Notes From a Sugar-Curled Messenger

This has been, by far, the most exhausting week at the office. Because this time of year is notoriously quiet in terms of volunteer numbers, everyone seems to be under the pump with work to do - both on the legal front, for clients, and on the social justice projects.

Tash and Josie: working hard or hardly working?

On top of having a multitude of documents to draft for various clients (including two new refugee cases allocated to me this week), I spent almost all of today out of the office on various projects.

We spent the morning at Bonnytoun, this time working with boys from the Red Dorm (first or second-time offenders, usually in for lesser crimes). We wanted to do something more creative with the boys today. Because they love rap and hip-hop music, we wanted to find a rap song to play them and then get them to write their own. However, sourcing a "positive" rap song with nil swearing and which isn't an ode to violence is easier said than done; in the end we played them TI's "Follow Your Dreams", which they really liked. Working in small groups, the boys then had to write a rap song (which they may later perform). I was very proud of the boys in my group, who wrote a rap in Afrikaans (and even choreographed some dance moves)! The song is about a boy who spends his days hanging out on the street corner; one day he mugs a man and beats him, then he feels so terrible that he finds the man and apologises to him. The boys have decided that they will write a few more verses - one about being in prison and another about what they want to do with their life after getting out - and sing it for me the next time we go to Bonnytoun. They really are very talented!

From Bonnytoun we went straight to the jewellery sale at St. Anne's (for all those who have been following along at home, this is the one I took the photographs for last Friday). Some of the ladies who made the jewellery were there, and Tash (from PAHRO) organised drinks and snacks. We all went a bit crazy buying up jewellery, for ourselves and family back home.

 Necklace made by the women at St. Anne's

Cute as a button: these rings were very popular with everyone!

It's a great feeling when you buy something and you know that the money is going directly back to people who need it; in this case, the women and children of St. Anne's.

In the afternoon we caught a minibus out to Athlone to see the children who we are training up for the Mock Trial. Tomorrow we will take them to the Wynberg Magistrate's Court where they will run through in front of a lawyer (who will act as the "judge" in the mock trial). So I won't get my Friday afternoon off, but I must admit that I am quite keen to go inside the courthouse and see what it's like.

Because Latifa is in Johannesburg running a tour for the next week, Iris (of the chicken briyani fame from my first blog entry) has been cooking for me and staying over. She really is very sweet; she always brings the food wrapped up in an Australian-themed tea towel (of which she has many, despite never having been to Australia!) and then sits with me and talks whilst I eat.

Tonight she made me butter chicken curry and then told me stories about the 1970s/80s apartheid South Africa. Iris was in her teens during that time, and went to a Catholic school that apparently blatantly broke the law by taking students of any ethnic background. Many of the teachers at the school and other neighbouring colleges were activists and, later, members of the UDF ("United Democratic Front"). In fact, the school labs were often used for making bombs and other explosives. Some of the teachers wound up imprisoned on Robben Island (the same place Nelson Mandela was held), along with other political prisoners. In fact, Iris knew of quite a few people who spent time there, including her older brother (who was tortured, spent 10 years inside and apparently was never the same afterwards).

What I found incredibly interesting, however, was how people would sneak messages to their family and friends inside the prison on Robben Island. Iris told me that she (and other girls) would accompany the priest who used to visit the prisoners. The girls would curl their hair and use sugar water to make the curls stay in place - then people would tightly curl up pieces of paper with messages on them and hide them inside the girls curls. Iris told me that she would usually have about five messages hidden in her beehive! "Of course, I never met Nelson Mandela", she chuckled, "He was locked up far away!"

Iris said that many people don't talk about their stories because apartheid ruined families. Even within her own family, Iris recalled how her fair-skinned relatives were classified as "white" and she and her darker-skinned family members as "coloured". This happened in a lot of families, even between brothers and sisters in some cases, causing them to separate. Apparently on one occasion, Iris and about ten children from her family (brothers, sisters and cousins) were all walking down the street together. The police stopped them, separated them, lined up Iris with the other "coloured" children and whipped them. Iris laughed when she told me this story ("You should have seen the backs of my legs!") but then shook her head when she told me that members of her family moved overseas because of the divisions in the country. The last time she saw some of them was in the 1980s.

Then Iris told me about growing up in Woodstock, of the various characters who lived on her street and how the she was surrounded by black, Italian, Portuguese and other coloured families. "As children, we didn't know colour...we just knew people". Iris said that it wasn't until they were older that they realised the significance of the political climate.

 Woodstock today: view of Balfour Street from St. Anne's

There are so many more stories, but Iris says that people don't like talking about that time period, particularly given the trauma many of them went through. Maybe this is true for Iris - or maybe she was tired, or maybe she is more forgiving than I can imagine - because she suddenly looked exhausted. "Ah, sweetie-pie", she said to me, "it's all history now".