Leaning on the Windowsill

Truth and Reconciliation

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 09:43:00 +0000

I mentioned the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions in my last post, and I wanted to post about this extraordinary process. While I have been here, I have read as many books as I could about South Africa, including novels and non-fiction. Two in particular that I want to recommend are No Future Without Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu, Nobel Laureate and retired Anglican Archbishop of Cape Town (pictured with South African PTS professor Wentzel Van Huyssteen); and Country of My Skull by Antjie Krog, an Afrikaaner journalist and poet who covered the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions.

As you might expect, Tutu's book is more theologically-minded, and his theology around the concept of ubuntu crops up in this book although he elaborates in much more detail in his other writings. The accounts of the victims are moving, profound, and terrible. Tutu's writing style is very approachable, and includes some of his personal reactions and insights as a person of faith acting as the chairperson of the Commissions. Krog's is a more challenging read, both because she brings her poetic sensibilities to bear (which may be the only way to really express the depth of human emotion and pain that came up in the Commissions) and because she is much more graphic and comprehensive in her reporting of what victims went through. If you are going to read both, I would read Tutu's first. I read them in the opposite order and found that Krog set the bar pretty high in terms of literary style, which may have dimished somewhat my appreciation of Tutu's simple and straightforward style. Krog also gushes with admiration for Tutu, while also giving an account of her observations of him during the Commissions process. That perspective too I might have appreciated more had I read the books in the opposite order. Both are excellent, however, and both deserve to be read. I was tempted to call this post "Required reading for being human," and I recommend these books over any others that I have read here. The applications of an undertaking like these Truth Commissions to other conflicts in the world (in particular I think of Israel/Palestine and possibly Iraq) kept coming to mind as I read. South Africa's were not the first such commissions, but they may have come closer than any others to meeting their objectives.

Now a further word about why these Truth Commissions came about. As I was saying in the last post, the country was basically in civil war in the 1970 and '80s, and a lot of people suffered terribly under police brutality and torture of the most grotesque and shocking variety. Mr. Mbatha, my tour guide from Robben Island, told our group that he had been tortured by the security police, although he did not go into details aside from saying that women who were taken in had it much worse. Affiliates of the ANC and other counter-regime forces had done their fair share of awful deeds too, including bombings and "necklacing" informers, which involved hanging a petrol-soaked tire around someone's neck and setting it (and the person) on fire. The only way democracy was able to come about in this context was by providing a forum where victims could come forward to tell their stories and ideally receive some form of restitution (although this almost never happened), and where perpetrators could confess to an Amnesty Commission (completely independent of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission) and be awarded legal amnesty for the actions they confessed.

This latter provision was obviously controversial. Among other notables the family of Steve Biko (http://africanhistory.about.com/library/biographies/blbio-stevebiko.htm or check wikipedia), a prominent black activist who was tortured and beaten to death by the security police in the late 1970s, publicly denounced and refused to recognize the authority of the Amnesty Commission. Understandably so. But without the provisions for an amnesty process, the National Party and the apartheid government would never have agreed to participate in forming a constitution that would hand power over to the black majority, and thereby open themselves up to legal prosecution without the benefits of their former influence. It is a matter of proximate justice being implemented, and one could obviously claim that is not enough. Then again, to have absolute legal or penal justice against perpetrators of attrocities from the regime itself would have required black victory in a civil war, with consequent Nuremburg-style victor's justice afterward. It is an open question which is preferable, particularly considering that in any case the lackeys and henchmen who did the dirty work are the ones who will take the heat, while the bosses calling the shots will be covered from evidence that could incriminate them. This is a comment I have heard from one former SADF soldier I spoke to at a bar, and one that Krog brings up in her book.

Although the racial groupings of those appearing before the Truth and the Amnesty Commissions were largely what one would expect, blacks and whites and coloureds all appeared before both commissions. Some whites, afterall, were victimized by bombings and other violence, and some black militants committed crimes against whites and fellow black South Africans. People in this country have suffered so much brutality and hardship. Despite the huge challenges that remain, especially crushing poverty and a rapidly expanding rate of HIV infection, it is extraordinary that democracy actually came about here.

Robben Island

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 08:34:00 +0000

Since I arrived in Cape Town, I have been wanting to go to Robben Island, which was the apartheid government's prison for political opponents of the regime. Nelson Mandela spent eighteen years on the island of his twenty-eight being incarcerated by the government, and most of the ANC leadership (including current President Thabo Mbeki, Walter Sisulu, and many others) were imprisoned here until 1990 and '91. Because they have been doing restorations on Mandela's cell and other parts of the tour, I waited until my last week in the country when these repairs were to be finished. Sadly, they still weren't done when I finally did go to the island last Saturday. It was still very worthwhile, however.

Robben Island ("robben" is "seal" in Dutch, and there are a lot of them there) was used off an on as a prison by the Dutch and British colonial governments in South Africa, but it was not until the 1960's after the infamous Rivonia Trial that Mandela and other political prisoners were first brought there by the apartheid government. If you have ever been to Alcatraz this is not too different, although Robben Island is quite big compared to "the Rock". At Robben Island, all of the tour guides were once prisoners (reversing the arrangement at Alcatraz, where the tour-guides were once guards - a la "Vicky", R.I.P. Phil Hartman). My tour guide was Michael Mbatha, pictured at right, who was locked up in the early '80s for a number of charges related to his being a member of Umkhonto we Sizwe ("Spear of the Nation") the military wing of the ANC founded after the Rivonia trial (http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/history/mk/).

South Africa fought a number of "bush wars" in the 1980s, which the government conducted (at least ostensibly) to fight ANC "terrorists" (like Mr. Mbatha) based in neighboring countries. South Africa invaded every single one of its neighbors (whose governments were all "going native" in the '70s and '80s), occupying what it called "South West Africa" (now Namibia) for a long time as part of its war in Angola, where the CIA, the Soviet Union, and about 300,000 Cuban soldiers (including Ché Guevarra) also got involved in the civil war between the Portuguese colonial government and revolutionary groups. White men were conscripted to fight in the South African Defense Forces, not all of whom necessarily supported the regime. I have had conversations in bars with a couple former soldiers. I don't want to make assumptions about all of these guys, but the ones I've met would get along splendidly with Leonardo DiCapprio's character in "Blood Diamond". Racial reconciliation (not to mention economic restitutuion) has a hell of a long way to go in the country, although given the history it is rather astounding that democracy came about without an all out civil war. The only way the democratic government could be formed was through the implementation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions and their provisions for amnesty for those who confessed their crimes. Since I have nothing better to do, I'll do another post on these before I scoot out of the country.

Back to Robben Island, prisoners were segregated within the walls of the prison in an effort to break prisoners' spirits and keep them divided. "Bantus" (black South Africans) were kept separately from "coloured" and Indian prisoners, given inferior rations (not that these were generous to begin with), and until the Red Cross intervened and provided beds in the mid-'80s everyone slept on roll out mats on the floor. The prisoners wore the same clothes in all seasons, regardless of the temperature, and many suffered chill in the winter. I was a bit disappointed with how blasé my tour group was. No good questions, which would have really improved the experience informationally. They also do the tour too quickly, and you drive all around the island in a bus before you finally get to the prison itself, by which point the tour is two-thirds over. While the tour itself could have been better for me, I still highly recommend the experience of going for anyone who comes to Cape Town. Above note the ironic sign welcoming everyone to the island, and below the stunning view of Table Mountain I had from the boat on the way out.

Travels

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Fri, 17 Aug 2007 10:22:00 +0000

I considered naming my current car so I could call this "Travels with Charlie" (which has a nice ring to it), but then learned that name was already taken. Assuming I get a chance to travel around the Western Cape, I am likely to see a lot of breathtaking countryside and possibly some interesting wildlife. I made a precursory trip west last Saturday to Hermanus (that's "air-mon-us"), said to be the premier land-based whale-watching location in the entire world, and Cape Agulhas, the southernmost point of Africa.

As you can see from the photos, it was a beautiful drive through farmland, vineyards, mountains, and lovely coastline. Even photos taken out the window of the car look pretty. In Hermanus I had mostly clear skies and warm weather after a rainy drive, and I took a long walk along the coast. I saw the hyrax (or rock dassie) below rummaging in the trash, although no whales. Maybe they just weren't active that day, or maybe I just don't have the patience to stand around waiting for whales to pop up. Although the hyrax looks like a huge gerbil, it is not a rodent at all, but the closest relative of the elephant! Otherwise, the critters aren't particularly interesting.

I then went to Cape Agulhas and was dangerously close to running out of gas in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately I made it to a petrol station in time after driving half the speed limit for about forty kilometers. But I made it the southernmost point alright, and as you might notice in the photo ended up quite by accident dipping my toes (and shoes) in the Indian Ocean, which begins there. This photo is not the best, and it seems to confirm the effects on my body of the change to a heavily meat-laden, almost veggie-free diet. Otherwise it might not be noticable. I am straddling the divide between the Indian and Atlantic Oceans. I totally made the trip just to do that. I know, I am a geography nerd.

"Last Day" at JL Zwane

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 13:03:00 +0000

So officially today is my last day at JL Zwane. Unfortunately, things with my flooded rental car still have not been resolved, which means that I will be coming in tomorrow to use the fax machine, etc, and will remain in Cape Town until the matter is resolved. Whenever that happens, I will travel around the Western Cape province until I leave the country August 23rd. That's one week from today. Not much time.

I have been surprised this week at how many people have taken time to thank me, appreciate me, and even say I had made a big impact on their lives! Seriously, I feel I haven't done too much, and the people here have changed my life in a far more lasting way than I can have done for them. It is humbling to have people appreciate me when I have so much more often experienced what I do as a mere drop of difference in an ocean of need. And yet, people say they will remember me, and for how many times people have mentioned what Jevon did here last summer I don't doubt it. As I said above, everyone I have known here has taught me something about what it means to love, to be a friend and a neighbor, to display ubuntu and live as one existing with and because of others, to put the needs of others before your own, to give.

Here are some pictures from the past week, with people who have meant something special to me. To the left is Nomakwesi (back), Johanna (left), and Yvonne at the church in Nyanga where they have been training volunteer workers for the past month. I have been on visits to orphans, people sick with HIV/AIDS, and elderly men and women with these three ladies throughout my ten weeks here. They are the people I have probably gotten closest to and had the most interaction with. I am humbled that people I have depended on so much, who have taught me a great deal about the community and the townships, and who stepped up in situations where I wouldn't have known what to do on my own, have told me that I have taught them so mcuh and they don't know what they would do without me!

As far as the trainings, I only taught one session and came by infrequently aside from that. I didn't feel I did much. But this week the trainees insisted I come over so they could say goodbye and thanks and give me a proper send off! The ladies above are cooking the meal we ate in honor of my departure. Below is a picture of the trainees, who all signed a nice card and said words of appreciation that seemed out of proportion to the little I thought I had done for them. But they love me and they will miss me. It almost made me want to cry. And over a silly card! I would not have thought that sentimental things like that would get to me, but I guess you never know until you are in the situation. These people have been very well equipped by the trainings Yvonne organized, and they are already getting started offering pastoral counseling. Yvonne is trying to arrange internships for them to work as counselors in local hospitals. This is a big deal for people who are mostly unemployed, struggle with HIV, and may not even know where their next meal is coming from. In a place where jobs and job training are extremely scarce, this is an amazing opportunity for them. I feel like my little training session wasn't much, but on considering what they face every day I am starting to better see why it was so significant to them.

Finally, Nqo and Mama Katoni deserved my thanks for spoiling me and fattening me up with so much good food the past ten weeks. Call me a kiss-up, but I thought they might like some flowers. Nqo was just fascinated by the flowers for several minutes, and whether she was posing or just didn't want to look up she didn't peer up when I took this photo. Mama Katoni needed some help getting her sick husband to the clinic, which is how I spent the first half of the day today. I was glad to do it. Just another way to demonstrate how much she means to me, and how I am grateful for the love that she and everyone else here have shown to me. I am really going to miss all of the people I have gotten to know here. I hope that I can show as much love to the people I know at home.

Speaking of whom, thanks to all of you who have checked in with the blog and kept up with me. I love you and appreciate you, and I am looking foward to seeing you again. This may not be my final blog entry, so I'll stop before I get any more sentimental than I already have.

More township pictures

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 12:28:00 +0000

A few weeks ago Rachel and Elizabeth, two PTS students who are in Jo'burg for the summer, flew in to spend a few days in Cape Town. Because I have become the apostle of Xolani's township tours, I recommended we do that when the ladies' Robben Island trip was cancelled because of rough seas. Because there had been such heavy rains the previous week (which kind of spoiled the ladies' trip, although they did get half of a day with clear skies and views) the informal settlment areas were in rough shape. The house they are pictured in (Elizabeth left, Rachel middle, and Crawford) was the worst one I had been in. Water was leaking in from everywhere, dripping from the holey ceiling, through the wood and cardboard walls, and up from the ground. This was a week before the heavy rains that flooded my car, so I am sure it got worse. In the third picture we have the main resident talking with Xolani. He had been taken in by his neighbors when the rains got heavy and started leaking in. From the pictures, you can't imagine someone living here.

The next picture is of a loft bed constructed in one of the former hostels, which as you can see is probably not too safe, stacked three beds high. This is done because there are multiple families sharing this single room! This is particularly complicated because people rise at different times and have to bathe out in the outhouse and change in the room. No such thing as privacy.

