The school year at Amasango Career School has come to an end. The teachers, the principal, and myself have a month long reprieve from the insanity that seems to consume your life day in and day out when school is in session. Sadly, while most of the adults at school will spend these five weeks traveling around South Africa, visiting family and friends, relaxing on farms nestled amongst gently rolling mountains, eating big holiday meals and recuperating, many of the kids we work with will stay in Grahamstown; nothing much will change for them.
And while life for the staff becomes less stressful—the lives of some of Amasango’s most desperate students become even more desperate. The one place these youngest, most fragile members of Grahamstown society can turn to for a talk, for some food, for protection or for a second chance is gone for all of December and half of January. They need to make it on their own. They need to survive without Amasango.
About twenty-five Amasango pupils are lucky. They live in Eluxolweni. They’re truly on “summer break.” They’ll continue to get fed each day, have a roof over their head and have clean clothing to put on their backs each morning after their shower. They’re free to do what they want during the day, without having the hassle of school looming over them.
The rest of Amasango’s student body will spend the holidays in the township. Some, undoubtedly, will have a fun-filled Christmas season. Others, too many others, though, will spend the “most wonderful time of the year” begging outside supermarkets and restaurants relying on the kindness of strangers. Some will resort to pick-pocketing and breaking into houses. Many are predisposed to this type of criminal activity, but I’m convinced some will do it out of desperation. Some will get caught and go to prison. Some won’t.
I’ll be away from Grahamstown for much of December. I’ll be spending time in nature reserves, on farms and in the homes of friends from Rhodes. I’ll be sure my bedroom door is locked, the alarm is on and my computer is hidden away. I’ll enjoy my holiday break—and I’ll hope that no burglar turns his sights to 31 Bedford Street.
Wishing you a very happy start to the holiday season from the divided world of South Africa.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
"I'm gonna soak up the sun, I'm gonna tell everyone to lighten up." - Sheryl Crow
Pictured: Amasango grade seven pupils on their yearly outing.
Location: Port Alfred, South Africa
Date: December 4, 2007
[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun" - Samkelo Maqanda on highway to Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you've got." - Athenkosi Ntlokwana and friend in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["You have a fancy ride, but baby, I'm the one who has the key." - Vacation homes in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["Don't have no master suite, I'm still the king of me." - Bulelani Mnqanqeni in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["I'm gonna soak up the sun, before it goes out on me." - Siyabulela Dwani, acting Chef for the day in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun...so I can rock on." - From left, Simphiwe Matina, Xolisani Makelani and Bulelani Bete in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
Location: Port Alfred, South Africa
Date: December 4, 2007
[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun" - Samkelo Maqanda on highway to Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you've got." - Athenkosi Ntlokwana and friend in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["You have a fancy ride, but baby, I'm the one who has the key." - Vacation homes in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["Don't have no master suite, I'm still the king of me." - Bulelani Mnqanqeni in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
["I'm gonna soak up the sun, before it goes out on me." - Siyabulela Dwani, acting Chef for the day in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun...so I can rock on." - From left, Simphiwe Matina, Xolisani Makelani and Bulelani Bete in Port Alfred, South Africa ]
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
"I'd rather suffer out of knowledge than laugh out of ignorance." - Gary Hassler
Today, I went with Amasango's grade seven learners to the beach at Port Alfred--about a 45 minute drive from Grahamstown.
The beach was beautiful. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the day was filled with warmth and sun and laughter, and the kids, up until our final minutes at Port Alfred, were perfect.
It was when the day was winding down that two boys got into a verbal altercation. The scuffle escalated into a fight, which escalated even further. When the fight was finished, one of the boys had stabbed another with a sharp double-pronged kitchen utensil, slicing his forehead open and cutting along his left temple.
Since I've been in South Africa, I've been thinking a lot about the the unrelenting violence at Amasango. It's impossible not to think about it. You see it everyday. I've also thought how much of the world is completely set apart from this violence and bloodshed--and the effect this separation has on the mindsets of people.
