Critical Rural Incident

Children walking to the river to fetch water is the sentimental stuff of storybooks, right? Here's how that experience went for me during my stay in nDogodweni.

On Thursday evening, around 5:45pm, before the sun went down, Kathlyn and I discovered from one of the Chili kids that they would be going to the river soon. We asked if we could join them and they said yes. We notified Mamazi (one of the Ma's of the house, although no one's actual mother) that we were going to accompany the kids. Right before we left the yard, we heard the sounds of Ma Thembi using a belt to whip Ncebo, our 12 year old sister in the backyard. Quiet Ncebo regained herself in time to join the departing crew. She sniffled as she walked with her bucket in hand. Kathlyn and I felt sorry for Ncebo, and worried that we had something to do with her whipping. We tried to ask the other kids why Ncebo was whipped, but couldn't get a clear answer, mostly due to the language barrier, so we remained confused. We all ended up (as usual) singing Shakira, K'naan and Rhianna and dancing as we walked. We veered off the dirt road and walked down a hill to find the river at the bottom among much greenery and palm trees. An older Ma and a few little kids from nearby were already there fetching large amounts of water in many drums. There was a thin, middle aged man lounging in the grass. We were also joined by at least one other household of children who came to fill buckets and jugs with water. In our group, Sihle, our 13 year old brother, pushed big buckets in a wheelbarrow. The river was a creek that opened up to about ten square feet of muddy water. The rusty metal skeleton of an old mattress was imbedded in the mud of the riverbank. This structure in the mud seemed like a kind of dock that the kids stood on as they drew water. The woman at the river told us that the water is not clean, and she only uses it for washing clothes and dishes, never drinking. Sihle and a few others worked filling up buckets for about a half hour. Kathlyn and I stood on the banks talking with some younger girls, as others sang, danced, and practiced balancing buckets on their heads. The walk back was considerably more difficult, especially for Sihle, who had a system for getting the now heavy wheelbarrow back uphill with the help of Ncebo. As Kathlyn and I walked, we continued to inquire with Sihle about why Ncebo was beaten earlier. We found out that it was because she had forgotten to go to the river to get water earlier in the day. It was dark by the time we reached the house.

This experience sparked many thought-shifts for me. Firstly, I realized the important role of the body in rural South African's lives. Here, (unlike in America) the body is the main mode of transportation for oneself, for babies, or water, rice, sugar, and other goods. Also, without toys, the kids to entertain themselves using their body to sing and dance. When they have no paper, they write on their hands. During my teaching experience at the rural school that week, I also learned the essential role of the body in education. When you have no posters, computers, t.v.s, art supplies, gyms, musical instruments, libraries, or even books, the body substitutes. Student's bodies in the front of the classroom can represent the nuclei and ribosome of a cell or the earth's shifting tectonic plates. Acting out scenes from "Animal Farm" can help the book come alive, and a song can help students memorize dates in history. Rural South Africans don't always have things but they all have a body. This fact has a dark side, however, when the body is seen as a commodity in the context of transactional sex.

Another issue that the river experience brought up was discipline. Although my parents in the states did not raise me using corporal punishment, I see it as an acceptable discipline choice when used in the right way. I could never characterize the Chili family as especially violent because this kind of discipline is common all over the world. Ncebo's whipping did, however, make me think of the many violent fights I had seen the Chili children act out based on the WWF wrestling they constantly watch on t.v. Although these fights start as play, they almost always end in real anger and fighting. I also noticed that as the adult hierarchy of authority transferred to kids (older kids are more "in charge" of younger ones), so did corporal punishment. On separate occasions, I saw my brother Bobo, 14, reprimand Ncebo with a slap, and Ncebo reprimand another child the same way. Here the lines between parental discipline and a culture of violence among children became blurred to me.

I could talk endlessly about the water crisis in South Africa, as much research has been done on the topic, but instead I'll simply saythat the river experience did (of course) give me a new appreciation of the water that is constantly, limitlessly available to me in the states. The amount of time and work that goes into obtaining water here is, in my American life, probably spent doing activities like homework, studying, making art, playing sports, or other leisure activities.