Just by way of contrast, the last two pictures are of the interior of some newer places that have been built recently. It is rare that people are able to put money away in savings, but the fortunate ones who have good jobs and are able to do this are able to get in on new homes being built, which look very good on the inside. The fridge below is particularly nice looking.

"But you'll laugh about it later... Really."

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 07:42:00 +0000

Part of the reason I haven't posted much lately is because I had a crazybusy few days at the beginning of last week, while Thursday was a holiday (National Women's Day) and Friday was pretty much a day off too. By the way, it is pretty cool that National Women's Day is celebrated here, commemorating the efforts of women to combat apartheid on the date of one very notable demonstration in the 1950s (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Women).

As part of the Women's Day events going on, Yvonne was invited by the Department of Health to speak at a conference in Durban for women running grass-roots initiatives to address health crises in the country like HIV/AIDS. Yvonne said she would do it, and she was meant to leave last Monday. About noon that day (which had been proceeding quietly up to that point), Yvonnecalled me up and said the Dept. of Health had screwed up the tickets, and she had received a ticket with another woman's name on it. She called the Dept. of Health and had a lot of trouble getting through, but eventually found someone who apologized unsympathetically and suggested she take the other woman along to the airport to help her straighten things out.

Fortunately, Yvonne (left in picture) knows the woman, Miranda (right), a little bit. Miranda used to be a soap opera star based in Jo'burg but she left her career years ago when her ancestors started speaking to her in dreams and she became a traditional healer. I first met Miranda a couple weeks ago, when Yvonne and I took a group visiting from Bethel University in Minnesota to see Miranda (the picture of the two of them was taken that day). I had been to visit traditional healers before, who were proper sangomas with face paint, beaded dreadlocks, native costumes and discected chickens sitting on plates on the floor. They aren't witch-doctors exactly, which is really a pejorative term Westerners came up with to demean and demonize traditional healers. That said, they still struck me as a bit spooky. It was interesting from an anthropological perspective and all, and I don't believe there is any kind of magical power in that stuff, but I was still uncomfortable and a bit weirded out by those guys.

Miranda is more of a diviner, dealing with dreams rather than trying to conjure spirits and such, and she had a nice, normal, comfortable house without anything creepy laying around. Miranda gave her schpeil about what she does and how the ancestors talk to her and how she is able to help heal diseases in ways that Western medicine discounts. Now again, I went in with an open mind and tried to keep it that way. I do beleive that Western medicine hasn't cornered the market on treatment of disease, and there might be some merit to other healing methods even if they seem a bit kooky to us. Besides, even if it is weird to me, I need to take another person's religion seriously. It makes sense of the world for them, and knits the society together. There are many more traditional healers than Western doctors in South Africa, and most people still go to a traditional healer first, often because they are the only game in town in the rural areas. Herbalists, like the one pictured below with some of his wares whom I stopped in on a few weeks ago, are the most common people consulted for various ailments. And it is not only medicinal purposes that are filled by the herbs and supplements, but also providing good fortune or keeping bad spirits away in preparing for a job interview, or something like that. Looking at the bottles, a lot of the herbs are things that are sold over the counter as fad medicine or herbal remedies in the States, like echinacea. Others are barks, or ground up eagle's talons, or other things that the herbalists ancestors will often tell him in a dream where to go and dig up in the Eastern Cape. Because traditional healers of all varieties are so prevalent, the government has tried to include them in their health programs and medical research. Miranda actually has a job with the Medical Research Council.

So, open-minded, I sat and listened to Miranda speak about what she does, and the Bethel people ask carefully worded and inoffensive questions. I couldn't help feeling that Miranda was not quite coherent or logical in her presentation or in her answers. And sure, the ancestors speak to her in dreams, that's fine, but things of that sort sound a lot more reasonable when the person can at least describe them in a cogent narrative. It all seemed very hush-hush, like she didn't want to reveal her secrets, but ended up not really explaining anything. I started thinking this woman had some other issues going on psychologically, and the intensity of her gaze was a little bit unnerving. Then off and on Miranda would cough-wheeze, making a sound like a hyena trying to spit up a demon-possessed frog. Finally, a member of the group asked Miranda's views on allegations that traditional healers have contributed to the spread of HIV/AIDS by advising "remedies" that include sleeping with virgins (which is a factor in South Africa's high incidence of rape and child rape) and ritual cutting with razor blades. Miranda said she doesn't do any of that stuff, but said, brashly but vaguely, that there is a cure for HIV but she won't tell what it is. No, of course not. At that point, I would have just rolled my eyes if it weren't such a serious matter. But instead I focused on keeping inside the desire to scream at her for doing exactly what she had denied: helping to spread the disease and keep infected people sick by claiming a non-existent cure and deceiving sick people into believing they are well. At that point I stopped being charitable. "This woman is a bit crazy," I thought.

I have heard lots of stories about people getting "cured" of HIV by a sangoma, then infecting lots of other people. Christians ministers have done this too. Zethu, wife of the pastor, works at a health clinic here and had a woman come in some time ago and get a positive HIV test. She came back again the next day to be retested, not believing that she was infected. Positive again. The next Monday she came back again, but Zethu refused to retest her. But the woman insisted, saying that she had donated a huge sum of money to her church (20,000 rand or about $3,000!) when her minister said the Holy Spirit would heal anyone who gave generously to the ministry.

So, returning to last Monday, Yvonne and I have to drive out to east bufu to pick up Miranda at the Medical Research Council where she is working. Once we get there and find her, dressed normally and looking like a completely sane and ordinary person, she and Yvonne chat a few minutes and she non-chalantly says she will come along to the airport with us. But first she wants to heat up her lunch to eat it in the car, which takes about five minutes. "We have less than an hour," I want to say, "just eat it cold!" But I am trying not to make this my problem.

We drive to the airport, and I park the car while they go in to straighten things out. Cape Town International Airport is a mess, with lots of construction in preparation for the World Cup in 2010, and badly designed airport on top of that. No indoor passage between terminals and parking garages, so I have to walk in the rain. Once inside the terminal I find Yvonne and Miranda running around to different desks trying to straighten things out. Of course, a plan ticket is a legal document, and you can't travel under a ticket with someone else's name. But to change the name on the ticket, the person who purchased it must get invovled, and of course the Dept. of Health which had created this mess could not be reached. Yvonne was not the only one with this problem. Their group was about twenty-five, many of whom had their tickets screwed up in a similar fashion. More frustrating, there was no organization to this group, just a whole bunch of people showing up and random times and running around like chickens with their heads cut off (which I actually saw happen a couple weeks ago, so now I undertand the saying). It is an unkind way to put things, I know, but these people didn't seem to realize that planes don't run on "Africa time". "Plane departs at 2pm" does not mean "around 2pm". As Yvonne commented later, most of these ladies had problably never been on a plane and they just weren't familiar with when they needed to show up and all that. So here people were showing up fifteen minutes before departure. The security line looked pretty fast, however, so maybe they got through. It would have been really comical if I weren't stuck there.

So Miranda (carrying Yvonne's bag for some reason) and Yvonne are still running around, while I remain available in central location and watch the spectacle. At one point, Miranda drops Yvonne's bag in the middle of the floor and leaves it there for the crowd to walk around or step over while she runs over to the ticket counter. "What on earth is this woman thinking?" I wonder. Then thirty seconds later Miranda scoops up Yvonne's bag and walks toward security, boarding pass with her own name on it in hand. Yvonne tries to get her bag, but Miranda snatches it out of her hand, and some other people intervene thinking Yvonne is some crazy person trying to steal Miranda's bag! Miranda puts Yvonne's bag through the x-ray, walks through security and is off. Yvonne and I are standing outside security with our jaws agape expecting Miranda to come back any second. Fifteen minutes later, it is clear that she isn't coming back. Yvonne calls the "organizer" of this party to see what's happening. The woman is arguing with Miranda about something, and Yvonne tells her to send Miranda around with her bag. The woman hangs up and we wait around. Then the screen says the plane has left and still no Miranda and no bag.

We go back to the information counter, and Yvonne is a bit frantic, and the woman behind the counter seems very annoyed with her but we aren't going away. Since the woman is not getting rid of us she eventually starts to be a bit more understanding, and comments that this has been the most disorganized group she's ever seen, not only with the ticket snafu but the lack of planning and coordination with the group arriving at the airport. It shouldn't be hard to get the correct names on people's tickets and deliver them to the correct address when you have more than a week to take care of things. It shouldn't be too hard to contact everyone in the group and plan to meet at the airport an hour or two before departure. But things don't always happen the way that makes the most sense. As we continue talking to the woman at the counter, and we have no luck getting through to people at the Dept. of Health, Yvonne is frustrated that she is wasting her time when she has things to do. But she wants to get her bag back! I tell her that the only way she is getting her bag back today is if she flies to Durban and gets it from Miranda. Unless there is someone we can call who will buy her a ticket, we have no reason to hang around. At this point it has been over three hours since I picked Yvonne up for this wild goose chase. Finally, we give up and leave.

We cannot understand what was going on with Miranda. She had not even known about this trip, she left her things at work, and she has kids. What was she thinking flying to Durban, even if it was a free trip? And why did she take Yvonne's bag? Did she figure that since she hadn't packed she needed somebody's clothes, even if they didn't fit her? After that display, and my earlier impressions of Miranda, I have to conclude that she is not right. To top it off, Yvonne phoned me that night to tell me that she had heard from a cousin on the trip that Miranda had taken the first plane back to Cape Town upon arriving in Durban! That's like flying from LA to Portland, then just flying back. I asked Yvonne, delicately, if Miranda might not be just a little bit crazy. "Oh, she is not well," Yvonne replied. No, definitely not.

End of the story, Yvonne straightened things out with the Department of Health, and they booked her a ticket to Durban the next evening, although after all of that she was reluctant to have anything to do with those people, let alone go to their conference. The next day she had some friends try to contact Miranda, since Yvonne knew she would verbally bite the woman's head off is she spoke to her herself. No luck. So I suggest that we just drive to Miranda's house, since we do know where she lives. We show up, knock on the door, and no one answers. So Yvonne just lets herself in, which actually isn't as uncommon a thing to do here as it might be in the States. Miranda's sister and a male visitor are talking, and they get us out some chairs to sit. There on the floor are Yvonne's bags. "Miranda said you would probably come by for them" the sister tells us. So we are there five minutes and leave with Yvonne's bags. It ended up being pretty easy, which was a relief considering how things had gone up to that point. A frustrating experience, but as Kristina said when I told her about it on the phone that night, "You'll laugh about it later... Really."

Living with disabilities in the townships

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Sun, 12 Aug 2007 10:19:00 +0000

A couple weeks ago Yvonne took me to visit Masincedane Home Care, a home for severely handicapped children. Nancy, the woman who runs the place has a disabled daughter, and opened the center after her mother, who had been the other primary carer for her granddaughter, died. "How many other disabled kids have lost a loved one and have no one to care for them?" she wondered. She checked around the neighborhood and found that there was a great need for a clean and safe facility with experienced carers, and decided to open her own center using her experience caring for her own daughter and working at another facility.

This is one side effect of the prevalence of HIV/AIDS here which I would not have anticipated. Lots of pregnant women are undernourished because of the disease, which weakens their bodies, steals their appetite, and robs them of the drive to take care of themselves. The result on a developing fetus is similar under-nourishment leading to a higer incidence of birth defects. Imagine what happens to AIDS orphans who are severely handicapped? Who takes care of them?

On my visit, there were about eighteen kids from the age of two to about thirteen, all living in two rooms of a small house. It was not a bad space, clean but very cramped, usually with two kids to a crib. Despite efforts to keep the place clean, there was a strong smell from having so many little kids living in one room and sharing the same air. Nancy seems to have been able to get some kind of funding assistance, as the facilities are in good shape; they have a stove, a fridge, and a new looking washing machine; but all the staff are volunteers, and half of the woman's own house is devoted to these children. Most of the children come from parents in the area, but some of them were simply abandoned, or brought here by a social worker although the government provides no funding.

As horrid as it is for a family to abandon their disabled child, in a place like Guguletu you can understand why this happens. It takes a lot of work and a lot of money to raise a severely handicapped child, who will always be dependent on care and never able to work or provide for herself. These children can be a tremendous burden on people who are already struggling to survive. The baby I did the funeral for a few weeks ago had been born with Down's Syndrome, and his grandmother was about to quit her part-time job to stay home and care for him. There is no excuse for abandoning a child, but it shows how deeply there is a need for places to care for these kids.

My friend Jevon had visited a similar place called Golden Girls when he was at JL Zwane (see the Golden Girls post on his blog using the link to the left), which by all accounts was pretty damned awful. Since Jevon was here, Golden Girls closed down for various reasons, including misuse of funds and allegations of abuse. Nancy had pulled her daughter out of Golden Girls because of suspicious bruises on her neck which the staff said were "ant bites". Children there were bitten by rats, and despite donations from JL Zwane the kids weren't even diapered, but were left to leave their filth on the floor! Golden Girls sounds like it was a horrendous, even criminally negligent place, and many of the children pictured came over when Golden Girls was shut down.

My mother works with children just like these back in the States, and I called her the evening after my visit. I was really affected by my visit, on the verge of tears, which has not happened even when I have seen some difficult and terrible things here. Because I have visited my mom at work in the past, and because I worked at a L'Arche community for people with disabilities, seeing these kids in particular moved me deeply, perhaps because I know how easily they are neglected or taken advantage of, and how helpless they are if no one cares for them.

