Holding Up the Sky (15 page)

A day later, the three of us set off for the Lake District. Jon had hired a small cottage on the edge of a country town in the centre of the District, allowing us to explore its delights on a number of day trips. That first afternoon, Jon and Helen went walking alone. After the buzz of London and the containment of a family Christmas, the tranquil expanse of the Lake District allowed me to unwind and, with that unwinding, the stress of the year surfaced. I didn't want to leave the cottage, content to rest and read on the couch.

In reality, I felt safe being inside. No police, no violence, no gunshots, no red minivans, no death. While my childhood premonition of dying young strangely allowed me to find peace with the thought of a short, full life, having death surround me as it had–violent, raw and messy–had filled me with fear. In the safety of that quiet cottage, the shock of the last six months emerged, jagged and rough, tearing through my defences, leaving me feeling completely exposed.

Without explanation, Jon understood and tried to convince Helen that what I needed was space and some time to recover. However, I think my behaviour offended her, as she felt somehow responsible for showing me the wonders of the District. I know this created tension between them, with Jon trying to protect me and Helen, believing that I was having a breakdown, urging me outside as a way of helping me pull myself together.

On the third day, I agreed to an afternoon drive and a walk around a nearby lake. To my surprise, I felt weary despite a few days with my feet up and so we took a slow stroll around the lakeside. We watched the colours of the day change to purples and pinks as the light faded over the dark lake. There was even snow on the ground. We hardly saw another soul but the air was crisp and fresh enough to remind me that I was alive. The colours of the land– browns and greens, the grey of the rocks–unchanged in centuries, convinced me that wars come and go but the earth is steadfast. Perhaps the struggles of people around the world for freedom and self-determination were just a shadow that passes fleetingly over the surface of the land, soon forgotten as the earth slowly turns, millennium after millennium.

Jon had planned for us to meet up with ten other friends from work and celebrate Hogmanay at Stirling Castle. I don't remember much about Stirling itself, just that it was old beyond all my points of reference, with stone walls and cobbled streets. Of the evening at the castle, I remember long tables full of food, the music, red and black tartan, highland dancing, the presentation of the haggis. I remember my brother looking fine in full Scottish regalia, and the beautiful gowns and tuxedos of his friends, and I remember feeling incredibly grateful that Jon had brought me here, as I was not likely to experience such a thing again.

After our return from Scotland, I planned to catch up with my dear Canadian friend Elaine, who was now married and living in Paris. She had married an engineer whose latest role was to build the castle at Euro Disney. She had offered to have me come and stay for five days. Feeling a little recovered after our trip north and therefore more able to handle the thought of travelling alone in a foreign country, I boarded the train to take me to the ferry that crosses the channel. From there, I caught another train to Paris and then on to the station near Elaine's work.

The journey itself was peaceful and scenic, giving me plenty of time to read and stare out the window at the passing world. I managed to find the right platform when I changed trains in Paris, though I was truly lost when I arrived at Elaine's station only to find that my French currency was useless on all the phones. I would need to buy a phone card. No problem, I thought: six years of schoolgirl French should see me right with the fundamentals at least. Jon's last words of advice to me were to speak French, not English, as the French don't take kindly to foreigners who don't make an effort. Each time I opened my mouth to ask for assistance, however, the last language to enter my head, Zulu, was the first language to leave my mouth, causing great embarrassment on my part and confusion for the good Samaritans who were trying to help me. Ultimately, after resorting to the universal language of smiles and charades, someone kindly gave me their phone card, though I suspect it was the shortest route to put some distance between them and a somewhat emotional me.

I encountered the same language problems when I phoned Elaine's work, but was eventually told that Elaine was on her way to fetch me and we would all meet up at a nearby restaurant for dinner. It was with a rush of relief that I hugged Elaine twenty minutes later and poured out the story of my misadventures. Soon enough, she had me ensconced in a cosy restaurant with half a dozen of her friends from work, laughing about the trials and tribulations of building an American icon in France.

