Okay, Masoyi is a community that is about a 5 hour drive East of Joberg. It is a huge community that is built on the hills of the area. Years ago many many people were driven there and forced to live on these hills void of infrastructure. It was a way to keep the black population away from the whites which happened to have massive amounts of land (surprise), and hired the blacks from Masoyi as cheap labor. The people of Masoyi have been doing the provinces back breaking work for generations. From mines to construction, apartheid’s propaganda that blacks were not fully human forced this settlement to grow as South Africa’s economy needed more…slaves. It is now an urban settlement in the middle of an agricultural area. People live jammed together, with no services or proper housing infrastructure. The only communal nodes are taverns. That, together with a lack of police presence, 70% unemployment, Aids, poverty, and desperation, is a seemingly hopeless situation in which potential and preciousness of human life and determination dwells. That is why an NGO was started by George Snyman, together with his wife Caroline and their friend Ma Florence from the community. They began to give home based care to people dying of aids. They walked miles with food parcels and medicine, many times not having enough food for their own families. Ma Florence was telling a group of us volunteers this with tears in her eyes as she talked about the birth pains of this organization called Hands @ Work. 3 of us volunteers, as well as a new HR employee for Hands@Work, was told that we would be staying in the community of Masoyi for five days and four nights. We currently live on the campus of ASM (Africa School of Missions) as they had offered the organization free accommodation from the outset. Although somewhat disappointing at first because the campus is isolated from the community which is close by, the reality of South Africa quickly sets in. The campus is surrounded with electrical wires, access being provided through gates, keys, and passwords for a reason. Soon you understand South Africa’s reputation of the world’s most criminally active country. ASM has had many break ins, some instigated by the security guards that were meant to protect the premises. The Masoyi community’s two newly installed debit machines were recently blown up, in an attempt to steal money. Despite the crime, Hands@Work is beginning to remove it’s offices from ASM and to incorporate themselves into the close by and all black community.
We all got into the back of the “buckie” (Pick up truck) with three changes of clothes and minimal toiletries, and were on our way into the community. Each of us was going to stay with one child headed household (houses managed by children/youth because their parents have died from HIV/AIDS). The buckie dropped several others off and finally pulled up to a house with a fence that was flopping over towards the street, this was my new place. There was a dirt yard with a tree in the corner. Two structures were on the site, one was concrete block, the other was made of wood slats with tarp fastened on its exterior. Three brothers, their younger sister, and 9 year old orphaned cousin lived in the two structures. The concrete block house contained the t.v., dining table, and the beds for the two oldest boys. The second shack contained the kitchen, with two bedrooms, one for the youngest sister and their nine year old cousin, the other for the youngest boy of the family. The stay with our families was one of the greatest privileges I’ve been given in life. These youth opened their homes to me and accepted me into their lives. Stepping into their reality was heartwarming as well as devastating, They are still kids. They socialize, neighboring kids come over, they laugh, chat, sing songs, watch lots of t.v. on their small black and white (American soap operas everyday). Yet growing up quickly is a pressure they have faced since their parents died. They cook and clean (house looks impeccable, regardless of the little they possess), wash and iron their clothes, help each other with homework, plant and harvest maze in the small yard that they have, repair their house, and try to repair their own damaged souls and bodies as years of neglect, sometimes abuse, and often sickness build up. The family also fill their large water jars which they carry in a wheelbarrow. They walk a large distance to a communal tap that is only open on Saturdays, waiting in line for hours, sometimes from 4 in the morning. If the drunk guy responsible for the tap decides to shut it off, they do not have water for that week. Infrastructure is painfully absent in this populated settlement. If I left my empty water bottle somewhere at the end of the night, I would find it in the freezer full of water the next morning. I had forgotten to wash my socks one day, and found it hanging on the line to dry behind the house. They would make sure that I washed my hands first in the bucket prior to eating. They would poor me more water for my bucket bath, and boil more of it so that it would be warmest. I did not hear them complain once about their situation, unless it was brought up in a joking manner in order to be laughed about. Their challenges in life are great, but what breaks my heart the most is the love that they display in the face of their circumstances. There are many horrible circumstances here. The oldest brother Titus showed me his English to SiSwati dictionary one day. It was in bad condition, and only started at the letter “D”. You can find out a lot about a person from the things that they underline. It was amazing what was circled in this book. Some words were hope, faith, marriage, grace, pray, faith, poverty. When I got to “O” the word orphan happened to be circled, and the page across from it was filled with scratches, that whole page was filled with scratches. Seeing those scratches that come from frustration, pain, and suffering, made the kids’ painful reality sink in a little more. I go to visit my family every Friday. Last Friday I was surprised to see the youngest sister Sbomgile holding her child. The child was not with us when I was staying with the family, he was being taken care of by the grandmother who had gone to Johannesburg. Sbomgile is 16, and has a two year old child named Sbusisu. I still have not haven’t been able to ask about how the child came about and where the father is, in fear of what the response could be. I asked some of the youth what their dream jobs were. Titus the oldest wants to be an investor, one of their friends Carroll said that she wanted to have a radio program. Sbomgile, holding her child Sbusisu, said her dream was “to be a daughter…I want to be a daughter.” We go out on home based care with a nurse to take care of patients on some days. We entered the house of a frail mother and her young daughter who were suffering from tuberculosis brought on by aids. After our nurse Emily talked to them in SwaSi, the mother went on to say how much she wished that she had enough health so she could sweep someone’s yard for money. That is when the daughter broke down into violent crying. After comforting her, Emily asked the girl what her favorite song was. The daughter whispered the name in her weak voice, and the African volunteers began to sing the SiSwati song. Most of Each person has their favorite song, regardless of weather they have Aids, or are orphaned. The worse weapon we can give Aids is letting it turn people into statistics. They are not numbers in a PowerPoint to be presented at the next UN Aids conference. They are not digits on Excel files to be crossed off once the funds from Bill Gates come in. Each person is unique, and craves meaningful relationships. It’s a great privilege to be here and share in people’s lives.
