On March 20, I woke up with a heavy heart. I attempted to
wish the feeling away with productivity and distraction, cleaning my room and
checking Facebook incessantly. Most of these milestones come and go in my mind.
After all, why would one want to dwell on the passing of another month without
her mother?
The heaviness lingered, though. I couldn’t shake the overwhelming
grief that six months had passed since my mom had passed away – only six months? – and that I was farther away from my family than I ever had been and probably ever will be. In those six months, everything had changed. Once fairly
dependent on my mom’s advice, encouragement, and faith in me, I was now finding
my way around life in a foreign country. On this day, I was feeling especially lonely, and I was missing my mom more than ever.
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| A quick reminder of how far away from home I am |
As I sat at my desk silently wondering what to make of my day, my phone rang. Mr. Saxby, one of my host counselors for my scholarship, would be heading to Manenberg to visit and learn about a potential Rotary project site, and he invited me to join him. I had no idea what I was getting into, but I welcomed a distraction. Plus, I always enjoy learning more about Cape Town with Mr. Saxby.
The drive provided enough time to learn a bit about the area we were visiting. Manenberg, a township that is home to approximately 70,000 people, was created by the apartheid government for low-income Coloured families. Though it carries a derogatory connotation in the United States, in South Africa, "Coloured" refers to an ethnic group of mixed race that makes up about 70% of the Cape Town population.
The project site was a Catholic church known as Holy Family of Nazareth. Like many properties in and around Cape Town, the church's grounds were bordered by a concrete wall with razor wire at the top and an gate for cars' entry. We were let in and asked to pause in the parking lot for an introduction before entering the church. There, on the dusty and desolate lawn, a priest who used to live on the grounds shared his experiences and knowledge about the area.
"Look up at that window. Those are bullet holes."
"Look up at that window. Those are bullet holes."
He went on to explain that Manenberg is home to a tradition of severe crime and gangsterism. Its violence and street gangs are a part of everyday life. One might pass a gang headquarters on his or her way to church or school and think nothing unusual of it.
The church we visited operates Holy Family Child and Youth Development Centre, which provides a safe place for children to play after school. It developed in 2010, when schools closed for a prolonged time while Cape Town hosted the World Cup. According to the priest, many of the children received their only meal and refuge from the violence of the township at school, meaning the break for the World Cup would leave the community in a dangerous spot. Additionally, most of the children wandered the streets with no supervision from their parents and caregivers, who were often tangled up in gang violence, drug use and alcohol abuse, or domestic violence and child abuse.
As he walked us inside, we passed an older woman sitting with a child in a wheelchair and a toddler. "What are you doing here today?" he asked. "They were shooting," she replied.
Inside the church, the vibrance of childhood bloomed. One room held a group of children learning hip hop dance moves from a young man. In another room was a gathering of girls playing recorders as a young lady played piano. In yet another room, children were learning basic life skills such as cooking. In the playroom, innumerable small children wiggled around heaps of worn and beaten toys. In the kitchen, three women worked to prepare a basic sandwich meal for the children.
For just a few hours each day, children come and go as they please. Some of the children have been coming to the centre since its beginning, including the young man who gave us a tour of the facilities. They are each served one meal per day - a sandwich or soup, for example. Here, the children are able to play safely and out of the danger that walks the streets of the place they call home. Or, worse, in the buildings and rooms they call home.
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| Razor wire in Manenberg (http://www.unodc.org/images/newsletter/persp_no02/page006_01.jpg) |
For just a few hours each day, children come and go as they please. Some of the children have been coming to the centre since its beginning, including the young man who gave us a tour of the facilities. They are each served one meal per day - a sandwich or soup, for example. Here, the children are able to play safely and out of the danger that walks the streets of the place they call home. Or, worse, in the buildings and rooms they call home.
While watching a young boy play with a typewriter that had seen better days, I remembered a typewriter that had been a source of my own childhood entertainment. Mine, though, had a ribbon of ink to be transferred to endless blank pages. His didn't even have all the keys. Nevertheless, interested onlookers huddled over him, as if a fantastic story was spilling onto the imaginary pages.
Observing the happiness of the children while simultaneously imagining the things they have seen, heard, and endured was enough to move anyone on any given day. But to witness such durability of the human spirit on a day when I was feeling the weight of my own world was quite another experience.
It took some time to process exactly what I was feeling that day. There was a collision of overwhelming sadness and encouraging hope. If these children could still smile, I most certainly could. Watching the children play in what could very well be the most loving and caring atmosphere they know shifted my focus from how frustrating and unfair it was to suddenly lose my mother to how unbelievably lucky I was to spend 24 years showered in love from my mother in a caring and comfortable home.
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| Manenberg (http://africasacountry.com/2011/09/15/tupac-in-africa/) |
It took some time to process exactly what I was feeling that day. There was a collision of overwhelming sadness and encouraging hope. If these children could still smile, I most certainly could. Watching the children play in what could very well be the most loving and caring atmosphere they know shifted my focus from how frustrating and unfair it was to suddenly lose my mother to how unbelievably lucky I was to spend 24 years showered in love from my mother in a caring and comfortable home.
They don't know it, and they never will, but those joyous children changed my perspective for the better. That day, I decided not to heed the 20th of each month with a sense of mourning and loss that fills an entire day. Instead, I shifted my outlook to one of memorialization and remembering the blessing of an extraordinary mother. Of embodying my momma's spirit rather than just missing its presence.
For the rest of the day, I felt blessed. The sun seemed to shine a bit brighter, the hospitality of my host counselors glowed. It was hard to believe, but on the day that marked six months without my momma, I felt lucky. And that was an unexpected treasure.
