The Winter of Discontent

The new shelters that have been erected for the displaced are not acceptable; ten people will live in each tent and the material out of which the tents are made is not durable in the long term. The land on which the white half-barrel shaped tents are pitched is tinder dry; a fire hazard waiting to happen. A barbed wire fence is the only protection against the cars that spin perilously round the corner and other people that aren’t too keen to have a thousand ’squatters’ on their doorstep. There is no sanitation and no access to fresh running water. The site is prime real estate, directly opposite the Germiston Golf Course, sanctuary for the stressed corporate chiefs, who, by the way, have been enormously generous to the displaced.

There is a high school within walking distance, but the headmaster was reluctant to welcome the children from the displaced community. The emails to would-be sponsors for the school elicit no response, for the last three days my inbox has been dry as the grass on which the tents are pitched. I tried to explain charity fatigue to the school committee, but they remain hopeful because they have been inundated by visitors – the fifth estate. The foreign press and the local media click away at the school children; I tell Partson to name exactly what he needs – a permanent building and teacher’s salaries. He sms’es me to say the pupils need to be transported to school.

Most of the displaced people filled out forms for asylum on Friday and Saturday. I type up a CV for Carrington and he goes job hunting, but everybody is wary of employing foreigners. Those who have previously given work to foreigners have sent their workers back to their countries and say they have to give them a month’s grace to return. After then, it might be possible for him to find a job. “I can’t employ foreigners, my clients want assurance that my staff is 100% South African,” says Danie who owns a large security company and who sponsored some very necessary items at the Germiston City Hall.

Personal friends and business acquaintances have been so forthcoming with aid when it was absolutely vital that it seems unfair to ask them for more. We have our own lives to return to so that our financial status doesn’t collapse. Yet still the calls for assistance persist. “I need a room for my wife,” Joseph begs. We have no more room at our home; we already house seven residents plus our own family of six; it’s impossible to have a hot, hot shower. The phone rings long after the sun has set. Eventually I tell Mark to switch the phone off.