"Welcome to my life." - Simple Plan

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."

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

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

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

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

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

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.