Rachel on being her competitive self

We have done so many things since my last blog entry that have been absolutely incredible.  We have been to Kruger National Park (which I honestly think was a vivid dream that I had as a kid) we have been to soccer city stadium (where the finals for the world cup are going to be held, I felt like I was apart of history) we have been to a human rights conference (and actually got the chance to hang out with people from all over Africa).  But, to be honest, I feel a lack of inspiration.  I don’t know quite what to talk about in this blog because I feel as though my words cannot even touch upon how I have felt in any of these moments.  On top of that, I do feel quite a bit on pain in my foot, which was broken in three places in an unfortunate game of three sticks, a traditional game of township South Africans.

This game is simple.  You take three sticks and lay them on the ground some short distance from one another.  Once you take a step over the first stick, you may only take two steps before getting over the third stick.  The sticks move further and further apart as the game goes on thus making it more difficult to attempt getting over that third stick.  Each round, more and more people become eliminated, for they have failed to get over the third sticks with only two steps.  Me, being my competitive self, refused to lose at such a game.  At this point it is only Sizwe and I left in the game.  I have beaten everyone else, including Brett (not exactly sure how tall) about six foot three.  No offense Brett, but I thought it pretty impressive myself.  Sizwe, whom I am pretty sure has wings on his feet is impatiently waiting for me to jump, hoping for my failure so that he can win the game.  Did I mention that this is during a twenty-minute break at a human rights conference and I am wearing jeans a decently nice shirt and had to remove my shoes because they were inadequate for this type of game? I jump one, two, eyeing the third stick, unsure of myself.  I just land past the third stick but at a price.   I hear a crack.  I feel immense pain shoot through what feels like my whole body. My eyes shut tightly and I feel water rushing to them.  Shit.  I pretend nothing is wrong. I pretend to walk it off. For is it not completely embarrassing to have hurt yourself in a game as simple as three sticks? Now let me throw a bunch of numbers your way.  3 sticks, 3 hours at the hospital, 3 broken bones, 4-6 weeks to heal, 5 weeks left in Cape Town.  What’s a girl to do?

To make myself feel better, I told my friend I broke my foot because an elephant stepped on it.

He believed me.
                                                    

                    

Erica's hike as a metaphor for her time in South Africa

A few nights ago, Brittany, Sarah, and I decided to hike Lion’s Head at sunset with some of Brittany’s friends from work. But, given the fact that we’re all on laid-back South African time, we got a late start. Though the moon was full, and the bright city lights surrounded us, most of the hike was in the dark, using flashlights. In the first few minutes of the hike, I fell and scraped up my hands pretty badly. I told myself, “Turn around, you’re crazy, you can’t hike this entire thing in the dark.” As I climbed the rocks, I kept thinking to myself, “You’re going to have to hike back down this and it’s going to be terrifying.” At points, the path narrowed and we were literally right on the edge of the mountain in the dark. I thought of my Dad and everything he’s ever taught me about hiking (and not hiking!) at night, and I knew he’d reprimand me for this entire adventure. But when I finally got to the top, I knew why I was up there. At the summit, we had a 360 view of Cape Town at night. The moon was full over the city, and though I knew that down below, a loud and exuberant city existed, from up above it looked so peaceful and quiet. The white waves of the ocean stood out against the blackness of the water—the ocean at night seems so massive and powerful…always moving, always full of life. The lights of the city glistened so that it seemed as if the whole city were alive and moving to the beat of the ocean. Above me, I could see Orion, my favorite constellation. Those are the stars I use to anchor myself no matter where I am in the world. Though I was still shaking from that terrifying hike, I began to breathe and really appreciate what a gift it was to look at Cape Town from the summit. I said aloud to everyone, “How am I ever going to leave this place?” As I looked down at Cape Town, I felt like I was looking down at my home. And it was breath taking. 


