Up Close and Personal With HIV in South Africa

“Do you see a lot of people with AIDS?” many Americans ask about my experience in South Africa.  Contrary to images in the American media, which repetitively connect HIV to thin, sickly-looking black people, HIV is as invisible in Africa as it is in America. Here, the only reminders of the pandemic I see are the eerie plethora of billboards and advertisements for funeral homes, caskets, and tombs.

Although statistics vary widely, according to the CIA’s World Factbook, in 2003 South Africa had an adult HIV infection rate of more than 21%.  Before I came here, I too was curious about how people coped in the face of this health crisis.

From many conversations I’ve learned most young people are educated about HIV and safe sex. Still, many shy away from talking about their status. And, when asked how someone died, people often seem ashamed to say that friends or relatives died of AIDS, instead citing “pneumonia” or “kidney failure.” One young man however, told me three of his brothers died of AIDS and as a result he was abstinent.

I think one of the reasons that South Africans don’t engage in discussions about HIV with the critical, frenzied attitude I exhibit is because many don’t understand the exponential infection rate in Southern Africa is specific to their region and not the entire world.  When I showed a student from my school South Africa ranks fifth on a global list of HIV infection rates she was shocked.  “This is embarrassing,” she said.

It wasn’t until I stayed at the home of Anna, a kind African woman who lives in the neighboring town, that I met anyone who talked directly about being HIV positive. The perfect host, Anna welcomed my colleague and me into her tidy yet humble home, and served us a traditional spinach dish, coffee, and Fanta soda. With a warm, open spirit, and mannerisms like older African American women from the South I know, Anna immediately reminded me of my maternal grandmother.  It wasn’t until I asked her age, and found out she was younger than I expected, did HIV cross my mind.

Under a large shade tree outside where Anna works spinning wool, I talked to her about living with the disease.  At 58, Anna found out she was infected after falling ill in 2005.  When I asked if she knew much about HIV beforehand, she said, “I didn’t think I’d catch it.  I never knew about this disease until the doctors explained it to me.”

 “How do you think you were infected?” I asked shyly, as if I were talking to my religious grandmother about sex.  Calmly, Anna said that she wasn’t sure how or when she was infected, only that her husband died in 1994. She didn’t know if her husband died of AIDS.  She said, “One day he couldn’t walk- he just got sick and died.”  Her husband was 48.

Anna’s husband practiced polygamy, having two wives. When I asked if her husband cheated, Anna turned to me, threw her hands in the air and replied, “Yes. A lot. I don’t know their names but I know he was cheating with young girls. And we’re old. We didn’t believe in birth control, and he didn’t use condoms.”

Today, the widows are neighbors and very close friends.  When I asked if the other wife was infected Anna replied, “She hasn’t shown any signs of sickness.  She hasn’t been tested because she doesn’t go to hospitals.”  Instead, she uses treatments from the church- a strong tea. Anna, however, doesn’t believe the tea actually works.

            Contrary to popular criticism, Anna thinks the South African government is doing a good job helping people with HIV.  She was happy to receive a one-year HIV grant of 870R per month ($124.)  She also receives ARVs free of charge from a nearby hospital. She said she feels better, has accepted her status, and is happy. “My support group and the quality time I spend with my friends at work helps,” she said. 

            Unlike many, Anna does not hide her status. “People of your age, they always try to hide it…older people just want to live long.” Now Anna advises everyone to take care and protect themselves.  She also thinks young women who find out that their husbands are cheating should insist they use condoms.

In the midst of her graciousness, optimism and faith in ARVs, Anna still fears the inevitable. “I’m very sad when I hear someone HIV positive dies.  I feel I will die too.  It scares me.”

After sharing hugs, and assuring Anna I’d visit her soon, I asked if there was anything she wanted the American public to know,  “all I ask of people is money to buy food because I really can’t afford to buy healthy food to keep up my immune system.  And for money to fix my leaking roof, so that I don’t get sick.”

 

You can learn more about Anna’s work by visiting www.mapusha.org.  Donations can be made at: www.amazwi.org/anna.  

 

Johannsburg…What’s the Word?

9.27.07

 

I spent the weekend visiting Johannesburg, a city that proudly proclaims to be the “New York of Africa.”  They’re less proud when it comes to “Joburg’s” reputation as the murder and rape capital of the world.

