Inside the community building we were introduced to all of the host mothers for the weekend. Each one told us her name, surname, and clan name. Then we introduced ourselves. After introductions we sampled three traditional Xhosa dishes: homemade bread, tripe, and mielie. I tried two of the three, but opted not to take the tripe (the lining of a cow’s stomach). Those who did try it said it was poorly cleaned and tasted like the grass the cow ate. Others described it as tasting like cow shit.
The real meal that followed was filling and delicious. Food is a huge part of Xhosa culture. At the end of the weekend, the host families would tell the homestay coordinator that we were a much more open group of students than they have had in the past—meaning, of course, that we ate a lot more than past students. They appreciated this; they become concerned when you do not accept what they are offering you because it makes them feel as if you are not comfortable, or that they are not providing adequately for you. So, even if you cannot fathom putting another piece of fruit or bread or sweet in your stomach, it is polite to do so anyway.
Two students stayed with each host family. It was nice to be paired with Christina, to whom I hadn’t really spoken much before this weekend. Our host mother for the weekend was Ngawethu, a 67-year old, gray-haired, spunky, Black, Xhosa woman who introduced herself to the entire group by telling a story, complete with acting and hip-swinging, about how she came to live in Khayelitsha.
Mama, as we would call Ngawethu the remainder of the weekend, has two daughters. But the two daughters were not the two girls we met at the community center; one of these girls was in fact a daughter (in the American sense of the word). However, most non-European countries do not use the same words (e.g. aunt, uncle, cousin, brother, sister) to describe kinship as we do. And many, like the families in Khayelitsha, live with their extended families. After asking several family members many questions, we came to find out that Mama and her husband, Isaiah, have one biological daughter. The other “daughter” actually lives in another house with her mother, and I’m still not sure if she is of any blood relation or not. The other biological daughter married someone from, and now lives in, the United States. The two daughters still living with Mama were 21 and 23 years old. Eddy, who also lived with Mama, was 16. I came to find out that he is actually the biological son of Mama’s sister, who died of TB within the last five years. Eddy also has a biological sister who has a young child, but I don’t think she lives with Mama as I only saw her once.
From my conversation with Eddy, I gathered that Mama is a very authoritative parent, and he respects her tremendously. The other night Eddy received a phone call from a female friend. Mama inquired if this was a girlfriend and, if not, why was she calling him? “No,” Eddy assured her, “she was just a friend.” Eddy told me that he was not interested in having a girlfriend right now, and he is not going to have sex until he is married. He does not want to have a girlfriend right now, he does not go out on the weekends; all he wants to focus on right now is his studies, passing his matric exams (Grade 12 graduation exams), and get into varsity (college/university). Still, he knows that Mama does not question him because she does not trust him, but because she cares for him. Her authoritativeness is a manifestation of her love.
In another story, after Eddy’s sister found out that she was pregnant, they found her at the garage drinking petrol (translation: she was at the gas station drinking gasoline to try to kill herself and her baby). Mama took her to the hospital, had her stomach pumped, and the baby supposedly went unharmed. Afterward Mama asked, “Did I ever tell you to have many boyfriends and get pregnant? No. You did this. I did not tell you to do this.” Her message was that she did something of her own volition, and now she had to take responsibility for her actions. Both of these stories (and I’m sure there were many more that we didn’t hear) suggested that Mama abided by the letter that hung on the back of the bathroom door:
Dear Child
As long as you live in this house, you will follow the rules, when you have your own house, you can make your own rules.
In this house we do not have democracy. I did not campaign to be your parent. You did not vote for me.
We are parent and child by the grace of God and I accept the privilege and awesome responsibility. In accepting it, I have an obligation to perform the role of a parent.
I am not your pal. Our ages are too different. We can share many things, but we are not pals. I am also your friend, but we are on entirely different levels.
You will do in this house as I say and while you may ask questions, you may not question my authority. Please remember that whatever I ask you to do, is motivated by love.
This will be hard for you to understand, until you have a child of your own.
Until then, trust me.
Your Parent
Originally written by Ricardo Montalban to his son.
And children do understand this thing when they become parents of their own children. Sometimes children even realize the benefit of having a seemingly strict parent while they are still children. Still others come to resent that their parents were not stricter; that is, that they did not show them more love. After all there comes a point when children are no longer children, when they must make decisions for themselves. There is a poem by Kahlil Gilbran that speaks to this very thing:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
And, conveniently, I was just made aware of an African (Xhosa) proverb that echoes this idea that change comes through children. The English translation goes something like this: Old people are like metal, they don’t bend. In other words, young people cannot try to change the views of the elder generations. At the same time, the older generation should not hold it against the younger generation that their views are different. It is the parents’ responsibility to rear their children well and prepare them for the challenges that lie ahead of them. Then, after they have raised them and instilled in them their values, they must release them from their influence and trust that they have well-prepared them for the challenges and blessings that life will hurl at them.
So yes, Eddy is so appreciative of the love that Mama gives him. And he is determined not to disappoint her, or himself.
