[ My second home ]

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

2008-03-29T00:15:00.001-07:00

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."

2008-03-14T23:47:00.000-07:00

"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."

2008-03-09T22:44:00.000-07:00

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."

2008-03-06T07:20:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-02-27T06:57:00.001-08:00

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."

2008-02-25T05:24:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-02-23T04:12:00.000-08:00

"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.

2008-02-23T03:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-21T07:04:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-02-20T05:27:00.000-08:00

"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

2008-02-15T05:13:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-02-12T05:20:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-09T00:45:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-02T01:12:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-31T05:04:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-01-28T03:07:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-27T06:43:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-24T04:53:00.001-08:00

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."

2008-01-19T22:40:00.000-08:00

"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

2008-01-19T05:27:00.000-08:00

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."

2008-01-15T06:12:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-11T04:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-09T04:22:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-05T22:02:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-04T23:19:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-03T22:59:00.000-08:00

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.

"When loved ones are near....it's the most wonderful time of the year."

2007-12-07T06:36:00.000-08:00

The school year at Amasango Career School has come to an end. The teachers, the principal, and myself have a month long reprieve from the insanity that seems to consume your life day in and day out when school is in session. Sadly, while most of the adults at school will spend these five weeks traveling around South Africa, visiting family and friends, relaxing on farms nestled amongst gently rolling mountains, eating big holiday meals and recuperating, many of the kids we work with will stay in Grahamstown; nothing much will change for them.

And while life for the staff becomes less stressful—the lives of some of Amasango’s most desperate students become even more desperate. The one place these youngest, most fragile members of Grahamstown society can turn to for a talk, for some food, for protection or for a second chance is gone for all of December and half of January. They need to make it on their own. They need to survive without Amasango.

About twenty-five Amasango pupils are lucky. They live in Eluxolweni. They’re truly on “summer break.” They’ll continue to get fed each day, have a roof over their head and have clean clothing to put on their backs each morning after their shower. They’re free to do what they want during the day, without having the hassle of school looming over them.

The rest of Amasango’s student body will spend the holidays in the township. Some, undoubtedly, will have a fun-filled Christmas season. Others, too many others, though, will spend the “most wonderful time of the year” begging outside supermarkets and restaurants relying on the kindness of strangers. Some will resort to pick-pocketing and breaking into houses. Many are predisposed to this type of criminal activity, but I’m convinced some will do it out of desperation. Some will get caught and go to prison. Some won’t.

I’ll be away from Grahamstown for much of December. I’ll be spending time in nature reserves, on farms and in the homes of friends from Rhodes. I’ll be sure my bedroom door is locked, the alarm is on and my computer is hidden away. I’ll enjoy my holiday break—and I’ll hope that no burglar turns his sights to 31 Bedford Street.

Wishing you a very happy start to the holiday season from the divided world of South Africa.

"I'm gonna soak up the sun, I'm gonna tell everyone to lighten up." - Sheryl Crow

2007-12-05T00:30:00.000-08:00

Pictured: Amasango grade seven pupils on their yearly outing.
Location: Port Alfred, South Africa
Date: December 4, 2007

[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun" - Samkelo Maqanda on highway to Port Alfred, South Africa ]

["It's not having what you want, it's wanting what you've got." - Athenkosi Ntlokwana and friend in Port Alfred, South Africa ]

["You have a fancy ride, but baby, I'm the one who has the key." - Vacation homes in Port Alfred, South Africa ]

["Don't have no master suite, I'm still the king of me." - Bulelani Mnqanqeni in Port Alfred, South Africa ]

["I'm gonna soak up the sun, before it goes out on me." - Siyabulela Dwani, acting Chef for the day in Port Alfred, South Africa ]

[ "I'm gonna soak up the sun...so I can rock on." - From left, Simphiwe Matina, Xolisani Makelani and Bulelani Bete in Port Alfred, South Africa ]

"I'd rather suffer out of knowledge than laugh out of ignorance." - Gary Hassler

2007-12-04T08:03:00.001-08:00

Today, I went with Amasango's grade seven learners to the beach at Port Alfred--about a 45 minute drive from Grahamstown.

The beach was beautiful. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the day was filled with warmth and sun and laughter, and the kids, up until our final minutes at Port Alfred, were perfect.

It was when the day was winding down that two boys got into a verbal altercation. The scuffle escalated into a fight, which escalated even further. When the fight was finished, one of the boys had stabbed another with a sharp double-pronged kitchen utensil, slicing his forehead open and cutting along his left temple.

Since I've been in South Africa, I've been thinking a lot about the the unrelenting violence at Amasango. It's impossible not to think about it. You see it everyday. I've also thought how much of the world is completely set apart from this violence and bloodshed--and the effect this separation has on the mindsets of people.

Take mainstream American movies and video games as two examples. I'm not talking about "Mario Kart" or "Legally Blonde Two." No, I mean the ones that have people getting stabbed, shot, or in some other way, mutilated and tortured. I've never really enjoyed these types of movies or games, but I've come, over time, to hate them.

It's sick that people are entertained watching other peoples' misery. It's undeniable though: suffering sells. Most people who go to these types of movies aren't going because they love the script and the complex interplay between the antagonist and the protagonist. Nor are the majority of people who spend hours at their game consoles playing "Mortal Combat" interested in the graphics. No, they love the violence. The love seeing blood spill out of bodies.

Some people probably enjoy the virtual control one has over others in these video games. Others likely feel macho and manly watching movies where people get stabbed and are left to die.

These people should come to South Africa. I can say, from experience, seeing two people really try and kill one another is not pretty. It's one of the worst scenes anyone can really imagine. Having witnessed a number of nasty fights during my three visits here, it's torturous to watch attempted murders. I don't know why people enjoy watching it so much on TV.

Of course, most of America--most of the world--is incredibly set apart from it--but it's still sick. While the majority of people who live in America and across the globe don't have to deal with the violence, they surely know about it. Hollywood has provided an invaluable education in showcasing human misery, and the depth of human depravity. The only difference is, at Amasango, once the fight is over, the credits don't roll. You don't just shut off the TV and go get a pizza. You don't "move on to the next level" simply by pushing enter on your game console remote. You've got to deal with two people who, at this moment in time, want the other person dead.

Live in an environment like Amasango--then go watch blood being spilled on screen and see just how wonderful it is.

“Growing up is never easy...you wonder what's to come." - The Wonder Years

2007-12-03T05:17:00.000-08:00

Farewell grade seven learners....

Location: Gino's Italian restaurant, Grahamstown, South Africa
Date: December 2, 2007

“As we go on, we remember, all the times we spent together. And as our lives change, come whatever, we will still be, friends forever.” – Vitamin C

2007-12-01T23:18:00.000-08:00

The school year is finished. Having spent most of my time with the older pupils at the school, I am preparing to say good bye—and good luck—to more than a dozen kids from grade seven who will be attending high schools in the township when school resumes on January 15.

To mark their success, I am taking every student that’s passed grade seven out to dinner at Gino’s, a nice Italian restaurant in the predominately white part of Grahamstown. Earlier this week, I got a list from one of the grade seven teachers with the names of the kids who passed. I needed to know so when, inevitably, a kid shows up who hasn’t passed, he or she can be shown the door. This dinner is to celebrate the success of those who took school seriously and worked hard—and I’m going to be sure nobody is at the table tonight who does not deserve to be there.

I received the list on Wednesday, but the kids are kept in the dark about their success until Thursday night: that’s when Amasango hosts a yearly prize giving ceremony and formally announces those who’ve passed and gives out small gifts to each of its students.

The teacher pulled me into the side office next to Jane’s and began writing the names of the kids who would be leaving. I couldn’t help but look at her master list, a large, checkered piece of paper with the students’ names, test scores, whether they passed or failed, and a section for notes.

Nearly ten had the word “absconded” written in the notes section. Those are the drop outs.

Another one or two students had “did not write exams” next to their names. This means they’d come to school regularly, but for one reason or another, didn’t pitch up for exams. That means that even though they’ve attended school, they’ll be stuck in grade seven for another year.

Two students had “in prison” in their notes section.

The rest had either a pass or fail. I read down the list of names. Masixole Sam—pass. Siyabulela Dwani—pass. Xolisani Makelani—pass.

Masixole came with me in July to the Port Elizabeth airport to say goodbye and then found his own way back to Grahamstown.

Siyabulela Dwani, “Aromat” as everyone here knows him, walks me home whenever I have anything valuable on me. He’s good with his fists—and with a knife, I feel very safe with him as long as he’s on my side.

Xolisani Makelani is all talk. Last year, he stole an avocado and when I called him out on it, he got angry, picking up a brick and threatening to hit me with hit while calling me a “white devil.” Some of the kids scare me when they talk like that. I know with Mr. Makelani, he’s all bark and no bite. And that’s why I like him so much.

The teacher kept writing. I kept scanning the list with my mind wandering to all the times I’ve spent with these kids over the past year-and-a-half.

Nomathamsanqa Gqoza—pass. Simphiwe Matina—pass. Phakamani Fanga—pass.

Nomathamsanqa goes by the name Caroline. Most of the times, the kids pick something close to their real name. Seeing as Nomathamsanqa bears no resemblance to Caroline, I think she simply likes the name. Most of the kids I’ve gotten to know really well have been guys. I spend most of my time at the boy’s shelter, and most of the students at school are male. Caroline has to be one of my favorites though. She doesn’t let the boys push her around, and she’s not fearful or nasty toward men like some of the other girls. She’s spontaneous. She’s always smiling. And I hope she goes very far in life.

Simphiwe Matina I’ve never been all that close with. In fact, most days he treats me like dirt. Many of the kids are opportunists, being overly nice to people so they can a hand in your pocket and grab your wallet. Simphiwe has no qualms letting me know he’s got issues with me. I respect that. I also believe that if I were ever really in trouble, Simphiwe would be one of the first to step up and help.

Phakamani is smart—and loves to cause trouble, but not nasty, knife-wielding trouble, just some good-humored hassles. When I tell the kids I’m going home, Phakamani is the first to smile and say “Go get your sons to walk with you.” I shouldn’t have favorites, but I do. Phakamani knows who they are and loves to rub my face in it, referring to those I really like as my “sons.” I don’t think he realizes that he falls into that category as well. When, I go to the video store, I’ll take Phakamani, and a couple others, with me to select a movie. The store has a small selection of “adult titles” on a high shelf that he’s managed to find and each week, he brings one of the DVDs over and says, with an enormous grin “I want this one.”

