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7 September 2001 by Joe Lowry, in Zululand Last week, as delegates to the World Conference against Racism talked about discrimination, two hours down the road in Durban, Natasha Scott, secretary of the Red Cross branch in Zululand, her family, and a band of dedicated Red Cross volunteers, were out on yet another visit to those living with HIV/AIDS, under the intense South African sun. For them, talking is fine, but action is better - they're "walking the walk". "In thirty years' time we're going to see a dramatic drop in HIV infection rates in Zululand". That's the pledge from Natasha Scott, secretary of the local Red Cross branch, as she grits her teeth with determination and drives further into the brick-red mud roads of Zululand. This young mother is part of a Red Cross dynasty - her father is in the car behind with food parcels garnered from local shops, and her mother, local branch chairlady, ill with the flu, has stayed behind but monitors our progress by cellphone. Using their own cars, not really built for the cratered dusty backroads, Natasha and her co-workers - Nancy, Gloria, sisters Princess and Bright-Lady, Lillian, Victoria, Mizipo and others - are implementing a remarkable programme funded by British Red Cross. While the debates on racism, discrimination and related intolerance rage on in Durban, these volunteers are taking the precious Red Cross messages of impartiality and humanity into the mud huts and townships of Kwazulu-Natal. And they are making a difference. Behaviour is slowly changing. In a culture where wearing a condom is seen as a form of emasculation, where it is whispered that having sex with a virgin will remove the disease - nine-year-olds have been raped as a result - the task might seem insurmountable. Princess Mchunu (26), a trained teacher, knows thereality. She has seen high-school friends fade away, she knows that HIV/AIDS is scything through her generation. Everywhere you can see grandmothers, weary from the pain of nursing and losing their adult children, struggle to raise orphans, often on a pension which amounts to no more that CHF 10 per month. Princess explains: "Back in the 80's it was different. People said 'AIDS kills', so there was panic. People with AIDS were killed or locked away when they disclosed their condition. Now people are used to the sickness but we still have to be careful". Her colleague Lillian nods assent. "We visit people two or three times a week, getting their confidence. Their family gets used to the Red Cross coming to see their sick relative. If they have a positive test we discuss it with them and help them make their disclosure". This "disclosure" is often made posthumously. One of the first South African AIDS activists to publicly acknowledge she was living with the virus, Gugu Dlamini, was brutally beaten by a mob as a result of her admission, and died. Ten days ago, Simon, a 52-year-old man, passed away after a long illness. He is buried in a thorn-topped grave beside his house, among his relatives. At his funeral, it was announced that he had been taken by an AIDS-related illness. Red Cross workers were among the mourners, and ran an information workshop afterwards. The task facing these young women seems overwhelming. Local newspapers have claimed the HIV rate is running at 60 per cent. Recently, a nearby maternity hospital recorded 100 per cent positive tests among birthing mothers in a single month. The Port Richard cemetery, built to cater for local needs until 2050, may be full within three years. Young girls are taught to view every single man as HIV positive. And this is just one small corner of South Africa, a tiny dot on the planet's surface. We visit another home, where a man of 58 lies quietly on his bed, a packet of Panadol his only relief from constant pain. He admires the Red Cross camera, with the eye of aformer professional photographer, we chat. I shake his hand in farewell. He winces in pain at the gentlest touch. His grandniece is outside, smiling, perched on the back of her mother. Both seem a picture of health. As Nancy Khuzwayo, the Red Cross nurse, takes the baby's hand the child cries out. Nancy can't help a sad, wistful smile."Ah, she remembers me taking a blood test from that hand." The test was positive. The mother's too. It's hard to see hope in this vibrant, lush land. Outside children kick a football, raising a red dust from the hot earth. Hips sway on every street corner to tinny, dizzy music. The elderly sip bootleg booze at wayside shebeens. Everything seems to be as it should. Yet every home, it seems, hosts a battered armchair, where a tired young person is waiting to die. Meanwhile Natasha and her colleagues muddle, struggle and battle on, hoofing it from door to door when the potholes get too big for the tiny Fiat. They bring pieces of carpet donated by friends to insulate TB-patients' houses from the nocturnal chill; they carry bags of grain donated by local shops. They think about seeds for doorstep gardens, ways to encourage local people to use goats-milk, market local crafts, produce paper; they borrow, cajole, encourage, motivate, welcome, smile. Most of all, they carry hope. Hope for those they visit that a friend will come and spend some time with them. Hope for us, that we can see beyond the disease. |
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