Addington School – A Whole Day Perspective

Thursday 13th March

Having spent the day with the Street Project yesterday – I felt that today would be less harrowing. And having had a few hours here earlier this week – neither the drive nor my expectation of what the day may have in store – fazed me. My expectations were of spending time in the class & giving guidance to the teachers. How wrong I was.

Firstly Mrs Jackson – is not the principal as I had thought a few days ago. She is the school social worker. She greeted me with enthusiasm & my initial feelings of warming to her two days previous paled into insignificance within ten minutes of arrival. This woman is a saint – the most passionate person about children I have ever had the privilege to meet & has the balls of an elephant. Now my sequencing of the events of the day is shot to hell. Ok – I am known for being forgetful – for not remembering names – for having a poor sense of direction – but I tell you now that it was the roller coaster of emotional trauma & the sheer pace of the day that has scrambled my thoughts. For that reason – I will recount things not necessarily in order – but as they come to me & some I will intentionally omit.

The Missing Girls.

A man sat in reception asking to speak with Mrs Jackson. He looked very worried – almost tearful. His 13 year old step daughter had gone out to play with an 11 year old friend from school the previous afternoon. By 5.30pm he was getting worried & then discovered that she had removed her school books form the satchel & her clothes were missing. He had sent the night looking for her. But to no avail. “Please help me Mrs Jackson”. What a story this was. His daughter had been quite wayward & was on her last warning at school before being removed to what is called a “School of Industry”. Her attendance had been poor – she had been using Cocaine – having sex with men & was prone to being abusive to the teachers. However – the last 6 weeks there had been a big improvement in her behaviour & everyone seemed to think she was at last beginning to settle down. Clearly though she had planned to leave that night & the young girl she had taken with her was a lot less street wise & according to Mrs Jackson – a very unlikely friend. The saga of the missing children continued all day. The police were contacted – arrangements were made to locate the man she had been seeing & having him arrested & charged with statutory rape. Step dad was distraught – he went to great lengths to convey the measures he had taken to support the girl & to keep her on a straight path. The outcome ? By lunchtime the younger girl had presented herself at a police station quite a distance away – telling the police her friend had abandoned her. She was reunited with her mother. When I left at the end of the day – the step father had returned – was sat with his head in his hands in the foyer & his daughter was still missing.

The Naughty Boy

One of the teachers came to Mrs Jackson to share her concerns about a boy in her class who despite her every effort – was destructive – distractible & regularly abusive / aggressive with his peers. Plans had already been made for his parents to come in for what as known as “An Interview”. (At this school – parents are not given a choice & I overheard a few telephone conversations today when different parents were told – “Mam – this is your child we are talking about – I will expect you here to discuss our concerns or would you rather I had you arrested for child abuse”). Nervous looking parents were called into the office. The boy followed. Mrs Jackson took no prisoners. She told them their son was not born violent – that he was a blank canvas & perhaps they could shed some light onto his behaviour? They both sat with their heads down – eye contact was non existent. Mrs Jackson continued. She was the good cop & the bad cop rolled into one. She asked the child – “Why do you hurt people – has someone hurt you?” He didn’t respond. She played this situation with the skill of a top detective – swaying between congratulating them for being a good family who obviously love their son – to making it plain that she knew that something bad was happening at home. Then she went in for the kill!

Mrs Jackson - “Sir – do you hurt your child”?
Dad - “Yes mam – I do”.
Mrs Jackson - “How do you hurt him”.
Dad – “I beat him mam”.
Mrs Jackson – “Sir what do you beat him with”?
Dad - “A shamba”. (A whip)

And so it went on. Dad said how frustrated he felt with his son for he would not do as he was told. He was restless all the time & had a very short fuse. Mrs Jackson told the parents that beating their child was against the law (though they could smack him – they mustn’t hurt or mark him) She turned to me & asked if I there was anything I would like to say. I wasn’t expecting this – but thought, “Why not”.

Having established that he beat the child regularly – I told him that it was wrong. “Sir” I said – “Your son will grow up to be a violent man”.
I explained he was only a little boy & enquired if he ever made a point of praising him when he was behaving well. He didn’t. I continued trying very hard not to convey my own judgements – but to explain that there are other ways. Pointing out strongly it was their responsibility to help him to learn positive ways of dealing with his frustrations. And so it went on – once I stared – I couldn’t stop. What had I observed during my 10- minute diatribe?