I stopped in my tracks when the teacher wrote the next name: Samkelo Maqanda. This kid is an inspiration. I do like them all, but very few inspire me the way Samkelo has. He comes from a desperate, bleak background, but is one of the most hopeful, kind, incredible people I’ve ever met in my life. Ever. He’s only been in grade seven for two terms, and typically, kids stay at least a year before moving on. I looked again to make sure the teacher hadn’t made a mistake. No, he passed. I rushed outside. I never expected to see his name on the list. I was not allowed to tell anybody whether they passed or failed, but I went up to Samkelo and said “Listen, I am taking anybody who passes grade seven out to eat on Sunday. If you pass, please tell Mama Rose (the house mother at Eluxolweni where he lives), that you’re allowed to leave Sunday to go to dinner with me.”

He looked at me “I didn’t pass Jason. I know I didn’t.”

I looked back. “Well, if you did, and you’d like to come, you can come. Please tell Mama Rose.”

“Okay,” he said again. “But I know I didn’t pass. You can take Masixole and Phakamani and them, but I didn’t pass.”

I wanted to shake him and tell him the good news, but I just smiled and turned away. If I hadn’t, I might have told him right then.

I feel like an apprehensive parent. My babies are going off to high school. I’m excited, and I’m sad, and I’m proud. Over the past year-and-a-half these kids and I have really shared in the good times—and the not so good times. I know the majority of you have no clue who these kids are, but a couple of you (some former volunteers) do, and I want to list their names.

So, though there will be no graduation ceremony, be it known that the Amasango Career School in Grahamstown, South Africa is proud to announce its class of 2007. Each student is a living example of how seemingly impossible, desperate circumstances can be beaten. Congratulations and best wishes to…

Bulelani Bete, Siyabulela “Aromat” Dwani, Phakamani Fanga, Ntombizanele Gqola, Nomathamsanqa Gqoza, Xolisani “Matthew Dawson” Makelani, Samkelo Maqanda, Ntombekhaya Marwana, Simphiwe Matina, Thandolwethu Ndemka, Vuyelwa Ntile, Athenkosi Ntlokwana, Masixole Sam and Melikhaya Tambo.

"Time is the wisest counsellor of all." - Pericles

2007-11-30T22:24:00.000-08:00

Friends of mine who have blogs occasionally look back and compare how different life is now with how life was 365 days ago.

Last year at this time, I’d been working as an associate producer at News 10NBC a little more than a month. I was still months away from boarding the flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg for trip number two. I hadn’t even comprehended that there would be a trip number three.

I hadn’t yet gotten my full Amasango education—though, I’m convinced that education never stops. As long as you continue to make your way through the gates of the school, there will be a lesson tucked somewhere in the ebb and flow of the day.

I hadn’t yet experienced the boundless spirit and hope these kids have, or the depth of depravity of others. I hadn’t seen yet seen how strong *Samsicelo, and others like him, are. Samsicelo is one student at Amasango who I’ve never once seen get into a fight or clench his fist in aggression. I’ve never seen him swear. I’ve never seen him drunk. I’ve never seen him high. Nor have I heard any other student talk about Samsicelo fighting or swearing with others. At Amasango, that is a noteworthy accomplishment. Last June, Samsicelo’s mother stabbed her own sister to death in a drunken rage. Somehow, he mustered up the strength to attend the SNAP Foundation photo exhibit at Rhodes, 24 hours after his aunt was killed in cold blood and his mother thrown in jail.

I told him earlier in the day that I’d understand completely if he wanted to bow out. He said “no,” and assured me he’d be there. Samsicelo arrived at Eden Grove on the Rhodes campus, with his head held high. He walked around looking at the photos, mingled with guests, and partway through the opening ceremony; the events of the past day must have caught up to him because he began crying uncontrollably. He cried, he fell apart—but he came. He tried. When I see him walk around school today, I remember and have an incredible amount of respect for him for what he did that day last June when he decided to try and not to let his mother’s hopelessness get in his way.

Last year, I still hadn’t witnessed a boy slice another’s back open with a knife over some ice cream and crude remarks.

Last year, I hadn’t witnessed any of this—but it was still a part of my life. I was still writing about it. It would begin something like this: “A Rochester woman is recovering at Strong tonight—she’s lucky to be alive—after being stabbed five times by her boyfriend.”

That job at News 10NBC taught me so much. It taught me how to write—and to write under pressure and for a specific audience. The people I worked for and alongside of, also passed along lessons that have proven to be invaluable.

Despite the fact that I knew my writing would be edited by at least a producer and an executive producer before making it to air, the stories at News 10NBC were so much easier to type out than the stories you often read on this blog. I was so set apart from the misery and the violence from my chair and computer on 191 East Avenue. My facts came to me, neatly typed out, on press releases or from talking to city police on the phone. The raw footage I’d look at, shot by station photographers, would show a lot of crime scene tape, officers scurrying about, numbers on the ground next to crime scene tape, occasionally, we’d even see some grieving family members. It wasn’t pleasant to look at, but I didn’t know the people I was writing about. It made it so much easier. I could write about “The Rochester lawyer who hired a hit man to kill his wife,” in between bites of my lunch. I didn’t know the lawyer’s kids whose lives had been turned upside down as a result of his actions. Or the dozens of other lives he shattered when he wrote the check to the hit man to carry out his wishes.

In Grahamstown, I do. I’m living amongst the people I was writing about at News 10NBC. I spend much of my day around the victims—and perpetrators—of these types of crimes. It’s so much messier now than it was 12 months ago.

The lessons I took with me from the halls of News 10NBC and Amasango have converged. I’ve learned that I need the distance News 10NBC provided. It’s much less painful to pull a sheet from the fax machine and recount the events of a homicide than to see a boy like Samsicelo, still alive, but just as much a victim of his mother’s behavior. Or to watch two people really try and kill one another over something incredibly unimportant.

I can do my part while I’m here, and I will continue to do my part in small ways when I get home. But I need my distance. I need that press release. I don’t want to know the people involved in these heinous crimes. Ignorance, to the shattered lives of crime victims, is bliss.

*name has been changed

“I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut, my weakness is that I care too much.” - Papa Roach

2007-11-26T05:31:00.000-08:00

I spoke with Jane this weekend about my plans for next year.

I was very nervous to approach her about my plans to go to Kingswood College and Nathaniel Nyaluza High School one day per week—and cut back my time at Amasango to just three days. I don’t know why I was so nervous. I need to do this for me, and while I was hoping she’d be okay with my plans (which she was), I was going to proceed even if she wasn’t. Perhaps my hesitation was not only my nerves, but also a sense that I was giving up; a sense that she can take it and has weathered the storm for more than a decade, why can’t I?

I don’t really have the answer to that question. I just know that I’ve learned during these past three trips that I can take a lot. In fact, I’d venture that I can handle this environment better than most people. I’ve also learned that I can’t take it incessantly.

The misery, the despair, the crude remarks about my nonexistent sister, the poverty, the violence day after day has proven to be unmanageable. I love the kids—most of them anyways. I take their problems to heart and it’s worn me out. I keep telling myself that I’m not quitting—that I’m looking away, taking time for myself.

I need to get out, even if it’s only two days a week. I am starting to dislike the person I’m becoming. I snap at the kids over everything. I’m growing increasingly unsympathetic to their stories because so often, those stories are made up to get something they want. I don’t particularly look forward to going in. The joy that I’ve found in this work for so long is disappearing by the day. I’ve become, for lack of a better word, a hard ass. I come in late some days and watch the clock tick down until it’s time to leave. I don’t hate Amasango, but I fear if I don’t get away for a bit, I will begin to despise the place that has drawn me back to South Africa time and time again.

I really think this is the best option for me, for the school and for the kids. Right now, I’m not giving it my all and that bothers me. But I’m tired and I’m worn out and the light at the end of the tunnel seems to, at times, get dimmer and dimmer. The problems these kids face seem to become increasingly insurmountable. The situation they find themselves in looks more and more desperate. The school hasn’t changed, I have.

I can’t take coming in Monday morning and, before assembly hear about a student witnessing his mother being raped, or learning about a boy who was stabbed over the weekend in the township, or about the young HIV-positive girl who was hospitalized. Three days a week will be very manageable, especially if Amasango’s insanity is sandwiched between a smidge of normalcy and hope—something Nyaluza and Kingswood can hopefully offer.

Having Thulani live with us at Jane’s house has been great and confusing and has taught me about myself and with living with a pretty tough guy. It’s also complicated matters further. I’m grateful that Thulani, who’s led a pretty depressing existence so far, is being provided with a safe haven as well as food and clothing. I’m thankful he will be taken care of until he’s sent to a children’s home outside of Grahamstown. But having him around constantly has made any fight that I have left in me disappear. I never leave school or the problems of school behind. The madness begins the moment I step through the gates of Amasango as dozens of kids call my name, some grab me and pinch me to get my attention, others reach into my pockets to see if there’s anything good hidden away. It continues as I walk home, past current and former Amasango pupils begging in town for change or food. Then, I’m treated to an encore presentation once I’ve arrived at my destination. No, home isn’t always Hell—but sometimes it’s close. Everybody needs a sanctuary from the storm and for the past four weeks, my only sanctuary—my home—has been shared by a great, albeit hardened former street child. The storm may die down once I leave Amasango, but its remnants are still brewing, though in a weaker form, once I walk through the door of 31 Bedford Street.

I need an escape. I am meeting with Mr. Mushwana, the principal of Nathaniel Nyaluza, the township high school, tomorrow about working there in January.

A representative at Kingswood College e-mailed me expressing an interest in my ideas.

I love Amasango. I love the kids—but I need to get away from the storm.

"Sometimes we put up walls. Not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to knock them down."

2007-11-22T06:32:00.000-08:00

I ran into a seventh grade student at Amasango last weekend. Simphiwe, a short boy with a light complexion, and some pretty serious anger management issues has never been all that close to me. We usually get along, but that's about the extent of our relationship.

I was walking with a couple shelter guys down High Street with my comforter, a couple pillows and a backpack making my way to Eluxolweni.

Simphiwe came up to me, which in in itself was odd. Ordinarily, when he sees me he walks the other way until I call him. Even then, sometimes he ignores me and slips down a side street out of view. Last weekend was different though. He came right up to me, stopped in front of me and said, "Jason, remember I told you last week my mom was sick?"

I did remember. He walked with me to Amasango last week, but never made it inside the school's gates. He walked me right up to the fencing surrounding Amasango, adjusted his worn out hat so it tilted off the side of his head and walked away.

He explained along the way that he couldn't come to school because he was washing cars in town--to make money to help out with his mother who was suffering from TB in a local hospital. Simphiwe also has a younger brother he tries his best to care for--and a non-existent father.