Elaine and I spent the next five days sightseeing, shopping, visiting museums and galleries, eating at cafes for lunch and dining in restaurants at night with Anthony, her husband. We drove down Paris's narrow streets, risked the traffic circle in the Arc de Triomphe just for fun, and could never seem to find a place to park. After the first two days, my Zulu retreated and my French returned. To celebrate, I spoke to anyone who would stop and chat along the way. I loved Paris. Most of all, I remember that heart-stopping moment when, following a tourist map of the city, I turned a corner and in front of me was Notre Dame. I wept for the sheer joy of seeing this magnificent cathedral that my teacher had spoken of so often and with such love. I spent hours devouring every inch of the monument and all it had to offer, each stained glass window, each gargoyle, each statue. I loved it all.

Too soon it was time to head back to London. Being with Elaine and Anthony in Paris was another step in the healing process and I felt my old self returning. The journey back to London was uneventful and I soon found myself in Jon's apartment. We had one last night together before I few out to Africa–but now I was ready to go back.

MY
RETURN TO 'MARITZBURG WAS OCCASION FOR MUCH JUBILATION, MY FRIENDS BEHAVING AS THOUGH I'D BEEN AWAY THREE MONTHS, NOT THREE WEEKS. I SUSPECT THEY THOUGHT I MIGHT NOT COME BACK. DESPITE THE ROCKY START TO MY HOLIDAYS, I RETURNED FEELING REFRESHED AND AS PASSIONATE AS EVER ABOUT THE WORK I WAS DOING. I ALSO KNEW THAT TWO VERY DEAR AUSTRALIAN FRIENDS WOULD BE ARRIVING THAT SAME WEEK TO DO SOME VOLUNTEER WORK WITH SIZWE.

The first was Pete whom I had known since high school. I attended North Sydney Girls High and Pete went to our brother school, North Sydney Boys. While they were academically separate schools, we shared a number of extracurricular activities including school musicals and Scripture Union. Pete was tall and lanky with a mop of auburn hair and a wicked sense of humour. He was also blessed with huge dollops of empathy, giving him a great way with people. During the three months he worked at Sizwe, he was able to cross cultural and language divides and made friends wherever he went. On more than one occasion we would be visiting someone in the township and at some point, Pete would disappear. When I finally managed to find him, he would somehow have organised all the kids in the street into a fast and furious game of soccer despite not having a word of Zulu to his name.

Outside of cricket and soccer, Pete's passion is teaching. He spent two years teaching in a remote area of Tanzania and is now, many years later, Head of the Maths Department at one of Sydney's prestigious private schools. But first and foremost for me, Pete was one of my best mates and I was so delighted that he was here with me in Africa.

The other volunteer was Anne, a close friend through one of the youth groups I led at church. Anne matched me in intensity and was quickly drawn into events in South Africa, particularly as we had spent many hours discussing the political situation when I was back in Sydney. She had now finished her law degree and wanted to do some volunteer work for a month or two before starting her career.

Having two dear friends with me at Sizwe was a perfect start to the year which began with a team conference to plan the events we would run. We also spent some time reviewing the previous year and how we had worked as a team. Over those five days, we had a rare opportunity to build our commitment to each other by spending unrushed time in each other's company. We saw that the high levels of stress we worked under were the greatest threat to our team and our work, so we agreed to build some team ‘away days' and counselling sessions into our working year. But that would have to wait; two days after our conference we ran our first dialogue and development weekend of the year, with Girls High and Siyahlumula High. We briefed each school group on what they could expect and headed back to Phezulu to prepare.

In the early hours of 2 February, the day of Prime Minister F. W. de Klerk's famous speech announcing the unbanning of the ANC and the release of Nelson Mandela, a vicious attack was launched on an outlying area of 'Maritzburg called Table Mountain. The normally peaceful community of Maqongqo, under the Zulu Chief Maphumulo, was known as the only area where ANC and Inkatha supporters lived in relative harmony. Maphumulo had offered to take any refugees from the strife-torn townships, ‘anyone who loved peace' from any political persuasion, and to give them land so that they could build a new life in this quiet rural community. Maphumulo paid for this generous middle ground that night when the community was attacked by an
impi
, or army of Zulu warriors, from the neighbouring area of KwaNyavu. The police were informed of the attack but told callers it was simply a faction fight among the clans that had been going on for hundreds of years. (A year after the attack, almost to the day, Chief Maphumulo was shot in the driveway of his home. There were rumours that a Security Police hit squad had paid for his assassination but the official inquiry was unable to determine the identity of the assailants and no one was ever charged with his murder.)

