Mzansi Toujours

After three months in South Africa, I am at a loss on how to best summarize my experience, what I’ve learned, and what has “stuck.” Perhaps more than anything else is the way that South Africa continues to defy categorical explanations. It is an incredibly old country; many claim that the San Bushmen living in the area are in fact the oldest form of Homo sapiens to walk the planet. Afrikaans and British history date all the way back to the 17th century. Yet, South Africa as we know it today is among the youngest nations in the world: a new, free South Africa has only been in place since 1994 at the end of the Apartheid regime. It faces the political and economic challenges of a country still trying to assure its footing in the socio-environment of a well-established, richly historical territory.

As I have explained in previous entries, South Africa lies at the threshold of development while also facing the extreme challenges of developing countries. Communities are grossly unequal from one to the next, and the spillover effects alter the underlying nature of all these communities. An entrenched white class of privilege lingers from the Apartheid era but a rising Black elite controls the reigns of political power. Affirmative action in employment strives to overturn deeply rooted racial inequalities by disadvantaging those historically advantaged.

The face of South African racial issues is so often painted in Black and White to the outside world, but the real dynamics are much more complicated than that. Cape Town’s coloured community is actually the majority group in the region, and their South African history also dates back centuries on the continent. In addition to the multiple ethnic distinctions among South African blacks, even Whites divide into Afrikaans and British camps. The mix of Xhosa, Zulu, Afrikaans, Indians, British, Cape Malay, Ndabele, ex-pats, and refugees truly makes South Africa a rainbow nation with an insatiably pluralistic national identity.

Much like the United States, South Africa is a nation characterized by the juxtaposition of fervent conservatism and progressive liberalism. The country’s conservatism dates back to the separatist ideology of Apartheid but flourishes today with the enormous population of evangelical Christians. In more rural areas ethnic groups cling to age-old values. South Africa’s constitution, on the other hand, is one of the most progressive Constitution’s in the entire world. Minority groups of all shape, size, and form receive both legal protection and advocacy. South Africa is the only African state, for instance, which guarantees homosexuals complete legal protection. Still masses of the population are anti-Gay. Gay pride parades pass through downtown Cape Town while lesbians are murdered in townships and raped in order to “turn them straight.” The Constitution guarantees all individuals the right to access education, clean water, and housing. In praxis there are substantial gaps between these proclaimed rights and achieved ones, however. Many live their lives without proper housing and education.

To answer the question: “What is South Africa?” or even “What is South Africa like?” thus proves nearly impossible. It is a nation of nuance, diversity, history, and future. Who knows where South Africa will be in the next century? Their open door policy brings in thousands of refugees, asylum seekers, immigrants, students, and laborers. From my own experience working at the Cape Town Refugee Centre I have witnessed first hand the rapidly changing dynamic of the Western Cape. It is not unlike New York City at the turn of the 20th century, I thought one day. People are pouring into the region and literally constructing its future socio-scape. Look how much the United States has changed over the past century and you can imagine what might be in store for South Africa. Adding 21st century globalization to the equation only further complicates the matter.

“Development” Boundaries and the Western Gaze

Note: This entry was originally written in April 2010.

Because South Africa cannot be neatly categorized as a “developed” country nor a “developing country,” its development-related challenges take on a completely different shape than both “First” and “Third” World counterparts. Take the Western Cape region as a case and point. The Cape Town city bowl, most of the Southern Suburbs, and other surrounding vicinity are considered to be “developed.” The City Bowl may not look like Athlone or Wynberg in terms of socio-economic status, but all these areas are composed of permanent infrastructure: housing, streets, shops, and schools. Gugulethu, Philippi, Mitchell’s Plain, Samora, Nyanga, Langa, and the numerous other townships that dot the area are “undeveloped” and “semi-developed” regions (“informal settlements” according to the preferred South African political discourse). Naturally, development initiatives focus on these township areas as opposed to those other areas, which are comparatively well off. It is not uncommon for policies, mentalities, and human beings to segregate these socio-spaces in a sort of de facto lingering apartheid. Worlds run parallel, “developed” and “undeveloped,” within one country.

Their geographic proximity and intertwined political reality limits this parallelism, however, particularly in light of the New South Africa. Humans cross development boundaries incessantly, even several times during a single trajectory. Increased interaction can sow more business opportunity and mutual cooperation, but it also can also create conflict and resentment. The fissures burden “developed” areas with many problematic spillover effects usually characteristic of more “underdeveloped” areas, while “underdeveloped” areas have access to additional infrastructure within the span of a brief commute.

