was alone for the majority of his childhood.

Even though I see these differences in life styles, I love to visit Mexico and I would love to come back to South Africa. It is simply beautiful and full of history. Although Apartheid threw these families into townships, they still have love for one another and help each other out in their community. It is beautiful to see these children become families when their parents are away working their jobs out of true necessity.

Life in Mfuleni

Poverty exists everywhere and as long as money is a part of out world it will never cease to exist. Having family that live in poverty and working in the township of Mfuleni with Habitat for Humanity helps me remember that the stereotypes that people put on poverty are not all true. Every community has its stereotypes whether is be on poverty of wealth and we just make assumptions without really knowing the truth.

My family in Mexico has helped me keep an open perspective on poverty. The stereotype of excessive crime in poverish communities was one that I held when I was not able to understand the hardships that they had to endure.

Being in Mfuleni was such a great experience. When I first arrived and we were riding the bus through the township, I remember seeing all the families living in shacks. That was a lot to take in. Then I began seeing little baby clothes on hangers and that truly made me emotional. Continuing through the township you see children of all ages wandering the streets by themselves or with a couple of others.

However, driving through Mfuleni gave me this feeling of home and I felt very comfortable. Getting to know the children during our breaks I could see how crime could arise. An adorable nine-year-old named Bantu was telling me how his mother leaves very early each morning and returns at around 10 p.m. Seeing that he stays home alone and is forced to fend for himself must be very difficult. I then asked him if he liked living in Mfuleni and he said ‘No’. When I asked him why he responded, “Because there is no food.” Bantu is left alone, bot because his mother wants to leave him every day, but because she needs to. I then started contemplating on the whole stereotypical crime idea and I can definitely see how these young children could be easily swayed.

As the day progressed, I could see how each child had many friends and they create their own little family. They could either be swayed by negative or positive influences at a very early age. I believe that Pearlman has a great view of the different stereotypes people hold on poverty. Also, because in a wealthy and middle class economy the poverish are more spread out whereas in townships and places filled with poverty they are so close together therefore leading to the stereotype of excessive crime in poverish communities.

But seeing Bantu and his loving smile, there is definitely plenty of hope for the youth when it comes to crime. It is easy to be stereotypical when one is not educated. Poverty is everywhere and so is crime. Being in Mfuleni made me happy and sad. Happy because they people have at least a little shelter, but sad because they are living on the bare minimum.

The Hunger of Deprivation

It howls at me with a fierce cry,
There is no escaping it,
As I wander alone through the empty streets
It begins to gnaw at me.

I feel myself growing weaker and weaker,
Each step grows heavy with pain,
My home is my solitude,
And I cannot find my way through this midst of fear.

It continues to grow,
And the growl grows stronger and stronger,
Each breath that escapes is a moment in my existence,
My short existence with my solitude.

It begins to howl with brute force,
I cannot control the screams,
I am like a crumbling rock with nothing to feel,
Only the memories of these once bustling streets.

I am alone with this pain,
Where do I go?
What do I do?
I have yet to find myself.

I am only but a child,
Or so they tell me.
These hungry wolves that are feasting,
They leave nothing for me.

As the pain grows,
I begin to lose myself.

Paradigms of Poverty – Hailey Baisch

Habitat for Humanity’s quest to build six houses this week opened several paradigms of poverty revolving children. I was once told by a teacher at a middle school assembly that, “Children are like wet cement. Whatever falls on them makes an impression.” The children of the township experience a very different childhood than that of my suburbia upbringing and thus have different impressions in their wet cement. Sadly many of these impressions or lack of positive influences will damage their chances for success. I observed one child, a girl of about six, who left me greatly distraught. Her destructive behavior, lack of respect for most individuals, and rough nature could either be a result of Buckland’s culture of poverty theory or Pearlman’s lack of institutions model. In either viewpoint, the child will be a part of the continuous circle of failure due to her circumstance of poverty.

At first the child’s behavior didn’t seem more than just usual play but she would eventually turn into one of the biggest problems on the construction site. To list a few of her observed actions she ripped the pants off a student builder, threw a cinderblock chunk at another child’s head, and physically abused anyone she passed with slaps and punches. She also bit my arm after a struggle to get something returned she had taken. I was in complete shock after this incident and had no patience with her from then on. I can understand a two or three year old still biting through my experiences being a nanny but ever one of this age. She got worse as the day went on.

As we were leaving, the group of children took an interest to our water bottles. I than realized that they had been outside with us all day long and I never once saw them get something to drink. A fellow crew member was drinking her disposable water bottle when it was fetched from her hands by this particular young girl. She was slightly confused but just let her have it. Another builder noticed a smaller girl who also wanted a drink. She gave her water bottle to the delighted little girl. Soon to her surprise it was ripped from her hands by the older mean child who began to quickly swallow its contents. Tears flooded the small child’s cheeks and I had had it. I couldn’t let this happen. I took the bottle back from her after another struggle, scolded her with a simple “No! You have to share!” and returned the almost empty bottle the smaller child. The older girl looked at me in complete disgust and was very angry with me. She walked slowly backyards to her home, all the while glaring right at me. I didn’t see her the rest of the day or the next morning on the site.

I believe that this child’s actions are caused by the poverty situation she is immersed in. There are no adults around to regulate the children’s actions. At our site especially there were not very many older children to look after and play fictive parents to the younger. The young girl’s parental discipline during the day was obviously limited and who know how much it occurs at night. Buckland would argue that it was the society’s culture of discipline and childcare. The culture of the township shaped this behavior. I would have to side with Pearlman on this issue though. She would argue that if the township had the proper institutions and help, this problem would be greatly reduced. If the township was able to offer free preschool and stronger education in primary school this behavior would hopefully not develop in most kids. School is essential for the children of poverty to have a fighting chance in life. Children surrounded by discipline and education thrive better. The poor children given these opportunities are poised to succeed. Also if the parents were given better jobs closer to their homes their children wouldn’t have to be alone all day long. These parents could than teach basic social behaviors as well as discipline. Better jobs could also mean that they could possibly afford some sort of preschool or childcare program if not instituted by a free group.

