Work in the Township

The official unemployment rate of South Africa is 25%. This means that one person in four is jobless, something that has to be considered a huge catastrophe for any state.

The celebrated growth of the South African economy has been highly unequal in distribution and this is easy to observe when entering the township of Langa that is crowded with unsatisfied people not participating in the economic mainstream and that lack any prospect of getting a formal job in any future. Here, ANC has failed providing jobs for ten thousands of its citizens, and the unemployment rate is more likely to land around sixty, or even seventy percentage. The gap between poor and rich remains enormous in the country with the socio-economic increase in the townships since the end of the apartheid era being minimal, if any at all. Many people here have given up the search for work, and Langa is left poor and crowded with people of different ages drifting around without any stimulation or inspiration.

No human society can exist without work. Work structures the way people live and make contact with social reality and affects the individual's social status and mind. Without work it’s impossible to satisfy our cultural and material needs, but we have to “do something” to earn our living, something that requires some kind of effort. However, being unemployed is more than being without an income, work is also important for the psychological health and can help developing faculties of the human mind like consciousness, reasoning and perception. Mental accomplishment is fundamental for everyone and the lack of achievement can lead to depression and loss of self-esteem which often spurs social problems such as crime and xenophobia. Unemployment is therefore causing both physical and mental poverty.

In most developed countries there is only one economy. This is the so called formal economy which consists of businesses that are monitored by a government, that pay taxes and can adhere to union regulations. South Africa has two economies, one formal and one informal, and in Langa, it is the informal sector that rules. Working in the informal sector means that you’re self-employed and supervising yourself; you decide when to start work and when to go home for the day. This might sound nice for some ears, many people dream of being independent and self-made and many workers within the informal economy would never want to change their jobs for something in the formal sector. However, there are downsides with working in the informal sector as well, for example the lack of safety and reliability that you get from a monthly pay check.

As in most developing and developed countries, economic opportunities in South Africa lies in the urban areas, and this is the big reason for the rapid urbanisation and progressive migration to the townships outside of the bigger cities. Even though Langa is considered to be “full” and without any space for new arrivals, more shackles still pop up every week meaning that more people need to find jobs. In order to make a living here, innovation and creativity is most likely necessary and everything has to be seen as an opportunity. I find this fascinating and I want to give the reader the chance to get to know some of these people that through self-entrepreneurship and desperation managed to pull through and turn nothing into something. 

Cell photos from the past few weeks

The boys were dancing before the football game between 
Chippa and Pirates at Athlone Stadium

Santa Claus came to Langa

and all the children at Project Playground received christmas presents! 

The staff had a christmas closing where we exchanged gifts

 It was very warm that day...

Instead of christmas ham and herring it was grilled chicken and sausage
that was served (this would be an amazing cover photo for any hip-hop album)

Home Affairs : The Trilogy

Home Affairs became a trilogy. A breathtaking story about love and desperation, time and frustration. I won the battle against bureaucracy in the end and henceforth have the legal right to continue my beautiful visit in South Africa. However, the fight was long and tiring and I have to admit that I was down on my knees, close to surrender, begging them to please, please spare be from getting home affaired.

Let us start from the beginning. Home Affairs is South Africa's immigration service, and it is located in a boring and run down business district in downtown Cape Town. It is a grey fortress, built in straight lines, strategically designed to send the message that you're now entering enemy land, nothing is free here so you better make an effort. Immediately after entering the main gates it's time for queue number one; in order to know were to go you first have to explain your errand for one of the two heavy weight champions with rolling eyes saying “what in Gods name are you doing here young man, get that look of your face, how dare you showing up here at my door smiling, I'm going to show you what life is all about!” that are stuffed behind the transparent glass desk. It's always important to get a good start – especially when the battle is long - but many newcomers actually loose here on first level, right in front of the desk. The trick is to stay cold, and never ever look them in the eyes, focus on your own task, say the words, and wait until they tell you where to go.