One major side effect that plagues “developed” areas is a high crime rate. The lack of socio-economic opportunities in neighbouring areas leaves individuals struggling to make a living, and for those that choose illegal means to do so; the developed areas are clear, accessible, and profitable targets. Cape Town is definitely a hotbed of petty crime. Eight different Connect-123 interns have been mugged since arrival, albeit non-violently, but thieved nonetheless. Cape Town’s big, colourful buildings and trendy cafés give the illusion of developed security, but they are in fact penetrable. “Development” literally bumps up against “underdevelopment,” leaving “developed” areas prone to the same public security concerns as “underdeveloped ones.” Yesterday, another intern’s laptop was stolen right out from in front of her while she worked at a chic café’s sidewalk-front countertop. The illusion of development oft leaves one feeling secure while in fact security remains an underlying risk. Proverbial “underdevelopment” reached right over the weak, permeable boundaries between these domains and drove this point into the ground.

On the flip side of these boundary crossings is my own experience as foreign white development worker. I live in the developed City Bowl area of Cape Town but commute to work each day to a semi-developed lower middle class suburb. As I traverse the path from the Wynberg train station to my work building, I pass through an enormous, informal marketplace. There is an especially high proportion of foreigners among the vendors and the overall feel of the area is quite exotic. I can’t help to feel as I pass through that my own presence constitutes another boundary crossing and my Western gaze an enacted visualization of power relations. Met eye contact has often returned a “what do you want?” sort of look in response, and a few times I have even been harassed with a “hey, whitie!” provocation. Hop on the train and you’re again in another world. I suppose that’s South Africa for you.

Which abuse???

Note: This was originally written April 2010. I am updating missed entries into this blog.

There have recently been quite a few refugee women coming into the CTRC office complaining of serious domestic abuse. Our NGO’s executive director normally intervenes immediately in each of these cases. All of the most recent claims have come from Rwandan and Eastern Congolese women, however, and they have all been Kiswahili speakers. For this reason I have played a fairly significant role in these cases. After our director completed the initial interviews, she gave me the clients’ files so that I might hear out their Swahili-based narratives. This has no doubt proved a serious challenge on a number of levels.

As I mentioned in a previous entry, my ability to listen to holistic Swahili narratives and follow all the details is not yet 100% there. I have struggled to understand all the details of clients’ stories, though for the most part have been able to understand the story itself. Since the matters at concern relate to the serious accusation of domestic abuse, my lack of acquired details worried me quite a bit. I developed a two-prong coping mechanism in order to perform this auditory duty to the best of my ability. Firstly, I ask each domestic abuse client to recount her story as slowly and carefully as possible. Slowing down the speed of Swahili helps me to pick up more words than I might at a normal flow. Secondly, I ask far more questions than I would otherwise. This ensures that I am accurately understanding who did what, where, why and in what way.

A second major challenge has been the gender dynamic. I’ve felt as though domestically abused women seem rather uncomfortable sharing the details of their abuse with a young, white, man. The director of our NGO warned me about this ahead of time, explaining that the countries from which many of these women hail stigmatize talking about such marital issues with someone of the opposite sex. Even in the face of excessively violent abuse, wives and girlfriends often exhibit a culturally bound, paradoxically loyal allegiance to their husbands and boyfriends. Talking about such personal issues with a different member of the opposite sex is taboo.

As in many other domains of my work, there also looms the ever-present specter of resettlement claims. It is not unheard of for wives to put themselves in situations where they might be abused so that they can manipulate the injuries as political capital. That is not to say that domestic abuse in any way, shape, or form is, or should, ever be tolerated. It is rather, as my director explained to me, the way in which some of these women appear to “cry wolf” for which we as refugee development workers must be wary. If a woman claims she is being abused, then we immediately step in and ask her if she has gone to the police. She should rightfully escape a violent private sphere, and it is our job at the CTRC to ensure that any immediate assistance we have available be issued. We offer to take the-woman-in-question to an available shelter, phone the necessary legal authorities, and provide trauma relief therapy references as deemed necessary.