Take mainstream American movies and video games as two examples. I'm not talking about "Mario Kart" or "Legally Blonde Two." No, I mean the ones that have people getting stabbed, shot, or in some other way, mutilated and tortured. I've never really enjoyed these types of movies or games, but I've come, over time, to hate them.
It's sick that people are entertained watching other peoples' misery. It's undeniable though: suffering sells. Most people who go to these types of movies aren't going because they love the script and the complex interplay between the antagonist and the protagonist. Nor are the majority of people who spend hours at their game consoles playing "Mortal Combat" interested in the graphics. No, they love the violence. The love seeing blood spill out of bodies.
Some people probably enjoy the virtual control one has over others in these video games. Others likely feel macho and manly watching movies where people get stabbed and are left to die.
These people should come to South Africa. I can say, from experience, seeing two people really try and kill one another is not pretty. It's one of the worst scenes anyone can really imagine. Having witnessed a number of nasty fights during my three visits here, it's torturous to watch attempted murders. I don't know why people enjoy watching it so much on TV.
Of course, most of America--most of the world--is incredibly set apart from it--but it's still sick. While the majority of people who live in America and across the globe don't have to deal with the violence, they surely know about it. Hollywood has provided an invaluable education in showcasing human misery, and the depth of human depravity. The only difference is, at Amasango, once the fight is over, the credits don't roll. You don't just shut off the TV and go get a pizza. You don't "move on to the next level" simply by pushing enter on your game console remote. You've got to deal with two people who, at this moment in time, want the other person dead.
Live in an environment like Amasango--then go watch blood being spilled on screen and see just how wonderful it is.
The beach was beautiful. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the day was filled with warmth and sun and laughter, and the kids, up until our final minutes at Port Alfred, were perfect.
It was when the day was winding down that two boys got into a verbal altercation. The scuffle escalated into a fight, which escalated even further. When the fight was finished, one of the boys had stabbed another with a sharp double-pronged kitchen utensil, slicing his forehead open and cutting along his left temple.
Since I've been in South Africa, I've been thinking a lot about the the unrelenting violence at Amasango. It's impossible not to think about it. You see it everyday. I've also thought how much of the world is completely set apart from this violence and bloodshed--and the effect this separation has on the mindsets of people.
Take mainstream American movies and video games as two examples. I'm not talking about "Mario Kart" or "Legally Blonde Two." No, I mean the ones that have people getting stabbed, shot, or in some other way, mutilated and tortured. I've never really enjoyed these types of movies or games, but I've come, over time, to hate them.
It's sick that people are entertained watching other peoples' misery. It's undeniable though: suffering sells. Most people who go to these types of movies aren't going because they love the script and the complex interplay between the antagonist and the protagonist. Nor are the majority of people who spend hours at their game consoles playing "Mortal Combat" interested in the graphics. No, they love the violence. The love seeing blood spill out of bodies.
Some people probably enjoy the virtual control one has over others in these video games. Others likely feel macho and manly watching movies where people get stabbed and are left to die.
These people should come to South Africa. I can say, from experience, seeing two people really try and kill one another is not pretty. It's one of the worst scenes anyone can really imagine. Having witnessed a number of nasty fights during my three visits here, it's torturous to watch attempted murders. I don't know why people enjoy watching it so much on TV.
Of course, most of America--most of the world--is incredibly set apart from it--but it's still sick. While the majority of people who live in America and across the globe don't have to deal with the violence, they surely know about it. Hollywood has provided an invaluable education in showcasing human misery, and the depth of human depravity. The only difference is, at Amasango, once the fight is over, the credits don't roll. You don't just shut off the TV and go get a pizza. You don't "move on to the next level" simply by pushing enter on your game console remote. You've got to deal with two people who, at this moment in time, want the other person dead.
Live in an environment like Amasango--then go watch blood being spilled on screen and see just how wonderful it is.
Monday, December 3, 2007
“Growing up is never easy...you wonder what's to come." - The Wonder Years
Farewell grade seven learners....
