South Africa

Two days ago I visited Moorsmore prison, and took part in a session for a small group of male prisoners who had completed the Khulisa “My Path” programme.  I was astounded to hear each one of them freely talk about themselves, their lives, their mistakes, their previous choices - in a way and with a depth which showed there had been some real, serious reflection, and not so much a desire, but a real commitment to change.  (The My Path programme requires daily private journalling over a period of 3 months, plus weekly group activities, plus individual activities which are written or drawn and handed in to the facilitator for comment.)  These men shared what the process had done for them and they were identifying other prisoners who could now begin the same process, with them as trained as facilitators. 

It is a credit to these men, in the terrible conditions they are in, that they have such  positive attitudes and really believe in a God who loves them, totally, and who will give them the chance to put things right, and have a full life.  They intend going back to their townships on their release, and trying to help enable change within the community…. yet another astounding Gospel witness which challenged me to responsibly live the Gospel values in my own context.

It provided a new meaning for me about the gospel command: when I was in prison, you visited me. 

I visited a juvenile detention centre in Moorsmore Prison, Cape Town.  Here dormitory cells of between 26 and 40 are the norm - for boys between 14 & 17.  And the reason?  I was told that “Black African people dont like to be alone.” 

But then, there are smaller cells - well, cupboards really, each with bunk-beds -  3 high, held precariously together, and 1 toilet which is jammed against the beds.  No door on the cell.  Just an locked grate.  In the cells and domitories the windows are broken, there are few blankets, some none, washing is strewn across electric light wiring - just waiting for a fire to happen, and the 1 classroom that does exist has no resources and a pt lone teacher.  They eat in a long corridor. 

The khulisa worker told me that if the young boys have no other clothes, they are left to survive in the ones they bring in.  Visits are only allowed during the week, not at weekends, but since families are mostly working during the week, most of these young people do not have contact with their families.  Visits in any case take place via a grill.  The young people are not allowed physical contact with anyone who visits. And yet, none have actually been brought to trial.  They are waiting!

Yesterday I visited a female prison about 2 hours drive from Cape Town, and was priviledged to take part in a Khulisa “My Path” session with a group of around 20 female prisoners . They are currently experiencing stage 1 of the My Path programme (looking at themselves, understanding who they are. Part two looks at how they are with their immediate surroundings and part three involves looking at how they interact with society at large.)  

I witnessed a level of sharing and a depth of honesty which had me and the other vistors who had brought me, in tears.  The women spoke of thorns within them which they needed to look at and change; they talked about needing to accept aspects of themselves, and by doing so they will be able to grow in themselves; they talked about learning to be at peace in an environment where all choice has been removed from them.  And they talked about a loving God who is looking out for them.  They chatted too about rejecting the macho image of prison life, and instead maintaining contact with their real selves.

How I wish we could all mirror the depth of honesty these women showed to me…..

Philippe Township, Cape Town, can only be described as a hell hole, where people live like rats and where the stench of portaloo toilets make Greenbelt look like a 5 star deluxe hotel! And yet, in the midst of all that looks filthy and rotten, lies real rays of hope - in the form of an ex offender and a group of 14 year olds - an “Ubuntu” club.  Third year secondary school young people from the local township go into their local primary (which houses 1300 primary kids), to peer educate:  on crime prevention; on keeping safe in the township; on not responding to peer pressure; on HIV & Sexual health.  In two’s, they take six classes each of the upper primary, and they teach, or peer educate - without resources or technology (except a black-board), and with a level of professionalism that would match a qualified teacher.  These young peer educators have been taught by an ex offender who for the past 18 months has been giving back to the community….. to put right a wrong done!  And it seems to be working.  I witnessed small children animated, listening, eager. 

But these peer educators are only teenagers.  And their sessions are so powerful I witnessed their recipiants - primary school kids- talking about crime in their area, about their fears, and some….. about being frequently raped by the males in their “shack”s at night, and being beaten by their fathers and step-fathers…..    In one case the child was weeping uncontrollably, in another she was stoney faced.  I was later told that in both cases, that these children will be further targetted in the township and may experience rape by other males - just for speaking out!