The first we knew of the Table Mountain slaughter was when hundreds of people flooded into downtown 'Maritzburg later that day. Many of those who had walked into town were children who had fed in panic, not knowing where their parents were or whether they were still alive. Calls went out immediately for help and in the absence of any state response, we agreed to postpone the program (scheduled to begin in an hour) and do what we could.

I had learnt to flick a switch in situations like this. There would be time later for the shock to sink in. Right now, people needed us to act quickly and calmly and not add to their panic. On the inside, I didn't know how I could bear more killing, more loss. Putting these thoughts aside, Robbie, Pete and I jumped in the two vehicles and headed down to the Congress of South African Trade Unions (COSATU) House, where the survivors had gathered. We found hundreds of angry and traumatised people, all needing food, clothes and a place to stay. We had agreed with Mdu, who was coordinating the response for the Council of Churches, to take the very young and the very old and begin ferrying them back to Phezulu. While we were in town, Themba, Anne and Sipho had made up as many beds as they could find; Mama Jenny added more water to the soup; Beth went to buy as much bread as the local store had in stock; and Steve organised a huge marquee for the front lawn and began phoning schools and churches for help.

By the time we returned with the first load of refugees, the girls from Siyahlumula and Girls High had arrived and refused to be sent home, saying they wanted to stay and help. They were prepared to sleep on the floor if they had to, but they wanted to be of use. So we put them to work settling each load of refugees as we dropped them off, giving them soup and bread, bedding, and finding clothes to ft from the storeroom. We had over eighty people bedded down on site that first night; some slept, others were afraid to or were woken with nightmares. We sat with them in the darkness and listened to their stories of what had happened.

In my journal I wrote:

Our initial plan was to house the refugees over the weekend while longer term plans were made for their care. However, government officials were busy with other issues. By the middle of the following week, Steve received a letter from the municipality: they were threatening to take legal action against Sizwe for contravening the Squatter Act and endangering public health. They also wanted assurances that Steve would not respond in this way to such crises in future. We had brought refugees into a middle class white suburb and the municipality saw red. Soon the local papers were splashed with headlines: ‘Priest at the centre of the storm', ‘Refugee camp set up in city', ‘Row over refugees'. The more open-minded papers challenged the lack of response by the city council or the department of health and questioned the ethics of attacking those organisations who stepped in to help. There were still 450 refugees at COSATU House, and with only four toilets, public health was a serious issue.

While the issues were fought out on the front pages, we continued to look after those refugees who were staying with us. We prepared and served three meals a day, constantly washed dirty clothes, nappies and bedding, kept the children entertained and continued the search for missing parents. Each of the team seemed to have one or two children who became their favourites, but whether we chose them or they chose us, I'm not sure.

There was one little girl called Thando who stole my heart. She was one of the children who were stunned into silence by the time she arrived, but with gentle coaxing over a few days, she found her voice. She told me she was five years old and lived with her mother and brothers and sisters in Maqongqo. None of them had found their way to Phezulu, so she was here alone. Soon, she became my shadow, big eyes curious about all the newness surrounding her. She had never ridden in a car, never seen internal plumbing or a flush toilet, never touched white skin or blonde hair. I couldn't understand every question she asked, but understanding her curious nature, explained as best I could how everything worked and what it was for. There was another little boy who spent half the day on my hip and the other half trying to get there. His name was Xolani and he looked to be two years old. We knew nothing about him and simply hoped that one day soon his family would find him.

