Pamela on Sexism

What is sexism? Well, by dictionary definition sexism is the discrimination against women or men because of their sex  or the tendency to treat people as cultural stereotypes of their sex .

Couple weeks ago we had a class on sexism. We watched a documentary called “Dream World 3”, it talked about how women were being portrayed in music videos and how the people watching these videos were interpreting and integrating what they’re seeing  in real life. This documentary showed music videos that I am used to seeing and never thought anything of them, because I didn’t look past the music. I always saw these girls as pretty women and never paid attention to the story that was being told in the video. In these videos the female body is objectified, women are portrayed as empty status symbols  and decorative objects of male desire. They are shown as passive creatures that accept everything that men does to them.

 I wanted to talk about this documentary and the whole thing about sexism because as a young women growing up I have seen girls around me trying to look like these video models and trying to look like them. I am not going to lie I used to strive to look like a video model I wanted to be thin and “pretty” like them. I am no different from these other girls out there wanting to act like them. I was disgusted and mad at myself that night just by watching these videos and realizing what I had been doing for long. It also made me realized that for a while I stopped looking up to these standards of beauty. It is not ok for women to be treated like objects, it is not ok for men to under estimate us we are worth so much.

A few years back I was scared to wear certain types of clothing because I was self conscious about my body image I always thought that I wasn’t thin or pretty enough to wear them, because I looked nothing like these models. It wasn’t until last year that I stopped worrying about these little things I told myself that I would stop it because it shouldn’t be that way, no one should care about these minor things in life and I learn how to love my body the way it is . There are way more important things that I need to focus on, the less time I will spend on worrying about my body image the more time I will have to devote myself to important things going around the world and actually do something about it.

Watching this video made me realize that even more, people need to stop portraying women as objects and start to see them as the strong human beings they really are not only in videos, but women also need to break these cycle where they need stop following what is going on in these videos where they only serve as objects and stop striving to be carbon copies of the imaged object of male desire.

When I finished watching that documentary I told myself that I would no longer try to be one of these women who strive to reach society’s standard of ‘beauty” nor would I let anyone around me do it to themselves. As women we should not let society fix  our standard of beauty because everyone is beautiful no matter what size or race you are . I realized that here in South Africa there is less pressure at least on me to look like that because people have way more important things to worry about. The media here talks more about politics and things that really matters. In the U.S all you find in the media is how models, actresses gained weight  and where people make such a big deal out of it, I feel more pressure there to worry about how I look and how much weight I need to lose. It is still something that I am working on, it is a slow process and I know that someday I will no longer worry about these artificial things. 

Meredith on separation

The word ‘separation’ has many different connotations.  Some things in life are supposed to be separated.  Oil and water for instance.  Those two things just don’t mix and they never will.  They aren’t supposed to.  Natural separation though is a completely different concept than forced separation.  These two types of separation might as well be polar opposites because they are so completely different.  While living in South Africa for the past two months we’ve studied separation, seen separation, and experienced separation in a first-hand approach.  Though separation may seem more prevalent here in South Africa, the truth is, there is probably just as much separation in America.  The difference though is that in South Africa, separation is still on the surface making it easier to spot.  Growing up in the bubble that is a quaint New England town, I never really noticed separation being a problem in society.  Equality is still a concept newly on the surface of South Africa so now separation is brought to my mind quickly in almost every situation.  The other night for instance we went out to dinner at a Thai restaurant.  Within five minutes one of my housemates pointed out the fact that there were all white people eating in this restaurant and every single one of the waiters was either classified colored or black.  The reason why this separation is still seen is because the new democratic South Africa is still just a teenager.  Fifteen years old to be exact.  People are still dealing with the transition from apartheid to equality.  This past week we went to the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg.  The visuals that the museum offered further strengthened my understanding of apartheid along with strengthening my disgust for the word separation.  I can’t even fathom how the overall consensus of white South Africans thought that it was there God-given right to have power over other human beings.  That they were supposed to separate from them as if it was the most natural steps they could possibly take.

