“Our lives are made in these small hours, these little wonders, these twists and turns of fate.”

I’ve been thinking for more than a week what I should put in this last entry; how to sum up three trips to a place that has become a kind of second home. To try and gather my thoughts, I looked at what I wrote during my final days of trip one and two—and I discovered something.

I’m in a very different place now.

The first two trips I felt terrible about leaving, about saying good bye to the kids, about leaving a place where I felt I was doing a bit of good.

Fast forward two years and I’m ready to move on. I don’t hate it here and I’m not leaving defeated—but I just know I’m ready, ready to leave, ready to try something new, ready to move on. I won’t ever forget the kids, the seemingly small moments at Eluxolweni, at Amasango or on the dirt roads of the township that have had such an impact on my life. I’ll never forget, and perhaps someday life will lead me back to South Africa—but it won’t for a long while.

I’m ready tomorrow, for the first time of these three trips, to board flight 6261 with non-stop service from O.R. Tambo Johannesburg International to Washington Dulles with no regrets, knowing I’ve done the best I can, knowing that some of the kids I’ve become so close to over the past two years will make it—they will. I also know some won’t.

I’ve never really known—or accepted—that some kids you’ve poured time and energy and your heart into won’t make it. It’s a painful truth; but it is the truth. You can’t save everyone from years of neglect or abuse or even from themselves. You can try—and should, but you won’t win them all.

I feel that is one of the most important realizations of trip number three: some of these kids will somehow find the strength to break the cycle of despair and of hopelessness that’s gripped generations in their families; some of the kids somehow manage to keep that fire within themselves alight; they can see beyond the poverty; they know they’re not guaranteed a future, but they won’t stop fighting for one.

Others will drop out; some (if they haven’t already) will become alcoholics and drug addicts. Some (if they haven’t already) will become fathers and neglect their children the same way they have been neglected. Some will never make it out of the tin shack and some will forever be stuck. Some will forever be victims of circumstance and of themselves.

I’ve said farewell to the students of Amasango and will be going this afternoon to say good bye to the guys at Eluxolweni. I wish them the best of luck. I hope they figure out how to piece together their lives. I hope they don’t forget the times we’ve spent together over these past two years. I know I never will.

But for the first time in two years, I’m ready to move on. I’ll never forget—but I’m ready to leave.

"As we go on, we remember, all the times we had together."

"Night on the town with Nyaluza students"
Outside Spur restaurant
Grahamstown, South Africa


"All aboard"
Shamwari Game Reserve
Near Port Elizabeth, South Africa


"What up"
Mendilakhe and I in Shamwari
Near Port Elizabeth, South Africa


"Road block"
Shamwari Game Reserve
Near Port Elizabeth, South Africa


"Farewell grade 8B"
My students and I
Nyaluza High School, Fingo Village, Grahamstown East, South Africa


"Goodbye 9A"
My students and I
Nyaluza High School, Fingo Village, Grahamstown East, South Africa


"Not quite a good-bye card, but good enough"
Our classroom's chalkboard
Nyaluza High School, Fingo Village, Grahamstown East, South Africa

"People are fundamentally good. We are made to reach for the stars."

My head was down, scanning the sand for any colorful shells or smooth glass that the tide had tossed onto Port Alfred’s windswept beach—about an hour from Grahamstown.

I saw a boy leaning against the wooden barricade that separates the beach from the parking lot. The boy, about 5 meters away was staring intently in my direction, seemingly watching my every move. A bit intimidated, a bit confused, a bit curious, I walked closer.

“Jason!” said the boy.

It was Lindispho: an Amasango student/Eluxolweni shelter boy who left Grahamstown in December for Christmas—and never returned.

I’ve often wondered what happened to him. I’ve always hoped he was okay, but I’ve never been really all that certain he was okay. Here he was, more than three months later, looking good. Sure, his clothes were worn and dirty, but he didn’t look addled by drugs, and he wasn’t drunk.

Lindispho would approach me each day at Amasango and, with an enormous grin, say “I hate you.” He’d pause for a bit of dramatic suspense—even though I knew what was coming—and then finish: “Because you’re white!”

The thing is, the smile never left his face and, by the time he’d get to the word “white” he was laughing hysterically, and, reaching into hug me, continue with “What’s up my white papa?”

It began that way every morning. I’ve really missed his inappropriate, yet well-meaning, remarks.

But here we were now, not having seen him for three months, not having known what had happened to him, not knowing if he’d still be the same, I walked a bit closer and said “I hate you” holding out my hand to shake his.

A grin formed across his face, then a laugh, then “because you’re white.” He pushed my hand out of the way and reached in to hug me.

I invited Lindispho over to where my three friends were. Lindispho and I chatted for a while about nothing in particular.

Then I asked the question I really wanted to, but didn’t want to ask initially. “You coming back to Grahamstown?”

He put his head down, “After Easter.” I don’t like it when they put their head down. Lindispho, most of the kids actually, can’t lie looking you in the eye. Some of the more hardened ones can. Some of the more hardened ones could probably stick a knife through you , looking at you double over and feel nothing. But many of the kids who haven’t lost everything still can’t look you in the eye and lie. “After Easter” means nothing if it isn’t said with a bit of eye contact. Lindispho’s wasn’t.

I asked him if he’d be willing to show my Swedish friends around the township. I told him I needed his help. These Swedish students were leaving Tuesday and had never seen the township and I thought he’d be perfect. None of that was a lie. He agreed to be our tour guide and we loaded into the car. We drove into the township passed signs like these announcing the expansion of low-income housing.

You know you’re in the township the moment the pavement ends. Crater-size potholes replace the tar; people dressed in third and fourth hand clothes walking everywhere, emaciated dogs wandering the streets shared by goats and cattle. We passed the AIDS clinic, the school, some homes and got to his street.

He looked at me and said “You want to see my house?”

“Do you want to show us your house or would you rather just show us around the township?” I replied.

“I’ll show you my house,” he said.

We parked on the side of a dirt road that has seen better days. I put the gear lock on the shifter, rolled up the windows, told the girls to keep their purses in the trunk, locked the doors, set the alarm.

Lindispho looked on “When you going to realize it’s fine here Jason?” he said with a laugh.

“When you going to come back to school,” I answered.

“I told you, after Easter,” he said, again looking away as he said it.

We walked down a grass path, passed a couple other shacks and arrived to a one-room building that had been pieced together with random pieces of metal.

“Come in,” he said.

The dirt floor was met by cardboard boxes that had been sliced open and put against the walls to cover the holes. The roof had dozens of small holes where the metal had been slit open, Magazines dotted the floor: Cosmopolitan, Newsweek, African Leader. Magazines, I’d discover, he found at the garbage dump. It was Hell-on-Earth. And it was this 15-year-olds home.

We spent the next twenty minutes in the township, before setting off to lunch. I invited Lindisipho to come with us, never thinking for a minute he’d turn down a free meal. He didn’t.

We arrived. We talked. I told him how he needed to come back to school. He said okay. We left. We went back to the township.

I said, “When you coming back to school?”

“After Easter, I promise Jason,” he said looking me straight in the eye.

I looked in the rear view mirror as he walked back into the township, the dust gathering at his feet as he made his way down the dirt road.

I felt defeated. I knew he was going back to that one-room shack from hell.

I felt vindicated. He had looked me in the eye. Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he will.

"Sometimes you need to lose yourself to discover who you are."

He came to the fence with a half-smile on his face. His left hand gripping an overstuffed suitcase that looked like it might split in half and spill whatever clothes he's managed to get his hands on.

*Masiduimse is leaving Grahamstown. I don't know why. I'm not sure he really knows why either.

He graduated from Amasango last year and recently began at Nombulelo Secondary School in the township. Since December, he's left Eluxolweni Shelter, dropped out of school and has spent his days in the township attempting to drink away his misery.