When the young people relayed the information about the rape allegations to the head-teacher,  he tried to appear shocked, but did not indicate that he would follow anything up.  He left it in the hands of the Ubuntu teenagers to handle it.  Nothing can take away the shock of listening to a child crying out for help as a result of rape, and watching teenagers, themselves living in the same environment, left with the responsibilty to try to deal with it.  I was later told that the child’s right to safety might come secondary to the family’s need for food - which the perpetrator provides! ”Its complicated.” I was told.  “The teenagers need to be taught to crisis counsel,” it was explained to me.  One adult told me that there was no point in bringing the father to trial. He would be thrown in jail and then the family would starve.

How long will it take for the black and coloured community in S Africa to remain in such conditions, in such complicated messes, not fit for animals, let alone humans…. ….

Sunday morning.  10am.

The first 10 minutes of every Sunday service here is given to pray for those who have died as a result of the HIV virus.  The pulpit is draped in the red HIV logo – not because of the 10 minutes, but as a normal part of Sunday worship.  A clear reminder that I am in different territory.   And then comes Bambalela – like I have not heard it sung before.  It comes like a groan from somewhere deep within. One or two women start to cry; a few people shout out; and the song, deep, slow, full of harmonies and incredibly moving. Not like our ‘happy,’ faster, rhythmic version. 

Bambalela is immediately followed by the reading of a newspaper article about the death of another victim, and the tragic circumstances of the children left behind. The woman who reads it ends the story lets out a loud sigh… and begins to weep…… 

Anti Retroviral Drugs are now free here, the director of services tells me later.  “But we in South Africa did not take HIV seriously when it first came out.  Now the victims are in the last stage of the disease, too late for the drugs to help.”  HIV orphans are a big problem.   At least they have a well resourced centre here where they can come, get some help and have some solidarity. In the centre here in Gugulethu, they are not so much ostracised from the community. Other churches, I was told, have difficulty welcoming those who are HIV +.

One of the problems I am still grappling with is the issue of sexuality.  I am so comfortable at home, in the safety of the Iona Community, with all that it stands for, that it came as a surprise – no, it came as a whacking great shock, to be told that part of the work in Gugulethu was towards those who are “sexually challenged.”  I thought I had misheard or misunderstood, so I asked for clarification.  “We work to support gay and lesbians, primarily to let them understand the bible, and to try to bring them back to the fold.  If they refuse to make this choice, then we try to support them.  They need to know about their choices so they know what difficulties they will face as a consequence of their life choices.  Also they will never be allowed to preach from the pulpit.”  Being Black, it was explained to me, is completely counter-cultural with being gay or lesbian.  It is non-Black!  Black lgbt people are targetted for abuse and attacks.

Because of my own personal circumstances, I was so afraid that I might be too emotionally connected with this issue,  so I did not pursue it any further. Neither did I ask any more questions. Undoubtedly it has made my time here a little more thought-provoking.  Most importantly though, it made me think about how on earth Black lgbt people are coping, what real support is there for them, what further Apartheid they are encountering, and what being “targeted” might mean in every day life for them - in an area already rife with crime.   Also, how can those of us who have an entirely different faith vision, help build bridges, help build community with a culture which endorces practices like male initiation and cirumcision in less than clinical environments, and a faith that is, seemingly at least, in opposition to our own.  And yet, there are SO many other daily struggles, and SO much good happening.   Too many complex questions……

Imagine arriving at work to discover that the office is closed; imagine being told to have a coffee somewhere while someone tries to organise finding a key to get the office opened; imagine no one knowing where or how to find the key. Imagine 4 hours later gaining entrance to the office, only to discover the Server is down and you have no internet access.  If you can imagine all this, welcome to down-town Durban. For a Westerner accustomed to meetings and deadlines, it’s both frustrating and culture-shocking.   Things do happen here – but much more slowly than in the UK, and in ways that we would find frustrating.  10 steps are needed to make something happen instead of two! Perhaps it’s one outward sign of a young, integrated leadership and management. I can only hope that this comment is not an arrogant reflection.   It is sincerely not meant as such.  Apartheid ended in South Africa in 1994.  Even so, many young black, coloured, and “Other Coloured” graduates left Durban for Cape Town and Johannesburg in search of work.  Few have returned.  Back empowerment is still a struggle here and the city is a visual mix of classy tourist enterprises and economic struggle. Durban struggles with integration among its population: Indian, Zulu, Qua-Zulu, Xhosa, Afrikaans, white South Africans and supporters of either ANC or IFM political parties. In Church on Sunday, the white community struggled to have tea and cake with the young people gathered for a youth service from across the different communities (mostly black, coloured, Indian and from the opposing political parties.)   Most went home immediately following the service. Housing too here is segregated:  Older white homes still bear clear marks of the Apartheid era:  small 1 roomed outlets at the rear of mansions where black maids lived (and in some cases still do.  In other cases these 1 roomed outlets are taken  up by people from outside South Africa, contributing to the increasing problem of Xenophobia.)  Newer built homes in these very nice suburban areas are taken up by the few accepted up and coming affluent Blacks.  In the townships (like council housing estates), Black, Indian and Coloured people live.  No white people live here.   Xenophobia is a real issue here:  local people blame and hate foreigners who have entered South Africa in search of work – and who are managing to find basic work (which, I am told, South Africans don’t want to do in any case.)  Crime towards  these foreigners is high.   Tomorrow I visit a number of townships…..   