When I visited the Johannesburg Art Gallery downtown, on the edge of a large city park, I was prepared to make use of the survival skills I learned in America’s black ghettos. The busy area smelled of urine and funk and reminded me of an underdeveloped New York City. A nearby outdoor market was filled with vendors, street barbershops, panhandlers, and shoe shiners. Above the street, clothing hung from the windows of tall apartment buildings.  I held my purse close.

But as I moved out of the city center, I was surprised to see that Johannesburg looks a lot like California. Palm trees line the urban landscape.  Billboards interrupt a mountain view, black and white faces selling everything from beer to hair relaxers.  The streets are well paved; the pastel-colored houses seemed nice—that is what I could tell from the far side of the walls.  Most houses are hidden away by guard walls, topped with barbed wire or electric fencing.

Driving through the predominately white suburb to where I was staying, all I saw were high brick walls, iron gates, and barbed wire. Signs that read “BRINKS,” “ADT,” and “SECURITY” decorated the tree-lined residential streets. 

After unlocking an electric iron gate, metal door grill, and a triple bolted security door, Peter, a white South African friend of my American colleague, showed us into his chic, four-bedroom home. All the windows were barred.  One night, I tried to go to the kitchen for a glass of water.  At the top of the stairs, a locked iron gate prevented movement to the lower level.  I felt like I was in prison.

Guarding themselves in suburban, residential fortresses, it’s obvious that many white South Africans suffer from xenophobia. There’s tremendous “white flight” occurring in urban areas.  In a country with enormously unequal patterns of income distribution, and where poverty is still largely defined by race, the fear of violent crime, burglary, and robbery makes sense. Unfortunately, the system that worked to keep blacks out also locks whites in. 

One night we ate with Peter at an outdoor Thai restaurant that faced a popular urban square.  I watched blacks and whites peruse the street heading to movie theatres, restaurants, and bars.  At the head of the table, I listened quietly to a heated debate about America’s “cultural bankruptcy,” poor foreign policy, and the uselessness of patriotism.   And then, came the “A” word.  “So what about apartheid?” my colleague asked in defense of the U.S. 

I’ve learned that apartheid is the last thing white South Africans want to discuss in front of me. As an African American, the white response to my dual identity is generally minimal and distant, particularly in the presence of white Americans. So when apartheid came up at dinner, I braced myself.  In a low tone, our host replied, “Well, of course, [apartheid] is embarrassing.”  Then he looked at me and changed the subject, asking about my experience in South Africa.

I knew that he was asking about my experience as a black person in South Africa.  I also knew that I didn’t want to pay for a hotel, so the diplomat in me answered, “Well, my experience has been quite interesting… But I agree with you. In many ways, America’s history is no better.  The transatlantic slave trade brought nine million Africans to the West.  But, the difference is that apartheid was in the 20^th century.” He nodded in agreement.

Unlike white Americans, white South Africans don’t enjoy the privilege of blaming all their wrongdoings on their ancestors.  Apartheid ended in 1994, so there’s a fresh sense of fear, shame, guilt, and anger combined with lingering hatred and prejudice. There’s no distance, no perspective, no tidy answers or scapegoats.

Many poor and middle-class whites now fear that black empowerment will come at their expense. I’ve heard white South Africans complain about unemployment and educational disadvantages they face as a result of new “affirmative action” style laws.

In Johannesburg, I also saw the makings of a black middle-class that can afford to buy itself nice cars, MAC cosmetics, and $8 cocktails.  Later the same evening, I went to Moloko, a swanky nightclub that closely resembled nightclubs in the U.S.  Everyone was dressed stylish and behaving in same the “too cool” demeanor that regulates black American nightlife.  I danced to hip-hop, R&B, house, and reggae. When the DJ played R. Kelly’s “Step in the Name of Love,” I even found a guy from Nashville to “step” with.

Leaving the city, I considered what the white response would be to black retribution and empowerment. I thought of the words of Malcolm X, “Chickens coming home to roost never made me sad. It only made me glad.”

