"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.