Back on High Street, the shelter guys were walking ahead and Simphiwe edged closer, "She died."

I didn't know what to do. I looked at him and told him how sorry I was, as if it would make a difference, and told him to come to school to talk with Mama Jane on Monday. He agreed and we left.

He hasn't been at school all week. I haven't seen him all week: not washing cars in town, not begging outside High Street's many restaurants, no where. He's got no mother, no father and a little brother to care for.

It's Thanksgiving today in the United States.

I think we've all got a lot to be thankful for.

"Nobody can do everything - but everybody can do something."

2007-11-18T05:34:00.000-08:00

Recently, I was looking through my journal from my first trip to South Africa.

18 months ago, I was an exchange student at Rhodes and I visited Amasango only a couple days a week. 18 months ago I'd spend only an hour or two several days a week with the kids. 18 months ago, I was very new to how everything works in Grahamstown, South Africa.

I was reading through an entry during my first couple of weeks in this country. I wrote about how upsetting it was to see kids begging outside supermarkets, restaurants and gas stations. I have changed a lot since then. I don't know if being at Amasango constantly has made me callous or made me realize I can't do everything.

Every day, I see kids that I work with begging outside supermarkets after school has finished. I'll stop and talk for a bit, but I don't feel the pressure I used to feel to go into the store and buy bread and milk. I give when I can--but I don't feel guilty anymore when I can't. Most days, the kids and I talk for a couple minutes before I carry on walking home to a roof over my head and a full fridge while they carry on begging.

18 months ago, it tore me up not being able to give to every kid I saw. 18 months ago, I'd frequently take long detours to avoid areas where I'd commonly see beggars. I'd try and shield myself from the outstretched hands, the sad faces, the pitiful pleas for food and money.

Now, I walk right down High Street with shopping bags in one hand and a burger in the other--right past all the people begging for food.

I used to feel dirty doing walking down bustling High Street past all the hungry people. I don't anymore, and I don't understand why. It certainly isn't pleasant to see desperate people--but it's not as awful as it was a year-and-a-half ago.

I've almost become complacent to the fact that on the way to school or on my way home, I could pass a dozen people who want the leftover bits of the hamburger I'm eating, or the bread I'm carrying in my bag.

Perhaps I've gotten used to this desperation. Perhaps I've become hardened. Perhaps it's a coping mechanism I've developed over these past three trips.

For better or worse though, a walk down High Street is very different from 18 months ago.

"It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both." - Machiavelli

2007-11-15T22:34:00.000-08:00

We learned about Machiavelli in 10th grade global studies. We talked about "The Prince," about its author and about his philosophies. I've never been sure whether I agree entirely with the fear/love concept put forth by the Italian diplomat. The more time I spend working with South African street children though, the more I think old Niccolo might have been onto something.

I was leaving Amasango yesterday around 1 with another American volunteer. We were going to lunch at Reddits, a small quaint coffee shop, on the other side of town. As the front entrance of Amasango was unlocked and swung open, Mango, a sixth grade student at the school, snuck out with us.

He looked at Matt and I and said "You're going to buy me lunch, a burger and chips."

Matt and I both looked at each other, a bit bewildered at Mango's assertion, and asked him to go back into school.

Mango refused. "I'm not going to get lunch today," he said. "You are going to buy me a burger and chips."

What he was telling us could have been true-but he was the reason he wasn't getting lunch. On Wednesday, Mango was wearing a hat in school; a violation of school rules. When Jane asked him to remove it, he refused. As she was walking by him, she took it off his head. Not happy with this arrangement, Mango began to get physical with Jane. A couple teachers and guards intervened.

"You're not allowed to have hats in school," Jane repeated to Mango.

Mango said something in Xhosa, glared at her, grabbed a piece of bread sitting nearby on a table, and attempted to bring it to his mouth. One of the adults ripped it out of his hands and Jane, again, looking him in the eye said "If you are not going to follow the rules of the school, then you don't get bread. If you are not going to follow the rules of the school, go home."

Mango was escorted off the grounds and stood just outside the fence, complaining and whining for about 30 minutes before he gave up and left.

Now here we were, a day later. Jane was dealing with another crisis and wasn't at school. The security guard who's particulary good at getting the kids to listen wasn't at Amasango, and Mango was refusing to go back to school.

I said to him, "Mango, you're going to get in trouble if you don't go back to school. Matt and I are leaving and we're not buying you anything."

Matt echoed my sentiments.

We kept walking. Mango kept following.

"You're going to buy me lunch," he taunted.

"Look," I said. "Mango, you're high. I've told you before and I'll tell you again, you're a smart guy who does stupid things. Right now, you're doing a stupid thing. Go back to school. We're not buying you lunch."

"Yes you are," Mango said.

"Mango, Matt and I are going to Reddits. We're not buying you lunch. You need to apologize to Mama Jane, then maybe you can eat at school. If you follow us, all you're going to do is cause a huge scene at Reddits and then get dragged away by Hi-Tech."

Mango looked up at me. "I'm not scared of Hi-Tech. Call Hi-Tech. Go and call Hi-Tech. I'm not scared of them."

As our exchange continued, we were nearing the South African Labor Department. The building always has a couple guards stationed outside. Matt said "There's Hi-Tech. We can just go tell them now."

"Go tell them," Mango dared.

Neither of us had the heart, or the guts to do it at that point, so we kept walking.

"Mango, I have Mama Jane's phone number, I'll call her and tell her what you're doing," I threatened.

"I'm not afraid of Mama Jane," he replied with a smirk.

I was really getting angry at this point. A high little 15-year-old was telling Matt and I how things were going to be handled.

"Mango, you're starting to really piss me off," I said. "Go back to school."

He didn't listen. We kept walking.

We were just outside a bakery when I spotted a South African Police Service car with three officers inside.

"Mango," I said, glancing over at the car. "I really don't want to do this. Please go back to school. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'm not afraid of the police," Mango said. "I'm not afraid of the f---in' police. Go tell the f---in' police. You are going to buy me a burger and chips. I'm not afraid of the police."

"Mango," I said once more. "Please go back to school."

"I'm not afraid of the f---in' police," he said again.

I stopped in my tracks, went over to the police car and knocked on the window.

"Hello," I began, then pointed at Mango. "Can you please take this boy back to Amasango? He goes to school there. He hasn't robbed us. He is just refusing to leave us alone. We know who he is. He hasn't stolen anything. But he needs to stop following us."

The officer in the driver's seat responded. "Which boy?"

Mango was about 20 feet away from us with his back pressed against the wall. "That one," I said, pointing to him. "Please take him. He won't leave us alone. He must return to Amasango."

"Okay, sir," the officer replied.

The South African Police Service got out of their car, pointed at Mango and asked him to walk over to them. He did. He didn't fight. He didn't resist.

Although he told Matt and I moments before that he wasn't scared of the "f---in' police," when they called him over, he looked fearful, and defeated.

"Good," I thought to myself. "You deserve it."

He didn't think I'd do it. I'm not sure last time I was in South Africa I would have had the guts to do it--but Amasango has taught me that empty threats are just that: empty, meaningless statements that will get you nowhere. I've learned that unless you follow through on what you say at Amasango, you won't be respected.

I love Mango--but he pushed the boundaries too far. Matt and I talked to him for nearly 20 minutes begging him to go back. He refused each time, getting some sort of odd pleasure out of the fact that he was seemingly winning this battle.

Now, the boy who wanted a burger and chips was in police custody headed back to Amasango.

Matt and I walked to Reddits.

The South African Police Service escorted him back to school.

I wish it hadn't come to that--but he gave me no choice.

I think Machiavelli is right. At least with some people, it's better to be feared than loved.

"Welcome to my life." - Simple Plan

2007-11-13T23:40:00.000-08:00

A small slice of the past few weeks - South African style

"Why did the elephant and the tortoise cross the road?"
[Addo Elephant Park, South Africa]

"Stripes"
[Addo Elephant Park, South Africa]

"A walk to Bedford Street"
[Grahamstown, South Africa]

"Catching up"
[Grahamstown, South Africa]

"Calm from the storm"
[Adelaide, South Africa]

"Heaven on Earth"
[Adelaide, South Africa]

"Give a person no options and you leave him no choice."

2007-11-12T23:19:00.000-08:00

There are two articles this week in Grocott's Mail about Amasango.

One of articles is on page two and reads "A Joza teenager has been arrested and charged with attempted murder following the hacking of a 52-year-old man with a garden spade on Tuesday. Milanda Coetzer said the boy was arrested after a fight in Extension 9 on Tuesday...she said that Sergeant Lwazi Prence and his colleague arrested the 15-year-old boy and seized the spade."

This article didn't list the boy's name as he's underage. But I know who he is-as does everyone who works at Amasango.

The other Amasango article appears on page three. It's titled "Amasango pupil beats the odds." It goes on to talk about *Samdilikize, a 15-year-old Amasango student, who "won a national mathematics competition....the 15-year-old boy's project, in which he used matchsticks to depict geometric shapes won hands down in terms of creativity and originality."

Samdilikize is a shining star. He's come from a background that hasn't been picture perfect. He's competed in a contest with children across the nation, and he's emerged triumphant. He can also do a mean impersenation of former South African President Nelson Mandela.

The only problem is the article on page two and on page three are about the same 15-year-old: Samdilikize.

He didn't come to school several days last week. This national competition winning grade five student was sitting in a prison cell with a charge of attempted murder looming over his head.
I've often said that people see only what's on the surface with these kids. They don't see the dozens of stories beyond what's visible.

I'm sure many people read the paper this week and were filled with happiness for the grade five Amasango boy who's proven that poverty doesn't mean that one is hopeless. I'm also certain that these same people who read the story on attempted murder thought that awful, fifteen-year old boy should be locked away--never knowing that 15-year-old boy accused of attempted murder was the same boy who was winning national math competitions. Never knowing that the 15-year-old boy accused of hacking this 52-year-old man with a garden spade had witnessed this same man come and attack his mother the day before with the spade and then turn his aggression on him. The readers never knew this little competition-winning-delinquent was defending his family, himself and his home from an insane man.

The readers never knew; only one article listed his name.

Though Grahamstown residents didn't know, the courts did. The attempted murder charge was withdrawn and Samdilikze was freed after the discovery was made that he was acting in self-defense.

Now, Samdilikze is just a 15-year-old boy who was doing what anyone would do in the same situation.

Oh, and the winner of a National Mathematics Competition.