        We watched the movie “Color of Freedom” the other night and one scene truly stuck in my mind.  A little girls asks her mother why they have to be separated from the black and classified colored people and the mother responds by saying that it is the natural order of things.  She proceeds to explain, “that we don’t see two different species of animals together.”  This mindset disgusts me.  I don’t understand how one side of the struggle could have felt that this separation was natural, just like oil and water, when the other side clearly felt this separation was completely forced upon them.  How could common, white South Africans believe that this awful separation was completely natural, when on the inside government was doing as much as they possibly could to resist coming together?  With this much resistance, how could this separation be viewed as right?  I just can’t even understand it.  It all started when the National Party came into power in 1948.  The National Party became obsessed with the supremacy of race, classification and separation.  The party started getting so nervous that anyone who did not speak Afrikaans would try to seize power so they literally started doing everything they could to make it unachievable.  In school systems for example government would only allow English to be taught.  By teaching them English it would make it harder for them to adapt to this new language.  So they used language as a tool to weaken everyone who wasn’t white.  Does this sound like natural separation to you?

       How about the fact that if you were a black person in 1959 you had to carry around a passbook, a means for the ownership of power white people held to show complete dominance over South Africa.  With these passbooks, blacks were not allowed to go to specific areas at specific times.  Sure it held power over the black people, but overall the government’s main reason for the passbooks was separation.  The government was so terrified that classified colored and black people would come together and rebel against the government so they weakened them with law after law.  During our trip we went to the Union Building in Pretoria and I remember our Professor Vernon saying how it felt peculiar for him to even be there.  When I asked why he explained that he wasn’t allowed to be there in the past based on the color of his skin.

        Now living in Cape Town, I have noticed that there is clear separation that still exists.  It isn’t just Whites and Non-Whites.  It’s Whites, Blacks, and Classified Colored people.  There are townships that are literally three minutes away from each other but that would never associate with one another based on the language barrier that they face.  Walking around Cape Town, it really shows how in the past the government did a relatively good job forcing separation based on the divide that is still clearly shown today.

            Separation is such an interesting concept that comes in so many different shapes and sizes.  It can engulf a country, or it can affect a single person.  When I was at a market in Johannesburg, I was haggling with a man for a beaded figurine and we got to talk about life.  He asked me how long I’ve been in South Africa and I explained that I’ve been here for about two and a half months.  He asked if I missed my family and friends and I explained that I missed them all incredibly but I still have a means of communication with them so it’s manageable.  He then asked how I would feel if I couldn’t see them for six years. He went on to explain that his family and his sweetheart live in Kenya and he hasn’t seen them in six years.  I can’t even imagine that kind of separation without any form of contact with my loved ones.  Though he would rather be in Kenya where he belongs, he made Johannesburg his temporary home so he could raise support for his family.  His love for them exceeds the notion of separation.  I thought that was really admirable and on a positive note, he went on to tell me how he was traveling back in January and how excited he was to see them.

Adam on the highs and lows

Our trip to Johannesburg and Kruger National Park was a truly memorable one.  From what I saw of Johannesburg I’m happy that I’m spending my study abroad experience in Cape Town.  It just seemed that it was a city that is still very much stuck in the past as opposed to Cape Town which seems to be much more progressive and liberal.  For instance if you are an open homosexual in Johannesburg it is much less accepted by society than it is in Cape Town.  It was these little facts that I picked up along the way from the people that lived in Johannesburg that caused me to form my view of the city.  Overall it just made me realize how much more Cape Town really does feel like “home.”

           

Kruger was a great experience.  All of the animals and the bush were so amazing.  It was beautiful and the experience of going on an African safari is something that I feel everyone should do at least once in their lifetime.  We saw rhinoceroses, elephants, hippopotamuses, hyenas, and some of us even got see a leopard.  The walking tour through the bush really allowed me to pick up on all of the small details about the environment that you miss when you’re riding in the truck.

So as of now we have about six weeks left here in Cape Town.  We’re going to a human rights conference this weekend, which should be interesting.  I’m getting a sense that for many in the house homesickness is beginning to set in a bit more than usual.  I think it may just be the realization that we’re back from our excursion and people are coming to grips with the reality that there is still six more weeks of internships and classes.  I am even a little daunted by this fact.  I think it may be the monotony of it all that is getting to people.  Either way I plan to make the most of my last month and a half of my time in Cape Town. 

