"When loved ones are near....it's the most wonderful time of the year."

The school year at Amasango Career School has come to an end. The teachers, the principal, and myself have a month long reprieve from the insanity that seems to consume your life day in and day out when school is in session. Sadly, while most of the adults at school will spend these five weeks traveling around South Africa, visiting family and friends, relaxing on farms nestled amongst gently rolling mountains, eating big holiday meals and recuperating, many of the kids we work with will stay in Grahamstown; nothing much will change for them.

And while life for the staff becomes less stressful—the lives of some of Amasango’s most desperate students become even more desperate. The one place these youngest, most fragile members of Grahamstown society can turn to for a talk, for some food, for protection or for a second chance is gone for all of December and half of January. They need to make it on their own. They need to survive without Amasango.

About twenty-five Amasango pupils are lucky. They live in Eluxolweni. They’re truly on “summer break.” They’ll continue to get fed each day, have a roof over their head and have clean clothing to put on their backs each morning after their shower. They’re free to do what they want during the day, without having the hassle of school looming over them.

The rest of Amasango’s student body will spend the holidays in the township. Some, undoubtedly, will have a fun-filled Christmas season. Others, too many others, though, will spend the “most wonderful time of the year” begging outside supermarkets and restaurants relying on the kindness of strangers. Some will resort to pick-pocketing and breaking into houses. Many are predisposed to this type of criminal activity, but I’m convinced some will do it out of desperation. Some will get caught and go to prison. Some won’t.

I’ll be away from Grahamstown for much of December. I’ll be spending time in nature reserves, on farms and in the homes of friends from Rhodes. I’ll be sure my bedroom door is locked, the alarm is on and my computer is hidden away. I’ll enjoy my holiday break—and I’ll hope that no burglar turns his sights to 31 Bedford Street.

Wishing you a very happy start to the holiday season from the divided world of South Africa.

"I'm gonna soak up the sun, I'm gonna tell everyone to lighten up." - Sheryl Crow

Pictured: Amasango grade seven pupils on their yearly outing.
Location: Port Alfred, South Africa
Date: December 4, 2007


[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun" - Samkelo Maqanda on highway to Port Alfred, South Africa ]


["It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you've got." - Athenkosi Ntlokwana and friend in Port Alfred, South Africa ]


["You have a fancy ride, but baby, I'm the one who has the key." - Vacation homes in Port Alfred, South Africa ]


["Don't have no master suite, I'm still the king of me." - Bulelani Mnqanqeni in Port Alfred, South Africa ]


["I'm gonna soak up the sun, before it goes out on me." - Siyabulela Dwani, acting Chef for the day in Port Alfred, South Africa ]


[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun...so I can rock on." - From left, Simphiwe Matina, Xolisani Makelani and Bulelani Bete in Port Alfred, South Africa ]

"I'd rather suffer out of knowledge than laugh out of ignorance." - Gary Hassler

Today, I went with Amasango's grade seven learners to the beach at Port Alfred--about a 45 minute drive from Grahamstown.

The beach was beautiful. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the day was filled with warmth and sun and laughter, and the kids, up until our final minutes at Port Alfred, were perfect.

It was when the day was winding down that two boys got into a verbal altercation. The scuffle escalated into a fight, which escalated even further. When the fight was finished, one of the boys had stabbed another with a sharp double-pronged kitchen utensil, slicing his forehead open and cutting along his left temple.

Since I've been in South Africa, I've been thinking a lot about the the unrelenting violence at Amasango. It's impossible not to think about it. You see it everyday. I've also thought how much of the world is completely set apart from this violence and bloodshed--and the effect this separation has on the mindsets of people.

Take mainstream American movies and video games as two examples. I'm not talking about "Mario Kart" or "Legally Blonde Two." No, I mean the ones that have people getting stabbed, shot, or in some other way, mutilated and tortured. I've never really enjoyed these types of movies or games, but I've come, over time, to hate them.

It's sick that people are entertained watching other peoples' misery. It's undeniable though: suffering sells. Most people who go to these types of movies aren't going because they love the script and the complex interplay between the antagonist and the protagonist. Nor are the majority of people who spend hours at their game consoles playing "Mortal Combat" interested in the graphics. No, they love the violence. The love seeing blood spill out of bodies.

Some people probably enjoy the virtual control one has over others in these video games. Others likely feel macho and manly watching movies where people get stabbed and are left to die.

These people should come to South Africa. I can say, from experience, seeing two people really try and kill one another is not pretty. It's one of the worst scenes anyone can really imagine. Having witnessed a number of nasty fights during my three visits here, it's torturous to watch attempted murders. I don't know why people enjoy watching it so much on TV.

Of course, most of America--most of the world--is incredibly set apart from it--but it's still sick. While the majority of people who live in America and across the globe don't have to deal with the violence, they surely know about it. Hollywood has provided an invaluable education in showcasing human misery, and the depth of human depravity. The only difference is, at Amasango, once the fight is over, the credits don't roll. You don't just shut off the TV and go get a pizza. You don't "move on to the next level" simply by pushing enter on your game console remote. You've got to deal with two people who, at this moment in time, want the other person dead.

Live in an environment like Amasango--then go watch blood being spilled on screen and see just how wonderful it is.

“Growing up is never easy...you wonder what's to come." - The Wonder Years

Farewell grade seven learners....

Location: Gino's Italian restaurant, Grahamstown, South Africa
Date: December 2, 2007

“As we go on, we remember, all the times we spent together. And as our lives change, come whatever, we will still be, friends forever.” – Vitamin C

The school year is finished. Having spent most of my time with the older pupils at the school, I am preparing to say good bye—and good luck—to more than a dozen kids from grade seven who will be attending high schools in the township when school resumes on January 15.

To mark their success, I am taking every student that’s passed grade seven out to dinner at Gino’s, a nice Italian restaurant in the predominately white part of Grahamstown. Earlier this week, I got a list from one of the grade seven teachers with the names of the kids who passed. I needed to know so when, inevitably, a kid shows up who hasn’t passed, he or she can be shown the door. This dinner is to celebrate the success of those who took school seriously and worked hard—and I’m going to be sure nobody is at the table tonight who does not deserve to be there.

I received the list on Wednesday, but the kids are kept in the dark about their success until Thursday night: that’s when Amasango hosts a yearly prize giving ceremony and formally announces those who’ve passed and gives out small gifts to each of its students.

The teacher pulled me into the side office next to Jane’s and began writing the names of the kids who would be leaving. I couldn’t help but look at her master list, a large, checkered piece of paper with the students’ names, test scores, whether they passed or failed, and a section for notes.

Nearly ten had the word “absconded” written in the notes section. Those are the drop outs.

Another one or two students had “did not write exams” next to their names. This means they’d come to school regularly, but for one reason or another, didn’t pitch up for exams. That means that even though they’ve attended school, they’ll be stuck in grade seven for another year.

Two students had “in prison” in their notes section.

The rest had either a pass or fail. I read down the list of names. Masixole Sam—pass. Siyabulela Dwani—pass. Xolisani Makelani—pass.

Masixole came with me in July to the Port Elizabeth airport to say goodbye and then found his own way back to Grahamstown.

Siyabulela Dwani, “Aromat” as everyone here knows him, walks me home whenever I have anything valuable on me. He’s good with his fists—and with a knife, I feel very safe with him as long as he’s on my side.

Xolisani Makelani is all talk. Last year, he stole an avocado and when I called him out on it, he got angry, picking up a brick and threatening to hit me with hit while calling me a “white devil.” Some of the kids scare me when they talk like that. I know with Mr. Makelani, he’s all bark and no bite. And that’s why I like him so much.

The teacher kept writing. I kept scanning the list with my mind wandering to all the times I’ve spent with these kids over the past year-and-a-half.

Nomathamsanqa Gqoza—pass. Simphiwe Matina—pass. Phakamani Fanga—pass.

Nomathamsanqa goes by the name Caroline. Most of the times, the kids pick something close to their real name. Seeing as Nomathamsanqa bears no resemblance to Caroline, I think she simply likes the name. Most of the kids I’ve gotten to know really well have been guys. I spend most of my time at the boy’s shelter, and most of the students at school are male. Caroline has to be one of my favorites though. She doesn’t let the boys push her around, and she’s not fearful or nasty toward men like some of the other girls. She’s spontaneous. She’s always smiling. And I hope she goes very far in life.

Simphiwe Matina I’ve never been all that close with. In fact, most days he treats me like dirt. Many of the kids are opportunists, being overly nice to people so they can a hand in your pocket and grab your wallet. Simphiwe has no qualms letting me know he’s got issues with me. I respect that. I also believe that if I were ever really in trouble, Simphiwe would be one of the first to step up and help.