(* names have been changed)

"You can only be free if I am free." - Clarence Darrow

2007-11-11T23:05:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting in a beautiful old farm house in Adelaide, South Africa. Surrounded by rolling mountains as far as the eye can see, expansive gardens filled with flowers of every color and variety, ponds—Whyte Bank Farm is the essence of tranquility, and security. Joanne, a 27-year-old who lives with me at Jane’s house grew up here and a couple of us have come back for the weekend.

I have been thinking a lot about my need to get away from Amasango and Grahamstown over these past couple days. I’ve been thinking a lot about why this past week has been so draining. I think I’ve come up with a few answers: answers I wouldn’t have come up with if I stayed in Grahamstown. I think a bit of distance gives us all a bit of perspective, and coming to Adelaide was just what the doctor ordered.

Jane once told me that one of the hardest parts of her job was realizing you cannot make other peoples’ decisions for them. I think it’s been one of the hardest parts of Amasango for me as well. Seeing the paths so many of these kids are headed down breaks your heart. Getting sworn at by people you’re trying to help gets old after a while, even though I can imagine where some of this misdirected anger and hostility comes from. Being told by some of the boys that they want to “make hot sex” with my sister, despite the fact that I don’t have a sister, is grating on Friday after I’ve heard it over and over since Monday. I love Amasango. I love the kids. I don’t accept how they talk, and when possible, I try and correct them, but of all the wars these kids and I sometimes fight (together or against one another), I think the use of the f-bomb is one battle I’m willing to lose.

It’s not just the kids though—it’s the country and the insecurity that exists within its borders.

I think I live in a state of fear in Grahamstown—not a type of fear where I need to hide under my bed, lock all the doors and have a nine-millimeter in my hand, but I realize now that I’m here at Whyte Bank—away from people amongst nature, how safe I feel here and how unsafe I sometimes feel in Grahamstown.

In the United States and at Whyte Bank Farm, I have no qualms leaving my computer out on my desk. In Grahamstown, I pack it up after each and every use. Not only do I put it in its case, but I also think to myself, “even if somebody does break into the house, where are they least likely to look for this?” I figure the cupboard is closest to the door, so that’s most likely to be broken into first. There’s a chair at the opposite side of the room, but the chair is close to the window. But, the window is up so high, potential robbers would have to use a ladder to get in. I put it behind a chair, drawn back the curtains and put the curtains over the laptop case.

If it’s dark when I walk home, I walk in the middle of the street so I can see everything around me. I look over my shoulder at the sound of a leaf rustling, at a car backfiring, and I unconsciously (until now anyways) look to see where the closest house is without a gate or where a Hi-Tech guard is stationed at St. Andrew’s College, so if I do get into trouble, I know where to turn.

When I drive Jane’s car, I roll up the windows, ensure anything of any value is completely out of site, put the gear lock around the shifter so even if somebody does break in, they can only steal the contents of the car, and not the car itself. Before leaving, I push the button on Jane’s key fob, waiting to hear the car beep once, indicating it’s armed.

Before leaving for school, I, like a machine, make sure the door leading to the patio is locked and the burglar gate in front of it has been closed and locked, I go around to make sure the interlocking doors are latched that lead into the kitchen. I close most doors, but open others that separate rooms. After all, I need to make sure the eyes of the security system can beam into as many rooms as possible. Just before leaving, I walk over to the front door, stand completely still so the eye doesn’t detect me before punching in the code, waiting for the “armed” light to illuminate. I walk out, close the door behind me and make sure it’s locked.

I don’t like walking by large semi-trucks at night. There are too many places for people to hide. Nor do I particularly enjoy walking by large bushes. The slightest rustling in the bushes makes me wonder who’s in them—even though it’s never been anything other than a mouse or the wind.

I don’t think South Africans have the same reaction to these security measures as foreigners. That’s not to say that they don’t acknowledge the problem, but they’ve been accustomed to living in an overly watchful state.

South Africans just know it’s not wise to wear a book bag on your back when walking down the street as somebody might just sneak into it.

They just know it’s foolish to not have an alarm on your house and burglar bars on your windows.

I know all this too— but I haven’t realized how much I’ve been going through the motions without realizing how the motions have affected me. Since everybody around me is doing the same, I don’t really connect what a fearful society I live in when in Grahamstown—until I’m away from it. I don’t live in a perpetual, grinding, numbing state of fear, but I am fearful; much more so than I am at home, even in the “ghetto areas” of American cities, much more so than I am at Whyte Bank Farm. When I hear something rustling in the trees at Whyte Bank, I look to see the bird getting ready to fly away. When I’m in Grahamstown, I get a knot in my stomach and wonder if somebody’s about to have a knife at my throat.

I don’t live perpetually in fear. The people who are residents of Grahamstown don’t live perpetually in fear either—but none of us live freely.

We go about our days. We go to town. We eat out. We walk around.

But we arm our cars, putting gear locks on them if we’re to be away for a second.

We live our lives and retire at night behind burglar bars, high walls, interlocking doors, gates and security systems with panic buttons.

How nice it’s been to be at Whyte Bank and leave the computer out, leave the doors unlocked, and enjoy the rustling of the leaves.

"I tried so hard, can't seem to get away from misery. Man I tried so hard, but always be a victim of these streets." - Bone Thugs N Harmony & Akon

2007-11-07T05:41:00.001-08:00

I met Simphwio, a seventh-grade Amasango student on High Street this morning as I walked to school. He looked dirty. He looked as though he hadn't cleaned himself in a couple days. He looked sad and a bit agitated. Usually when he's in a mood, he wants nothing to do with me, but today, he walked along with me down the street. I asked him why he hadn't been to school in a couple days. He told me he needed money because his mother was in the hospital with TB. He's been washing cars in town, selling cigarettes and begging to try and come up with the cash.

I asked about another boy I haven't seen in some time: Thembanakazi, who, when he sees me, often smiles, grabs my hand and says in his South African accent, "DOLL-AHHH! You are very rich Jay-SEN! You have many DOLL-AHHHHS." He makes sure I acknowledge him, then laughs and walks away. Thembanakazi is in jail. He skipped a court date for a robbery and he's now in prison. His bail is set at 300 rand. Nobody seems to be able to come up with the cash to pay it, so Thembanakazi will sit in prison for a while.

Today when I got in, there was an unusually tense meeting in Jane's office. I dropped my bag in the storage area-the only really secure place in all of Amasango, and left as the argument got heated. The one boy in the closed door session, who's pretty big and pretty tough, stood up and tried to walk out of her office. When the security guard stopped him, he started wailing. He sounded more than angry though. It wasn't just an "I'm leaving because I'm pissed off" scream. He sounded incredibly upset, in pain and vulnerable. I know for certain this boy's mother had been dying of AIDS last time I was here. I don't know if she's dead yet. I don't even know if that's what the meeting was about. I only know I heard his wailing as I made my way out of the passage to grade six.

On the way to the art room, a sixth-grader put his arm around me and asked to talk. He wanted to talk about his friend, fifth-grade student, Samdilkze. Samdilkze wasn't in school today. He rarely misses school and behaves most of the time, projecting a carefree demeanor around the kids and I. Samdilkze can do very good impersonations of former South African President Nelson Mandela. Usually when I see him, it's just as I walk through the gates of Amasango, past his classroom. I wave as I walk by the door.

He often will leave class to greet me. I shake his hand and say "Hello Mr. Mandela." He smiles back and says "Hello Jason, Welcome to Amasango. How are you today" in his best Mandela voice. Samdilkze's classmate sounded worried when told me that Samdilkze, his classmate and our friend, fought back against an abusive step-father last night or the night before and now is in police custody.

I don't know why I've managed to take it this long, but I think-and fear-Amasango is starting to catch up with me. I can't take the misery anymore. I can't take hearing about the boy who's washing cars to help his mother who has TB. I hate hearing about student after student whose mother has died of AIDS and whose father has served as little more than a sperm donor. I feel for Jan, the girl who doesn't know what to do with her baby; only that she wants it to have a "better life than I had." I wish I could bring back the boy's mother who was murdered at the hands of her boyfriend. I wish two brothers at school never had to get the news that their alcoholic mother got into a drunken rage and stabbed their aunt to death in the township.

I e-mailed a friend this afternoon who used to work at Rhodes Community and Social Development Office to see if she knew anybody in other schools where I might go and work a couple days a week. Part of me wants to see how other parts of South Africa operate. Part of me wants some degree of normalcy and predictability. Part of me cannot take the hatred, the violence, the misery that exists at Amasango--even though all these things are sandwiched between triumphs.

These kids are survivors. They are resilient. Seeing their problems, seeing what life has handed them and seeing how they push ahead is one of the most inspiring experiences I've ever had. It's also one of the most draining.

I think, no, I know, life has toughened them much more than it's toughened me. They can take it--though, they don't have much of a choice but to take it. I've come to realize that I can't.

I can't take the misery and the pain five days a week at the school and then get a double dose on the weekend at the shelter.

I hate people who ignore problems, but I'm convinced that everybody has a threshold for other peoples' pain. I think I'm close to reaching that threshold. I will still go to Amasango. I'll go three days a week.

I don't want to ignore the problem, but I do think I need to look away. The kids can't look away from their problems. I wish they could, but they can't. I can. Even if it's just twice a week. I will know the misery that exists just down the road, but I won't see it.

I think I need to look away.

Not forever. But for a while.

"The white man's happiness cannot be purchased by the black man's misery." - Frederick Douglass

2007-11-04T22:36:00.000-08:00

Thom has been staying with us for nearly a week. Over the course of these past seven days, his tough, street-smart demeanor has melted away to reveal a kid who's really, just beneath the surface, a nice, caring, sensitive, guy.

He's helped cook dinner.

He's helped me clean my room.

He goes outside and often plays with the dogs.

We've all watched movies together.

He's still got his problems, but his most basic needs are now being taken care of.

There's just one other, new, problem Thom now faces: though he's living in a safe, secure space just outside Jane's home, he's a black guy in a white part of town.

Thom likes to go running in the mornings. He gets up early, borrows some sneakers and leaves Jane's cul de sac before I've woken up. Before the sun begins to scorch Grahamstown, Thom runs down Bedford Street, past St. Andrew's, the wealthy, elite, boarding school whose sports fields line both sides of Bedford.

About halfway down the street, there are guards who stand outside the St. Andrew's rugby field. He tells me he's been asked each day what he's doing here and told by the guards to "go back to the location." He tells them he's living in the cul de sac just a couple hundred meters away, yet, each day, he still gets stares, still gets asked questions, still is not believed.