This leads me to my next point of physical exercise. In my Cato Manor home-stay, my younger siblings were stuck in the house most of the day with little to do. I could see their pent up energy when Lusanda would ask me to race her on the street, or when Sabelo would listen to music and box the air while standing on the front porch at night. Organized sports weren't a possibility there, and it seemed kids in Bonela had no where to release their energy. Of course there was nothing that looked like my idea of organized sports in the rural area either, but my siblings there had the time, space and safe surroundings necessary to run, play, and do jobs like fetch water, which keeps them physically active. This was one advantage the rural area had over the city.

Another topic that the river shed light on was rural community and family structure. The river was a place where the community met and talked. Fetching water was a job families left mostly to children and women, as the woman we saw exemplified. The man lounging in the grass as the women and kids worked only reinforced my stereotypical view of most South African men as almost useless to the family.

Finally, there's the topic of the rusty mattress skeleton on the river bank. Kathlyn's first reaction to seeing kids walk bare-footed onto the rusty metal was to stop them so they don't hurt themselves or get tetanus. She didn't realize that they saw no harm in walking on the metal, because they do it every day. On the walk back from the river, she warned the kids of every broken glass bottle on the dirt road, even though they walk those roads every day. "Watch out, there's glass, don't step here." She wanted to control the situation, fix the problem. Sometimes I think this is our default mentality as Americans. There are many issues wrapped up in a "saviour complex." I do think that Americans, as powerful and wealthy members of a global society, bear a responsibility to parts of the world with less power and wealth, but our political, economic and cultural interventions are not always helpful. John Daniel made the bold statement that "culture can be harmful." I agree, but shouldn't Americans be careful about what we tag as "harmful" in South African or Zulu culture? I have only been a guest to Zulu culture. Where I may see tetanus, they may see a river dock that has never hurt them. Where I see a problematic marriage structure, they may see a system that provides the multiple incomes and caregivers needed for their family. A more clear picture of harm, however, can be seen in South Africa's high levels of crime, political corruption, domestic violence, HIV/AIDS, and failed education systems, to name a few. How should America and Americans intervene? Do we call foul or should we wait for South Africans to? This broad question must be answered on a case by case basis by every government and non government organization that works with South Africa and her citizens. I must answer this question for myself as an artist, someone whose job is to hold a mirror up to cultures so they can seen from a new angle. At the end of the day, I will inevitably say something about Zulu culture in my work. It's important, when drawing comparisons and conclusions, for me to remember that that my culture can be just as harmful as Zulu culture. Where are the rusty mattresses in American culture? To me, they can be found in unhealthy food production systems, domineering big business, or our distorted views of success, sexuality, religion, and the list goes on. Just as every culture can be life enriching, they can also be life zapping. I must be always be critical of my own culture and notice when the ground I'm walking on has the potential to cut me physically, psychologically, or spiritually. I can only make decisions based on what I feel and think to be right, just as everyone else does, right?

Durban so far!

JOURNAL: Aug. 27th - Oct. 13th

10.31

This morning in Mtunzini, I met a couple at church. They helped me find a place to stay, and gave me a delicious hot lunch of homemade lasagna. Talking with them for four hours was massively refreshing. I realized one big conclusion to everything I've experienced here: If I bypass people, if I forget about people, I've missed the point of being here. If I think this is all about myself, then I've really missed the point.

10. 13

White

I was born with skin shown in my country's history

I see it on the band-aids and faces of dollbabies

I see it on the runways, in glossy magazines

See it on the CEOs and on celebrities.

My skin wont make you question

my self-sufficiency,

to almost all the world

my skin looks like money.

Almost never represents illiteracy,

born into the skin of learnin capacity.

I dont speak for my race

when speakin just for me

but I like to think

about this one reality:

when walking down your road

on the bottom of my feet

my souls can turn into the hue

of all humanity.

10.10

Church begins at nine am with everyone walking in all directions around the big one room warehouse building muttering prayers, greeting friends, and inconspicuously showing off their clothes. Today the little girl in front of me wore a Snow White t-shirt and hair clips with little caucasian fairies on them in her braided hair. We sing (mostly in Zulu, once or twice in English) about the miracles God's done in our lives. Even the young people raise their hands in worship. And you know what I realized? They choose to be here. Even though they are largely persuaded by their culture, and even though the institution is flawed, these young people do choose, to some degree, to come here. I'll make the presumption that it's because there's something that they love and need here. I feel it.

