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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
"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.
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.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
"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.
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.
Monday, October 22, 2007
"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.
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.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
"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.
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.
Monday, October 15, 2007
"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.
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.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
"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.
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.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
"Yes, young, black guys, they steal." - Rhodes Campus Protection Unit Officer
I took Masixole and Samkelo with me to Rhodes yesterday.
I like those two guys. I like them a lot.
They accompanied me to the Jacaranda computer labs on campus, and then, they were to walk me back home.
It was misting in Grahamstown so Masixole, dressed in a light blue sweater, a pair of gray trousers and some ratty old sneakers, took my umbrella to keep himself out of the rain.
Samkelo and I were just talking.
A guard, from Rhodes Campus Protection Unit, approached us.
Very kindly, he said "Sir, how are you today?"
I thought in my head, here we go again.
"I'm fine," I replied. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, sir. Are you a student here?"
"I was. I'm not any longer but I'm doing research under Carla Tsampiras in the history department here and these two guys," I said, gesturing toward Masixole and Samkelo,"are with me."
"May I see you student card please?"
"I don't have one," I said, this time, getting more pissy with the guard. "I told you, I was a student. I'm not any longer."
"Oh, okay. And what are they doing here," he said, pointing toward Masixole and Samkelo.
"They are my friends and they are walking with me."
"Okay," he said. "Sir, I'm just going to call my boss so we don't have to stop you anymore."
The guard, dressed in a navy blue overcoat spoke quickly in Xhosa into his walkie-talkie.
"Sir, please come with me."
"Why?" I replied.
"My boss would just like to talk to you."
"Is it because I am walking with two young black guys?" I said.
"Let's go my friend," he said.
"I really think this is ridiculous," I said. "Really crazy. I bet if they had been dressed in St. Andrew's uniforms and weren't black, this wouldn't be happening right now."
"Sir," he said. "Please don't bring race into it. It has nothing to do with race."
"It does," I insisted. "I've walked onto this campus hundreds of times by myself and with others and I've never been stopped once when it's been me or some white friend. Not once."
"Sir," he said. "We stop everybody. You know laptops get stolen from here all the time."
"And it's not all young, black guys that are doing that," I said sharply."Why do you only stop young, black guys!" I demanded.
"Sir, we stop everybody. The other day I stopped a professor and asked him some questions. We need to be very careful."
"Listen," I said. "I respect you as a person, but I don't believe what you're saying."
"Don't believe?"
"No," I said. "I have been on this campus before. I'm white, clearly. I've been with other white people—never been stopped. I'm frequently stopped when I'm with black kids. It's not right."
"Sir," he said. "It has nothing to do with race."
Two black girls, presumably Rhodes students were walking toward us during this ordeal, and had heard our exchange. They laughed when the officer repeated to me that it had nothing to do with race. I knew, in my heart, that it had everything to do with their age, their black skin and their socio-economic class but it was nice to have some support from those two girls. I knew what I was talking about.
We walked into CPU. Behind the counter was a bigger, colored, scruffy looking Afrikaans man. He didn't look pleasant—and our conversation, or our exchange rather—would showcase his lack of diplomacy and nastiness. He was sitting behind a desk with two telephones and a computer that looked as though it was from the early 90s. To his right hung a wall of photographs, probably a hundred or so photos. That was the RMW list—Rhodes Most Wanted. People to watch out for.
"What are you doing here?" he barked.
"I'm a former exchange student at Rhodes from America," I replied "And—" I wanted to say "And I'm white" but never got the chance to finish.
"And what are they doing here," he said, pointing again toward Masixole and Samkelo.
"They're my friends, and they're with me."
"No," he said. "They're not allowed to be here."
"Why?" I said.
"They're not allowed to be here," he repeated.
"I bet if they were dressed in St. --."
"I don't want to hear that," he said sharply. "Your St. Andrew's uniform stuff won't work here. I don't want to hear that."
Ignorant people seem to have a way of not wanting to hear the truth.
"They're not going to steal anything."
"Let me see your student card," he said, reaching out his hand.
"I don't have one," I said. "I'm not a student anymore. I am doing research in the History Department under Carla Tsampiras."
"You should still have a student card," he replied.
"But I'm not a student!" I said.
He took my driver's license, looked at it, then looked back up at me saying, "Were you born in Grahamstown? Are you from Grahamstown?"
