Date: February 16, 2008 11:25:19 AM HST
Friday, February 8, 2008 – Pretoria (am), Evaton Township (pm)
Yesterday I was arrested; today I went to prison.
No, I’m not quoting a line from a Merle Haggard song. Yunus; Fred Mednick, head of Teachers Without Borders (TWB, the organization with which Yunus is affiliated); a white South African woman named Engela Pienaar and I visited Odi Correctional Center outside Pretoria to check out a computer education project for prisoners which has been made possible through the efforts of Engela and furthered by the donation of six computers from TWB. I knew that I would learn a lot from this visit, but I should have known by now that much of what I would learn would surprise me and challenge my assumptions.
Although I hadn’t slept well last night (hey, how well would you sleep if you knew you were going to prison in the morning?), the anticipation of what lay ahead kept me running on adrenalin. I wasn’t nervous (I assumed that if the situation was at all risky, the authorities would not have allowed us to enter the prison), but I was excited to be in a new and unusual situation.
The first challenge to one of my assumptions came almost immediately, as we met with Robert Potgieter, one of the wardens. Given his last name, I concluded that Potgieter, an imposing haole with chiseled features reminiscent of the French actor Gerard Depardieu, comes from Afrikaner stock. (A brief historical note here: AfriKaners, descendents of the original Dutch settlers, or Boers, have historically been the most antagonistic and brutal to the native black Africans. The legal beginning of apartheid dates from 1948, the year that their political party was able to win control of the government. As a group, they most resemble the southern rednecks in the American civil rights struggle.) I expected him to be a hard-liner, and so I was surprised at how much sympathy and empathy he showed towards his prisoners, the vast majority of whom are black. Commenting on the high recidivism rate, he said of the repeat offenders, “I don’t blame anyone.” Due to South Africa’s forty per cent unemployment rate, offenders find it extremely difficult to get jobs after their release. And when their families go hungry, he understands why they will steal in order to get money to feed them.
Expressing gratitude for Engela’s efforts at providing educational opportunities for his prisoners, Potgieter explained that funding for job training and education (primarily literacy programs) falls far short of what he considers necessary. A trip to the prison library, consisting of fewer than two hundred books, supported this claim.
Following Warden Potgieter’s welcome, a Mr. Mikwa led us on a tour. A medium security facility built for 892 inmates, the red brick structure currently houses 1354 men, all above the age of twenty-one (all prisons in Gauteng Province are overcrowded). Prisoners are housed dormitory-style; single cells are reserved for what the warden called “problematic offenders.” (Another surprise: currently only one inmate occupies a single cell.) The staff consists of 264 permanent officers and sixty-four “student interns.”
As we waited for Mr. Mikwa to begin the tour, I wandered over to stand at the edge of a class which was being held in part of the covered courtyard. Seventeen prisoners sat on benches arranged in a semi-circle facing the instructor, a fellow prisoner dressed in the common orange uniform dotted with the word “Corrections” in a circular pattern. On the chalkboard, the instructor had written and underlined the word “Anger Management,” then added “Frustration” and “Religious Delusion.” “Religious Delusion,” Yunus explained, most likely referred to the violence that resulted when one inmate would place a curse on another inmate and/or his family. I had a difficult time hearing the instructor, but at one point I clearly heard him utter the sentence “Unnecessary arguments lead to uncontrollable anger.” My presence at the edge of the class eventually attracted the attention of all seventeen students, and interestingly, every one smiled upon making eye contact.
In fact, the most surprising aspect of the entire two-hour visit to the prison turned out to be how unthreatening the atmosphere seemed to be. Although this could hardly be called a “country club” prison, we saw very few inmates behind bars. Many walked about seemingly on their own, and I noticed a surprising number sitting in casual, even friendly conversation with their guards. At one location, I noticed a recipe for beef stroganoff written on a chalkboard. The only threatening look that I noticed came from a white, blue-eyed, blond-haired, tattooed guy with a patch of beard growing down from under the middle of his lower lip. If Metallica ever needs to replace a band member, this is the dude to call.
Towards the end of our visit we finally got to see the computer lab, which is run by a middle aged, computer nerd-looking haole guy. Four six-week courses comprise the computer education program: computer literacy, repair and maintenance, advanced course, and networking. There is great demand for the program, but enrollment is limited because the lab contains only twenty computers. The director chose one of the program’s graduates at random to testify about its effectiveness, and he was effusive in his praise. Having gone through all four courses, and with more time to serve before his release, he expressed a desire to progress even further in his education, and a frustration at his inability to do so because of the shortage of computers. He proved to be a most effective advocate.
Strangely enough, visiting the prison proved to be a less depressing experience than having visited the various rural schools – for two reasons: 1) the prison was in better physical condition than the rural schools, and 2) it’s more depressing to see children in need than adults in need.
But the next school we visited, although located in an area of extreme poverty, provided us with an uplifting experience.
A year ago, Yunus arranged a donation of twenty computers to Letsema-Ilima Primary School in Evaton Township, and he wanted to find out if they were being used effectively. (There’s more to donating computers than simply presenting them to a school. Space must be found for them, electrical wiring must be done, security must be arranged, someone must be found to manage the computers and train teachers and students in their use, etc., etc.) Amidst poverty equal to that of Sharpeville, the modest but attractive brick school has a staff of thirty-three teachers to serve 1240 learners, with a classroom ratio of 1:40. Seventy per cent of the kids’ parents are unemployed, and those students pay no fees (most public schools charge modest fees), so students make up the shortfall by collecting and recycling aluminum cans, massive piles of which filled a section of the playground. One effort earned the school enough to pave the formerly dusty playground. (Punahou, by contrast, won a Jack Johnson concert by winning a recycling contest.) Computers donated by Yunus’ TWB have made computer education here a reality, and the school’s reputation is such that it has a waiting list for future students.
The room which houses the seventeen computers (spare parts cannot be found for three broken computers) formerly served as the staff room/faculty lounge. Asked how the staff felt about giving up its lounge, the principal replied, “Excited.”
On the chalkboard in the room someone had written the following, which I quote verbatim and which needs no comment: “I love my computer and my friend. Also my parents.”