From DEEP

June 15th, 2009

DEEP, as I’ve said before, is located in an informal settlement called Oneshila. The people at DEEP work out of a container that stores the bikes and tools, but they do most of the repairs outside under the shade of a makeshift roof. When I go to work, I sit with them outside, and I’m able to see a lot of the goings on in the community. For instance, I can see the shebeen located just across the lane from DEEP, I can see women walking by with loads of grains and shopping items balanced on their heads, I can also see little kids on their way back from school. These sights I expected to see, but I wasn’t expecting to witness anything as heartbreaking, infuriating and upsetting as the boy that lives across the lane.

On my first day at DEEP, I sat with the group and watched them work on bikes that customers had dropped off in the morning. I was making small talk with Lavinia, who I’ve really grown fond of in the past week. We talked about where we’re from and what our families are like. While I chatted with Lavinia I looked around the neighborhood and started to familiarize myself with the area. I saw this cute little girl in a pink dress with a little boy sitting outside of a small house made of sheet metal. They were playing nicely, and seemed to just be playing together with some rocks. I couldn’t help but smile looking at them; they would have made a pretty adorable picture.

An hour or so later, still gazing around the neighborhood, I saw the little girl standing at the house, pushing with all her might against the closed door. At first she was just pressing against the door, but soon she began to cry, then wail, then scream. Normally the DEEP employees don’t really take notice to the kids in the neighborhood. The kids run around the group as they work on bikes, but there isn’t too much interaction between them, aside from the times when Michael or Moses will ask one of the kids to bring them a tool or rag just out of their reach. On this particular day, however, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at the little girl as she pressed herself against the door while crying.

I sat watching the girl feeling like it wouldn’t be appropriate for me, on my first day in the neighborhood, to run over to a strangers house to let the girl into her house. What if she wasn’t allowed in at that time, or what if her mother wanted her outside for some reason? I decided to stay where I was, but I kept glancing around the surrounding area, looking for her mother, but I didn’t see anyone. About 15 minutes later, the DEEP employees back to work, I sat with Lavinia and watched the little girl struggle with the door. We saw a woman walk out of the adjacent shebeen and bring the girl a cup of something and let her drink out of it. I heard Lavinia beside me “tsk tsk-ing.” I turned to her and she said, “She shouldn’t be giving that to a child, it’s not good for her.” I ask Lavinia what was in the cup and she said, “ It’s a kind of alcohol.”

The little girl couldn’t have been older than two. She was barely walking, and still this woman gave her alcohol. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I knew from Lavinia’s statement that my feelings towards the situation weren’t an over reaction. Children should never be given alcohol. I consider what I saw to be a form of child abuse and a violation of the child’s human rights.

I was allowed to go home at around 12 because I didn’t really have any work to do. When I got home, the girls asked me how my day was, and when I tried to explain to them what I saw, I just burst into tears. I was furious, just so angry with the woman from the shebeen. The girls really sympathized with my reaction and because of that I felt justified for feeling the way I felt and empowered to do something about it.

During the next day or so, I watched the little girl and the boy play in the grass. On Wednesday, the little boy made his way onto DEEP property and kept glancing over at me. Lavinia explained that last year’s intern, Rukshan, used to play with the boy all the time. I could definitely see why. He was absolutely adorable, and really curious about the bikes, especially the wheels. I played with him for about half an hour before Lavinia told me he was deaf. I had noticed there was something different about him, but I hadn’t suspected that he was unable to hear.

For the rest of the week the little boy, Napenda, would waltz over to me from his house bringing with him an array of broken toys he handed over to me for repair. Even though there was no real way for us to communicate with words, we exchanged a lot of funny faces, stuck our tongues at each other, and played together with the toys he brought over.

On Thursday, Lavinia and I took the 15-minute walk to Telecom to inquire about Internet for DEEP. On our walk, I brought up the subject of Napenda. I asked her how old he was, “Five.” I asked her whether he went to school or not, “ No.” I asked her if he knew any sign language, and she said, “No.”

At Napenda’s age, he should be in Kindergarten. He should have begun in January. But he didn’t. The little girl’s mother is Napenda’s aunt. She cares for him, while his mother works and lives 8 hours away in Walvis Bay. Lavinia told me that Napenda is receiving a government grant that is supposed to help support him due to his disability. The grant should be used to fund his schooling at the nearby school for the deaf and blind. But since he’s not in school, his aunt is just taking the money. Lavinia also told me that last year, Rukshan bought Napenda clothes and toys, which his aunt took away from him and gave to her children. I’m sure Rukshan felt the same way I feel about the situation, because she spoke with the aunt and asked her directly why Napenda wasn’t in school, and begged her to enroll him in Eluwa, the school for the blind and deaf. When that didn’t work, employees at DEEP spoke with the director of DEEP and asked her to speak with the aunt, which she did, to no avail.