 

 

 

 

Finally, The South Africa I dreamed of…by Ayana Haaruun

9.20.07

Finding my way to black South Africa was more difficult than I expected.  I live in a rural white town and work primarily with white Americans.  Black South Africans only come into my town for work or school, so I was excited to spend the weekend in the neighboring black town.

 

During apartheid, the South African government revoked black citizenship and forcibly “resettled” blacks to designated “homelands”. The aim of the “homeland system” was to ensure white demographic majority in government.

When I arrived, I was reminded of my travel to Haiti.  I noticed the vivid colors around me.  Women balanced boxes on their heads and carried babies wrapped in towels on their backs.  People spoke louder and music streamed from stores.

 

First, I stopped at the KFC to check out the menu.  Then I visited a beauty salon and gave tips on hair relaxers.  For lunch I enjoyed steamed cabbage, bean salad, and “pop”, a grain that tastes like grits and accompanies most meals. 

 

I spent the afternoon hanging out in a crowded outdoor bar. People were drinking beer, watching television, and conversing. Everyone was excited to meet both my white American colleague and me.  In a short time, we were swarmed with inquisitive admirers. I answered many questions about life in the U.S. and my impressions of South Africa.  I also had in-depth conversations about HIV, politics, and racism. People marveled at my braces, thinking they were fashionable, and made jokes about my funny accent.  In a couple hours, I had too many “husbands to be” to count. 

 

I was amazed at how fashionable the black South African youth were, even though most of their clothing comes from second-hand stores.  The men wore fitted jeans, cargo pants, printed t-shirts, up-to-date sneakers, and nice casual shoes. The women wore a variety of hairstyles: dreadlocks, short cropped haircuts, afro-weaves, braids, and relaxed styles.   

 

I spent the evening sitting on the porch of a local shop.  Unlike the town I live in, on Saturday night the streets are full.  One guy parked close to the porch, and blasted South African jazz from his car radio.  Everyone sang along while I danced on the dirt sidewalk. For the first time, I felt like I was in the Africa I imagined. 

 

After the festivities, a “taxi” (mini-van) drove us home. The driver played loud South African house music, which is very similar to the music heard in black nightclubs in Chicago. 

 

I stayed at the home of an older black South African woman. The exterior was brick and had a tin roof.  There were three bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen.  Both the walls and floors were cement, and visible electrical wires lined the tin ceiling.  To my surprise, there was no indoor plumbing.  When I asked where the bathroom was, I was lead outside. In 18 miles, I felt like I had gone from the “first world” to the “third world”. 

The next morning, crowing roosters awaked me.  I was in need of a shower.  It was hot, my feet were dirty from the dirt roads, and there was no toilet paper.  I “washed up” in a bedroom using a basin filled with heated water. 

I was told that indoor plumbing is expensive (about $3000), and underground pipes must be built to reach a nearby well.  My South African colleague said that she’d taken a shower only twice in her life. 

At 8 a.m. we headed to the opening of a newly built Catholic Church. Covered by an umbrella used to shield the sun, we walked up a steep dirt path to the top of a hill. Goats and chickens walked alongside us.  For a moment, I felt like I was a character in the “Color Purple”. 

It was 95 degrees and the church tent was crowded.  Older women in purple capes sat in the front rows. A white Priest and a black Bishop led the services, while the churchgoers sang songs in the Shangaan language.  I watched a woman dancing in a circle, intermittently blowing an instrument that sounded like a whistle. 

I felt the same emotions I do in black churches in Chicago.  Looking at the crowd the faces began to look familiar. The older women reminded me of my maternal grandmother and great aunts.  One woman looked like my cousin; and an elderly man like my great-grandfather. It became surreal–I had to leave the tent to compose myself.

On that hot Sunday morning I felt like I was with family.  Although I couldn’t understand the songs or the words being spoken, I felt a kinship that transcended my comprehension.  Without a doubt, I am African.  And the spirits of my ancestors are alive and well.

 

Two Americans on Race in South Africa by Ayana Haaruun

Discussing race in post-apartheid South Africa means exploring an aggressive, complex, and now tedious institution. In this week’s column, I share my experience, and that of my colleague and fellow Chicagoan, Jena Hencin.  Jena is a graduate student in DePaul University’s International Public Services Program.

