"Last night, the police brought an 11-year-old girl here to stay for a couple nights with my roommate and me. She was brutally raped and beaten by more than one man and was found tied to a tree. She has no place to go as both her parents are dead and her Aunt had savagely beaten and burned her all over her body with an iron. She had been in the hospital all night, going through the necessary examinations and police statements. All our places of safety are full so I ran out and got food and a set of warm clothes for her. She only speaks Zulu and remained sick through the entire night from the post exposure prophylactic drugs, administered to lower the risk of contracting HIV. The side effects are brutal and she was understandably inconsolable. She rolled around on the floor all night clutching her stomach and crying, in between bouts of vomiting. What kind of nightmare must this have been for this child? She was in a strange house with 2 strange women that didn't speak her language, and it was imperative for us to continue giving her the drugs that were making her so violently ill. I do not want to relive that night. She has since been moved to a place of safety and we will see her in the morning."
"My work here is tough, there is no mistaking that. The things I've seen and experienced are raw and dark and sometimes I feel there isn't enough of me to go around and the stress builds and I have a sense of helplessness. I realize though, it is them . . . the poverty stricken, sick and dying women and children that have gifted me. I have learned more about faith, gratitude, joy, and generosity from my Zulu friends in the 90 days I've been here than I have in my lifetime. I will never be the same. I have received so much from them and all of you, in such a majestic way that it overwhelms me. We are all in this together!"
"Just when I think I can't do this for another day, healing comes to me in the sweetest packages. I was standing outside in the courtyard waiting for my ride and turned around to see the girl running through the crowd toward me. She wrapped her arms around me and held on tightly, looked me square in the eyes, smiled and said "Thank you. I love you. Bye bye". Somehow, she found the courage to leave an opening in her heart to trust again and a bridge was built and I can only pray this begins her journey of understanding that not all people are bad or want to harm her. "
"We have had another full week . . . tragedies and triumphs, laughter and tears. I am falling in love with the Zulu women I work with and they have taught me so much about strength, faith, gratitude, perseverance and what it means to stand by your "sisters". They are dynamic warriors that have dedicated their lives to saving children and educating their communities about HIV, rape, abuse and hope. The effects of apartheid still linger and I’m told it has only been recently that they have been "deprogrammed" to quit kneeling before the white staff and that we can all eat from the same utensils and plates, at the same table. Shades of their slavery and apartheid are still evident. They are oh so poor and they have a small income from Bobbi Bear, so they are better off than the majority. Most of them are financially responsible for 7-12 extended family members in their little huts. They rely on donated clothing and whatever food they can afford. One day I came into the center and saw they were eating tablespoons of imitation butter to satiate themselves until their next meal . . . whenever that would be. Inside I was horrified at what I saw but I didn't react to spare them any embarrassment or disrespect. From now on, I take food to them daily . . . today, I am making a big pot of soup on my hot-plate to share with them. It is "umbuntu," the Zulu word for sharing love and respect. They will be overjoyed. If I could, I would bring them all home and care for them for the rest of my days. They have hearts of gold and they all have stories that make me wonder why the human spirit is put to such tests. Even in light of it all, they always respond with, "God is good! We have air to breathe!", and they are sincere."
We went to court to protest the bail application of a 65 year old man that had raped a 14 year old mentally disabled girl, who has since given birth. Five of us, clad in our black t-shirts that say, "CAUTION! Woman Warrior," walked into a cold courtroom with cement floors, one small window, and wooden planks set up as benches. In front was the wooden bench for the magistrate. We sat for hours, waiting. They brought the rapist in through the side door where he stood directly in front of us. Our presence in that courtroom clearly represented the message of "NO! This man musn’t be released on bond, where he will return to his home next door to the victim." It worked and our presence had an impact. The judge stated it would be dangerous for the man to be let out on bail as the community clearly had serious views on this. We are awaiting the paternity test, which takes 6 months to a year (Africa!), since the child’s testimony cannot stand on its own due to her disability. She never told anyone about the rape because the old man threatened to kill her and no one knew of it until she was very clearly pregnant. In the meantime, the child is safe from this man, at least. "
"I had a major breakthrough the other day with a little boy that had been traumatized and quit talking. I went to visit him at Granny's house as we are trying to press charges against the father. I sat close to him and asked him questions, to which he did not respond. This went on for a while and I asked God, "now what?" I heard a voice say walk to the beach, which I had never been because it's so dangerous. I trusted my guidance and asked Granny if Tyrelle and I could go to the beach. I made a deal with God for our protection and off we went, about a 3-block walk. It was actually in an area about 30 miles from Toti, as I would NEVER go to the beach here. When we got there, it was peppered with men . . . fishing, hanging out, whatever, but the boy began to light up. He picked up shells one by one, and examined them . . . some he would throw back, others he would place in my hand, which I realized he was giving me a gift. Of course, you know I was making a big deal about it. Soon we were laying on our bellies on the rocks, pulling up mussels, him pointing at different fish, etc. and then he began to talk. He told me about all the sea creatures and then for 2 hours he told me about his life. Victory. He took his first step into his journey of healing. When we got back to the house, he asked if it cost money for me to talk to him. I told him no . . . I was his friend. His Granny called to thank me and said everyday he asks his Grandpa if he can go "fetch" his new friend. And that my Brother is why I'm doing what I'm doing!! Smart little boy too . . . there is hope for him."
"I have sat in on endless court cases. This past Tuesday, I spent the day on two cases. The first case involved the "boyfriend" who doused his 8-month pregnant girlfriend in gasoline and set her on fire. Unfortunately, she lived for 13 days after the incident. In this particular courtroom, the accused is held in a cell in the basement, underneath the courtroom. There are steps that rise up through a narrow passageway into the front of the courtroom and when the guard calls the man’s name, a trap door opens and the accused rises up out of the floor. As soon as the head of the man emerged from the floor, the mother of the deceased victim fell into my lap, sobbing hysterically. I wrapped myself around this broken woman and held her for I have nothing else to offer.
From that case, I moved to the next courtroom, which was a rape case of a 15 year old that had been attacked, raped, and severely stabbed numerous times in the face. She and I sat in the sunshine, waiting to be called into the courtroom. I held her hand and mainly I tried to talk about the color of the sky, or things that would take her mind off the court hearing and keep her calm. She tried to hide her scarred face in the hood of her jacket but I held her face in my hands and told her she was so beautiful and then covered her face in kisses. She was so shy and traumatized she could barely make eye contact.
After waiting a painfully long time, we were called into the courtroom, only to be told the case was postponed because the police officer forgot to turn in the docket! There is no point in getting angry about the absurdity of the oversights for it is common here, and an accepted part of the system. It makes my head hurt! The child had to go through the terror of seeing the rapist and stand alone, only a few feet from him . . . all this to have to endure it all over again in a few weeks. "