Location: Gino's Italian restaurant, Grahamstown, South Africa
Date: December 2, 2007
Location: Gino's Italian restaurant, Grahamstown, South Africa
Date: December 2, 2007
Saturday, December 1, 2007
“As we go on, we remember, all the times we spent together. And as our lives change, come whatever, we will still be, friends forever.” – Vitamin C
The school year is finished. Having spent most of my time with the older pupils at the school, I am preparing to say good bye—and good luck—to more than a dozen kids from grade seven who will be attending high schools in the township when school resumes on January 15.
To mark their success, I am taking every student that’s passed grade seven out to dinner at Gino’s, a nice Italian restaurant in the predominately white part of Grahamstown. Earlier this week, I got a list from one of the grade seven teachers with the names of the kids who passed. I needed to know so when, inevitably, a kid shows up who hasn’t passed, he or she can be shown the door. This dinner is to celebrate the success of those who took school seriously and worked hard—and I’m going to be sure nobody is at the table tonight who does not deserve to be there.
I received the list on Wednesday, but the kids are kept in the dark about their success until Thursday night: that’s when Amasango hosts a yearly prize giving ceremony and formally announces those who’ve passed and gives out small gifts to each of its students.
The teacher pulled me into the side office next to Jane’s and began writing the names of the kids who would be leaving. I couldn’t help but look at her master list, a large, checkered piece of paper with the students’ names, test scores, whether they passed or failed, and a section for notes.
Nearly ten had the word “absconded” written in the notes section. Those are the drop outs.
Another one or two students had “did not write exams” next to their names. This means they’d come to school regularly, but for one reason or another, didn’t pitch up for exams. That means that even though they’ve attended school, they’ll be stuck in grade seven for another year.
Two students had “in prison” in their notes section.
The rest had either a pass or fail. I read down the list of names. Masixole Sam—pass. Siyabulela Dwani—pass. Xolisani Makelani—pass.
Masixole came with me in July to the Port Elizabeth airport to say goodbye and then found his own way back to Grahamstown.
Siyabulela Dwani, “Aromat” as everyone here knows him, walks me home whenever I have anything valuable on me. He’s good with his fists—and with a knife, I feel very safe with him as long as he’s on my side.
Xolisani Makelani is all talk. Last year, he stole an avocado and when I called him out on it, he got angry, picking up a brick and threatening to hit me with hit while calling me a “white devil.” Some of the kids scare me when they talk like that. I know with Mr. Makelani, he’s all bark and no bite. And that’s why I like him so much.
The teacher kept writing. I kept scanning the list with my mind wandering to all the times I’ve spent with these kids over the past year-and-a-half.
Nomathamsanqa Gqoza—pass. Simphiwe Matina—pass. Phakamani Fanga—pass.
Nomathamsanqa goes by the name Caroline. Most of the times, the kids pick something close to their real name. Seeing as Nomathamsanqa bears no resemblance to Caroline, I think she simply likes the name. Most of the kids I’ve gotten to know really well have been guys. I spend most of my time at the boy’s shelter, and most of the students at school are male. Caroline has to be one of my favorites though. She doesn’t let the boys push her around, and she’s not fearful or nasty toward men like some of the other girls. She’s spontaneous. She’s always smiling. And I hope she goes very far in life.
Simphiwe Matina I’ve never been all that close with. In fact, most days he treats me like dirt. Many of the kids are opportunists, being overly nice to people so they can a hand in your pocket and grab your wallet. Simphiwe has no qualms letting me know he’s got issues with me. I respect that. I also believe that if I were ever really in trouble, Simphiwe would be one of the first to step up and help.
Phakamani is smart—and loves to cause trouble, but not nasty, knife-wielding trouble, just some good-humored hassles. When I tell the kids I’m going home, Phakamani is the first to smile and say “Go get your sons to walk with you.” I shouldn’t have favorites, but I do. Phakamani knows who they are and loves to rub my face in it, referring to those I really like as my “sons.” I don’t think he realizes that he falls into that category as well. When, I go to the video store, I’ll take Phakamani, and a couple others, with me to select a movie. The store has a small selection of “adult titles” on a high shelf that he’s managed to find and each week, he brings one of the DVDs over and says, with an enormous grin “I want this one.”