Pete was constantly surrounded by a troupe of young boys wanting him to play soccer, handball and simply wrestle them to the ground. Sipho tried to join in some of the games, as much as his limited movement would allow. We also welcomed a new fieldworker to the team that week, Mondli. I'm sure he wondered what on earth he had signed up for. But he piled in and did what he could to help our small charges.

What we thought would be a three-day exercise turned into a twelve-day marathon. After the shock of the first few days wore off, our extended community seemed to settle into a rhythm, making it easy to forget why they were here as relationships began to form. Anne watched with some concern as my attachment to the kids, Thando in particular, grew. She knew I was getting too close to Thando, making the inevitable separation hard for both of us to bear. I wanted Thando to come and sleep in the cottage with us as I felt guilty sending her to sleep in the marquee. I was too close to see the implications, but Anne was right: I was making it worse, not better. Thando, whether she found her family or not, would return to a lifestyle similar to the one she had left. I was building expectations in Thando's mind that this life was what the future looked like and that I would be in it–none of which I could promise. I think my response in a crisis was to concentrate on the individuals I could help, rather than be overwhelmed by those I couldn't. The danger was in investing so intensely in the people I was caring for that I created dependencies I could not sustain. It helped no one: not them, not me.

A week into the refugee crisis, we all gathered around the TV that Steve had set up on the lawn, connected to a lead that ran from Beth's office. It was 11 February 1990 and we all eagerly awaited the first pictures of Mandela as he was released from prison after twenty-seven years. We watched as he walked along the fence line, hand in hand with Winnie, waving at the crowds of well-wishers. All the old women crowded around the TV to see if he was still the dashing young lawyer they had loved in the early sixties, and they wept. They wept to see him once more, never thinking they would, and they wept for what the years had taken away. While his unusual height and carriage continued to speak of his royal bloodline, he was now an old man, grey-haired, with a slight hesitation in his gait. Despite the change in him, we were all still very aware that we were watching one of the world's greatest living icons return to public life. I turned to Pete and Robbie, with gooseflesh rippling up and down my arms, and tried to hold the memory of this moment. Here we sat in a marquee, surrounded by refugees, watching Mandela walk to freedom.

Everything and nothing had changed.

We continued to watch as Mandela made his way into Cape Town and gave his first speech, thanking all those who had worked for an end to apartheid and reaffirming his support for the ANC and all their work through the years of their banning. He called for unity to speed the work that would now need to be done to repair the stain wrought by apartheid. We sat glued to the TV for hours while children ran to and fro, soaking up the carnival atmosphere without understanding its source. When the speeches were done and the TV turned off, we sat together in the growing darkness and knew that we had shared a moment in history. But we were under no illusions that the worst was over.

Our makeshift refugee camp continued. The legal threats eventually blew over, with the government shamed into turning its attention to the issue of rehousing people. We had been busy at COSATU House in an attempt to locate the parents of the children we were looking after as well as the families of our elderly visitors. In the days that followed Mandela's release, we brought parents to Phezulu to be reunited with their children. We watched tearful scenes as parents searched the marquee for their children whom they had feared dead, and found them safe and well, ready to leap like small frogs into their arms.

The day came when Thando's mother arrived at the gate, having heard that we were housing lost children at Phezulu. Her husband was killed in the attack and she had hidden in the bush for days before feeling it was safe to walk to town. When she arrived at COSATU House asking about Thando, she was directed to us. She set off on foot immediately, rather than waiting for our daily visit. Now she stood over Thando, catching the child up in her skirts, head bowed down to her daughter's. She held her and wept, thanking us through her tears for looking after her little one. While I was deeply relieved that Thando's family had been found, I knew it was time to say goodbye. Relationships forged in crisis run deeper than linear time would suggest. I was profoundly bonded to this child, as caring for her had seen me through the crisis itself. I watched her as, wide-eyed, she told her mother about all the things she had seen and done while with us: from electricity and showers to TV and toys. Her mother sighed and shook her head as she smiled at me, perhaps unable to comprehend the difference between what she imagined had happened to her child and where in reality she had been. As with each family, Thando and her mother were given a parcel of clothes and food to get them started when they moved on.