We were walking down Bedford Street yesterday and St. Andrew's was having a field day complete with horse back riding, a paintball ring, water slides and a rock climbing wall. The people came in droves; dozens of BMWs, Audis, Mercedes and new, high-end shiny SUVs lined both sides of the street. Guarding the cars of the rich were the poor of South Africa. As we walked by, some of the car guards looked at Thom and his friend, said a couple words in Xhosa, and then looked back at me.

I asked, "What was that all about?"

The two boys knew these ladies. Thom and his friend told me, "We told them we live up here now. But they didn't believe us," they said laughing, then continued, "They do now because you're with us."

My white skin allows me to walk virtually unnoticed down Bedford Street. I walk home from school each day and smile at the guards outside St. Andrew's as I pass them. I've never once been questioned.

Occasionally, there will be car guard along the street as well. I say hello, ask how he or she is doing and continue toward Jane's. I've never once been asked where I was going.

Thom's black skin sets off all sorts of alarms in this part of town. He can't even run down the street without receiving disapproving stares, and having to endure degrading comments and questions. He's black, he's running, and he's not in the township. Though he has nothing in his hands, and is wearing some old shorts with a pair of ratty sneakers on his feet, in the mind's of these guards, he must have stolen something.

I'm white. I belong on Bedford Street. Thom is black. He doesn't, unless of course, he's found to be walking with somebody (like me) with an acceptable skin pigmentation.

It's been more than a decade since white rule ended here. But still, in post-apartheid South Africa, a young, black guy running in certain sections of town is guilty until found walking with a white man.

“…And suddenly it’s hard to breathe. Now and then, I get insecure from all the pain, I’m so ashamed.” – Christina Aguilera

2007-11-03T06:37:00.000-07:00

Jan came to school a couple days this week.

I haven’t seen her since I returned to South Africa and I was worried about her. Too often, when people stay away from school for extended periods of time they walk back through the gates of Amasango changed. Jan is no exception.

She is one of those girls who really can do anything she wants. We always tell young people they can do whatever put their mind to, but I’m convinced that’s a lie. Everyone is not built the same. Everyone does not come from homes with a caring parent or parents. Everyone does not come to the table with the same background. For a number of reasons, not everyone can become an astronaut, a lawyer or a teacher no matter how hard they try. Nor can everyone—Amasango students included-- break the cycle of grinding poverty they’ve been born into.

I believe Jan is one kid who really could break the cycle; who could become the lawyer she always talks about being; who could be the exception to the rule; who, I’m convinced, really could become just about anything she wants to be. She’s intelligent, she’s feisty, she doesn’t let the boys push her around and she isn’t afraid to ask questions and call you out when she disgrees. She is one girl who I’ve often said should be at Oprah Winfrey’s Leadership Academy for Girls at Henley on Klip, just outside Johannesburg.

But a lot has changed since I left South Africa. The Jan I used to know has changed, and changed a lot, in the few months I’ve been gone. Jan looks tougher. She doesn’t still project the same kind but serious persona she used to. Her voice is sharp. She’s crossed the line from being aggressive to being a bit of a bully. When she sees me she doesn’t greet me with a big smile anymore. That smile has been replaced with an outstretched hand, a stern look, and a demand “Give me five rand Jason.”

When I decline, Jan throws her hand up, scowls and walks away. I used to take these crazy shifts in attitude personally. I’ve figured out over my three visits that it isn’t me, but a reaction to the seemingly impossible circumstances they find themselves in.

One other thing has changed since I last saw Jan . She’s now pregnant.

Last week, she was sitting outside grade five on one of Amasango’s broken benches. No school uniform, just some cut off jeans with holes in the thigh, a striped shirt and some flip flops.

She looked at me and said in a kind, yet fragile voice “Jason, when you have time, can we talk?”

“Sure,” I said, looking back at her with a smile. She didn’t smile back, she just put her head down.

I went over, sat down next to her and looked up.

“We don’t have to talk now,” she said. “We can talk later when you have time.”

“No,” I said. “I have time now. We can talk now. It’s fine.”

“No, we’ll talk later,” Jan said.

“Alright,” I said. “But, if you want, we can talk now and if anyone comes over, we can ask them to leave. If they put up a fight, we can get Isaiah (the security guard) to take them away. But it’s up to you.”

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s talk now.”

She began.

She’s scared. She doesn’t know what to do. She’s got huge problems: the poverty she comes from, her mother was stabbed this weekend and was taken to the hospital, her mother told her to “go to Hell,” when Jan told her she was pregnant, Jan doesn’t want to burden her little brother with the family’s problems so she tries to deal with it all herself, she regrets sleeping with the baby’s father since he no longer wants anything to do with her, she’s sad about never meeting her own father, and her indecision about the child she’s a couple months away from having.

Every single student at Amasango is a survivor. Every student has a remarkable ability to endure desperate circumstances. Still though, every student, every human being, has a breaking point. I’ve seen it time and time again.

Last year, following a rather vicious stabbing, the stabber came to school and just broken down crying in front of me because he just didn’t know what to do.

Jan too had reached a point where she couldn’t endure anymore. Her tough outer shell disappeared as tears began rolling down her cheeks.

We talked for nearly an hour. Well, she did most of the talking. I listened.

I told Jan I can listen to her whenever she wants to talk. I told her even if it’s during school and she doesn’t want to come to class, she just needs to find me and tell me she wants to talk—and I’ll come outside and listen. But I also tell her that her chief concern, about what to do with the baby, is up to her. I can’t tell her what to do. Nobody can. It’s a decision she must make.

“I don’t want my baby to have the life I had,” she says between her heavy, distressed breathing and crying. “I don’t want my baby to struggle. I don’t want my baby to struggle. I don’t want my baby to live like I have.”

At times, it’s so hard not being able to steer people in certain directions. I know what I’d recommend, but I say nothing. I tell her it’s a decision she must make, but whatever she decides I’ll support. I tell her Mama Jane can help her—that everyone at school can help her, can stand by her, but that nobody can make that decision for her.

I wish I could make that decision for her. I hope she opts to give her child up for adoption. I hope she carries a healthy child to term, has the child, and gives it to a family who has the means to care properly for the child. I think adoption is the best option. But I can’t tell her that.

It feels almost like she’s taking a test—and I can’t give her any clues. Only this test won’t result in her getting an “A” or a “B.” The choice she makes will profoundly shape the existence of two people: hers and her unborn baby.

I wish I could tell her what I thought. But I can’t—and I don’t.

She, like so many other kids at Amasango, finds herself at the age of 15, at a crossroads. She can keep the child, and, likely drop out of school, get a job, but getting a legal, well paying job is hard for somebody in South Africa who hasn’t even finished grade seven. She’ll struggle through life like her parents. She’ll turn to drugs and alcohol to try and drown her problems. She’ll have a long line of abusive boyfriends who come from backgrounds like hers. She’ll get beaten by a couple of those boyfriends, likely in front of the child so the child will also learn it’s okay to beat people when you’re angry. The boyfriends she confides in will beat her until the physical scars she bears are nothing compared to what life has done to her inside: broken her spirit.

But it doesn’t have to be like that. It doesn’t have to.

She can give the kid up and give the kid a chance—and give herself a second chance.

I really believe she can do anything she puts her mind to.

But she needs to make this choice—and the choice is hers.

"Don't assume everything on the surface is what you see...everybody's got a story that could break your heart." - Amanda Marshall

2007-11-03T06:34:00.000-07:00

Even though the kids written about in these blog entries are half a world away, I don’t feel it’s appropriate to use their real names when writing about certain subjects. So, this is an update about the shelter robbery and we’re going to call the two boys involved Max and Thom.

Max was proud Monday when he told me about breaking into the shelter. He was beaming as he recounted how he shattered the windows, bent back the burglar bars and tried to steal from Eluxolweni.

The second robber, Thom, has kept a much lower profile. He came to school early this week—but didn’t say much to anyone. He looked terrible. He had no shoes or socks on his blistering feet, his elbow had half a dozen stitches, his clothes were particularly tattered, even by Amasango standards, and God knows what was nesting in his hair. When I saw him, I didn’t even look at him. I thought he had come to school for two things: clothes and sympathy. I had no control over who gets clothes and I wasn’t about to sympathize with a kid who had just broken into the shelter. I just ignored him.

Like so many other situations at Amasango, things aren’t exactly as they appear. It’s true that Max and Thom tried to break into the shelter. It’s true that when people saw their faces, they both fled. But, that’s not the picture—it’s just a part.

Following the attempted robbery, both boys returned to the township. Agitated about failing to get anything from the store room, a bit nervous about almost getting nabbed and extremely drunk, Max blamed Thom for the failed robbery. In a rage, Max grabbed Thom’s windpipe, squeezing his throat so hard Thom was only semi-conscious when he was thrown to the floor. Max proceeded to repeatedly bash his co-conspirator over the head with a large rock. When Thom regained consciousness, he was covered in blood. He escaped, stumbled into town and beaten and bloody, collapsed on a street not far from Rhodes. A student found him on the ground and called an ambulance. He was taken to the hospital where he’d remain for the next 48 hours.

Early this week, Thom went with Jane to the South African Police Service and opened a case of aggravated assault against Max.

Max, the boy who was bubbling over with pride on Monday when talking about his weekend conquest will not be prosecuted for attempted robbery; he’ll have to answer to a much more serious charge: aggravated assault. What began with two friends drinking on a Saturday night, ended in a blood bath. Max will be arrested, he will be questioned by the police, he will spend a night in jail before being released into the shelter’s custody. He’ll have his day in court and will face the consequences of what he’s done.

Thom feared returning to the township. He was afraid he’d be killed for coming forward. He’s now living in an outside room at Jane’s house until the Department of Social Development finds a suitable home for him outside of Grahamstown.

Thom and I made dinner together two nights this week. He has been an absolute pleasure to be with. He has, perhaps the first time in a long time, felt safe when he goes to sleep.

I still don’t agree with what he did. In fact, I would support opening a case against Thom for attempted robbery, but when I saw his dusty, blister-ridden feet and dirty face at school, I never thought I’d end up sympathizing with him. But that wasn’t the picture—or the whole picture—and when the truth came out, it was a story that would break your heart.

It certainly broke mine.

"That's cool man." - Eluxolweni Shelter boy talking about his attempted robbery of the shelter

2007-10-30T07:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was quite the day-though it began like any other day at Amasango.