10.9

Today our whole group went to Rachel's Slam Jam Poetry Competition, part of the Poetry Africa Festival at the Bat Center. There was an amazing energy in the crowd. I finally knew a few locals around me, and even met other foreign exchange students who had just arrived in SA, gaining a great insight into myself six weeks ago. I'll never forget the talented beat box and rap circle outside before the show and the live music and dancing with everyone at the end.

10.7

In a one-on-one meeting with one of the program directors, he asked if I thought my home-stay brother Sabelo's shyness had to do with me being white. I thought that it was just the language barrier, but he very well could feel suppressed around me because of the color of my skin and where I come from.

10.6

Today I learned about an organization called Phoenix Zululand. They have a program called "Healing Through Art" that helps rehabilitate prisoners around Zululand. A former SIT student did an ISP on the effects of art therapy on prisoner's rehabilitation. She was a psychology major and got to look at a lot of the prisoner's drawings to evaluate them. She was even provided free living accommodations, and had a great Independent Study Project advisor. I think I want to work with this program, and am a lot less stressed about the upcoming ISP now.

10.3

I've always been told that I have the freedom to choose my religion, job, income, partner, education, home, clothes, language, etc. I've recently been living in a place where many choices are limited, and am realizing that everyone's decisions are influenced by their culture. Stuart Hall said "We all write and speak from a particular place and time, from a history and culture which is specific. What we say is always in context." We are swayed by factors that we were randomly born into, like class, gender, ability, family and geography. I've been having a rough time with these thoughts lately, but talking to my mom about it over the phone helped. One good point she made is that we have to accept that we are swayed by our culture and go on making as much of our own decisions as possible.

(Pictured is a Shembe church service in Durban city. The Shembe church is a uniquely African church that always meets outside.)

10. 2

In the first thirty minutes of the morning I encounter a baby walking around covered in his own excrement, a drunk 27 year old who has also crapped himself, and two unclothed people. Here, roosters walk by as I brush my teeth, kids wipe their butts on the grass after using the latrine, and trash is everywhere. Animals roam the yards and the house, and people shovel food into their mouths for sustinance. This morning I stopped ignoring the unsanitary conditions and almost lost my appetite for a breakfast of corn flakes served in dirty dishes. I'm daydreaming of America. I understand why foreigners always describe it as "so clean." Everything here is dirty, and I feel like a spoiled, elitist, ungrateful princess for saying so. The bottom line that I need to remember is that these people are kind, hardworking, and full of dignity. They deserve love and respect just like every other person, and should not be looked down on because they live differently than what I'm used to. Apartheid's most condemnable philosophy was the dehumanization of Africans and it scares me to think my thoughts can go there too.

10. 1

Every other night I dream that an airplane takes me back to America and I only have a small amount of time before I have to come back to Africa (aka wake up). I've spent the time going to places that are important to me, like MICA, my church in Baltimore, and my old gym, TBT. I think these are wish fulfillment dreams because I have so little creative community, opportunity to worship or exercise.

This morning there were school notes on the floor of the latrine. Again, educations go down the crapper when basic needs rear their ugly head. When I got to school for our final day of teaching, a student from 11A delivered a letter to me from Fabulous, who is not at school today. She actually began the letter encouraging me, saying that if God is for you, no one can be against you. She went on to say that she is grateful for our conversation and that she hopes we can meet again someday. I wrote her back encouraging her, telling her how brave she is, how I hope she can get tested for HIV. I told her she was an inspiration to me and that I'll never forget her.

When we talked today about everything these rural Zulu students have going against them, Shola said, "South Africans are resilient."

________________________________

On the last day of school for the week, I sat in on Eli's English class. He asked everyone to write about their perfect place to live. It seemed elementary, but I did it:

In my perfect place to live, everyone would have the option of education, community, honesty, and generosity, but they would never be forced to choose these things. In fact, most would choose to forfeit their education and live in excess, thinking mostly of themselves. But at least they would have the choice, the choice would never be taken from them.