The once proud, clean, put together Masiduimse has, of late, become just another dirty, dodgy-looking character who's presence makes you grip your bag just a little tighter. He's begun this downward spiral and I hope, for his sake, once he arrives in Port Elizabeth, he hits rock bottom so he can start rebuilding his life.

He's begun his path of self-destruction, but until he bottoms out, his days will be spent in some shack with the bottle.

This is a guy who came with me last year to wish me good bye in Port Elizabeth; a guy who walked or hitch-hiked back to Grahamstown; a guy who's mother was murdered by a drunk boyfriend; a guy, who, despite being embarrassed by his background, pressed on; a guy who inspired me; and a guy, who, at the moment, has decided to give up the fight.

It could be a temporary thing. I know that. But, the heart-wrenching thing is that by the time this lost 18-year-old has discovered his mistakes, it could be too late. I'm convinced that while there is always hope, a 25-year-old with three kids addicted to alcohol and drugs doesn't hold much hope for the future. Maybe Masiduimse won't be that person. But maybe he will.

I said good-bye to him. He reached his hand through the broken piece of the fence, shook my hand, smiled, swore at me (as he always does), then turned and walked away.

I hope he loses himself soon--and discovers that he can make it.

* not his real name

"...The youth of the nation." - P.O.D.

Enjoy the article from today's Buffalo News.

The article has to end, but the conversation is just beginning.

Read, react, respond by posting a comment on this blog, or by logging onto AmasangoAmerica to read more--and interact with--the students of Nathaniel Nyaluza Secondary, Fingo Village Location, Grahamstown East, South Africa.

"Use your health, even to the point of wearing it out.That is what it is for. Spend all you have before you die; do not outlive yourself."

I pass by the train station every morning. The old brick building is only a couple hundred meters from Amasango's main gate. While it isn't decrepit like many of its neighbors, it has certainly seen better days. Usually, the station is quiet.

There are a couple ladies always selling fruit at its front door. I see them every morning. I also see dozens of people walk past it, pouring out of the township into town to begin the day's work. There's always movement around the station, but there's rarely anybody in it. Today was different though.

The activity and the energy that surrounds the station each morning poured over the invisible demarcation and the station itself was unusually alive. I could see through the open door and the windows a train parked on the tracks. The train was more than a dozen cars long and people were scurrying around from car to car--a most unusual site in Grahamstown at 7:30 a.m. The train curved half-way up along the track stretching toward the township.

This isn't just an ordinary train though. It's a movable medical center, it's treatment-on-the-tracks, it's doctors on wheels--call it what you may, it's some of the only medical treatment the poorest members of South African society get. In a country where millions of people still suffer from extreme poverty and don't have the means to get to, or pay for, the hospital; the hospital is brought to them.

It arrives, stays a day or two, helps potentially thousands of people and moves onto the next town.

It's certainly not ideal, but for the people who receive medical treatment on that train, the whistle announcing its arrival to Grahamstown is as good as it gets.

All aboard.

"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood."

"Bird's eye view"
10th grade pupils watch drama from the third floor of Nyaluza.
Fingo Village Location, Grahamstown East, South Africa.



"Friends"
Nyaluza pupil Sanele (my favorite student) and I outside Nyaluza Secondary.
Fingo Village Location, Grahamstown East, South Africa.



"Unarmed response-but just as effective"
My friends/students/security team with my laptop walking across town.
Near Eluxolweni Shelter, Grahamstown, South Africa.



"Drama"
Nyaluza learners perform for the school's culture day.
Fingo Village Location, Grahamstown East, South Africa.

"If you want something, go get it. Period." - Pursuit of Happyness.

The interview lasted nearly two hours. I was waiting downstairs in the computer lab, but there are only so many times you can check e-mail, read a story on CNN.com and check facebook before you go mad.

I couldn't take it anymore so I walked upstairs to the office to see if I could hear anything. The door was open and I was invited into the room.

Zukisani Lamani got in. He got in! He got in! He got in!

The first workshop is tomorrow. Zukisani is being provided with taxi fare to get to and from Rhodes, meals, weekly seminars on journalism, access to cameras and computers, an opportunity to meet local reporters and editors, a cell phone (with a limited amount of airtime) so the program can keep up on him, a "life skills" course that will help him apply to university and find funding, a chance.

That's all he's ever wanted; a chance.

Zukisani wanted something. He went and got it. Period.

"Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't do something. If you gotta a dream, you gotta protect it." -Pursuit of Happyness

I'm sitting in the computer lab typing out this blog entry because there's no other way to control my nerves. I haven't been this on-edge in a long time. My palms are sweaty. My heart is racing. My leg is shaking.

I stumbled upon an internship program at Rhodes University about three weeks ago. The program is for six high school seniors from "historically disadvantaged backgrounds," a politically correct way of saying six high schoolers from the township.

"ABSA Bank-South Africa" has sponsored the program so all transport to and from the township, all meals, all accommodation, all equipment, everything will be taken care of. Six selected students will work with editors, photographers, reporters and a variety of community leaders in producing articles and publishing those articles in "The Oppidan Press." Part of the internship will also focus on applying to universities (including Rhodes) and securing funding at those universities.

I thought when I saw this program that Zukisani, the 23-year-old I've been tutoring for the past couple months, would be an ideal candidate. He's smart. He's bold. And above all, he's determined. Nothing will stand in his way; nothing will stop him from getting an education; nothing. He's always said a job in journalism is his dream--even before he knew about this opportunity. We meet at Rhodes twice a week to work on history and as we walk around campus he always tells me how much he'd like to one day walk onto campus as a student, not a guest. With this program, that dream could become a reality.

He's upstairs answering questions as I type this. The results of this interview could profoundly change his life. This interview could change him from "poor, disadvantaged township guy" to somebody with a real shot at a future; to somebody who worked his way out of the grinding poverty of Extension Six; to somebody who can serve as an inspiration to thousands of others living a hard-knock life just across town.

I feel like a nervous parent. Those people in that room hold his fate, and a dream of mine, in their hands. I want him to make it. I've seen people try so hard during my three trips here. They try so hard--and they fail. I've seen it. I've been there to try and piece together their shattered dreams. For once, I'd like to be there to celebrate a dream come true.

They admit Zukisani and he's got a real chance at a future: twice weekly seminars on journalism, a ton of networking opportunities, workshops with editors and reporters, help with applying to Rhodes and help with funding a Rhodes degree.

Help. That's all he wants. That's all he's ever wanted. He's not sitting on the street with an empty jar at his feet like so many others his age. He's not breaking into homes taking what isn't his. He's attending school everyday. He gets in at 6 a.m. for extra classes in math. He sees me twice a week after school for help with history. He's never missed a tutoring session. He's never not wanted to work.

He wants an education. He wants to be a success. And this interview could make those wishes come true. He could be the one who makes it after all. He could be the guy who grew up without parents in Extension Six, who attended Amasango Career School, who dropped out of high school and then went back, who got this internship, who attended Rhodes, who made it.

"It is only possible to live happily ever after on a day to day basis."

"Oh Snap"
Grade students receive their SNAP Foundation cameras
Location: Nyaluza High School, Grahamstown



"Practice"
Photo Class with Siyabonga and Onati
Location: Kuyasa Special School, Grahamstown



"Poor man's word count"
Student paper at Nyaluza
Location: Nyaluza High School, Grahamstown



"Behind bars"
Amasango students looking through the back gates of Amasango
Location: Amasango Career School, Grahamstown



"New addition"
Mama Jane with Janine and her newborn child
Location: Amasango Career School, Grahamstown



"Art class"
Amasango students Sandile and Tembalathu painting a rubbish bin
Location: Amasango Career School, Grahamstown

"Warning: protected by Hi-Tech Armed Response." - sign outside just about every home in Grahamstown

I'm jolted awake by a piercing, shrill sound. Our burglar alarm is in panic mode and loud bursts of sound reverberate through the house.

