"Your child is my child"

“Your child is my child”. So runs the motto of the St. Kizito movement. In traditional African society, every adult woman was seen as mother and every man was considered father. Kele, the matriarchal figure who heads the board of the movement, recalled she only understood the true status of her real, biological mother when it came to paying the bill for her schooling. For us, as white, western guests attending their annual conference in the vast Khayelitsha township, it seemed both a beautiful and yet troubling idea. For many of the children in this community the adult is often a real threat. In the west, we warn our children not to speak to the stranger. But here, the women who form the membership of the St. Kizito movement have pledged themselves to the motto: “your child is my child”. They are choosing to be mother to orphaned and vulnerable children in their parishes. And it runs against every grain in the modern world.

As we sat in their midst, one after the other stood and spoke – some in Afrikaans, some in Xhosa, and some in English – tracing an unrelenting portrait of love and struggle in this city of much suffering. The morning gathering, business-like and well orchestrated occasionally burst forth in a Xhosa hymn in their beautiful harmonious voices. For those of you who have ever experienced this spontaneous outpouring of song from African people, we were in the gift of that familiar awe and wonder, impossible of words.

More parishes are sprouting groups of mainly women volunteers ready to visit the homes of the most vulnerable children. Typically they want to put shoes on their feet, food on the table, a school jumper on their backs. Some of the families are unregistered, a status in which you are denied any state help of any kind, schooling, health, finance. Some are internal immigrants from the rural areas, some are external refugees from other African countries. What they have in common is a lack of any kind of documentation – a birth certificate, as an example. The result is almost unimaginable destitution.

One woman described the plight of a family with a speechless, eleven year old child without legs. With no transport, they struggled to move him anywhere. They carried him on their backs. The volunteer moved mountains to get a wheelchair. At the meeting she was told it had arrived the day before. She was overjoyed. Another faced threats of violence from criminal elements who disapproved of her involvement with a particular family. There were many such stories on Saturday morning.

In the next six weeks, I will meet with these scattered groups of women and thankfully will be able to give them a few hours of supervision and support.

Our friend Margaret arrived on Friday. She has seen more of the real South Africa in forty eight hours than many do in a dozen visits. As someone said to us yesterday over lunch in Noordhoek, a great many born and bred citizens of this beautiful city have no idea what goes on at the other side of the track.

I want to say a thank you to the many who are following the Capewonders blog. Big thank you to all.