I stopped in my tracks when the teacher wrote the next name: Samkelo Maqanda. This kid is an inspiration. I do like them all, but very few inspire me the way Samkelo has. He comes from a desperate, bleak background, but is one of the most hopeful, kind, incredible people I’ve ever met in my life. Ever. He’s only been in grade seven for two terms, and typically, kids stay at least a year before moving on. I looked again to make sure the teacher hadn’t made a mistake. No, he passed. I rushed outside. I never expected to see his name on the list. I was not allowed to tell anybody whether they passed or failed, but I went up to Samkelo and said “Listen, I am taking anybody who passes grade seven out to eat on Sunday. If you pass, please tell Mama Rose (the house mother at Eluxolweni where he lives), that you’re allowed to leave Sunday to go to dinner with me.”
He looked at me “I didn’t pass Jason. I know I didn’t.”
I looked back. “Well, if you did, and you’d like to come, you can come. Please tell Mama Rose.”
“Okay,” he said again. “But I know I didn’t pass. You can take Masixole and Phakamani and them, but I didn’t pass.”
I wanted to shake him and tell him the good news, but I just smiled and turned away. If I hadn’t, I might have told him right then.
I feel like an apprehensive parent. My babies are going off to high school. I’m excited, and I’m sad, and I’m proud. Over the past year-and-a-half these kids and I have really shared in the good times—and the not so good times. I know the majority of you have no clue who these kids are, but a couple of you (some former volunteers) do, and I want to list their names.
So, though there will be no graduation ceremony, be it known that the Amasango Career School in Grahamstown, South Africa is proud to announce its class of 2007. Each student is a living example of how seemingly impossible, desperate circumstances can be beaten. Congratulations and best wishes to…
Bulelani Bete, Siyabulela “Aromat” Dwani, Phakamani Fanga, Ntombizanele Gqola, Nomathamsanqa Gqoza, Xolisani “Matthew Dawson” Makelani, Samkelo Maqanda, Ntombekhaya Marwana, Simphiwe Matina, Thandolwethu Ndemka, Vuyelwa Ntile, Athenkosi Ntlokwana, Masixole Sam and Melikhaya Tambo.
To mark their success, I am taking every student that’s passed grade seven out to dinner at Gino’s, a nice Italian restaurant in the predominately white part of Grahamstown. Earlier this week, I got a list from one of the grade seven teachers with the names of the kids who passed. I needed to know so when, inevitably, a kid shows up who hasn’t passed, he or she can be shown the door. This dinner is to celebrate the success of those who took school seriously and worked hard—and I’m going to be sure nobody is at the table tonight who does not deserve to be there.
I received the list on Wednesday, but the kids are kept in the dark about their success until Thursday night: that’s when Amasango hosts a yearly prize giving ceremony and formally announces those who’ve passed and gives out small gifts to each of its students.
The teacher pulled me into the side office next to Jane’s and began writing the names of the kids who would be leaving. I couldn’t help but look at her master list, a large, checkered piece of paper with the students’ names, test scores, whether they passed or failed, and a section for notes.
Nearly ten had the word “absconded” written in the notes section. Those are the drop outs.
Another one or two students had “did not write exams” next to their names. This means they’d come to school regularly, but for one reason or another, didn’t pitch up for exams. That means that even though they’ve attended school, they’ll be stuck in grade seven for another year.
Two students had “in prison” in their notes section.
The rest had either a pass or fail. I read down the list of names. Masixole Sam—pass. Siyabulela Dwani—pass. Xolisani Makelani—pass.
Masixole came with me in July to the Port Elizabeth airport to say goodbye and then found his own way back to Grahamstown.
Siyabulela Dwani, “Aromat” as everyone here knows him, walks me home whenever I have anything valuable on me. He’s good with his fists—and with a knife, I feel very safe with him as long as he’s on my side.