I realized that there is hence an enormous gap between social issues for [South African] citizens and for refugees. Whenever a refugee becomes involved with a particular social issue; be it lack of work, domestic abuse, a broken law, a housing crunch, or a need for education; the entire social schema becomes overtly politicized. Refugees often fall between the cracks of the South African justice and social service systems; jurisdiction over their actions is frustratingly fuzzy. Some blame domestic abuses in refugee households on “backwards” foreign cultures. The results of said cases cause questions of resettlement, [re-]integration, and repatriation to reappear at the forefront of socio-consciousness. One must transcend the matter at hand to evaluate what is really at play and what is really at stake. A case of domestic abuse is never just a case of domestic abuse. The challenge lies in remembering that it is, at the same time, domestic abuse, which must be accounted for.

Race and Religion: A Congolese Church Revival

[NB: I wish that I had to pictures to post for this entry, but I don't. I do have two videos, but I'm not sure how to upload those yet. Maybe when I get back stateside I can figure it out.]

A Congolese co-intern invited me to attend a revival-type event at her Church a few weeks ago. Although I had little to no idea what exactly this would entail, I decided to go and find out! The event was to take place Thursday through Sunday evening, but I was assured that I only needed to go to one of these days, so I headed out on Sunday evening, the closing night. My colleague explained that the event was to mark the tenth anniversary of the Church and had a guest preacher who would be exploring the theme: Un Futur Glorieux (A Glorious Future). None of the other interns had agreed to go, so I took a deep breath and hopped into a taxi all by myself.

When I arrived in an unnervingly empty Woodstock across from the appropriately designated landmark, I have to admit that I had second thoughts about even trying to attend. There was no “Church” anywhere in sight (not a Church as I knew it, anyways). I noticed an advertisement sign for the event on a deserted corner building and asked a dodgy passerby if he knew anything of it. He shrugged, so I wandered a bit farther by. About 1.5 blocks off the main road (less-than-coincidentally named Main Road) I found a nicely dressed man and woman handing out pamphlets by the front door, so I approached them. They shot me confused looks but smiled and welcomed me inside as I explained that I was looking for Un Futur Glorieux. Another man immediately ushered me upstairs to the main room, all the while asking me if I was a) invited b) a preacher. Yes, I was invited, but the preacher comment caught me off guard. I suppose that is probably the bulk of White visitors the Church receives, visiting preachers on specific missions. As I entered the main room, there were only about 10 parishioners scattered across the room. It was around 5:50 pm (the event was set to start at 5:00 pm) so I immediately felt even more awkward. Luckily, I spotted my co-intern/friend Princia, who had invited me. She looked almost as shocked to see me as did the door-people but of course was delighted that I had made it and introduced me to her cousins / small entourage.

The stage consisted of a few musical instruments, a wandering preacher, room for excess choir members, and a garishly blinding stage light. The preacher was calling out group prayers impromptu and screaming passionately about Jesus; in both French and Lingala; with a randomly evoked, piercingly high-pitch. Princia asked one of the ushers to inform the preacher to only preach in French since on my behalf so that I could understand what he was saying. What endearing hospitality! This period of the service was apparently a long, warm-up, introductory session. People continued to fill into the room over the next hour in spite of my perceived hour tardiness. Africa-time strikes again, indeed! Princia left my side suddenly, and the next thing I knew she was on stage singing with the choir. I felt a bit uncomfortable when she first left but was also delighted to hear her sing for her congregation. After about an hour of this introductory prayer and intermixed song, the room was bustling: full to the brim.

I turned around to examine the now-full Church chamber. For the first time in my life, I was, quite literally, the only White person in attendance. Perhaps this feeling, more than any other experience at this Church revival, is why the event felt so critical in my South African journey. I have been in the minority many times before, especially working here in South Africa. Never before have I been the only White person at all, however; that is a completely different feeling. At first it was refreshingly invigorating. Having grown up in Upper-Middle Class White Suburbia, I have never really been able to experience this sensation of being in the minority. So much of my academic formation has traversed critical theory to critical theory referring to diverse socio-cultural communities, and now I was planted right in the middle! I couldn’t help to smile, feeling like I was really experiencing something “different,” something inaccessible at home. Of course one might go into downtown Detroit and experience something racially comparable, but I was moreover at a Congolese Church. All the individuals around me were also foreigners in South Africa; yet they had formed a small Diaspora community amongst themselves where they could continue on their own religious, cultural traditions in this hidden, urban corner of Cape Town.