On the way down, I had to stop and cry a few times because I was panicking. There were points where I really just wanted to be airlifted off of the mountain because I didn’t see how I was going to make it down in the dark. But, just like bungy jumping, I realized my body and my mind are capable of doing incredible things. So often we limit ourselves because of fear—and when I got over the “hard” part of the hike, I realized just how capable I really am. Sarah and I had what we called a “campfire moment”—one of those cliché moments that you see in movies. I turned to her and I said, “Sarah, can I have an English major, metaphor moment with you?” And she, of course, said yes. I told her that I felt like the hike could be a metaphor for my time in South Africa. There have been times here where I’ve literally just wanted to sit down, cry, and not move another step. But I’ve had to learn to trust myself and empower myself to get over the difficult things I’ve experienced here. Sarah kept saying to me when I was scared, “You’re in charge of whether or not you fall. You have control over your body. You have control over which step you take next.” Her advice could apply to so many things in life, and I really appreciated it.

It was so fitting to hike Lion’s Head in the dark. Not only did I get to see a 360 view of this beautiful city I now call home, but I also began to appreciate my time here in South Africa in a completely new way. You are as strong as you tell yourself that you are. I’ve spent a lot of time telling myself I can’t do things. I’m glad that the other night I proved myself wrong.

Pamela reflects on her excursion week

This week for our excursion we visited Johannesburg and Kruger National Park. We spent three days in Johannesburg where we visited many museums and did other fun activities. We went to the Apartheid museum where I had the chance to learn more in depth the beginnings and a better understanding of  Apartheid and how it happened. It was very difficult for me to go through this museum because learning about what these people went through made me very angry and sad it was very painful. All I kept asking myself was :

-How would have I dealt with all these events if I was a young South African growing up at this time?

-       What would have happened to me?

-        

I came out of the museum I still didn’t have any answers to my questions, I still could not wrap my brain around the fact that people could treat humans that bad and put them intentionally in these life conditions when these people had done nothing but being themselves. How could people be so cruel to others just because they had a different amount of melanin in their skin? I cannot say that I understand what these people have been through because I have never in a situation …. All I could ask was WHY?

Another museum that we visited was the Hector Peterson museum in Soweto. Hector Peterson was a thirteen year old boy, he was one of the first students killed during the 1976 uprising in Soweto. He has since become a symbol of youth resistance to apartheid. This uprising started on 16 June 1976 as a peaceful protest march organized by school students in Soweto. One of the main grievances was the introduction of Afrikaans, regarded as the language of the oppressor, as a medium of instruction in all African schools. What I liked about that museum was that they didn’t only concentrate on Hector Peterson but they also concentrated on everyone else that gave their lives for the South African Liberation. I was outraged by the fact that these students got shoot for protesting their rights to education in their mother language. Once again all I could ask was WHY? And once again get no answer. Why do people have to be so hateful towards each other? It quite intrigues me.

                                

Then we visited a township called Sharpeville where in 1960, a massacre happened when police opened fire on protesters, killing 69 people. There we had the chance to interact with people from Sharpeville who told us the story behind Sharpeville and  how anything hasn’t changed since 1960. People are still living in miserable conditions and no one has done anything to help them. People tend to forget that Sharpeville happened too and give them more help. It is saddening to see all that poverty around and not be able to help right away. These people are so strong and no matter what happened they kept on going and they are still here living day to day no matter in what conditions they have been put through. It reminded me that anything that will happen to me I should be strong and deal with it because there are people that have been through worse than I have.

Our excursion was not all depression and frustration for me, we spent two days in Kruger National Park where I had the chance to go on a Safari, I saw Hippos, Hyenas, Rhinos, Giraffes, Elephant, and Impalas. I was very happy to see them. I can say that I really liked our excursion, it was very educational and made me do a lot of thinking, but I also had fun!

Meredith's memories of Christel House...so far

South Africans know how to take a break.  In fact they take breaks like it’s there job.  No literally they take breaks like it’s there job.  Many of us had trouble adapting to this new African work pace in fact.  I mean who doesn’t love a nice tea break, but after the breaks become longer than the actual work and the tea begins to take over your bladder, American’s start to get pretty darn tense.  So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I heard that all schools in South Africa are taking there vacation break starting today, March 25th and ending April 12th.  So yes, the other day was unfortunately my last day working with the Grade R students for over two weeks.  I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do with myself, they’ve become probably one of the biggest parts of my life in the past few months.  I remember half way through our excursion last week, Pamela and I were nearly in tears recreating our favorite moments of Christel House so far.  Boy would we have rather gone to work instead of going on a safari.  Never thought I would catch myself making that statement.