 

Jena’s Story

 

I thought I would come to South Africa, a country struggling to find its ethics and rebuild a society shattered by apartheid.  However, my South African experience began before I landed on the African continent.  On layover in London, I met an older Afrikaans (white South African) couple.  I asked them, “How do you like your country?’  They replied, “We love it, except for the blacks.”

Race coheres: white South Africans believe as a white woman I should share in their prejudice.

In the supermarket I receive long looks when I hug a Shangaan (black African) student from our school or walk with Ayana.  My colleagues believe our town is about 20 years behind the times.  It feels like 200. 

Recently, I met an Afrikaans farmer who took me on a tour of his citrus orchard.  He opened my doors, took me to see rhinos, and then brought his day laborers mincemeat sausage for lunch.  I cooed at his kindness.  But the meal however, was for his black subordinates. He made sure to reflect the difference.  He offered the meat with one hand, and gave them his middle finger with the other.

In his pick-up truck, I watched him charge a black laborer with a clenched fist. I was shocked and speechless.  I’ve never felt a racial divide as strong as this, or witnessed violence as ugly, all the while among the beauty of the mountains and carefully lined citrus trees. 

He returned to his truck cursing.  I asked what made him do such a thing.  He explained that the man whistled at me, and he had to “keep them in line before they go too far.”  His too far took me back to Alabama fifty years ago. 

On our walk to his home, he begins to throw rocks at the black farm workers who asked for cigarettes.  He repeats the middle finger, chucking more rocks, and then gives them cigarettes.  I am perplexed—why would he act this way?  As though he read my mind, he says, “Don’t be afraid, they won’t hurt you, they’re too afraid of me.”

Leaving his orchard, the black gatekeeper asks for a cigarette.  He instructs the gatekeeper to get on his knees.  With an understanding smile, he gets on his knees, repeating “dankie, dankie” (thank you in Afrikaans).  My ‘date’ calls him a beggar, and then drives me home.  I never asked for his number.

I told my American roommates about this experience.  They explained that farmers are the lowest rung of the white socio-economic ladder, and thus need to feel superior to black South Africans.  They suggested that perhaps he was trying to impress me and prove his machismo.  They understood how it turned me off—but a white man raised under apartheid did not.

 

 

Ayana’s Story

 

In South Africa race is as serious as cancer.  Each day, I witness black second-class citizenship in a country where black Africans represent 80% of the population. The unique brand of belligerence and overt discrimination cuts me to the core. I struggle continually to balance feelings of anger, hurt, and powerlessness.

Here, I blend in with the black majority.  On the street, people speak native African languages to me, and are shocked to learn that I could look “so African” and come from the U.S. 

Blending in however, means sharing in black oppression. As a black woman, I am expected to defer to whites and exhibit congenial docility. In my town most people assume that I am a domestic or other unskilled worker.  Most whites won’t speak to me or shake my hand.

When I enter pubic places with my white American colleagues everyone stares.  There is an excruciating discomfort in being the only black person who isn’t working as a servant or laborer.  Some days I feel like the only free slave in a plantation town; on other days, I feel like I’m in the Jim Crow American South.

My first week here I cried after challenging the manager of the “Dumb Waiter”, a restaurant filled with “coon” statues.  Think Uncle Tom, Aunt Jemima, jolly-nigger banks and Bamboozled.

I explained to the restaurant manager that I found the statues racist and didn’t feel welcome.  He told me that he didn’t care, and if I didn’t like it to leave.  He said, “This is South Africa, that’s the way it is.” The all-black restaurant staff watched as he threw me out. 

The other day, I was in a photography store.  Admiring my professional video camera, a white customer asks, “Are you from the States?” I said yes.   He then asked, “So how do you like South Africa”?  I looked at the black woman behind the counter and said, “I hate it.  It’s too racist here.  The whites have everything, and the blacks work like slaves.”  The white customer then says, “Well it’s the same in the U.S., right?”

This is the kind of unapologetic racism that I face continually.

It wasn’t however, until I needed an emergency root canal, that segregation really hit home. I knew that medical services were separated under apartheid, and I was afraid that the only dentist within 200 miles would not treat me.  I thought, “Damn, these are my teeth here—this is not the time to be dealing with racism.”