If you pass the first test, then you can continue through the door to the right where a security guard is going to control that you're not bringing any weapons or explosives. This is understandable, the threat towards Home Affairs is indeed existing and there are many potential revengers strolling around under the bridges thinking “one day, one day I'll be back”. However, if this is not your mission, you can take the stairs up to the first floor and enter what many people refer to as the battlefield. Home Affairs is built like one long and narrow corridor filled with lines of hanging eyes, snoring noses and driveling mouths creating a human labyrinth. No signs. No directions to follow. Flesh everywhere and ten different counters and two employees that are walking around like street cops telling people to be patient and not lean against the walls. In order to apply for a visa you first have to queue for an application form. This line took me one hour. After that I was told to fill everything in, and then return again with double copies of my bank statement, motivational letter, flight ticket, insurance papers and passport. Outside the building there are copy stores and ID photo experts everywhere – Home Affairs is their golden mine. Once back, you have to queue in the same line downstairs in order to get what could be seen as an ordinary piece of paper. It is not, actually it's very very far away from being just an ordinary piece of paper - this is your golden ticket, your judgment and your destiny, your only way to get out of hell. Finally I thought, let's get down to business and get this thing done. I crawled my way through the labyrinth, and found a good place to stand where I didn't lean against the wall, where I followed all the rules and felt safe. I looked down at my ticket to control that everything was in order; I couldn't believe what I saw; my eyes were reading “estimated waiting time 971 minutes – please sit down and wait for your turn”.

“estimated waiting time 971 minutes"

After one hour I found a seat where I could sit down. The street police guy passed and I asked him if something maybe was wrong with the machine today, maybe it was 97 minutes or something, “aaaha not at all” he said and smiled with all his teeth and told me that they might have to close before it's my turn, and that I then needed to come back the day after and do everything again. The only thing I could do was to sit down and wait.

Time passed and I tried to read my book (My Traitor's Heart by Rian Malan) but couldn't focus since I was constantly disturbed by all the people, and affected by all the emotions and stories that always exist within the walls of an immigration office. I also felt a bit weird sitting where I sat, and assume that it was because of the chauvinistic and nonchalant mentality that exists within EU boarders – we're so used travelling everywhere in the world without any problems and also used to read and talk about immigration politics with people from other countries coming to us, and not the other way around. This is something that has negative effect on many Swedes minds, people become narrow-minded, and fail to understand that most people don't immigrate because they want to do. People that come to Sweden don't leave their homes and families because they feel like doing it, but most times because they have to. We are all migrants in our nature, and since the birth of mankind human beings had a tendency to move to places where we could live a better life, and create a better future for our children and upcoming generations. Surviving is a basic human instinct, and that is exactly why unequal and unfair societies always will dissolve, most times with the help of violence and other cruelties. It is indeed sad to see how bad we threat each other sometimes.

While my mind was spinning around people around me actually started to move. They had been waiting for hours, but when the TV-screen showed their numbers and asked them to go to the counter they just stood up without a single facial move, without any signs of excitement, not even relief, and slowly dragged themselves over the floor in the same way as one would drag oneself from the couch to the fridge on a sunday afternoon in order to refill some coke in the break of a Nollywood soap opera. The level of energy was zero. 

After 3 hours, half of the numbers had passed, and I realized that many had given up. This was not going to happen to me. Never. Was there still life outside? My memories of something else slowly fainted away and I could only remember small fragments of my past and even less about what I was going to do after this. The future was unimportant in this moment, everything that mattered was that voice and that screen that all of a sudden started give away numbers in much higher tempo than before – I couldn't believe my ears – there were only 10 numbers left before it was my turn. 10 tiny numbers. Ten. There was still hope for me. 

The last numbers were very slow but I didn't matter because I was caught up in fantasises. I was daydreaming of how I was cartwheeling out through the main gates to the tunes of Abdullah Ibrahim and how people outside would throw flowers in the air and hug me. Then it happened. "Ticket number 3092 go to counter number 25." That was me! I flew up from the chair and searched for happy faces, someone to celebrate with, someone to hug. Nobody. I didn't care and bounced over the floor, up to counter number 25, where I smiled at the girl behind the desk with all my teeth, who responded by looking at my chest with tired eyes. "Papers" she yawned and I gave her my application. Three minutes later everything was over. The papers were handed in and I was told to wait for a text message. The first mission was accomplished! 