9.30

My feelings of lack of control here in South Africa are seeping into my dreams. I dreamt that I was in the states and needed my drivers license, but it was lost. I also dreamt that I was in MICA's black box theater and able to create anything I wanted. I got a team of students together and we painted the walls with color, glitter, an explosion of bright imagery. I got dancers in colorful tutus to perform and film makers to record it all. My creativity is so suppressed in this SIT program.

________________________________

I will never forget Fabulous. She shared a story in English class today about how a boy raped her, taking her virginity, which she wanted to save for marriage. I told her I was sorry, how awful that was, how in America, if that happened to a girl, she could tell the police and the man would be arrested. She said, "I know." I said, "But that can't happen here, can it?" She says no, it happened so lang ago and there is no proof. She said, "Now I'm used to it." I asked her if her parents know, but she has never told them. She can only share it with the class because they all think she's joking. But her story was vivid, it could have never been made up. She told how she was walking to the tuck shop to buy airtime when a boy drove up and talked to her. She got into his car and went to his house where he locked the doors. Everyone in the class (including Fabulous) laughs. She said she woke up and there was blood all over the sheets. He was snoring. She grabbed her clothes and ran. She said, "This is a day I will never forget, even though it is painful." Fabulous said she did tell some friends at church about the incident. I told her I was glad, because sometimes the best thing we can do is talk about it.

________________________________

Walking home from class, Kathlyn, Nitzie, Turquoise and I talked about the American mentality of wanting to "fix" South Africa's problems. If you can change something, should you? I do believe that with great power comes great responsibility (to those whom much is given, much is expected), but what's critical is how we go about helping South Africa. We must join them where they say they need help, how they say they need it. We're quick to assume that our way is better, that parts of Zulu culture can be harmful. Maybe this is true, but are Zulu people aware when this happens? Also, are they aware of the social conditioning that impacts their life decisions any more than I am? Are there instances in Zulu culture where complete free will offers too many overwhelming choices and is not desired? If a culture denies free will, should it still be fought for on their behalf? Is freedom even real? Has pure democracy every existed? Is freedom something that you convince yourself that you have? The animals in Animal Farm did.

9.29

"Welcome to Hell" is scratched into the chalkboard at the nDogodweni secondary school. I feel like teaching here is more for my benefit then the students. That's always the trouble with short term missions. You come, you see how messed up the South African public school system is, you teach, get frustrated, you analyze, then you leave. The students go on to fail their matrics. They still won't know english well, and it's not fair that they have to learn this other language, but if they want a way out, that's how it is, and they know it. Yet their teachers, who are required to teach in english, still teach in zulu, stunting their english capacities. Most students here are gripped with helplessness. The calendars on the wall are from 2009 and there is no toilet paper in the bathroom. Some students use their class notes instead. There are no computers, t.v.'s, posters, art supplies, musical instruments, gyms, libraries and few books to help teachers teach and learners learn. Ironically, the government spends a greater percentage of money on education than most countries, yet there is little to show from it. A lot of it is pocketed as it moves through the ranks. There are computers sitting in their boxes in a back room, unused. Teachers go on strike and students don't learn. Rural black schools don't have to be like this, but most of them are...

9.28

Tonight Ma Thembi invited Kathlyn and I to play ball in in the front yard with the her and the kids. We ran and laughed playing keep-away until the sun set and we collapsed in the yard. It was the first time I experienced parents playing with their kids in South Africa.

9.27

Striking things about teaching in nDogodweni Secondary school:

-Classroom space is condusive to teachers standing by board, speaking at students, and that's about it. There are only desks and chalk in the room. No teaching materials or supplies, very little color.

-Tried to put myself in a student's shoes by sitting in a class with them during a period I wasn't teaching. It was easy to get distracted and confused, easy to blend into the wall and be shy. The American "teachers" were strangers who I would have little trust in if I were a student.

-Many call these types of schools "doomed to fail" and it's true. If someone is successful, (makes it to 12th grade, passes the final exam to get a diploma) they are the exception to the rule.

-"So much depends on our teachers, but it's really all about whether our students want to learn."

-11th grade students don't know what a negative number or a noun is, many can barely read.