13 & 14 June.   Small stories from Zimbabwe 

The CountryZimbabwe is beautiful!  Simply beautiful.  Watching Giraffes and Zebras exchange friendly glances in their natural habitat; driving mile after mile alongside maize crops, banana plants and other rich plantations, all basking in the warm sun; admiring the slower pace of life of local people as they set aside time to greet each other in a way that emphasises the value of community; -  not the picture we get from BBC.    

Arrivals Arriving in Harare Airport is a lonely experience – few flights arrive here, staff stand around:  in empty airport shops; in empty duty free shops; at empty customs areas and baggage claims, almost hoping that maybe some other flight will arrive.  The absence of noise is felt all too keenly.  In an area where noise is the norm, the absence of such is even more keenly felt.  Within this silent enclave, a large, golden framed picture of the President greets you as you leave the plane.  If you didn’t know beforehand, you are from then on, left in no doubt about who is in charge of this wonderful country.    

Money Changing money a pointless exercise because the daily ever increasing exchange rate makes you feel like you have entered a game of Monopoly!  Today, 60 billion Zimbabwean dollars = 90p.  Tomorrow it will be worth even less.  New billion dollar notes of different amounts are being printed by the Zimbabwean bank, in an attempt to cope with this ever deepening crisis.  But even they struggle.  Before the notes are ready for print and circulation, they become worthless.  I witnessed money – 500 thousand, 100 thousand, & 50 thousand and 500 hundred dollar notes all thrown away like rubbish – on the road side, by trees, in bins, beside rubbish!  Foreign currency here is illegal, but to survive, black-market exchange deals are the only way to survive.    But even when one has the currency, there is very little here to buy.  The supermarket I visited on the outskirts of Harare was lined with empty shelves.  Well, almost!  No bread or milk.  A few shelves of tins of beans, and 1 lane of S. African wines.  Little else.   

A sign on the door reminds you:  customers have a quantity restriction - in case provisions like bread or milk do arrive, customers are limited in the quantity of food they can purchase.  For those that can, shopping around lots of supermarkets to find food is the norm.

 Fuel Buying petrol takes place with pre paid vouchers. Post war rations - in the form of fuel!  For local people, especially in the rural areas, and for businesses, this is an impossible task and leads to back street deals. One clergy person I chatted to told me that to survive you almost have to engage in what would be called “criminal” activities” at home.  “But the insane gets normalised in Zimbabwe,” he told me. “ It’s the way of survival here.” 

Farms  I visited a farm, now taken over by 20,000 people, but there is only one water-hole for all of them.  These families were forced to go and take over the farm.  But since they do not know how to sustain it, both they and the farm have become obsolete.    In addition to the farmers who have lost homes and livelihoods, there is, I was told by 1 farmer, a growing number of un-seen, displaced people: those who worked on farms as paid workers prior to the take-over.  They have lost their jobs, their homes, their lives, and have nowhere to go. I met a farmer whose land had been taken over by the man who is now the Government Minister for Justice in Zimbabwe.  The farmer told me he was very concerned about the welfare of the farm workers prior to the take over of his and the many other farms. Forgotten displaced people, he told me.  This farmer and his wife were, and continue to work, campaigning for “justice for agriculture,” but not in a way we might expect.  Although they themselves have lost everything, he expressed a desire to see what is happening now in Zimbabwe as a painful and uncomfortable invitation for Zimbabwe to change, to re-set their path, to really begin to understand and value each other, to know that people exist because of the Other.   From someone who had lost everything, I sat in humble admiration, listening to the living Gospel.    