Dazed, I pick up my cell phone to check the time: 12:35 a.m. It's past midnight; that means that everyone who lives with us is already at home, and anybody who might accidentally set off the alarm, knows the code to shut it off.

With the alarm in panic mode and the piercing noise that accompanies it, I, too, begin to enter panic mode. I get up out of bed and make sure my bedroom door is locked.

It is. Of course, it is. I lock it every night before I go to sleep.

I sit back in bed, afraid to leave the room and dial Jane. She's in the room next to me, no more than 10 feet away, but I'm not willing to open my door, scare anyone who might be outside and have a knife at my neck.

The phone rings.

"Hi Jane," I say, screaming above the alarm. "What's going on?"

"I don't know Jason," Jane replies. "Armed response is coming. You will see their lights on when they start to walk around the house."

I hung up. We both have the same idea. She, like me, is not going to leave the secure cocoon of a locked room.

Sixty seconds go by and the shrill noise suddenly subsides and is replaced by radios and footsteps scurrying around the house. It sounds as if Armed Response has arrived, turned off the alarm, and is now doing a sweep of the house. I'm still not quite sure what I should do.

I hear Jane next door. "Armed response--is that you?"

"Yes mam," comes the reply from the foyer. "We've arrived."

Jane and I both unlock our doors and make our way down the passage. There's a man in an armed response uniform and a flash light standing just in front of the kitchen's interlocking door.

I walk down to him and pass the front door. I glance outside and see two armed response vehicles idling at the gate with three other guards ready to race in if there are problems.

The guard looks at us and says "Your front door was open."

He made his way to the sitting room, moving the flash light around the room and then yanking back the floor to ceiling curtains along the wall.

Nobody. No broken windows. No sign of a robber.

To the dining room. The radio on his belt is still chattering away, the beam of light from his flash light still dancing across the room. Again, he pulls back the curtains.

Nothing.

To the spare room. He throws the door open, stands back, moves in with the flashlight, and checks behind the curtains. Nothing.

"I don't know mam," he says.

Jane suddenly thinks she forgot to close--and lock--the door before going to bed and believes the dogs pushed it open, sending the alarm, and the inhabitants of 31 Bedford Street, into an instant panic.

In America, if I had heard the alarm, I would have most likely went out to see what was happening. Or, I would have called 911 and had the police come.

In South Africa, where there seems to be fewer "rules of engagement" with potentially desperate, deadly criminals, I wait locked in my room for a private security firm to race to my house with guns.

"Each of us has a fire in our heart for something. It's our goal in life to find it and to keep it lit."

I've often struggled to put into words the emotional rollercoaster one experiences in one day at Amasango. Spending a day at this school of hard knocks, you're all but guaranteed to experience the greatness of humanity--as well unspeakable depravity. You'll be faced with obstacles of a near colossal proportion, and you'll see kids who you'll never forget, kids who inspire you by their ability to journey on, and kids who've seemingly given up the fight. I thought yesterday, Monday, February 11, 2008 was a perfect example of what I'm always talking about.

8:30 a.m.: I'm helping Gloria, Amasango's cook, to bring around porridge to the kids for breakfast. Ivinde, a 5th grade student, has lost his cool and is fighting with the guards. So far, he's ripped of his shirt, thrown down his books and is screaming at two Hi-Tech guards who are attempting to subdue him. It's nothing new, Gloria and I just make our way around the fight and enter grade one.


8:32 a.m.: Gloria and I leave grade one and head down to the other end of the school yard. Ivinde is still struggling to calm down. We walk around the guards again and I say "Good Morning Isaiah," one of the guards. He smiles, laughs and I turn and keep walking. Gloria and I talk about how it's warm outside, but we can't hear one another that well above Ivinde's screaming. We walk into grade seven. Janine, a new mom at 15, is finding a seat at one of the front tables. A smile unconsciously forms on my face. I am so happy to see her; so inspired by her courage. She brought her baby to school two weeks ago and said she'd be returning to school soon. I wanted to believe her--but I didn't. Janine has been in class for the past two days. While she's still got a long way to go, and will undoubtedly fall along the way, she's still walking. She's fallen before, and she's gotten back up. She is an inspiration.

9:30 a.m. I'm in grade six when Ms. Kate, a teacher at Amasango, approaches me and tells me I must go to Settler's Hospital. I get into the Amasango SUV and the driver takes me up the hill, dropping me at casualty. Mziantabo, a 7th grade student blacked out for nearly a half hour while doing drugs last Thursday. He's been using mandrax, almost daily, for the past three years. The doctor has told him he's either got to get help, or at best, he'll suffer irreparable brain damage. At worst, he'll be dead.

He's taken the first step and agreed to come to the hospital to be detoxed, and then to be transferred out of Grahamstown to a reform school. In the past, he' s refused any help. Jane, the principal, is busy organizing the transfer, so I'm left to watch Mziantabo--a drug addict, who's having second thoughts about this treatment program--at the hospital.

We wait and we wait and we wait some more. Mziantabo tells me he needs to smoke. I tell him "no" believing he'll just run away. When he gets up, a guard and I follow him out. When he struggles, a second guard comes and helps. We return to the waiting room, a seemingly defeated Mziantabo sits there surrounded by three people. We are called to the doctor.

11:30 a.m.: The doctor tells us he's not supposed to admit Mziantabo as Settler's is not a drug rehab facility; but that he'll do it as long as Mziantabo says he wants to do it. The boy agrees. The doctor admits him. Thirty seconds after we leave the room, Mziabanto turns and says "I don't want this" and returns to the doctor.

I grab him, try to stop him, but he won't be stopped. The guards rush over. The thirty or so people waiting in the waiting room lock their eyes on the struggle unfolding.

I tell him again; he's been admitted, we just have to go to his room. He refuses again, pulling his hand out of my grip and knocks on the doctor's door.

He hands him the folder and says "I refuse."

The doctor looks puzzled. "I just admitted you."

"I know," Mziantabo says. "And I don't want it."

11:37 a.m.: The doctor grabs the folder, points at Mziantabo and says "Fine, just know that you are being given a chance. In two years, when you're in jail, or when you're dead, I won't feel bad at all for you. Get out."

The waiting room has become dead silent. Mziantabo begins to walk to the door. I grab him, pull him down the hall and ask him to talk.

He refuses.

I say I'm going to call school.

He says "I'm leaving. It's my choice."

I ask the guards to hold him down. I get on my phone. It's ringing. It keeps ringing. I think to myself, "Please Amasango, please please please pick up the phone."

It continues to ring when Mr. Diego, the school's Afrikaans teacher picks up the phone.

"Hi, it's Jason. I'm at the hospital and Mziantabo is getting out of control. He was admitted, and now he's refusing. Please send Isaiah. Please send him right now."

Isaiah is the Amasango security guard/father/negotiator of note. He can talk the kids into, or out of, nearly anything. I think to myself, if only we can keep Mziantabo here for five minutes, Isaiah can handle him.

Mziantabo refuses to listen. The guards continue to hold him down. I put my phone back in my pocket, approach Mziantabo, and just as I'm about to talk to I hear "Jason!"

I look and see Thulani, a friend of mine from town. Thulani always watches my car and he's sitting two chairs away watching everything unfold. I say "Wait Thulani!" a bit angry that he's interrupting all of this.

Mziantabo won't look at me so I grab his face telling him if he doesn't do this, he'll die. The doctor said that. He says he doesn't care and tries to stand up. I push him back down.

He sits down for a couple moments and then begins to go nuts. The guards attempt to hold him down again. He rips his hands away and begins walking down the hall, he's about five meters from the exit. I think it's all over.

Then, Isaiah walks in.

I've had it with Mziantabo and walk back down the hall. It's about 1 o'clock.