Phakamani is smart—and loves to cause trouble, but not nasty, knife-wielding trouble, just some good-humored hassles. When I tell the kids I’m going home, Phakamani is the first to smile and say “Go get your sons to walk with you.” I shouldn’t have favorites, but I do. Phakamani knows who they are and loves to rub my face in it, referring to those I really like as my “sons.” I don’t think he realizes that he falls into that category as well. When, I go to the video store, I’ll take Phakamani, and a couple others, with me to select a movie. The store has a small selection of “adult titles” on a high shelf that he’s managed to find and each week, he brings one of the DVDs over and says, with an enormous grin “I want this one.”

I stopped in my tracks when the teacher wrote the next name: Samkelo Maqanda. This kid is an inspiration. I do like them all, but very few inspire me the way Samkelo has. He comes from a desperate, bleak background, but is one of the most hopeful, kind, incredible people I’ve ever met in my life. Ever. He’s only been in grade seven for two terms, and typically, kids stay at least a year before moving on. I looked again to make sure the teacher hadn’t made a mistake. No, he passed. I rushed outside. I never expected to see his name on the list. I was not allowed to tell anybody whether they passed or failed, but I went up to Samkelo and said “Listen, I am taking anybody who passes grade seven out to eat on Sunday. If you pass, please tell Mama Rose (the house mother at Eluxolweni where he lives), that you’re allowed to leave Sunday to go to dinner with me.”

He looked at me “I didn’t pass Jason. I know I didn’t.”

I looked back. “Well, if you did, and you’d like to come, you can come. Please tell Mama Rose.”

“Okay,” he said again. “But I know I didn’t pass. You can take Masixole and Phakamani and them, but I didn’t pass.”

I wanted to shake him and tell him the good news, but I just smiled and turned away. If I hadn’t, I might have told him right then.

I feel like an apprehensive parent. My babies are going off to high school. I’m excited, and I’m sad, and I’m proud. Over the past year-and-a-half these kids and I have really shared in the good times—and the not so good times. I know the majority of you have no clue who these kids are, but a couple of you (some former volunteers) do, and I want to list their names.

So, though there will be no graduation ceremony, be it known that the Amasango Career School in Grahamstown, South Africa is proud to announce its class of 2007. Each student is a living example of how seemingly impossible, desperate circumstances can be beaten. Congratulations and best wishes to…

Bulelani Bete, Siyabulela “Aromat” Dwani, Phakamani Fanga, Ntombizanele Gqola, Nomathamsanqa Gqoza, Xolisani “Matthew Dawson” Makelani, Samkelo Maqanda, Ntombekhaya Marwana, Simphiwe Matina, Thandolwethu Ndemka, Vuyelwa Ntile, Athenkosi Ntlokwana, Masixole Sam and Melikhaya Tambo.

"Time is the wisest counsellor of all." - Pericles

Friends of mine who have blogs occasionally look back and compare how different life is now with how life was 365 days ago.

Last year at this time, I’d been working as an associate producer at News 10NBC a little more than a month. I was still months away from boarding the flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg for trip number two. I hadn’t even comprehended that there would be a trip number three.

I hadn’t yet gotten my full Amasango education—though, I’m convinced that education never stops. As long as you continue to make your way through the gates of the school, there will be a lesson tucked somewhere in the ebb and flow of the day.

I hadn’t yet experienced the boundless spirit and hope these kids have, or the depth of depravity of others. I hadn’t seen yet seen how strong *Samsicelo, and others like him, are. Samsicelo is one student at Amasango who I’ve never once seen get into a fight or clench his fist in aggression. I’ve never seen him swear. I’ve never seen him drunk. I’ve never seen him high. Nor have I heard any other student talk about Samsicelo fighting or swearing with others. At Amasango, that is a noteworthy accomplishment. Last June, Samsicelo’s mother stabbed her own sister to death in a drunken rage. Somehow, he mustered up the strength to attend the SNAP Foundation photo exhibit at Rhodes, 24 hours after his aunt was killed in cold blood and his mother thrown in jail.

I told him earlier in the day that I’d understand completely if he wanted to bow out. He said “no,” and assured me he’d be there. Samsicelo arrived at Eden Grove on the Rhodes campus, with his head held high. He walked around looking at the photos, mingled with guests, and partway through the opening ceremony; the events of the past day must have caught up to him because he began crying uncontrollably. He cried, he fell apart—but he came. He tried. When I see him walk around school today, I remember and have an incredible amount of respect for him for what he did that day last June when he decided to try and not to let his mother’s hopelessness get in his way.

Last year, I still hadn’t witnessed a boy slice another’s back open with a knife over some ice cream and crude remarks.

Last year, I hadn’t witnessed any of this—but it was still a part of my life. I was still writing about it. It would begin something like this: “A Rochester woman is recovering at Strong tonight—she’s lucky to be alive—after being stabbed five times by her boyfriend.”

That job at News 10NBC taught me so much. It taught me how to write—and to write under pressure and for a specific audience. The people I worked for and alongside of, also passed along lessons that have proven to be invaluable.

Despite the fact that I knew my writing would be edited by at least a producer and an executive producer before making it to air, the stories at News 10NBC were so much easier to type out than the stories you often read on this blog. I was so set apart from the misery and the violence from my chair and computer on 191 East Avenue. My facts came to me, neatly typed out, on press releases or from talking to city police on the phone. The raw footage I’d look at, shot by station photographers, would show a lot of crime scene tape, officers scurrying about, numbers on the ground next to crime scene tape, occasionally, we’d even see some grieving family members. It wasn’t pleasant to look at, but I didn’t know the people I was writing about. It made it so much easier. I could write about “The Rochester lawyer who hired a hit man to kill his wife,” in between bites of my lunch. I didn’t know the lawyer’s kids whose lives had been turned upside down as a result of his actions. Or the dozens of other lives he shattered when he wrote the check to the hit man to carry out his wishes.

In Grahamstown, I do. I’m living amongst the people I was writing about at News 10NBC. I spend much of my day around the victims—and perpetrators—of these types of crimes. It’s so much messier now than it was 12 months ago.

The lessons I took with me from the halls of News 10NBC and Amasango have converged. I’ve learned that I need the distance News 10NBC provided. It’s much less painful to pull a sheet from the fax machine and recount the events of a homicide than to see a boy like Samsicelo, still alive, but just as much a victim of his mother’s behavior. Or to watch two people really try and kill one another over something incredibly unimportant.

I can do my part while I’m here, and I will continue to do my part in small ways when I get home. But I need my distance. I need that press release. I don’t want to know the people involved in these heinous crimes. Ignorance, to the shattered lives of crime victims, is bliss.

*name has been changed

“I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut, my weakness is that I care too much.” - Papa Roach

I spoke with Jane this weekend about my plans for next year.

I was very nervous to approach her about my plans to go to Kingswood College and Nathaniel Nyaluza High School one day per week—and cut back my time at Amasango to just three days. I don’t know why I was so nervous. I need to do this for me, and while I was hoping she’d be okay with my plans (which she was), I was going to proceed even if she wasn’t. Perhaps my hesitation was not only my nerves, but also a sense that I was giving up; a sense that she can take it and has weathered the storm for more than a decade, why can’t I?

I don’t really have the answer to that question. I just know that I’ve learned during these past three trips that I can take a lot. In fact, I’d venture that I can handle this environment better than most people. I’ve also learned that I can’t take it incessantly.

The misery, the despair, the crude remarks about my nonexistent sister, the poverty, the violence day after day has proven to be unmanageable. I love the kids—most of them anyways. I take their problems to heart and it’s worn me out. I keep telling myself that I’m not quitting—that I’m looking away, taking time for myself.

I need to get out, even if it’s only two days a week. I am starting to dislike the person I’m becoming. I snap at the kids over everything. I’m growing increasingly unsympathetic to their stories because so often, those stories are made up to get something they want. I don’t particularly look forward to going in. The joy that I’ve found in this work for so long is disappearing by the day. I’ve become, for lack of a better word, a hard ass. I come in late some days and watch the clock tick down until it’s time to leave. I don’t hate Amasango, but I fear if I don’t get away for a bit, I will begin to despise the place that has drawn me back to South Africa time and time again.

I really think this is the best option for me, for the school and for the kids. Right now, I’m not giving it my all and that bothers me. But I’m tired and I’m worn out and the light at the end of the tunnel seems to, at times, get dimmer and dimmer. The problems these kids face seem to become increasingly insurmountable. The situation they find themselves in looks more and more desperate. The school hasn’t changed, I have.

I can’t take coming in Monday morning and, before assembly hear about a student witnessing his mother being raped, or learning about a boy who was stabbed over the weekend in the township, or about the young HIV-positive girl who was hospitalized. Three days a week will be very manageable, especially if Amasango’s insanity is sandwiched between a smidge of normalcy and hope—something Nyaluza and Kingswood can hopefully offer.