Xolisani Makelani is all talk. Last year, he stole an avocado and when I called him out on it, he got angry, picking up a brick and threatening to hit me with hit while calling me a “white devil.” Some of the kids scare me when they talk like that. I know with Mr. Makelani, he’s all bark and no bite. And that’s why I like him so much.
The teacher kept writing. I kept scanning the list with my mind wandering to all the times I’ve spent with these kids over the past year-and-a-half.
Nomathamsanqa Gqoza—pass. Simphiwe Matina—pass. Phakamani Fanga—pass.
Nomathamsanqa goes by the name Caroline. Most of the times, the kids pick something close to their real name. Seeing as Nomathamsanqa bears no resemblance to Caroline, I think she simply likes the name. Most of the kids I’ve gotten to know really well have been guys. I spend most of my time at the boy’s shelter, and most of the students at school are male. Caroline has to be one of my favorites though. She doesn’t let the boys push her around, and she’s not fearful or nasty toward men like some of the other girls. She’s spontaneous. She’s always smiling. And I hope she goes very far in life.
Simphiwe Matina I’ve never been all that close with. In fact, most days he treats me like dirt. Many of the kids are opportunists, being overly nice to people so they can a hand in your pocket and grab your wallet. Simphiwe has no qualms letting me know he’s got issues with me. I respect that. I also believe that if I were ever really in trouble, Simphiwe would be one of the first to step up and help.
Phakamani is smart—and loves to cause trouble, but not nasty, knife-wielding trouble, just some good-humored hassles. When I tell the kids I’m going home, Phakamani is the first to smile and say “Go get your sons to walk with you.” I shouldn’t have favorites, but I do. Phakamani knows who they are and loves to rub my face in it, referring to those I really like as my “sons.” I don’t think he realizes that he falls into that category as well. When, I go to the video store, I’ll take Phakamani, and a couple others, with me to select a movie. The store has a small selection of “adult titles” on a high shelf that he’s managed to find and each week, he brings one of the DVDs over and says, with an enormous grin “I want this one.”
I stopped in my tracks when the teacher wrote the next name: Samkelo Maqanda. This kid is an inspiration. I do like them all, but very few inspire me the way Samkelo has. He comes from a desperate, bleak background, but is one of the most hopeful, kind, incredible people I’ve ever met in my life. Ever. He’s only been in grade seven for two terms, and typically, kids stay at least a year before moving on. I looked again to make sure the teacher hadn’t made a mistake. No, he passed. I rushed outside. I never expected to see his name on the list. I was not allowed to tell anybody whether they passed or failed, but I went up to Samkelo and said “Listen, I am taking anybody who passes grade seven out to eat on Sunday. If you pass, please tell Mama Rose (the house mother at Eluxolweni where he lives), that you’re allowed to leave Sunday to go to dinner with me.”
He looked at me “I didn’t pass Jason. I know I didn’t.”
I looked back. “Well, if you did, and you’d like to come, you can come. Please tell Mama Rose.”
“Okay,” he said again. “But I know I didn’t pass. You can take Masixole and Phakamani and them, but I didn’t pass.”
I wanted to shake him and tell him the good news, but I just smiled and turned away. If I hadn’t, I might have told him right then.
I feel like an apprehensive parent. My babies are going off to high school. I’m excited, and I’m sad, and I’m proud. Over the past year-and-a-half these kids and I have really shared in the good times—and the not so good times. I know the majority of you have no clue who these kids are, but a couple of you (some former volunteers) do, and I want to list their names.
So, though there will be no graduation ceremony, be it known that the Amasango Career School in Grahamstown, South Africa is proud to announce its class of 2007. Each student is a living example of how seemingly impossible, desperate circumstances can be beaten. Congratulations and best wishes to…
Bulelani Bete, Siyabulela “Aromat” Dwani, Phakamani Fanga, Ntombizanele Gqola, Nomathamsanqa Gqoza, Xolisani “Matthew Dawson” Makelani, Samkelo Maqanda, Ntombekhaya Marwana, Simphiwe Matina, Thandolwethu Ndemka, Vuyelwa Ntile, Athenkosi Ntlokwana, Masixole Sam and Melikhaya Tambo.
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