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.
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