Where are the townships?

The townships in South Africa are a legacy of apartheid and ultimately of colonialism. As a black, legally, one could not live anywhere else in a city before 1994 when South Africa became a democratic country. Originally built with the intention of being temporary homes for migrant workers, townships sprang up on the outskirts of cities throughout SA. They still have a makeshift, hurried feel to them, although people have lived there for generations: half-built houses and little, if any, infrastructure. Access to basic services like health care, water, electricity, and sanitation are limited, if available at all.

In the past few weeks I’ve begun to reflect on the townships in a different way. It would be insensitive to think of the townships as a metaphor, perhaps even crass to compare to something else the way people live and die in poverty. But I’ve started asking, where are the “townships” in my own life? Where are the “townships” in Boston where I spent four years at university? Where are the places that some can pretend don’t exist, because they would never choose to go there voluntarily? The Fens? Dorchester? South Boston?

The only time I went to Dorchester in four years of living in Boston was when I served jury duty. It wasn’t easy to get there. I took two unfamiliar bus routes. On the second bus I felt for the first time what it was like to be a minority. During that rather long ride two Teach for America volunteers in bright red jackets boarded and exited the bus before I reached the courthouse. Like I often do now, they stuck out like sore thumbs as white volunteers in a predominantly African-American neighborhood. Although the extreme and pervasive nature of poverty in Africa does not compare to the poverty in US, I spent four years in denial that poverty existed at all. I even attended a church that housed a homeless shelter in its basement! Like here in SA, I was a privileged, on my way to being well-educated white that could afford the luxury of denial.

The townships are an interesting phenomenon, in that as a North American, it would be possible to spend an entire year in SA without setting foot in a township. I could attend and serve a white, suburban congregation. I could socialize with white university and seminary students. I could do all my shopping and find entertainment in the city center.

By the very nature of my work here, that option, to never go to a township, is out of the question. I spend part of my week, often the most difficult part of my week, working in a place where it becomes impossible to look away, to be in denial. It becomes impossible not to be in touch with the realities of limited access to health care, water, electricity, and sanitation. When children come to the crèche in tattered clothes and hungry for their morning porridge, it is difficult not to ask why. Why was I numb to this reality that literally billions of people on this planet share? In my remote, insulated Boston bubble, even as an activist and organizer, I had the convenience of looking away when I chose to. I was not confronted with hard realities life and death on a daily basis. For the majority of the world’s population, looking away is not an option: it’s a daily existence.

Early one morning last week, as I was sweeping the floor of the crèche, I couldn’t help but think to myself “Is this what I signed up for? How naïve was I?” One of my primary motivations for coming to the African continent was to put faces and stories to the statistics. I was asked during one of my interviews for this program, what makes the statistics any different from the stories of the poor that you could read? Why not just buy a book? The statistics do not even begin to paint the picture. The fact that one person dies every four seconds from treatable, preventable, poverty-related causes translates into the reality that I have started mentally preparing myself for the possibility of losing one of the children at the crèche during the year. The statistics don’t pull at your heart or sink in the pit of your stomach like being present for children born into desperate circumstances by no fault or choosing of their own. Sharing my presence is so hard sometimes, because I can’t look away. I no longer have that luxury. You are there when kids are laughing and sobbing, satisfied and hungry, healthy and HIV positive. Although the gifts of time and presence can be difficult to share, I would not trade that opportunity for anything. I thank God for the privilege and the ability to do more than read a book.

HIV/AIDS and Gender-Based Violence in the South African Context

Below is a very brief paper that I wrote for PACSA as part of introductory section to a much larger project. Many of the statistics are startling, but eye-opening to the realities of the South African context.

The high prevalence rates of both gender-based violence and HIV/AIDS have created interrelated crises in South Africa. At 5.5 million people, South Africa had the highest number of HIV infections of any country in the world in 2007 according to Joint United Nations Programme on HIV/AIDS (UNAIDS) and the World Health Organisation (WHO). The Department of Health in South Africa stated that 18.3% of adults (15-49 years) were living with HIV in 2006, although the prevalence rate varied widely from province to province. In Kwa-Zulu Natal, 39% of pregnant women tested positive at antenatal clinics. In South Africa women are disproportionately infected with HIV. Among 15-24 year-olds, women represent 90% of new infections. The HIV incidence among women 20-29 years-old was approximately 5.6% in 2005, nearly six times higher than the incidence rate among men of the same age range. As AIDS-related illnesses are the leading cause of death in South Africa, it cannot be denied that this country faces a health crisis of massive proportions.

