Today was our last full day in the Soweto township, which meant that it was our last dinner with Father Bruce. The dinner consisted of Shepard's pie, tropical fruit juice, and for dessert, chocolate cake. It also consisted of recounting Willy's edgy humor, Abhishek's glamorous hat, Jeffery's Russian hat, various impressions, Ethan's laughter, and for dessert, a pregnant Jeffery speaking spanish. While none of these make any sense to you, just know that it left us with laughter that gave us, in the words of Mr. Henry, "More cardio then we've had on this whole trip." It is amazing to think that just over a week ago most of our friendships barely expanded beyond meetings no more than an hour in length. But the dinner, despite it being the most I have laughed in a long time, is but a small and rather insignificant fraction of the emotions that we have experienced over the last two days.
To be completely honest, I began the trip thinking about the inspiring words I could use in the blog to make our experience in South Africa sound as authentic and spiritual as possible. But our experience at the Nkanyezi Center and the stories we heard far surpassed anything I could have done with my fancy words and sentence structure. The Nkanyezi Center is a school for children with multiple disabilities, ranging from Cystic Fibrosis to Autism. One of the most touching stories I have ever heard was the story of the woman who founded the center, Mrs. Tshabalal. She had five children, all boys, which made for a hectic household. Her youngest son was named Nkanyezi, who was born with cerebral palsy. She told us stories of carrying him everywhere she went, caring for him and protecting him at all times.
But the part of the story that will forever live in my memory was what she was forced to endure at home. Her husband did not approve of Nkanyezi, and refused to take any responsibility for him. Her husband was abusive towards both of them, and Mrs. Tshabalala told us that he would lock the doors and turn to violence. She would be forced to hide with Nkanyezi, and often protect him by giving herself up. Eventually, her husband forced her to choose between him and Nkanyezi. She made the decision to leave her husband, and moved out to become a single mother. She won custody of her two other children, as the remaining two had already passed away. It was at this point that she realized there were very few schools that provided for students with disabilities, and the ones that existed were insufficient. So she started a center herself, originally working out of a small classroom in Johannesburg. After being there for about three months, they were evicted because the land lord felt that whoever was to move in had a better purpose.
Mrs. Tshabalala was forced to move many more times until finding a home. Luckily, an elementary school in Sowedo had moved, and they were able to move into the old buildings. The locals were able to see Mrs. Tshabalala working around the premises, carrying a now 12 year old Nkanyezi on her back while she cut the overgrown grass by hand. Soon after this transition Nkanyezi became ill and was hospitalized. Mrs. Tshabalala visited him as much as possible, but was forced to leave when the night staff arrived. She recounted receiving a phone call one day, and being told that her son was in coma. Ten days later, Nkanyezi passed away at the age of 13. The staff advocated that the name be changed to the name it still holds today, the Nkanyezi Center. Mrs. Tshabalala told us this story at the end of our day of service, as she had a doctors appointment in the morning. She had been getting treatment on her back, which has been badly injured because she lovingly carried her son for 13 years. Hearing such a emotional story, especially from the woman who experienced it, changed your entire outlook on life. It left me with a sense of awe and inspiration. That such a kind and loving woman, who was constantly offering us tea and coffee, was capable of enduring so much, makes you wonder what you should be capable of with the opportunity that you have been blessed with.
Hearing Mrs. Tshabalala's story made the work we had done so much more satisfying. We began our day by meeting the children. We lined up awkwardly in front the children, some of which were confined to wheelchairs, and waved to no response. Then, one of the staff workers began singing. She sang, "Thank you Jesus" in a powerful voice, both in English and in Zulu. At first, we were all unsure what was happening, but then the other workers joined in, and the faces of all the children lit up. I could not help but smile, as the overwhelming sense of joy flooded the room. After a short tour, we began our service for the day. Some of us helped out in the garden, tilling dirt, pulling weeds, and forming blisters. As fulfilling as the work in the garden was, it palled in comparison to playing with the children.
Whatever happiness is, as abstract and profound as it may be, I found it in the faces of the children we played with. They were overjoyed to hold my hand and walk in circles around the room for half an hour. They threw stuffed animals that had belonged to my sister in the air over and over, falling over laughing every time. We engaged in staring contests, talked to them, and even worked on secret handshakes. It was in this moment that I was able to take a step back and realize that I was interacting with children who had disabilities, were half my age, and lived ten thousand miles from home. And through it all I gained a sense of happiness and satisfaction that I could not have anywhere else.
That night, we celebrated the mass of the Sacred Heart with the community. We sat outside in the cold, constantly throwing wood into trashcan fires in order to stay warm. Mass is different here in South Africa. The choir sings upbeat songs, and everyone dances to the music, leaving us Americans to sway side to side as close to the beat as possible, hoping that nobody notices us. The mass was followed by a meal for the community, where we drank soup from a disposable cup, as we stood and talked to the people of Soweto. In two days, we have formed friendships that span cultural and racial boundaries, yet feel stronger than most of the relationships we have back at home. Talking to our new friends, I realized that they have the same gossip, drama, rumors, misunderstandings, and even humor that we have. I don't know why it never occurred to me, but it is a very humbling and humanizing experience to know that teenagers half way across the world have the same emotions and experiences that you do. I feel at home, and just as comfortable in conversation here as I do back in America.