Mum didn’t say a word & looked frightened.
Dad was embarrassed & not at all happy that two women were telling him what he should do.
The boy was fidgeting – restless & very distractible.

I had a hunch which spookily Mrs Jackson shared. We both explained that the level of distractibility & restlessness the boy was showing was quite extreme & that it may be he had a condition that made it really hard for him to concentrate or control his behaviour. Without using the label ADHD – we went to great lengths to reassure him that his son wasn’t mad or disabled – but perhaps he had a minor “wiring fault”. I had already learned that some Zulu people are resistant to labels & modern intervention - that instead they try to beat the devils out of kids who have problems. We gave his teacher a Connors rating scale & urged the parents to take their son to see a Paediatrician for assessment. They agreed although it later transpired that the child had been referred a year ago – the parents had been offered an appointment but had opted not to attend. Mrs Jackson asked dad to tell her some things about his son that he liked. He could only say that he liked it when he was good. She repeated the exercise with the child who was naturally more spontaneous about his father’s good points than dad had been able to be. Mrs Jackson finished the interview by telling them in no uncertain terms that if she ever suspects that their son has been beaten again – she will have them arrested & locked up & their son would be removed to a place of safety. The parents left.

The Old Man

A white man – late 70’s arrived at reception & asked to speak to the social worker. He was shown in. He was very thin – his skin translucent – his body shaking & tears were in his eyes. I couldn’t help but notice that he looked in pain. His right hand was swollen badly with several open wounds on the back of it & three of his fingers were misshapen & enormous. His right eye was very red – filled with puss & weeping badly. God what a sad story this was. For the last eight months this man had “taken in” a Zulu family. Mum – the mother of a 14 year old girl at the school – the pupil & grandmother) It was common knowledge that the woman he had tried to help – was working in the “sex industry”.

“Please Mrs Jackson – you must help me. This girl is out of control”. And so it went on – but his concerns about the child seems strange. Mrs Jackson skilfully probed & within a few minutes the story unfolded. Eight months ago this old man had taken the family into his home – they were homeless. He seemed embarrassed – he felt foolish. Almost since day one – the pupil – her mother & grandmother had been abusing this old man. The eldest & youngest of this formidable trio had for the most part doled out verbal abuse & threats. The middle woman had been physically hurting this vulnerable old man. He raised his hand to show us. I would say at least two of his fingers were broken. The wounds were cause by her nails. He took off his glasses to expose the injury to his eye. He lifted his trousers & showed us his legs. He had very nasty varicose ulcers – cause by being kicked daily for months..

“Sir – you must get rid of this family or they will kill you”.
“I know they will” – he said.
“Then get to the police station – file an assault charge & throw them out of your house”.
“But they have nowhere to go” – he added.
“Sir –they are not your responsibility & make no mistake – this woman will kill you”.
“I know she will – she damn near has. Last night she held me down & tried to gouge my eye out with her nails”.
“Then get rid of them sir”.
“I am too afraid” – he said.
“Sir you are an intelligent man & you know what the outcome will be if you don’t do this”.
“I know but she said if I file a complaint that she will tell the police that I have been molesting the child & I will go to jail”.

And so it went on – the old man was petrified – afraid that he would be locked up. Mrs Jackson made a call to the police station – made arrangement for his to meet with someone she knew & he left. I am not convinced that he did go to the police station as despite our best efforts to reassure him – the old man seems marginally less frightened of the persistent beatings than being labelled as a child molester.

The Photographs

Intermittently throughout the day – Mrs Jackson said that she must take some photos of a 7 year old girl. But other things kept cropping up. After lunch we came across this child on the stair. Mrs Jackson introduced us. She was beautiful – innocent – the most fabulous braids in her hair – but she seemed afraid. Mrs Jackson told her she would take the pictures later – but asked he to show me her arm. The little girl lifted her sleeve. I have never seen such bad bruising & to leave such marks on a child with black skin would surely take some doing. This was not the first time this had happened & the photos were to provide evidence so that Mrs Jackson could make a case & have both parents sent to prison. She told me that she had given the parents two previous chances to stop hurting the little girl – but still the extreme abuse continued. When the evidence was gathered & the case heard at the local station - the child would be removed to a place of safety. I asked what such a “Place of Safety” would be like – Mrs Jackson’s eyes conveyed sadness. I had assumed a foster placement or small children’s home. But no – a place of safely here is certainly not what I had envisaged it to be. Both this little girls parents had full blown AIDS – though had refused antiviral medication & their prognosis was poor. The little girl told me her mother was very sick now. The bell rang & the little girl returned to class.