Mom was deeply moved as well when I spoke to her. She had been thinking she wanted to get involved somehow, to donate some money to ministries JL Zwane is doing, but wasn't sure what she wanted to support. My mom's calling is to work with children like this, and she is my example of a person who loves her job and feels deeply that it is just what she is supposed to be doing. She pours her love into her work, and growing up I was always amazed that she would come home from work with a smile on her face even if she had been bitten, kicked, or spit-up, bled, peed, and pooped on.

There are lots of needy children in the townships, however, and at first Mom wasn't sure it was right to focus all of her attention on these particular children, even if they were the ones who really moved her. Afterall, I see kids every week who are in need of the necessities of life and who have no parents to care for them. But I said these were just the right kids to give to because they are the same ones she devotes herself to in the United States. The needs here are bigger than any one person or organization can meet. Every day working here we need to limited ourselves to helping those we can, rather than trying to take on needs that are bigger than what we can manage. We could either feed and clothe thirty kids so that they have a chance to go to school and focus their attention on something other than just merely surviving, or we could give a pair of socks and a piece of bread to three hundred children. As hard as it is to leave 90% to their own devices, it is better to provide adequately for some than inadequately for many. The real need is to find a way to expand operations, to parter with others in the community and in the world to meet bigger needs more effectively. But you have to start with what you can do now, and choosing the few you will help is usually a function of whom you have the greatest personal connection to or investment in. So I encouraged my mom not to feel bad about wanting to help these particular kids. Afterall, people with disabilities are usually one of the last groups in society to be cared for, and unless someone takes an interest they will continue to fall through the cracks in aid distribution.

Mom and I decided to see what we can do to provide assistance to this home for children, in terms of food, nappies, and whatever other tangible needs we can provide for. I was able to work things out with Spiwo, Yvonne, and Edwin so that Mom and I could raise money to be donated to these children which would go through JL Zwane's books. Yvonne and I will visit the home for the fourth time this week, and hopefully have a meeting to work out providing the funds for specific grocery items, and maybe also petrol and some stipends for the volunteer workers. The real need is for a larger facility, but again it is best to start with what we are prepared to commit to.

I am really excited to be putting this plan into action because I haven't gotten to do as many administrative tasks as I had hoped while I've been here. I want to work for an NGO in the future and the business and funding and admin is essential to running a non-profit. So although admin is not my gift, I want to gain greater competence in it, and have been a little disappointed with how few opportunities I have had to build those skills here. It has also been discouraging to know that I wasn't going to make a long-term difference here, even if that is an unreasonable expectation for a ten-week internship. So to take initiative in setting up a funding arrangement that will provide tangible long-term assistance to some of the neediest children in the townships really gives me a sense of accomplishment. Who knows, if it would be useful my mom and I may see about starting our own little non-profit to manage getting funds to these children. So it is my last week here, but I feel like I am getting to do something that is really going to help the people I have met here.

Cultural Hermeneutics

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Thu, 02 Aug 2007 08:18:00 +0000

Last spring I took the a course with the above title at PTS, which has proved valuable as I am in a position where I need to do theology and interpret scripture from a much different context. Context matters, space and location matter, in how we read a text like the Bible, conceptualize beliefs about God and the holy, and implement the practices of the Christian faith in the particularity of our own communities and cultures. A text like the Bible has a wide range of possible meanings, and our particular cultural contexts bring to light different facets of that range of meaning. We often mistake our own cultural interpretive process (what we call "hermeneutics") for the difinitive, complete, and exhaustive meaning of the text when in fact other meanings that require a different setting to be unlocked are equally valid, or perhaps even more correct. Interaction with difference, with the other, helps us not only to know ourselves better but to gain a broader understanding of who God is. Interpreting from the particularity of a place makes God and the gospel look different.

The two pictures I have chosen are good examples of what it means to do theology, to be Christian, in a place like Guguletu. In the above picture we see a stained glass window in the church building at JL Zwane. We can see that the shape of the cross is made up of people involved in activities of everyday life in the Eastern Cape, from where Xhosa speakers mainly originate. A woman holds her children, carries water on her head, and sticks she has gathered for firewood across her breast. What it means to embody the cross, the symbol of the Christian life in this place is to do the things that define ordinary life here. The Christian life and the everydayness of life's activities are indistinguishable. To be Christian is to be ourselves as we are and doing what we must do to survive. Family, food and drink, work and toil are all integral to the Christian life. On either side of the woman are flames representing not only the presence of God, whether in the burning bush or the tongues of fire at Pentecost, but also the cookfires over which meals are prepared and the stuff of daily nourishment is made. God sustains us, Chrisitans always say, not just in some metaphysical and intangible way, but by our "daily bread". It is a theology of embodiment, earthiness, and God's presence in the stuff of ordinary life. The whole of life is sacramental, not just the things going on in the sacred space of the sanctuary. The line between sacred and profane is blurred, even broken down, so that God is everywhere present, not limited and confined within one building or area of activity.

The second is a banner hanging on the pulpit in church, which reveals that concern for HIV/AIDS is central to the identity of the church. It isn't just hanging outside the sanctuary, or

inside on the wall, but on the pulpit itself, the central location from which the kerygma, the proclamation of the word of God, comes. By welcoming and creating a supportive place for people with HIV in the early 1990s, JL Zwane was looked down upon by many churches and people in the community. People with AIDS were regarded as sinners who had no place in the church, and JL Zwane was doing something profane by inviting them in. Groups who used the church as a meeting space began to refuse to come, or find other churches for fear that by setting foot on the premises of this church people would assume they were "positive." Many people criticized Rev. Xapile and JL Zwane, many people left the church. It has been a costly decision for JL Zwane to accept people with the disease when no other church in South Africa (according to Spiwo) was doing so. Although things have improved, and HIV sufferers are reached out to and accepted much more widely in community and in the country, it has been a very hard road. By identifying with those who are shunned and excluded, the church was itself shunned and excluded by many in the denomination and in the neighborhood. By putting this banner on the pulpit, that struggle, that costly proclamation of a message of love acted out in acceptance is made central to the identity of the church. It is a part of the sacred space. By including a message from someone who has HIV in every worship service, the struggle against the disease is sacramentalized. It is sacred, it is worship.

Something I will take back with me is that theology is not something that can be done purely in the abstract, in the language of supposed universals. It is always done in a particular space, which is wrapped up in the language and concepts in which theology is articulated. Christianity is not just a religion of abstract beliefs about the cosmos. It is lived and embodied in the dirt, and bodies, and struggles of everyday life. If the Christian message is not "God is here too" it is not, in my estimation, of much value.

JL Zwane people

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 11:21:00 +0000

Perhaps it is overdue, but I wanted to show some pictures of people I work with here at JL Zwane, although a few faces are missing from the pictures I have on hand. First is Yvonne, who heads the programs assisting needy children, especially AIDS orphans; and also helps to provide counseling for members of the support group and gay and lesbian members of the community, both groups often being ostracized . Yvonne is very busy delivering food parcels and blankets, and training others to assist with the work. In this picture she is standing next to a woman who runs a care center and home for developmentally disabled children, one of whom is on Yvonne's back. I will post more about this place later.

Next are the two ladies who run the kitchen and cook meals everyday for staff, Siyaya, HIV/AIDS support group, and children from the Rainbow Afterschool Program. That is more than one hundred people a day. They are Nqo (right) and Mama Katoni (left), and they feed me very well and joke with me whenever I come into the kitchen. They will often treat me with baked goods like vetcoeks, which are contributing my gradually increasing weight since I have been in South Africa. I may have to become a vegetarian again when I return home, but I am enjoying myself now.

Next is Nonkguthalo (Nonki), the pastor's daughter, who is in her first year at Stellenbosch University. She was born in Scotland when my supervisor was a student there, which makes her eligible for dual-citizenship, and she grew up speaking Xhosa and English as more or less joint first languages. By her accent, I would have thought she was from London, and you only pick up that she's South African with certain phrases. She also speaks Afrikaans, which is the official language of instruction at Stellenbosch University. This university was the intellectual base of apartheid, and the language policy is a continuing source of animosity. However, Stellenbosch also handles all of JL Zwane's accounting, is active in other ventures to improve life in the townships, and has significantly diversified what was only fifteen years ago still a whites-opnly institution. Nonki chose Stellenbosch over University of Cape Town, in part because Stellenbosch gave her a fat bursary (scholarship). I have hung out with her and her brother Khlalumi (Loomi) a nuber of times, and am to hang out with her and her friends in Stellebosch sometime soon. She is pictured here with Mr. Mzoli himself last time a group of us went to the restaurant.

Next is Isaac, a young guy who works around the church on the weekends, and is studying to be an animator. We have hung out in Cape Town a few times, and he is very involved with the children at church. Recently he took a small group of them to town to see the new Harry Potter movie. This is a big deal for a township kid, who never goes into town, let alone goes to a movie. He really believes in doing fun things like that with the orphans, not just giving them food and things, but giving them a chance to just be a kid. He also does some DJing and is a budding producer, setting up gigs with Loomi for artists in the township. I offered my car and company if he wants to take kids out again while I am here.

This isn't "everybody" of course, but it's all the pictures I have for now. I will introduce more of my friends and coworkers soon.

We can always buy more bananas

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Tue, 31 Jul 2007 11:42:00 +0000

I thought a section from Kevin Winge's book Never Give Up is worth quoting. This is the executive director of Open Arms of Minnesota, a US non-profit that has done a lot of work distributing food in Guguletu and other places in South Africa and throughout the continent. He visits JL Zwane twice a year, and has an ongoing relationship with Rev. Xapile. I have mentioned the book before, and it is a decent read if you want to learn more about the community here, and the challenges of providing assistance from the perspective of a North American. While living here for an extended period years ago, he stayed in Seapoint, a posh neighborhood on the Atlantic in Cape Town. The book's title is taken from a song that we sing in church every Sunday, usually after the message about HIV/AIDS. The words are "You must never give up", repeated several times. The picture at bottom is from one of the doorways out of the sanctuary. Here is the story:

"One day I went shopping and stocked up on food and supplies because a friend was arriving from the States for a visit. Later, after the housekeeper had been in to clean, half the fruit I had just purchased was gone, along with all but one roll of toilet paper. Now I knew that it wasn't my imagination. The housekeeper was -- I hate to use the word -- stealing.

"These are little things, petty things... I can deal with grinding poverty. I can handle the sickness and death that permeate life in the townships. I can make the necessary adjustments to daily life to protect myself as much as possible from violence and crime. But at the end of some days, a few missing bananas are more than I can take...

"I'm reluctant to talk about this side of living in South Africa. I'm afraid these experiences will reinforce existing stereotypes that people have about poor people, black people, people living in the developing world. I fear that donors will be reluctant to contribute to legitimate causes because of concern that they will just be asked to do more and more. Or that people won't help other people directly by giving a few rand or employing someone because their generosity won't be appreciated or the assistance won't be seen as enough.

"It's easy to relay success stories or stories that hopefully connect on an emotional level. It is much more difficult to show a less flattering side of people. But failing to acknowledge this part of life... is cowardly and presents an incomplete picture.

"Of course, the sketch... of my housekeeper is also incomplete. If I used an outhouse instead of a bathroom and newspaper instead of toilet paper, and I finally got a job working for a man who has three bathrooms and a linen closet full of toilet paper, maybe I would also put a roll or two in my bag at the end of the day.

"None of us can ever know what we would do in a given situation until we are in that situation. Fortunately for me and for many of us in the developed world, we will never know what it's like to be poor, uneducated, HIV-positive, and living in the townships of South Africa. Instead, we can dwell on our generosity not being properly acknowledged or appreciated. We can get irritated over the constant requests and demands for more of our money. We can complain about the untrustworthiness of employees when a few bananas go missing.

"And then we can go to the store and buy more bananas."

Car woes

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 12:56:00 +0000

In about my third week here the control panel on my first car literally fell apart, and I had to take it back to the rental agency and get a new one. The shiny red Kia Picanto was something of an upgrade from the VW Citi-Golf. That all seemed to be working out fine until Saturday night. I was set to preach the next day, but was tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Partly I guess I was anxious about the sermon, partly the storm outside was beating very hard against the windows, but mostly this group of kids was talking and playing music into the wee hours, despite my asking them repeatedly to stop.

So I was up late, and eventually decided to turn the light on and read. I had a peak out the window and was surprised to see that there was a lake in the back yard. It occured to me that this would also mean a lake in the parking lot. I went downstairs to look out the front windows, and water was streaming in under the doors from the flooding. I could see my car outside with water lapping against the headlights. At that point, it was a little late to do anything about it. I made a cup of rooibos and figured that at least I would be stuck the next morning and wouldn't have to preach. Eventually I fell asleep. I woke up to my alarm on about four hours of sleep so I could call my supervisor and let him know the situation. But the water had receded by then, although it was still above the tailpipe on my car. My supervisor came to pick me up, and I had to get ready in a hurry, since I had assumed I would be able to just go back to sleep after I phoned him and slept later than normal on a Sunday.

There had been some flooding in Guguletu as well, although not nearly as bad as in Athlone. The church had some water in the sanctuary, which gave the leadership a project to do in lieu of their meeting. The upshot of all of this was that I didn't have to preach, and my sermon can wait until next Sunday when I am hopefully better rested.