Here are a handful of my favorite memories from Christel House so far:
 

I’ll start with a funny one.  One day the kids were divided into groups, some were playing on the mat, some were doing worksheets, some coloring, some finger painting.  I was helping with the messy finger painting table when I heard the kids who were playing on the mat laughing hysterically and one of the little girls was looking at me with the longest face I’ve ever seen.  I could see the tears welling up in her big eyes as she stood up and crossed the room to me.  Then she proceeded to say in one of the most innocent voices ever, “Miss Meredith, I made a toot and I forgot to say pardon.”  I would say it was probably one of the cutest statements ever.

About two weeks ago, the children were once again divided into groups at different stations of the classroom.  I was helping the children with puzzles when I noticed that one of the children in the class seemed a tad off.  This little girl who is normally incredibly blissful and happy looked distressed and upset.  I leaned down to her level and asked her if she was okay.  One of the main difficulties Americans must conquer working in South Africa is the language barrier.  It is definitely a problem you have to solve in different ways depending on the situation you are in.  This barrier is especially prevalent in the classroom.  Half of the Grade R students are Xhosa speaking when at the same time the other half are Afrikaans speaking.  Mix that with me, the American, and obviously I’m going to naturally have some translation issues.  I’m sure that everyone who works in classrooms adapt to this barrier in different ways.  Me for example, I’ve learned to use lots of hand gestures and few simple words to demonstrate what I’m trying to get across.  So as I talked to the student I tried the classic technique, hand gestures and simple words, but see, this is only part one of the translation.  Once she understands exactly what I’m asking she has to attempt to respond back to me in the best way she possibly can.  This is the part that I always seem to have trouble with.  Understanding the kids responses back to me.  Instead of saying something though, she just started to cry.  So that helped me narrow down what was wrong a little more.  Then she proceeded to say the word pain.  I talked to the teacher about it and she seemed to think that the little girl had a headache so we got her some water.  This helped the girl to stop crying but she still looked off to me.  Then it was recess time and as all of the children were running around playing, this little girl instead came over to me and I rocked her on my lap for the whole break.  I felt her head and her temperature definitely seemed above average.  Once playtime ended I kept an eye on her in the classroom.  I turned around for one second to check on another student’s work when I suddenly heard exactly twenty-eight gasps than complete silence.  I can’t even begin to explain to you how bizarre complete silence sounds when you are in a small room with twenty-nine six-year-olds.  Followed by wide eyes, mouths opened, and fingers pointing I knew it had happened.  Sure enough, I turned around and the little girl had thrown up all over the mat.  That was all that she needed to do to make herself feel better.  She was taken to the nurse, but within an hour she was back in the classroom and completely normal again.

Recess is always a very fun and interesting experience.  Once you step outside the classroom during recess it is as if a motion detector goes off that tells the kids that you are outside.  I’ll just be sitting on the ledge of a walkway and all of the sudden there are about twelve children around me.  Somehow about four sitting on my lap, anywhere from one to six playing with my hair and about three more laying on me.  It’s wonderful.  Anyway, about a month ago at recess, I asked the kids if they would teach me how to speak Xhosa.  I figured that I am teaching them English and they can teach me Xhosa.  They were all very excited by this idea and early tried to teach me the first word.  The first word that they taught me was ingqiniba which means elbow in English.  My Xhosa lesson unfortunately did not get much farther because apparently I couldn’t master even the first word.  They would say the word with the correct clicks and I would try my version of clicks in the word and they would all laugh hysterically.  We probably tried this about forty times that first day.  Then it got a little bit ridiculous when I said elbow in English and they told me I was saying it wrong.  I think they just liked laughing at me.  Now, weeks later every time certain children see me they scream “Ingqiniba!” really loud and point to my elbow.  If I come out of this experience knowing one word in Xhosa let me tell you that it is definitely elbow.