Having Thulani live with us at Jane’s house has been great and confusing and has taught me about myself and with living with a pretty tough guy. It’s also complicated matters further. I’m grateful that Thulani, who’s led a pretty depressing existence so far, is being provided with a safe haven as well as food and clothing. I’m thankful he will be taken care of until he’s sent to a children’s home outside of Grahamstown. But having him around constantly has made any fight that I have left in me disappear. I never leave school or the problems of school behind. The madness begins the moment I step through the gates of Amasango as dozens of kids call my name, some grab me and pinch me to get my attention, others reach into my pockets to see if there’s anything good hidden away. It continues as I walk home, past current and former Amasango pupils begging in town for change or food. Then, I’m treated to an encore presentation once I’ve arrived at my destination. No, home isn’t always Hell—but sometimes it’s close. Everybody needs a sanctuary from the storm and for the past four weeks, my only sanctuary—my home—has been shared by a great, albeit hardened former street child. The storm may die down once I leave Amasango, but its remnants are still brewing, though in a weaker form, once I walk through the door of 31 Bedford Street.

I need an escape. I am meeting with Mr. Mushwana, the principal of Nathaniel Nyaluza, the township high school, tomorrow about working there in January.

A representative at Kingswood College e-mailed me expressing an interest in my ideas.

I love Amasango. I love the kids—but I need to get away from the storm.

"Sometimes we put up walls. Not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to knock them down."

I ran into a seventh grade student at Amasango last weekend. Simphiwe, a short boy with a light complexion, and some pretty serious anger management issues has never been all that close to me. We usually get along, but that's about the extent of our relationship.

I was walking with a couple shelter guys down High Street with my comforter, a couple pillows and a backpack making my way to Eluxolweni.

Simphiwe came up to me, which in in itself was odd. Ordinarily, when he sees me he walks the other way until I call him. Even then, sometimes he ignores me and slips down a side street out of view. Last weekend was different though. He came right up to me, stopped in front of me and said, "Jason, remember I told you last week my mom was sick?"

I did remember. He walked with me to Amasango last week, but never made it inside the school's gates. He walked me right up to the fencing surrounding Amasango, adjusted his worn out hat so it tilted off the side of his head and walked away.

He explained along the way that he couldn't come to school because he was washing cars in town--to make money to help out with his mother who was suffering from TB in a local hospital. Simphiwe also has a younger brother he tries his best to care for--and a non-existent father.

Back on High Street, the shelter guys were walking ahead and Simphiwe edged closer, "She died."

I didn't know what to do. I looked at him and told him how sorry I was, as if it would make a difference, and told him to come to school to talk with Mama Jane on Monday. He agreed and we left.

He hasn't been at school all week. I haven't seen him all week: not washing cars in town, not begging outside High Street's many restaurants, no where. He's got no mother, no father and a little brother to care for.

It's Thanksgiving today in the United States.

I think we've all got a lot to be thankful for.

"Nobody can do everything - but everybody can do something."

Recently, I was looking through my journal from my first trip to South Africa.

18 months ago, I was an exchange student at Rhodes and I visited Amasango only a couple days a week. 18 months ago I'd spend only an hour or two several days a week with the kids. 18 months ago, I was very new to how everything works in Grahamstown, South Africa.

I was reading through an entry during my first couple of weeks in this country. I wrote about how upsetting it was to see kids begging outside supermarkets, restaurants and gas stations. I have changed a lot since then. I don't know if being at Amasango constantly has made me callous or made me realize I can't do everything.

Every day, I see kids that I work with begging outside supermarkets after school has finished. I'll stop and talk for a bit, but I don't feel the pressure I used to feel to go into the store and buy bread and milk. I give when I can--but I don't feel guilty anymore when I can't. Most days, the kids and I talk for a couple minutes before I carry on walking home to a roof over my head and a full fridge while they carry on begging.

18 months ago, it tore me up not being able to give to every kid I saw. 18 months ago, I'd frequently take long detours to avoid areas where I'd commonly see beggars. I'd try and shield myself from the outstretched hands, the sad faces, the pitiful pleas for food and money.

Now, I walk right down High Street with shopping bags in one hand and a burger in the other--right past all the people begging for food.

I used to feel dirty doing walking down bustling High Street past all the hungry people. I don't anymore, and I don't understand why. It certainly isn't pleasant to see desperate people--but it's not as awful as it was a year-and-a-half ago.

I've almost become complacent to the fact that on the way to school or on my way home, I could pass a dozen people who want the leftover bits of the hamburger I'm eating, or the bread I'm carrying in my bag.

Perhaps I've gotten used to this desperation. Perhaps I've become hardened. Perhaps it's a coping mechanism I've developed over these past three trips.

For better or worse though, a walk down High Street is very different from 18 months ago.

"It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both." - Machiavelli

We learned about Machiavelli in 10th grade global studies. We talked about "The Prince," about its author and about his philosophies. I've never been sure whether I agree entirely with the fear/love concept put forth by the Italian diplomat. The more time I spend working with South African street children though, the more I think old Niccolo might have been onto something.

I was leaving Amasango yesterday around 1 with another American volunteer. We were going to lunch at Reddits, a small quaint coffee shop, on the other side of town. As the front entrance of Amasango was unlocked and swung open, Mango, a sixth grade student at the school, snuck out with us.

He looked at Matt and I and said "You're going to buy me lunch, a burger and chips."

Matt and I both looked at each other, a bit bewildered at Mango's assertion, and asked him to go back into school.

Mango refused. "I'm not going to get lunch today," he said. "You are going to buy me a burger and chips."

What he was telling us could have been true-but he was the reason he wasn't getting lunch. On Wednesday, Mango was wearing a hat in school; a violation of school rules. When Jane asked him to remove it, he refused. As she was walking by him, she took it off his head. Not happy with this arrangement, Mango began to get physical with Jane. A couple teachers and guards intervened.

"You're not allowed to have hats in school," Jane repeated to Mango.

Mango said something in Xhosa, glared at her, grabbed a piece of bread sitting nearby on a table, and attempted to bring it to his mouth. One of the adults ripped it out of his hands and Jane, again, looking him in the eye said "If you are not going to follow the rules of the school, then you don't get bread. If you are not going to follow the rules of the school, go home."

Mango was escorted off the grounds and stood just outside the fence, complaining and whining for about 30 minutes before he gave up and left.

Now here we were, a day later. Jane was dealing with another crisis and wasn't at school. The security guard who's particulary good at getting the kids to listen wasn't at Amasango, and Mango was refusing to go back to school.

I said to him, "Mango, you're going to get in trouble if you don't go back to school. Matt and I are leaving and we're not buying you anything."

Matt echoed my sentiments.

We kept walking. Mango kept following.

"You're going to buy me lunch," he taunted.

"Look," I said. "Mango, you're high. I've told you before and I'll tell you again, you're a smart guy who does stupid things. Right now, you're doing a stupid thing. Go back to school. We're not buying you lunch."

"Yes you are," Mango said.

"Mango, Matt and I are going to Reddits. We're not buying you lunch. You need to apologize to Mama Jane, then maybe you can eat at school. If you follow us, all you're going to do is cause a huge scene at Reddits and then get dragged away by Hi-Tech."

Mango looked up at me. "I'm not scared of Hi-Tech. Call Hi-Tech. Go and call Hi-Tech. I'm not scared of them."

As our exchange continued, we were nearing the South African Labor Department. The building always has a couple guards stationed outside. Matt said "There's Hi-Tech. We can just go tell them now."

"Go tell them," Mango dared.

Neither of us had the heart, or the guts to do it at that point, so we kept walking.

"Mango, I have Mama Jane's phone number, I'll call her and tell her what you're doing," I threatened.

"I'm not afraid of Mama Jane," he replied with a smirk.

I was really getting angry at this point. A high little 15-year-old was telling Matt and I how things were going to be handled.

"Mango, you're starting to really piss me off," I said. "Go back to school."

He didn't listen. We kept walking.

We were just outside a bakery when I spotted a South African Police Service car with three officers inside.

"Mango," I said, glancing over at the car. "I really don't want to do this. Please go back to school. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'm not afraid of the police," Mango said. "I'm not afraid of the f---in' police. Go tell the f---in' police. You are going to buy me a burger and chips. I'm not afraid of the police."

"Mango," I said once more. "Please go back to school."

"I'm not afraid of the f---in' police," he said again.

I stopped in my tracks, went over to the police car and knocked on the window.

"Hello," I began, then pointed at Mango. "Can you please take this boy back to Amasango? He goes to school there. He hasn't robbed us. He is just refusing to leave us alone. We know who he is. He hasn't stolen anything. But he needs to stop following us."

The officer in the driver's seat responded. "Which boy?"

Mango was about 20 feet away from us with his back pressed against the wall. "That one," I said, pointing to him. "Please take him. He won't leave us alone. He must return to Amasango."

"Okay, sir," the officer replied.