My second initial sensation was that I was the conspicuous object of a gaze. I stood out. If I wasn’t a preacher, after all, what was I doing in that environment? Who invited me? Why wasn’t I attending my “own” Church? I am sure that a significant degree of this sentiment was my own consciousness. I noticed, I felt, that I stood out in this environment and therefore figured everyone else must also be taking note of this. Perhaps this is an egocentric sentiment in the first place and I was just feeling hypersensitive. It probably didn’t help that I was seated towards the front section, either. All those eyes were already moving forward in my direction; what might those individuals be thinking about me?

My third progressive feeling of being in the racial minority situated myself in the context of my religious environment. In the eyes of God, everyone [in that congregation] is considered to be brothers and sisters. I wondered, then, how that shaped the thoughts of all the Congolese parishioners. Maybe I was especially accepted at that time and in that place because I was sharing in worship with them. If I were to be attending a more secular event, of the same racial make-up, would that significantly alter how I was being perceived and treated? I know from my own viewpoint that it would affect how comfortable I felt. As terrible as it sounds, I couldn’t help but to also consider in the back of my mind my own personal security. Because I was such a visible target, I wondered if anyone might try to take advantage of me. I felt at points as if Christian dogma itself were protecting me. After a bit of time, however, I felt mostly at ease.

The style of worship at this event was vastly different than what I am used to. Parishioners were shouting out blessings, dancing joyfully, and speaking in tongues. Some were rocking back and forth and shedding tears. I tried to do my best to fit in to this sort of worship environment, but having been raised Catholic, my comfort zone reflects a quiet, orderly mass. At one point a band took the stage, and the singers simultaneously danced out the melodies replete with hip jostles, limbos, and fancy footwork. I found myself overcome with their energy and almost at once joined in. The guest preacher started talking perhaps 2.5 hours already into the event. He, too, hailed originally from the Congo, but he currently operates numerous Churches around South Africa. An English interpreter also came onto the stage to help interpret for other South African guests, and I found his interpretations nearly impeccable. I was so impressed, not only with his word choice, but with his effectiveness in conveying the original connotations and sentiments associated with the original speech. I felt a bit lost in the Lingala but otherwise completely understood.

The original event was supposed to last from 5:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. I arrived at 5:50 p.m. to a nearly empty congregation and stayed until the end of the sermon just after 11:00 p.m. Africa time par excellence. My colleague, Princia, helped me to carpool back to Cape Town. This experience definitely expanded my comfort zone ten-fold. Not only did I get to feel what it is like to be a true “outsider” in a fascinating cultural community, but I was also able to observe many Congolese refugees in an ever-so-crucial Diasporic institution.

English, Français, na Kiswahili Linguistic Literacy

Although my job has consistently involved working approximately 50% of the time in French, I have recently noted a sudden surge of Swahili-work. As a result I now feel as though I am hovering three separate working mentalities. English is, of course, my primary means to communicate and carry out work responsibilities. It’s my native language, so instantly adapting to, explaining, and responding to client concerns / requests comes most naturally. Most refugees do not speak English as a native language, even if they have achieved near mastery (as have many Zimbabweans) so I have an automatic upper hand. I am linguistically limber enough to respond without concerted mental efforts to carefully filter my language. My work environment is obviously also in English, though curiously there are no native English speakers among the staff. All either speak Afrikaans or Xhosa as a primary language at home.

French frames my second distinctive work mentality. I completed a lot of interpretation work between French and English when I first began my internship, especially as I helped Annel to communicate with her francophone clients. Interpretation is quite a distinctive skill. Switching constantly between languages, especially the necessity of using one sense for one and another for the other (hearing French, speaking English) requires straddling sections of the brain and then instantly reversing the functions (hearing English, speaking French). It took me a few interviews to acquire basic competency of this skill, looking up a few discipline-specific vocabulary words, and adjusting my ears to the slightly different Afro-French dialects. Now that I primarily work with clients individually, however, I no longer use French within the domain of interpretation. I can carry out my entire interviews in French, only converting to English when explaining proper nouns and recording information on paper for client file records.

