Mahbande tells me he has been a warrior since he was seven years old. "How can a seven-year-old be useful as a warrior?" I ask. He laughs and explains that it is just symbolic. Of course. Swaziland has a modern army with modern weapons and big black boots. The warriors carry sticks, not weapons. Their purpose is ceremonial.
And one of the annual ceremonies that the warriors play a part in has begun in Swaziland. About a month ago the "water carriers" started walking to the Mozambican coast. There they filled their buckets with seawater which they are carrying back to their king to use in the Incwala ceremony. The other warriors have come to the Royal Kraal in Lobamba from all over the country. Every evening they dance, and they will continue to until the big Incwala ceremony, when the King will come out and eat the "first corn" and dance for his subjects.
I am interviewing Mahbande because he is taking part in a workshop organized by several NGO's to try and reach out to Swaziland's traditionalist community through the warriors. One of the organizations involved is the Swaziland Action Group against Abuse (SWAGAA), the organization I'm working with. Prior to the interview I shoot the workshop itself. Imagine a hundred bare-chested men wearing beads, feathers and leopard-skins seated in movie-theatre seats in an auditoreum. They are engaged in a lively discussion with Bekhi, the SWAGAA staff member who organized the workshop. The discussion bounces from HIV/AIDS to gender equality to the new constitution, with loudly-voiced opinions coming from all sides. One young man says that SWAGAA is just selling off Swaziland to the west by importing western ideas. Another adds that having sex with an underage girl isn't rape if you plan to marry her. An old man jumps up and scolds the younger man, saying in the old days they had many girlfriends but didn't sleep with them until they were married.
After the workshop Mahbande and I sat down under a tree in the beautiful King Sobuzha memorial park. I interviewed him for almost 40 minutes, taking so long because I was having trouble getting him to answer my questions. I wanted to talk about violence against women, he wanted to talk about AIDS. He described how violence happens in rural communities, but then denied that it happens in his own. He also told me that he thought polygamy was a bad idea, and that his generation probably wouldn't participate in it as much as the last. This surprised me because the warriors generally uphold traditions like polygamy. But I realized later that his reasons were religious. When I asked about gender equality, he told me it was impossible. Adam came first, he explained. Eve was made from his rib. So men will always have power over women.
He also explained to me why men in the rural communities resent SWAGAA. It tends to be too heavy-handed when it comes into a community, he said, adding that a lot of men only hear of SWAGAA when their wives or girlfriends press charges against them with the organization's help. Of course, SWAGAA always organizes a meeting with the man and / or his family before turning to the law. But since so many men are working in South Africa some may know nothing of the actions his wife is taking before he gets a summons to court.
He has a point, and that is exactly why SWAGAA launched a "Male Involvement" program to try to encourage men to take leadership on these issues. The warrior's workshop is part of this program, but they also work with volunteers from local communities. One of my video projects focusses on this program in particular, so I've gotten to tag along to several of the events and meetings. I certainly think there's a need for it. Most organizations work on empowering women, both financially and emotionally. But the culture of abuse really needs to change, and that has to come from the abusers themselves - men.
With an interview with a warrior in the can, I wanted to get some shots of the warriors dancing to use in the video for context. So on Saturday I went to the "Little Incwala," one of the nights of dancing leading up to the big ceremony. I went with Eve, an Australian volunteer and her friend Satiso. Satiso pumps gas by day, and is a warrior by night. He was beautifully dressed in a leopard skin over a cloth sarong, with fringes of cow-hair encircling his upper arms. A turquoise feather stuck up from his curls, and he wore the warrior's necklace of pink beads. He looked fabulous, and knew it.
He gave Eve and I strict instructions before he left us at the car to do some preparation with the other warriors. We were not to go to the area where the dancing happened until we heard the second bugle sound. And then we must be careful to stay on the left of the tree, as the right side was reserved for ladies of the royal family. He also explained that I wouldn't be allowed to shoot video because the sacred songs they'd be singing were only allowed to be heard during this time of year. But I was allowed to take my still camera.
I looked pretty goofy, dressed in the traditional wraps that all the Swazi ladies wear and a big beaded necklace. And I was holding a long stick, the kind you might use for prodding your cow. I would need it for the dance.
When the second bugle sounded we lined up behind the rest of the dancers to enter the dance area. First we had to go through a metal detector, manned by a single policewomen. Can't tell you how absurd men dressed in skins and feathers looked going through the gate. The men lined up on one side, the women on the others. The men initiated the dance, and we mirrored them. The songs were slow, repetitive, almost mournful, and so were the dances. They were pretty easy to pick up: step, rock back, jab stick into air, step with other foot, rock back, feet together. Repeat. Until the next dance. One slightly more energetic number had us dancing up to the men, then turning around and coming back. The Swazi women seemed amused at our efforts.
On it went for about an hour, then just suddenly stopped. Everyone headed back to their cars and drove back home, feathers and all, their dancing sticks tucked in the trunk.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
Celebrating World AIDS Day in Manzini
The woman next to me is walking barefoot down the baking stretch of highway. Her ankles are encircled in rings of dried seed pods that rattle with every step. She is wearing a red, white and black cloth tied over one shoulder, falling over a full black skirt. Her other shoulder is adorned with a strip of brown fur, and her short hair is pulled into a mushroom shape by a black net.
She carries a sign. “I am a hero,” it reads. “I don’t sleep around.”