These are just three of the millions of memories that I have about Christel House so far.  If you ever want to hear anymore just ask.  I could literally talk for hours. 
                                            
                    
  

Michelle's exciting new journey

This past week was an exhilarating one, as I got to see my first birth. I usually go with Susan or Ciska (they switch off being on call and seeing clients) to their appointments on Tuesdays. Since we returned from Jo’burg, Susan and Ciska have been adamant on getting me to a birth, so this week Susan was priming all the women who are due soon with little comments like, “yes, either me or Ciska will be there, and maybe Michelle too.” As I left last Tuesday, Susan told me to keep my phone on and with me at all times. There were seven women due in the last two weeks of the month, so I was officially on call.

There was a possibility that I would be called to a birth in the near future, as Susan performed two “stretch and sweep” procedures on women who were over-due that day. “Stretch and sweep” refers to a process in which the midwife will prime the cervix by literally stretching it with her fingers and sweeping her fingers around it in hopes that this will release hormones that will begin a feedback loop of contractions. The hormone is released, it goes to the brain, the brain sends signals to start contractions, these contractions open up the cervix more, and more labor hormone is released. It is a beautiful, and amazingly simple system.

I left the practice antsy and excited. Would the call come late tonight? In the early hours of the morning? Not until the next day? I turned my phone’s volume up as high as it would go. There would be no way I would miss the call. I woke up the next morning, and there was nothing yet. I went to my internship and patiently waited. Should I SMS Ciska? I decided not to, and to try and get my mind on other things, like compiling a budget for Gender DynamiX’s exchange program next month.

I returned home that afternoon, and a bunch of us made plans to go to the Taste of Cape Town, an annual event in which restaurants from all over the city bring food for locals and tourists alike to try. I was excited to go, but no sooner had we made our plans, my phone rang, obnoxiously loud. It was time. I picked up, and tried to hide much of the excitement in my voice. I needed to sound like a mature, capable apprentice. I got the information, and hurried out of the house, caught a mini-bus taxi, and was in downtown Claremont in no time.

Ciska had told me to tell the head sister (nurse) on the labor and delivery ward that I was an apprentice midwife joining her for the delivery. It was the first time I had referred to myself, out loud, as an apprentice midwife. It fit, I think. I got into the room, and Ciska caught me up on the situation. The woman in labor had been induced at 11:30 that morning, and labor had been slow and contractions spotty. At about 3:30, Ciska broke her water, and that’s when she called me. Labor had progressed quickly, and by about 6 p.m., delivery seemed imminent. My primary jobs were to run and fetch things that were needed, help get the delivery kit set up, and take note of things once the baby was born, like birth time, weight, height, and head circumference.

While laboring, the woman was walking around, leaning on her husband, sitting on a bosu ball, rolling her hips, humming, moving, humming. She was completely in her own space, and honestly, I don’t even think she realized I was there until after the birth. It was amazing to see Ciska’s many roles in that space. She was completely calm, guiding, leading, following. Giving instructions and taking them from the soon-to-be mother. She later told me that the only time she becomes assertive and gives directions that absolutely must be followed is when she needs something quickly, like to examine mother or baby. There was one instance in which I really feel that I could pin-point a key difference in midwife and obstetric care. As the second stage of labor neared, pushing, Ciska needed to make sure that she was fully dilated, which she would do through an internal examination. Ciska asked if she could examine her, and at first she said no. Ciska asked again, and told her that she really needed to check, and that she would not examine her without her consent, but that it had to be done. Ciska needed the woman to partner with her and work with her. In any other OB-lead birth, there would have been no question. It would be, “I am going to examine you now.” It got me thinking, had my GYN ever asked me expressly if she could examine me? No. It was always, “I need you to put your feet here, lay here, do this.” It was never a question, and never a feeling of active partnership.

I stood watching as Ciska moved with the woman into a squat, with the woman leaning against the bed, her husband sitting on the bed behind her, and Ciska in front. The baby slipped out in an instant, it seemed. I was overcome with a short burst of emotion, but then remembered my duties of remembering birth time. 6:40 p.m. I was instructed to let Ciska know when five minutes had passed, and then they would prepare to cut the cord and deliver the placenta. Dad cut the cord, and Ciska called me over to tell me about delivering a placenta. Following its delivery she showed me how to examine it and make sure that there were no pieces missing, as it could have dire complications for the mother.