Home Alone

A 14 year old girl appears outside Mrs Jackson office at the end of lessons. Three days before she had been badly beaten by her mother. The girl had two broken ribs – contusions to her head – a badly swollen knee & bruised arms. Mrs Jackson had contacted the mother & told her the police had been informed of the incident & she would be arrested. Consequently the mother had fled. In the few days since the beating – Mrs Jackson was concerned as to whom was caring for the child. The girl had told her an aunt was staying with her in the family flat. Despite attempts to contact the “elusive aunt” – she could not be found. The girl was clearly anxious. Mrs Jackson told her unless she had proof she was being cared for by a family member – she would have to contact her father & she would have to stay with him. And so it continued – Mrs Jackson gently pressing the girl – the girl being evasive about the aunt. After some 20 minutes – the girl admitted the aunt – wasn’t a relative & both Mrs Jackson & I suspected that there was in fact no one looking after this child. Mrs Jackson was getting increasingly frustrated – she told the girl that she now had no choice but to contact her father. The girls eyes filled up with tears – she put her head down & said – “Please Mrs Jackson – don’t send me to my father – I know my mother beats me – but my father beats me much worse”. Mrs Jackson told the girl to leave it with her & she would see if she could come up with an alternative. As the girl got up to leave I noticed a cigarette burn on her arm. She saw that I had noticed – bowed her head & walked away. I have no idea how this situation will be resolved.


The Police Visit

Early afternoon we were called into the school hall. The local police station was doing a community project & had arrived to talk about the dangers of alcohol abuse. They addressed the older children who had packed into the hall in a very orderly manner & greeted everyone with – “Good afternoon teachers – police & visitors”. The talk was unremarkable except for this. I got talking with a female community liaison officer – she has great links with the school & works very closely with Mrs Jackson. We got talking & I told her about the street project & how harrowing I had found it & about the experiences at the school thus far. She then proceeded to say, “If you want to see how bad things really are here – why don’t you spend a day with us at the station”? Last week I would have been keen to take her up on the offer. Today – I thanked her very much – but declined. While I am strong – some may say fearless – there is just something so horrible about witnessing things that are beyond your power to change.
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These are just 4 of about 8 situations I was a party to today. Each one peeling away layers of tragedy to reveal worse & worse abuse. Children leading lives of daily trauma & fear – yet a strange level of acceptance emanated form these young people. The abuse normalised – the children accepting of it. Mrs Jackson though – was not accepting any of it. She works into the night at home as she has no phone in her office & no PC. This is a very good school – many of the children form Addington School do very well. It has very high expectations of the pupils – the structure & discipline is excellent. Parents campaign hard to secure a place here. I found out also that there is no budget for stationary & any colourful wall displays in the classrooms – of which there were many – the teachers buy the paper – paints etc themselves. I couldn’t believe it. Many of the teachers are not getting paid their full salary & two years on despite pursuing this with the local education department – all appear to have given up trying. Mrs Jackson earns before tax – about 6,000 Rand a month. (About £420 a month) The staff I met today are committed beyond anything I have ever known before. Their belief in the children –despite the lives in which they know them to be living – is unwavering.

I had hoped to be driving back to Umdloti today having achieved something - given advice – or even in some small way – helped perhaps one child. I was anticipating a little “hands on” work. Instead I had a glimpse into the darkest of places – discovered the monsters that lurk silently in hearts of the children whose stories I was party to. I just don’t know what to say. I can only tell the story. It would be easy for me to make judgement about all families – to examine a culture so alien to me & make assumptions about the lives of all children. Although it is difficult – I won’t do that. All I know is that the physical & sexual abuse stories I heard today are wrong – regardless of culture. (I won’t share the sexual abuse story – it is just too awful)
In 6 hours today – I saw & heard things that I have never seen or heard before. And still when I was getting ready to leave – an orderly queue of people was forming to speak to Mrs Jackson. This only means one thing – more horror stories.

Today I looked into the abyss. As I drove away – the heaviness in my heart consumed me. I was powerless to do anything – except share my experiences here. I needed to wash it all away. I hoped I could erase it all from my memory. I wanted to cry – but what good would that have done?