If given the proper discipline and social interactions when young, township children would not express such behavior to peers or adults. This behavior if not disciplined and structured could greatly increase a child’s chances for crime participation, gang activities, and failed attempts at jobs and social acceptance. With the proper institutions this could be avoid, breaking a poverty cycle and allowing a poor child to succeed.

Habitat for Hummanity – Hailey Baisch

I had an encounter with two boys at the Habitat build site. They were about 5 years old and had been playing in the street all morning long. What caught my eye was the condition of the play toy the excited boys had been occupied with. It was a toddler size, sun faded, red, plastic toy truck that allowed its prized owners to ride around and steer their way through the crowded streets of children. Now this situation sounds quite normal for a group of boys this age, but the difference is in this township of Mfuleni the toy truck was broken. The front wheel had popped off and was being held on by a small yellow lego piece. The boys would only get so far down the road before the lego would pop off under their weight and send them laughing to the ground. This toy in the states would have been thrown away as soon as the unfixable damage occurred. In fact many parents might have replaced the toy for their child by a newer model or the latest popular item. For these township children though this toy was all that they had to play with.

I watched the boys for a few moments before venturing off the build site to join in. They would start at the dead end of the street and push each other towards the main road. When I was allowed to play I ran for it full speed and came to a quick disappointment when the boy made it only half way down the street before tumbling over. I guess I used too much force and the boys began laughing so hard. We repeated this process a few times, each with the same bursts of laughter. I was given lessons but was still quite unsuccessful.

A broken toy was providing them with more joy than many of the toy filled rooms for most American children. The boys had to find the small piece on the  dirty road each time it fell off before returning to their game. This effort alone is not viewed as entertaining and would be a waste of time in our fast paced society. I learned several things from those small boys. I have many possessions and I constantly get new things. I throw other “old” possessions away long before they are worn out. I never would have kept that toy with its wheel and axial broken, sun bleached plastic, and cracked seat. It would have been disposed of. Happiness is not found in the number of things you have, the newest ipod, or coolest car model. Joy is found in the experience, relationships, and thank-fullness felt in the heart. A simple toy, broken and disposable taught me how complicated I made the easiest ways to find joy.

Wounded

The window shatters, time crawls

reluctant to witness

glass dripping to the ground like

blood

forced unwanted into the world

out of a body’s wound.

A child’s wound.

Velvet darkness surrounds the scene,

suffocating silence successfully

clotting both flows.

Small body crushed and crumpled and

broken

amid the piercing, vengeful shards.

Death of a puppet, a toy.

Only a puppet,

who read no meaning into

atomic bomb words

traded with grown men for

sweet treats.

Enlargement of another wound,

unwilling to heal,

fed by mothers and fathers and

sisters and brothers.

A country’s gaping wound.

-Brianna Pogue

Mfuleni

Today we were again rained-out of building our Habitat house. That didn’t stop us though, and we all rallied to get all the odd jobs around the site done (well, those jobs that were possible to complete in the downpour…). At one point a small group of us took a break and walked around the surrounding township area. It is finally hitting me just how the community members here live; it is hitting me like a ton of bricks right in the gut. Entire families struggle to survive on an income of R800, or less, a month. Can you imagine? $100.00 to feed a family of six, seven, or eight for 30 days? I could not until today.

Zamulongesa, our homeowner, is extremely hospitable. Earlier this week I was able to explore his shack and I was amazed at its ingenuity. A car battery powers the entire thing: one single bulb light, a small hotplate-type appliance, and a stereo. At first glance, his walls appear to be covered in very nice, decorative wallpaper. However, upon closer examination I realized that the wallpaper is actually hundreds and hundreds of maraschino cherry wrappers, all from Woolworth’s grocery store so that they are identical. Each one is carefully measured and plastered evenly, covering the walls from top to bottom. Zam informed me that he had been given these cherries as payment when he was a boy, and he began collecting the wrappers at that time. Now, twenty years later, he is still proud to display them in his neat little home. It is these small, almost imperceptible things that are giving me a true glimpse into township resiliency.

Even in the rain, the township colors are simply stunning. I cannot help but think of a buzzing beehive in the middle of a field of springtime flowers. Everywhere I look my eyes fall on reds, yellows, blues, and greens of the richest hues. The shacks are composed of 20 or 30 pieces of previously colored corrugated sheet metal, creating an eclectic and alluringly beautiful shantytown of rainbow.

The people, too, are full of color. As I was walking through the streets I was nervous at first. In many of the windows I saw peoples’ heads peeping through shutters and ratty blinds; many, many eyes followed us as we roamed the streets. How odd it must feel to them… us here making their lives and homes objects to stare at and discuss. However, not a single person came out of their house yelling at us to get away and stop ogling. Instead, they ushered their smallest children out first for us to stop and say hi to, play with, and love on. Then, the house mamma who had been eyeing us would tentatively step out and maybe even give a smile or a wave. That was our cue to return the gestures, and soon a relationship was formed. This same thing happened for about an hour as we wandered around Mfuleni.

This country continues to surprise me. At times I see South Africa so full of pain and contrast that I feel like weeping for the mistakes of the past. Then, I will see hope and the evidence of recovery in such a stunning display that all my sadness will be wiped away. There is nowhere that this contrast is more visible than in the townships.

-Brianna Pogue