the land of the free?

Today is Freedom Day.  How ironic is that.

We woke up at the normal time, all set to spend the day at 1000 Hills Community Helpers, where they host a baby clinic on Tuesdays.  St. Leo's is closed (yet again) for the public holiday, so I'm not starting my week there until tomorrow.
Just as we were about to pile into the car, we got two phone calls-- the first from Meg, who was being sent home from the Respite Center to have a day off for the holiday, and one from Karen, telling us that 1000 Hills was also closed for Freedom Day today.
So there we were, four volunteers who'd cried off early from a party last night because we had to work today; "Volunteering never takes a holiday!" we'd said as we excused ourselves.  And we had nowhere to work.
I decided there was a good opportunity to get my missing invoice from my toe procedure back in early March and then I'd finally be able to send off my insurance claim, so with eager roommates in tow, off I drove to Pinetown, where the process was shockingly painless.  With form in hand two minutes later, and it now being only 8:17 am, Mary-Kate suggested we drive to Wyebank to visit Sbu, an 11-year-old who had been released from the Respite Center a couple of weeks ago.

Sbu was admitted for TB and thankfully tested negative for HIV, even though he lives in a child-headed household because his mother died of AIDS.  He lives with his siblings and young cousins in a one-room shack managed by his 16-year-old cousin, who herself has a baby boy just 10 months old.
They were pleased to see us, I think, though the presence of an umlungu, or white person, always comes as a surprise in the valley.  We had brought them a cake to share that the priests had given us, so we left that in the one room they call home and headed out to the yard to play a very pitiful game of soccer, though Sbu showed some pretty impressive moves when he wasn't coughing.
We played for twenty minutes or so, then got ready to leave.  As we said our goodbyes, Sbu and his older sister Pamela approached us.  Pamela goes to an Indian school up on the hill with a very good reputation, and her English is excellent.  She drew close to Mary-Kate and then said, "My cousin (the 16-year-old head of the house) has asked me to see if you can get us some bread.  For breakfast."
There we were, three people trying to say our goodbyes, and then suddenly, we're hit with the question.  Several other questions began to run through our minds: If we buy them bread, are they going to expect us to provide bread every time we visit?  What if we can't visit sometimes?  What about the food parcels they're supposed to be receiving from the Respite Center and the Islamic Center up the road?  And then, the hardest question of all... How are we, in our right minds, supposed to walk away from a household run by a mere child feeling like we did absolutely nothing to rectify the situation?

 My image of poverty has shifted a lot because of things I've seen here in South Africa.  The Sinead on a Villanova mission trip would have demanded that we get some bread immediately.  But unfortunately, though those seven children would have eaten bread instead of cake for breakfast, that would have just been today.  What about tomorrow, or the day after that?
The question of sustainable aid in situations like Sbu's takes center stage now.  Their poverty is so much more than just no bread for breakfast.  And I really don't know what hell I'm supposed to do about it.

As we drove home in silence, the happy buzz from an unexpected day off had long since evaporated into the humid air.  Back in Hillcrest, people who had more than bread for breakfast yesterday, today, and tomorrow, donned bright white shorts and t-shirts and played a rousing round of tennis on their day off.

After all, that is what Freedom Day celebrates after all...... isn't it?

happy easter!

Dear friends all over the world,

Happy Easter!  I know I've been absent lately, but between internet limitations, busy schedules, and visitors (the Cloughleys are here!), it's been hard to get around to updating....... but this just means I'll have plenty to report when I'm back on a normal schedule again.

Enjoy the day and I hope all is well wherever you are.

learning to pray.

This blog entry was written for the Augustinian Volunteers' website, which you can find here.  I wrote about how my spirituality has grown so far during my year here in South Africa.

It’s another Tuesday at St. Leo’s Primary, and I’m seriously dragging.  The photocopier is out of toner again, which means the vocabulary test that we’d planned for Grade 5 has to be a bit more off the cuff than I’d anticipated—but that’s the nature of teaching in this school.  This is a place where almost seven hundred learners have been admitted to the school, despite lack of space and individual attention;  a place where pencils are in such short supply that they have to be labelled with names to keep them from going missing; a place where teachers engaging their students in the classroom is the exception, and not the rule.

But St. Leo’s is also a place where the library is one of the most valued spots in the school; where the enrollment is so high that the administration can’t keep up, just because parents want their children to learn English with Americans; a place where the sound of young voices singing can make even the most miserable Monday mornings worth it.  In a country where the population has big dreams and very little follow-through, the children at St. Leo’s are an example of the hope I’ve come to look for with each day that passes here in South Africa.

Break at St. Leo’s comes early; at ten o’clock in the morning, I’m not hungry and not ready to interrupt the day just yet.  On this particular Tuesday, the four classes that follow break are even more of a struggle than the two I had this morning.  We attempt to review some lessons from the previous weeks after the test is finished and graded, but the learners are lethargic and I’m losing my patience.  I can only repeat myself so many times—a mystery is “a puzzle without an answer”, and “a chance to do something” is an opportunity, not often.  And then, just when I’m about to resort to reading them a story instead, the bells from the church next door ring to signal midday, and the sixteen Grade 5 students in front of me stand up, fold their hands, close their eyes, and bow their heads.  They begin to pray.

Yethi Maria, ogcwele igrasiya, iNkosi inawe, ubusisiwe wena esifazaneni, ibusisiwe nenzalo yesisu sakho uJesu.  Maria ocwebileyo, Nina kaNkulunkulu, mawusikhulekele thina zoni, manje nasesikhathini sokufa kewthu.  Amen.

As the words rise to Mary who hears and understands, whether in English or in Zulu, I close my eyes and lean against the bookshelf near my desk, reflecting on the day so far and silently asking God to help me through the rest.  I open my eyes again and look around the room, at the boys and girls in front of me, praying fervently in the midst of the schoolday.  My heart is filled with so much love.

This is the type of encounter with God I have come to know and appreciate during my time as an AV in South Africa—the prayers that offer me respite from the noise of language barriers, racial identity, and poverty.

Though I’m a teacher, I’ve learned from these students; learned that prayer has to be an integral part of every day, even if it is just a few Hail Marys quickly spoken during a vocabulary review, or hymns sung during assembly as the sun rises over the valley.  The Zulus’ prayer life is one without expectations or judgment, where I can participate in a Zulu teachers’ prayer meeting in English and no one minds.  The devotion to everyday spirituality that I’ve witnessed here in South Africa is inspiring, especially when the living conditions of some should adversely affect their wellbeing.  But it is these simple daily encounters with a very present God that give South Africans the hope they need to push onwards.  This entire year is my classroom, and the people with whom I spend my days are my teachers, gently guiding me towards the presence of God.