While pinpointing what language I will most likely be using based off of client country of origin and South African arrival date, I have even developed the usage of a handy initial linguistic device. French Canadians tend to greet strangers with a “Bonjour, hi” in order to determine the ensuing primary language of conversation, and in the same spirit, I greet my Congolese, Rwandan, and Burundian clients with a simple, “Hello, bonjour.” They then start talking to me in whichever language is preferable for them, some proud of their newly developed English language skills and wanting to test them out, others relieved to explain their troubles in a more familiar tongue. Regardless, working in French is my second work mentality. Over time I have developed particular response phrases, questions, and explications that differ slightly from my English versions. Now that I have fine-tuned my ears to African dialects of French, I find listening to clients explain their needs is often a simpler task for me if they are speaking French than English. The English proper nouns frequently pose problems, especially as they refer to areas of Cape Town or South African institutions with which I am already unfamiliar, but working in French is enjoyable, and second-nature. As with any foreign language, sometimes the words get caught up and communication is difficult; however most the time my explanations flow without problem, and often my slightly longer processing pauses (as compared to native English) allow me to choose more precise, professional, and appropriate language.

Working in Swahili is a completely different experience. I have had five semesters at MSU in rapid succession (two accelerated courses during last summer’s Summer Cooperative African Language Institute [SCALI]) and so I feel fairly comfortable navigating my way around the contours of the language. The CTRC has a three-page long intake form full of interview questions for new clients, and posing all these questions in Swahili takes a bit of thought but is not too much of a problem. Since I have been learning French for such a long period of time now, I have taken for granted and all but forgotten the intense learning curve associated with beginning to utilize language skills directly with native speakers.

In practical terms, this means that once refugee clients start trying to explain their situation in Swahili, in their own words, with native speaker grace / speed, and at any length, I struggle to keep up. Using my limited vocabulary, asking finite questions is not too difficult. Verbally drafting detailed explanations and understanding the details of their narratives is. To make matters worse, most of the clients that come in and wish to communicate in Swahili speak a drastically different dialect from the Congo and Rwanda than the Kenyan / Tanzanian Kiswahili Sanifu that I learned in the classroom. My linguistic shortcomings in Swahili create an altogether different dynamic in these situations than with Francophone or Anglophone clients. Firstly, I cannot even begin to explain the number of clients who have outright laughed at me when I have begun speaking to them in Swahili. It’s not that my accent or grammar is terrible (though of course I make my fair share of errors); they are just in shock that I possess any knowledge of their language. “HAHAHA Why do YOU know Swahili?” they ask. Whereas my fluent French conversations lead many refugees to believe I am either a South African who has mastered French or a Francophone European, my white skin and more ostensibly foreign accent in Swahili instantly mark me as an outsider. After their initial shock, however, clients’ reactions vary completely. Most veritably appreciate my effort to converse with them. Some begin explaining things to me at a pace that leaves me understanding approximately 40%. Others revert to first-month of Swahili 101 phrases, giggle gleefully at my successful responses, and then compliment me by saying “You speak Swahili very well!” From time to time the clients are just not satisfied with my efforts and attempt to find an interpreter all the same.

Mara kwa mara (from time to time) my Swahili skills hinder their ability to abuse the system. Certain clients attempt to use linguistic ignorance as an attempt to appear more vulnerable, feign understanding of anything, and receive increased assistance. Interpreters often collude, both conversing with the client in advance and manipulating answers to optimally benefit both parties. A few times I have interviewed a client in English then allowed them to fetch a Swahili interpreter when they could not sufficiently explain a story without informing them of my knowledge. In these situations, I could overhear the dynamics of the conversion and ensure that the client was being as truthful with me as possible. One time I made a client’s eyes almost bulge out of her head by responding in Swahili when she had been conversing with her interpreter and referring to me consistently as mzungu, a very lightly derogatory term for White people. I have otherwise had to rely upon my Swahili skills to explain the entire functioning of our food voucher system, to enquire about banking details, and to assess clients’ overall living situations.

The linguistic dynamism involved in my work has made my experience even richer than I could otherwise imagine. There are not too many jobs out there that would require such consistent usage of all my language skills (English, French, and Swahili). Via French and Swahili both, I feel as though I have really been able to reach out to refugees and accommodate their cultural comfort zones. I am not a native South African either; the clients and I are both outsiders (although many do not realize this). When I speak to them in French or Swahili, it often seems to ease the tension of my own positionality as “white development aid worker” by emphasizing shared linguistic background as a critical cultural node of mutual human understanding.

