This past weekend I was staying about three miles away from Alexandra township in Johannesburg. If you have followed the news the past few weeks, you might recognize this as the South African location where things started to get out of hand. It was the worst outbreak of violence since the apartheid era. The killings have been attributed to xenophobia, mostly directed towards foreign nationals residing in urban areas of the country. It is a sad, sad, unfolding of events.

My reason for being in Jo’burg at this unfortunate time was due to a regional conference I had to attend. The actual guest house and area in which the meeting took place was quite suburban and known to be a relatively safe environment. But like I stated previously, it was merely three miles from the epicenter of violence. This can be partially explained by the fact that South Africa has the second highest rate of inequality in the world (and Swaziland is not far behind). There are literally multi-million dollar houses across the road from shacks. Endless security walls keeping the starving masses at bay. And when the poor and marginalized seemingly can’t find relief from their wealthy neighbors or from their corrupt governments, they begin to turn on each other. Especially vulnerable at a time like this is the “stranger” who is seemingly too strange to even deserve a chance to live (or so it is thought by those committing these atrocities). Refugees from numerous failed states, who initially fled to South Africa for safety, have been targeted in most of the attacks.

One couple from Zimbabwe was at the conference. I nearly broke into tears when they described the suffering that their fellow countrymen have experienced in the past decade: A reign of terror that continues to plague their homeland, and now a renewed terrorism in this new place, further alienating them from any semblance of common humanity. The only comforting words I could think to say were that I knew many individuals back in the States who cared deeply about their plight. But not enough. Definitely not enough.

So after a long and semi-dangerous bus ride (which was also after a slightly more dangerous encounter in the notorious inner-city of Jo’burg), I arrived safely back to Swaziland. Unfortunately, the same can not be said for all those who continue to suffer under the tyranny of fear. For them, each day is filled with problems worthy of front-page news.

The date of July 20 is when I will set foot back in the States. But this is somewhat misleading since I will be attending a re-entry process that week. The real date I arrive “home-home” is July 25 or somewhere around then. Then I have less than a month to get ready for my new job. It’s actually a new job-slash-home. Ironically, since I’ve been living quite a bit at my office here in Swaziland, it won’t be such a dramatic change. So what is this mysterious new job, you ask? Well it’s actually more like another short-term assignment (or one-year program). The organization is called L’Arche and they have a few houses in the DC area where people with intellectual disabilities live in community with paid assistants. I will be one of those assistants. It’s a job, a home, and a community all rolled into one package. Pretty unique idea. As you can probably tell by the name, it started in France and has since expanded to areas all over the world. From what I can tell, the organization is semi-“Christian” and many people know about it from the writings and life of Henry Nouwen. So yeah, I’ll be living and working there for five days a week and then I will stay with my parents in Gainesville for the other two days.

I decided to work at L’Arche for a variety of reasons. Obviously a great part of the decision is because of my interest in disability work. I also wanted more of a hands-on experience after this year turned out to be much more administrative work than I originally envisioned. More importantly, though, the next year at L’Arche will hopefully give me greater insight into what I want to pursue as a more long-term career. So it should be good. I’m pretty excited. You should be too.

For those who have followed my blog up to this point, you may already know that there has been an animal emergency brewing at my homestead for quite some time. It’s a very delicate and complicated issue with my host family, and I have agonized over how to solve it without offending them. I finally reached the point, after much planning and sensitive discussions, where I ultimately had to act on my convictions to help save these animals. The entire process is too complicated to explain, but I essentially evacuated two puppies, two kittens, and two adult dogs to the local animal welfare organization. Now the hope is that most of them can be returned after they are properly treated. Part of the idea is to educate my host-mother on how to properly care for them, instead of simply implying that she can’t. If I can bring back healthy dogs and cats, she will hopefully realize the value in what I have done. Otherwise, it is fairly certain that she will be given more unwanted dogs needing a home and they will eventually deteriorate to the point of death just like all the rest.

Just as a side-note, though (part humorous, part sad), mutts around Africa have inter-bred to the point that they have become their own breed, supposedly termed Canus Africanus. These are the kind of poor canines that find a home with my Swazi family. In defense of my host mother, though, she claims to love animals (which I partially believe), but it is glaringly obvious that she doesn’t know how to care for them. Who ever thought that someone such as myself, never owning a pet in my life, would join the pooch patrol team? Seriously, it was like rescue nine-one-one. Also, now that I’m all about the animal rights, I sometimes have the delusion that I’m a sort of William Wilberforce of Swaziland. It’s like a came here to help abolish slavery (of poverty, HIV, whatever) and now I’m dabbling in animal welfare issues. Weird coincidence, eh? Well anyways, since I don’t have any juicy police photos of our animal raid, I’ll have to just leave you with a candid photo of my office cat. Enjoy.

I named it “likati,” which is the SiSwati word for “cat.” When I tell my Swazi friends this, they just get confused.

In my ever-present pursuit to find out what plagues Africa in the area of development, I’d like to continue a discussion from two previous postings (17 and 29). As I have stated before, these comments are solely based on my experience in the particular country of Swaziland, so they may not extend to other parts of the continent. But I do think this practice can be relevant because it comes from an on-the-ground perspective rather than the typically abstract theories of academia. I would also like to state that the issue I will address in this post and the issues that were addressed previously are not only problems I have faced alone, but have been experienced equally by other volunteers in this country. This gives me more assurance that the problem is not only unique for my situation, but most likely extends to the society-at-large.

The problem I am talking about is the lack of appreciation which Swazis show for donations (and volunteer services for that matter, but that could be a whole ‘nother topic). Even worse, though, is the amount of complaining that ensues when certain individuals don’t receive exactly what they believe is their due. (Always when I encounter this, I remember the phrase “beggars can’t be choosers”). Now obviously I am generalizing when I say all Swazis act this way. In fact, a number of my Swazi friends which I have mentioned in previous posts are extremely appreciative, which is why I find it so refreshing to be around them. But on the whole, I have found it to be an unpleasant experience being in charge of distributing donations at my workplace.

There were two recent events at my office which made me think more critically concerning this issue. I won’t go into any details, but the situation has made me wonder why I am serving a community that doesn’t appreciate my efforts. Why am I working extended hours and sacrificing my emotional and mental health to a cause that seems futile? Asking these questions of myself seriously awakened in me a further desire to pack up and go home. Instead I just called. And with all the nurturing advice she could muster, Mother Grimes said that God calls us to love the unlovable. Love those who don’t appreciate it. Pray for those who are giving you the most trouble. In essence, practice the difficult commandment to love thy enemy. And with all the peacemaking/pacifist books I have been reading, this caught my attention. I still feel sometimes, though, that I could love an enemy combatant who I never knew, but not some coworker who frustrates me beyond measure. I’ve always been a great lover of people from a distance, but when I get into close proximity with perfectly capable people screwing their life away (and mine along with it), it becomes that much more difficult to act like Jesus.