Katrina's recognition of her privlege

The train that runs through much of Cape Town has become one of my favorite discoveries over the past few months. With the Rondebosch station a mere 20 minute walk (but more often a 10 minute sprint), you can hop on and get a round trip ticket all the way to the beautiful beaches of Muizenberg for about 180 rand (the equivalent of less than a dollar seventy-five). The train here is pretty different from the handful I’ve been on back home, a metro ticket entails cramming yourself into the door and pushing your way through a mosh pit of people hoping to get a ceiling hold for when the train jolts off. From there you stand, holding on by one arm, as you get pushed every which way by people coming and going, old and young, everything from beggars to performers to preachers. One morning a few kids even got the whole train singing a Bruno mars song…good stuff.

On one of our first trips home on the train, four of us accidently got on the MetroPlus section, a section much less crowded and hectic than the Metro section, even offering a seat on the quieter days. We happily took a seat, pumped that we wouldn’t have to stand in the loud, cramped and sweaty section we were in before.

Two men wearing uniforms then came dramatically onto our car, yelling at people asking for tickets. I froze. Although I had suspected so, it was then I realized we were on the MetroPlus without the correct tickets, and we were about to get caught. Would I go to train jail?!?!? The officer first started yelling harshly at this old, frail women sitting across from us, ending with him ripping the brown bag with a bottle of alcohol in it and violently throwing it out the window. I could hear the glass shatter on the tracks as the women cried out. They argued with the next man, but in Xhosa so I couldn’t understand (all the good drama always is), but ended up forcing him up and out of the train on the next stop. I knew my moment was next, and I didn’t know what I was going to do. But the train official didn’t even look my way as he walked past. Initially I was relieved, over-joyed really to avoid that confrontation. How lucky I was! But it quickly dawned on me. Was luck really it? Why had he so harshly harassed the other people sitting around me and not even given us a glance? It was clear to me now. We were the only 4 white people on the train. He assumed that obviously we were not supposed to be on the Metro, and even if we weren’t it would not be worth the fuss for them to hassle us. I should’ve been happy for my free train ride, but all I could picture was the tears in the old woman’s eyes as the bottle shattered, falling quickly behind us.

Katrina opening her eyes to the world

Spending time here in South Africa has opened my eyes like never before to just how many free rides I’ve been given. I’ve been constantly confronted by my own privilege, which is honestly a very uncomfortable though necessary experience in my mind. Being a white America here, I am the top of the totem pole. If I walk around the township of Khayelitsha, children wave and flock to me, and people run out of their houses to take pictures of me. This is not after spending long hours volunteering or trying to improve living conditions, this is after I’ve done NOTHING. I am a celebrity simply because I am white and American. I am a celebrity in some of the schools because of what past students that looked like me have done. This is a very humbling experience, and I can only hope that any time I spend with the people during my stay can even come close to earning the respect they already give me.

Working in Tafelsig, I get to interact and get to know lots of patients living in the area everyday. Many of them ask me why I’m here, what my program entails, and how I like Cape Town. I can’t help but tell them I’ve absolutely fallen in love with their homeland, and never want to leave. While they want to hear that I like it, there is also the unspoken knowledge that my existence in Cape Town is very different from theirs. While I’m off hiking, running races, and surfing they are stuck in their small homes and shacks in unbearable conditions. While I go home at night and sleep in a (mostly) safe house, they don’t know what dangers the night will bring. We laugh and I’ve connected with many patients, but we each know the unspoken privileges that will mean very different lives for both us and our children.

Katrina (front center) with colleagues at Tafelsig Clinic

When I do clinical work in the prep room, it is my first job to ask them their age. Every time I get a patient who is 20 I can’t help but pause. Often times this 20 year old, sharing my age and time on this planet, has already been pregnant at least once, and likely without work or education. And she is looking to ME as her medical provider, a title she only gives me because I’m a white American wearing scrubs. I have a whole world of possibilities in front of me, while her life seems doomed to follow in the footsteps of her mother and grandmother, struggling to get by, day by day, and raising children from an early age. Some days this seems almost too much for me. Why was I born into such incredible privilege, and better yet, how could I have not even truly appreciated it until now? Of all the trivial things I complain and think about, it is rare that I realize how much I’ve been given. With loving supportive parents, all my basic needs met, and access to an amazing education and so many opportunities, my future was whatever I wanted it to be. I’ve found that both guilt and pity are unproductive emotions, but I’m still trying to find what to make of this privilege I was given, and how I can use that to help whatever community I end up living in. And for now I remain SO incredibly grateful to be having this opportunity, by far the best time of my life.