Note: The above pictures are from The Warehouse. The lady in the orange vest is Gilly, my supervisor.
Today marks the end of about five weeks here. I suppose time flying is an indicator of good things. Here are some stories from my life over the past few weeks.

XENOPHOBIA

As many of you know, xenophobic violence broke out in South Africa near the end of May. While such acts were and are reprehensible, the impetus for it is, in a way, understandable: low-income nationals, who, for decades, have struggled against not only poverty, but racial discrimination, relocation, and oppression (under apartheid), have suffered even more with the influx of foreign nationals, who have made the low-skill job market even more competitive by their presence. Yet their emigration makes sense, too; places like the DRC and Zimbabwe are even tougher places in which to work and raise a family. So it was that injustice around the continent eventually engendered injustice here.

When the attacks hit Cape Town, the Warehouse (my host organization) responded quickly, first by housing about 40 of those displaced for a few nights, then by becoming a key distribution center for canned goods, blankets, and medical supplies. Where I could, I pitched in, cleaning, packing, sorting, phone-calling, and staying overnight at the WH a few times.

Two nights into the operation, I went with my friend, Rene, to deliver a truck-full of mattresses-slices of foam about 1/2 inch thick-to the city’s largest and most impoverished informal settlement (slum), Khayelitsha. As we walked into the community center around 9:00 PM, I found a group of about seventy refugees sitting in neat rows of chairs, eagerly awaiting a share of the massive pile of clothes that lay before them all. They were tired, and quiet; there was not conversation or competition, like you might expect of people in need. They only sat facing forward, their necks craning to see when it would be their turn to take an extra sweater, blanket, or button-down.

In retrospect I realized that what I saw that night was a picture of the world. Figuratively speaking, there is no question that there is enough material in the world to clothe the backs of all six billion of us. Neoclassical economics works on the basis that resources are scarce, but they are scarce partly because that pile of clothes belongs to a very small percentage of wealthy people, such as Americans and Europeans. In turn, this lack of possession of and access to things like clothing trap people in a cycle of poverty from which a precious few are able to escape. It is a vicious and devastating thing.

For more on how the blood of many of the world’s poor is on the hands of the West, Google-research the U.S. Farm Bill with the words “agricultural subsidies” in the search field.

RESEARCH

It may go without saying, but getting things done in Africa takes longer. This isn’t a bad thing, but it’s un-American. Being an American, these first few weeks have been challenging in the sense that I’ve had to curb my task-oriented enthusiasm, as it were. On the day to day grind, this has meant spending time just visiting the communities I’ll be studying without pen and paper in hand and ten different objectives in mind. Since I am a “mulungu” (white boy, more or less), it’s not safe for me to do so alone, so it’s been necessary for me to tag along with WH employees who have business in these places. So, in short, the past few weeks have been about laying a foundation of familiarity and relationality (for my sake and for the locals’ sake). This is an important part of doing research ethically; think about what it would feel like for them if some American (white=rich) just sauntered in and started asking in-depth questions about their financial activity. I have to constantly remind myself that because people are people, they need to be treated like people-and not just pieces of data. My uncle, more profoundly, urged me to “be incarnate.” Thanks, Uncle Jeff.

This would be a good time to explain what I am here to do. WorkSpring, a project of The Warehouse, is a business development initiative that seeks to come alongside either small-time or would-be entrepreneurs and offer support, training, and advice. They also want to begin offering finance to these people, since it takes money to make money. Community development theory says that the best way to go about this is to take an “asset-based” approach and find out how these respective communities are already offering finance- particularly savings groups- since many poor people cannot afford institutional banks. My objective is to make a “landscape assessment” of three different communities, seeking to learn the nature of group savings in each. Hopefully what I learn will offer some valuable insights and comparisons.

So what are these communities like? Mannenburg is an so-called “coloured” township that is composed of formal structures (houses), with informal additions added on. (Typically, the composition and structure of housing is a good indicator of the socio-economic state of the community.) People there speak Afrikaans (ahff-rih-kahns), which is a derivative of Dutch. A week and a half ago, I visited there one afternoon with Jonathan and Grant, two WH employees that work with gang members who live in Mann. For about an hour, we walked through the community, making small talk when it was natural, but otherwise just seeing and being seen. The houses there are simple, two-story, and made of cinder-block. Children play freely in the street, and thought three mulungus walking together were comical (I suppose I would, too). I was surprised at the amount of people standing around talking. While this is partly because of unemployment, it’s also because South Africans don’t derive meaning in life from tasks, but from conversation and relationship. What an admirable quality for me to learn from, this intentional lingering about.

Sweet Home Farm, the 2nd community I am studying, is a slum. My first experience here about a week and a half ago was strangely numbing. Maybe that is a sinful defense mechanism of mine-not knowing how to cope with the dire poverty, I close up emotionally and perceptively. As I stepped through the muddy alley-ways, between small and tidy shacks, I was overwhelmed to remember that this type of life throughout the world is much closer to being a norm than it is an exception. After a 45-minute tour, I ducked into a pool-house of sorts and lost a round to my friend, Goodman, with whom I had come. We payed our 2 Rand (25 cents), thanked the owner, and left.

Guguletu is the third community I’ll be studying. Two weeks ago, I had the opportunity to spend five nights in this place, with a precious elderly family with whom The Warehouse is friends. Tata Dom and Mama Mavis, both older than 65, are gentle and happy people. My room was small and comfortable, and the meals we ate were excellent. We spent the night-time hours drinking tea and talking about the country’s history. One night, Tata Dom explained with broken but eloquent English that apartheid was “a heavy burden,” then, motioning but maintaining eye contact, “a yoke on my neck.” Sitting there in his kitchen, I was ashamed of my easy life, and humbled by the deepness of his laugh and his joy.

On a lighter note, Mama Mavis seemed to enjoy listening to what sounded like riotous African gospel music at an inconceivably high volume. Sitting there one afternoon in the dim living room while she read the newspaper and I a book, I felt as if this surely must be a joke. But every time I snuck a glance over at Mama Mavis, the soft tapping of her foot and the smile on her face as she hummed and swayed to the music -obliviously- indicated otherwise. I smiled and returned to my book.
___

I’ll update again this week and talk about my living situation and a few other things. The Lord’s peace and boundless grace until then.