The South African Police Service got out of their car, pointed at Mango and asked him to walk over to them. He did. He didn't fight. He didn't resist.

Although he told Matt and I moments before that he wasn't scared of the "f---in' police," when they called him over, he looked fearful, and defeated.

"Good," I thought to myself. "You deserve it."

He didn't think I'd do it. I'm not sure last time I was in South Africa I would have had the guts to do it--but Amasango has taught me that empty threats are just that: empty, meaningless statements that will get you nowhere. I've learned that unless you follow through on what you say at Amasango, you won't be respected.

I love Mango--but he pushed the boundaries too far. Matt and I talked to him for nearly 20 minutes begging him to go back. He refused each time, getting some sort of odd pleasure out of the fact that he was seemingly winning this battle.

Now, the boy who wanted a burger and chips was in police custody headed back to Amasango.

Matt and I walked to Reddits.

The South African Police Service escorted him back to school.

I wish it hadn't come to that--but he gave me no choice.

I think Machiavelli is right. At least with some people, it's better to be feared than loved.

"Welcome to my life." - Simple Plan

A small slice of the past few weeks - South African style


"Why did the elephant and the tortoise cross the road?"
[Addo Elephant Park, South Africa]


"Stripes"
[Addo Elephant Park, South Africa]



"A walk to Bedford Street"
[Grahamstown, South Africa]


"Catching up"
[Grahamstown, South Africa]


"Calm from the storm"
[Adelaide, South Africa]


"Heaven on Earth"
[Adelaide, South Africa]

"Give a person no options and you leave him no choice."

There are two articles this week in Grocott's Mail about Amasango.

One of articles is on page two and reads "A Joza teenager has been arrested and charged with attempted murder following the hacking of a 52-year-old man with a garden spade on Tuesday. Milanda Coetzer said the boy was arrested after a fight in Extension 9 on Tuesday...she said that Sergeant Lwazi Prence and his colleague arrested the 15-year-old boy and seized the spade."

This article didn't list the boy's name as he's underage. But I know who he is-as does everyone who works at Amasango.

The other Amasango article appears on page three. It's titled "Amasango pupil beats the odds." It goes on to talk about *Samdilikize, a 15-year-old Amasango student, who "won a national mathematics competition....the 15-year-old boy's project, in which he used matchsticks to depict geometric shapes won hands down in terms of creativity and originality."

Samdilikize is a shining star. He's come from a background that hasn't been picture perfect. He's competed in a contest with children across the nation, and he's emerged triumphant. He can also do a mean impersenation of former South African President Nelson Mandela.

The only problem is the article on page two and on page three are about the same 15-year-old: Samdilikize.

He didn't come to school several days last week. This national competition winning grade five student was sitting in a prison cell with a charge of attempted murder looming over his head.
I've often said that people see only what's on the surface with these kids. They don't see the dozens of stories beyond what's visible.

I'm sure many people read the paper this week and were filled with happiness for the grade five Amasango boy who's proven that poverty doesn't mean that one is hopeless. I'm also certain that these same people who read the story on attempted murder thought that awful, fifteen-year old boy should be locked away--never knowing that 15-year-old boy accused of attempted murder was the same boy who was winning national math competitions. Never knowing that the 15-year-old boy accused of hacking this 52-year-old man with a garden spade had witnessed this same man come and attack his mother the day before with the spade and then turn his aggression on him. The readers never knew this little competition-winning-delinquent was defending his family, himself and his home from an insane man.

The readers never knew; only one article listed his name.

Though Grahamstown residents didn't know, the courts did. The attempted murder charge was withdrawn and Samdilikze was freed after the discovery was made that he was acting in self-defense.

Now, Samdilikze is just a 15-year-old boy who was doing what anyone would do in the same situation.

Oh, and the winner of a National Mathematics Competition.

(* names have been changed)

"You can only be free if I am free." - Clarence Darrow

I’m sitting in a beautiful old farm house in Adelaide, South Africa. Surrounded by rolling mountains as far as the eye can see, expansive gardens filled with flowers of every color and variety, ponds—Whyte Bank Farm is the essence of tranquility, and security. Joanne, a 27-year-old who lives with me at Jane’s house grew up here and a couple of us have come back for the weekend.

I have been thinking a lot about my need to get away from Amasango and Grahamstown over these past couple days. I’ve been thinking a lot about why this past week has been so draining. I think I’ve come up with a few answers: answers I wouldn’t have come up with if I stayed in Grahamstown. I think a bit of distance gives us all a bit of perspective, and coming to Adelaide was just what the doctor ordered.

Jane once told me that one of the hardest parts of her job was realizing you cannot make other peoples’ decisions for them. I think it’s been one of the hardest parts of Amasango for me as well. Seeing the paths so many of these kids are headed down breaks your heart. Getting sworn at by people you’re trying to help gets old after a while, even though I can imagine where some of this misdirected anger and hostility comes from. Being told by some of the boys that they want to “make hot sex” with my sister, despite the fact that I don’t have a sister, is grating on Friday after I’ve heard it over and over since Monday. I love Amasango. I love the kids. I don’t accept how they talk, and when possible, I try and correct them, but of all the wars these kids and I sometimes fight (together or against one another), I think the use of the f-bomb is one battle I’m willing to lose.

It’s not just the kids though—it’s the country and the insecurity that exists within its borders.

I think I live in a state of fear in Grahamstown—not a type of fear where I need to hide under my bed, lock all the doors and have a nine-millimeter in my hand, but I realize now that I’m here at Whyte Bank—away from people amongst nature, how safe I feel here and how unsafe I sometimes feel in Grahamstown.

In the United States and at Whyte Bank Farm, I have no qualms leaving my computer out on my desk. In Grahamstown, I pack it up after each and every use. Not only do I put it in its case, but I also think to myself, “even if somebody does break into the house, where are they least likely to look for this?” I figure the cupboard is closest to the door, so that’s most likely to be broken into first. There’s a chair at the opposite side of the room, but the chair is close to the window. But, the window is up so high, potential robbers would have to use a ladder to get in. I put it behind a chair, drawn back the curtains and put the curtains over the laptop case.

If it’s dark when I walk home, I walk in the middle of the street so I can see everything around me. I look over my shoulder at the sound of a leaf rustling, at a car backfiring, and I unconsciously (until now anyways) look to see where the closest house is without a gate or where a Hi-Tech guard is stationed at St. Andrew’s College, so if I do get into trouble, I know where to turn.

When I drive Jane’s car, I roll up the windows, ensure anything of any value is completely out of site, put the gear lock around the shifter so even if somebody does break in, they can only steal the contents of the car, and not the car itself. Before leaving, I push the button on Jane’s key fob, waiting to hear the car beep once, indicating it’s armed.

Before leaving for school, I, like a machine, make sure the door leading to the patio is locked and the burglar gate in front of it has been closed and locked, I go around to make sure the interlocking doors are latched that lead into the kitchen. I close most doors, but open others that separate rooms. After all, I need to make sure the eyes of the security system can beam into as many rooms as possible. Just before leaving, I walk over to the front door, stand completely still so the eye doesn’t detect me before punching in the code, waiting for the “armed” light to illuminate. I walk out, close the door behind me and make sure it’s locked.

I don’t like walking by large semi-trucks at night. There are too many places for people to hide. Nor do I particularly enjoy walking by large bushes. The slightest rustling in the bushes makes me wonder who’s in them—even though it’s never been anything other than a mouse or the wind.

I don’t think South Africans have the same reaction to these security measures as foreigners. That’s not to say that they don’t acknowledge the problem, but they’ve been accustomed to living in an overly watchful state.

South Africans just know it’s not wise to wear a book bag on your back when walking down the street as somebody might just sneak into it.

They just know it’s foolish to not have an alarm on your house and burglar bars on your windows.

I know all this too— but I haven’t realized how much I’ve been going through the motions without realizing how the motions have affected me. Since everybody around me is doing the same, I don’t really connect what a fearful society I live in when in Grahamstown—until I’m away from it. I don’t live in a perpetual, grinding, numbing state of fear, but I am fearful; much more so than I am at home, even in the “ghetto areas” of American cities, much more so than I am at Whyte Bank Farm. When I hear something rustling in the trees at Whyte Bank, I look to see the bird getting ready to fly away. When I’m in Grahamstown, I get a knot in my stomach and wonder if somebody’s about to have a knife at my throat.

I don’t live perpetually in fear. The people who are residents of Grahamstown don’t live perpetually in fear either—but none of us live freely.

We go about our days. We go to town. We eat out. We walk around.

But we arm our cars, putting gear locks on them if we’re to be away for a second.

We live our lives and retire at night behind burglar bars, high walls, interlocking doors, gates and security systems with panic buttons.

How nice it’s been to be at Whyte Bank and leave the computer out, leave the doors unlocked, and enjoy the rustling of the leaves.