-The student's final exam is written in english, a language they unfortunately need to be successful in the world. Although the teachers are supposed to teach in English, they teach in Zulu, so the students can barely speak English.

-Basic needs will always trump education. When a baby in the house needed his diaper changed today (It was overflowing with crap, just like the latrine outside), his eighteen year old mom, Ayanda, had no baby wipes, so she used her school notes.

9.26

Seeing the Chili kids play in the ocean is a good visual of freedom.

9.25

Imagine a highway ending and turning into a dirt road. This is the beginning of nDogodweni. Kathlyn and I pull up to a big yard with dozens of tiny clothes hanging on a fence around the property. About a dozen kids as well as a few women, come out of the house to great us, taking our hands, exchanging smiles and introductions. This is the Chili family, who Kathlyn and I will be living with for nine days. They show us to our thatched roof, circular hut, with shiny blue and white satin comforters. The hut next door is the one with goat horns above the doorway - where the ancestors live and are worshipped. We walk around goats and chickens in the red dirt yard to other houses and rooms to meet grannies, mothers and babies. We played singing and dancing circle games in the front yard until we walked to a friends house about thirty minutes away to deliver some heavy bags of sugar as a gift for an upcoming wedding.

9.24

Tonight Bonela's power went out and my brother Sabelo, our cousin Langa and I went to get cooldrink (soda) at a neighborhood shop. A group of kids were singing and dancing in the dark streets. It was about 7:30pm, and Langa talked about the loud exuberance of South Africans as opposed to the intellectual, analytical personality of Americans. He had a point. He said South Africans are full of jokes (even about things that aren't funny, like rape), and are always laughing. "Americans can be so serious, they want to fix all the world's problems," he said. "You do what you can, you get to know people and their culture, but at the end of the day poverty and racism will never go away. When things are still bad, you just joke and laugh about it." Then he danced around the small dark living room to the house music playing on Sabelo's phone.

9.23

The Thursday morning bead market at Warwick Junction is a great visual of making beauty among dingy surroundings. The jewelry was handmade, painstakingly intricate, and being sold for almost nothing. The women support their families with these small profits of about $100 (U.S.) a week. We saw some South Africans who own their own shops in wealthier areas of town buying large amounts of the woman's work to resell for many times the price, turning a huge profit for themselves. This is what they call exploitation of the poor.

9.22

I've met a few black South Africans who think politics are useless, a refreshing minority point of view.

At poetry at the Bat Center tonight, a girl shared a poem about rape, a man read a praise poem of a soccer team, and we talked about how politics need the arts because they're humanizing. We talked about how "African" is defined by hybridity, and how black skin is often seen as a problem.

Earlier in the day I visited Spearman School, where I met a bunch of really good, lively kids, and got to teach a sixth grade class an art lesson on surrealism. I drew many pictures for students who asked for my autograph (because I'm from America), and was thoroughly blown away by the girls choir and dance team performances.

9.21

I visited the Cresh today - a nursery for children of refugees. They were all sleeping, and I drew many of them. I wish I could draw little kids all the time.

9.20

In the book "Sociological Imagination," C.W. Mills talks about personal troubles versus public issues. Personal troubles are the fault of the individual's character and choices, but public issues are the result of a collapsed social structure, something an individual can't fix, but needs to be solved by the public, especially the political state. These two terms help me a lot when thinking about South Africa, and Baltimore for that matter.

9.19

A gospel song plays on Ma Nombulelo's radio before church this morning. "I'd rather have Jesys than all of the riches in the world, than all of the houses in the land..." The relevance of Jesus' teachings to the lives of black South Africans is incredible. Church would be such a nice place to teach about this if it weren't for corrupt pastors scamming the poor to make a quick buck and BMW. Shame.

My sister Rosanne and I stumbled upon and attended two birthday parties around the neighborhood today. So much sugar! Candies, cooldrink, chips and cake, fed even to the littlest baby. At one house a bunch of ten year old kids drinking soda were dancing, saying they were drunk, and gawking over a "Roaring Twenties Pop Up Book for Adults Only," which had cartoon pop up illustrations of males in the 1920's enjoying women as sexual objects. The Ma of the house was right there, okay with it. What could I do? I said it was for adults only and they shouldn't be looking at it, but they carried on. One in every two South African women will experience some form of gender based violence in their life, and every thirty seconds a woman here gets raped.