There was, however, still the issue of my car sitting in a foot of water. Two guys from the leadership team Thobela (left) and Zukile (right) drove me back to my place to help me move the car out of the water. We were still in our church clothes, so we put hefty bags on over our feet and legs and waded in to push the car out. That worked for about ten seconds before water started to leak into the bags, getting our good pants and shoes wet. But we were committed by then, so we pushed the car up out of the water onto the lawn, with help from a big guy from the neighborhood who saw our situation. The ladies at the Youth Centre had their hands full cleaning up all the water that had seeped in on the ground floor.

Needless to say the car didn't start. There was still water inside, and by the dirt stains we could see that it had gotten as high as the steering wheel. The way they do rental insurance here is basically designed to minimize expenses for the car agency rather than insure the driver, so this may cost me a lot of money. I phoned the rental company, who sent a tow truck, got my belongings out and drove with Thobela and Zukile to the airport to get another car from the rental agency: a Dihatsu Sirion, my third vehicle in seven weeks. Along the way, in Guguletu, we passed other people whose cars were stalled or stuck, and guys just walking by on the road came over to help them push. Ubuntu on a small scale, I guess. I thanked Thobela and Zukile profusely for driving, getting my car out, and messing up their good clothes when they could have been in the church service. "This is our service today", they both said. I offerred to take them out for a meal, but they said "Your thanks is thanks enough." I was deeply touched by their willingness to help me out, because I really would have been in a bind without their assistance.

It can be surprisingly hard to receive from someone who expects nothing in return. I heard a story that some of the flights to New York that were diverted on 9/11 went to a small airport in Newfoundland, where the passengers ended up being housed and fed by local families who volunteered to take them in for the few days until flights resumed again. A few weeks later, many of the Canadian families were surprised to get checks in the mail from the Americans they had housed. I am sure the Americans meant well but the Canadians were perplexed, and some were a bit hurt or even insulted by this, because they had given freely without expecting to be compensated. It is interesting that people are often so uncomfortable allowing someone else to do something for them out of pure grace. I think a reason for this, conscious or unconscious, is the fact that receiving, being in need, means I am not in a position of power. I might be very comfortable giving to others, which subltley reinforces my sense of control and powerfulness, but I want to pay them for what I receive. I don't want to be dependent upon another person. This seems like a typically American mentality, and perhaps we have taken Western individualism and independence to an extreme when we are so often ashamed of being dependent on other people. Our cultural ideal of a human being is someone who is completely independent of others, self-sufficient and capable on her own devices. This is very different from the African idea of ubuntu, "I am human because you are human." We are connected. Not that it is a bad thing to want to return the kindness others have shown to you. Maybe I'm a pushy American who doesn't want to be in another person's debt, but I would still like to take these Thobela and Zukhile to Mzoli's or something as a way of saying Thanks.

As a closing note, which sobers me up in the midst of being frustrated: as much of a challenge as all of this is, imagine how people living in informal settlements are affected by torrential downpours like the one that flooded my yard. An informal settlement I visited on Friday is right beside a marsh (see my earlier post on Xolani's township tour for more pictures of the same place). It reminded me of water damage from Hurricane Katrina that I saw when I went to Louisiana last September. The picture at left is of one shack that was already unlivable after the rains up to that point. Most of us First World people would probably consider it unliveable to begin with. Indeed, no one should have to live like that. It was probably the worst living conditions I have seen since I've been here. I can't imagine what it looks like after Saturday's storm. The people who were living there had been taken in by their neighbors, however -- seemingly indefinitely. I really hope they don't move back in when things dry out, as the mildew and mold will be extremely unhealthful. Then again, it probably isn't much better in any of the other shanties. So things may be tough for me, but they could be worse. My belongings weren't damaged, I still have shelter, and even if I have to pay the steep premium on the insurance (which is likely) I have resources to come up with the money. It may not be easy, and it will certainly entail some sacrifices, but it is by no means impossible. Not everyone can say the same.

Around JL Zwane

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 13:35:00 +0000

I realized this week that I have not shared any pictures of JL Zwane Centre itself, so I made sure to take a bunch on Sunday, which was a beautiful day. The last week has been mostly chilly and heavy rains, and wind that cuts right through your clothes. As I type it is like monsoon season outside, and you can hear the rain on the roof. I have said before that the climate here is not too different from California in the winter time, and that is generally true. But then a storm system from the Southern Ocean (i.e. around Antarctica) will blow up this way and all I want is to be someplace warm. The church is mostly made of concrete, which keeps things very cool in here. That must be nice when it is hot in the summer time, but now it is usually colder indoors than out.

JL Zwane is a beautiful building. In addition to the sanctuary, which seats about 400, it has offices, a few classrooms, and several larger meeting rooms, plus a performance room downstairs where Siyaya practices. The building is quite new, having been dedicated in 2003. The church formed partnerships with some investment firms who funded the building, which is an extremely nice facility, much better than any other church in the area. It was not always this way. Before the current structure was built there was just the sanctuary. The rest of the programs were housed in shipping containers. But this church's philosophy has been to start the programs first, then work on getting the buildings in order.

JL Zwane runs all of its programs through partnerships with businesses and churches, both in South Africa and abroad. Although the church has been able to organize some great fundraising initiatives in the community, the church and staff could not depend on the congregation to support it. Most of the pastors in Guguletu have another job, usually as a chaplain in the military or correctional facilities, to pay the bills during the week, and lead the service on Sundays. At JL Zwane a different partner pays for each aspect of the ministry. One pays the minister's salary, another pays for the cleaning staff, a grocery chain provides food to feed the afterschool program and HIV/AIDS support group, another pays for Siyaya, and so forth. Dr. Xapile is a very good fundraiser, and his efforts at developing these partnerships are what has allowed the ministry and facilities to become so well developed.

I would like to learn more about how these partnerships are formed, but it seems like a lot of it has been Spiwo making connections with people by good fortune and following up with them. While he had a vision for what the church could be, a lot of it's success has come with unexpected opportunities that he didn't plan for. The programs have become very developed now, and it is hard to believe that all of this was in shipping containers just five years ago. It is a wonderful place, and the resources JL Zwane has been blessed with are going back into the community, which is encouraged to have a sense of ownership and pride in the place. I will more more as time goes by.

Struggling with HIV

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 12:50:00 +0000

Things with the HIV/AIDS support group have been hard. Last week some members of the support group told me that Portia, a woman I visited a few weeks ago, is doing very badly. She hasn't been taking her ARVs (anti-retrovirals), or meds for TB. She hardly eats, and when she does it's cokes and junk food. She has given up. So we went to take her to the clinic. She was skinny when I saw her last time. Now she has wasted away even further. As we helped her into her shoes and out of bed I thought we were helping a child. She had the body of an eighty pound thirteen-year-old under her baggy clothes. Bukelwua, one of the women I have interacted with the most, told me that Portia wieghed 68 kilos (over 150 lbs.) before she got sick. When I visited her a few weeks ago she was not doing well, but it struck me that she was pretty and must have been beautiful when she was healthy. I am posting her picture again, at left. Last week, Portia looked like she had aged ten years since the first time I saw her and took the picture. She is my age, but looks forty-five.

Bukelwua and I took Portia to the clinic, filled out forms, and waited two hours before I went up and asked what was going on. They had only one doctor that day, and told us to come back in the afternoon. Bukelwua protested that if we left and came back we would only have to wait another two hours before being sent home and told to come back the next day. It was extremely frustrating, and we ended up taking Portia right back home to her bed, which is where she had complained all along she wanted to be. Fortunately, Bukelwua and Pumla, another woman in the support group, talked to the doctor who attends the group meeting, and made arrangements to have Portia put into the hospital. Pumla and I picked Portia up the next day and took her in, where she was put on a drip and would have nurses to ensure she takes her meds.

I drove Pumla home afterward. She was at the training I led last week, and has gone on visits like this one with me. I have interacted with her on a number of occassions, and know her as well as I do anyone at JL Zwane who is not on staff. I asked her whether she had ever wanted to give up like Portia seems to have done. She said, "Oh yes. When I was first diagnosed I had already had the disease a long time. Then I started getting sick. And weak. I just decided 'I am going to die.' I was ready to give up. But friends encouraged me, I took my ARVs and now my CD4 count [what Americans call T-cells] is very high." Pumla looks great now, and it's hard to believe that she was so sick only about a year ago. There are several people in the support group who, like Pumla, should be on promotional materials for ARVs. Some people have had the disease for 10 years, and with ARV treatment they are still more or less as healthy as the day they were diagnosed. One such woman told me that, like Magic Johnson, the HIV virus doesn't even show up in her blood-tests anymore (which doesn't mean she's cured, of course, but the disease is well under control for now).

But looks can be deceiving. Bukelwua came in yesterday afternoon, and asked how my weekend was. "Fine", I said. "And yours?" Bukelwua had had a hellish weekend. Portia is doing very badly. But what had really made the weekend terrible was the sudden death of another group member named Pumla on Sunday. She had gone out with friends on Friday, and came back with a chill. By Saturday she was shaking with cold and vomitting. Sunday she was gone. Just like that. I misunderstoond Bukelwua, and thought it was the Pumla that I knew. You can imagine my surprise when Pumla walked into the office where I was working a few minutes later! We took two other members of the support group to visit Portia at the hospital, although the security guard gave us a hard time because visiting hours were over. Bukelwua told him I was the umfundisi and we were there to give a prayer. I said that was right, and that we would only be a few minutes. The guy grudgingly let Bukelwua and I come in. The ward where Portia was staying was set up the way hospitals must have been years ago in the US, or in a military hospital, with all of the hundred patients in the same room. I wondered how many of them were there with complications of HIV. We found Portia, but she was completely knocked out and unresponsive, whether from medication or sickness I don't know. Her face looked fuller and her skin fresher, but her unresponsiveness was a bad sign. We planned to go back to visit on Thursday, but I learned today (Tuesday, contrary to the date at top) that Portia had died early this morning. Another sad casualty.

Yesterday I also paid a visit to another woman with AIDS whom I have seen many times. She is stuck in bed, and I have never seen her standing on her feet. We were just delivering clothes this time, but my first few visits to her in my early weeks here were some of the most emotional I have done. The first time I went with some women from staff, we had just heard about this woman's condition from someone in the congregation. We arrived to find her sleeping on a wet cardboard mat on the floor, one of her children also sick and sleeping under the blankets with her. Even when she is sick in bed herself the children want to crawl in with her when they fall ill. You can imagine how terrible it was to see a woman living like that. Her face was taught and thin, almost skeletal, and when she sat up you could tell that she had been a full-figured woman at one point. Now the flesh beneath her clothes drooped down weakly, like the body of a woman much older. And yet her teeth are perfect, so nice that one of the ladies with me asked whether they were false ones (I had been wondering myself, but would have felt rude to ask). We said a prayer, came back later with some food and blankets, and went back to the church.

The next Sunday, a member of Siyaya who also works on the grounds and does maintenance heard about our visit to this woman and told us there was a bedframe and mattress that had been sitting in the garage for months. Sure enough, there it was, and in great shape. We got a group together, found someone with a truck, and drove the bed to the house. We stayed over an hour, with a big group of church ladies praying outloud giving thanks for the bed and asking God's help. It was pretty emotional, and I wished there was more I could do. I dropped a 50 rand note on the floor by her bed while no one was looking. I was asked to pray on the spot at one point, which chaplaincy experience had helped me with, although I was still a little uncomfortable given the situation. I have had lots of experiences like that since then, and we have visited this woman many times to bring food, blankets, and clothes, and giving a few rides to church to her sisters and their kids. Most important, I think is that we show up and show that we care. Chaufering is actually a pretty frequent job for me here. Shaeffer the chauffer. Her English name is Rosie, and I am really moved by the gratitude she expresses when we visit. She has been moved to tears on a number of occasions. The expectation of gratitude was not a condition of my involvement in this work here. I don't feel it is something we are owed. So this makes it especially moving when someone is so thankful, especially when what we can provide seems so small compared to the size of the problems faced by those we visit. I feel like I get far more out of the visits that I am able to give. I only wish I could do more, somehow. But, at least for this one person, what we are doing is making a positive difference, and she takes every opportunity to let us know.

Friends and hikes

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 07:24:00 +0000

Last Saturday I went on a nice hike with my friends David and Crawford. David used to be the computer technician at JL Zwane, but left to pursue another opportunity. He is from China and is here with his daughter who is in high school ("matric"). I have gone hiking with him a couple of times now, and am making friends with his American neighbors with whom I went to the soccer match last Wednesday. Crawford, as I mentioned before, is from PTS, and we have hung out a few times now since we connected a couple weeks ago. Two more PTS students, Rachel and Elizabeth (lovely people) are flying in from Johannesburg this week and will stay until the weekend. I am considering whether it is worth the effort for me to go out to Jo'burg, and I will seek their advice, since they live there and all.

Back to David and Crawford, we took one of the many routes up to the top of Table Mountain, Skeleton Gorge, although we turned back at the waterfall pictured (you can see me at the top). At that point the climb was quite literally up the waterfall, and looked a little dicey. Crawford and I may try it again soon. The trail was through thick forests all the way up the gorge, and it looked like a North American forest for all you could tell. The climate in the Western Cape, as I have probably mentioned before, is temperate, ranging from a California to Pacific Northwest type landscape and weather pattern. South Africa is a very diverse country in terms of terrain, with desert, subtropical, tropical, veld (grassland), and mountains. I have really enjoyed being able to get out in nature on my days off. I do that so little back home in the States, and it is nice to live somewhere with city and nature both an easy drive away. By the way, as you can see, I got my camera fixed, and it's now working brilliantly. For pictures forthcoming.

Off to a meeting now!