The spread of the HIV/AIDS pandemic is directly related to the elevated occurrence of gender-based violence in South Africa. According to People Opposed to Women Abuse (POWA), a woman is raped in South Africa every 26 seconds. Every fourth woman is in an abusive relationship, and every six days a woman is killed by her intimate male partner. One in four girls (under the age of 16) has been sexually abused. If a rapist is HIV positive, his victim is also likely to become infected. When a woman is in an abusive relationship, she is far less likely to be able to negotiate using condoms with her partner, a proven method of preventing HIV infection. Women are also more likely to be infected than men for biological reasons. The friction from forced sex creates lesions through which the virus can be transmitted in semen and blood over a wide surface area. A common misconception is that women are more likely to be infected through risky sexual behaviors, such as promiscuity, but a large South African study demonstrated that 61% of all HIV positive women had been faithful to one partner their entire lives. The high level of gender-based violence in South Africa is not only a crisis in its own right, but it is also contributing to the spread HIV. The HIV/AIDS pandemic and the pervasiveness of gender-based violence must be addressed as two interrelated crises facing South Africa today.

Stay in touch for more about my experiences organizing for the 16 Days Campaign Against Abuse of Women and Children and World AIDS Day (1 December).

PACSA: an NGO in SA

As with any aspect of the development sector, immersing oneself in a NGO like PACSA requires learning a new alphabet soup. My first week on site, I attended a CCOH workshop, which was sponsored by CABSA. A few weeks ago at long-term strategic planning, the staff discussed several OD concepts. In a month’s time I’ll be attending the SACC conference, which is not the same as the AACC conference a week later. On Wednesday I wrote a brief paper on the connection between HIV/AIDS and GBV, usually know as VAW, in South Africa. Are you following?

As working at an NGO means that one is inherently working on a deadline, the reader will have until the end of this reflection to memorize these:

AACC All Africa Council of Churches
CABSA Christian AIDS Bureau of South Africa
CCOH Churches Channels of Hope
GVB gender-based violence
NGO non-governmental organization
OD organizational development
SACC South Africa Council of Churches
UNAIDS United Nations Joint Program on HIV/AIDS
VAW violence against women
WHO World Health Organization

My work at PACSA is primarily with the gender desk, which tackles GBV, offers youth peer education in schools and churches, advocates for gender equality, and explores gender, theology and spirituality. Every day is different and may include a myriad of different projects. For example, last week I working on pulling statistics from the latest UNAIDS and WHO report on the AIDS pandemic for a publication and editing a master’s thesis on emerging conceptions of masculinity in post-apartheid South Africa. Most of the work is academic and based on organizational development principles. When I first arrived, some of the staff asked me what my discipline was, as if I am here to do research. It is sometimes difficult not to feel intimidated, because I don’t have a doctorate in development economics. I have been able to put my writing skills to good use though, as the majority of the staff do not speak English as a first language. The staff is something of a UN, representing not only South Africa (Zulu, Indian, and white), but Malawi, Swaziland, Kenya, Germany, Holland, and now the US.

My placement sites at PACSA and the crèche create an interesting counterbalance to one another. Working in a township with limited access to electricity, water, and sanitation is, in many ways, as “on the ground” as development processes become. But I spend the other half of my week in a downtown office, complete with internet access, staff learning workshops, and a Christmas party in the planning. Like so many aspects of life in South Africa, the work at my placement sites exist in stark contrast to one another and yet are intimately connected. The type of work I do at the crèche, which is community-based, is often supported by NGOs like PACSA. Often my work at PACSA gives me a new idea or approach to try with the students and staff at the crèche. It is as though I travel between two different universes on a weekly basis, but my work at both sites is addressing economic inequality in South Africa. I look forward to continuing to work and to learn at each site, as the experience at one enrichs the other.

Birth Certificates and the Hokey Pokey

After my first visit during orientation, I thought that I had a good sense of what I was getting myself into. A month ago I thought I had my year planned out. The crèche is situated in a township, and the children who attend are from the immediate neighborhood. There are few material resources (toys, books, art supplies, furniture, etc.) at the disposal of the staff and the learners. The entire school day takes place in the large, open fellowship hall of a church. I thought that I would be spending my time writing grants and working with the Department of Social Welfare to find more sustainable sources of funding for the crèche. Essentially, similar to what happens in so many development projects, I wanted to throw money at the “problem.”

At first it was difficult not to be overwhelmed by both the poverty that the children were born into and the chaos often created by their sheer numbers. I kept thinking to myself, I don’t have a degree in early childhood education or development or public health; I’m not qualified to do this kind of work! I quickly discovered that my calling in life is not, in fact, to be a isiZulu-speaking preschool teacher. I spent my first few weeks doing crowd control and many renditions of the Hokey Pokey. The children discovered early on that I can be used as a human jungle gym, especially during piggyback rides. With as many as forty-five learners (in addition to the toddlers) and often only one teacher, the staff was thankful just to have another set of hands. I was constantly chasing after stray toddlers, wiping snotty noses, and tying, if not completely retrieving, shoes. In those first few weeks I learned the rhythms of breakfast, morning attendance, snack, play, story time, lunch, and nap time. Names started attaching themselves to faces. In my mind some sense of order began emerging from the chaos.