9.18

I think I might be a documentary style visual artist. I think that's what Rauschenberg was.

100.

Reality is, for most people in this world, there will never be enough bread, education, housing, water, healthcare. Maybe everyone is not trying their hardest as a citizen of a global community but I can't force them to and they never all will. I learned from some people living in Siyanda informal settlement that there are many things beyond this world that keep us going, and the greatest of these is love.

9.17

"We're learning about all these problems in South Africa, and we think 'maybe this is the solution, or this,' and we all want to be the solution, but we can't."

Our group is feeling overwhelmed with wanting to fix South Africa's problem. What can we really do? Well, a lot, but it will never, never be enough. We will still run out of bread at the school feeding. Schools will still not have enough teachers. Kathlyn watches her Ma, a teacher, sit on the couch every night grading endless piles of Zulu papers into the night. Dan's sister tries her best on a school quiz and gets the best grade in the class, but it is still not enough - a 20 out of

9.16

Today our group experienced the wonders of Durban's informal economy by exploring Warwick Junction, a series of nine markets that is authentically African. They are run by locals, mostly the poor, who have bought a space to grow their own business selling fruit, vegetables, meat, African and Indian food, herbs, pinafores (apron-dresses), beads, jewelry, washcloths, panties, and many knickknacks. Three million people flow through the area daily. Some big company wants to wipe out the whole operation, but it probably won't happen if the vendors have enough well connected white lawyers who care about their livelihoods fighting for them.

Also, some friends and I went to the Durban Symphony at Town Hall tonight. It was bliss. I wish everyone in the world could experience the symphony. It is such pure beauty, also purely European, wrapped up and transported worldwide.

9.14

Went to a sick community art center called the Bat Center for a poetry night. The place is covered in murals and has a theater, bar, cafe, artist studios and galleries. I flipped. I will definitely be spending more time here.

Being driven mad by not being able to go running, make art or pray with friends. I am enjoying, however, learning about the miracle of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, a series of post-apartheid hearings characterized by humility, truth and forgiveness.

I think I dreamt that the world ended last night, but I was still around and doing fine.

9.12

Being at the gallery opening at artSPACE in Durban was like a breath of fresh air. Standing in front of a painting feels like I'm home.

9.13

Went to another gallery opening at the KZNSA Gallery tonight, which was invigorating to a point, but eventually the event became too long, too strange, too elitist, full of jargon, and removed from the real world. Yes, we see that your work draws attention to racism, sexism, apartheid, discrimination, etc., but when the half naked young men in your daring performance piece begin fainting because the gallery is too hot and they've been standing still for too long, you've gone too far. The high art world takes itself too seriously sometimes. Oh, and p.s. Serious Artists, it's okay to still use actual imagery. Have you forgotten that drawing and painting is still like magic? Do you feel that there's too many pictured in the world or are you just lazy? There was hardly a single hand made image in that gallery and that's sad.

9.11

With sea breezes blowing into my room, I crawled out of my warm fluffy bed to sit by the pool, watch the ocean, read "The Old Man and the Sea." My breakfast was served to me, and I ate a fruit and yogurt parfait, mango juice, crepes, and the best french toast I've had in my life.

9.10

I will remember the Wild Coast as long as I live. Our group is staying at a backpacker's lodge by the ocean two hours south of Durban for the weekend. When we arrived at the lodge, we rushed down the road, through trees, turning a corner to reveal a massive, roaring ocean. We walked onto the beach and, after much freaking out, screaming, and running around, just stood there for about an hour, being put in our place as tiny human beings.

This seemed like a response to Turquoise's sister in Cato Manor wishing that our group didn't see so much of South Africa's "ugly parts." This morning we were at a Cato Manor primary school helping feed kids who otherwise wouldn't eat much all day. Basic needs like hunger alone can stop a student from succeeding in school. Some rural schools will only have one or two students pass the final matriculation exam, even though most students don't make it to that point.