Incomplete reflections

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Sun, 22 Jul 2007 06:49:00 +0000

You have to go into Cape Town to get a decent cup of coffee around here. A place I often go, Vida é Café, is fairly hip and there is always a big crowd of people sipping their cappuccinos and smoking their cigarettes outside. I suspect it is a Richard Branson enterprise because there is Virgin (airlines, mobile phones, music, etc.) advertising on promotional materials. It is on Kloof Street, an area where residents have money, and which is predominately white.

Sitting there the other day, drinking my latte, I was thinking about how obvious the legacy of apartheid is in a place like that. The boundaries between white and black were forcibly drawn by the government through the Group Areas act and other measures. Although there is more diversity in the affluent neighborhoods since 1994, the old borders are still strongly fortified by entrenched habit and a legacy of economic disparity. All of the guys making the coffee and busing the cups are black, while almost without exception the customers are white. On visits to the nearby wine regions you see the same division: groundskeepers and agricultural laborers are black, wine tasters are white (although shop staff at some wineries are refreshingly mixed).

Drinking wine, like sitting and drinking my latte, is a very white thing to do, at least in South Africa. It is something with an exclusive air about it; some degree of snobbery is involved. Indeed, this is a part of what people like about it. Having a refined taste in wine (or coffee) is something people are proud of and seek to cultivate. But there is also a sense in which this cultivation, this refinement, is meant to set one apart from "the masses", from the "common people". In this country, even more glaringly than in the US, sophistication and commonness have a skin color. The trouble is, I like wine, I like coffee, and I like having the taste to be able to distinguish between the good stuff and rubbish. On some level, I am proud of it, and even feel a bit smug around those with a "less refined" taste. What is troubling is the realization that taste is a commodity that can be purchased, and one of the benefits taste affords is to remind those with the means to have good taste of their privilege.

This is what is perhaps most disturbing to me about these reflections: although I want to side with those who are dismissed as "common" (or some equivalent epithet) by those who are privileged, I am extremely comfortable being around privileged people and surrounded by their accoutrements. When I come into town, go to a café, and look around at the shops of this affluent neighborhood as I savor the longed-for cup of coffee, I breathe an internal sigh of relief. I realize that I miss the "First World" lifestyle I am accustomed to, I miss "civilization". I don't think of myself as being upper class (and in the States I'm not) but on a global scale I am rich.

When I travel the fifteen or so miles from Guguletu to Cape Town, there is a sense in which I am coming home, and my mindset quickly changes to accommodate this other environment. I am protective of what I have, fearful that others will take it from me. I look distrustfully at other people, especially people of color, whom I pass on the street, and I experience an underlying paranoia about my safety. I am afraid, and everyone becomes suspicious, a target of my fear. In Guguletu I am unlikely to see another white person all day, aside from my coworker Tony. Everyone I work with, everyone I pass on the street is black. And I am not afraid. I talk to people, they are friendly, I never feel that I am unwelcome or the target of hostility. So why is it that when I go to a place where there are lots of other white people around I become so distrustful of non-whites? It is like a contagious disease of the spirit that takes me over, that possesses me, as soon as I go into the white part of town.

I may work in Guguletu and live in Athlone, but at the end of the day am I any different from the white people with their white friends in designer clothes sitting around me at the coffee shop? Am I a better person than they because I initiate conversation with the guys behind the counter? Or am I just like George on "Seinfeld" trying to prove that I have black friends? Am I any more open to people outside of my cultural, ethnic, and socio-economic group? Do I belong in a context outside this one any more than they do? These people probably aren't racists, or at least they don't think of themselves as such. Maybe they are idealistic, compassionate, justice-loving liberals like I like to think I am. But at the end of the day is their idealism -- is my idealism -- anything more than just another consumer choice, like the Nelson Mandela and Ché Guevara t-shirts I see young white men wearing as they walk past? Wasn't my initial reaction: "Hey that's a cool shirt! I w0nder where I can get one?" The deep irony about Ché, of course, is that the image of this communist freedom fighter is now a popular capitalist consumer item. And while wearing a t-shirt is a consumer choice, a fashion choice, like every black South African Mandela's fight against apartheid was a life or death issue.

This is the big difference that I am aware of as I sit at the café: my activism is optional. I can go to Guguletu, I can "be in solidarity with the poor", but whenever I want to I can leave. I have the power to choose, and I could not fully renounce that power if I wanted to. Even someone like Mother Theresa has the possibility of leaving Calcutta if she really wants to. Her order can reassign her somewhere else. And I really don't want to renounce my power to choose. Does that make my solidarity less heartfelt? Does it make me a bad person? Should I feel guilty about my privilege? I am not sure that this is the right question, but it is worth exploring. I have had discussions before with friends in the States about whether or not we should feel guilty about being "the haves" in the midst of so many "have-nots". Usually the argument contra-guilt is that we aren't responsible for someone else's poverty or misfortune. Even if it is not the alleged fault of the poor person that she is poor, it is certainly not my fault. I haven't oppressed anyone. Besides, feeling guilty doesn't really help anyone, now does it?

It is true that feeling guilty can disempower a person. We feel guilty, but don't know how to change the situation. Or we respond not to help another person in the long term but just to assuage our guilt. Do I give change to the beggar on the street because it is an effective way to help the person, or because I will feel guilty if I say No? It's not charity, caritas, it's pity. Guilt can defeat us, make us feel worthless and unable to respond helpfully or compassionately. Guilt of this kind actually serves the opposite purpose of what it should. Because, despite the difficulties above, guilt actually is an appropriate response to certain situations. If I am the beneficiary of an injustice, even if I didn't cause it, should I be exempt from feeling any guilt? When I see the disparity between the way I live and the way many people in Guguletu live, and I know it is not because I deserve to live in such better conditions (there is no Aristotelian justice in the difference), I should be unsettled, even guilty.

To make this seem like less of a jump, let's pretend I am white South African. I am a liberal who opposed apartheid but has always had enough money to live very comfortably in a decent neighborhood. The system has enabled and empowered me to live in this way, to be educated, to start my own business, or what have you. At the same time, the system has disempowered and disabled black South Africans from having the same opportunities, and restricted them to squalid townships. They are allowed into my white neighborhood only with the appropriate pass, and only to work in a defined range of professions, like domestic servant or bus driver. I did not design the apartheid system and do not support it. I have not voted for the National Party, and maybe I have even given money to charitable causes that help people in the townships. Although I may not be at fault, am I any less responsible? If I have benefited from injustice, some sense of guilt is not inappropriate. For a more artful use of this example, read J.M. Coetzee's Age of Iron, which I just finished reading last night.

There is good reason to be wary of people trying to make us feel guilty. Christianity in all its denominational forms has often been resented and rejected for using guilt in a manipulative way, as a means of excluding "sinners" and masking the hypocrisy of the righteous. And rightly so. Christians have been the cause of a lot of evil, a lot of judgment, and lot of hurt in this world. And guilt has been one of the keenest weapons by which these hurts have been caused. But it is a mistake to throw out the concept of guilt on the basis its misuse. I say misuse because guilt does play an important role in human life when we have not been conditioned to feel it inappropriately, for inappropriate things. Guilt is a very good thing when we feel it in response to appropriate actions or situations. Sometimes we feel guilty for things we have knowingly done wrong. Other times we feel guilt when we discover the hurt we have caused inadvertently, and unknowingly. If, for instance, as a white person I have benefited from some degree of opportunity, or at least had certain challenges and blockades withheld from my path, merely because of my skin color I should feel bad about this. I should, in some fashion, feel guilty. The question is, how should I respond to that guilt?

Sometimes, guilt makes us feel powerless. The guilty person feels worthless, cut off, unworthy of being loved by other human beings. We are bad people, we deserve our condemnation, and we are liable to do whatever the authority or the offended party tells us to. We will do anything to be loved again. Guilt, in this sense, leads us to despair. It degrades us and robs us of our dignity and self-respect. I am guessing that everyone reading this knows something of how this works. Guilt can also just harden us. It can make us resentful of the challenge to our dignity, and resign us to keep doing the behavior out of spite towards our accusers. We deny that we have done wrong, we refuse to take responsibility. Guilt can drive us into ourselves, disregarding the impact of our life on others' lives, closing us off from other human beings. Both of these responses isolate us from others, and undermine our relationship of mutual responsibility with other people.

But there is at least one more response to guilt, which I think is the intention at the heart of its traditional Christian usage, namely to move us toward repentance. Not just saying "sorry" but turning around in a different direction, changing my behavior to undo, or at least stop doing, the harm I have caused. Repentance tries to repair the damage, even if only partially. Guilt that moves us to repentance moves us to restore the bonds of relationship with other people that our actions, intentional or inadvertent, have broken. Repentance offers grace and forgiveness, but it still asks something of us. It isn't cheap. It involves us making ourselves vulnerable, just as the person who has suffered is vulnerable. It doesn't mean vengeance, "an eye for an eye". It doesn't necessarily mean that I move out of my house and go live in a shack, but it also doesn't mean that I go on living as before once my eyes are opened to how I have benefited, even indirectly, from another's misfortune and oppression. If I repent, I need to act to restore things, not just for the person who has been wronged but for myself. Rather than being defeated by guilt, allowing it to tell me that I am a bad person, unworthy of love and dignity, repentance allows me to use guilt to reaffirm and reestablish my humanity. Repentance is a positive action that is empowered by guilt appropriately felt and appropriately used.

Part of the problem with the word guilt, is that we associate it with punishment instead of responsibility. If the word guilt in my above examination makes you uncomfortable, try it again using responsibility instead. I have a responsibility to correct wrongs done in my name, even if I didn't ask anyone to do them. Guilt is only a bad thing, the object of our deserving disapprobation, when it is used to paralyze us rather than empower us. Part of the grace of grace is that guilt, condemnation, is not given the last word. Grace puts guilt in its proper place and allows it to be useful, rather than destructive. Grace is the key in the discussion of racism that got me started above. Read Nelson Mandela's autobiography Long Walk to Freedom or anything by Desmond Tutu, and you can see the extraordinary grace that so many black South Africans have had in the process of reconciliation since apartheid ended. It hasn't all been roses, and huge problems remain, but it is this spirit of grace that allowed democracy to happen here in the first place. I will post more about these men when I have read more of their work. I leave these reflections incomplete, inconclusive, because they remain that way in my mind and heart. I am in the process of figuring out what to think and how to respond. Thanks for having the grace to go part way with me.

Football and other activities

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Thu, 19 Jul 2007 10:47:00 +0000

Before begin with this post, I want to direct everyone's attention to Tony's blog, listed in my "favorite places to visit". You will learn some interesting little bits about life in Guguletu from more recent posts, but the one from last Friday adds some detail to what I have lately written about funerals here. Check it out.

Since I had the baby's funeral last Friday, it occurred to me that I should get started now with my write-up for Princeton Seminary. I had my "significant incident" ready to go, and a slow week after a busy one ended on Monday, so I have gotten started with the write-up. I will try to finish it next week, then make changes and additions as appropriate my final week here. I always intend to get my academic work, papers, etc. started early, but it often doesn't work out that way because students are so busy at Princeton. Might as well take advantage of the sometimes slow pace here to be on the ball. Doing the write-up has involved describing my weekly activities, so I thought I would pass some of that info on, FYI.

This past Monday I taught training session for volunteers which Yvonne has assembled to get involved in the ministry. I was asked to do it last week on a bit of short notice. Then I had twelve hours to prepare a funeral service for a six-month-old, and suddenly having just a few days to prepare a training didn't seem so bad. The session was on "Understanding Call to Service and Ministry", the topic Yvonne had chosen for me. It ended up going pretty well. I had planned a two hour session, but the person who was meant to do the second two hours never showed up. That ended up being okay, because the activities I had planned for the group ended up taking much longer than I thought they would. I filled the whole four hours session, went overtime, and still had things left undone that I had meant to cover. I spoke for a while to introduce the topic, and with questions that ended up taking nearly an hour. I asked other staff to share their calling stories, which also filled up an hour, although I had only figured on 30 minutes for both. I could tell it was time for a tea break, then I had everyone divide into groups of three to read and answer questions on a Bible passage I had printed out for them. The Bible might not have been my focus had I been asked to do something like this in the States, but given my lack of materials here, and the fact that I thought the people here would relate very well to biblical stories, I made that my area of focus.

I chose passages describing the "call" stories of notables from the Bible, the common element being that they all were ordinary people, who didn't seem cut out for leadership. They lacked confidence in themselves (Moses) or in God (Gideon), were real schmucks (Jacob, Paul), were too old/young (Abraham, Samuel, David, Jeremiah), or were lacking in what we might call the appropriate qualifications (Jesus' disciples). In my experience working with church volunteers in the past, I often found that they wanted to help, but felt like they could never speak to groups, lead, etc. From what Yvonne and others here had told me, church volunteers in Guguletu deal with the same confidence issues. I think the trainees related to the material very well, and I had no trouble speaking extemporaneously, with very occasional reference to my outline. I was dealing with confidence issues myself, since it has been a long time since I was involved in teaching or leadership of any kind, but it all turned out well. I preach in less than two weeks, so the events of the past week have been good confidence boosters for me. I plan to discuss my chosen passage (all or part of James ch. 2) with a few people from the congregation so that I can better understand how the Bible is interpreted in this setting. That Cultural Hermeneutics class I took last semester is going to pay off.