1:02 p.m.: I sit down with Thulani and notice he's shackled and a prison warden is nearby. "What happened," I say to Thulani.

"I was guarding cars in town Jason," he said, looking upset. "And a house got broken into and Hi-Tech thinks it's me and they take me to prison."

"Okay," I said. "Was it you?"

"Was it me?" Thulani says with a puzzled look on his face.

"Yeah," I said. "Did you break into the house?"

"Hay hay (no, no) Jason," he says. "It wasn't me."

"Okay," I say, not really believing him. "Why are you here?"

Thulani was taken to jail after Hi-Tech accused him of breaking in. Thulani was sodomized in jail. Thulani is now HIV-positive. That's why Thulani is in the hospital .

1:40 p.m.: Amasango phones. Isaiah, in his rush to the hospital, took the keys to the office and nobody can get in. The driver comes to fetch me and we return to school.

1:45 p.m.: I hand over the keys, say good bye to the kids, and leave for the day.

8:00 p.m.: Jane comes into the house and tells me Mziantabo was readmitted to the hospital. He needs pyjamas. I drive up to Settler's, drop them off, give him a talk about not running away and leave.

10:05 p.m.: I crawl into bed and think about the day. A pregnant girl returns to school, a boy, on the brink, decides he truly does need to go to detox and re-admits himself to the hospital, an out of control student gets sent home early in the morning for fighting with Amasango guards, and a friend--even if he is a thief--is sodomized and infected with HIV. All in a day's work.

"But I, being poor, have only my dreams;I have spread my dreams under your feet;Tread softly because you tread on my dreams." - William Butler Yeats

More than two-hundred people have stepped up.

They've filled out their applications. They've handed in their CVs. They've stopped by to see us, hopeful that they will be the winner.

Two hundred will be cut down to fifty.

Fifty will be cut down to ten.

And from that ten, one person will become....

Amasango Career School's next cleaner.

It sounds like a reality show that could be on FOX, ABC or just about any American network. But it's the ultimate reality show--it's as real as it gets, it's heart breaking, it's dramatic. The winner won't walk away with a million dollars, but he or she will leave work at the end of the day with something. This person will have done an honest day's work for an honest day's pay.

I walked into Jane's office at Amasango on Thursday and the floor was littered with boxes. Three or four of them, each one spilling over with papers, the white pages covering the edges of each box.

Having boxes and paper work scattered across the floor isn't exactly something new. There is a seemingly perpetual chaos at Amasango and in each classroom and office. Usually, it's second hand clothes strewn about; clothes that don't have time to gather dust because they're donated and then sometimes within hours, all ready on their new owner's back.

These boxes were different though. There were no second hand clothes.

There was actually something a bit more important in them: papers. Sure, they were just papers, but those papers contained the dreams of hundreds of people living in the township: to have a job, no matter how menial, and to be able to support their family.

If people don't have clothes, at least in this climate, it's just a bit uncomfortable, but they'll live.

Crush somebody's dreams--and crush them over and over and over again; I believe that is more damaging in the long run.

I peered into the boxes. Amasango is hiring one cleaner, two class aides, a security guard and a financial clerk. These boxes came from the Eastern Cape Department of Education and contained the applications for hundreds of people in need of work. The first box I glanced at, and the box that left the greatest impression on me, was the box for the cleaning post.

There was a list at the top--a full four pages long--of each person who was hoping to get the job. With an unemployment rate as high at 70%, this box was heartbreaking for me: hundreds of eager people, willing to work and not just come up to you in the street with a sob story and outstretched hands asking for loose change. These people are trying. They're deserving of help.

Hundreds applied. Hundreds will be told "thanks, but no thanks." A dream will be made, and hundreds of others will be crushed.

It's the ultimate in reality. And it's so damn sad.

“I live in fear, but I am fearless.” – Amanda Jibilize, ninth grade student at Nyaluza Secondary

Another day; another Nyaluza homework assignment; another chance to see how incredible these students are, how resilient they are--enjoy these selected poems from grade nine learners of Nathaniel Nyaluza Secondary, Fingo Village location, Grahamstown East, South Africa.

"Their story. Their world. Their future." - Freedom Writers

Last week, I gave my eighth, ninth and tenth grade students at Nathaniel Nyaluza Secondary School a homework assignment. That assignment? To write a poem, a story, or a song about their lives. The poem, song or story could be just about any length, about any subject, about any time period, nothing was out of bounds; they just had to write.

...And write they did. 90% of the students came to class with their poem, their song, their story--sketched out on looseleaf paper.

Some students wrote about being hurt by others; a couple wrote about their culture; one or two wrote about the havoc HIV/AIDS has caused in their lives. All of them, who did the assignment, gave it their all. I couldn't be prouder.

On Wednesday, three 10th grade students agreed to let me post their writings for you. I have many other poems from Nyaluza students that may be posted in the future. I don't see the students in class everyday and I do ask permission to put their writing online before posting. Enjoy!

"Everyone rises to their level of incompetence."

I went to court today. It's taken nearly a year, but the South African Criminal Justice system was ready to teach Mango a lesson.

I arrived in court at the time I was told: 8:30 a.m. I sat. And I read. And I sat some more. And I read some more.

Around noon, nothing was happening. The magistrate hadn't arrived. The lawyers were sitting around inside the court room. I went into the court to speak with the attorney and see what the hold up was. The magistrate had been in a meeting for the morning (the three hours I, and about a dozen others had been sitting there for). And now, it was tea time! So, it was time for everybody to take a break from doing nothing all morning--and now begin the afternoon properly...doing nothing. Of course; makes sense to me.

Before cutting for tea, the lawyer informed me that the charges against the stabber were to be withdrawn. The South African Police Service--the people who supposedly protect the people of this nation--did not open the case properly or include statements from the eyewitnesses (myself or about a dozen other children). The court was powerless to proceed.

Mango arrived to court this morning. Mango told me, with a pompous smirk, that he'd be fine and he'd get off. Mango was notified that the charges were withdrawn. Mango smiled. Mango left court. Mango won. Mango can now go collect his knife in the township and stab whoever the hell he wants.

I know the lawyer had his hands tied. He must follow the law--after all it's his job. What I don't understand is why it is so difficult for people in this country to do their job properly. It sounds like I'm making a generalization, and I am. There are some people who I've come across who are remarkably competent, intelligent, productive members of society.

There are also hundreds who just don't cut it. They show up to work late, or not at all.

When they're supposed to be in a classroom teaching, they're having tea.

When a different case was opened earlier this year against a boy who beat another student unconscious, the police were supposed to come and arrest the perpetrator. They never came.

Instead of being able to phone the police when somebody breaks into our homes, we have to push the rapid response button and have Hi-Tech Armed Response (a private security firm) race to our home because the police, those in charge of protecting us, are utterly useless.

I love South Africa. I wouldn't have come three times if I didn't. But, by and large, especially with government organizations, there seems to be a culture of incredible incompetence.

And now, a boy who stabbed a mentally handicapped boy is to walk free. He knows the system: stab whoever you want, go to court twice, and then, since the police will undoubtedly mess something up, walk freely home, gather your knife and continue your violent rampage.

"You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow, cuz opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo." - Eminem

Nathaniel Nyaluza Secondary School
Fingo Village, Grahamstown East, South Africa
Photos taken on: January 25, 2008


"Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment; would you capture it or just let it slip?" Entrance to Nyaluza High.



"....That's when it's back to the lab again." My classroom at Nyaluza.


"He keeps on forgetting what he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud, he opens his mouth but the words won't come out." Wall art, Nyaluza style.


"So here I go, it's my shot, feet fail me not, cuz maybe the only opportunity that I got." Exterior of Nyaluza Secondary.


"I cannot grow old in Salem's Lot, so here I go, it's my shot..." Art class, Nyaluza style.


