One street away from Sikhona Care Centre, I visited
households with Nombulelo, a community care giver (CCG). She had never been to
these homes before, but invited me to join her nontheless. I don’t honestly
know if I helped or hindered her attempts to gauge what challenges people had
and what they needed, but when we went into the first house, it was clear that
this woman needed assistance.
 |
| One of the houses facing Sikhona Care Centre. |
We ducked under a line of barbed wire, moving the flimsy
wire and stick gate out of the way. Inside, the hard was shabby, free of grass,
a garden or boulders. The one roomed house was roughly painted, cement walls
giving way to a wavy tin roof. Once we introduced ourselve to the owner, a
woman in perhaps her mid-40s, we were ushered inside. The room served as a
bedroom, closet kitchen and storage room. Everything had its place, whether on
the floor or piled on top of a night stand or plastic shelving. Although simple
and sparse, the room was clean. Light and a bit of warmth poured in from the
door. In tiny houses like this one, privacy and security are almost
non-existent. Visitors see not only everything you own, but also your life
story written across the ragged linoleum floor cover, the neatly made bed and
low food stocks. Although this woman did not have much, she took pride in her
home. As she cleared space for us to sit—I perched on an over-turned bucket
while Nombulelo sat on the bed—it became clear why we were there. This woman,
I’ll call her Sisiwe for this story, left her husband and five children some
time ago to live alone. Her husband beat her regularly. She lifted her faded
gogo-dress to indicated scars along her legs, while demonstrating how she would
try to shield her face with her arms, exposing them to blows. As Sisiwe shared,
so did Nombulelo. Trust developed as they two strangers shared their life
stories and abuses they have experienced at the hands of men. Sisiwe was
concerned about the five children she had left with her husband, who was never
home and stayed with a girlfriend. Her children had no way of getting food.
Nombulelo slowly began jotting down everyone’s name and ID number to report to
the Department of Social Development.
Getting into DSD’s system does not mean speedy food parcels
or even guarantee them. However, it’s a start. Someone listened to her story.
Baring witness and making the necessary referral is what community care givers
do here. They come from the same homes as the clients they visit. They try to
get folks connected with local services, but are asked for far more than they
can deliver. Care givers are on the front lines of poverty in Ezakheni and much
of South Africa—they enter into houses where sick folks in tattered clothing
and young women alone with four small children ask for help, money, services,
counselling and advice.
After a twenty minute visit, we thanked the woman for her
time and exchanged farewells in isiZlulu. The third house we visited was just
across the dusty street. Two young women in slippers greeted us. They stood up
against their house, peering at the newcomers. These women looked young but
their bodies and expressions seemed wary, hardened by winter and circumstance.
After another round of introductions and unbashed staring at me, they bethened
their mother from down the street. We entered the house and sat in a living
room area. Like many houses I’ve seen here, the walls met unfinished ceilings
and an exposed roof. A dusty desk top computer
was shoved in a corner. As we sat
down, a fluffy black cat wove its way between legs, couches and out into the
sunlight. It’s impossible to separate the cold from the nagging feeling of
neglect or downright despair that I feel upon entering homes here. No one is
comfortable here, people struggle to stay warm, fed and out of disastrous
relationships. The girls stood outside of their house as Nombulelo began
talking with the mother. These girls loiter all day. They stay outside for the
warmth, but do little more than wander around the neighbourhood or yard every
day. They look bored, wary and weary at once. They all have questions for me,
mostly about who I am, what I am doing here and if they can go to America. I
butcher most complex responses in isiZulu, but get smiles in return for my
efforts. These girls are younger than me, but wear the hardness of their lives.
We smile, look sheepishly away if a gaze is held too long and finally part
ways. We only live a thirty minute walk away from eachtoher, but occupy the
same space very differently. If they see me on the road I hope they will wave
or greet me.
 |
| Back at the office, the world map project I am working on for Idamu Primary School |
Nombulelo and I walk back to Sikhona, recapping what I
missed in isiZulu and clarifying her role. She is there to meet families or
folks living alone, gather basic identification information for DSD and layout
the next steps in the process. More than that though, she shares, reaches out
and explains options. As we turn the corner, my questions turn to her
situation. Nombulelo lives in a separated house with two of her sisters, her
son and numerous nieces and nephews. She receives meager social grants for two
of the school-aged children, r280 (about $30USD per child per month) and a
small stipend from Sikhona Care Centre, currently r1000 every month. As the
only family member with steady work, Nombulelo barely gets through the month.
She is in the same boat as many of her clients. That is one of the hardest
things to wrap my head around. I can’t pinpoint where exactly Nombulelo became
a community care giver, but drive something other than a small monthly stipend
keeps her going out into neighborhoods looking for people that need help.