In the quite moments of the early morning while the students were arriving and in the early afternoon during naptime I asked, and continue to ask, a lot of questions. How is the crèche funded? (Funding comes from school fees and subsidies from the Department of Social Welfare, both of which are inconsistent sources of income.) What is the institutional relationship between the congregation, whose space is used, and the crèche? (There is none.) What are the crèche’s biggest needs? (The laundry list is quite long.) But I realized I was asking the wrong sort of questions. I focused almost exclusively on what the crèche did not have, when I needed be asking what resources did the crèche already have that could be used more creatively, efficiently, etc. Ironically YAGM introduced me to this method in orientation. It’s called an asset-based approach to development. There was a disconnect in my mind between knowing the theory and putting it into practice. I’m constantly revising my approach, asking myself how the work I am doing will best allow sustainable development to take place.

Instead of bemoaning my worse than embarrassing proficiency in isi-Zulu, I started looking for ways to use my gifts to the crèche’s advantage. (Although it still amazes me how much one can communicate to a four-year-old whose mother tongue is different from one’s own.) Using my organizational skills I’ve started working through the student records and the financial books, both of which need attention. I’m working with the teachers and staff to write policy and procedure for a myriad of different situations and finding the most effective ways of communicating home to the parents. These projects are easily more than a year’s worth of work, but I am doing what I can with the time that I have been given. Like anything in life this work is in process, and it is one that I am blessed to be a part of.

In, but not of, the world

It’s a very interesting time to be a student of both South African and American politics and the democratic process. SA, like the rest of the world, is following the US election campaign with piqued interest. I have also become slightly obsessed with it, as I woke up at 3:00am to watch two of the US presidential debates live. (With the time change South Africa is six hours ahead of the US.) I was a little miffed when the analysis following the final debate was cut off at 5:30am for World Sport. Who watches sports at that hour of the morning anyway? The global media coverage of the US election comes with an appreciation of the fact that whomever Americans elect as their next president has implications, not only for their own country, but also for the world. Americans have a profound responsibility when they vote, as many of the policy decisions the next US president will make will have a direct impact on people throughout the world. As not of the world, but with the acknowledgment that I am in it, I implore the Americans following this blog to make an informed choice on 4 November. (I don’t think that my absentee ballot will be counted unless the vote in my district is close.)

When I’m introduced as an American people will often ask whom I’m voting for within the first two minutes of conversation. When I first received this question in small talk with new acquaintances I was slightly taken aback. Discussing politics in the US isn’t explicitly taboo, but it is certainly not considered “polite” conversation, especially with a person one has just met. But here in SA, politics permeate daily conversation, especially in the light of recent events. When I was formally introduced to the township congregation at Machibsa where I am placed, I was asked in front of everyone by one of the worship leaders, “Will you be voting for a black man in the election?” (The question is often unavoidable. For those of you who know anything about my political affiliations, you can probably guess how I responded.)

Political discourse is also alive and well in SA. By the completion of my year of service there will have been three presidents: Thabo Mbeki, Kgalema Motlanthe, and in all likelihood Jacob Zuma. Mbeki resigned in the political fallout of a Pietermartizburg High Court ruling in favor of Zuma. Motlanthe was appointed as a transitional leader between now and the next presidential election in April. The majority, the African National Congress (ANC), may be facing a breakaway party in the election. Although I have reduced the current political situation to a few sentences, it is infinitely more complex. As I learn more about the history of SA as the context in which these politics play out, I am slowly peeling away layers of understanding.

In addition to following secular South African politics, I have also been a part of the democratic process in the church. I participated in two recent ELCSA elections as an observer to ensure that they were “free and fair”. The first was for the national executive committee of the Young Adults League and the second was for the bishop of the South Eastern Diocese. (A diocese is the equivalent of a synod in the ELCA.) As American volunteers with no voting privileges, my YAGM colleagues and I in attendance were considered unbiased. We were recruited to pass out, collect, and count ballots. I’m discovering that the democratic process is an integral and often unavoidable part of life–in the US, SA, and the church–which is why it requires critical engagement in its many manifestations.