I pulled up in Jane's car, turned off the engine, and just sat there for about ten seconds, looking around; at nothing in particular, just scanning everything around me. I see the kids through the tattered fencing that surrounds the school, I see the teachers scurrying about and making their way to the office to sign the register, I see everything, but I'm not yet in the whirlwind. I'm not yet being hugged, being sworn at, being asked to get medicine, having to walk through fights or seeing kids tuck rusty knives, nails and barbed wire into their pockets. I know it's all coming, but I also need these couple moments each morning where I just sit in the car and watch. It's all just a couple feet in front of me, yet oddly far away. It's a morning routine I have each time I drive Jane's car.

Yesterday morning, as I was savoring my last couple seconds of tranquility, I saw the 17-year-old boy who tried to steal from the shelter sitting on a broken bench just outside grade five. He was squinting. The sun was shining brightly into his eyes, but he still saw me and waved.

I didn't wave back. I didn't expect to see him. I didn't particularly want to see him. I thought he'd still be hiding away, but he wasn't.

Though he didn't take anything from me, he tried to take from a place, and from a group of people, whom I've grown very close to during my three trips here. The house parents, the kids, the gardener, everyone at the shelter has really become a kind of second family for me-a highly dysfunctional second family, but nevertheless a group of people who I really feel at home with. I eat breakfast, lunch and dinner with them on the weekends. I sleep at Eluxolweni on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays and I'm treated like one of their own. He tried to steal from Eluxolweni: a place that has been so good to me--and even better to him.

I cut my peaceful time in the car short and got out. I picked up my school bag and turned the zip pockets so they were flush against my body-making it more difficult for people to open them and steal from me. I scanned Jane's car to ensure nothing valuable was in sight, shut my door and pushed the button on the key fob to arm the vehicle.

I walked in and he came up to me.

"Did you see the shelter?" He asked.

"Yes, I did." I kept walking. I didn't really know where I was walking, but I knew I didn't want to be around him.

"Do you know who did that?" he asked me with a smile.

"You," I said.

"That's right," he looked at me and was still smiling.

I couldn't ignore him anymore. He was following me. I turned and looking at him, said, "can I talk to you for a minute--alone?"

He came with me to the side of one of the buildings.

I opened my bag, got out a bunch of old papers, curled them up and hit him on the head over and over and over and over again.

"Why did you do that?" I demanded.

He looked up with a smug look on his face, and before he could respond, I hit him again with my papers.

He thought it was a game, and rightfully so, I was behaving like a child. I gathered my composure, put the papers under my arm and asked again. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I'm the devil." he said with a smile.

"Are they going to kick you out?"

"No. I just have to tell the truth and they won't kick me out."

"Oh," I said, half-relieved, half wishing this boy would have expressed a bit more sadness about what he did.

"Did you see that window Jason? And those bars?"

"Yes," I said. They're all bent back and the window is shattered."

"Yah," he replied, giving me a thumbs up. "That's cool man. Look at my arm." He pulled up his sleeve to show some cuts on his hand and arm, presumably from when he broke the glass or when he hopped the fence topped with barbed wire.

"Good, I'm glad you got those cuts. I wish there were more of them and that they were worse. You certainly deserve them."

He looked a little hurt at what I had just said, and it struck me at first, but I really didn't care. I was telling him exactly how I felt.

"Are you sorry at all for what you did? If I ran the shelter, you'd be walking out in handcuffs and shackles with your clothes tied around your neck to a waiting police car."

I said that to him. I don't really know if I meant it. I'm glad I don't have to make those kinds of calls. I love this kid, but I would have been so angry--and even angrier now since he was showing no remorse. He was recounting the events of Saturday like I should pin a medal on him. He wasn't at all ashamed about what he had gotten caught doing.

Sunday, I was really angry with him.

Sunday, I was scared he'd get tossed out of the shelter and have to go back to the township.

Yesterday, I was still really angry with him, but I was somewhat relieved Eluxolweni was going to give him a second chance.

Yesterday, after he showed no remorse about breaking in, I almost wish they did kick him out.

He tried to steal. He didn't get anything, but if he could have gotten his hands on anything in that store room, he would have taken it and sold it.

Eluxolweni has been his home away from home for years. It's clothed him, fed him, kept him out of the rain and has tried to keep him out of trouble--and he couldn't be more proud of his contribution to the place: some bent back burglar bars and a shattered window.

"Each of us has the capacity to change peoples' lives. It's frustrating and challenging, but the alternative, everybody giving up, is worse."

2007-10-28T22:52:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I just hate it here.

I hate watching kids throw their lives away.

I hate seeing kids following in the footsteps of family members who have failed miserably in life.

I hate watching perfectly capable, intelligent, seemingly good guys, do incredibly stupid, selfish things.

I went to Eluxolweni yesterday. George, the house father who I've grown close to, pulled me aside, "bad news," he said.

One of my favorite kids--a 17-year-old boy who lives at the shelter, and another boy who used to live at Eluxolweni got drunk Saturday in the township. They came to Eluxolweni around 9 and tried breaking into the store room--where some computers and a lawn mower are kept. The burglar bars are bent back, the bottom window is shattered, and the tools the two of them used in their little crime rampage still sit on the ground. The 17-year-old thief is weeks away from going to high school.

Other shelter boys had been in the dining room on Saturday night when they heard a noise. They got up and saw the two guys breaking in. The house parent called the police.

The two thieves ran away, presumably back into the township. They haven't been around the past couple days, but they can't hide forever, and today a case is being opened against the two of them.

Eluxolweni Shelter forgives, and forgets, a lot. Most of the time when kids mess up, they're given second, third and fourth chances. The shelter knows the hand these kids have been dealt--and it understands that zero tolerance for everything would result in a near empty shelter.

Though it forgives a lot, it very often does not give second chances to kids who steal. It can't. Crime is a big enough issue here; you cannot allow people who are being helped by you to steal from you. I don't think my buddy is going to be cut any slack. I think once he's found, he'll be arrested, he'll have to gather his things and find a place to live in the township.

This is a kid who can finish school and easily make something of himself--and just as easily resort to a life of drugs and crime and remain hidden away, living a life off the radar on the dusty roads of the township. The choice is his-and right now, he's choosing the latter.

It's so sad that what he did on Saturday could have repercussions for the rest of his life. At Eluxolweni, he had a bed, access to showers and toilets, three meals a day, a roof over his head--and perhaps the most important thing, reduced access to the temptations that exist just a couple hundred meters away in the township.

He had it all-and as I write this, he's hiding somewhere because he knows what he did is wrong. He knows there will be people looking for him.

The case is being opened today. The police will find him, arrest him, and in not long, he'll be right back in the township free to drink, do drugs and steal all he wants; for he'll no longer have a bed at the shelter he tried to steal from.

"They may forget what you've said-but they'll never forget how you made them feel."

2007-10-23T07:17:00.000-07:00

I came to Rhodes about 10 minutes ago to check my e-mail.

I was walking pass the Drodsty Arch, the main entrance and official separation point of Rhodes with the rest of Grahamstown, when I glanced down High Street. It was around 4 o'clock and the street was bustling with people shopping, students packed into street-side cafes, mini-bus taxis brimming with domestic workers, Rhodes gardeners and crafters, racing toward the township.

The trunks of these taxis have the words "government initiated poverty alleviation program" splashed across them. The sides of the street are packed with young guys engaging in their own poverty alleviation program: they stand there begging for change, for bread, for milk, or offering to wash your car for whatever tip you might provide.

As I glanced down the street, in the distance, I saw a tall figure: black skin, blue shirt, presumably second-hand pants that had been cut off just below the knee to be made into shorts. He stuck both hands in the air and waved to me, and, without any regard for the cars in the street, began sprinting toward me down the middle of High Street.

When he got to me, I saw a tall boy with a beaming smile. I had run into him earlier in the week while I was grocery shopping at "Pick 'N Pay."

He approached me in front of the arch, shook my hand and said "How is it Jay-SEN?" I shook his hand, said "great" and continued walking toward Rhodes. He walked at my side.

Earlier this week at Pick 'N Pay, this same boy had asked me if he could come by school and I could show him how to use the computer. In the store with me, he asked me how I'd been, how he missed doing karate (something I haven't done really, formally, since my first visit), how he was going to come to school to see me, and how he was washing cars in town for some extra cash.

In our conversations, this boy brings up things he wouldn't possibly know unless I had spent time, and a considerable amount of time, with him.

The thing is, I don't know this boy. There are many kids I run into every day and I don't remember their names--but I know their faces. I don't know anything about this kid.

Nothing.

When I see him, he seems genuine and makes it out like I've had such an impact on his life. Maybe it's true. Maybe he's just another masterful manipulator and is waiting to stroke my ego more before hitting me up for some bread money.

Maybe he's genuine. Maybe he's not.

But maybe he is-and I don't even remember his face.

"The truth, unlike lies, require no embellishment." - Michael Mencias

2007-10-22T04:14:00.000-07:00

On Thursday, Lucky Dube, a popular South African musician, was dropping off his son in Johannesburg: South Africa's most populous city. He was carjacked. With his child, powerless to do anything, just a little ways away, armed thugs shot Dube dead.

Also this past week, Jane's (the woman I live with) daughter was leaving a friend's flat in JoBurg when armed men came up to them demanding the car. They gave the gun toting men the car, as well as their wallet and phone. They're likely a bit shaken over the entire incident, but they're alive.

Lucky Dube is dead, a victim of this senseless crime. Jane's daughter gave them what they wanted-and is still alive, but still, undeniably, a victim.

Their stories are not unique. While studying at Rhodes, a friend's uncle was shot and killed for his car in Johannesburg. Another friend who lives in Durban left the gate open in front of their home--armed men came onto the property and forced his mother and brother into a bathroom while they robbed the place.

Why am I saying all this? South Africa is to be the host of the 2010 Soccer World Cup. In Port Elizabeth, an electronic sign proclaims "Port Elizabeth: a FIFA 2010 World Cup Host City. Welcome to Port Elizabeth." In O.R. Tambo Johannesburg International, huge billboards advertise the upcoming event saying "We'll be ready. Preparing for 2010 and beyond," and "The Gautrain, connecting O.R. Tambo with Sandton with Pretoria: we'll be ready for 2010."

I'm sorry South Africa--but you're not ready. You're incredibly unprepared, and, in fact, a danger to the potentially thousands of tourists who will be arriving in 2010. The World Cup that you're so eager to host could turn into a blood bath with eager sports fans being robbed, raped or shot dead. People will come. People will die.

You are powerless to control the crime you've got now. Nearly 1 in 3 of Johannesburg's residents report having been robbed. The U.N. says your murder rate, per capita, is one of the highest on the planet with around 50 people per day being murdered on your streets. Reports CNN.com, "South Africa is one of the most dangerous societies in the world. Figures from the South African Police Service show that from April 2006 to March 2007, more than 19,000 South Africans were murdered, more than 52,600 people were raped, and nearly 13,600 people were carjacked."