He and I had been conversing for a little while. I had told him I'm from America. I had told him I was an exchange student. I had produced a New York driver's license, and I don't speak like a South African. He might have two phones and be sitting behind a beat up old desk, but his question showcased he was clearly not, say, a genuis.
I wanted to tap him on his head and say "What do you think Mr.CPU?" But I didn't. I supressed my inner anger and said "No. I was born in New York."
"They are not allowed here," he continued.
"Because they're black," I said. "Right? That's why. No black kids are allowed?"
"We have a big problem with theft here. You know that?" he retorted.
"Yes," I said. "And white people steal too."
"No," he said. "Look at the wall," he pointed to the pictures beside him. "How many people do you see who are white or in St. Andrew's uniforms? How many?"
I looked at the wall, but didn't analyze each photo. Even without analyzing, there was an awful lot of black.
"I don't know," I said. "I cannot possibly sit here any analyze each of your hundred or more photos. Not all black kids steal."
"Yes," he said. "They (pointing again to Samkelo and Masixole) aren't allowed. They steal."
"But—" I said.
"And," he continued. "If you bring them back with you, you will be charged too."
"With what?" I said, a feeling of nervousness and a feeling of being totally in awe at what this ignorant man was saying. "Walking with young black guys?"
"No," he said. "Disobeying orders. They are not allowed to be here. Young, black guys steal," he said pointing again toward my two friends.
So much for it not being a race thing, huh? The first officer who had stopped us, though he had been very friendly to me and to Masixole and Samkelo, assured me it had nothing to do with race.
The first, kinder, officer walked us back off campus. He tried to make small talk with me, but I just put my hood up and walked ahead. I didn't have anything to say to him. He had been the kinder of the two officers, but as long as they were grouping my kids, my friends, into one collective heap of liability, I was going to group them into one collective group of SOBs. Was it right? I don't know, but I didn't care at that point.
We got off campus and I looked at Masixole and Samkelo, ready to start crying.
"Listen," I said. "I am so sorry you had to be there for that. I know you weren't going to steal anything and what they said was wrong."
Masixole looked at me, smiled and said "No, it's right."
Masixole was, once again, trying to humor me and piss me off.
"No, Masixole," I said. "You have a right to be able to walk around campus."
"No," again he smiled. "I'm black. Black people steal."
Samkelo had been silent up till now, just walking along.
"Masixole," I said. "What they did, that's not right."
"No, it's right," he replied. "Black guys steal."
"Not all black guys," Samkelo said. "Not all black guys steal."
Samkelo is right.
But, because of his age and the color of his skin, he's not welcome at Rhodes.
Monday, October 8, 2007
"Justice doesn't mean the bad guy goes to jail. It just means somebody pays for the crime." - Freedom Writers
Court is a peculiar thing, isn't it?
It balances, or attempts to balance, the wrongs one individual has inflicted upon another. It attempts to rectify the crime by punishing the convicted. Court, it is believed, is the place where "blind justice" is doled out by people in oversized black robes, gavel in hand.
I was in a South African court room recently.
The boy who stabbed an Eluxolweni Shelter boy last May had his day in court and I was asked to be there as a witness.
George, the Eluxolweni House father and I rode up to court together. He is the legal guardian of the victim. As we got out of the van on High Street and stepped into the mild South African morning, I saw the stabber. Our eyes locked briefly.
Dressed in a ratty looking suit coat, pants that were far too small and a black top hat, he had his hands clenched together, praying. Though his clothes were tattered and worn, it was probably the most respectable outfit this 16-year-old street child could piece together for his day in court. When he saw me, he ran from the gates that surround the Magistrate's Office.
I put my head down, walked inside and put my bag and cell phone on the conveyor belt before stepping through the metal detector.
I sat with George in the open space between the security check point and the building that housed the court rooms. The stabber approached us, I said hello, and he muttered something under his breath in Xhosa to George.
Grinning, George turned to me and said "He can't believe you're actually here. He doesn't want you here. He knows you saw what happened." He laughed, turned back to the boy and said something else in Xhosa.
I asked George whether he thought the boy would talk to me. I didn't want to cause a scene, especially in court, but I wanted to talk to him. This whole episode was heart-breaking and awkward. This boy had been one of my favorites. He still is. I've tried so hard to get him to change. I've tried--and I've failed, but I'll keep trying.
George spoke quickly in Xhosa to him, then, turned to me saying "Yes, he will talk to you."