"I tried so hard, can't seem to get away from misery. Man I tried so hard, but always be a victim of these streets." - Bone Thugs N Harmony & Akon

I met Simphwio, a seventh-grade Amasango student on High Street this morning as I walked to school. He looked dirty. He looked as though he hadn't cleaned himself in a couple days. He looked sad and a bit agitated. Usually when he's in a mood, he wants nothing to do with me, but today, he walked along with me down the street. I asked him why he hadn't been to school in a couple days. He told me he needed money because his mother was in the hospital with TB. He's been washing cars in town, selling cigarettes and begging to try and come up with the cash.

I asked about another boy I haven't seen in some time: Thembanakazi, who, when he sees me, often smiles, grabs my hand and says in his South African accent, "DOLL-AHHH! You are very rich Jay-SEN! You have many DOLL-AHHHHS." He makes sure I acknowledge him, then laughs and walks away. Thembanakazi is in jail. He skipped a court date for a robbery and he's now in prison. His bail is set at 300 rand. Nobody seems to be able to come up with the cash to pay it, so Thembanakazi will sit in prison for a while.

Today when I got in, there was an unusually tense meeting in Jane's office. I dropped my bag in the storage area-the only really secure place in all of Amasango, and left as the argument got heated. The one boy in the closed door session, who's pretty big and pretty tough, stood up and tried to walk out of her office. When the security guard stopped him, he started wailing. He sounded more than angry though. It wasn't just an "I'm leaving because I'm pissed off" scream. He sounded incredibly upset, in pain and vulnerable. I know for certain this boy's mother had been dying of AIDS last time I was here. I don't know if she's dead yet. I don't even know if that's what the meeting was about. I only know I heard his wailing as I made my way out of the passage to grade six.

On the way to the art room, a sixth-grader put his arm around me and asked to talk. He wanted to talk about his friend, fifth-grade student, Samdilkze. Samdilkze wasn't in school today. He rarely misses school and behaves most of the time, projecting a carefree demeanor around the kids and I. Samdilkze can do very good impersonations of former South African President Nelson Mandela. Usually when I see him, it's just as I walk through the gates of Amasango, past his classroom. I wave as I walk by the door.

He often will leave class to greet me. I shake his hand and say "Hello Mr. Mandela." He smiles back and says "Hello Jason, Welcome to Amasango. How are you today" in his best Mandela voice. Samdilkze's classmate sounded worried when told me that Samdilkze, his classmate and our friend, fought back against an abusive step-father last night or the night before and now is in police custody.

I don't know why I've managed to take it this long, but I think-and fear-Amasango is starting to catch up with me. I can't take the misery anymore. I can't take hearing about the boy who's washing cars to help his mother who has TB. I hate hearing about student after student whose mother has died of AIDS and whose father has served as little more than a sperm donor. I feel for Jan, the girl who doesn't know what to do with her baby; only that she wants it to have a "better life than I had." I wish I could bring back the boy's mother who was murdered at the hands of her boyfriend. I wish two brothers at school never had to get the news that their alcoholic mother got into a drunken rage and stabbed their aunt to death in the township.

I e-mailed a friend this afternoon who used to work at Rhodes Community and Social Development Office to see if she knew anybody in other schools where I might go and work a couple days a week. Part of me wants to see how other parts of South Africa operate. Part of me wants some degree of normalcy and predictability. Part of me cannot take the hatred, the violence, the misery that exists at Amasango--even though all these things are sandwiched between triumphs.

These kids are survivors. They are resilient. Seeing their problems, seeing what life has handed them and seeing how they push ahead is one of the most inspiring experiences I've ever had. It's also one of the most draining.

I think, no, I know, life has toughened them much more than it's toughened me. They can take it--though, they don't have much of a choice but to take it. I've come to realize that I can't.

I can't take the misery and the pain five days a week at the school and then get a double dose on the weekend at the shelter.

I hate people who ignore problems, but I'm convinced that everybody has a threshold for other peoples' pain. I think I'm close to reaching that threshold. I will still go to Amasango. I'll go three days a week.

I don't want to ignore the problem, but I do think I need to look away. The kids can't look away from their problems. I wish they could, but they can't. I can. Even if it's just twice a week. I will know the misery that exists just down the road, but I won't see it.

I think I need to look away.

Not forever. But for a while.

"The white man's happiness cannot be purchased by the black man's misery." - Frederick Douglass

Thom has been staying with us for nearly a week. Over the course of these past seven days, his tough, street-smart demeanor has melted away to reveal a kid who's really, just beneath the surface, a nice, caring, sensitive, guy.

He's helped cook dinner.

He's helped me clean my room.

He goes outside and often plays with the dogs.

We've all watched movies together.

He's still got his problems, but his most basic needs are now being taken care of.

There's just one other, new, problem Thom now faces: though he's living in a safe, secure space just outside Jane's home, he's a black guy in a white part of town.

Thom likes to go running in the mornings. He gets up early, borrows some sneakers and leaves Jane's cul de sac before I've woken up. Before the sun begins to scorch Grahamstown, Thom runs down Bedford Street, past St. Andrew's, the wealthy, elite, boarding school whose sports fields line both sides of Bedford.

About halfway down the street, there are guards who stand outside the St. Andrew's rugby field. He tells me he's been asked each day what he's doing here and told by the guards to "go back to the location." He tells them he's living in the cul de sac just a couple hundred meters away, yet, each day, he still gets stares, still gets asked questions, still is not believed.

We were walking down Bedford Street yesterday and St. Andrew's was having a field day complete with horse back riding, a paintball ring, water slides and a rock climbing wall. The people came in droves; dozens of BMWs, Audis, Mercedes and new, high-end shiny SUVs lined both sides of the street. Guarding the cars of the rich were the poor of South Africa. As we walked by, some of the car guards looked at Thom and his friend, said a couple words in Xhosa, and then looked back at me.

I asked, "What was that all about?"

The two boys knew these ladies. Thom and his friend told me, "We told them we live up here now. But they didn't believe us," they said laughing, then continued, "They do now because you're with us."

My white skin allows me to walk virtually unnoticed down Bedford Street. I walk home from school each day and smile at the guards outside St. Andrew's as I pass them. I've never once been questioned.

Occasionally, there will be car guard along the street as well. I say hello, ask how he or she is doing and continue toward Jane's. I've never once been asked where I was going.

Thom's black skin sets off all sorts of alarms in this part of town. He can't even run down the street without receiving disapproving stares, and having to endure degrading comments and questions. He's black, he's running, and he's not in the township. Though he has nothing in his hands, and is wearing some old shorts with a pair of ratty sneakers on his feet, in the mind's of these guards, he must have stolen something.

I'm white. I belong on Bedford Street. Thom is black. He doesn't, unless of course, he's found to be walking with somebody (like me) with an acceptable skin pigmentation.

It's been more than a decade since white rule ended here. But still, in post-apartheid South Africa, a young, black guy running in certain sections of town is guilty until found walking with a white man.

“…And suddenly it’s hard to breathe. Now and then, I get insecure from all the pain, I’m so ashamed.” – Christina Aguilera

Jan came to school a couple days this week.

I haven’t seen her since I returned to South Africa and I was worried about her. Too often, when people stay away from school for extended periods of time they walk back through the gates of Amasango changed. Jan is no exception.

She is one of those girls who really can do anything she wants. We always tell young people they can do whatever put their mind to, but I’m convinced that’s a lie. Everyone is not built the same. Everyone does not come from homes with a caring parent or parents. Everyone does not come to the table with the same background. For a number of reasons, not everyone can become an astronaut, a lawyer or a teacher no matter how hard they try. Nor can everyone—Amasango students included-- break the cycle of grinding poverty they’ve been born into.

I believe Jan is one kid who really could break the cycle; who could become the lawyer she always talks about being; who could be the exception to the rule; who, I’m convinced, really could become just about anything she wants to be. She’s intelligent, she’s feisty, she doesn’t let the boys push her around and she isn’t afraid to ask questions and call you out when she disgrees. She is one girl who I’ve often said should be at Oprah Winfrey’s Leadership Academy for Girls at Henley on Klip, just outside Johannesburg.

But a lot has changed since I left South Africa. The Jan I used to know has changed, and changed a lot, in the few months I’ve been gone. Jan looks tougher. She doesn’t still project the same kind but serious persona she used to. Her voice is sharp. She’s crossed the line from being aggressive to being a bit of a bully. When she sees me she doesn’t greet me with a big smile anymore. That smile has been replaced with an outstretched hand, a stern look, and a demand “Give me five rand Jason.”

When I decline, Jan throws her hand up, scowls and walks away. I used to take these crazy shifts in attitude personally. I’ve figured out over my three visits that it isn’t me, but a reaction to the seemingly impossible circumstances they find themselves in.

One other thing has changed since I last saw Jan . She’s now pregnant.