And those students will probably never make it to the Wild Coast for holiday. Annie's Ma in Cato Manor worls seven days a week from sun up to sun down. I've dealt with white guilt before, and it's a nasty thing that I thought I came to some conclusions about. I had no control over the way I was born. But being here the wound is re-opened. I wonder if this is how it feels to win the lottery. I wonder to what extent my happiness and privilege is at the expense of others.

9.9

Went to the Playhouse to see a one woman show about the Indian experience in the township of Cato Manor before 1950. The audience was a handful of Indian people and our SIT group. Where were the Africans who live in Cato Manor today? They could have learned about the history of their neighborhood, but I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have the time or money to go if they had even heard about it.

9.8

Went to an informal shack settlement called Siyanda. The living conditions were foul and I am unsure how to fix it. The kids didn't seem to notice. Maybe the residents would want to put some murals on their houses. Maybe I could help. They could even paint their political message (wanting the government to give them the houses promised by the constitution) for the world to see.

I am reminded of the book of Corinthians..."We know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands." "We fix our eyes not on what is seen but what is unseen."

9.7

I am plunging into the world of politics. I'm learning that South Africa has one of the most liberal constitutions in the world, but progressive government is never guaranteed to stay. After a generation or so, liberation movements are pushed aside. The ANC could very well self-destructi in the future.

South Africa is the most unequal society in the world. The gap between the rich and poor is larger than in any other country. President Zuma's sons wear expensive Italian suits and live lavishly. Corruption is inevitable.

Also, I don't think I have ever truly believed that the arts are integral to a successful society. In the back of my mind, I think I've always believed that courtrooms and community gardens could probably still get on fine without the arts, but that's not true. They are critical to the wholistic success of any project that involves people coming together. I will no longer tack a band-aid mural onto the wall of a school that says they want one. Instead, I will make sure it is integrated into the school and it's path towards success. I have seen the change that art makes in South Africa's Constitutional Court and I am changed.

Baby Stephanie's First Political Realizations:

(laugh if you will)...

1. Utopia cannot exist.

2. Corruption is inevitable (politicians rarely live up to idealistic standards - they're humans and humans mess up)

3. Policy and societal realities are two different worlds

4. Local communities should participate in development

9.6

"I am the teacher and you are the small little child." It's Saturday morning, after my first night in Cato Manor with my homestay family. My new 7 year old sister Lasanda has no idea how true her statement is. We are sitting on the front porch in our pajamas, drawing pictures in my sketchbook and playing school. Men drive down the road below in a city truck hollering that they are picking up stray dogs. Below is Mama Edith's house, where another SIT student lives. Nombulelo is my Ma. We went to town today on a crowded minibus, where Ma saw a friend Norah, who is also hosting an SIT student in Cato Manor. We went to the grocery store and bought cereal, apples, chicken, and tissues for me and my sinus troubles.

Church on Sunday was enthusiastic. Over three hours of dancing and singing in Zulu. I couldn't occupy myself with reading my bible, because I left it at the mission we stayed at outside of Joburg. At least I could understand the cries of "Siyabonga Baba," and "Hallelujiah." I had to stand in front of the church and say who I was, where I came from, and who invited me. Ma made sure I remembered how to say her name, Nombulelo. Am I a status symbol to Ma? A boy walked by me after church shouting mock requests for money in zulu. A girl explained to me that some people think all whites are rich and carry millions in their pockets.

9.2

Yesterday we got dropped off in the middle of downtown Durban so we could get to know the city. My group's first stop was Suncoast Casino, located within a pastel colored mall complex, complete with a food-court, movie theater and surf shops. The casino was crowded with fluorescent lights, slot machines, Indians and Africans, including Sammie, a man that Dan and I played stud poker with. He had been gambling since 7pm the night before. Boarding the near-empty People Mover Bus (a government subsidized economic disaster) we met a kind ninety year old Indian man. He said he invented the CD, and was very helpful in directing us where to go. The Natural History Museum and the Art Gallery are in the City Hall building. The stuffed animal displays of the Natural History Museum were far from engaging, so we moved on to the five art galleries on the top floor. The stairwell up was lined with sloppy still life paintings donated by artists with English names, no doubt to establish the validity of the gallery upon first impression. At the top of the stairs we arrived at chaos. The shows were being installed for a huge art event that will be opening in a few days. Outside, markets bustled with an atmosphere of community. Our group got lots of stares, as we included the only white people around. The beach close-by reminded me of St. Petersburg and the city reminds me of Baltimore. I am home.