We situated Mom and Baby in a warm bath, dealt with relatives, other nurses, paperwork and suddenly it was already 9:00. It was a whirlwind, and I was flying high. On the car ride home, Ciska asked me about my feelings, and I tried to tell her about this unbelievable feeling. I could do that every day, I said. She smiled and told me that no matter how hard a birth is, or how tired you are, it’s that high that keeps midwives going. We live on it.

Since that birth, I have come to terms with the fact that I am resigning myself to a lot more school, seeing as how an undergraduate degree in anthropology and women’s studies will not help me much. Instead of starting all over again, I will probably look at an accelerated BSN/RN program following my graduation next May. Unfortunately this means taking chemistry and statistics over the summer, anatomy and physiology and genetics in the fall, and a few other core nursing requirements. I am a little nervous, but at the same time excited to embark on this new journey.  

Leah's inspiration to work for social change

About a week ago we returned from our week long excursion to Johannesburg and Kruger National Park. I loved it! All of it. We first went to Johannesburg where we were met with many of the issues that I had not directly confronted since orientation. The issues of race, class, government, and oppression that had made their way out of my everyday vocabulary quickly slipped back in. It is not that I had forgotten about these problems, it is simply that I had become accustomed to seeing them in everyday life. I had fallen into a pattern of accepting the presence of these problems without analyzing each facet of every one. Luckily, my analyses have been rejuvenated.

The Apartheid Museum made me think about activism. Immersed in academia, it is easy for me to slip into a helpless “what can we do?” mindset. Governments are so bureaucratic, every official is corrupt, and they designed the system so that we cannot change it, so what is the point of trying? However, analyzing and studying the history of the anti-apartheid struggle always changes my mind. Not only did these citizens have a government that was not responsive to them, but it was outright attacking them. Still, they overcame the system. This victory inspires me to go back to American and work. Yes, it will not be easy. Yes, so many Americans, especially University students, are apathetic. Yes, the government is huge, racist, sexist, classist, and unresponsive. The important point to recognize is that there have been worse situations. Black South Africans were in a worse situation. Still, they fought and won. There is still hope for change in America, in society, because there have been just victories. Movements with positive, fair, equalitarian, honorable missions have emerged victorious.

When I return to America, I am going to change society by starting with myself. I think that change can come if every single person makes sure that they are always acting in a calculated manner. Each person can control which institutions and corporations she supports. Each person can make sustainable lifestyle choices that will positively impact the environment. She can choose which establishments she pours her time, work, and effort into.

It is easy to forget how privileged we are in America. We have so many rights that we often overlook the importance of each. We can protest, assemble in groups larger than three people, and speak out against our government without having to be afraid of being shot (we will probably just get tazed…). We are privileged to have a better system in place with regard to freedom than many other countries. With that said, we are not perfect. That is where the need for change lies.

My point is simply this: if each person did what she/he/ze could to support peaceful and just organizations and institutions, the world would slowly become a better place. 

Sarah questions things done in the name of religion

If I am going to be completely honest, this blog entry might offend some people.  It is not my intent to do so, but any time I have expressed thoughts similar to these I have insulted at least someone.  So I apologize in advance.

I was considering writing something along these lines for a while, and just now while reading Biko by Donald Woods (a biography on the founder of Black Consciousness, Steve Biko), I was inspired to finally take a stab at it.  I have been brought up in a nonreligious family; my mom was brought up Catholic, my dad Jewish.  I never went to church (except for a few times with friends when I was much younger), I was never baptized, and I never had a bat mitzvah.  Up until just recently I have been hesitant to use the term Atheist to describe myself, but I stand by making my personal decisions based on a moral compass distinct from religion or God in any traditional sense.  This information should give at least a little bit of background concerning where my biases stand.  That being said, I can also admit that these characteristics make me far from an expert; I know very little about religion in terms of specifics.  But from my standpoint, in my opinion, I have seen more bad come from religion than good.  This is not to say I believe all those who are religious are bad.  Actually, far from it.  I have tried relentlessly when discussing these thoughts with others to explain I can truly appreciate the framework and basic moral principles of religion.  Sometimes this is not heard, but in this case I hope it is.  I do not judge those who are religious simply based on their beliefs; I judge them based on what they do with those beliefs.