I approached the boy, shook his hand and asked him if we could go sit down. We found a quiet place in a stairwell just outside the first court room.
"So," I began. "I really wanted to see you yesterday. I didn't want our first chat to be here."
"Yah," he replied, turning his head away.
"Listen, I really don't want to be here either. I am not here to get you. Though you probably see it that way, I really haven't given up on you. I am going to tell the court the truth, and the truth is that you stabbed Eric. I bet you didn't think the eyewitness was going to show up today, did you?"
"Ah ha," he said, his head still down. "I heard you were in town, but I didn't know you'd be here today."
I continued, "Listen, I have to tell the truth. But if they ask, I'm going to also tell them that you're a good guy who does really stupid, impulsive things sometimes."
He put his head down. "I'm going to pay for what I did. I know I am."
"Well, you might. But you have to at some point stop doing the things you're doing."
He said, "I know," and then stood up and walked outside.
I followed.
"Can I give you some advice?"
"Yes," he said.
"Tell the truth. Don't lie like you did when we were at the police station with Mama Judy. You told them you didn't use a knife...that it was just something you found. That's a lie."
"Ah," he said with a smile. "It's not a lie. I didn't use a knife. You going to say it was a knife?"
"Yes," I said, starting to get pissed. "I'm going to say it was a knife because it was. I saw it. Are you even sorry for what you did?"
He looked up again, brought his hand up to his chin, squinting, as the sun had risen over the court building and was now in his eyes. "Did you hear what he said to me? He told me I didn't have a father. Did you hear him say that?"
Again, I tried, "Are you sorry for what you did?"
Again, his reply, "Did you hear what he said to me Jason? Did you hear?"
Translation: No, he's not sorry. Not sorry at all. I gave up with that question.
"Anyways," I said. "I know I'm going to have to say things you don't like, but I hope we can still be friends. I really like you and I think you can have a bright future if you change. I really do. So after court today, let's both walk to school together, okay?"
He smiled a little. "Okay."
We got into court about three-and-a-half hours after we had first shown up.
Mango walked into a long, narrow wooden booth in front of the judge, a short, colored, Afrikaans lady, the lawyer, several officers and a translator. George stood next to the booth.
The judge began, looking at George. "Are you here as the legal guardian of the accused?"
"No," George replied. "I'm here as the legal guardian for the victim."
"Where is your legal guardian," the judge said, looking down at the stabber. The translator spoke to him in Xhosa, though he understands English fine.
"I don't have one," he said, looking back up at her.
Puzzled, she said again, "Where is your legal guardian? You're underage. You need a legal guardian here with you."
"I don't have one," he said again.
It was one of the saddest, most degrading moments I've ever witnessed. Here he was, in a court room, accused of stabbing somebody, and he had nobody to bring along. He stood alone.
"We cannot proceed without a legal guardian for the accused. You don't have a legal guardian," she asked for the third time.
"No."
The case was delayed. He left the box and walked from court. I followed him out and we walked to Amasango together.
When he is sentenced, it's very possible that justice will be served; that he will be punished for what he's done. The court can do that-and probably will. I'm not saying it shouldn't. He stabbed somebody. He cannot get away with that.
What the court cannot do is fix the underlying problem. The court is powerful in doling out punishments and ensuring that people serve time. It's powerless to fix the circumstances that have lead to the crime. It's completely incapable of rectifying all the injustice this boy has faced during his 16 years of life.
Perhaps he'll go to jail. Perhaps he'll have to attend an anger management course. But when he's done serving his time, he'll still have no parents, no legal guardian, no home, no reason to not end up in court again.
And the cycle continues.
It balances, or attempts to balance, the wrongs one individual has inflicted upon another. It attempts to rectify the crime by punishing the convicted. Court, it is believed, is the place where "blind justice" is doled out by people in oversized black robes, gavel in hand.
I was in a South African court room recently.
The boy who stabbed an Eluxolweni Shelter boy last May had his day in court and I was asked to be there as a witness.
George, the Eluxolweni House father and I rode up to court together. He is the legal guardian of the victim. As we got out of the van on High Street and stepped into the mild South African morning, I saw the stabber. Our eyes locked briefly.
Dressed in a ratty looking suit coat, pants that were far too small and a black top hat, he had his hands clenched together, praying. Though his clothes were tattered and worn, it was probably the most respectable outfit this 16-year-old street child could piece together for his day in court. When he saw me, he ran from the gates that surround the Magistrate's Office.