CSI: Blikkiesdorp

When I was completing my typical round of refugee interview assessments this morning, CTRC director, Christina Henda, suddenly interrupted and directed me to postpone all normal procedures because we were urgently needed at Blikkiesdorp. Without much clarification, I hopped in the company vehicle driven by security personnel Stanley along with Annel, and we all sped off. As we passed the normal exit-way to Blikkiesdorp I felt even more confused but soon learned we were stopping in downtown Cape Town to pick up an official from the UNHCR branch here who would assist us with our assignment. The three others in the car jabbered hurriedly away in Afrikaans, leaving my Anglophone ears to only sense the tone of abnormality. Finally they filled me in: We were off to investigate a Somali-on-Somali stabbing that had just occurred in the recently resettled quarter of Blikkiesdorp!

There is something otherworldly about Blikkiesdorp even when it’s not a crime scene. Silver shack after silver shack glisten atop an expansive floor of dirt. Buildings are impersonally marked by a generic Letter-Number code, and the streets lack names altogether. Four units share an outdoor toilet and washing unit at their interstices. Awkwardly named Blikkiesdorp is but a nickname to the official, yet coldly distant “Delft Symphony Way Settlement Area.” No one seems to want to take ownership of this desolate plot: Media sources have referred to it as Cape Town’s dumping ground for the unwanted, and some have even drawn parallels between this site and the one depicted in the recent South African-set film District Nine.

Add a crime scene to the mix and you can imagine how I felt as I arrived. It was actually my second trip to the area but no less haunting than the first. A few children ran around aimlessly as we pulled up. The first Somali family spoke to us in extremely broken English, a bit confused why we were even there. We managed our way to another family who then guided us to the scene of the crime. Broken bits of bloodstained fencing pieces lay strewn across the austere courtyard. We were welcomed inside the humble “can-shack” for an informal statement of what happened. Our accompanying UNHCR worker seemed to know one of the women who lived there quite well, so she lead the way in asking the questions. I sat atop an informal bucket and listened intently. The moment felt completely surreal. There I sat in a shack, following the thickly accented narrative of a hijab-clad Somali refugee woman in order to assess the motive and implications of a morning inter-ethnic stabbing. It was definitely one of those “I’m in the developing world!” moments and never would I have thought freshmen year while dissecting the Federalist Papers that my Madison education might lead me to an experience like this!

After we got back in the car, my supervisor Annel and the UNHCR worker discussed the viability of the statement. Apparently the chief interviewee is quite crafty and has been known to aptly manipulate situations in her own favour. It is even quite possible that she instigated the inter-ethnic attack in order to portray her own proximal situation as vulnerable and thereby gain lobbying capital for a re-settlement interview to the United States. Her story, however, consisted of two Somali ethnic groups who are traditionally rivals jealously fighting with one another. The persons involved were taken to the Delft area holding cells, so we made our way to the Delft Police Station for further enquiries.

There we met with local police officials who had little knowledge of the morning’s events. That in itself goes to show the amount of crime events that occur in township areas. The police definitely have their hands full from day to day. After pinning down the police chief to aid in our pursuit, we awaited more crime interviews. Suddenly a young, bloody-faced Somali woman burst through the doors of the boardroom where we were waiting. The UNHCR worker interviewed her carefully. According to this woman, the morning attack involved only women. One or two women came at a group of five to six with knives because they were allegedly jealous of their resettlement interviews. On the way out the door, we ran across three additional young, Somali women who were also alleged victims. These women shamelessly peeled back layers of their conservative clothing to demonstrate the numerous knife wounds all over their bodies. Again, their eagerness to show-off their wounds left me feeling unsettled at the very least and moreover wondering if this was not all but a plot for resettlement attention. Both UNHCR and NGOs such as the CTRC fulfilled important watchdog functions for an event like this. All in all the event proved minor, but if it had been more serious, we would have been both the first agents there to aid in relief efforts as well as the first line of defense against further proliferation. Today felt like I was right in an episode of CSI: Cape Town. It was an incredibly “real” experience to learn about the way refugee crime incidents unfold within the South African justice system. As an American, I feel a bit disconcerted about the extreme efforts some might attempt for the mere right to enter my country. Ironically and pessimistically, I often feel that these efforts are in vain…even if the stars align and they are indeed granted a resettlement opportunity, I can’t imagine that starting life over as an American refugee is an easy feat.