             

Katherine on changes she would not have expected

While we did many things on our spring break excursion, one moment during our trip that stuck out to me was when we took a tour of the Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital in Johannesburg. It is the largest hospital in the southern hemisphere.  Our guide who works on a program called “Health 4 Men” showed us around many areas of the hospital and then brought us to the Board Room.  She discussed how “Health 4 Men” works and what kind of patients they see.  It was started in part to provide a place for gay men to come and receive health information.  There is a large gay community in Soweto (the biggest township in South Africa) where some of the “Health 4 Men” program participants come from.

During her speech, the lady who showed us around said that “Health 4 Men” does not promote homosexuality but understands that it exists and therefore is providing a place for sexual health awareness.  I was surprised at how offended I was by this woman’s comment about homosexuality being something they do not wish to “promote.”  After she made the comment I quickly glanced around the room wondering if I had misheard the woman, but other people were frowning and making unpleasant facial expressions, as well.  While I am heterosexual, after living and interacting with three people on a daily basis who have declared their sexual orientation to be within the LGBTI range, I have become much more sensitive to how they are perceived.  It is not always easy for them, especially when people are not willing to accept them, even if their sexual preference is not “straight.”

At the end of her talk, she asked a few times if there were any more questions and when everyone seemed to be done asking questions I finally decided to challenge the woman’s comment about homosexuality.  I told her that I do not find homosexuality to be something that, if promoted, is contagious and will make other people become gay.  I then asked her how the gay community can feel welcomed or comfortable coming to “Health 4 Men” if the program continues to stigmatize homosexuality.  The woman’s response led me to believe that she had not quite meant what she had originally said.  She informed our group that homosexuality is still extremely shunned in South Africa and that if “Health 4 Men” was seen as a homosexual program than those who were known to come to the clinic would be harassed or abused.  While I understood what she was trying to get at, for some reason I still was bothered by the use of the word “promote.”

I was proud of myself for challenging the woman’s statement.  Before living and interacting with a few people who are not heterosexual, I would have most likely let the comment go and not have asked the “Health 4 Men” woman any questions.  I was surprised when one of the people in my group thanked me for being an ally and countering the woman’s statement.  Instances like this show me that I have changed in ways I would not have expected before coming on this trip.

Michelle on the stages of cultural shock

For the past few blog entries, I have been incredibly up-beat, excited, and generally all-around chipper. After re-reading my last blog entry, I have decided that chipper is not exactly the feeling I have had over the past few weeks. A more realistic representation of my moods would probably include the words, angry, irritable, and frustrated. We had our first bout of house drama, which was to be expected. I have faced some trouble in feeling accepted at my internship, and have been feeling my first real stabs of homesickness. Up until a few weeks ago, I was in a honeymoon period. I couldn’t get enough of everything in Cape Town, and everyone in the house. I was constantly amazed by the city’s beauty, and continually engrossed with my new friends. As I constantly saw the injustices that still exist, and as I slowly realized that it can be exhausting to be around the same 12 people (although I love them dearly) all day every day, the city began to lose its luster. At the same time, I was having spotty internet and skype issues, so I hadn’t spoken with my family or boyfriend in almost three weeks. Even as the city started to fade as a magical place, I also started to realize that I am almost 2/3 of the way through my time here. All of these things combined contributed to a feeling of unrest in these past few days.

Even more frustrating is that the study abroad fair said that this would happen. We actually went to a seminar in which other people told me how I would feel and when. And then it happened. The study abroad fair predicted that I would first feel a stage of honeymoon, which for me lasted approximately six weeks, followed by conflict and frustration, which has lasted for about three weeks, and now I can feel myself moving into a more realistic love for this beautiful, yet challenging, place. The thing I worry about most now is adjusting back to my life in the States. How will I go back to living in the most racially and economically segregated state in the country? How will I continue to see amazing prejudices and examples of white privilege and not blow a casket?

Since my last blog entry, we have participated in Cape Town Pride, visited Bo-Kaap, the Muslim quarter of the city, been to Johannesburg, and visited Kruger National Park. It was great to see another South African city, but I just didn’t feel the same connection that I do in Cape Town. As we flew back into the Mother City and I saw the outline of Table Mountain, I knew I was home.

Sarah on 'experiencing' Sharpeville

We all got back from Kruger yesterday, exhausted and eager to be “home.”  I never realized I subconsciously considered 10 Lock Rd. to be such a place, but when the plane touched down in Cape Town and we got our first glimpse of Table Mountain, I felt as if our journey was over and we were home.