Aid I witnessed aid sitting in a room in the form of mealy meal, blankets and provisons.  But because the aid came from the US, it was forbidden to give it out.  And the risk of getting caught was considered too dangerous.  So there it was, lying in wait.

Local People

I, thankfully, had missed the visit of the President two days before I arrived.  He came with a fleet of buses loaded with people, and the local people in the township were forced to go and hear the President speak - failure to be seen at such an event would have resulted in severe beatings later. 

The Church

I sat in a cafe and listened to two white Zimbabwians share their dilemma of going to church on Sundays and sitting beside government ministers who they know are corrupting the country and who are spooning off it.  They laughed a hollow laugh.  The clergy person I chatted to shared how difficult it is to try to minister to those in the congregation who are  from “within” that corrupted element.

And finally…..

I met a woman, white Zimbabwian, who with her husband is committed to the promotion of human rights.  Her daughter, like most who can, is leaving Zimbabwe with her young family, in an attempt to find a life elsewhere.  When she does, the woman and her husband will be left homeless because the house belonged to her daughter.  Buying a new property wont be possible - the nonsensical nature of the exchange rate, and the incredibly difficult climate.  But Zimbabwe is her home, so she doesnt want to leave.  Two weeks ago she discovered she has a tumour…..  her heart is broken.  But she has not given up hope.  For me she zymbolises the country.  Broken hearted, threatened with death and still turning to Hope.

Lets pray for them all.

Today I’m off to visit a friend in Harare, Zimbabwe, with the memories of yesterday’s visit to Johannesburg’s Leewcop prison still firmly in my head.   Some Reflections from Leewcop Prison, JohannesburgAt first sight, you would be forgiven for thinking that Leewcop is a leafy residential suburb, and not notice that in fact it contains 4 separate jails, holding over 4000 prisoners in total.   Once through the gate, there are roads, a petrol station, a few shops, nice suburban houses with gardens, and tree-lined avenues.    No building is higher than 1 storey, and there is much space between various buildings.  

It takes a while before you notice wire separating some of the buildings, and strangely oddly dressed characters, in seemingly stark contrast to their leafy environment:  men, (all black) dressed in bright orange trousers, matching shirts, with black circle designs ingrained into the orange.  Some are gardening, some are sitting at the entrance to doorways, seemingly chatting, others holding gardening tools in their hands.  For a spit second, it gives a picture of an Apartheid era.    But I was to discover later, that younger people, in their early 20s, claimed that they had no personal experience of Apartheid. At least, that’s what they told me.  

“Medium A”  (where men are either placed or moved, to serve middle ranging sentences – several years, approx 4 – 7,  was called “Open Camp.”  But to enter I had to pass a double row of wire fencing with a trench in between the two.  Not all inmates have individual cells, and there is no such thing as a “vulnerable” wing.  Everyone is placed together.   I listened with admiration to the men who had completed their peer education training as facilitators of the “My Path” Khulissa programme, utterly convinced that they and others needed to choose other ‘paths’ for themselves and their lives. 

Later, in the Khulissa office,  a small group of young ex-offenders had been invited to meet me.  Each of these young people had served several years and had since remained out of jail for at least 2 years or more.  But the stigma attached to offending has left them un-employable, and without that stability, life for them remains tough.   The My Path programme had changed their outlook and their mentality, but not a new life.  Finding paid work remained an almost impossible challenge.  None of them were able to find work, no one would take them on, they said, and they did not like having to still be named “ex-offender.”   They had served their sentences, they told me.  It’s finished, they told me.  Now they wanted to be just the same as everyone else.    “Have you never stolen even a sweet from someone,” one  asked me?  Of course I have, I replied.  “The only difference between you and me then” he said, “is that you didn’t get caught.  We are all the same.  But unlike you, we have to live forever with this stigma.”

Khulissa Crime Prevention Programme: 

Joined a group of 6 prisoners in a massive leafy complex of 4 prisons together, and took part in an evaluation session on them as peer educators in a programme they delivered to 300 out of 1300 inmates, based around drugs, HIV & life choices.  They had been trainedby Khulissa as facilitators (peer educators) in Khulissa’s “My Path” programme. 

Afternoon: Took part in a session led by 4 young ex offenders at Khulissa office, and listened to how the “My Path” programme has changed their attitudes and their lives.

Pictures and video shots coming your way…….