Blue Waters / Blikkiesdorp Part 1

Even though South Africa’s most serious wave of xenophobic attacks occurred back in 2008, their effects are far from over. Thousands of refugees and other foreigners moved out of their new South African residences due to verbal threats, actual physical displacement, and general community malaise. The Somali community was targeted most acutely. Their willingness to set up shop in the dodgiest of areas, conspicuous religious differentiation, as well as many other unique ethnic characteristics make them most distinguishable to local populations. Many of the thousands of internally displaced persons (IDPs) residing in the Western Cape settled in Blue Water’s Camp. Blue Water’s Camp used to be a low-budget summer resort just outside Mitchell’s Plain on the outskirts of town, but the City of Cape Town acquired the land in order to assist in the secure habitation of these individuals. At its peak the site housed roughly 3,000 IDPs living in UNHCR-donated orange tents.

As time passed, however, the City grew weary of having so many foreigners living in such a temporary settlement. Their mere existence drew continuous media attention and served to recapitulate South Africa’s negative reputation as a xenophobic society. Naturally this is an undesirable international reputation but especially just prior to the arrival of the global community for the 2010 FIFA World Cup. Cape Town thus incorporated a portion of its Residential Development Programme (RDP) budget to construct additional government-funded dwellings in a more permanent temporary settlement: Blikkiesdorp. The Afrikaans term for “Canstown,” Blikkiesdorp is a dusty, treeless section of Delft lacking road names and other basic civil society structures; it soon became home to the bulk of “re-integrated” IDPs residing in the Western Cape.

Those that moved to Blikkiesdorp were given re-integration aid packages from the South African government. Yet others remain at Blue Waters: approximately 350 at present. Some of these individuals do not want to move into Blikkiesdorp because of the conditions there. Many are holding out against the re-integration efforts in hopes of gaining UNHCR interviews for re-settlement in the United States, Canada, Australia, or Europe (not very likely). Their lingering is nonetheless like a tick on the back of the City Council’s neck. As the World Cup draws nearer and nearer and the span of internal displacement longer and longer, the pressure is currently building. Most recently, the City Council is pushing harder than ever to remove these individuals.

It is in this climate that the Cape Town Refugee Centre was called upon to help oversee, administrate, and control the turmoil. I travelled with my supervisor Annel, programme administrator Wandile, and a fellow intern to intake the approximately 50 people who had finally agreed to move to Blikkiesdorp (for the right price from the City Council). Since South Africa’s official national policy prohibits the establishment of refugee camps, Blue Waters internal displacement camp is the closest parallel I have seen in my work here. We pulled onto the property right off the beach and stopped at the camp overseer’s office. Just outside a small swarm of Somalis loitered, evidently the group who had been waiting all day to learn of their possible material gains for relocating once more. Beyond the main office a hoard of circus-like tents occupied an otherwise insignificant parcel of land. A one-man guarded gate blocked the entryway. Annel explained that the current tents are replacements for the UNHCR ones that were there at the beginning of the crisis and pail in comparison.

Inside the main office a short-tempered Coloured man barked orders at the Somalis who continuously tried to inquire about entry times; he treated our arrival with utmost suspicion. Apparently he was the original overseer for Blue Waters when it was a low-budget summer camp and continued to fulfill this role when it became a makeshift displacement camp. He hence seemed to lack the cultural concern and social graces of those already working in the domain of refugee work.

I had been summoned with CTRC to interview those moving to Blikkiesdorp, but in fact we oversaw operations more than anything else. Still, it was an invaluable experience. The South African government established a formula for re-integration assistance that at once became problematic. Single men, single women, and married couples each warranted a set amount of Rand subject to adjustment depending on their amount of children. The camp surveyor informed us that this was immediately a problem because many Somali men had more than one wife and these family units would exploit the system to receive as much money as possible. The husband and one wife would be assessed once, and then the additional wife would come in later claiming she is single in order to receive the appropriate funding bonus.

When I finally entered the settlement area, I was pleasantly surprised. Children played at the previous resort’s playground. Families smiled as we passed by their multi-room tents. Most people leave the area during the day to do business in nearby Mitchell’s Plain and just return to Blue Waters in the evening to sleep. No wonder people refuse to leave. Their livelihoods in Blue Waters are no worse, perhaps even better, than in your average South African township. Uprooting for the third time (at least) takes time, effort, and energy. Yet, continuing to live on the outskirts of society diminishes the likelihood of full integration into a new South African life…the re-acceptance of “home.” Like most things in South Africa, the Blue Waters / Blikkiesdorp issue is much more complicated than it appears at surface level.