Furthermore, the infrastructure to host an event like the World Cup is simply not existent. Mass transit in South Africa's major cities does not exist in the same way as it does in the rest of the developed world. It is not safe for visitors to be cruising around your cities in rental cars, or to walk out of Johannesburg's Park Station with luggage. It is not safe for people to take the trains into central business districts. In some city centers, it is not even advisable for visitors to take out cameras or cell phones.

South Africa, you're a beautiful place that's come so far since apartheid. South Africa, you're proof that blacks and whites can, indeed, live together. South Africa, you're a forward-looking land of friendly people, beautiful countrysides--and that's why I love you. But South Africa, you've got a huge problem with violent crime.

I hope that one day you'll be ready to host the World Cup. I hope that one day you'll be able to show the world all that you have to offer--and you do, indeed, have a lot to offer the world and to be proud of. But I'm sorry South Africa, you're just not there yet and you won't be by 2010.

"Photography is about finding out what can happen in the frame. When you put four edges around some facts, you change those facts." - Garry Winogrand

2007-10-21T23:16:00.000-07:00

I don't often take photos at Eluxolweni because I want some of the memories from this place to be just in my mind; I think it's better that way sometimes. It's nice to have ready access at the click of a mouse, but it also cheapens the memory.

This past Saturday was different, peaceful, really wonderful. The sun was out, the wind was blowing the leaves on the trees and the sandy, red dirt around the shelter yard. It had been a peaceful, calm day at Eluxolweni-something that nobody takes for granted here as this peace is too often shattered by a random act of violence.

The sun was setting and the afternoon was turning into a beautiful South African evening. I brought out the digital and hopefully, I will have provided you with a small slice of life at Eluxolweni Shelter.

Date: Saturday, October 20, 2007
Photographer: Jason Torreano
Location: Eluxolweni Shelter, Grahamstown, South Africa
Inspiration: The kids of Eluxolweni Shelter

Double-edged sword: The razor wire surrounding the shelter helps to keep the dangerous out, but can also be clipped and turned into a weapon.

Make shift seats: Flipped over milk cases serve as chairs for kids who sit in the shelter yard.

Repair and recycle: Aromat sewing together a bag that's been ripped across the top.

Friends forever: Inseperable Iviwe and Malibongwe together outside Eluxolweni.

Simplicity under the sun: Shelter boys play cricket outside Eluxolweni gates.

"Other things may change us, but we start and end with the family." - Anthony Brandt

2007-10-15T21:34:00.000-07:00

I was called into Jane's office yesterday afternoon.

I arrived to find a rather agitated looking seventh-grade student sitting in the chair next to her, along with three faculty members and one of the trusted school security guards. We'll call this boy Siya.

I looked down at Siya and saw the expression on his face. He looked agitated and angry. That's not surprising as nearly all the kids look angry when they're in that environment. But he also looked sad, depressed, beside himself-and that caught my attention. He was silent, his head was down, his eyes locked on the floor, his hands rolling a crumpled, day old newspaper in his lap.

Jane began.

"I asked you all to be here today because of something going on I was not aware of."

I thought in my head, I can only imagine what we're about to hear: what has happened now--and why do I have to be a part of it?

"I called Isiah 58 this afternoon," she said. "The person who picked up the phone asked us to please stop calling Tiyabonga."

Siya and Tiyabonga are brothers.

Isiah 58 is a facility that helps kids who've had major behavioral problems get back on track--and hopefully saves them before they're put behind bars.

I had let Siya call Isiah 58 on my cell phone about a week ago to talk to his little brother. Apparently, many others have done the same-and this is causing major disruptions in his Tiyabonga's otherwise good behavior and rehabilitation.

We were not to call anymore.

Siya was very upset over this. Arguing with Jane and the other teachers in Xhosa about this less than desirable arrangement, raising his voice, even getting up to walk out of the office at one point, Siya was beside himself.

Much of the meeting was conducted in Xhosa-sharp words, raised voices, very little silence as each side continued. Part way through the meeting, my mind wandered. I remember an early morning last June when I had slept in the shelter, Tiyabonga had not been sent away yet, and both he and Siya were living in Eluxolweni.

Tiyabonga ran into the kitchen as Mama Rose and I were frying eggs for breakfast. He looked terrified--rifling through the cupboards, looking for a weapon.

Siya came seconds later, hitting and kicking his little brother until he was on the ground, curled up, having surrendered to the brute force of Siya. The two had to be pulled apart.

After the storm had cleared and tempers had calmed, I had asked Siya why he felt it was necessary to beat his little brother so badly. "He was being very rude," he replied without a moment's hesitation. "I want to teach him to be respectful because I love him."

"So you teach him by beating him and show him you love him by beating him?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, smiling, then walked away.

I had thought to myself at the time-yeah right, another classic BS story just so you can beat the hell out of somebody because you're having a bad day.

But now, more than four months later, I was in this meeting. Siya was here without Tiyabonga: upset, angry, not knowing what to do because he couldn't talk to his brother.

The staff continued, mostly in Xhosa, but occasionally breaking into a bit of English "Do you want Tiyabonga to be that lawyer that we all know he can be? He's got the brains for it. Or do you want him to be a kicking, screaming, fighting boy? Because if he doesn't get help, that's what he will be."

Siya kept his head down. I think somewhere he knew what they were saying was true. He didn't like it-in fact, I bet he hated it, but he knew it was true.

"We're doing this because we love you both. We want what's best for you and Tiyabonga."

The meeting was heated-and, though most of it wasn't in English, it was clarifying for me.

Siya did love his brother. He was fighting, and fighting hard, to be allowed to speak to him on the phone. The meeting ended after Siya eventually came to terms with the fact that he couldn't talk to his brother for a while. Not forever-but for a while. He hugged the principal and one of the staff members before leaving the office with me.

Siya may have beaten his brother in front of me last June; perhaps that's the form of conflict resolution he had been taught at home.

He told me last June he did it because he loves his brother. I didn't believe him at the time.

I do now.

"The police must obey the law while enforcing the law." - Earl Warren

2007-10-11T07:17:00.000-07:00

I met with Dr. Saleem Badat, the Vice-Chancellor of Rhodes this morning.

I wanted to talk to the person at the top about how we, or shall I say, the two black guys I was with, were treated by Rhodes security.

The appointment was made. The time was set for 11 o'clock in the main administration building at Rhodes.

I was a nervous wreck. I think the CPU officer's derogatory, nasty remarks rattled me a bit more than I had initially thought. I knew I should bring this matter to the VC's attention, but complaining about an injustice, and actually taking steps to rectify that injustice I've learned, are two very different things. Complaining might be easy, but complaining without action is useless.

My palms were sweaty as I sat, waiting for the Vice Chancellor to emerge from his office. My mind racing, thinking, imagining what our meeting might be like. Would he be just as condescending as CPU had been? Would he think I have a legitimate case? Would he too, be wary, of young, black guys walking onto a campus that for years has served as an exclusive haven for the wealthy?

I sat in his waiting room, glancing around at the tea cups and saucers emblazoned with the Rhodes emblem, at the chandeliers, at the dark blue wall-to-wall carpeting, at the long drapes, falling to the floor and tied back across each window. It struck me how this well-kept, beautiful office was no more than a mile away from Amasango, but still, the luxuries it contained--expensive light fixtures, huge windows overlooking sweeping lawns and gardens, even nice carpeting--would be so foreign to many of those students I've worked with. On a table beside me lay a book about the history of the university. I began shuffling through it, not intending to read it, just to keep my mind from over-thinking.

At 11 o'clock he met me. We went into his office. I sat down.

"My name is Jason Torreano and I'm from the Buffalo, New York area," I began.

He had remembered the letter I had written during my last visit where I complained of the guards abusive treatment.

I listed my concerns.

He took notes.

My nerves calmed.

We talked for nearly a half hour. The man with the corner office proved to be sympathetic to my concerns. Badat was not happy with the way the guards had spoken to, or treated, my friends, nor was he happy that they were kicked off campus for no reason. Badat spoke with candor when he said, despite all the good contained within Rhodes, the university he presides over does, indeed, have problems with racism, sexism and classism.

He encouraged me to bring the kids back. He said he wants everyone to see Rhodes: the residences on campus, the library, the gardens. He said he wants especially the disadvantaged children in Grahamstown, to feel they too, might one day walk onto campus, as students, not visitors.

Toward the end of our meeting, he told me there have been suggestions to surround the campus with fencing and gates; requiring everybody to carry an identification card who wishes to walk onto Rhodes property. He's against any proposal to erect actual barriers to separate the university from the town.

I'm cautiously optimistic about the future, about what our meeting may accomplish, and how these guards will be instructed to behave.

After all, despite the fact that there may be no fencing or gates surrounding Rhodes, my kids, my students, my friends still know that there is an invisible fence, an invisible, yet undeniable line that separates "Rhodes" from "the rest of Grahamstown."

And they're the rest of Grahamstown.

"We are all alone until we accept our need for others."

2007-10-11T07:01:00.001-07:00

I love South Africa.

And this is why.

"Yes, young, black guys, they steal." - Rhodes Campus Protection Unit Officer

2007-10-10T08:14:00.000-07:00

I took Masixole and Samkelo with me to Rhodes yesterday.

I like those two guys. I like them a lot.

They accompanied me to the Jacaranda computer labs on campus, and then, they were to walk me back home.

It was misting in Grahamstown so Masixole, dressed in a light blue sweater, a pair of gray trousers and some ratty old sneakers, took my umbrella to keep himself out of the rain.

Samkelo and I were just talking.

A guard, from Rhodes Campus Protection Unit, approached us.

Very kindly, he said "Sir, how are you today?"

I thought in my head, here we go again.

"I'm fine," I replied. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, sir. Are you a student here?"

"I was. I'm not any longer but I'm doing research under Carla Tsampiras in the history department here and these two guys," I said, gesturing toward Masixole and Samkelo,"are with me."

"May I see you student card please?"

"I don't have one," I said, this time, getting more pissy with the guard. "I told you, I was a student. I'm not any longer."

"Oh, okay. And what are they doing here," he said, pointing toward Masixole and Samkelo.

"They are my friends and they are walking with me."

"Okay," he said. "Sir, I'm just going to call my boss so we don't have to stop you anymore."

The guard, dressed in a navy blue overcoat spoke quickly in Xhosa into his walkie-talkie.

"Sir, please come with me."

"Why?" I replied.

"My boss would just like to talk to you."

"Is it because I am walking with two young black guys?" I said.