Aside from attending/conducting funerals, my acitivities week to week have involved the following: pastoral care visits (elderly, HIV/AIDS sufferers, orphans, hospice patients); attempting to get some admin work to do (compiling a database on orphans we serve, planning, training, recruiting volunteers), although it has been slim; meeting with partners and other visitors from the States and South Africa, learning about how they have gotten involved with JL Zwane and formed funding relationships (and in one case having dinner and bar-hopping with some members of a church choir from Philadelphia).

Social life has been a bit tough, although I have been out with people my age from church on a few occasions, and made friends with older co-workers as well. Crawford Brubaker, a fellow PTSer is in Cape Town for the summer as well, and we have hung out a few times. Last night I went to "90 Minutes for Mandela", a football (as in soccer) game pitting an all-Africa team vs. a team of players from the rest of the world in honor of Mandiba's 89th birthday. Mandela is at left holding the FIFA World Cup after it was announced that South Africa would host in 2010. Anyone want to come back with me? The players on the Africa XI and Rest of the World XI were mostly retired former greats (including Pelé, aside from David Beckham the only soccer player famous enough that most Americans have heard of him, although I don't know if he got his 66 year old feet out on the field) and you could tell their old legs were pretty stiff. Some of them still had it, however, and there were some world class younger players, like Samuel Eto'o, the Cameroonian Barcelona star. The match was at Newlands Rugby Stadium, and getting in was a bit scary because people seemed ready to stampede. That didn't happen, fortunately, nor was my pocket picked in the surging crowd. It was a fun event, and a good chance to make friends with a group people I met last weekend. Also the first time I have seen a soccer game since college. The professional leagues here start their season just before I leave, so I will try to get to a game at Athlone Stadium, across the street from where I live. Tomorrow is my day off, and I need it! I will report back Sunday or Monday.

More funerals

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 09:36:00 +0000

So, like I have said before, funerals are a much more common part of life here than in the States. I have been to nearly as many funerals in the past six weeks as in my entire life up to this point. Mkhululi's funeral was last Saturday, and he also had a memorial service the previous Wednesday. I think this came about because his family attends another church, where the funeral was probably meant to be held, so there was a desire to have a service at JL Zwane for Siyaya and all of the people who cared about him here.

Both services were long, in large part I think because they were conducted by people from Mkhululi's church, which is quite charismatic. Strangely, the Spirit seems to move people to stretch things out, rather than to do them succinctly. Both services had a lot of music, singing, and dancing, and they were actually pretty fun. I think Mkhululi would have wanted it this way. Siyaya members past and present performed, and it was a good time. The picture at right is from a performance Siyaya gave for a group visiting from the States the week before Mkhululi was killed. They came out in these costumes at one point during the memorial service. The guy in the middle is an amazing tenor. During the memorial service, the sanctuary was about half full at the beginning, and overflowing by the end. This is how it usually goes here. Although people's sense of punctuality is different here, some things are not so different from the States. Babies cry. Cellophane-wrapped candies are opened noisily. People's cell phones go off in the service. One woman (who had been talking the whole time with her friend) actually answered her phone and carried on a conversation! I was not the only person glaring back at her, and I don't think her rudeness was at all indicative of the norms here. There was one speaker after another, which is appropriate, but hard to sit through for three hours of in a language you don't know. I confess that I often flip through Greek vocabulary flash cards during services. When Mkhululi's minister spoke at the memorial service it was nearing seven, having started at four. The only bit that was in English was the oft-repeated "I won't speak to you for very long." Thirty minutes later, Yvonne came up and whispered in his ear, presumably saying "We need to lock up."

On Saturday, I came to church again for the funeral, having conducted one the previous day which I posted about a few days ago. It was scheduled to begin at nine. I got there ten minutes early and the place was empty aside from people setting up. Not a soul until 9:25 when, en masse, the coffin and a procession of 80 people shows up, and the service begins five minutes later. That crowd of 80 was close to 400 (however many fit in the church) two hours later. As you can see, this was a much bigger deal than the small family service of about thirty people for the baby the day before. I was asked to sit in the special staff and ministers section behind the pulpit, facing the crowd, so I could observe as the service went on. At noon, people were still coming in late. Needless to say, when 400 people show up it is a much more communal gathering than a funeral in the States would be. I suspect that many people come, ironically, to have a good time with all of the singing and dancing. Mkhululi's mother and some female relatives, as seems to be typical, sat in the front row with a long blanket draped accross four or five laps. His mother wore sunglasses -- the first time I have seen a family member cry at an adult funeral. And Mkululi's mother had been stoic, tough, every time I had seen her previously since his death.

There was a lot of crying at that funeral, but also a lot of ecstatic, rowdy, noisy singing and dancing in the aisles. At one point the members of Siyaya were dancing around the casket singing at the top of their lungs. I could tell that the service was very cathartic for everyone in many ways. I had never seen such a thing at a funeral, even here, which may have been partly due to the charismatic influence. Again there was speaker after speaker. The minister from Mkhululi's church was not there, but he sent two elders in his place. The service was long-long (people often double words in this way for emphasis). Mkhululi grew up in Bloemfontein, which is a heavily Sotho region, and he was initiated (circumcised and the whole ceremony, which will make another post) in the Sotho tradition even though he and his family are Xhosas. At one point near the end, young men in Sotho dress came out and sang tribal songs around the casket, which was very powerful to watch. The Sotho wear big blankets tied around their shoulders and over their clothes, which is actually not a very old tradition, dating back to the mid 19th century when blankets were one of the main goods provided by British missionaries to the region and became fashionable among the people. At any rate, singing and dancing, these guys then led the procession to the cememtery. On foot. While the rest of us followed in cars, buses, and taxis. The cememtery is less than a mile away, but you can imagine how long that trip took.

I had not been to the Guguletu cememtery on a Saturday before. It was packed. There were dozens of burials gong on, and maybe two thousand people around the cememtery. The burual took a while, as one of the elders preached a half hour sermon at the grave side. This made me very impatient, as I feel pretty strongly that verbosity is not helpful for people who are grieving. Even if you are saying something good, they don't have ears to hear at that moment. But finally Mkululi's casket was lowered, and the elders and then the family members each cast their handful of dirt and a flower. Then the most moving thing I've seen at a funeral happened. It was time to bury the casket, but rather than having the gravediggers do it, Khululi's friends and male relatives took up shovels and took turns filling in the grave, casing a few shovelfulls, and passing the shovel on to the next man. There was some rubish, stones, the sole of an old shoe, plastic bags, mixed in with the dry soil as they buried Mkhululi. That made me sad. The cemetery is quickly filling up, and there is not the time for beautification. A herd of goats was grazing around us.

We then went to the house, waited for the family to arrive and wash their hands first, then sat at the umfundisi table to eat, while most people ate from styrofoam trays outside. It was quite a feast, which is standard. Most people are unable to afford such expenses, and feeding hundreds of people after the funeral, but join burial societies like the ancient Greeks and Romans did. I posted more about funerals previously, if you want more detail. At the table I sat next to the elder who had preached too long at the graveside, and he had a very interesting story about how the apartheid government forcibly relocated him and his family to Guguletu in the 1960s. They had been living in Simon's Town, where the penguin colony is, but such desirable locations were deemed "whites only". Again a sign that there is more to a person than my first impression. It was a long day, but something I needed and wanted to attend. It probably will not be the last funeral I go to while I am here.

Contact info

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Tue, 17 Jul 2007 11:37:00 +0000

If anyone wants to send me a postcard, baked goods, cash, etc. this is the address:

Lutheran Youth Centre
P.O. Box 421
Athlone 7760
Cape Town
South Africa

It takes a little over a week for mail to get to the States from here. Hopefully it doesn't take too much longer coming the other way.

uZack, umfundisi

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Sun, 15 Jul 2007 06:55:00 +0000

People at church have started calling me "umfundisi" (pastor), a term of respect that I don't feel like I have earned. I got started on Friday. Late Thursday afternoon as I was finishing up a presentation for Monday, and was in the office a bit later than usual, Zethu (wife of the pastor) came in and told me that a baby in the congregation had died that morning, and someone was needed to preside over the funeral the following morning. Because Spiwo and Edwin (the two ordained people on staff) are both out of the country, and ministers from other local churches would be unavailable, I was looking like the only person who could do it. I could have said No, and I thought about it for a second (it was very short notice after all!). Then I realized that I have worked with parents grieving dead babies before, and that the Presbyterian Book of Common Worship would have prepared options for a funeral service. Yet another way that my chaplaincy experience last summer has come in handy here in Guguletu. That night I read through the service in the BCW, chose some scriptures, and wrote down a brief order for the service.

I arrived the next morning at the house accompanied by two colleagues. Within a few minutes of my arrival it was clear that the family already had worked out what they wanted to do, and the child's uncle was an elder in his own church with a ready game plan of his own. In a way this was a relief, because working cross-culturally I didn't want the family to be too dependent on me, a foreigner and a white man, to conduct the service. I asked some questions, got the child's name (Chulumanco, which of course had to be something difficult with two "Cs", one of the click sounds in Xhosa), and and learned that he had Down's Syndrome and a chest ailment, which had eventually killed him. Just when I was going to begin what I had prepared, everyone started singing, which I was glad to see. Singing is essential to any service in this community and I wanted to make sure that they had ample opportunity, although I was worried about how to go about asking them to sing at the appropriate "Hymn" moments in the service. I should have known better by now. During worship people here seem to break into song spontaneously, in the middle of a sermon or any other place in the service. I can tell there is some logic for when they do this, but I haven't been able to figure it out. It was yet another sign that I wasn't really in charge, which threw me off, but also took the pressure off of me. I remained standing, and when they had finished singing I read the opening verse of the service. As soon as it was out of my mouth, however, the uncle came to my side and said "It's time to bring in the casket now." So everyone rises and begins to sing again, from memory, in several-part a cappella harmony, while a man carries the tiny casket in under his arm, which was so striking it was almost comical. I wished internally that two people had carried the casket together, just so it wouldn't be so shocking.

I continued to stand around, feeling a little bit awkward since I was not really running things and had to wait for their cue to proceed. Another thing chaplaincy taught me was flexibility, not being a control freak, but allowing things to happen naturally while guiding them as appropriate. I read a prayer, asked the uncle read a passage from scripture in Xhosa, and was ready to move on when there was a mass exodus into the back room where I had met the mother upon my arrival, and where she and some female relatives had remained. The uncle said, "Be patient. Just have a seat." This gave me the opportunity to think again about what I was going to say in my little homily whenever they came out. I knew they would be expecting some kind of sermon, which was probably the whole reason I was there. They know how to do their own service, but an umfundisi is needed to give the sermon, to put the official stamp on the proceedings, as it were. I do not regard preaching as any more respectable or more important than other pastoral duties, and I get frustrated with ministers who are all about the sermon and crap at pastoral care. I wasn't there to preach a fire-brand sermon. I was not out to "bring it", Princeton friends. The service isn't about me saying a good word or impressing anyone with my eloquence or brilliant exposition. This sermon would be a means of giving pastoral care.

As I sat there I could hear people weeping and wailing in the back room, and someone praying fiercely in Xhosa. I couldn't understand the words, but you could tell it was a "Why, Lord?" prayer, asking God for an explanation, or at least some help, in a moment of despair at the absurdity of six-month-old's death. As I am sitting there I am learning and refining what I will say. I dealt with some dead babies at the hospital last summer, mostly still-borns, but there was one very memorable time where I was there from the frantic arrival in the neo-natal intensive care unit to the baby's eventual death. I had been left holding a dead baby for so long that I began to feel really odd. So I could handle seeing a closed, tiny casket. But the shock and senselessness of a child's death is the overwhelming feeling a family has at such a time. Babies aren't supposed to die. When an adult dies, you can recount her accomplishments, her characteristics, stories, relationships, etc. There is not much to say about a baby's life. What is tragic is the knowledge that a child never had the chance to make stories, touch people's lives, succeed in his endeavors, or even really develop a personality like the child at right. For this reason, the funeral on Friday was a much simpler affair than the huge events that adult funerals are here in the townships. Mkhululi's funeral was Saturday, and he also had a memorial service last Wednesday, and when I post about those events you can compare them to the baby's funeral. They don't make too big of a deal out of children's funerals here because there is not much to celebrate. But as I was witnessing in the ten minutes of sitting quietly, hands folded, while people were praying in the mother's room, the lack of accomplishments by the child does not equate with a lack of grief for the family.

By the time they came out, and I resumed my little service outline, I had some good things to supplement the sermon outline in my head. I focused on the things I said to the mothers of dead babies in the hospital: acknowledging the incomprehension, the anger, the questioning, the despair that people feel in that situation. I affirmed them in feeling those things, and said that there were no answers for why this happened. Faith does not answer our questions most of the time, it doesn't tell us why they happened, but it can help us to survive them. God can handle us feeling angry with God, and I don't think it is helpful to stuff our questions and frustrations. If God is for real, God can work with those things that we authentically experience. God isn't sitting up in heaven judging us for being mad. The only God I care to believe in is one who is mature, a big kid, with the grace to handle our anger. If we believe Jesus was God, then his story too speaks powerfully to God's presence in our suffering, feeling every pain that we experience in our lives. God is not aloof, I told them. God is here, and will be here. That is the only answer, the only explanation that can be uttered in a moment of despair. It's not always an answer that I have the faith to give, but there isn't another one. I only spoke for about seven minutes. I believe verbose ministers should not conduct funerals. Besides, I didn't want to drag on, and I didn't want to make myself the center of attention.