Our excursion to Johannesburg and Kruger National Park was successful, albeit exhausting and sometimes even overwhelming.  One of my favorite parts was our visit to Sharpeville.  I was amazed at how well it all worked out…I became interested in their community, and we so happened to be going on excursion in the area, and then Marita and Vernon were nice enough to fit it into our already packed schedule.  Everything worked out flawlessly.  We went on a tour led by some of the community members I had met in Cape Town.  The story of the “Sharpeville 6” was clarified in greater detail (I had met a member of the “Sharpeville 6” in Cape Town as well).

A mob of about 200 residents of Sharpeville marched through the streets, protesting exorbitant rent prices (during the Apartheid Regime, blacks were not allowed to own land, thus enabling the government to remove them from their houses if they were not able to pay ridiculously high rent prices).  The mob proceeded to the mayor’s house and asked him to join their cause.  Upon his refusal, he fired a revolver into the crowd, injuring a handful of the protestors.  When he ran out of bullets, the mob burned down his house, killing the mayor in the process.

In response, the Apartheid government singled out 6 of those supposedly in attendance and sentenced them to death by hanging.  After eating their last meal, with mere hours before their imminent hanging, their death sentence was terminated on account of international demand.  Their belated release in 1990 has left 2 survivors with mediocre jobs: one man sells vegetables and stays away from even the idea of politics to this day; one man finally found a job just this past year cutting grass at the municipality.

We were able to see the building that was burned down, or at least what is left of it.  The house was never rebuilt, and only a small weathered frame remains, unprotected and available for all to see and touch.  The frame of the house is actually in an old woman’s front yard.  All of us sat down under the frame with the woman and her children, taking pictures and communicating in any we could.  It was one of my favorite experiences on the excursion, yet I could not help but think of those six people who probably could never come near that site.  A place of such peace and happiness for some is a place of horror and pain for others.

It was also upsetting to compare the progress of Soweto to the progress (or lack there of) in Sharpeville.  For whatever reason, Soweto has been built up while Sharpeville has been completely overlooked.  Tomorrow is Human Rights Day, previously commemorated as Sharpeville Day.  As a protest to yet another example of neglect, the community has decided to protest their former national holiday.

 I was happy, however, to read an article commemorating Sharepville on the Yahoo homepage today.  It described the ceremony at the Garden of Remembrance that we also visited, as well as giving insight into the daily lives of citizens in the community.  Such recognition is what the community strives for, and I hope our visit will spark the acknowledgment and appreciation they deserve.

Erica's continuing journey

During our first two weeks in Cape Town, we were flooded with history lessons about South Africa, we went on excursions to various historical sites and learned about apartheid, and we witnessed the harsh reality that apartheid still has lasting effects on South Africa’s people. We began our internships and by talking with the people of South Africa were reminded even more about the struggles they must face. I remember writing in my journal, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to numb myself to the kind of pain I’ve witnessed in South Africa or to the reconciliation that makes this country so incredible.” However, I have to admit as time went on I did begin to become jaded to some of the things I witnessed. That’s not to say that I stopped caring, but when you are exposed to poverty and the effects of poverty on a daily basis, you naturally become more used to the realities you see. However during our excursion to Johannesburg this past week, while I was least expecting it, many of the things I felt my first two weeks while I was here were awoken in me once again. 

There could be several reasons for this. Maybe it was seeing Soweto—the largest township in all of South Africa, home to 3 million people, and trying to grasp the reality that the poverty expanded on for miles and miles. Or maybe it was visiting the Hector Peterson Museum, the museum that commemorates the children who were brutally murdered by the South African police during apartheid when students of Soweto protested against Bantu education, an education system that would have forced the predominantly black students of Soweto to learn in Afrikaans and would have removed regular school subjects, like math and science, from their curriculum. Hector Peterson was the first child shot and killed—he was only 13. Or maybe it was visiting the Apartheid Museum, where I watched real footage of the violence that occurred during apartheid. It was the first time I had ever seen someone die. Of course we’re exposed to violence like this in movies all of the time, but as I sat there in the darkness of the apartheid museum, watching on three big screen televisions the violent massacres and protests, the reality sunk in that these were real people being bitten by police dogs and beaten by the police officers and getting shot in the back by machine guns—real people dying on the ground, gasping for their last breath—all because of the color of their skin. These images will haunt me for the rest of my life.