8.31

I go running in the mornings, and the sunrise this morning was so orange it was almost red. It seeped through trees with fuscia flowers. An old man has been staying at this mission for 25 years, and when a nun asked him why, he motioned to the porch facing the sunrise and said, "Where else in the world can you see this?". That nun treats me like I'm her true child. She really loves all the people who pass through that lodge, especially young ones.

8.30

Drove for 8 hours from joburg to Durban. So much open, beautiful land.

Arrived at another mission where the German nuns are really kind.

8.29

Annie and I started making up a song to memorize our zulu greeting to the tune of Taio Cruz's song "Dynamite."

At the Soweto Museum, a photo of a boy holding a dead Hector Pieterson reminded me of a series of drawings and paintings I worked on for two years. I was obsessed with imaged of people holding each other. I stood there drawing the famous photo in my sketchbook, listening to a looped video recording of first-hand account: "(After the first shot) everyone ran away. I was feeling scared and wanted to run away too. The policeman aimed his gun at Hector to finish him off, but the girl stood in front of his gun and spoke to him in Afrikaans..." That girl was his sister. Suddenly, the struggle had become personal for me - what if my younger brother had been shot and killed? As I drew, I wept. I was comforted only by Hector's mother's words on the wall: "Those who passed away, their lives, including my son's, were not lost in vain." On another wall, an excerpt of "Azanian Love Song" by Dan Mattera reads "Let grieving the willows/ Mark the spot/ Let nature raise a moment/ Of flowers and trees/ Lest we forget the foul and/ the wicked deed..."

Other striking wall quotes include:

-"Art and politics in South Africa, as in many parts of Africa, have become inseparable for the simple reason that politics pervade all aspects of a black man's existence."

-"Black consciousness thinking included culture as inseperable aspects of history and politics."

-"It is through the evolution of our genuine culture that our identity can be fully discovered."

Late at night, another group conversation included Rachel talking about how America is not a capitalist society, but a corporatist society. I am slowly working up the courage to formulate fledgling political opinions.

8.28

As Fred, our minibus driver, and I walked down the steps into the Apartheid Museum in Joburg, I asked him if he'd been before. He said, "Many times," but this was the first time he'd been in it. He usually drove around the city while the students visited the museum. When I asked him why, he said "Everything in here, I already know."

I was impressed with how the museum's architecture embodied the sadness, anger and seriousness of apartheid. The most memorable part for me was seeing footage of bodies being flung over barbed wire fences and shot into during the police raids of the eighties.

All of the American SIT students are brilliant. Last night a group of us had a conversation that began around economy and ended around God (as late night conversations usually go). Whitney thinks that everything is interconnected and leads to one central thing. She thinks the central thing has something to do with the golden rule - treat others as you would want to be treated. I think it's our nature to be "self-interested," Rachel's word, which is better, I think, than selfish. Kathryn brought up that Jesus is a great man to model a life after because he teaches how to be self-sacrificing over self-interested. We all agreed that a self-interested mentality is the root problem in failing economic and political systems. We also talked about Truth, a word plastered across a shirt sold at the Apartheid Museum. Questioning is imperative to truth. Maybe questions are more important than answers, in the same way that the process of painting a mural is more important than the final piece. Yet, we always thirst for answers and completion. Maybe there's a well of truth that everyone can walk to by asking questions. We all want to know who we really are and what is best to do with our lives. Are we capable of having that answer for ourselves? Would we lead ourselves astray? Is it our nature to follow the golden rule? I was glad that Josh did at one point lay down a bottom line - we can talk all night and never convince each other anything - we just have to live.

8.27.10

In a small prayer room, the mother Mary statue reminds me of one in the old St. Wyslecan Center in East Baltimore. I am at a Catholic retreat center in Joburg, South Africa, where students in the SIT program are staying for the weekend. All of the keys are old fashioned and the owner's seven year old grandson, Matthew runs around the halls. His skin looks like it could belong to any nationality in the world.