So I said my piece, they sang some more, I gave people space to pray out loud, and basically tried to recede into the background as much as possible so as not to get in the way of the different things they wanted to do with the time. When eyes turned to me to resume I went through the steps, prayed the Lord's Prayer, gave a blessing, and... They weren't done. I had to just sit down awkwardly to let them know I was spent. The uncle finished things up in Xhosa, and I waited. Then it was time to go to the cemetery for the burial, which I was not expecting I'd have to do, but there was a format in the Book of Common Worship for the committal. The cemetery was empty, since most funerals are on Saturday. I tried to figure out what was appropriate for me to do in that situation, what was the cultural norm, and asked the uncle if I wasn't sure. Oh yes, they should lower the coffin now, shouldn't they. Do I put the first handful of dirt on the coffin, or the family? I said what needed to be said, and did it quick. No need to linger, or preach another sermon as ministers at funerals here are prone to do. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Between the size of the grave and the sandy texture of the soil, it took about three minutes to fill the grave in. Then I went back to the house for the meal, and while others ate outside I sat at the umfundisi table, like I always do. I like to think it's because people know who I am, or at least know the people I'm with. I always hope it isn't just assumed because I am white. In any case, my rightful place was at that table this time. I felt I had done something to be there. I hope my words helped the family to have closure and move on, but I think the best ministry was done by themselves for one another. Like I said, I was just there to make it official.

Generosity of spirit

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Mon, 09 Jul 2007 14:17:00 +0000

The HIV/AIDS support group is one of the main ministries at JL Zwane, and the church was one of the first in South Africa to really deal with the issue head on. There is increasingly greater acceptance of people living with HIV in South African churches, although it has been a hard road. Spiwo was telling me today that when he announced the church's vision to work with HIV/AIDS fifteen years ago there were many people in the congregation who resisted, and even left the church. Many of those had a change of heart later on when children, spouses, and other loved ones died of the disease after living in shame and silence. Now the support group is a thriving program, with a nutritional aspect done in partnership with Spar, one of the main South African grocery chains. Support group members have a hot meal every weekday afternoon, prepared for them by Mama Katoni and Nqo; and 50-100 people show up for the support group meeting every Tuesday.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, there is a message from someone living with the disease at every church service. I think this is a very important theological ingredient in the worship life of this or any congregation because it reminds us that church is not removed from our daily lives, which are revealed as sacramental by breaking down the walls that separate church from the community. Spiwo was telling me today that a partner church in Pensacola, Florida was inspired by this element in the JL Zwane service. When their community was hit by a hurricane a few years ago, this Florida church began to incorporate a message from people in the congregation suffering from the damage and struggling to rebuild their lives. Others in the congregation often had no idea what their neighbors were dealing with, and this addition to the worship service created a greater sense of community and responsibility for one another in the congregation. I really resonate with this notion of connecting theology and the sacramental life of the church with practical issues and the struggles of everyday life. Spiwo puts a strong emphasis on this, and it is from this perspective that the gospel is read and interpreted here in Guguletu.

Theology needs to be relevant to people's daily lives because God is relevant to, and present in, daily life. The task of theology is to continually connect it to practical issues, and theology must be informed by praxis. I am pretty pragmatic in this regard. There is certainly a place for abstraction, but it should never be primary because God is ultimately found in human communities, not apart from them. Theology needs to matter for everyday life, it should involve getting our hands dirty. The realities of our circumstances affect the way we do theology anyway, so it is best to be conscious of this process and thoughtful about it. Besides, theology that has no connection with the life of a community and the individuals in it will struggle for relevance in that context.

The HIV/AIDS support group is an excellent example of how this works out in Guguletu. A big reason the church (and not just in South Africa) has so often shunned and excluded people with HIV/AIDS is because of the moral stigma that is attached to the disease. Spiwo encounters a lot of ministers who regard AIDS as divine punishment for homosexuals, adulterers, promiscuous people, prostitutes, drug addicts, etc. The assumption is that anything that happens to a person in her life is a reflection of God's reward or punishment. This is the theology of Job's friends, a commitment which allows such ministers only one response to people suffering from the disease: condemnation and rejection. Spiwo's attitude on the other hand is that if AIDS is God's punishment for sin, then we all ought to have it.

Besides, the equation breaks down when you realize that the majority of South Africans with AIDS are women, many of whom have the disease because of the secret laisons of their husbands. South Africa also has the world's highest incidence of reported rape, the victims of which are frequently young girls. Partly, however, HIV is spread because of cultural sexual mores that are very difficult to change. Spiwo said recently that he began working at the church in 1989 he has presided over fewer than thirty marriages. But he has baptized over a thousand children. We cannot make this reality go away by ignoring it, and condemnation doesn't do much either. Being in the shame business doesn't help the church to confront the pertinent issues a community faces. The communal shame that often comes with being diagnosed with HIV is a primary reason people avoid getting tested, giving the disease ample opportunity to spread. But when a church welcomes and affirms the human dignity of people with AIDS, even telling them they are beloved children of God, and works to support them through education, counseling, and friendship the barrier between the church and the world is, in this one area, broken down.

Who would Jesus minister to, after all? The righteous (whoever they are)? No. He hung out with the outcast and the despised, the unclean, the sinners. It has been said so many times that it is a cliche by now. But think about how radical Jesus actions would be even today! Read the gospels, and you will find that Jesus never mentions someone's sin unless he has already shown them love. The only targets of his unequivocal condemnation are the self-righteous religious authorities. To which group do preachers who condemn the sin of HIV-positive men and women belong?

Grace actually enables us to love one another. If love is always heavily conditioned before we give it, we transform it from gift to transaction. "Do x, don't do y, and I will love you. You have to keep your end of the bargain. I'm not just going to give this love stuff out for free, you know. I won't be taken advantage of!" There was a time when in the English language love and charity (which comes from the Latin caritas, which includes the sense of grace, or gift) were used fairly interchangeably. Read the hymn to love in 1 Corinthians 13 in the old King James version, and you will find it is all about "charity". Indeed, charity meant agape, something like "generosity of spirit" (to borrow the BGlass motto), rather than the much more restricted meaning it has today. This is the spirit I see with the support group. They really love each other. Pictured here are two members of the support group whom I visited with other members a couple weeks ago. The two are currently homebound, but having the support of others in the group reminds them that they are not alone. The younger woman in the top picture is named Portia, great Shakespearian name. You can see by the second woman pictured that HIV/AIDS is not only an issue for the young. I should mention that I never show a picture or give a name for someone who isn't public with their status. I have had some very moving visits to people suffering from AIDS, but I'll save them for another post.

Table Mountain

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Fri, 06 Jul 2007 09:44:00 +0000

Since I have had some heavy posts lately, it is time for something a bit lighter. By the way, comments on the blog are open to anyone for a good reason: if you are ever bothered, offended, pissed off, or otherwise violently disagree with something I post, leave a comment. Even a nasty one! Or a lovingly correcting one. Something Spiwo has said to me several times is that, as a foreigner and visitor, I will receive a lot of grace for making stupid comments. He finds this to be true when he visits the States, and he will sometimes ask very obvious or delicate questions simply because he knows he can get away with it. So, if I post something foolish, ignorant, or just plain wrong, you are invited to let me know what you think!

That being said, this post is sure to challenge the delicate sensibilities of no one. Cape Town is in a beautiful location, sandwiched between the sea and a huge, gorgeous mountain, which is visible from all around on a clear day. The "tablecloth" of cloud frequently covers the mountain, and in fact I was here for a week before I could even see it. There is a cable car to the top, but if you're reasonably fit you can also hike it. The unpredictable weather around the mountain makes the hike a bit dangerous if you are foolhardy (one or two tourists die every year on the mountain), since cloud and impenetrable mist can drift in suddenly, so that you are forced to sit tight and wait it out. Or go down blind and risk tumbling down the mountainside, or over a cliff. However, on a clear day like the one I went there is nothing to worry about. I took the cable car to the top last weekend (perfectly, breath-takingly clear) and had a look round. From the top you can see out to Cape Point, Robben Island (where Nelson Mandela spent 18 of his 28 years imprisoned by the Apartheid government), and the whole city of Cape Town unfolding below you. The city itself is pretty tiny, more or less walkable end to end, although with the suburbs and the Cape Flats thrown in there are about 3 million people here. The only place you couldn't see is Athlone, where I live, and Guguletu, because Devil's Peak is in the way.

Devil's Peak has a great story. There is a legend that an old Dutch pirate named Van Hunks, while climbing the mountain, encountered the Devil, who challenged him to a smoking match -- for his soul. The mists which often cloud Devil's Peak and the other mountains are the results of the ongoing contest. All of the hills and mountains in the range have great names, by the way: Table Mountain, Devil's Peak, Lion's Head, Signal Hill, and (my favorite) the Twelve Apostles.

After checking out the view from the top of Table Mountain, I took the hike back down, which again was stunning. Here are a few shots. 1) A photoI found online which shows Cape Town and the harbor with Table Mountain in the background. 2) This one is taken from the stairwell in the building where I live, which is to the east of the mountain and Cape Town. 3) Robben Island, South Africa's Alcatraz for political prisoners. Now a museum and UNESCO World Heritage site. I will go in August when they are done with restorations on Mandela's cell. 4) Me at the top, camera facing to the south. If I weren't in the way you could see Cape Point. 5) Cape Town from the top of Table Mountain. 6) In the ravine that led downhill. Amazing natural beauty. I had a big smile on my face the whole way down. I would have made it down faster if I weren't stopping to soak in the view so often. This was the last photo I took before my camera stopped working. It's now in the shop.

Uncomfortable issues

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Thu, 05 Jul 2007 11:06:00 +0000

Yesterday I had a conversation with Spiwo on a topic that made me a bit uncomfortable, although it was important for me to know to develop a clearer assessment of the nature of poverty in South Africa. Spiwo had been in contact with a young man who is an aspiring volunteer, but who has a bad reputation around the community for being a loafer. There is a huge unemployment problem in the townships, in large part because people keep coming in from rural areas faster than housing can be built or jobs created. There is a need for 650,000 housing units in the Cape Flats alone. The government is currently building at a rate of 8,000 per annum in the whole country! Unemployment is a huge problem, but even so there are able-bodied young people who don't hold down a job even if given the chance. This lack of work ethic, Spiwo said, is a big problem everywhere.

Now I am a good liberal, not ashamed of my bleeding heart, and this touches a nerve because I have so often heard the argument in the States that "the poor are just lazy", which excuses the securely-employed and affluent from feeling any responsibility for the state poor people are in. Besides, I have met a lot of poor people who work very hard, and seen how their disempowerment by past and current political, social, and economic systems has so much to do with their failure. This notion of the lazy poor is a typical white stereotype in the States, and you can see it lurking implicitly beneath many arguments against welfare and other social programs. If you dig a little deeper, I think you will usually find that these "lazy poor" are also imagined to be people of color. So, to hear by black supervisor making an argument reminiscent of these stereotypes doesn't sit well with me at first.

So I ask Spiwo where this lack of work ethic comes from, especially what role the legacy of Apartheid may have played. It is not the whole story, Spiwo thinks, but Apartheid bears a great deal of the blame, since black South Africans have been exploited as cheap labor for over a century, and they have not been compensated for the back-breaking work that built the country's economy (especially in the mines, which remain the backbone of South Africa's economy). White owners always made the argument that paying the black workers more would kill the industry, and with it the economy. Yet the marginal revenue of the mines seems to have exceeded the marginal cost enough to make the owners very,very rich. Other examples abound. Combined with Bantu education that made sure blacks were unskilled and the purposeful unavailability of anything but dead-end jobs, it is understandable that people would conclude, after a certain point, that the system is set up to ensure their failure so they might as well not try too hard.

Spiwo was quick to point out that there are a lot of people in the townships who are very motivated, who find ways to acquire some of the skills the education system has failed to provide them, who find a way to get capital and start a business, etc. Spiwo is always saying there is so much talent and ability in the townships, but for the most part it hasn't been unlocked. People who have been disempowered by an oppressive system, like their parents and grandparents before them, can become mentally and spiritually disempowered. Not only are they excluded by lack of opportunity, but they learn not to believe in themselves. People who find a way out of such a situation are pretty extraordinary. They are like the middle-class kids who get into Yale, who achieve higher than peers who had the same opportunities, and go to a prestigious institution despite lacking the benefits of connections, legacy, great wealth. They are exceptional, and we should not reason that because a few succeed in this way that everyone in their situation should be able to do so as well. They may be more meritorious than the people who have the opportunities handed to them.

To use examples from US politics, both the current President and his rival in the last election went to Yale. Both were legacies, and both got mediocre grades while they were there. Yet both of them later got into Masters programs at Ivy League institutions. Was it because they were the most qualified and capable, or because they were connected? If I had gotten a C- average as an undergrad, I would not expect to hold national office later in life. Now, obviously both of these guys got their act together to some degree at a later point, but they had a safety net that others do not.

