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by Nomvuyo/Special to PNN
I called Pozna last night. I had met her last year during a solo and
self-funded tour of six African countries from October 2001 to March 2002. I
volunteered for advocacy focused non-government organizations, lived with
families and stayed as close to the ground as possible. I met Pozna while I
volunteered at a domestic violence NGO that she worked for. She is a
31-year-old Xhosa woman living in one of the poorest black townships in
Capetown, called Guguletu.
She held my hand and walked me through the rows and rows of shacks to show
me, "her beautiful people." Pozna showed the 2 room houses where sometimes 9
people stay in a room and the toilets located outside where which could be
shared by 10-20 people. She told me, "It is important that you know how my
people live." As much as it hurt me, it was important for me to know. She
organized the girls that she teaches traditional dance to, you dance for me.
They did not have a drum, so they used a garbage can and they welcomed me
with dance.
She told me I was a community healer and told me that I must meet other
healers. She brought me to the homes of local advocates, to the hostels, to
the people. I met Mrs. Florence Diamsche, a woman who had started a school
in her house in an area called crossroads for black children who had their
education disrupted by all of the violence of Apartheid. It is now a five
building school built across the street from her house and she is the
principal. There was Mavis Mamtambo Baja, an 80-year-old woman who worked
extensively for the youth. She told me I must work for change and to share
the little that you have, because the little that you have is more than the
person who has nothing at all. There were so many community healers that I
met with Pozna and we prayed together before we ate the soda and cookies
they served me on a tray.
At the hostels, we walked through one of several. We walked through the dark
hallway, as there were no light except for the sun coming through the door
at the end. We peered in to the six rooms the size of a dorm that were
separated by curtains and the community kitchen with the rusted out sink and
hot plate. We went to the community bathrooms separated by concrete walls
with no doors that had concrete holes in the ground that you squat over. We
went to the co-ed community showers with no curtains that were merely
spickets that poured water on a concrete floor. This was one of the newer
hostels built by the current government, the older ones were worse.
The hostels were one of many tactics used by the Apartheid government to
break up African families as only men were allowed to stay there. The
hostels were close enough to the city, which was reserved for whites, so
that the men could work for whites during the day, but far enough away so
that whites did not have to be conscious of the raids and murders by police
at the hostels at night. The dorms were now shared by whole families or
women and their children and although movement is no longer restricted, most
black South Africans still remain in townships, just as most of economic
power remains in white hands.
We walked through and people peered out of their shacks and rooms. Pozna
told them, "Come out, there is a black American here." Before I knew it, 50
or more Africans surrounded me in a circle around me. If I stepped backward,
I would step on someone (which I did). All these eyes peering at me, I
prayed a silent pray, "Spirit, shine through me, shine through my eyes and
my smile." I met as many eyes as I could, smiling the widest smile and the
most compassionate heart I could find. Pozna pumped me up before the crowd
and said, "She came all the way from America to be with us, to see us, to
bring us hope. She came by herself to volunteer to help our community. She
is a lawyer, she is a community healer. We call her Nomvuyo, because she
makes us happy." They said ooh, wow, and wow, nodded and pushed against each
other to be near me. They just stared and stared with wide eyes and smiled.
Then they would say something in Xhosa and Pozna would translate for me. She
said, "They are saying the ancestors brought you to them. They say you look
just like them, you are African." Pozna told them, "See, not all black
Americans have relaxers in their hair or wear their hair long, some wear
them short like us."
One man said in English- "Excuse me, what is the difference between a black-
American and an black South African? "I said, "Look at me, what is the
difference?" Everyone said, "Nothing, nothing!" They all agreed and talked
to each other and then came back to staring at me and I felt consumed, it
was intense. One little girl who held on to me telling everyone that I was
her new friend, ran and got her grandmother! I just started shaking their
hands and they hugged me. They touched my hair and my skin. Many had never
seen a black-American except on TV. He said, "We know about black-American
culture, but do they know about us?" It was so silent you could hear a pin
drop. He said, "Do they know that we live like this? Do they know we do not
live without any electricity, with no bathrooms, do they know?" I said, No
they do not." He said, "Kisha, will you please tell them, tell them about
us." I said " I give you my word, I will" and I shook his hand.
He said, "Did you take photos?" and I said "I will have to come back,
because I ran out of film". He said, "When, when will you come back?" I
said, "Next Saturday or Sunday." Another man, holding his heart said, "And
Kisha when you come back?" I said, "Yes". He said, "Will you please bring
your phone number, so I can take you out to lunch?" Everyone died laughing.
Pozna said, "See Kisha you bring light to the people. If you have light you
must share it." She said, "They need more time with you Kisha". I came back
the next weekend.
She showed me a side of South Africa, I would have never seen. She showed me
the invisible, the oppressed and the suffering 15 minutes away from a major
city full of malls, tourists and a metropolitan downtown city center. She
showed me a side of myself, I would have never discovered. She showed me a
side of love that I did not know existed. She showed me all of the latest
dances and we shared the hardships we had suffered.
One morning, she told me how she had survived death threats from the church
for pursuing charges against a local pastor who was molesting girls aged 4
years old to 13. She was accused of breaking up their church. He had had
full-blown intercourse with 12 of them. After 2 years of denial by the
community, Pozna was the only one to attempt to protect the children after
one of the 9-year-old girls disclosed to her. She organized the children,
taped 16 of their stories and could not find anyone to take on the case, as
he was a community leader with a wife and children.
Tears drenched our face as she told me how she organized the children,
taught them to say ‘No’ and run, how she failed 11th grade as their stories
would haunt her. . No one had ever listened to her story before. She said,
"Kisha will you help me write this story?" I promised that I would.