Everyday, Napenda walks over to DEEP, and we play together. He likes to point at things and pretend to talk. He just moves his mouth, without making noise. It’s heartbreaking, because he’s so young and obviously really wants to learn about the things around him, but with no way to communicate with his family, he can’t.

The kids in the neighborhood stay away from him. They also make fun of him. Napenda makes a sort of squeaking noise when he plays. Sometimes he makes the noise when he’s excited, or happy, and sometimes he makes it when he’s sad or angry. When kids see him, they sometimes imitate him. Of course Napenda can’t hear the noise their making, but I’m pretty sure he can figure out that their not being nice to him. Today I saw two women walking down the lane, and when one of them saw Napenda she made a loud squeaking noise. Napenda had his back to the woman, but I saw her do it, and I couldn’t help but glare at her. It’s one thing for children to bully a child with a disability, often it’s because they don’t really understand the disability, but it’s quite another for grown adults to openly ridicule a young boy who can’t stand up for himself.

Because none of the kids seem fond of Napenda, the only interaction he has with them are generally violent outbursts. When he does witness some of the kids imitating him or making fun of him, he just slaps them, or throws things at them. I’ve seen this happen many times. One time, after retaliating against a young boy, Napenda ran to me and hugged one of my legs. He wanted to hide from the boy, but I think he also wanted to be comforted.

Since that incident, Napenda will come to DEEP and just recline on my legs, or climb onto my lap. He doesn’t sit facing me, which I find interesting. Instead he faces away from me, and plays alone with a toy, or a stick, or a bicycle part. I get the feeling that he does this because he just likes the comfort of being next to some one. I think it’s kind of like cuddling for him. I don’t know how often he gets this kind of affection from his aunt, or other adult family members, but judging from the speed at which he grew so close to me, I feel like it can’t be that often.

Today, with Napenda on my lap, I looked over at the lady that serves the DEEP employees their lunch. She gets a kick out of me because I don’t buy my lunch from her, and she thinks it’s got something to do with me being scared of meat. She always laughs when I turn down lunch, and the speaks Oshiwambo to the DEEP employees and they look over at me and ask, “Do you eat chicken in Canada?” or “Do you eat dog in your country?” But today, she didn’t ask me if I wanted lunch, she asked me how I could stand to have Napenda sit on my lap when he smelled so bad. I couldn’t turn Napenda down today because he seemed so eager to sit with me. I was sitting on a tall table in the container that houses the bicycles and administrative files. Napenda could barely reach up to my knees, but he tried pulling himself up onto my lap anyway. I pulled him up onto my lap and he sat with me playing with a broken ball.

The lunch lady is right. Napenda does not smell good. His clothes are dirty, he smells like he hasn’t been bathed in a long time, and he’s always got food on his chin and cheeks. Even the amazingly tolerant and accepting people at DEEP keep their distance from Napenda for this reason. I can’t help but let Napenda sit on my lap, because I feel like that’s all I can really give him. I don’t feel comfortable giving him clothing and toys, because I know what will happen to them. I won’t give him money for the same reason. All I can do for him is repair his toys, or let him sit on my lap. When he points at things and pretends to talk, I nod at him because I want him to feel like someone is listening to him, even though he’s not talking.

It’s hard to watch the way Napenda is being treated, like his cousin he’s being abused. The fact that he doesn’t know any language, the fact that he can’t communicate beyond pointing at things and making facial expressions, means that his quality of life is unacceptably low. Not only does he not go to school, get enough to eat, or have a loving family environment, but also he has no real friends beyond his young cousin. I can’t help but imagine what his life will be like if this situation doesn’t change, that’s why I feel strongly about doing something for him. I’ve spoken with the girls and Richard and we’ve talked over some possible options. Michelle has said she’s going to set up a meeting with a social worker; Alison wants to meet with the principal at Eluwa. Judging from the past, I don’t expect his aunt is going to do anything positive for him in the near future, and that’s why I want to do something for him that will hopefully improve his situation. If he goes to Eluwa, he’ll be around people who understand him and care for him. He’ll also learn to sign language and be able to communicate with his friends and teachers. I feel like with all the resources at our fingertips, we can help Napenda. I can’t leave Namibia without doing something for him that will make him happier and healthier, and I really feel like school is what will do it for him.

I want to do this so that the intern at DEEP next year doesn’t have to experience the same frustration that I feel when Napenda visits me at DEEP. I’d rather the next intern see just how great a community can be towards people with disabilities. When customers walk by DEEP they shout out greetings to the employees, and there is a really remarkable sense of understanding and friendliness between DEEP and the neighborhood. Hopefully Napenda will soon be included in this atmosphere of open-mindedness. And hopefully, the intern next year will be able to witness this when he or she sits with the employees of DEEP and looks on as the community goes about their day-to-day activities.


[check the last post, I added two at the same time!]