However, I think what affected me the most during our time in Johannesburg was our visit to Sharpeville. Sharpeville is a predominantly black township about an hour out of the city. In Vincent’s class we learned that in 1960, hundreds of people came together in front of a police station in Sharpeville to burn their passbooks as part of the Defiance Campaign. Passbooks, a hated symbol of apartheid, were what determined where a man or woman could travel depending on the color of their skin. On March 21, 1960, fifty years ago from today, the police opened fire on the crowd of men, women, and children gathered outside the station, killing 69 and wounding 108. When we visited Sharpeville, we visited their graves, and I was absolutely shocked to see the ages of those murdered. I walked past gravestone after gravestone—age 12, age 13, age 17. I stopped at one gravestone in particular and stared at it for quite some time. “Mahlong Shadrack, age 19.” 19. That’s my age. My age. The reality began to sink in that this person fought and died for freedom and was never able to bear the fruits of that freedom because his life was stolen due to apartheid. And he was only 19. What sorts of freedoms am I enjoying at 19? I have the freedom of education. The freedom to move and travel as I please. The freedom to laugh and enjoy myself because I do not have the weight of the world on my shoulders. These are all things that Mahlong Shadrack was denied in life and in death. The injustice of it all hit me on a new level.

 After we were done at the gravesite, we were given the opportunity to talk to some of the incredible people of Sharpeville. They flocked to us to ask us questions and to answer our questions about their community. It was as if they had not seen someone come from outside of Sharpeville in years. Some of them told us that Sharpeville has not changed in 50 years—that it looks exactly the same way it did when the massacre occurred, and that justice has still not been granted to the much deserving people of Sharpeville. We have visited many townships before, but Sharpeville was certainly one of the poorest, if not the poorest. People told us about the lack of schools or clinics and the staggering unemployment rate. In fact, just last week there were protests in Sharpeville in a desperate attempt to get the government’s attention with the slim hope that maybe something would be done to help the people of Sharpeville. As I listened to all of these realities, I felt small and confused.

Of the many locals we talked to, I think the most touching experience for me was when we talked with a woman who told us to call her Grandma. She came out from her home to speak with us, and a handful of small, barefoot children followed behind her and gathered around her skirt, laughing at all of these new and strange faces that reached out to get to know them.

Before I go on, I should mention my bracelets. For the past 6 years or so I’ve made bracelets out of colored embroidery string. Each bracelet has a different meaning for me or a different memory or person associated with it. In fact, I am currently working on making bracelets for some of my students at Thandokhulu so that they can remember me after I’m gone. Lately, however, I’ve kind of wanted to slowly detach myself from the many bracelets I wear because, for me, when a bracelet falls off it symbolizes some sort of personal or emotional growth. Since I have been here, 4 of them have fallen off of my wrist at very significant moments. One fell off the day I got to South Africa. One fell off on a day I talked with my family about something really important to me. Another fell off the day after I bungy jumped. Then, after the Apartheid Museum, while we stood in the center of Soweto, I ripped one of in anger due to the injustices I had witnessed that day. It happened to be the bracelet that I made with the colors of the South African flag. I was about to throw the bracelet down on the ground and leave it in Soweto, when something told me to hold on to it.

While we stood outside of Grandma’s house in Sharpeville, playing with her many grandchildren I noticed that one little girl, who told me she was 12, was wearing a simple piece of brown string around her wrist. Immediately, I knew why I had kept the bracelet that I had ripped off the day before. 

“Do you like bracelets?” I said to her.

She nodded her head and whispered, “Yes.”

I pulled from my purse the bracelet made of South Africa’s colors and tied it around her wrist. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the smile that came to her. I couldn’t believe how happy she looked.

Leaving Sharpeville was extremely difficult for me because I felt like I couldn’t give enough of myself to that place. As we drove away I kept thinking to myself, “I have to come back. I have to do more.” However, giving that little girl my bracelet made me feel like I left a large piece of my heart, my soul, and my mind in Sharpeville. I will never forget her, or her smile. And it is this memory that will help me to move forward in life and continue to be an activist for change.