Around 9:00 on the Friday evening we arrived at our families homes, the two girls told Christina and me that we were going out.
“Where are we going?”
“Out!”
So, we went to Keith’s Place, a bar in the township, just a short walk from their home. Locals didn’t start filtering in until about half past ten, so for a while it was just six of us Americans and our host families. When the locals did start coming in, they did a double-take as to why there were six white people in a bar in a homogenously black township. But the oddity of the situation quickly wore off. We engaged in conversations with the locals and soaked up the atmosphere.
On Saturday morning we went to Ubuntu (“togetherness” in Xhosa), an HIV/AIDS clinic for infected children. On this day the children were performing songs, dances, and skits. It was nice, but it was far too long for my restless self to sit there and simply observe.
In the afternoon we went to Ace’s Place, a meat market similar to Mzoli’s. It was here that an old man (he was probably in his late 50s) professed his love for me, and I proceeded to assure him that no, he did not love me. “You don’t even know me!” At which point I rejoined our group’s conversation and tried to avoid the old man who was confused about love. It turns out he wasn’t the only one who was confused about love. After I spoke with one of the other host mothers, I realized how true it still is that marriage is an institution and a vehicle for social mobility. (There is a difference between marriage for social reasons and marriage for love; here I am referring to the first one.) Anyway, this lady (a single, 37-year old, black, Xhosa, school teacher) wants to marry a white man. Why? Because, in her mind’s eye, white men are faithful, you always see old white couples walking together and still holding hands. They divorce less than black men. In other words, white men are just better. This truly shocked me. Obviously it is an opinion, and every person is entitled to his or her own opinion. But it seemed to me as if this lady feels scared into marriage. Her motive for marriage is not love, but the avoidance of a situation she does not want to be in. As I understood it, she was motivated to marry out of fear. Of course she wants to be happy (don’t we all?). Anyway, I don’t intend to draw any conclusions from this, it was just an observation. However, I did give the conversation my two cents: People are people, and white men divorce just as much as anyone else. So to simply marry any white man guarantees only one thing—that the chance of having a lifelong marriage is the same as the flip of a coin.
After we finished enjoying the braai at Ace’s Place, we went to the other Ace’s Place across town, which was complete with a bar and dance floor. I walked in and walked straight back out to my host brother, Eddy, and two of the other host sisters. The three of them were too young to go inside. We got in the back of a truck and rode home. I couldn’t handle another night out; all I really wanted to do was spend time with Mama and talk with her. When we got home, we went to a house church. The setting reminded me of the Spanish church I went to at home in the sense that there were just a bunch of people crowded in a room in a house fellowshipping and worshipping God. However, this experience was much crazier, in my opinion. Perhaps it wouldn’t have seemed quite as crazy if the speaker hadn’t been speaking English – at least then I wouldn’t have known what he was saying! This speaker believes that he is a prophet of God (the Christian God, father of Christ). He saw “seven angels among us,” and prophesied that, of the people in attendance, three of their mothers would die on Wednesday at noon… Yes, this creeped me out.
On Sunday morning we went to an Anglican church service, which was conducted in Xhosa. Mama didn’t come with us because she was too busy preparing breakfast for us, despite our urging her to sit down and eat with us. My only regret for the weekend is that we didn’t have more time to talk with the elders. Well, that we didn’t get to talk more with Mama (I only saw her husband once over the weekend). Still, the conversations we did have were meaningful.
In summary, this weekend was a great experience. There is a spirit of ubuntu (togetherness, collectivity) in Khayelitsha. Everyone we met – our host families, locals, complete strangers – went out of their way to welcome us, make sure we were safe, and to make us feel at home. I wasn’t planning to have anything to drink at the bar on Friday night, and I was fine with this. So I was surprised when my host sister brought me a bottle of Powerade. Why was this girl who was just two years older than me and living in these conditions buying me, a white, privileged American, a drink? Someone else from our group started turning down beers from locals only because he couldn’t drink them all.
This is the benefit of becoming engaged in a culture despite how negatively it is portrayed by the media. Khayelitsha has a reputation for being one of the most dangerous townships. We students were all very aware of all of the things associated with Khayelitsha before we arrived, and we took these into consideration. I, for instance, didn’t bring my camera because I didn’t want to risk it being stolen. (My camera would have been just fine.) The residents of Khayelitsha were so eager to welcome us and to show us that it really is a great community, that people really do appreciate outsiders taking the time to understand them. And over the course of the 48 hours that we were there, we tended forget that we were in this supposedly crime-infested black township where poverty is an adamant oppressor. Instead, this was a vibrant community of human beings who care for one another and look out for one another. Yes, this was ubuntu.
I realize that I have not gone into too much detail here about the living conditions of the homes where we were stayed this weekend. I think this is an important part of the weekend, and I will include more of these details in the next post. For now though, this one has become too long. So, until next time…
This is amazing! It sounds like you are learning an immense amount about the environment you are in and the culture, along with your specified studies and you seem to be learning a lot about yourself.
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-Kaleen Carimbocas
"Primie"