One of the most cherished assumptions in the United States is that we live in a meritocracy, yet merit requires opportunity to be realized, and many brilliant people never discover their ability because they have no one to help them see it and believe in themselves. A lot of poor people work very hard just to keep their heads above water. There is no denying that there are lazy poor people, any more than there are lazy rich people. What do year-round snowboarders living off a trust fund or Paris Hilton contribute to society? I grant that there was some level of opportunistic skill in Hilton's ability to use an amateur porn video to make her a true celebrity, i.e. someone who is famous just for being famous, but what has she ever done for anyone else? Not a very feminist example, I know, but she is not such a good example of feminism. I digress. The only difference between someone like Paris Hilton and an unmotivated poor person is that Paris has rich parents to leach off of, and doesn't have to experience consequences for any lack of work ethic. Meritocracy is a myth, and I mean that in the deeper sense of a cherished, almost metaphysical belief that founds the way a culture interprets reality. We don't talk about the Protestant work ethic for no reason. But it is also a myth in the more typical sense. Those who work hard do not always benefit, and those who reap the rewards are not always the hardest working or most creative. Opportunity and connections are the key to unlock the potential of skills and creativity. Americans believe in equality of opportunity, but we don't seem to believe in seriously making it happen.

So bringing things back to South Africa and my conversation with Spiwo (aka Dr. Xapile, aka umfundisi, aka my supervisor, in case anyone was confused), what is the response to the mentality that keeps people stuck just as much as the system does? For him personally, in his ministry, it is to encourage people to use their gifts and talents to contribute to the good of others in the community. He has worked to do this by forming a leadership team, with representatives from each of the eighteen "zones" the area around the congregation has been divided into. These zones are responsible for staying abreast of what is going on with people in the zone, who is sick, who has died, who has contracted HIV, who is hungry, etc. It is a gradual process to create a system where people take ownership of their community, take responsibility for thinking of ways to meet people's needs and maintain relationships, and a where there is accountability. It doesn't work perfectly, but there is a vision in place for how empower a core group of leaders, and to begin to empower the community through them. The ultimate goal of any social program (whether governmental, non-profit, or church based) should be to help people see the talents they have and give them opportunities to develop those talents and use them for the benefit of themselves and society. Spiwo said something I thought was very interesting in connection to this, "I find that people typically respond very positively to being trusted with responsibility. Especially here where many people have never been trusted. It can really change a person and the way she sees herself." There are huge limits on what JL Zwane can do, but Spiwo and the other staff are working to expand the ministry.

This is only a partial solution to an overwhelming problem, which obviously is a lot more complex than what I have portrayed above. I was reading a couple of articles about affirmative action programs here in South Africa, which are a facet of Black Economic Empowerment (BEE) programs in the country, but I think I will save those for another post. As in the States, there are no easy solutions to problems of poverty and racism, and there is not such consensus about how to address them. I am including a couple of pictures of the township and the lighthouse in Cape Town. Since my camera stopped working I have to rely on the pictures that are already on the memory card until the camera gets fixed.

Worse news

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Tue, 03 Jul 2007 08:39:00 +0000

This morning as I was getting ready for work, Tony called and said the staff would be doing a prayer service for Mkhululi this morning and wanted to make sure I would be there. Since umfundisi and Edwin, who is also ordained, are both out of town, leaving me the only half-way pastorally trained person present, I was asked to lead the group in a prayer.

As Tony informed everyone of why we were gathered, he said that Mkhululi had died of his injuries late last night. I had no idea, but I then had to pray seconds after the news had been broken to me. My chaplaincy experience has given me good practice at praying on the spot, and especially at knowing how important it is to acknowledge the shock of moments like this, the fact that there is no way to make sense of it. Now, I was feeling that shock, that incomprehension, myself. This is the time to call out to God in mourning, in disbelief -- not the time for comfy theological answers. Afterwards I went to Mkhululi's house, saw his mother and family, and the members of Siyaya who were all gathered there, huddled together in complete silence. I did not break the silence. There are no words to say at that moment.

I was pretty shaken up by seeing Mkhululi yesterday, and I shed a few tears thinking about him last night. And now he is dead. It is a memento mori, a reminder that death comes to us all, even when we are young and invincible. We are so fragile. It puts small challenges that have caused me stress over the past week into perspective. Calling cards didn't work, I got stuck in traffic, I got cut off and cussed out, I got lost in the townships, I lost my phone, I got robbed by two kids (who took my new phone!), my camera stopped working, the console of my car fell off inexplicably, etc. As all these things were happening I told myself, "You can't be defeated by this stuff. They are annoyances. It is a blessing that these problems should be hardest things you are facing."

Umfundisi comes back to town tomorrow, and I'm sure I'll be meeting with him to discuss pastoral care of everyone affected. The funeral will probably not be until weekend after next, giving extended family time to come into Cape Town. Here is the picture of the guys at Mzoli's again. Mkhululi is in the middle in the pink. He wore pink just about everyday. He was very confident, and it seemed nothing could stop him.

Bad news

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Mon, 02 Jul 2007 13:53:00 +0000

A terrible thing happened on Saturday morning, which I just learned about yesterday. Mkhululi, one of the guys from Siyaya was hit by a combie (mini-bus taxi) and is in the ICU. He is one of the three guys I went to Mzoli's with last weekend.

I went in to visit him in the hospital today with Bonganyi, the music director, and Johanna. The kid is in very bad shape. I was glad for my experience working in the ICU at the hospital last summer, which prepared me for this a little bit. But I was not working in a trauma ICU, and nearly all of the patients were older people in more advanced stages of disease. Some were hooked up to machines and respirators, just like Mkhululi was. But it is much different to see a healthy young person, especially one you have hung out with in that situation. He had thick bandages on his head, which was very swollen, and the machines were doing all the work for him, violently pounding breaths in and out of his heaving chest, as he is probably in an induced coma. He is only twenty-two, and he is a father. I was glad other members of Siyaya were not there with us.

There is not much you can say in such a situation. There were no family or friends to comfort, and Mkhuli was unconscious, but just seeing someone you know like that is not easy. You ask yourself, why does God allow this? That was always one of the hardest things to address as a hospital chaplain. I didn't have anything profound to say. The only God I could speak about in the hospital was one who is present in human suffering, and does not sit far off and aloof, too pure to get the divine hands dirty. If God doesn't get down in the mess with us, then there is not much use in talking about God. That at least was my feeling. So what is it like when God gets down in the muck with us? That was my question, and I had no answers. Often it was the patients and family members themselves who would be doing the ministry to me in that situation. They had much more business telling me about faith, I thought, than me trying to tell them.

What do I know? I can make the proclamation, "God is here in this tragic moment", but I couldn't point God out. When you sit beside a woman moaning in agony from bone cancer (which has to be about the worst ailment imaginable) theoretical theology is meaningless. She doesn't care, for instance, that Alvin Plantinga has proved that there is no logical inconsistency between belief in a perfectly good God and the reality of human suffering. These abstractions don't matter when you are living in the pain. There is nothing to say, as a pastor, in that situation. Ministry of presence is important -- sometimes it's all you have -- but much of the time it just isn't enough. Hospital visits militate against pat answers and easy solutions. Somehow, that is why I am drawn to situations like that. I don't like easy church answers. I would rather be real about the complexity, the incomprehensibility of suffering. It won't just go away by ignoring it.

A glum posting, I know. But this is life everywhere.

Township tours with Xolani

zachary.shaeffer@ptsem.edu (Zack) — Sun, 01 Jul 2007 10:31:00 +0000

Now that the internet is working again, I wanted to post some pictures I took a week ago when I went on Xolani May's township tour. Xolani does these for a living, and often has groups of visitors from out of the country whom he will take along on a half or full day tour of Guguletu, Philipi, and other neighboring townships. There are several companies and individuals who do these tours (a number are listed in my guidebook) although not all of them are township residents like Xolani is. You would never guess to look at him, but Xolani lives in an informal settlement, or just a shack as he is not embarrased to call it. I am giving him huge props for these tours, and it would be great if he could advertise commercially, since much of his business currently comes through connections to JL Zwane.

I really think a township tour like this is the most worthwhile thing someone can do in South Africa. There are lots of sights to see and things to do, but I feel that meeting the people in the country is the most important thing one can do while travelling. Seeing how people in a country live and interacting with them takes one past the simple tourist sight-seeing to actually engage (at least a little bit) with people. Because that's what a place is really about: people. This is particularly true in a country like South Africa which such a history of injustice, inequality, violence, and oppressive poverty. Most people from Europe and the States who come here probably go to Cape Town or one of the other big cities and enjoy the First World amenities and activities, see some wildlife at Kruger, tour the winelands, surf if that's your thing, and go home. All of these things are extremely worthwhile, but they are also an excellent recipe for not having a substantive interaction with non-white people. Now there is not really much to see in the townships for a tourist. You go there for the people, and to see the contrast with neighborhood where your hotel probably is. The fact that the township is not a tourist destination is acatually the best reason to go there, as tourist areas never tell the whole story about a culture. So in my opinion, on a visit to South Africa a township tour is a must.

People who live in Guguletu are proud of it. In fact the name means "our pride". Like other Cape Flats townships, Guguletu was founded in the 1950s when blacks were forcibly removed from Cape Town proper, and other "seasonal labourers" from Eastern Cape also needed housing. Initially, cookie cutter houses were built to house the men who left there families at home to work here and send money back. This was too expensive so eventually the government and the major companies employing these labourers (Coca-Cola, for instance) started building single-sex dormatory-style "hostels", which are still in use today, often with as many as ten people living in a space the size of my dorm room. The amenities in some of the company hostels are much better than in the government ones, although they still tend to be crowded. These housing options were made to be more or less affordable on the extremely low wages the labourers earned. Other, better homes were also built, but these were equalled in number by the shanties that sprang up later on.

There was only one road in and out of Guguletu in those early years, NY1, which is still the heart of the township. All the streets around here are just numbered "Native Yards", although they have been given proper names since 1994 (which pretty much no one uses, and they aren't labelled anyway). The way in and out of Guguletu was controlled by police, who restricted everyone moving in and out according to their government issued pass. I will write in greater detail about the pass laws later, but essentially they classified each non-white person as either a "native" or "coloured", and police could stop you indiscriminately, and at random whenever they wanted and demand your pass. These laws kept non-whites confined to certain areas, whether townships or the Bantustans (which were instituted around the same time), and millions were locked up for pass "violations" over the nearly fifty years of Apartheid. Massive resistance to the pass laws and demonstrations led to the Sharpeville Massacre in 1960 ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharpeville_Massacre ).

Locally, on 3 March, 1986 government anti-terrorist units (members of the dreaded Vlakplaas) stopped a mini-bus full of students affiliated with the ANC (African National Congress, now the ruling party) and brutally shot seven of them dead. Television and radio stories that day proclaimed that government units had killed seven "terrorists", and as the Truth and Reconciliation Commission later revealed, weapons were planted on the dead bodies. Governments since the Roman Empire have been using that label for underground resistance fighters. We should be thoughtful about how that term is used by media and by government, and how we are intended to regard people so labelled differently. Those labeled "latrones" by the Romans became eligible for the extreme punisment of crucifixion, and it is often argued today that extreme tactics are necessary to combat terrorists. Back to the Guguletu Seven, pictures at a local mini-museum show smiling soldiers standing over bullet-riddled bodies while neighbours look on from behind the police barricades. There is a memorial there today, part of which is pictured here.

Other highlights included a visit to a Shebeen, an informal tavern in an informal settlement building, which were once illegal, but are sort of okay now. Actually, when we walked in all the men in place became suddenly very quiet. It was not until Xolani explained to them that the white man was not an undercover detective that they lightened up and I got a round of what they were drinking. In this picture I am drinking umqombothi ( http://www.dispatch.co.za/1999/07/31/features/ROMANS1.HTM ), a home-made beer-like concoction made from sorghum and mealie (corn). It looks like soapy water and was a bit thicker than beer. And grainy. It has a sweetish, perfumey taste, and the texture of very thin Cream-of-Wheat. An acquired taste I think, although I hear Anheuser-Busch is marketing a sorghum beer in the US. I very politely drank several big gulps of what I was served, but I wouldn't exactly seek it out again in the future. Back in the day, shebeens were important meeting places for groups resisting the Apartheid regime. We ended the tour with my first trip to Mzoli's, where I ate my fair share of the pile of meat pictured at bottom.

An explanation of the pictures, from the top:

1) Xolani standing beside outhouses in the informal settlements. About a hundred people will use these, and they are only pumped out once a week. Many (but not all) of the informal settlement areas have a communal water tap set up, and as I've said they are often hooked up with pay as you go electricity. I didn't see much of that in this area.

2) Pigs feeding on rubbish. This used to be a nice wetland, but all the garbage has killed the frogs and other wildlife that lived there. No place else to put the trash or dump human waste. It stinks, and is a breeding ground for disease. The shacks closest to the marsh get flooded in heavy rains, and even those farther uphill can have problems with water seeping up from the ground (or through the roof). I have always loved it when it is stormy outside, and I am warm under the blankets drinking a cup of tea. Now, it makes me think of the people in the shantytowns, who have to deal with wet blankets and mattresses, and maybe have nothing but a parrafin heater -- if they are lucky.

3-4) One of the better new houses being built in Langa. It is being remodled from a former hostel building, and those moving in participated in a monthly payment scheme for a while which reserved a unit for them. Unemployment is high, so only those with a steady job and a decent wage could afford to do this. The one we went into had several rooms, lots of light, fresh plaster and paint, very good conditions. You can see by the yard that they are still under construction.

5) Across the street from this new building is one of the old hostels. Pictured are Xolani with the woman who lives in this room with her family, and Sara, an American college student who worked at JL Zwane for a few weeks this summer. One of the crazy things about going around with Xolani is that he will just walk into people's houses, say hi and ask if we can look around. He doesn't know these people, but they always let us right in. One perk to taking your tour with a township resident.

6) Part of the Guguletu Seven memorial.

7) Me drinking at the Shebeen.

8) Mzoli's meat.