Desperate and in pain, I asked a white American colleague to inform the dentist that an “American” was coming for an appointment. Before I entered the clinic however, I quietly asked a black woman if they serviced blacks.  Luckily, they did.

In South Africa I’ve gained a deeper respect and appreciation for African Americans.  As a population minority, our people fought against the segregation of public services and education, lynching, and explicit racism.  In lieu of slavery and oppression, we’ve built institutions, organizations, businesses, and schools.  We have our fair share of problems, but we are not docile.  And, without the sacrifice of many things could be the way they are here.

 

 

 

The Safari holiday that changed my life by Ayana Haaruun

9/6/07 

While most of America enjoyed a long holiday weekend, I was in “the bush”.  I spent 4 long days in South Africa’s Kruger National Park, a wildlife reserve about the size of New Jersey. I love the safari “aesthetic”:  Ralph Lauren, aviator sunglasses, earth tones, cool hats, and cargo pants. I admit, I was more concerned about dressing up in my safari gear, than the wildlife.

I learned quickly however, that the Kruger National Park is not the forest preserves.  It’s a large expanse of untamed nature that houses much of the animal kingdom.  It’s also home to some of the earliest traces of humanity. 

A safari guide drove me and two others to our camp in the middle of the bush.  The accommodations were a tent with a bed, and an outdoor toilet and shower. There was no electricity for miles. Nor was there a fence or barrier around the camp.  I nervously listened to stories about elephants hiding behind tents and lions lurking in the kitchen. 

My first afternoon, I hopped in the “landie” for a bumpy,“game drive”.  I observed the dry land, dead trees, and heaps of elephant dung.  I felt the sun browning my skin, and breathed in what felt like clean air.  We rode around for hours, watching elephants, giraffes, kudu, antelopes, monkeys, and exotic birds. 

On the way back to camp, my greatest fear was realized.  At dusk, in the middle of the bush, the safari vehicle broke down.

Calmly, the two guides informed us that we’d be walking back to camp.  As I slowly grabbed my backpack, I watched the guides load their rifles.  In a single file line, we marched silently through the bush.  With bucked eyes, I looked at my female colleague.   A Catholic, she responded by crossing herself.  All I could hear were the monotonous sounds of our footsteps dragging through the tall dry grass, and the calls of nocturnal animals.  There were no signs to follow, no clear paths, no lights, nor any cars in sight. 

We walked briskly to beat the sunset.   However, darkness arrived before our destination did.  It was pitch black.  And, I was drenched in sweat and thirsty.  I was scared to death that I’d be lost in the wild. My Chicago Southside survival instincts proved impotent in the African bush. 

In between silent prayers, I scolded myself for trusting the safari guides. Loud and clear, I heard my mother’s warning about being a daredevil and “fooling around with crazy white people.”  Pondering my mortality, I thought to myself, if lions kill me, at least I would have died in Africa.

Finally, two hours later, we arrived at our camp.  The cooks had set lanterns outside each tent and a bonfire was burning.  I was happy to be alive, but exhausted from the long hike. The guides asked if I felt exhilarated.  Then they told me to get ready for the “night drive.”  I thought they were kidding, until they drove off in search of the lions and leopards we’d heard earlier.  

My first night “on trail” I stared at the bright stars and saw the Milky Way. I listened to lions purr, and elephants mate.   I thought about these “crazy white people” that I’d be spending the weekend with.   I wondered about their eagerness to explore, willingness to arbitrarily test their personal limitations, and desire to battle against nature.  The earlier hike reminded me of the military. It also made me think of colonialism.  The desire to conquer the unknown, and a faith in machines and guns, helped Europeans colonize much of the world.

Lying in my tent, I consider my fears.  I compared the constant fear I felt living in my Chicago neighborhood, with my fear of the wild.  I also thought about the fears of many people I know:  fear of travel; new cuisine; relationships; career change; being unpretty; exploring new ideas; and being alone.

Yes, I am still afraid of predators. But I learned to have an experience despite my fears.  During my safari trip, I watched a family of giraffes outside the camp, got 10 feet away from two lions, collected wild lavender, studied exotic birds, saw an owl eat a mouse, and watched an elephant knock down a tree.