"Let's go my friend," he said.

"I really think this is ridiculous," I said. "Really crazy. I bet if they had been dressed in St. Andrew's uniforms and weren't black, this wouldn't be happening right now."

"Sir," he said. "Please don't bring race into it. It has nothing to do with race."

"It does," I insisted. "I've walked onto this campus hundreds of times by myself and with others and I've never been stopped once when it's been me or some white friend. Not once."

"Sir," he said. "We stop everybody. You know laptops get stolen from here all the time."

"And it's not all young, black guys that are doing that," I said sharply."Why do you only stop young, black guys!" I demanded.

"Sir, we stop everybody. The other day I stopped a professor and asked him some questions. We need to be very careful."

"Listen," I said. "I respect you as a person, but I don't believe what you're saying."

"Don't believe?"

"No," I said. "I have been on this campus before. I'm white, clearly. I've been with other white people—never been stopped. I'm frequently stopped when I'm with black kids. It's not right."

"Sir," he said. "It has nothing to do with race."

Two black girls, presumably Rhodes students were walking toward us during this ordeal, and had heard our exchange. They laughed when the officer repeated to me that it had nothing to do with race. I knew, in my heart, that it had everything to do with their age, their black skin and their socio-economic class but it was nice to have some support from those two girls. I knew what I was talking about.

We walked into CPU. Behind the counter was a bigger, colored, scruffy looking Afrikaans man. He didn't look pleasant—and our conversation, or our exchange rather—would showcase his lack of diplomacy and nastiness. He was sitting behind a desk with two telephones and a computer that looked as though it was from the early 90s. To his right hung a wall of photographs, probably a hundred or so photos. That was the RMW list—Rhodes Most Wanted. People to watch out for.

"What are you doing here?" he barked.

"I'm a former exchange student at Rhodes from America," I replied "And—" I wanted to say "And I'm white" but never got the chance to finish.

"And what are they doing here," he said, pointing again toward Masixole and Samkelo.

"They're my friends, and they're with me."

"No," he said. "They're not allowed to be here."

"Why?" I said.

"They're not allowed to be here," he repeated.

"I bet if they were dressed in St. --."

"I don't want to hear that," he said sharply. "Your St. Andrew's uniform stuff won't work here. I don't want to hear that."

Ignorant people seem to have a way of not wanting to hear the truth.

"They're not going to steal anything."

"Let me see your student card," he said, reaching out his hand.

"I don't have one," I said. "I'm not a student anymore. I am doing research in the History Department under Carla Tsampiras."

"You should still have a student card," he replied.

"But I'm not a student!" I said.

He took my driver's license, looked at it, then looked back up at me saying, "Were you born in Grahamstown? Are you from Grahamstown?"

He and I had been conversing for a little while. I had told him I'm from America. I had told him I was an exchange student. I had produced a New York driver's license, and I don't speak like a South African. He might have two phones and be sitting behind a beat up old desk, but his question showcased he was clearly not, say, a genuis.

I wanted to tap him on his head and say "What do you think Mr.CPU?" But I didn't. I supressed my inner anger and said "No. I was born in New York."

"They are not allowed here," he continued.

"Because they're black," I said. "Right? That's why. No black kids are allowed?"

"We have a big problem with theft here. You know that?" he retorted.

"Yes," I said. "And white people steal too."

"No," he said. "Look at the wall," he pointed to the pictures beside him. "How many people do you see who are white or in St. Andrew's uniforms? How many?"

I looked at the wall, but didn't analyze each photo. Even without analyzing, there was an awful lot of black.

"I don't know," I said. "I cannot possibly sit here any analyze each of your hundred or more photos. Not all black kids steal."

"Yes," he said. "They (pointing again to Samkelo and Masixole) aren't allowed. They steal."

"But—" I said.

"And," he continued. "If you bring them back with you, you will be charged too."

"With what?" I said, a feeling of nervousness and a feeling of being totally in awe at what this ignorant man was saying. "Walking with young black guys?"

"No," he said. "Disobeying orders. They are not allowed to be here. Young, black guys steal," he said pointing again toward my two friends.

So much for it not being a race thing, huh? The first officer who had stopped us, though he had been very friendly to me and to Masixole and Samkelo, assured me it had nothing to do with race.

The first, kinder, officer walked us back off campus. He tried to make small talk with me, but I just put my hood up and walked ahead. I didn't have anything to say to him. He had been the kinder of the two officers, but as long as they were grouping my kids, my friends, into one collective heap of liability, I was going to group them into one collective group of SOBs. Was it right? I don't know, but I didn't care at that point.

We got off campus and I looked at Masixole and Samkelo, ready to start crying.

"Listen," I said. "I am so sorry you had to be there for that. I know you weren't going to steal anything and what they said was wrong."

Masixole looked at me, smiled and said "No, it's right."

Masixole was, once again, trying to humor me and piss me off.

"No, Masixole," I said. "You have a right to be able to walk around campus."

"No," again he smiled. "I'm black. Black people steal."

Samkelo had been silent up till now, just walking along.

"Masixole," I said. "What they did, that's not right."

"No, it's right," he replied. "Black guys steal."

"Not all black guys," Samkelo said. "Not all black guys steal."

Samkelo is right.

But, because of his age and the color of his skin, he's not welcome at Rhodes.

"Justice doesn't mean the bad guy goes to jail. It just means somebody pays for the crime." - Freedom Writers

2007-10-08T08:40:00.000-07:00

Court is a peculiar thing, isn't it?

It balances, or attempts to balance, the wrongs one individual has inflicted upon another. It attempts to rectify the crime by punishing the convicted. Court, it is believed, is the place where "blind justice" is doled out by people in oversized black robes, gavel in hand.

I was in a South African court room recently.

The boy who stabbed an Eluxolweni Shelter boy last May had his day in court and I was asked to be there as a witness.

George, the Eluxolweni House father and I rode up to court together. He is the legal guardian of the victim. As we got out of the van on High Street and stepped into the mild South African morning, I saw the stabber. Our eyes locked briefly.

Dressed in a ratty looking suit coat, pants that were far too small and a black top hat, he had his hands clenched together, praying. Though his clothes were tattered and worn, it was probably the most respectable outfit this 16-year-old street child could piece together for his day in court. When he saw me, he ran from the gates that surround the Magistrate's Office.

I put my head down, walked inside and put my bag and cell phone on the conveyor belt before stepping through the metal detector.

I sat with George in the open space between the security check point and the building that housed the court rooms. The stabber approached us, I said hello, and he muttered something under his breath in Xhosa to George.

Grinning, George turned to me and said "He can't believe you're actually here. He doesn't want you here. He knows you saw what happened." He laughed, turned back to the boy and said something else in Xhosa.

I asked George whether he thought the boy would talk to me. I didn't want to cause a scene, especially in court, but I wanted to talk to him. This whole episode was heart-breaking and awkward. This boy had been one of my favorites. He still is. I've tried so hard to get him to change. I've tried--and I've failed, but I'll keep trying.

George spoke quickly in Xhosa to him, then, turned to me saying "Yes, he will talk to you."

I approached the boy, shook his hand and asked him if we could go sit down. We found a quiet place in a stairwell just outside the first court room.

"So," I began. "I really wanted to see you yesterday. I didn't want our first chat to be here."

"Yah," he replied, turning his head away.

"Listen, I really don't want to be here either. I am not here to get you. Though you probably see it that way, I really haven't given up on you. I am going to tell the court the truth, and the truth is that you stabbed Eric. I bet you didn't think the eyewitness was going to show up today, did you?"

"Ah ha," he said, his head still down. "I heard you were in town, but I didn't know you'd be here today."

I continued, "Listen, I have to tell the truth. But if they ask, I'm going to also tell them that you're a good guy who does really stupid, impulsive things sometimes."

He put his head down. "I'm going to pay for what I did. I know I am."

"Well, you might. But you have to at some point stop doing the things you're doing."

He said, "I know," and then stood up and walked outside.

I followed.

"Can I give you some advice?"

"Yes," he said.

"Tell the truth. Don't lie like you did when we were at the police station with Mama Judy. You told them you didn't use a knife...that it was just something you found. That's a lie."

"Ah," he said with a smile. "It's not a lie. I didn't use a knife. You going to say it was a knife?"

"Yes," I said, starting to get pissed. "I'm going to say it was a knife because it was. I saw it. Are you even sorry for what you did?"

He looked up again, brought his hand up to his chin, squinting, as the sun had risen over the court building and was now in his eyes. "Did you hear what he said to me? He told me I didn't have a father. Did you hear him say that?"

Again, I tried, "Are you sorry for what you did?"

Again, his reply, "Did you hear what he said to me Jason? Did you hear?"

Translation: No, he's not sorry. Not sorry at all. I gave up with that question.

"Anyways," I said. "I know I'm going to have to say things you don't like, but I hope we can still be friends. I really like you and I think you can have a bright future if you change. I really do. So after court today, let's both walk to school together, okay?"

He smiled a little. "Okay."

We got into court about three-and-a-half hours after we had first shown up.

Mango walked into a long, narrow wooden booth in front of the judge, a short, colored, Afrikaans lady, the lawyer, several officers and a translator. George stood next to the booth.

The judge began, looking at George. "Are you here as the legal guardian of the accused?"

"No," George replied. "I'm here as the legal guardian for the victim."

"Where is your legal guardian," the judge said, looking down at the stabber. The translator spoke to him in Xhosa, though he understands English fine.

"I don't have one," he said, looking back up at her.

Puzzled, she said again, "Where is your legal guardian? You're underage. You need a legal guardian here with you."

"I don't have one," he said again.

It was one of the saddest, most degrading moments I've ever witnessed. Here he was, in a court room, accused of stabbing somebody, and he had nobody to bring along. He stood alone.

"We cannot proceed without a legal guardian for the accused. You don't have a legal guardian," she asked for the third time.

"No."

The case was delayed. He left the box and walked from court. I followed him out and we walked to Amasango together.

When he is sentenced, it's very possible that justice will be served; that he will be punished for what he's done. The court can do that-and probably will. I'm not saying it shouldn't. He stabbed somebody. He cannot get away with that.

What the court cannot do is fix the underlying problem. The court is powerful in doling out punishments and ensuring that people serve time. It's powerless to fix the circumstances that have lead to the crime. It's completely incapable of rectifying all the injustice this boy has faced during his 16 years of life.

Perhaps he'll go to jail. Perhaps he'll have to attend an anger management course. But when he's done serving his time, he'll still have no parents, no legal guardian, no home, no reason to not end up in court again.

And the cycle continues.