I put my head down, walked inside and put my bag and cell phone on the conveyor belt before stepping through the metal detector.
I sat with George in the open space between the security check point and the building that housed the court rooms. The stabber approached us, I said hello, and he muttered something under his breath in Xhosa to George.
Grinning, George turned to me and said "He can't believe you're actually here. He doesn't want you here. He knows you saw what happened." He laughed, turned back to the boy and said something else in Xhosa.
I asked George whether he thought the boy would talk to me. I didn't want to cause a scene, especially in court, but I wanted to talk to him. This whole episode was heart-breaking and awkward. This boy had been one of my favorites. He still is. I've tried so hard to get him to change. I've tried--and I've failed, but I'll keep trying.
George spoke quickly in Xhosa to him, then, turned to me saying "Yes, he will talk to you."
I approached the boy, shook his hand and asked him if we could go sit down. We found a quiet place in a stairwell just outside the first court room.
"So," I began. "I really wanted to see you yesterday. I didn't want our first chat to be here."
"Yah," he replied, turning his head away.
"Listen, I really don't want to be here either. I am not here to get you. Though you probably see it that way, I really haven't given up on you. I am going to tell the court the truth, and the truth is that you stabbed Eric. I bet you didn't think the eyewitness was going to show up today, did you?"
"Ah ha," he said, his head still down. "I heard you were in town, but I didn't know you'd be here today."
I continued, "Listen, I have to tell the truth. But if they ask, I'm going to also tell them that you're a good guy who does really stupid, impulsive things sometimes."
He put his head down. "I'm going to pay for what I did. I know I am."
"Well, you might. But you have to at some point stop doing the things you're doing."
He said, "I know," and then stood up and walked outside.
I followed.
"Can I give you some advice?"
"Yes," he said.
"Tell the truth. Don't lie like you did when we were at the police station with Mama Judy. You told them you didn't use a knife...that it was just something you found. That's a lie."
"Ah," he said with a smile. "It's not a lie. I didn't use a knife. You going to say it was a knife?"
"Yes," I said, starting to get pissed. "I'm going to say it was a knife because it was. I saw it. Are you even sorry for what you did?"
He looked up again, brought his hand up to his chin, squinting, as the sun had risen over the court building and was now in his eyes. "Did you hear what he said to me? He told me I didn't have a father. Did you hear him say that?"
Again, I tried, "Are you sorry for what you did?"
Again, his reply, "Did you hear what he said to me Jason? Did you hear?"
Translation: No, he's not sorry. Not sorry at all. I gave up with that question.
"Anyways," I said. "I know I'm going to have to say things you don't like, but I hope we can still be friends. I really like you and I think you can have a bright future if you change. I really do. So after court today, let's both walk to school together, okay?"
He smiled a little. "Okay."
We got into court about three-and-a-half hours after we had first shown up.
Mango walked into a long, narrow wooden booth in front of the judge, a short, colored, Afrikaans lady, the lawyer, several officers and a translator. George stood next to the booth.
The judge began, looking at George. "Are you here as the legal guardian of the accused?"
"No," George replied. "I'm here as the legal guardian for the victim."
"Where is your legal guardian," the judge said, looking down at the stabber. The translator spoke to him in Xhosa, though he understands English fine.
"I don't have one," he said, looking back up at her.
Puzzled, she said again, "Where is your legal guardian? You're underage. You need a legal guardian here with you."
"I don't have one," he said again.
It was one of the saddest, most degrading moments I've ever witnessed. Here he was, in a court room, accused of stabbing somebody, and he had nobody to bring along. He stood alone.
"We cannot proceed without a legal guardian for the accused. You don't have a legal guardian," she asked for the third time.
"No."
The case was delayed. He left the box and walked from court. I followed him out and we walked to Amasango together.
When he is sentenced, it's very possible that justice will be served; that he will be punished for what he's done. The court can do that-and probably will. I'm not saying it shouldn't. He stabbed somebody. He cannot get away with that.
What the court cannot do is fix the underlying problem. The court is powerful in doling out punishments and ensuring that people serve time. It's powerless to fix the circumstances that have lead to the crime. It's completely incapable of rectifying all the injustice this boy has faced during his 16 years of life.
Perhaps he'll go to jail. Perhaps he'll have to attend an anger management course. But when he's done serving his time, he'll still have no parents, no legal guardian, no home, no reason to not end up in court again.
And the cycle continues.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