I'm like a snail, I've got to formulate a plot, or end up in jail or shot. Success is my only muthaf---in' option, failure's not." 8th grade learners in Nyaluza corridor.


"You can do anything you set your mind to, man." Success! Former Amasango learners Xolisani Makelani and Samkelo Maqanda in their Nyaluza uniforms.

"I've never had a white teacher before. You know? Never. I've never had a white teacher before!" -student at Nathaniel Nyaluza High

I walked into Nathaniel Nyaluza Secondary School yesterday not quite sure of what to expect. The high school, a couple heavily worn buildings surrounded by a high fence, is located in Fingo Village, a location on the edge of the sprawling township.

I drove in with the principal a bit nervous at what I might find. In my mind, I was a bit scared it would be another Amasango with older kids--after all, many Amasango learners who graduate do go onto Nyaluza High. Would I just be walking into another place that has triumph sandwiched between tragedy after tragedy and stabbing after fight after rape?

Washington Mushwana, the principal, drove in, brought me to the office and said "We have no English teacher for the grade eight, grade nine and grade ten learners. She (the teacher) was promoted and we have nobody. That's what we need you to do."

I looked at him, a bit dumbfounded by what he had just said.

He must have seen the look on my face, and he followed it up with "Don't worry, we want you to do the photography project too. Oh yes, we are very excited about the photography project. Give your syllabus to me and we'll get kids for you. Let me show you to your room."

We walked through the schoolyard, up to the second floor. The handle to the classroom was broken. The walls have "Snoop Dog" and Alicia Keys lyrics written all over them. The walls are completely bare. There is a chalkboard, but no chalk. The bell rings. In come the first class: a group of young, entirely black, seemingly eager students.

I have nothing prepared. I really didn't know I was going to teach. I start by introducing myself. I tell them my name is Jason and that I'm from New York. The students immediately think of the New York made famous by 50 Cent and Lil Kim, not my New York. But that's okay. They're engaged; and they are respecting me. I tell them about myself, and then ask them to take out some paper expecting half the class to have none.

They all take out their paper and then look up at me. I ask them to write their name, their age, their hobbies and interests, their favorite and least favorite subjects in school, their favorite music and singers, and then, finally, I have them write three questions they want to ask me.

One light-skinned boy in the back of the room, Sanele, has an enormous grin on his face during most of this introductory exercise. I approach him and ask what he's so happy about. He puts his head down and laughs.

My mind races and my Amasango reflexes kick in. My hand digs into my pocket. False alarm: the wallet is still there. I'm a bit ashamed after I do it, but Amasango has made me that way. I ask him again, "Why are you smiling Sanele?"

He looks up and says, "I've never had a white teacher before. You know? Never. I've never ever had a white teacher before! Welcome to Nyaluza. I've never had a white teacher before," he says with a smile.

During question and answer time another boy stands up, welcomes me to Nyaluza High and says "What did your parents think when they found out you would be teaching in a black school in the location (township)?"

I laughed inside and thought "well, my parents didn't know I was going to teach in a school in the township and I didn't know either until about five minutes ago when your principal opened the door and you all walked in."

I looked up and said "Well, my parents were okay with it. I think the crime and the violence in South Africa scares them from time to time, but they didn't have a problem at all with me being here because it's a black school." It's true. He smiled. He sat down.

The next student stood up. And the next. And the next. We talked till the bell rang.

When I left my classroom and walked down the halls, dozens of kids saw me, smiled, some patted me on the back and said "What up umlungu (white man)?" or "Welcome umulungu!" or just plain old "Umlungu!!!!" They are alive. The school has an energy that rushes through its learners and rubs off on people like me.

Four periods began, four classes of students came and four periods ended. The day featured dozens of memorable moments, a bit of learning both on the part of the teacher and the students--and not one fight, not one stabbing, not one openly hostile remark.

I love Amasango. I know the kids who walk through those gates are some of the most resilient people I've ever met. I also know twice a week at Nyaluza does the mind and the spirit good. I don't walk into a fight. I don't have kids spitting or punching.

Nyaluza learners have got spirit; they've got a desire to learn; and they come to school with pens, paper and pencils--not knives.

I'm convinced that because I was at Nyaluza yesterday, today, I didn't lose hope when the police arrived at Amasango to open a case against a couple students. Nor did my energy evaporate when Armed Response was called because Mango refused to leave the grounds. I remember, there are other kids who are trying; who are fighting just as hard as the troublemakers, but instead of fighting with knives, they're fighting to get an education. I remember Nyaluza when I see situations seemingly devoid of hope. I think of the Amasango students now at Nyaluza and the four periods I taught yesterday. There is hope.

I gave each of my four classes a homework assignment. Write a story, a poem, or a song about their lives and bring it to class on Friday. It doesn't have to be perfect, they just have to try. At the end of the day yesterday, my students came up to me and said "We'll have it for Friday. We'll have that story for you on Friday. Peace umlungu."

Tomorrow's Friday. I can't wait to go back. What up Nyaluza High!

"A photograph can be an instant of life captured for eternity that will never cease looking back at you."

"Life as they know it"
Exhibition's American opening
January 29, 2008, 5 - 7 p.m.
The Rainbow Gallery, Tower Fine Arts Center
State University of New York College at Brockport
Sponsorship provided by: The SNAP Foundation, SUNY Brockport
Project Advisor: Jason Torreano


"Life as they know it" arrives for its American opening on the 29th of January 2008. The exhibition will run in the Rainbow Gallery at Tower Fine Arts until February 15, 2008. Below is a preview of some of the photographs taken by pupils who attend Amasango Career School in Grahamstown, South Africa. We hope you'll be able to stop by the exhibit.

"In seeking happiness for others, you find it for yourself." - Unknown

I've just completed my first week back at Amasango, and I've begun to realize that, as that old saying goes, the little things...aren't so little.

I was cautiously optimstic about what the new year might hold at Amasango. By the end of last term, all of the fun I used to have at Amasango--and all the joy that came from working at the school--had vanished. All I saw were desperate, violent, miserable kids. I, myself, became miserable, not because all the kids around me were, but because I focused too heavily on the failures, and not enough on the small successes.

The first stabbing of the year occurred Thursday; just a couple days into the new year, but, I've learned if one dwells on the negatives too long, one quickly becomes disheartened and loses sight of all the good that's going on. So, I've discovered I must acknowledge it, deal with it, and then move on. So, in that spirit, yes, there was a nasty fight Thursday. The weapons came out, the guards rushed in and carried away two angry, agitated struggling boys into the passage. But there was more than just a nasty fight this week. This week also saw:

- nearly a dozen guys and girls trading in their Amasango uniforms for a pair of slacks or a skirt, a sweater, a tie and heading off to Nyaluza and Nombulelo High Schools. When everything around them told them they couldn't make it, they ignored everything around them. They're in high school. Not prison. They're getting their education. And I couldn't be prouder, or happier, to know them.

- a 7th grade student--red-faced and clearly on the edge--who's been very violent in the past, running up to one of the school's security guards and pleading with the guard for help. This boy said another student wanted to fight with him but that he wanted to keep the peace. The guard and the student talked. A fight, potentially a violent fight, was avoided. A small success, but a success.

- Zukisani Lamani, a 22-year-old 12th grader fighting through the bureaucracy of the Department of Education. Lamani had been fighting hard to be transferred to a better, higher performing, township school. He wrote letters, he met with the education deparment, he followed up with the education department, he wished, more than anything, to be transferred to Nombulelo High. On Wednesday, his wish was granted.

- a boy who's been very difficult, very full of drugs, very untrustworthy in the past became a boy who seems to have turned over a new leaf. He came to school every day this week with a clean face and clear eyes, rather than puffy eyes and a face riddled by drug abuse. He turned in a fellow student who was stealing books from Amasango. In the past, he would have been an accomplice. Now he's an informer.