And, I returned to my apartment without even a mosquito bite. Regrettably,when I arrived, I learned that a close family friend had died of breast cancer.  She was 31 years old, the same age as me.

That afternoon, I committed myself to living fearlessly.

 

 

 

 

Embarking on a Journey of a Lifetime

8/30/07

I expected my visit to Africa to be a romantic experience filled with tears of joy and a feeling that I was “home”. Africa was akin to the parent I had never met; I constantly searched for her likeness in myself and wondered how meeting her would change my life.

The opportunity came to volunteer in South Africa at a media arts program for rural women. I had grown tired of only seeing young whites working in Africa. Living abroad however, required my own “emancipation” from the American debt system.  So I sold my home, took a leave from my job, and paid off my bills.

I left Chicago on a crowded flight on the largest jet I’d ever flown on.  The 21-hour flight to Johannesburg had comfortable seats, okay food, and free alcohol. I was lucky to be seated next to a well-dressed, cool Nigerian brother who worked with the United Nations.  He answered many of my candid questions about South Africa, helped with my extensive baggage, and kept me laughing.  

When I arrived in Johannesburg, I was among a handful of black travelers. The others were mostly white Americans, Europeans or white South Africans returning from vacation.  Anxious to see black Africa, I rushed through the long airport corridor, and pushed my way to the front of the customs line. Soon, I stared at the descendants of the mighty Zulus, Xhosa, and Sotho.  They were a range of skin complexions and body types, but were all dressed fashionably in Western clothing.  However, there was no Pan-African greeting quad. Everyone was too busy vacuuming the floors, cleaning the restrooms, and looking for taxi passengers. 

I arrived on a cool Sunday night.  The smell of burning coal filled the air. June through August is the winter season in South Africa. It’s usually hot during the day and significantly cooler in the evenings.  Most places don’t have central heating systems, and it got so cold that I requested an electric heater for my room.

I stayed at a small Bed & Breakfast with an enclosed front courtyard.  In the living room, young white “backpackers” were looking at maps, eating pizza, and checking their emails. I felt awkward and out of place. Other than myself, the only black person I saw was the luggage “helper”.  In the communal kitchen, I found the hotel manager, a British expatriate.  He explained that South Africa was the most developed country in Africa, largely due to the presence of the Afrikaners (Dutch) and British. I thought, here I am in Africa listening to a white man tell me that colonialism was good for Africa.

Once a British colony, groups of European immigrants came to South Africa during the diamond and gold rush of the 1860s. In 1948, the system of apartheid, which means “apart” in Dutch, was introduced to maintain the white minority’s control over the government and economy. Abandoned in 1994, apartheid laws were based on racial separation.  Although blacks represent 80% of the country’s population, they could only be citizens of one of ten black “homelands”.  Education, health care, and public services were segregated. Mixed marriages and sexual relations amongst blacks and whites were also prohibited. 

Before sunrise the next morning, a not-so nice white safari tour operator drove me to the small rural town where I’d be living. Amidst the darkness, I could see black faces hidden under knit hats filling the streets and scurrying to work. I watched the bright African sun rise above the newly paved four-lane highway.   School aged children dressed in uniforms lined the highway.  Outside the city, women dressed in colorful wraps and headscarves sold fruit and native art along the road.

South Africa’s natural beauty is undeniable.  Mountains paint the landscape. The sky is clear and the soil is light brown.  Giraffes, buffalo, baboons and zebra can be seen roaming the countryside.

This was the Africa I had longed to see. But I didn’t expect to be sharing my experiences with Europeans on a holiday safari. I angrily looked around the van.  These are the descendants of the Dutch, British, and Portuguese- the people who ran slaves and colonized much of the world.

With new eyes, I saw how imperialism worked. In the West, African slave labor boosted the economies of Europe and North America; while African colonies provided a wealth of natural resources and labor. The same colonial formula was used across the globe – white supremacy, racism, segregation, guns, and ships.  My first day in Africa I came to understand that “race” was only a secondary ploy used to obscure and justify economic exploitation.   

During my long flight across the Atlantic, I thought about how horrific the 5,000 mile Middle Passage must have been.  Now, I was interested in understanding just how much Europe and North America had profited from Africa’s resources and from centuries of free black labor.

 

 

Hello world!

Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!