"...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.