The Life of the Church

I didn’t realize how out of place I must have looked at my first South African church service until several weeks later. I was sitting on the “wrong” side with the mamas (mothers and grandmothers) instead of across the aisle with the youth. In traditional Zulu culture men, women, and youth sit separately at community events. I had brought my Bible upon a reminder from my host mom, but had neither a Zulu hymnal nor the ELCSA almanac (a booklet of daily Scripture readings based on the liturgical calendar). No church would be able to afford sets of hymnals and Bibles for the pews. I was wearing a skirt, but didn’t know how inappropriate it would have been to wear trousers as a woman. (I still feel perpetually underdressed.) Although I found elements of the service similar, I could do no better than sit or stand when everyone else did. The first week I started to recognize the tunes and words to parts of the liturgy was a small victory. The singing was hauntingly beautiful, but I had no idea how everyone remained in the same key without a pitch reference. I thought it very unusual that several women were wearing what appeared to be a uniform, only to learn that they were members of the Prayer Women’s League. Congregants can join one of several fraternal organizations called leagues (Men’s, Women’s, Youth’s, and now Young Adults’). I was naively surprised to be introduced at the end of the service (and have been at several services since then) and felt guilty that everyone knew who I was, because I was still struggling with my first set of Zulu names. As I am terrible with names, I am thankful that to begin associating names with familiar faces and positions within the church hierarchy at the events I have attended since then. I realize now that my ignorance shielded me from complete disorientation and embarrassment on that first Sunday.

Sunday worship is a vibrant experience, full of singing, dancing, and even dancing while singing. (This has been a fun adjustment for an American used to more quiet reverence, although I will probably never move quite as well as my counterparts.) I was struck on that first Sunday, which was a very ordinary one, that the church was teeming with people. I was squished between the end of a pew and my host mom for three hours. (The longest service I’ve attended so far was almost six.) This enthusiastic attendance has been consistent on every Sunday since in venues ranging from a township congregation to an ordination service at Durban’s city hall to a tent at the national Young Adult’s League conference. There are no churches large enough to accommodate several hundred people. Most ELCSA churches are in rural areas for a number of historical reasons relating to the work of missionaries and the legacy of apartheid. Every Sunday has been different but I am slowly learning, in the brief time since my arrival, about the life of the church in the South Eastern Diocese (SED) of ELCSA. I am so grateful for the patience and hospitality of South African Lutherans, especially as I am integrating into a new church culture.

14 September: Young Adults’ League rally in Pinetown
21 September: ordination service in Durban
27-28 September: Prayer Men’s League conference in Imbali (township outside Martizburg)
3-5 October: national Young Adults League conference in Limpopo (most northern province of SA)
10-12 October: synod assembly in Umphumulo (seat of the bishop and offices of the SED)

The Host/Guest Relationship

I make my bed and tidy up my room every morning. For those of you who know anything about my housekeeping inclinations, this is an extraordinary feat. I can probably count on two hands the number of times I made my bed in my Boston apartment. It’s a simple discipline, but it reminds me daily of the host/guest relationship. My mom taught me the polite thing to do when you are an overnight guest is to make the bed in which you slept. This practice keeps me mindful that I will always be a guest of my host family.

Being a guest brings a different sort of awareness to one’s interactions. I make an effort not to interfere with anyone’s daily routine (by spending too much time in the shower), but also to be more sociable than my introverted tendencies incline me to be (by spending a lot of time in the kitchen). After living by myself for two years, living with a family has been an adjustment. I’m discovering that I’m not used to living in relationship. I’m accustomed to doing things on my own and if not alone then with people of my own choosing. In SA there’s a much stronger emphasis on relationships on all levels than in the US. People are defined not exclusively as individuals, but by the quality of their relationships. There’s a saying, “I am, because we are.”

My mom, in her infinite wisdom, loved to tell me as a kid, “Crystal, you can’t do it alone.” I absolutely hated when she said that. What do you mean I can’t figure out the entirety of SA on my own? I’m a capable individual, right? (Yes, I realize how incredibly ridiculous that sounds.) At times it’s difficult for me to ask questions, because having to ask is an admission that I don’t have the answer already. Sometimes I feel like I’m asking a hundred questions a day. It’s humbling to acknowledge that my hosts have a wealth a knowledge and experience to share with me; that I can’t figure this all out of my own. I’m thankful that I can’t, because cross-cultural living is too complicated to figure out by myself.

As an American raised in the ideals of rugged individualism and the self-made person, the idea of living in relationship is at times jarring. I’m not used to being accountable to other people about where I’ll be and what I’m doing with my time. But on a more profound level, I’m not used to being defined as someone’s daughter or someone’s co-worker. I’m just Crystal—not Crystal living with the Dlaminis, or Crystal working with Mrs. Mahaye at the crèche, or Crystal attending the Machibesa congregation. Those are all things I’m used to compartmentalizing, not things with which I define myself. I think this discomfort is a result of a need to rethink how I view living in relationship by acknowledging that I do live in relationship. As much as I like to think I can do it on my own, I can’t. I don’t believe that’s an admission of weakness. It’s a belief in the strength of living in community. We live interdependently, relying on one another. We have to. I am because we are.