The people who come to Amasango amaze me at their uncanny ability to come to school and smile; to be happy, to not let all the bad bring their spirits down. They see the fighting, the stabbings, and its aftermath of blood and tears, but they have learned, perhaps, the only way to survive in these conditions is to focus on the good.

I'm learning too.

Here's to an amazing first week at Amasango, Grahamstown, South Africa.

"There's a voice we're gonna hear. A voice so loud and clear, so let them see we can't do it, give us a mountain, and we're gonna move it."

I've been looking for a student at Amasango with a spark; somebody who, has in them, an indescribable something, a student who wants badly to succeed and is willing to put in the work to make it happen. Somebody who has not had it easy in life, and despite how hopeless it looks on the ground, refuses to give up hope; somebody who can still see the light at the end of the tunnel, even when the tunnel seems to stretch on forever and the light is just a dim flicker.

I think part of my disillusionment toward the end of last term was that I could no longer see the light at the end of the tunnel because so many kids who I'd tried to help couldn't see it either. The kids I poured time into, believed could do it, didn't believe in themselves. It's almost as though they had just put their hands up in defeat and given up. I've learned during my time here that I can give it my all--but if the kid doesn't want to better himself, I need to back off. While I can always leave the door open, the child needs to walk through it by themselves.

Zukisani Lamani walked through the door yesterday. He doesn't go to Amasango--he did. He went on to high school in the township, went on to drop out, went on to get a job at a local supermarket and pizza shop, and decided, he wanted to go on and finish high school.

He's approached me on the street a couple times, telling me he really wants help and needs somebody to tutor him. We'd talk for a couple minutes, and then he'd run off each time to go....to get books and study at the public library.

He is 22. He's my age. He's going into grade 12 and wants badly to transfer schools. He is at a school that is failing in its mission to educate its learners. The teachers don't teach. They're often not in the room. The computers that were in the building just disappeared. The school gave him a certificate for "The Highest Grade" in one of his subjects, then went on to fail him in it.

Rather than shrink back and accept what was happening, Zukisani wrote letters to the Education Department telling them about his problem, he's gone to the local office and requested to switch schools, he's gotten Jane involved, and he's gotten me involved too, even though I function as little more than a cheerleader for his cause, at least I'm a small part of it.

He's uncomfortable about the enemies he's made in the process, but he says that he's trying to learn and he has every right to be at a decent school with teachers who instruct. This kid wants and education--and he's going to get one, damn it!

We met yesterday in the library to have our first tutoring session. He came prepared with his books, a pencil and paper. We worked for an hour before he and I went to the Education Dept. to follow up on his complaints.

Zukisani has got a spark. He's got that indescribable something. He wants, more than anything, to learn, to succeed, and he's not going to let poverty, the violence that surrounds him in the township, or the bureaucracy from the Department of Education stand in his way.

We just got out of our second tutoring session an hour or so ago. Zukisani, a poor guy from the township who was born into a socioeconomic group that doesn't generally have a voice, has discovered his own. He's used his voice and made a lot of noise, made a lot of people angry from his former school, but also gained a lot of supporters. Myself, Jane and a librarian at the public library are cheering on the side lines and helping where we can. Tomorrow, he meets with the head of the Education Department to discuss the transfer.

Zukisani can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

And now, because of his optimism and his indomitable spirit, I can (again) too.

“Everybody’s got a story that could break your heart.” - Amanda Marshall

I’ve written here before that I’ve become hardened to the poverty and the misery that surrounds me as I walk around town; as I see people on the street and, each day, walk right past them, sometimes cutting them off before they even have the chance to begin with their 10-minute sob story about how unjust life has been to them.

I’ve become hardened to it, perhaps it’s a coping mechanism I’ve developed. But I really don’t believe I’ve lost my compassion for those individuals who are showing a willingness to help themselves. I made this discovery yesterday as I was….walking into the supermarket.

Earlier in the day, I had passed a pitiful woman who, each day, sits on a piece of cardboard outside the main entrance of the Pepper Grove Shopping Complex. Dressed in ratty, worn clothes, she sees me each time I pass, rarely greets me, and just says, in an abrupt, rude tone: “I want bread.” She then brings her change container up and shakes it a couple times.

I say “sorry” aloud, but think in my head, “You want bread, and I want you to get up off that cardboard and try and help yourself, damn it.” I’ve never given her money or bread. I probably won’t ever give her money or bread. Nevertheless, each time I pass her, she always looks at me, and with a gruff, aggressive tone, says “I want bread.”

I hate to think of myself as judgemental, but I judge each and every day I’m here. We all do. Who do we believe? Who’s lying? Who’s going to ask you for money, and, when you bring your wallet out, nab it from you?

Sometimes I try and put myself in this woman’s shoes. It’s impossible though. I didn’t live through apartheid. I’ve never been forced down by my government. I don’t live the life of a poverty-stricken individual. I haven’t—but there are hundreds of others across Grahamstown who have.

Before I saw this woman yesterday, I took a walk down High Street. There’s a 30-something year-old man who sells shoes on the corner near the cathedral. He’s part of the booming “informal” business sector of South Africa and is one person who’s lived through the evils of apartheid. I needed some flip-flops fixed. I asked him if he could help me out. He said “No, bra (brother), but my brother fixes shoes.”

“Okay,” I said with a bit of hesitation, thinking he’d want me to give him these flip-flops so he could take them to his brother, and I’d never see them again. “Where’s your brother?”

“Right here, bra,” he said, pointing behind him.

Just a couple feet away was his brother, busy repairing a pair of shoes, with a couple more on the pavement at his feet waiting to be repaired. I brought my flip-flops to him earlier today. He fixed them for 10 rand. These men also suffered past injustice because of the color of their skin—and today, they set up shop in a new, democratic South Africa and sell and repair shoes for a living.

And they aren’t the only ones.

There are hundreds of domestic workers and gardeners across Grahamstown.

There are four or five women who sit outside the main entrance of Rhodes every day with beaded necklaces, bracelets and pins. I often stop and speak with Notemba and Nowethu. They didn’t always know how to make these creations. They learned, and over time, got better at it.

There are the kids, and adults, in town, who rush over the moment you’ve parked and offer to wash your car for a few loose coins.

There are women who sell fruit on the street much cheaper than you can get it in the store.

There are people who act as human parking meters for the municipality, and charge you for parking on busy streets in Grahamstown.

There are others who sell their crafts behind the cathedral, laying them out on a blanket, for pedestrians to stop by and have a look.

There’s a man who has converted a baby stroller into a moving candy and snack shop who walks up and down High Street each day selling his stuff.

And there are these people whose notices I saw yesterday as I walked into the supermarket; who came to Pepper Grove Shopping Complex, not to sit on cardboard and demand that I hand over bread, but to hang these up.







To all of South Africa’s poverty stricken, I will never know what apartheid was like. I’ll never understand what it’s like to live hand-to-mouth.

To all of South Africa’s still marginalized folks who get up day after day with an entrepreneurial spirit, who clean cars in town, who sell woven baskets at the curb, who craft, who clean, who hang up notices begging for work, who try: you inspire me.

I buy your crafts when I can and use them as gifts for people at home.

On my walk to Eluxolweni, I will sometimes stop outside Tip-Top Butchery and buy a nectarine or a peach from the ladies who sit outside and wait for customers every day.

When I park on High Street, I don’t like it when you approach me and tell me I owe Makana Municipality 50 cents for parking, but I really admire the job you’re doing.

To the women who hung up the notices asking for work, I really, sincerely, hope that you get a job. You're trying. The odds seem impossible--but you're giving it a go.

To the lady who rudely asks me for bread each day, forget it.

"Now you say your trust's gettin' weaker, probably coz my lies just started gettin' deeper." - The Black Eyed Peas

I was walking home a couple days ago and came across former Amasango pupil *Zambuxolo.

