Secondhand Trauma

This trip has begun to fall into a groove with placement at our volunteer sites.  This morning we met our new mentor, teacher, and guide, Fred, at the train station (9 a.m. sharp- not like the last time when we were an hour late) and headed off somewhere into the outskirts of the city.  We took our first train here- covered in graffiti so thick you couldn’t see out of the windows.  There are no announcements to let you know when your stop has arrived- I’m not really sure how the system works, and they didn’t seem to be able to explain it.  They just “knew” where we were going.  A little old white lady sat alone in the seats across the isle from us- perhaps it doesn’t seem strange to you, but there just aren’t that many white people intermingling in the public transit system here.  We arrived at an organization that administers social services to local refugees.  If they need assistance locating food, clothing, shelter, or employment, the organization is there to help.  They work very closely with the ARESTA staff, and I have seen memos floating around our offices recommending individuals to one organization or the other.  There were a ton of young American college girls working on the staff there.  Apparently they come from a variety of schools and serve anywhere from 2 weeks to 6 months on the staff through some kind of volunteer Africa corps.  The woman we were scheduled to meet was delayed in a meeting (in the end, she never showed up), so we listened as Fred and one of the managers at the organization debated the current and proposed policies regarding refugees in South Africa.  The details of this debate are complex and most likely boring for the general public, but I felt like I was witnessing history change.  I really felt that all my experiences and all my schooling were coming together for a purpose- even as I stood there listening.

The return trip to ARESTA was an adventure- squished into various taxis and speeding through unfamiliar streets.  At one point during a taxi change, which is really more like a bus in the US, but semi-privately run, we were stalked by a taxi that desperately wanted us to get on board.  Fred blew them off, saying they were already too full, but they continued to slowly follow us down the street yelling for us to get in.  Here, though they’re like taxis, the vans are equipped with at least two “staff” who make their money based on how many people they transport in a day.  Throughout the ride, the wingman will yell out the window trying to find more people who get on board, while the driver whizzes through the street to get everyone on and off as quickly as possible.  Because taxis tend to be so reckless, my professor doesn’t generally allow us to travel in them, but with Fred we get to ride in them as an exception to the rule.

After arriving at ARESTA, we spent a leisurely afternoon editing the survey we will be administering this week and searching for grant opportunities online.  During the afternoon, I had one client come in for processing, much as I described the other day.  This gentleman was a community advocate.  He tried to help give his Somali community in the townships access to information so they could know what to do in the event of a xenophobic attack.  Because of this, he’s been targeted and the victim of repeated attacks- at one point chased off a taxi bus, beaten, and left bleeding in the streets. His story was compelling, particularly when he had to stop to wipe his tears away, but on a deeper level, it really awakened an inner desire in me to become more active in refugee advocacy.  His story, while tragic, is even more troubling when you begin to see trends- stories upon stories just like his come walking through the door every day.  The system is broken, and people need to stand up and do something about it.  What that “something” is, I haven’t yet figured out…