We all got into the back of the “buckie” (Pick up truck) with three changes of clothes and minimal toiletries, and were on our way into the community. Each of us was going to stay with one child headed household (houses managed by children/youth because their parents have died from HIV/AIDS). The buckie dropped several others off and finally pulled up to a house with a fence that was flopping over towards the street, this was my new place. There was a dirt yard with a tree in the corner. Two structures were on the site, one was concrete block, the other was made of wood slats with tarp fastened on its exterior. Three brothers, their younger sister, and 9 year old orphaned cousin lived in the two structures. The concrete block house contained the t.v., dining table, and the beds for the two oldest boys. The second shack contained the kitchen, with two bedrooms, one for the youngest sister and their nine year old cousin, the other for the youngest boy of the family. The stay with our families was one of the greatest privileges I’ve been given in life. These youth opened their homes to me and accepted me into their lives. Stepping into their reality was heartwarming as well as devastating, They are still kids. They socialize, neighboring kids come over, they laugh, chat, sing songs, watch lots of t.v. on their small black and white (American soap operas everyday). Yet growing up quickly is a pressure they have faced since their parents died. They cook and clean (house looks impeccable, regardless of the little they possess), wash and iron their clothes, help each other with homework, plant and harvest maze in the small yard that they have, repair their house, and try to repair their own damaged souls and bodies as years of neglect, sometimes abuse, and often sickness build up. The family also fill their large water jars which they carry in a wheelbarrow. They walk a large distance to a communal tap that is only open on Saturdays, waiting in line for hours, sometimes from 4 in the morning. If the drunk guy responsible for the tap decides to shut it off, they do not have water for that week. Infrastructure is painfully absent in this populated settlement. If I left my empty water bottle somewhere at the end of the night, I would find it in the freezer full of water the next morning. I had forgotten to wash my socks one day, and found it hanging on the line to dry behind the house. They would make sure that I washed my hands first in the bucket prior to eating. They would poor me more water for my bucket bath, and boil more of it so that it would be warmest. I did not hear them complain once about their situation, unless it was brought up in a joking manner in order to be laughed about. Their challenges in life are great, but what breaks my heart the most is the love that they display in the face of their circumstances. There are many horrible circumstances here. The oldest brother Titus showed me his English to SiSwati dictionary one day. It was in bad condition, and only started at the letter “D”. You can find out a lot about a person from the things that they underline. It was amazing what was circled in this book. Some words were hope, faith, marriage, grace, pray, faith, poverty. When I got to “O” the word orphan happened to be circled, and the page across from it was filled with scratches, that whole page was filled with scratches. Seeing those scratches that come from frustration, pain, and suffering, made the kids’ painful reality sink in a little more. I go to visit my family every Friday. Last Friday I was surprised to see the youngest sister Sbomgile holding her child. The child was not with us when I was staying with the family, he was being taken care of by the grandmother who had gone to Johannesburg. Sbomgile is 16, and has a two year old child named Sbusisu. I still have not haven’t been able to ask about how the child came about and where the father is, in fear of what the response could be. I asked some of the youth what their dream jobs were. Titus the oldest wants to be an investor, one of their friends Carroll said that she wanted to have a radio program. Sbomgile, holding her child Sbusisu, said her dream was “to be a daughter…I want to be a daughter.” We go out on home based care with a nurse to take care of patients on some days. We entered the house of a frail mother and her young daughter who were suffering from tuberculosis brought on by aids. After our nurse Emily talked to them in SwaSi, the mother went on to say how much she wished that she had enough health so she could sweep someone’s yard for money. That is when the daughter broke down into violent crying. After comforting her, Emily asked the girl what her favorite song was. The daughter whispered the name in her weak voice, and the African volunteers began to sing the SiSwati song. Most of Each person has their favorite song, regardless of weather they have Aids, or are orphaned. The worse weapon we can give Aids is letting it turn people into statistics. They are not numbers in a PowerPoint to be presented at the next UN Aids conference. They are not digits on Excel files to be crossed off once the funds from Bill Gates come in. Each person is unique, and craves meaningful relationships. It’s a great privilege to be here and share in people’s lives.
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