I couldn't quite remember his name. I'm stopped a dozen times a day by kids who want money, food, clothes or just somebody to talk to, and I wasn't particularly keen on slowing down for this guy since I really didn't know him that well. My plan was to smile, acknowledge him, shake his hand then keep walking toward home.

I smiled. I acknowledged him. I shook his hand. But he stopped, he wanted to talk.

I asked him how his Christmas and New Year was.

He said "Not fine" and pointed to his neck.

I had seen the cut about 2 inches below his chin. It was the very first thing I noticed when I stopped. It ran like an "X" along the side of his neck, as if he'd been sliced twice.

I wasn't going to say anything about it though unless he brought it up.

"What happened," I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Somebody stabbed me," he said.

"Here," pointing to his neck, "And here," pointing to the area near his heart.

"Who?" I said. "Who stabbed you?"

He put his head down.

"Who?" I repeated. "Anybody I know?"

"No, nobody from Amasango."

"Okay," I said. "Well, I'm sorry. You have a good day it was nice seeing you and - "

He interrupted me, "here's the hospital report."

He thrust a couple pieces of paper into my hands.

I glanced at it. It listed his name, his age-or perhaps approximate age. On the second sheet was a diagram of the human body where somebody had marked where Zambuxolo had been stabbed.

It also had a section for "comments on arrival." There was just one word in that section: "Drunk."

I looked back up at him. I knew he was trying to get my sympathy. He knew I hadn't seen him much since my first visit to Grahamstown.

He's played the begging game long enough to know I'm approached by a dozen people a day and that he'd have to set himself apart from the crowd. He'd really have to be suffering to get bread or money out of me.

He also believed that if he played his cards right, if he played the role of "poor innocent stabbing victim" he might be able to squeeze 5 or 10 rand out of me.

"It says here you were drunk when you got to the hospital," I said.

"No," he shook his head. "No, no no."

"Well," I said, patting him on the back. "The hospital doesn't just write that for the hell of it. I'll tell you what. I think you and your friends were having some fun. You were drunk. They were drunk--and that's when this," I said pointing to his neck, "happened."

I continued, "I'm sorry it happened (it wasn't just a phrase I put out there, I was sorry it happened to him), but don't get drunk."

"I wasn't drunk," he repeated. "I wasn't drunk. I was stabbed."

"You were stabbed...while you were drunk," I retorted. "I'm sorry that this happened to you though. You didn't deserve that."

He was silent for a moment, thinking about his next move--he gave up with the "I wasn't drunk" line, and, then as I predicted,--"I'm very hungry Jason," he began.

"Sorry, buddy," I said, handing him back the papers. "I gotta go. It was nice seeing you and I hope you feel better."

I walked off.

My first visit here I would have felt horrible for this boy. I would have bought him half the supermarket all while thinking, poor him. Poor boy. Just trying to get by and this happens.

I wasn't happy to see the wounds on his neck, but I wasn't distraught over them either.

He got drunk. He likely got into a fight--and this time, ended up drawing the short straw.

He's alive. He'll heal up, and likely get stabbed, or stab, again.

I think I've gotten too comfortable with the misery here. I didn't have much time for him. I don't believe most of their stories. And it's too bad. Some of them could be telling the truth, but so many of them don't.

Perhaps he wasn't drunk and was sleeping in his house caring for some homeless puppy when a crazy, enraged, drunk thug broke in and sliced his neck and chest with a sharp blade. It's possible. It's happened before here.

Or, the more likely story is that he and his friends were drunk, they got into a fight over something stupid and the knives came out. There was probably a heated exchange of words, and then one boy stabbed Zambuxolo, becoming the perpetrator, before Zambuxolo made him the victim . That happens more than you know.

It was a sad story, but not a unique one.

18 months ago, he would have gone home with a hundred rand worth of groceries.

Two days ago, he got my time, but not even a rand out of me.

*name has been changed.

"With no place to go, no place to go, to dry her eyes. Broken inside." - Avril Lavigne

The door bell rang around noon yesterday.

I went over, looked through the eye hole, unlatched the chain and the lock and opened it.

"Hi Thulani," I said. "What's up?"

Thulani is the boy who had been living with us for the past two-and-a-half months or so. He's the boy who had been beaten and was afraid to return to the township for fear that he might be killed.

"Nothing," he said. "Where's Mama?"

"She's not here right now," I replied. Before I could even offer that he come in, he was already in the door, and walking toward the lounge.

He sat down in the red-upholstered chair in the corner of the room and began talking.

"I think I'm going to go back to P.E. (Port Elizabeth)," he said.

"Why," I said, sad, but not all that surprised at what he had just said.

"If Mama can't get me a place to stay, I'm going to go back to Port Elizabeth," he repeated.

It was classic Thulani. He was threatening to do something, hoping that this threat would make us spring to action and be sympathetic to his cause. He didn't need to threaten me. I'm already very sympathetic.

His excuses for wanting to leave ranged from peoples' negative comments toward him when he has an Amasango uniform on, to wanting to see his mother, to having been in grade nine in Port Elizabeth schools only to be pushed back to grade five in Grahamstown.

He gave all these reasons for wanting to leave, but the underlying problelm is that this boy is homeless. He's got nobody to look out for him. He's got no place to stay. He'd been living with friends in the township over the holiday, but family is returning, and the shack he's shared with these people is getting too crowded. He's got to move on.

Though he's threatening to go back to Port Elizabeth, I really don't believe he wants to go. I think he might, if something's not done, return to the place he fled from more than a year ago, but I think he realizes that city doesn't hold the solution to his problems. After all, he wouldn't have run away to Grahamstown if everything was going so well for him in Port Elizabeth.

Thulani had been living with us for nearly three months. When he began staying with us, social services had guaranteed him a spot out of Grahamstown in three days time. Three months down the line, and there's still no light at the end of the tunnel.

I hope Jane does allow Thulani to come back and stay with us. Yes, we fought when he was living in the house. Yes, it was stressful. But Thulani was told by social services he'd be gone in three days, and told by Jane that he'd have a place to stay until social services re-located him out of Grahamstown. Social services hasn't come through, and it isn't Thulani's fault.

Thulani is a guy who really has tried so hard to make it. When he began with us three months ago, he was a hardened street kid. He still is--but he's made enormous strides.

In his first days with us, Thulani had been going into withdrawal from mandrax. His left leg would spasm so violently he'd either fall, or, have to make his way to the couch until the shaking subsided. His whole body would shake for a couple minutes, he'd try and hold his leg down and would moan. The pain looked excrutiating. It would stop, but then it would start back up again in an hour, in three hours, or the next day. He got off the drugs. The withdrawal symptoms weren't pretty, but he did it. He kept up his end of the bargain.

When he first arrived, he'd just go the fridge, and without asking, help himself to whatever was in there. He'd take half a loaf of bread that was to be shared by four people, or drink half a bottle of juice, and when he was confronted about it, he'd stomp out of the kitchen and refuse to speak. After some time of living at 31 Bedford Street, Thulani would ask to have a couple slices of bread--and would accept it if he could only have three slices and not six.

Thulani kept up his end of the bargain. He's stayed in school. He has gotten off the drugs. He's gotten much more polite. He's kept his word. Social services hasn't.

I hope when Jane returns Thulani again has a place to stay.

He's tried. The system has failed him.

"One goal. A second chance." - Gridiron Gang

It was a cold, wet day in Grahamstown for much of yesterday. It was the perfect day to sit inside, relax and watch a movie.

Simphiwe Matina and Samkelo Maqanda came with me to the video store. I figured they could choose a movie and we'd all watch it together at Eluxolweni. They chose "Gridiron Gang," a movie based on a true story about tough, incarcerated inner-city kids and a guy who wants to save them from returning to prison or ending up in a pool of their own blood on city streets.

The solution he comes up with for saving them? For changing their lives? For attempting to solve all the problems and baggage these kids come to prison with? Start a football team.