Anyways, in Biko Woods includes an interview between Steve Biko and Bernard Zylstra.  Zylstra asks Steve, “How does Christianity fit in with Black Consciousness?”  This immediately caught my eye.  If one is to equate Black Consciousness with the black revolution in South Africa, and then draws another parallel from the black revolution in South Africa to the new South Africa that is emerging today, then how does Christianity fit in with South Africa now?

Biko goes on to explain what I have been questioning, albeit my thought process was much vaguer and lacking concrete facts.  Biko says, “We blacks cannot forget the fact that Christianity in Africa is tied up with the entire colonial process.”  The white man converted Africans.  We landed on their continent, and not only “saved” them in the name of God, but changed their entire culture simultaneously.  Christianity was not linked to God or Jesus, but to Western culture.  “When an African became Christian, as a rule he or she was expected to drop traditional garb and dress like a Westerner,” Biko explained.  He then goes on to address a question in modern-day Africa far too radical for me to ask with any sort of validity (the interview, and thus ‘modern day’ was 1977): Does the necessary decolonization of Africa also require the de-Christianization of Africa?  In my opinion, the “westernized” package of Christianity has brought a good deal of evil into South Africa.

Last week at Thandokhulu, I experienced a good amount of intolerance directed towards homosexuals.  I sat in on a Life Orientation class, which is similar to health class in the U.S.  Or at least in theory.  I listened to the teacher give a slightly bigoted, but mostly kindhearted description of homosexuality and its acceptance amongst Africans.  “Older people find homosexuality to be taboo, and they don’t really want anything to do with it.  The younger generation generally doesn’t mind,” she explained simply.  I kept scanning the room as she talked, prepared for the type of narrow-mindedness others have witnessed and described to me concerning such subjects.  Sure enough, there it was.  “Do you agree?” the teacher asked.  “No, miss,” said a young boy in the back of the room.  “I don’t think the younger generation likes them either.  Me, I don’t like the gays.”  Immediately, a few others raised their hands in agreement.  The teacher reassured them, without any hesitation, that their fears were “natural.”  She went on to say that sometimes, even if we don’t like an aspect of someone we love, we need to “look past it” and love them anyways.

That same day I sat in on 12th grade oral presentations.  The learners were allowed to pick their own topics, which ranged from gangs, violence in the schools, low Matric scores, etc.  Sure enough, another boy stood up and presented to the class his theory on the cause of homosexuality, as well as some solutions we should all invest in.  As flabbergasted as I was, I was not able to follow the entire presentation.  I do recall some of the causes being absent parents and neglecting parents, as well as outside influence.  I believe the example he used for the latter was when “kids see their teachers touching and stuff, they want to try it, too.”  The presentation was met with indifference; no surprised murmurs, a polite, half-hearted round of applause at the end, and an average mark from the teacher.

I think of examples like these all the time, and they are not exclusive to South Africa.  I think of one of my students in my 11th grade class who is my age, repeating the grade for the third time.  She has no family, a baby, and is currently living with a boyfriend who is not the father of her baby, who helps “sometimes,” as one teacher put it to me.  This girl’s best friend goes to SCC (Student Christian Community) during break, where she is most certainly not welcome.  I went to a meeting one day to watch, and ignorantly asked if she was coming along.  Averting her eyes, she mumbled, “No, I don’t really go to those.”  Her teachers are disappointed when she doesn’t show up to school or when she hands her work in late.  She is completely and utterly shunned, and I really do not think she will pass. So I find myself asking, just as I did in the states, what constitutes a sin?  Who constitutes a sin?  What has religion really done for South Africa?  I know much of the anti-apartheid resistance was centered around the church and religion, but so was Apartheid itself.  So much of the justification for Apartheid was propagated in terms of God’s will for us to be separated.  I have simply had enough of intolerance shielded behind the façade of a “merciful God.”