Last week, she was sitting outside grade five on one of Amasango’s broken benches. No school uniform, just some cut off jeans with holes in the thigh, a striped shirt and some flip flops.

She looked at me and said in a kind, yet fragile voice “Jason, when you have time, can we talk?”

“Sure,” I said, looking back at her with a smile. She didn’t smile back, she just put her head down.

I went over, sat down next to her and looked up.

“We don’t have to talk now,” she said. “We can talk later when you have time.”

“No,” I said. “I have time now. We can talk now. It’s fine.”

“No, we’ll talk later,” Jan said.

“Alright,” I said. “But, if you want, we can talk now and if anyone comes over, we can ask them to leave. If they put up a fight, we can get Isaiah (the security guard) to take them away. But it’s up to you.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s talk now.”

She began.

She’s scared. She doesn’t know what to do. She’s got huge problems: the poverty she comes from, her mother was stabbed this weekend and was taken to the hospital, her mother told her to “go to Hell,” when Jan told her she was pregnant, Jan doesn’t want to burden her little brother with the family’s problems so she tries to deal with it all herself, she regrets sleeping with the baby’s father since he no longer wants anything to do with her, she’s sad about never meeting her own father, and her indecision about the child she’s a couple months away from having.

Every single student at Amasango is a survivor. Every student has a remarkable ability to endure desperate circumstances. Still though, every student, every human being, has a breaking point. I’ve seen it time and time again.

Last year, following a rather vicious stabbing, the stabber came to school and just broken down crying in front of me because he just didn’t know what to do.

Jan too had reached a point where she couldn’t endure anymore. Her tough outer shell disappeared as tears began rolling down her cheeks.

We talked for nearly an hour. Well, she did most of the talking. I listened.

I told Jan I can listen to her whenever she wants to talk. I told her even if it’s during school and she doesn’t want to come to class, she just needs to find me and tell me she wants to talk—and I’ll come outside and listen. But I also tell her that her chief concern, about what to do with the baby, is up to her. I can’t tell her what to do. Nobody can. It’s a decision she must make.

“I don’t want my baby to have the life I had,” she says between her heavy, distressed breathing and crying. “I don’t want my baby to struggle. I don’t want my baby to struggle. I don’t want my baby to live like I have.”

At times, it’s so hard not being able to steer people in certain directions. I know what I’d recommend, but I say nothing. I tell her it’s a decision she must make, but whatever she decides I’ll support. I tell her Mama Jane can help her—that everyone at school can help her, can stand by her, but that nobody can make that decision for her.

I wish I could make that decision for her. I hope she opts to give her child up for adoption. I hope she carries a healthy child to term, has the child, and gives it to a family who has the means to care properly for the child. I think adoption is the best option. But I can’t tell her that.

It feels almost like she’s taking a test—and I can’t give her any clues. Only this test won’t result in her getting an “A” or a “B.” The choice she makes will profoundly shape the existence of two people: hers and her unborn baby.

I wish I could tell her what I thought. But I can’t—and I don’t.

She, like so many other kids at Amasango, finds herself at the age of 15, at a crossroads. She can keep the child, and, likely drop out of school, get a job, but getting a legal, well paying job is hard for somebody in South Africa who hasn’t even finished grade seven. She’ll struggle through life like her parents. She’ll turn to drugs and alcohol to try and drown her problems. She’ll have a long line of abusive boyfriends who come from backgrounds like hers. She’ll get beaten by a couple of those boyfriends, likely in front of the child so the child will also learn it’s okay to beat people when you’re angry. The boyfriends she confides in will beat her until the physical scars she bears are nothing compared to what life has done to her inside: broken her spirit.

But it doesn’t have to be like that. It doesn’t have to.

She can give the kid up and give the kid a chance—and give herself a second chance.

I really believe she can do anything she puts her mind to.

But she needs to make this choice—and the choice is hers.

"Don't assume everything on the surface is what you see...everybody's got a story that could break your heart." - Amanda Marshall

Even though the kids written about in these blog entries are half a world away, I don’t feel it’s appropriate to use their real names when writing about certain subjects. So, this is an update about the shelter robbery and we’re going to call the two boys involved Max and Thom.

Max was proud Monday when he told me about breaking into the shelter. He was beaming as he recounted how he shattered the windows, bent back the burglar bars and tried to steal from Eluxolweni.

The second robber, Thom, has kept a much lower profile. He came to school early this week—but didn’t say much to anyone. He looked terrible. He had no shoes or socks on his blistering feet, his elbow had half a dozen stitches, his clothes were particularly tattered, even by Amasango standards, and God knows what was nesting in his hair. When I saw him, I didn’t even look at him. I thought he had come to school for two things: clothes and sympathy. I had no control over who gets clothes and I wasn’t about to sympathize with a kid who had just broken into the shelter. I just ignored him.

Like so many other situations at Amasango, things aren’t exactly as they appear. It’s true that Max and Thom tried to break into the shelter. It’s true that when people saw their faces, they both fled. But, that’s not the picture—it’s just a part.

Following the attempted robbery, both boys returned to the township. Agitated about failing to get anything from the store room, a bit nervous about almost getting nabbed and extremely drunk, Max blamed Thom for the failed robbery. In a rage, Max grabbed Thom’s windpipe, squeezing his throat so hard Thom was only semi-conscious when he was thrown to the floor. Max proceeded to repeatedly bash his co-conspirator over the head with a large rock. When Thom regained consciousness, he was covered in blood. He escaped, stumbled into town and beaten and bloody, collapsed on a street not far from Rhodes. A student found him on the ground and called an ambulance. He was taken to the hospital where he’d remain for the next 48 hours.

Early this week, Thom went with Jane to the South African Police Service and opened a case of aggravated assault against Max.

Max, the boy who was bubbling over with pride on Monday when talking about his weekend conquest will not be prosecuted for attempted robbery; he’ll have to answer to a much more serious charge: aggravated assault. What began with two friends drinking on a Saturday night, ended in a blood bath. Max will be arrested, he will be questioned by the police, he will spend a night in jail before being released into the shelter’s custody. He’ll have his day in court and will face the consequences of what he’s done.

Thom feared returning to the township. He was afraid he’d be killed for coming forward. He’s now living in an outside room at Jane’s house until the Department of Social Development finds a suitable home for him outside of Grahamstown.

Thom and I made dinner together two nights this week. He has been an absolute pleasure to be with. He has, perhaps the first time in a long time, felt safe when he goes to sleep.

I still don’t agree with what he did. In fact, I would support opening a case against Thom for attempted robbery, but when I saw his dusty, blister-ridden feet and dirty face at school, I never thought I’d end up sympathizing with him. But that wasn’t the picture—or the whole picture—and when the truth came out, it was a story that would break your heart.

It certainly broke mine.

"That's cool man." - Eluxolweni Shelter boy talking about his attempted robbery of the shelter

Yesterday was quite the day-though it began like any other day at Amasango.

I pulled up in Jane's car, turned off the engine, and just sat there for about ten seconds, looking around; at nothing in particular, just scanning everything around me. I see the kids through the tattered fencing that surrounds the school, I see the teachers scurrying about and making their way to the office to sign the register, I see everything, but I'm not yet in the whirlwind. I'm not yet being hugged, being sworn at, being asked to get medicine, having to walk through fights or seeing kids tuck rusty knives, nails and barbed wire into their pockets. I know it's all coming, but I also need these couple moments each morning where I just sit in the car and watch. It's all just a couple feet in front of me, yet oddly far away. It's a morning routine I have each time I drive Jane's car.

Yesterday morning, as I was savoring my last couple seconds of tranquility, I saw the 17-year-old boy who tried to steal from the shelter sitting on a broken bench just outside grade five. He was squinting. The sun was shining brightly into his eyes, but he still saw me and waved.

I didn't wave back. I didn't expect to see him. I didn't particularly want to see him. I thought he'd still be hiding away, but he wasn't.

Though he didn't take anything from me, he tried to take from a place, and from a group of people, whom I've grown very close to during my three trips here. The house parents, the kids, the gardener, everyone at the shelter has really become a kind of second family for me-a highly dysfunctional second family, but nevertheless a group of people who I really feel at home with. I eat breakfast, lunch and dinner with them on the weekends. I sleep at Eluxolweni on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays and I'm treated like one of their own. He tried to steal from Eluxolweni: a place that has been so good to me--and even better to him.

I cut my peaceful time in the car short and got out. I picked up my school bag and turned the zip pockets so they were flush against my body-making it more difficult for people to open them and steal from me. I scanned Jane's car to ensure nothing valuable was in sight, shut my door and pushed the button on the key fob to arm the vehicle.

I walked in and he came up to me.

"Did you see the shelter?" He asked.

"Yes, I did." I kept walking. I didn't really know where I was walking, but I knew I didn't want to be around him.

"Do you know who did that?" he asked me with a smile.

"You," I said.

"That's right," he looked at me and was still smiling.