One and a half month later I woke up to the following message; Home Affairs – Your application has been finalised, please collect the outcome after 5 working days. Excellent I thought, I just have to go there and pick everything up, I know the place by now and the queue can't be so bad for collecting applications. So I waited and on the sixth working day I decided to go there again. I arrived around 9 in the morning and to my surprise there was no queue at all down by the entrance – this was a good sign. I told the lady that I was here to collect my visa and she printed my ticket; estimated waiting time 220 minutes - please sit down and wait for your turn”. A wave of regardlessness washed over my mind when the security guard scanned my front pockets. Three and a half hours. I walked up the stairs and dragged myself over the floor. The same seat was available in the corner. Cozy. I sat down. The first hour passed even though someone shut down the concept of time – I was searching across the room for Sisyphus. I felt even more annoyed than the first time, mostly because I thought that this was going to be the easy mission. Suddenly something changed,, voices were lowered and some kind of vacuum emerged - just as if everyone in the whole building had inhaled at the same time. People were braking laws, leaned against walls, because in the middle of the aisle comes a bride with a white long wedding dress dragged along the dirty floor. She's shining, she's beautiful, it's the best day of her life and she's at Home Affairs. She's getting married and she's walking towards me with a big smile. I'm trying to smile back but realize that I look ridiculous with my long face – I couldn't believe my eyes, a wedding, here....in Satan’s own stronghold?

Two hours later of intense sitting I started to feel hope. I was almost there now, just call me up, so we all can go home. She did, the robot lady told me to go to counter number 26, and I knew that I only had seconds left before I was completely free. I gave her my ticket and my reference number and she clicked everything in on the computer. I was excited. She wasn't. “Your application is still in Pretoria, come back in another three days.” What!? I showed her my text and gave her my biggest protest face – “so you're telling me that I have to come back and do everything again? Don't you understand that I took a day of work in order to be here? What shall I do?” She rolled her eyes and said “well, that's what happens” before she pressed the button – someone else walked up to counter 26 and I walked out completely devastated.

I waited another 10 days just to be on the safe side. It was a very warm day and I walked decisively into the building for a third time. I told the lady that I was here to collect my visa and she nodded her head and gave me my ticket; estimated waiting time 187 minutes - please sit down and wait for your turn”. Not bad I thought and took the steeps up to, less crowded, but someone else had taken my seat. Typical. I spotted another one that looked comfortable, and sat down. This time I was prepared with bringing my laptop. Two hours passed like nothing thanks to “Under African Skies”, a brilliant documentary about Paul Simon's visit in South Africa and his recording of the celebrated album Graceland. I felt like the bride. I was enjoying my time at Home Affairs. The big lady next to me peeked at the screen and gave me a warm smile. Everything was great. The last hour - my eleventh at Home Affairs - worked as a nice epilogue and then I was called up by the robot voice that in my ears sounded sweet as Miriam Makeba. I walked to counter number 27. “Is it here? Is it approved?”.“Yes it is” she said and smiled (!). It was almost like I had forgotten why I was spending all this time here, but when she handed over the visa to me everything became clear again; I was allowed to stay in this beautiful country for another two months, this was an amazing feeling and I danced my way out from Home Affairs. 

Hopefully for the last time in quite some time. 

We die only once, and for such a long time!

Every morning when I drive into Langa the head line posters from The Daily Sun are flashed in front of my eyes. They're attached to trees and street lamps and the message is always the same; death, death, death; “Teen girl's dead body found in bag” “Pupil guns down alleged bully” “Baby infant chopped to pieces”. This newspaper is indeed one of the noisiest in South Africa and like any other bill with head lines the purpose is to draw attention. Still, I can tell that I'm raised in another culture where death more or less has been put aside.

