Sarah trying to balance the positive with the negative aspects of her time away

Although I was feeling down all week due to the busy schedule and lack of sleep, there were some positive experiences.  The Apartheid Museum was incredibly powerful; I was especially impacted by our tickets separating us as either “blankes” or “non-blankes,” indicating that we had to go into the museum through different entrances.  As stages as it was, it sent a message to those of us that were white, whom never felt or took notice to the ostracization people of color have endured for centuries.  I have to admit, however, that my favorite part was seeing the display for Olive Schreiner, author of The Story of an African Farm -- the book I chose for my fiction essay.  Schreiner was an ultra-feminist before it was trendy, exquisitely discussing race, gender, and sexuality in the 1800s.  Being wracked with white guilt, it was nice to learn and see that not all white people were ignorant a$$holes during that time.  That being said, the Apartheid Museum actually wasn’t the most emotional part for me -- the Hector Pietersen Museum was.  

Seeing Hector’s lifeless body being carried with his sister running alongside them, wailing and screaming of heartbreak, brought tears to my eyes.  It made me think how destroyed I would be if one of my siblings were killed -- the pain even being too much for me to think about now.  I realized then and there how similar she and I are in our love for our family, consequently uncovering some unconscious biases I didn’t even realize I had.  

I recognized that not only are there racial stereotypes, but ones associated with geographic location and class as well.  I was so taken aback by Hector’s sister’s grief because I believed that those who lived in impoverished areas, who don’t have the same status as me, couldn’t possibly feel the same love that I do -- couldn’t have the same pain with loss, the same compassion for others.  Ridiculous and sickening, I know.  Thus, the images and stories that the Hector Pietersen Museum displayed revealed to me a dark part of myself that I need to work to change.

As for the Boys and Girls Club in Soweto, I had a more pessimistic view.  It’s not that the kids aren’t wonderful little humans, I just don’t think it’s fair to spend a few hours with them, have them get attached to us, and then, realistically, say goodbye forever.  I had two little girls crying and hugging me saying they didn’t want me to leave – it broke my heart.  They have a hard enough time dealing with rejection, abandonment, and self-doubt as it is without us coming in there to play hand-games and basketball with them to make ourselves feel like humanitarians for a moment, always knowing that we were planning on likely never seeing them again.  I hate that.  I hate that we think our actions are bringing hope, but really we’re proving we don’t care enough to stick around.  We’re no better than the CEO of Tupperware who showed up in a suit that cost hundreds, only there to see what a “great guy” he is for funding the program without actually spending genuine, quality time with the children.  We’re just a bunch of white saviors who care more about washing the past than building a durable road for the future.

Kruger National Park was definitely the highlight of the excursion, but I felt I couldn’t relax and enjoy it as much as I hoped.  With little sleep and a tight schedule, I felt pressure to make the most of it while others were continually complaining about what animals they didn’t get to see.  Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve loved to see a leopard dragging a kudo up a tree, but we did have two male lions walking right beside our vehicle – I mean can I say AMAZING?!  I just wish the atmosphere was more positive about what we did get to see and not what we didn’t, but mostly I wish we could’ve spent more time there.  I am thankful to have had the incredible experience to shine a spotlight on animals in the dark, but I would love to go back one day to fully take in all of the beauty and wonder Kruger has to offer. 

Sarah sharing the love and genuinely caring about the community to which she has become deeply connected

On March 14, 2017, Zinnodene, a 14-year-old boy from Hanover Park, was shot on his way home from school.  The news came to me the following day when I brought my mom to my internship: Tammy told me that one of the boys, whom I had interacted with from the Ceasefire Program, had unexpectedly died.  I had no idea what to do with this news, nor am I really sure if I’ve even completely processed it.  My interaction with Zinnodene was only one day – the day I went with Tammy, Glenn, and the Ceasefire boys to the beach – and while he looks familiar, I don’t know if I can even recall anything specific, which makes me feel guilty and pathetic seeing how he’s now dead.  This isn’t even about me, nor should I be making it so, but I can’t seem to get over the initial shock of it all.  I know kids of color are shot all the time as a result of gang violence or police brutality in the US, but I’ve never let it be so up close and personal – where I’ve interacted with a child that has been murdered. 

                

Before I continue with my own feelings on the matter, it is important to understand why this happened.  Zinnodene was a boy who came from a world enveloped in systematic poverty, where gangs were created to be a rebellious force against white supremacy, but turned on each other as a result of capitalism and racial hierarchy.  The odds of survival were most definitely not in his favor given his poisonous environment, but in his life he tried to defeat the odds by joining the Ceasefire Program, where he sought guidance to better his life.  He did not deserve to die.  No one in Hanover Park deserves to die.  It’s easy to point fingers at the gang leaders, depicting them as monsters, but they were once children too – they were once like Zinnodene, unsure of who to be in this world of chaos and violence.  Instead of judging the people, maybe we should look at the system and ask what it is that is being done to change it.  Too often do we, do I, give into the media portrayals of young men of color, saying that they are all “thugs” and “corrupt gangsters,” instead of what they really are: oppressed individuals who have faced more sadness and loss than most of us can ever imagine.

Although I had the day off for Human Rights Day, I was invited to Zinnodene’s funeral, and I felt that attending was the right thing to do.  I wanted to show people that I’m not just some foreigner looking to have a good time, but that I am a person who genuinely cares about their struggles and losses.  For while seeing such a small casket brought tears to my eyes, as did viewing his still, lifeless face, whose eyes would never again open to the world, whose mouth would never take another breath, whose arms would never fold into another hug, whose dream to become a mechanical engineer would never come true, I am so happy that I went.  I was honored to witness the turnout of over 2000 people, where the community gathered to mourn this tragedy, whose love radiated through the school gymnasium, whose voices matched every heartbeat, who unity was incomparable to anything I’ve ever seen.  I’m happy that I saw Skyler, one of the girls from the afterschool programme, who sat on my lap and made me feel that my time with her may make her life turn out different than Zinnodene’s.  That as small as my role may be, the love she and the other children have shown me will spread to the world around them, that the love I give them will save some of them from the defeat and despair that seems to consume their lives.