AIDS Awareness Week

Lately, I've been thinking back to my high school theater days: four years spent inside an auditorium, on stage and behind, working tirelessly on show after show. Some of the best and worst memories of my adolescence involve theater. And it is difficult to recall those days without the butterfly flutters of opening night, the warm camaraderie of a tightly knit cast, and the petty jealousies and fantastic streaks of ego always present.

Last week one of the seventh grade teachers put me in charge of putting on a play for AIDS Awareness Week. She wanted it to be half an hour long. I flat out told her that only having a week to prepare (which would include me writing the play) that this was impossible. I knew it was going to be hard enough to find students able to read and understand the English, get them to practice every day, and even attempt to memorize lines.

So instead I wrote two skits—both just a few minutes long, handpicked who I wanted based on behavior and English ability, and we set to work. I have to admit that it was fun. The girls especially got really into it and tried hard. My directing abilities were tested and were sufficient enough for this project at least. A girl named Naftaline seemed to really enjoy it—I imagined that back home she would be starring in GHS's many musicals, dancing and singing beautifully, the audience unable to get enough. A boy named Merven who is my oldest seventh grader at 17 did a great job at rehearsal, but completely choked up once we were performing, forgetting his lines, his blocking, everything. Jeneth had been given the narrator part as it was the most demanding language wise, but I took over for her after she left. I don't know how much the audience understood or even listened. But for the six students who were involved and for me, it was a nice week.

On Wednesday there was a march through town. One of the other teachers organized it. We gathered at the gates of the school. The kids who showed up carried posters and pamphlets of information to hand out on our walk. I carried my friend Ketu (a sweet four year old who with the principal and visits me regularly) on my back. The students sang songs as we headed up to the town store. They pasted posters on the outside walls and bombarded those outside with papers—some of which I was delighted to see were in Otjiherero. Then we went to the police station and an officer promptly asked us to shut-up because he was on the phone, and the kids—just like in class- did not listen to him for a second. Then we headed over the lovely town bar—who's music I hear almost 24/7. I was a little nervous about this because the bar is home to a bit of a rough crowd, but some welcomed us, and those who didn't just stared silently. And we continued our way back to the school, the children's voices drowning out the thump of the bar's base.

AIDS is a tremendous problem in Sub-Saharan Africa which I don't mean to announce as if it is news I have discovered. The figures have been around for years and only continue to grow. In Namibia a quarter of the population is infected—in neighboring Botswana that number nearly doubles with a terrifying 40% of people living with the incurable disease. All of Namibia is engulfed in the enormity of the issue. T-shirts, books, songs, posters, school programs, television, newspapers, even the Ministry are all constantly screaming out slogans like the ABC's of prevention: "Abstain, Be faithful, Condomize."

The kids are bombarded with information from grade 1 on to grade 12. And most of them understand that AIDS will kill you, that there is no cure, and that getting it somehow involves sex. But there still seems to be some kind of disconnect between what people know and what people do. Part of the problem that I have witnessed is that there is a strong sense of fatalism surrounding AIDS. It has been around for most of these kids' lives, it's not going anywhere, and everyone is a target. There is a part of them that believes no matter what they do—they will probably end up getting the disease.

Another thread involves the education itself. The information is nearly ceaseless—so much so that the kids repeat the words but stop hearing them. AIDS has become like the air. You live and breathe it every day but you don't notice it—you don't even really think about it. The virus is just a part of life. Regrettable certainly—but hey, this is Africa.

Another huge problem is that so much of prevention involves behavior change. For instance, the majority of people living with AIDS in Namibia are women. There are biological reasons for that but that isn't the only factor. Most of these women and married and live in a culture where it is acceptable to cheat on your wife but unacceptable for a woman to refuse her husband or even ask for him to wear a condom. So thousands of women are infected without ever being unfaithful. Not only is AIDS a terrible disease but it seems to be able to flourish here because of a number of these combinations.

I stare at the faces of my students, the girls especially, wondering how many of them will succumb to such an unfortunate recipe before they even leave school. I don't know what the answers are. I don't know how to make it stop. Seems like I end up doing what a lot of people here do—just keep trying. Talking to the students one on one when I can. Trying not to sound like a broken record but unable to feel any less urgent about the situation. Trying to tell the girls that there is a future beyond men and what is expected of them at home—that they can have it all but not if they are sick. Maybe offering real possibility is the surest form of prevention. More than a slogan it gives them a reason to stay healthy. A life and a future to look forward to. One to guard and keep safe not just because you don't want to die but because you want to live.