We shared the stories that no one wanted to hear. The stories of surviving
domestic violence, incest, isolation, poverty, the stories of being black
women. We had been living mirror lives despite an ocean being between us.
And when I left Capetown, she gathered all of her friends and threw me a
good-bye party. She gave a speech and said, At the party, she made a speech.
She said, "I don't know Kisha, since you are here, I feel like a baby born
anew. I have so much hope. The ancestors brought you to us. I am so very
proud to know you. I was lost and just going to let my community stay the
same, but now I know, I must work for change. Thank you. I look forward to
knowing you through the years."
As I prepared to go the next morning, we danced to our favorite song about
the doors being open. She would say, "Ah the doors are opening now, you are
here. Now you must go, if I could turn back time." When I left, we were both
inconsolable and I knew that we were extensions of each other. It was like
leaving a part of my heart behind.
My transition back to the U.S. was as hard as letting her go and it would
not be until three months upon my return, that I sent her the book, "The
Color Purple" by Alice Walker. I had told her about it while I was in South
Africa and she had never read or heard of it.
In the book, I had stuffed $50 from my unemployment check. I called her, as
I was worried that she never received the package.
The phone rang and I heard her voice on the other line. There was a delay.
She said, "Hello" I said, "Pozna?" She said a dry and stern, "Yes". I said,
"It is Kisha." She screamed, "Oh my God, Kisha! Baby Alrright? Oh Kisha, I
am in the street going crazy!" I laughed!
We are trying to find out how each is doing faster than the delay will
allow. "How are you?!!!" we say simultaneously. She said, "I am fine. My
family is fine also." I say, "I am fine."
I said, "Did you get the package?" She said, "Yes, I wrote you, did you get
my letter?" I said, "No." She said, "Shame." She said, "Thank you very
much. She said, I got the book and the $50. When I got the money, I put it
on the table and my family joined in a circle and we pray for you."
She said, "The timing was perfect for the bucks, because I had Pagama's (her
daughters) school fees and I did not know how I was going to pay it. I
turned it in to 500 Rands and I paid her school fees and I bought her a new
school uniform. It helped with the household also. I told her that this is
from Kisha." Pozna takes care of her elderly Aunt, her mentally delayed 28
year old sister (who she rescued from her mom who was prostituting her for
beer), her teenage daughter, her 5 year old son as well as two abandoned
children on $100 a month. She gets minimal support from the youngest child's
father. Unlike in the U.S., it costs money to receive public elementary
education.
I said, "Wonderful." She said, "Kisha, I have started a little phone
business. I have put two phones in Langa and then I will continue to work at
the NGO." In the townships in South Africa, people often go to places that
have phones to make their calls, as many do not have phones in their homes.
The amount you pay determines the amount of time you can stay on the phone.
It is a great source of income.
She said, "Do you remember Langa? Remember the lady we visited who had built
the school?" I remembered. When Pozna was convinced that I was a community
healer, she had taken me to
I said, "Yes, I remember well. I am very proud of you" She said, "I feel so
empowered Kisha. You empower me." She said, "Before you came, I was
depressed, but now since I met you, I know I can change my life." She said,
"You are such a bright star in my life." I said, "Oh honey, you are for me
too." She said, "Thank you very much."
She said, "The children and I, we talk about you every day. Now all my
children have dreams of going to America. I tell them that I know all is
possible since we met you." She said, "Please don’t ever leave my life." I
said, "I wont."
She said, "Even now, water fills my eyes." I choke up and say, "I know." She
started crying, a deep weeping cry, "I love youuuu Kishaaaaa. I love you
very much." I met her tears with my own, "I love you too Pozna."
She said, "When will I see you again?" I said, "I will be coming in August
or September." She said excitedly, "What is the exact date?" I said, "I do
not know, but I will write you." She said, "Yes, write me."
She said, "I went to the world conference and I had slides and everything."
I said, "Good for you! That is great!" She said, "It was wonderful for me.
People had a lot of questions and had a lot to say to me."
The phone cut off, but not the connection. Pozna does not know that we met
at the same place, a closed depressed heart that had lost its vision. As
much as I empower her, she empowers me and we re-ignited a repressed and
oppressed fire of passion. I would give her the world, if it were mine,
because she gave me a larger vision of the world and of myself that is
priceless.
We touch each other, because we remind each other who we are and we see our
potential as children of spirit within each other. We remind each other
about our mission in this life-healing and community service. I remember
telling her one time, "The ancestors are looking to us to break the
inter-generational patterns of abuse and addiction, to complete the work
that they did not have a chance to do. When we heal, we heal seven
generations before us and seven generations after us. I think that is our
work in this life." She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears and said,
"I think that is true."
We help each other rise above our individual circumstances, to our larger
purpose. We remind each other who we are when we forget. We share the load
when the burden of day to day living becomes so heavy that our heads are
bowed under the weight, limiting our vision to our feet and our small and
individual steps, tempting us to focus only on our individual journey.
When the world tells us that we are not beautiful, too dark, too round,
weak, insignificant, too loud and that our value and our role is sexual and
domestic, we remind each other of our strength, our beauty, our soul and our
significance and ability to make change in our smaller and larger worlds.
I never would have imagined that I would find my soul in a woman in one of
the poorest townships in South Africa. I am sure she would not have imagined
that a poor African in America raised up on welfare would come to Guguletu.
Yet, we have met. I wonder sometimes, if that was the only reason I went to
Africa, so we could find each other, so that we could find ourselves again,
so that we could rediscover each other as the spirits that we are.
Never underestimate the power of you to touch someone's life and for you to
touch theirs, never estimate the power of spirit and who will help you find
her within yourself.
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