Do You Feel Safe?

About a week ago, I went to get my hair trimmed. I knew it was time to get into the barber when my eight-year-old host sister and her friend were playing with my hair and were able to tie the dilapidated mop on my head into a few oddly placed pig-tails. After several embarrassing minutes of trying to convince the two girls that I would not look good in a pony-tail, I flattened the shag carpet on the top of my head and went inside to ask for a ride to the mall in order to visit the barber in the morning. Thankfully, Pastor agreed and I found myself waiting in the long line at the barber shop early the next morning.

The shop was busy, which was no surprise, and thankfully I had been smart enough to bring along a book to read to pass the time. After nearly an hour of waiting, it was finally my turn to make my way to the chair for the long overdue trim. Being the Scandinavian that I am, I look very much like an Afrikaner, so it’s no surprise that every time I meet a new person in Port Elizabeth, I am greeted in Afrikaans. After a few attempts at responding to the barber in Afrikaans, I finally admitted that I am not from South Africa. The woman was very gracious and laughed, told me my attempts were actually pretty good, and we continued on in English.

As with the first time I went to get my hair cut, I went through the usual questions. How do you find South Africa? Are you here for holiday or are you here for work? What kind of work do you do? I have been answering these questions for almost the entire five months that I have been in Port Elizabeth. I explained to the woman that I was a part of the Young Adults in Global Mission program through the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America and that I will be living here for the year and working in the community at a few different NGO’s around the city. I also explained to the woman that I was living with a Zulu family in a Colored neighborhood.

That’s when she asked me an unusual question, “Wow, do you feel safe?” This question came seemingly out of nowhere. The woman hadn’t even asked what my host parents did for a living. She didn’t even bother to ask what neighborhood I had lived in. She might have had a different opinion on the matter if she knew that I lived with a Pastor and that the neighborhood is very young and filled with lots of kids who are in grade-school all the way through to high school. There are also two brothers who are working their way through university, one studying mechanical engineering and the other studying electrical engineering. These two brothers are hoping to open a garage someday, something they are getting started with out of their own home with the help of their father.  

This was more than likely a woman, who is about the same age as my mother, showing her concern for a young traveler in a foreign country. Even though she was showing concern, her question revealed so much more though; it revealed the amount of perceived danger she had as a product of years of apartheid influence. During the apartheid era, signs were placed outside of townships warning white people of the dangers of entering into the black townships. White people were often warned by concerned parents not to bother black people because they may be dangerous. Much like back home in Minnesota, I was warned of how dangerous places like North Minneapolis and South St. Paul are.

While both the area’s that I currently live in and areas back home like North Minneapolis and South St. Paul may be dangerous, the whole point of accompaniment is to break through these kinds of stereotypes and the singular stories that have caused many place to be considered dangerous. It would be irresponsible to say that these places are completely safe, but it would also be irresponsible to say that anywhere we live is completely safe. When participating in international travels, safety is a big portion of the preparations, and it was no different with YAGM. It is important to acknowledge the perceived danger as well as the real danger that comes with any type of traveling, and Port Elizabeth is no different.

 The truth is I have never once felt unsafe in my area. I have always felt welcomed by Pastor and his wife, especially since they entrusted me to hold their small child only minutes into meeting me, not knowing that this was probably the third time I have ever held a baby. I have felt welcomed by the kids in grade-school who have come to the stoop several nights a week to interrupt my quiet time by trying to push me off the 5-foot ledge. I have always felt welcomed by the number of people who remember the last YAGM who had served in Port Elizabeth, some 8 years before my arrival. I have felt more welcomed in an area where I am in the minority, but I am still a brother in Christ.

“Wow, do you feel safe?” Yes, I have always felt safe living in an area that has become known as a dangerous area. I have feel safe because these people have gone from being a foreign and unknown neighborhood to being Leah, Lyra, Makayla, Pastor, Mbali, Steven, Matthew, Pastor Mike, Calvin, Auntie Lorna, Auntie Vira, teacher Mona, teacher Samantha, teacher Lucia, teacher June, Auntie Julia (never get on her bad side, she is feisty!), Auntie Josita, Zanna, Thobeka, Candice, Sikilewe, Auntie Rachel, Auntie Rosa, brother Steven, sister Reona, Auntie Dina, and so many more people that I don’t have room to name here. These people have gone from being strangers, to being family. Sometimes we need to push through some of the perceived danger to see the real beauty in these neighborhoods that lies within the stories and the lives that these people have to share with the world.