30 May Thursday was my last day volunteering at a creche in
Kayamandi. We arrived there very early in the morning and the four of us
were split up to go to three different creches on 7th Avenue in
Kayamandi which was a pretty long walk away from the Prochorus center. I
volunteered to go to a creche by myself, but I had no idea what I was
getting myself into for the day.
It was quite a shocking experience for me.
I do not know if
this crèche mother regularly attends Denise’s training sessions, but if
she
does, there was no manifestation of it in her crèche today. I try to
remind
myself that I see only a few hours, one day of activity in the crèches
and that
perhaps the crèche mothers do not operate normally because I am there.
But this time, it was as if the crèche was a child warehouse. Denise
spoke about these
types of crèches and the width of the spectrum among her own crèches in
Kayamandi in this regard.
When I arrived, there were about twenty-five children
just standing in a very small dark shack and an older woman watching television
sitting in the corner feeding a baby on her lap while a few other infants slept
in the corner. She was wearing her nightgown and robe and the room was in
chaos. A few more children trickled in over the course of the morning, until
there were about thirty-three children in the room. Eventually, the crèche
mother got dressed and continued feeding the babies and changing their diapers.
Her only interactions with the older children were translating to me that some
of them needed to go outside to pee in the bucket and handing them their snacks
from their backpacks. There was no lesson. There was no singing or alphabet or
counting or anything like that. I did my best to engage them and count with
them and do the alphabet and identify colors and sing and play games. But they
spoke no English – not a work – so it was extremely challenging for me. I
struggled with frustration from time to time, and noticed that I kept checking
my watch far more frequently than is usual. So I told myself that this was not
fair to the children I was working with.
So as I sat there, opening little yogurt cups and chip bags for the
kids, as they grabbed my hair with their hands that had not been washed (this
was the first crèche I was at that did no hand-washing before or after potty
breaks and eating times), I thought back to the calm beautiful relaxing Garden
Route excursion. Woahhhh I missed that.
And
then of course I thought about worldviews. I thought about
how my worldview, which I have been analyzing a lot lately, influenced
by my
background and education, could help me out in this situation. I know
I've talked about this before, but I am going to say it again, because
it's helpful for me to write about it. I am a firm believer
in the value of the idea of Christian solidarity, something that is
pertinent
to my own worldview. I have recognized the usefulness of this ideal a
few times
before and so this day, I thought about it in terms of worldview and
also
development. The way I see solidarity is as truly being with the people
you are
with at the moment; it is about living in the moment but with care for
the
future. I felt so helpless and so hopeless in the crèche this morning.
So I
challenged myself to see the world from the eyes of these kids for a
second.
They are not the least it horrified by the conditions they are in. The
fact
that their teacher was running around in her nightgown and robe all
morning is
not strange to them. The smell in the room, the condition of their
clothes, the
quality of their food does not make them feel sorry for themselves or
feel
poor. They are at crèche. They are there to be safe, to learn, to have
fun, to
stay out of the streets, because their parents made them – whatever
their
reasons they were there and so was I.
I felt somewhat disparaging of the
fact that I would only be in these kids lives for a few hours. What difference
could I make? Was this sustainable? Could I really contribute? If done well, yes, yes
I could. I could live in the moment with these kids. I could teach them the “If
you’re happy and you know it…” song that I have loved since I was their age.
They might forget it tomorrow. Or they might remember it forever as the song
the crazy white girl from America taught them. Or they just remember it and not
know how or why they had learned it. But at least for the time I was with them,
those kids would know they were special and loved and would learn a song about
feeling happy. After a lot of hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions
on my part, we taught each other the English and isiXhosa words for happy, sad,
cry, smile, clap, etc. We stood in a circle holding hands, which took about
fifteen minutes of motioning and negotiations, and I made each child perform,
dance, or tell us something (I had no idea what they were saying but the other
kids did) – for the rest of us. I had been inspired by the teachers from
playgroup; individual attention is so valuable in early childhood development.
At
the end of the day, when it was time for me to leave, I couldn't wait
to get out of there fast enough, but I also felt like I couldn't leave. I
didn't want to leave this children, not ever. I wanted to run home and
shower. I was so conflicted. But obviously, I had to go and when I
walked back to Prochorus and got my backpack and left, I felt a sad and
sick feeling to be leaving Kayamandi to never work there again. This
community, Prochorus, working in a township, playing with the smallest
and most vulnerable members of this community every week for a day, that
was a life changing experience for me. It's something I'll never get to
experience again. I'm so grateful I had the experience, but at the time
I just had so many conflicting emotions whizzing through my brain.
When
I got back to my dorm, I wrote my reflection journal for Development
class on the day, and poured my heart into it. And then I wrote another
paper for my Public Health class on my personal worldview. It was a
really interesting assignment, and I actually had a lot to say. Then, as
I stood in the shower washing my hair, I closed my eyes and all I could
see was the images of the children from the morning. Rushing at me, all
trying to touch me, all trying to get close to me, all trying to touch
my hair and my skin and my face, all trying to give me the local "thumbs
up" sign (I still need to figure out what that means), all saying words
in isiXhosa, all asking for love and attention with their eyes. It was
like an awake nightmare and escalated into a borderline panic attack. I
couldn't breathe. I couldn't open my eyes. I couldn't close them. I
almost broke down into tears, but I held them back. Why? I have no idea.
I think I do not want to admit the horror of what I saw. I don't want
to admit that that's ok and that it happens and that life goes on for
people in this way. That this is a reality of life and that people are
not horrified by this.
