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.