We are taking part in a 1000-person march to commemorate World AIDS Day in Manzini, Swaziland’s largest city. Swaziland is a monarchy of a million people sandwiched between South Africa and Mozambique. For several years now this tiny nation has had a huge burden to carry: the distinction of having the highest HIV prevalence rates in the world. Studies show that up to 40% of the adult population carries the infection.
There is no simple answer as to why Swaziland’s rates are so high, although many point to the highly-mobile male population as one of the reasons. Lack of employment drives many men over the border to work in the mines of South Africa, where they pick up the infection and bring it home to their wives and girlfriends. Life expectancy rates have plummeted, and there are more orphans than the government and NGOs can handle. And to top it all off, years of drought are driving some rural areas deeper into poverty.
As we walk we are accompanied by two marching bands from the Swaziland Defence Forces. The soldiers wear camouflaged pants tucked into combat boots, and T-shirts emblazoned with the picture of a red ribbon and the words “I abstain.”
I chat with Captain Bongani Msibi about military’s involvement in the event. He says it’s particularly important for soldiers to be aware of the virus. “We are also human beings,” he says. “We are the most vulnerable in the country because of the nature of our jobs. We are highly mobile so we are more exposed to the dangers of contracting the virus.”
The march takes us along the country’s main artery, the highway that links Manzini with the capital city of Mbabane. Cars, trucks and mini-buses zip along, honking their support. Any effort to get HIV and AIDS out of the shadows is appreciated.
The stigma and secrecy surrounding a positive HIV status is still a problem in Swaziland, and I discuss this with first-year University of Swaziland student Phumulani Matse. The nineteen-year-old says that general talk of the epidemic is common on campus, yet he admits to not knowing of a single student who is living openly with HIV. Matse has already lost a sister to AIDS, and sees the epidemic as affecting more than just his personal life. “A lot of money is being poured into HIV and AIDS that could have done a lot of things for me as a youth,” he explains. “The longer that HIV remains here, the more I’ll be affected because of the drainage economically and otherwise.”
The long walk takes us into the city’s exhibition grounds, and I follow the other marchers into the grandstand where we sit down to take in the speeches and entertainment. As the crowd settles, a group of dancers gathers on the grass below. Among them is the woman from the march, standing amongst a dozen other women, identical in their traditional costumes. They are all older women, probably grandmothers. They begin to sing and dance, shuffling slowly back and forth in tandem. As I watch, I am amazed that they have the strength and energy to sing and dance at all. It is, after all, the grandmothers who are carrying the burden of the epidemic; first by watching their sons and daughters dying one by one, and then by taking on responsibility of raising their children.
But still they raise their voices and sing. Ululations ring through the crowd. Their feet move together, and they creep forward, much like Swaziland itself... slowly propelling itself forward through the crisis.
She carries a sign. “I am a hero,” it reads. “I don’t sleep around.”
We are taking part in a 1000-person march to commemorate World AIDS Day in Manzini, Swaziland’s largest city. Swaziland is a monarchy of a million people sandwiched between South Africa and Mozambique. For several years now this tiny nation has had a huge burden to carry: the distinction of having the highest HIV prevalence rates in the world. Studies show that up to 40% of the adult population carries the infection.
There is no simple answer as to why Swaziland’s rates are so high, although many point to the highly-mobile male population as one of the reasons. Lack of employment drives many men over the border to work in the mines of South Africa, where they pick up the infection and bring it home to their wives and girlfriends. Life expectancy rates have plummeted, and there are more orphans than the government and NGOs can handle. And to top it all off, years of drought are driving some rural areas deeper into poverty.
As we walk we are accompanied by two marching bands from the Swaziland Defence Forces. The soldiers wear camouflaged pants tucked into combat boots, and T-shirts emblazoned with the picture of a red ribbon and the words “I abstain.”
I chat with Captain Bongani Msibi about military’s involvement in the event. He says it’s particularly important for soldiers to be aware of the virus. “We are also human beings,” he says. “We are the most vulnerable in the country because of the nature of our jobs. We are highly mobile so we are more exposed to the dangers of contracting the virus.”
The march takes us along the country’s main artery, the highway that links Manzini with the capital city of Mbabane. Cars, trucks and mini-buses zip along, honking their support. Any effort to get HIV and AIDS out of the shadows is appreciated.
The stigma and secrecy surrounding a positive HIV status is still a problem in Swaziland, and I discuss this with first-year University of Swaziland student Phumulani Matse. The nineteen-year-old says that general talk of the epidemic is common on campus, yet he admits to not knowing of a single student who is living openly with HIV. Matse has already lost a sister to AIDS, and sees the epidemic as affecting more than just his personal life. “A lot of money is being poured into HIV and AIDS that could have done a lot of things for me as a youth,” he explains. “The longer that HIV remains here, the more I’ll be affected because of the drainage economically and otherwise.”
The long walk takes us into the city’s exhibition grounds, and I follow the other marchers into the grandstand where we sit down to take in the speeches and entertainment. As the crowd settles, a group of dancers gathers on the grass below. Among them is the woman from the march, standing amongst a dozen other women, identical in their traditional costumes. They are all older women, probably grandmothers. They begin to sing and dance, shuffling slowly back and forth in tandem. As I watch, I am amazed that they have the strength and energy to sing and dance at all. It is, after all, the grandmothers who are carrying the burden of the epidemic; first by watching their sons and daughters dying one by one, and then by taking on responsibility of raising their children.
But still they raise their voices and sing. Ululations ring through the crowd. Their feet move together, and they creep forward, much like Swaziland itself... slowly propelling itself forward through the crisis.
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