I began watching this with the kids and began hating it. It starts like any other Hollywood movie or TV show: chaotic scenes of young, mostly black males shooting guns in an American ghetto, getting nabbed by the police, then going to a place where somebody saves them from themselves. This individual is generally a pretty, white, female.

It's been done so many times before: by having them journal about their problems (Freedom Writers, 2007) or getting them involved in a play or after-school activity (Boston Public, 2000) or merely caring (Dangerous Minds,1995), or being tough on them on the basketball court (Coach Carter, 2005). While Coach Carter didn't feature a nice, white lady as the savior of all ghetto kids, it still presented an unrealistically easy answer to an incredibly complex problem.

I used to love these movies. The longer I spend with the kids at Amasango and Eluxolweni, the more I dislike them.

While I don't think any of the events these films depict are bad--I mean--at least these people are trying. I hate the fact that these movies make people believe in boiler plate, overly simplistic solutions: by having kids journal about their problems, or having them get involved in a play you're going to miraculously change all of their lives. It presents incredibly unlikely scenarios. By having some nice, white lady come in and having these "gangstas" write about their lives, they're all going to come into class and say "Yo white lady, you tight. I neva thought 'bout my life like dis till you gave me dis journal and shit. You fo real yo. Thanks miss. Word."

You might help to change the lives of some of these kids. But journaling or playing basketball or football, sadly, won't erase the years of abuse and neglect kids in America, or South Africa, have dealt with.

I thought Gridiron Gang would be exactly the same as these movies I've seen before. I thought Gridiron Gang would have these kids get on the football team and then, by the time the credits roll, they'd all ride off into the sunset together to the latest 50 Cent or Kanye West tune. I was wrong.

Dwayne Johnson ("The Rock") plays the main role. He's the one who sets up the football team. He's the one who tries to tell the kids that they're not destined to live the same lives as their parents, and he's the one who narrates the last five minutes of the movie where the viewer finds out what has happened to some of the kids on the original team.

A couple go off to college, a couple finish high school and find work, a few others don't finish high school, but still manage to get jobs, some resort to gang life and are back in prison, and at least one ends up dead.

It doesn't make for a Hollywood ending. It doesn't feature slow motion, smiling images of the kids accompanied by some smooth, R. Kelly ballad about peace and love and happiness. It tells a story about how it really is. It tells a story about one guy who did his best to help out some lost kids--and who did amazing things with these kids.

It also realistically shows that a football team isn't the sole solution to these kids problem. A touch down doesn't make their problems go away. It can help some kids get involved with something other than drugs and violence, but it cannot--and will not--help them all. Bravo Gridiron Gang, for not caving to the cheesy sentiments that Hollywood so often portrays in movies about inner-city life.

"To him who is in fear everything rustles." - Sophocles

I arrived back in Grahamstown late on December 23rd. I had returned to the "City of Saints" just before Christmas so I could spend the day with the kids from Eluxolweni.

It was drizzling and dark and the bustle and movement of High Street during the day is replaced by a deserted, ominious, wide-open street filled with closed buildings, curbs scattered with trash from the day and the occasional lighted store front.

I grabbed my luggage and began down High Street. The street was utterly silent except for the rolling of the luggage wheels along the slick pavement and the occasional splash when I'd step in a puddle.

When I heard a bit of rustling, I immediately looked up. I'm a bit too nervous sometimes. My mind plays tricks on me; I feel like somebody's about to emerge out of the darkness and take my suitcase at knife point. I trick myself into thinking it will actually happen.

I glanced around and spotted a figure standing in the alleyway. I could see only the shadow of a rather tall, skinny looking guy. He walked out of the alleyway, approached me and, once he was under the street light, said "Hello Jason."

I knew this guy. It was Thanduxolo. He was a former student at Amasango. But I was, perhaps, more terrified once I realized who it was. This boy is a very smooth talker, but he's one of the scariest kids I've encountered during my time here. Many of the kids at Amasango are violent, but I'm not frightened by most of them. This boy scares me, terrifies me--and with good reason.

Last time I was here, he was the one plotting to stab me and take the laptop. He's been accused of stealing from the school. He's been credited with fashioning weapons out of seemingly ordinary objects and beating people with them. In May, a student came to Amasango terrified, bruised and bloody claiming Thanduxolo had looped a belt around a metal cup and beat him because Thanduxolo believed this boy was an informant.

He's asked Thulani, the boy who lives with us, whether he's ever stolen from Joanne, Jane or myself, and told him he's stupid for not having tried. He's asked if Thulani knows the code to the Hi-Tech armed response alarm at Jane's house. He's asked the name of the three dogs at Jane's house, likely, so if he decided to come and steal he could call the dogs by name to quiet them down. He looks innocent, and that, perhaps makes him even more dangerous.

"Hi Louie," (he goes by Louie most often, not his Xhosa name, Thanduxolo.) I said, trying to conceal the fear in my voice. "How are you?"

"I'm fine thanks," he said, gazing down at my bag.

I thought to myself "here we go." I've been lucky and haven't been robbed during my three visits here. I suppose it's my turn to be formally welcomed to the country, undergo my initiation and have my bag stolen.

"What are you doing out here now?" I sputtered.

"I'm a car guard," he said.

I laughed in my head, but certainly didn't let that laugh escape. If anything, this boy would be one who would be breaking into cars, not somebody who should be guarding them.

Thanduoxlo continued, "can I help you carry your bags?"

I didn't want help, especially from him, but I didn't have much choice.

"Sure," I blurted out. "But I'm not giving you any money for doing it. But you are more than welcome to walk with me."

Looking back, I don't know why I said that to him. If he were to bring a knife out of his pocket, he could have the money, the luggage and whatever else he might be interested in taking.

I'm sure many people reading this think "You should fight back Jason and not be such a baby." People who subscribe to that argument either are incredibly brave, almost to the point of being stupid, or have never experienced the depravity some of these people are capable of. The knife, with many of these criminals, isn't just to scare you. It's to stab you--to kill you--if you don't hand over what they want. It's happened thousands of times across the country; innocent people fighting back and dying for their material possesions. I decided long ago if I'm ever asked for anything at knife point, I'll give it to them. They can take my clothes or my iPod. I'll at least walk away unharmed.

"Okay, let's go." Thanduxolo said, taking the handle of my luggage and beginning to roll it down the street.

I asked him what he was doing for the holidays. He told me he wasn't doing much.

I asked when he might come back to Amasango. He told me he likely wasn't coming back.

I kept my eye on where his hands were, and got nervous if they ventured even remotely close to his pockets. They didn't.

We kept walking. We kept talking. And talking. And talking. Thanduxolo was talking quite a bit. He wasn't asking me when Jane might return or about the dogs. He was just telling me about his life. It was what I would describe as a non-threatening conversation. It was bordering on pleasant.

We were nearly at the end of the street and I told him I could take my stuff the rest of the way. I didn't want him anywhere near the house. He smiled. I thanked him, and we went our separate ways.

The entire walk lasted no more than ten minutes, but it was a ten minute walk I won't soon forget. That 10 minutes went from me being terrified of what he might do, to me actually enjoying--albeit cautiously enjoying--his company. He really seemed like he just wanted to talk. He could have robbed me. Nobody was around.

I really believe he just wanted some company. Somebody to listen. Perhaps if he had, as a child growing up, had somebody to talk to, he wouldn't have grown into the monster he's become. He wouldn't have become yet another stereotypical South African street child: male, poor, prone to criminal activity, often violent, drug-addicted. It's almost as if those 10 minutes walking down High Street were 10 minutes he tried to reclaim of his otherwise lost childhood.

He could have taken my bags. He could have threatened me. He could have, slyly, asked how "Mama Jane" was doing and when she was going to return to Grahamstown. He did none of those things.

He just talked--and helped me carry my bags.