I couldn't ignore him anymore. He was following me. I turned and looking at him, said, "can I talk to you for a minute--alone?"

He came with me to the side of one of the buildings.

I opened my bag, got out a bunch of old papers, curled them up and hit him on the head over and over and over and over again.

"Why did you do that?" I demanded.

He looked up with a smug look on his face, and before he could respond, I hit him again with my papers.

He thought it was a game, and rightfully so, I was behaving like a child. I gathered my composure, put the papers under my arm and asked again. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I'm the devil." he said with a smile.

"Are they going to kick you out?"

"No. I just have to tell the truth and they won't kick me out."

"Oh," I said, half-relieved, half wishing this boy would have expressed a bit more sadness about what he did.

"Did you see that window Jason? And those bars?"

"Yes," I said. They're all bent back and the window is shattered."

"Yah," he replied, giving me a thumbs up. "That's cool man. Look at my arm." He pulled up his sleeve to show some cuts on his hand and arm, presumably from when he broke the glass or when he hopped the fence topped with barbed wire.

"Good, I'm glad you got those cuts. I wish there were more of them and that they were worse. You certainly deserve them."

He looked a little hurt at what I had just said, and it struck me at first, but I really didn't care. I was telling him exactly how I felt.

"Are you sorry at all for what you did? If I ran the shelter, you'd be walking out in handcuffs and shackles with your clothes tied around your neck to a waiting police car."

I said that to him. I don't really know if I meant it. I'm glad I don't have to make those kinds of calls. I love this kid, but I would have been so angry--and even angrier now since he was showing no remorse. He was recounting the events of Saturday like I should pin a medal on him. He wasn't at all ashamed about what he had gotten caught doing.

Sunday, I was really angry with him.

Sunday, I was scared he'd get tossed out of the shelter and have to go back to the township.

Yesterday, I was still really angry with him, but I was somewhat relieved Eluxolweni was going to give him a second chance.

Yesterday, after he showed no remorse about breaking in, I almost wish they did kick him out.

He tried to steal. He didn't get anything, but if he could have gotten his hands on anything in that store room, he would have taken it and sold it.

Eluxolweni has been his home away from home for years. It's clothed him, fed him, kept him out of the rain and has tried to keep him out of trouble--and he couldn't be more proud of his contribution to the place: some bent back burglar bars and a shattered window.

"Each of us has the capacity to change peoples' lives. It's frustrating and challenging, but the alternative, everybody giving up, is worse."

Sometimes I just hate it here.

I hate watching kids throw their lives away.

I hate seeing kids following in the footsteps of family members who have failed miserably in life.

I hate watching perfectly capable, intelligent, seemingly good guys, do incredibly stupid, selfish things.

I went to Eluxolweni yesterday. George, the house father who I've grown close to, pulled me aside, "bad news," he said.

One of my favorite kids--a 17-year-old boy who lives at the shelter, and another boy who used to live at Eluxolweni got drunk Saturday in the township. They came to Eluxolweni around 9 and tried breaking into the store room--where some computers and a lawn mower are kept. The burglar bars are bent back, the bottom window is shattered, and the tools the two of them used in their little crime rampage still sit on the ground. The 17-year-old thief is weeks away from going to high school.

Other shelter boys had been in the dining room on Saturday night when they heard a noise. They got up and saw the two guys breaking in. The house parent called the police.

The two thieves ran away, presumably back into the township. They haven't been around the past couple days, but they can't hide forever, and today a case is being opened against the two of them.

Eluxolweni Shelter forgives, and forgets, a lot. Most of the time when kids mess up, they're given second, third and fourth chances. The shelter knows the hand these kids have been dealt--and it understands that zero tolerance for everything would result in a near empty shelter.

Though it forgives a lot, it very often does not give second chances to kids who steal. It can't. Crime is a big enough issue here; you cannot allow people who are being helped by you to steal from you. I don't think my buddy is going to be cut any slack. I think once he's found, he'll be arrested, he'll have to gather his things and find a place to live in the township.

This is a kid who can finish school and easily make something of himself--and just as easily resort to a life of drugs and crime and remain hidden away, living a life off the radar on the dusty roads of the township. The choice is his-and right now, he's choosing the latter.

It's so sad that what he did on Saturday could have repercussions for the rest of his life. At Eluxolweni, he had a bed, access to showers and toilets, three meals a day, a roof over his head--and perhaps the most important thing, reduced access to the temptations that exist just a couple hundred meters away in the township.

He had it all-and as I write this, he's hiding somewhere because he knows what he did is wrong. He knows there will be people looking for him.

The case is being opened today. The police will find him, arrest him, and in not long, he'll be right back in the township free to drink, do drugs and steal all he wants; for he'll no longer have a bed at the shelter he tried to steal from.

"They may forget what you've said-but they'll never forget how you made them feel."

I came to Rhodes about 10 minutes ago to check my e-mail.

I was walking pass the Drodsty Arch, the main entrance and official separation point of Rhodes with the rest of Grahamstown, when I glanced down High Street. It was around 4 o'clock and the street was bustling with people shopping, students packed into street-side cafes, mini-bus taxis brimming with domestic workers, Rhodes gardeners and crafters, racing toward the township.

The trunks of these taxis have the words "government initiated poverty alleviation program" splashed across them. The sides of the street are packed with young guys engaging in their own poverty alleviation program: they stand there begging for change, for bread, for milk, or offering to wash your car for whatever tip you might provide.

As I glanced down the street, in the distance, I saw a tall figure: black skin, blue shirt, presumably second-hand pants that had been cut off just below the knee to be made into shorts. He stuck both hands in the air and waved to me, and, without any regard for the cars in the street, began sprinting toward me down the middle of High Street.

When he got to me, I saw a tall boy with a beaming smile. I had run into him earlier in the week while I was grocery shopping at "Pick 'N Pay."

He approached me in front of the arch, shook my hand and said "How is it Jay-SEN?" I shook his hand, said "great" and continued walking toward Rhodes. He walked at my side.

Earlier this week at Pick 'N Pay, this same boy had asked me if he could come by school and I could show him how to use the computer. In the store with me, he asked me how I'd been, how he missed doing karate (something I haven't done really, formally, since my first visit), how he was going to come to school to see me, and how he was washing cars in town for some extra cash.

In our conversations, this boy brings up things he wouldn't possibly know unless I had spent time, and a considerable amount of time, with him.

The thing is, I don't know this boy. There are many kids I run into every day and I don't remember their names--but I know their faces. I don't know anything about this kid.

Nothing.

When I see him, he seems genuine and makes it out like I've had such an impact on his life. Maybe it's true. Maybe he's just another masterful manipulator and is waiting to stroke my ego more before hitting me up for some bread money.

Maybe he's genuine. Maybe he's not.

But maybe he is-and I don't even remember his face.

"The truth, unlike lies, require no embellishment." - Michael Mencias

On Thursday, Lucky Dube, a popular South African musician, was dropping off his son in Johannesburg: South Africa's most populous city. He was carjacked. With his child, powerless to do anything, just a little ways away, armed thugs shot Dube dead.

Also this past week, Jane's (the woman I live with) daughter was leaving a friend's flat in JoBurg when armed men came up to them demanding the car. They gave the gun toting men the car, as well as their wallet and phone. They're likely a bit shaken over the entire incident, but they're alive.

Lucky Dube is dead, a victim of this senseless crime. Jane's daughter gave them what they wanted-and is still alive, but still, undeniably, a victim.

Their stories are not unique. While studying at Rhodes, a friend's uncle was shot and killed for his car in Johannesburg. Another friend who lives in Durban left the gate open in front of their home--armed men came onto the property and forced his mother and brother into a bathroom while they robbed the place.

Why am I saying all this? South Africa is to be the host of the 2010 Soccer World Cup. In Port Elizabeth, an electronic sign proclaims "Port Elizabeth: a FIFA 2010 World Cup Host City. Welcome to Port Elizabeth." In O.R. Tambo Johannesburg International, huge billboards advertise the upcoming event saying "We'll be ready. Preparing for 2010 and beyond," and "The Gautrain, connecting O.R. Tambo with Sandton with Pretoria: we'll be ready for 2010."

I'm sorry South Africa--but you're not ready. You're incredibly unprepared, and, in fact, a danger to the potentially thousands of tourists who will be arriving in 2010. The World Cup that you're so eager to host could turn into a blood bath with eager sports fans being robbed, raped or shot dead. People will come. People will die.

You are powerless to control the crime you've got now. Nearly 1 in 3 of Johannesburg's residents report having been robbed. The U.N. says your murder rate, per capita, is one of the highest on the planet with around 50 people per day being murdered on your streets. Reports CNN.com, "South Africa is one of the most dangerous societies in the world. Figures from the South African Police Service show that from April 2006 to March 2007, more than 19,000 South Africans were murdered, more than 52,600 people were raped, and nearly 13,600 people were carjacked."