When I first came to Project Playground, one of our employees just survived a gun attack. I was chocked. One month later a man that used to help us with transportation was killed on the street. No motives, no questions. The week after a baby was found in a trash can with a chopped head, and yesterday it was time again. A boy that attended one of our classes in the past was stabbed to death by a working college in Langa. They had an argument and a fist fight over something. But that wasn't enough. When the boy was walking home afterwards he was attacked from behind by his college and stabbed deadly in his 19 year old heart.

I'm not used to this confrontation with death. Not at all. Most people that I know are terrified of dying, and I guess I am too. Thinking about death is for me similar as to looking at the sun; I can only do it for a couple of seconds and then I have to turn my eyes away. I get confused and then I have to think about something different. Everything else than short moments is unbearable. I have learned to always focus on life and leave the rest to the future, but I realize that this is something that not everyone can do. In fact, this might as well be very dangerous, because sooner or later we will all be confronted, and then we might stand or lie there without any idea how to handle it, because death is unpredictable and something that we all can count on. For me it's still something unimaginable. I can't imagine not existing. The thought. The void. The silence. How come it's so hard to accept a world without me in the future, when I can understand the world existing without me before I was born?

I believe that death more or less has been put aside by the Swedish society. At least for my generation that no longer have an institution or sacred place where it's possible to get exposed to existential thoughts and anxiety. Most people have probably attended a funeral once, but it was most likely an old relative that died a natural death because of age or any of our modern diseases. But here, in Langa, death is more than that. Death is normal and something that you can't deny. Some people from home and even in South Africa tell me that life has a different meaning and a different value here than in Sweden, but for me, every life serves the same purpose no matter where and who you are. We get born and then we die. That's it. This is all we know and the rest is only speculations. We are all given one life and the intrinsic value of that is to be alive. That boy had one life yesterday and today he has none. Just like Moliere said it; “On ne meurt qu'une fois; et c'est pour si longtemps! - We die only once, and for such a long time!”

Death is something extremely mysterious for me, and is something that in contrast to life can be taken for granted. Life is not working without death, they're part of the same circle, the same phenomena, and if I choose to deny death, then I also choose to deny life. I understand that death is a fundamental condition for the existence of life, but at the same time there is a paradox existing that I can't seem to solve in this age and at this stage, and that is that life is also driven by death. Death drives us to create love and belonging, and this is why it's so much harder to die. I have to die from everything that I once created and be separated from everything I love.

This thought is making me very vulnerable. 

Friendly game in Bonteheuwel

Project Playground has four different football classes - the under-11, under-13, under-15 and under-17/19. The teams consist of almost 90 players all together and we practice four times a week. Yesterday our oldest boys played a friendly in Bonteheuwel against a senior team with players way older than they. It was a tough game against a good opponent with a constant annoying wind blowing over a bumpy pitch. We lost 2-1 but played good football. The future is looking good.

Before the game in our new A.C.  Milan track-suits 

Smiling faces even though we lost

The Power of Football

When I came to Langa I was told that Project Playground had its own football team, and this made me very happy and excited. I stopped playing football in 2009 and I really missed it. When I then found out that the football team was in need of assistance, I became even happier, because I knew what this meant. It happened so many times before. Football is the ultimate chance to get to know new people. 

I started to play football when I was 7 years old, not really early, not really late. Some people are said to be born with the ball at their feet. I was not one of them. It’s hard to remember what kept me busy before that age, but it was apparently not football. I guess I was just busy being a kid. Free from anxiety and doubt about the future, happy to exist for the moment and live for the day.