Today was also full of emotion, and focused on coming to a true understanding of where we have been living for the past four days. The first thing we did after breakfast was meet with a local social worker and a group of students from the school we are staying at. We shared our stories and experiences, with the goal of learning what life is really like in South Africa and America for teenagers. What struck me about the stories that the South Africans told was the common theme of an absent father. Of the ten people who shared their story, nine of them had an absent father in one way or another. What was even more shocking was that everyone dealt with the issue differently. Some explained that they found father figures in older siblings, others said that they used it as motivation to ultimately prove their father that they are of worth, and even others said that they had been able to move on and forget about it. One of the students that had the last mode of thought was asked by the facilitator how he felt about not having a father. He answered, "I really don't care, to be honest, I don't like to think about it, but I think I don't care." But the same students, when asked how an absent father would affect his own fatherhood, said that he would be present at all costs, and that he would not want his son to grow up the same way. He said that he wanted his son to be happier than he was. The facilitator pointed out that this showed that he has tried to internalize his emotions, but understands the effects an absent father has, and is going to make a change. But the true problem in Soweto lies within the culture, not necessarily every individual. We spent a majority of the morning discussing the role of a father, the ideal father, and the differences between fathers in SA and in the States. We discovered that absent fathers are a huge problem in Soweto, as many men have children with multiple partners. Once again, this gave me an appreciation of my own gifts, and how fortunate I am to have a stable and joyful family life.
Afterwards, we had lunch with the students and attempted to teach them how to play American football. They are definitely fantastic athletes, and amazing soccer players, but to see how awkward it was for them to throw a football was almost funny. Here in South Africa, they really like soccer, rugby, and boxing. We also played with much younger kids who had been walking around. We threw a frisbee, and all though we didn't speak the same language, we were able connect with them. Then, we cleaned up and began our walk through Soweto.
We walked to the Hector Pieterson museum. Our walk took about 15 minutes, and to be honest, I was nervous. Outside of Saint Martins, Soweto has dirt sidewalks, cement or wire fences, and barking dogs. Obviously, race has been a huge issue in Soweto's history, and being a tall white male, I knew I would stick out. But we walked with Father Bruce and our friends from St. Martin's. Along the way people were honking and waving from their cars, greeting us, and talking to us. Within five minutes, all of my original fears had vanished, and I felt as if I belonged.
For me, the most drastic part of these two days was the Hector Pieterson Museum. It commemorated to death of a 13 year old boy in Soweto, who was protesting for equal education. The government had put into effect that all African schools would be taught in Africans, a language that is a variation of Dutch with minimal African influence. None of the Africans spoke Africans, but the teacher went on giving lessons anyway. In frustration, the students went on a peaceful march, and carried nothing but signs. Despite this, police opened fire on the protesters, and killing Hector and many others. The iconic picture is of Hector being carried away, blood dripping from his face, as his younger sister runs next to him while crying.
What made our experience so much more tangible and real was the stories our friends told us. Along with the facts, exhibits, and videos that the museum provided, our friends from Saint Martin's were able to provide us with stories and the views of someone who lives in Soweto. While they were not alive for the protest, many of their parents were, and tell them stories and their memories. They talked about how this has shaped Soweto and their own lives. One of the people I was talking expressed his views on the current state of Soweto. He said that whites do not oppress blacks as much anymore as blacks oppress one another. He explained that their new rights and freedoms have created new opportunities, but that they are limited. He thought there was a sense of competition that only brought others down. Seeing someone else being successful does not bring joy and empathy for someone, but rather a sense of jealousy and hatred. What he told me that he believed that blacks in South Africa would not progress until they were able to overcome that.
I understand that changing this would not fix the countries problems, and that the views of an 18 year old are not always the correct or even popular view. But that does not mean that there isn't an experience or person that hasn't shaped his views. That in itself is one of the most important things I have learned on this trip. There are so many different views in the world, and you may not relate to or even agree with them. But behind every story, there is a history, experience, or person that has shaped someone's view on the world. Sometimes, understanding where someone's views come from can be much more important and profound than the views themselves. Despite the gifts and memorabilia we will bring home, I believe that the most valuable thing I will return with are the stories of people I meet. Whether the stories be inspiring, joyful, sad, or profound, they carry the history of a person and their culture. History and experiences shape individuals that have the capability to shape cultures and our world. I have realized that coming to an understanding of South Africa can't be found through reading books, or even seeing the country with our own prejudices. Only through knowing the people and their stories will we be able to understand a culture and a country, and become more aware of the world around us.
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