Furthermore, the infrastructure to host an event like the World Cup is simply not existent. Mass transit in South Africa's major cities does not exist in the same way as it does in the rest of the developed world. It is not safe for visitors to be cruising around your cities in rental cars, or to walk out of Johannesburg's Park Station with luggage. It is not safe for people to take the trains into central business districts. In some city centers, it is not even advisable for visitors to take out cameras or cell phones.

South Africa, you're a beautiful place that's come so far since apartheid. South Africa, you're proof that blacks and whites can, indeed, live together. South Africa, you're a forward-looking land of friendly people, beautiful countrysides--and that's why I love you. But South Africa, you've got a huge problem with violent crime.

I hope that one day you'll be ready to host the World Cup. I hope that one day you'll be able to show the world all that you have to offer--and you do, indeed, have a lot to offer the world and to be proud of. But I'm sorry South Africa, you're just not there yet and you won't be by 2010.

"Photography is about finding out what can happen in the frame. When you put four edges around some facts, you change those facts." - Garry Winogrand

I don't often take photos at Eluxolweni because I want some of the memories from this place to be just in my mind; I think it's better that way sometimes. It's nice to have ready access at the click of a mouse, but it also cheapens the memory.

This past Saturday was different, peaceful, really wonderful. The sun was out, the wind was blowing the leaves on the trees and the sandy, red dirt around the shelter yard. It had been a peaceful, calm day at Eluxolweni-something that nobody takes for granted here as this peace is too often shattered by a random act of violence.

The sun was setting and the afternoon was turning into a beautiful South African evening. I brought out the digital and hopefully, I will have provided you with a small slice of life at Eluxolweni Shelter.

Date: Saturday, October 20, 2007
Photographer: Jason Torreano
Location: Eluxolweni Shelter, Grahamstown, South Africa
Inspiration: The kids of Eluxolweni Shelter


Double-edged sword: The razor wire surrounding the shelter helps to keep the dangerous out, but can also be clipped and turned into a weapon.


Make shift seats: Flipped over milk cases serve as chairs for kids who sit in the shelter yard.


Repair and recycle: Aromat sewing together a bag that's been ripped across the top.


Friends forever: Inseperable Iviwe and Malibongwe together outside Eluxolweni.


Simplicity under the sun: Shelter boys play cricket outside Eluxolweni gates.

"Other things may change us, but we start and end with the family." - Anthony Brandt

I was called into Jane's office yesterday afternoon.

I arrived to find a rather agitated looking seventh-grade student sitting in the chair next to her, along with three faculty members and one of the trusted school security guards. We'll call this boy Siya.

I looked down at Siya and saw the expression on his face. He looked agitated and angry. That's not surprising as nearly all the kids look angry when they're in that environment. But he also looked sad, depressed, beside himself-and that caught my attention. He was silent, his head was down, his eyes locked on the floor, his hands rolling a crumpled, day old newspaper in his lap.

Jane began.

"I asked you all to be here today because of something going on I was not aware of."

I thought in my head, I can only imagine what we're about to hear: what has happened now--and why do I have to be a part of it?

"I called Isiah 58 this afternoon," she said. "The person who picked up the phone asked us to please stop calling Tiyabonga."

Siya and Tiyabonga are brothers.

Isiah 58 is a facility that helps kids who've had major behavioral problems get back on track--and hopefully saves them before they're put behind bars.

I had let Siya call Isiah 58 on my cell phone about a week ago to talk to his little brother. Apparently, many others have done the same-and this is causing major disruptions in his Tiyabonga's otherwise good behavior and rehabilitation.

We were not to call anymore.

Siya was very upset over this. Arguing with Jane and the other teachers in Xhosa about this less than desirable arrangement, raising his voice, even getting up to walk out of the office at one point, Siya was beside himself.

Much of the meeting was conducted in Xhosa-sharp words, raised voices, very little silence as each side continued. Part way through the meeting, my mind wandered. I remember an early morning last June when I had slept in the shelter, Tiyabonga had not been sent away yet, and both he and Siya were living in Eluxolweni.

Tiyabonga ran into the kitchen as Mama Rose and I were frying eggs for breakfast. He looked terrified--rifling through the cupboards, looking for a weapon.

Siya came seconds later, hitting and kicking his little brother until he was on the ground, curled up, having surrendered to the brute force of Siya. The two had to be pulled apart.

After the storm had cleared and tempers had calmed, I had asked Siya why he felt it was necessary to beat his little brother so badly. "He was being very rude," he replied without a moment's hesitation. "I want to teach him to be respectful because I love him."

"So you teach him by beating him and show him you love him by beating him?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, smiling, then walked away.

I had thought to myself at the time-yeah right, another classic BS story just so you can beat the hell out of somebody because you're having a bad day.

But now, more than four months later, I was in this meeting. Siya was here without Tiyabonga: upset, angry, not knowing what to do because he couldn't talk to his brother.

The staff continued, mostly in Xhosa, but occasionally breaking into a bit of English "Do you want Tiyabonga to be that lawyer that we all know he can be? He's got the brains for it. Or do you want him to be a kicking, screaming, fighting boy? Because if he doesn't get help, that's what he will be."

Siya kept his head down. I think somewhere he knew what they were saying was true. He didn't like it-in fact, I bet he hated it, but he knew it was true.

"We're doing this because we love you both. We want what's best for you and Tiyabonga."

The meeting was heated-and, though most of it wasn't in English, it was clarifying for me.

Siya did love his brother. He was fighting, and fighting hard, to be allowed to speak to him on the phone. The meeting ended after Siya eventually came to terms with the fact that he couldn't talk to his brother for a while. Not forever-but for a while. He hugged the principal and one of the staff members before leaving the office with me.

Siya may have beaten his brother in front of me last June; perhaps that's the form of conflict resolution he had been taught at home.

He told me last June he did it because he loves his brother. I didn't believe him at the time.

I do now.

"The police must obey the law while enforcing the law." - Earl Warren

I met with Dr. Saleem Badat, the Vice-Chancellor of Rhodes this morning.

I wanted to talk to the person at the top about how we, or shall I say, the two black guys I was with, were treated by Rhodes security.

The appointment was made. The time was set for 11 o'clock in the main administration building at Rhodes.

I was a nervous wreck. I think the CPU officer's derogatory, nasty remarks rattled me a bit more than I had initially thought. I knew I should bring this matter to the VC's attention, but complaining about an injustice, and actually taking steps to rectify that injustice I've learned, are two very different things. Complaining might be easy, but complaining without action is useless.

My palms were sweaty as I sat, waiting for the Vice Chancellor to emerge from his office. My mind racing, thinking, imagining what our meeting might be like. Would he be just as condescending as CPU had been? Would he think I have a legitimate case? Would he too, be wary, of young, black guys walking onto a campus that for years has served as an exclusive haven for the wealthy?

I sat in his waiting room, glancing around at the tea cups and saucers emblazoned with the Rhodes emblem, at the chandeliers, at the dark blue wall-to-wall carpeting, at the long drapes, falling to the floor and tied back across each window. It struck me how this well-kept, beautiful office was no more than a mile away from Amasango, but still, the luxuries it contained--expensive light fixtures, huge windows overlooking sweeping lawns and gardens, even nice carpeting--would be so foreign to many of those students I've worked with. On a table beside me lay a book about the history of the university. I began shuffling through it, not intending to read it, just to keep my mind from over-thinking.

At 11 o'clock he met me. We went into his office. I sat down.

"My name is Jason Torreano and I'm from the Buffalo, New York area," I began.

He had remembered the letter I had written during my last visit where I complained of the guards abusive treatment.

I listed my concerns.

He took notes.

My nerves calmed.

We talked for nearly a half hour. The man with the corner office proved to be sympathetic to my concerns. Badat was not happy with the way the guards had spoken to, or treated, my friends, nor was he happy that they were kicked off campus for no reason. Badat spoke with candor when he said, despite all the good contained within Rhodes, the university he presides over does, indeed, have problems with racism, sexism and classism.

He encouraged me to bring the kids back. He said he wants everyone to see Rhodes: the residences on campus, the library, the gardens. He said he wants especially the disadvantaged children in Grahamstown, to feel they too, might one day walk onto campus, as students, not visitors.

Toward the end of our meeting, he told me there have been suggestions to surround the campus with fencing and gates; requiring everybody to carry an identification card who wishes to walk onto Rhodes property. He's against any proposal to erect actual barriers to separate the university from the town.

I'm cautiously optimistic about the future, about what our meeting may accomplish, and how these guards will be instructed to behave.

After all, despite the fact that there may be no fencing or gates surrounding Rhodes, my kids, my students, my friends still know that there is an invisible fence, an invisible, yet undeniable line that separates "Rhodes" from "the rest of Grahamstown."

And they're the rest of Grahamstown.