My first real football memory is from the hectic summer of 1994. For most Swedes, this summer is something that is very precious and associated with joy and happiness. The Swedish football team flew to the United States of America without any bigger plans of success, unaware that they would become immortal heroes and holy icons for Swedish nostalgia. People were camping, grilling hot dogs, wearing funny hats and listening to the radio while Sweden played amazing football and won a bronze medal that in my tiny eyes shined like purest gold. I was blessed and blissful by the show. Not only by the graceful pirouettes of Tomas Brolin, and the long fingers of Kenneth Andersson, even though they were my biggest heroes. There was also something else there. Something that seemed to exist in another dimension and was bigger than words. Something sacred that not necessarily was painted in the Swedish colors of yellow and blue. What mesmerized me existed in every team that competed and sweated together in the World Cup that warm summer, and I felt how a holy force hit me all the way from Los Angeles, Dallas and Washington D.C. straight through my parents thick TV-screen and into my little body.

Two years later I felt it again. I was once again touched by the force, and this time it was so strong that I wanted to change my hairstyle, all because of the charismatic footballer Karel Poborský, that on his own almost managed to win the Euro 1996 for the Czech Republic. What a player! Two years later I felt it again, and this time it made me paint my face in red and white checkers, so I could show my devotion for the Croatian striker Davor Šuker that with his amazing skills managed to become the top scorer in the 1998 World Cup in France. In 2000 it hit me again and I refused to wear anything else but my Portuguese football shirt with Luis Figo's name on the back - no smell in the world could change my duty and obligation that I now owed him after his magical goal against England in the Euro 2000. After that it happened again. And again and again. It never stopped. Last time it happened was this week when Sweden played against England in Stockholm and Zlatan Ibrahimovic scored four goals, and even though it was a friendly the goals meant so much for Sweden - both on and off the pitch. 

Football is more than a sport. It possesses a power that can build bridges between different cultures and language barriers. It consists of a force, strong enough to unite the poor with the rich, the friend with the enemy and the stranger with the local. This force exists in every football team on the planet - in F.C. Barcelona, ​​in Kaizer Chiefs and in IFK Arvidsjaur. It unites people from all around the world, everywhere in the world, of all ages, classes, genders and nationalities, on the stadium, in the changing room, in the pub, on the street and in front of TV. 

My work together together with the Project Playground football team has only started, but I can already feel that something magical is about to happen. Something from another dimension. Something sacred.

Heroes

Attention! It's the Tuesday after the first Monday in November...

Every four years something very important happens on this day. It's election day, and I'm extremely excited finding out if Barack Obama is getting a second term as President, or if the American population decides for Mitt Romney. In order to highlight this huge political happening, that has an impact on people living in Ohio, South Dakota, Cape Town and Stockholm, I decided to give a small lecture about U.S. politics to the Project Playground debate class. I told them a bit about the American history; how they also were colonized by the British, how Lincoln abolished slavery and about the American dream. After that I tried to explain how the U.S. electoral system is structured without making things too complicated, however I realized quick that this was close to impossible and that it get's tricky no matter how much I twisted and turned. Anyways, here we go; 50 states, 1 President, 100 Senators, 435 Representatives and 538 electoral votes!

The children listened carefully and asked interesting questions, and this was a great feeling for someone that never gave a lecture to a class before. It also made me realize how precious, important and skilled the teaching occupation is, and that we (at least in Sweden) don't pay enough attention and gratitude towards our teachers. It can be so hard to make an impression, and children can be so hard to charm sometimes! Luckily, the children of Langa are the most charming in the world, and I felt respected all the time. No cell phones rang, no one fell asleep and no one started to talk when I was speaking.

After one hour of republicans and democrats I packed my American map together and finished class. I asked about their opinion regarding South African politics, about what was good and what was bad. This is such a political country, and most people have an opinion or at least a clue about the contemporary situation. This class was surely not an exception. All of a sudden ten mouths spoke at the same time, first calm and slow, and the faster and faster and faster, until a huge debate with passionate opinions about ANC and South Africa's future broke loose turning our little classroom into a parliament. Some of the participants truly know how to argue, and I was very impressed, even though some moments brought us closer to the Polish parliament (I hope that's a universal saying).

Politics are so much fun and I promised to return to class soon with a similar lecture about Sweden.
Time to make another coffee. I don't want to miss when history is written!