#TheDignityProject: Chapter 2
Zamuxolo spent six months in prison awaiting trial and then the next five years living on the streets, leaving him a “broken man”.
|||Regaining one’s dignity after one has reached rock bottom is a long and arduous process, Cape Argus deputy news editor Lance Witten found while working on #TheDignityProject.
Cape Town - “Why were your first years on the street so hard?” we ask Zamuxolo. “Because I didn’t have help,” he says.
Human dignity is an important concept. We like to think it comes with the territory.
Work hard, and you’ve earned your dignity. But what if that is taken away?
After working for years Zamuxolo’s contract had ended.
His girlfriend started cheating on him and later would accuse him of battery.
“I broke the cupboard when I found out she was cheating.”
She returned later with police who would lock him up for domestic assault.
He couldn’t afford the R500 bail, so he sat for six months in Goodwood Prison awaiting trial.
He made his first appearance on January 5, 2010 in the Bellville Magistrate’s Court.
He would next appear in court on June 11, where the case was withdrawn.
By then, he says, he was a “broken man”.
He fidgets with the pine needles on the ground between his feet. Eyes lowered, shoulders hunched, toes pointed inward.
Zamuxolo says while living on the street, his only concern was finding food. He contracted tuberculosis and his health rapidly deteriorated due to sleeping in the cold.
It was not until he met Nico, who now works as the store manager at The Service Dining Rooms, that he began to improve.
“I was scared to talk to people.”
While speaking of his time on the street, he doesn’t make eye contact.
He appears embarrassed.
“You didn’t make friends, reach out to other homeless people?” we ask.
“I spoke to no one.”
“Why not?”
“I stank.”
‘I’m just like you… but I’m homeless’
His frank reply jars. Anthony chimes in: “You don’t feel human sometimes. People look at you, but they don’t see you.”
Dignity is a big deal for these men. For Zamo (Zamuxolo), who only spent five years on the street, it was the single biggest driving force behind his rehabilitation.
“I now rent a place in Khayelitsha because it is cheaper than living in a hostel.”
Speaking about the programme he is on, where he earns R50-a-day stipend, his shoulders relax, he makes eye contact and his hands occupy themselves with gesticulation, rather than fidgeting.
He speaks like a man; confident, assured, comfortable; in stark contrast with the shadow of a man sitting before us just moments earlier.
Anthony spent 25 years behind bars for murder.
“But, I learnt from my mistakes,” he says.
He believes he was given up by his fellow gang members in a plea bargain.
He has met his accusers a number of times since his release.
He now lives with his girlfriend in Delft.
“When I see them, I tell them I’m not going to do anything, I’m a changed man.”
Magadien says giving someone their dignity is the greatest thing a person can do.
“You see Zamo; He’s a man now.”
Pleading at the entrance to The Service Dining Rooms is Merle. She has a nine-month-old baby.
“I’d rather be back on the streets to benefit from the grant than living where I am with my boy.”
At 14, she experienced her first period on the streets.
“Where does a girl get a pad? Let alone know how to get one or that I even need one.
“I am just bleeding and alone with no idea what’s happening to my body. No idea what is happening to me… “
There is a searching in her eyes, a penetrating gaze held by many of the homeless people we had come across.
It is through the eyes that humans express themselves.
“When people look at me, they look through me. It is like you can see them looking at you like ‘yes, she probably wants something from me’.
“They cross the street to avoid you.
“I just want work. Even if it is R50 a day. I need nappies for (her child). I need to look after him and me. His dad doesn’t.”
Danny says there was an Asian restaurant that was hiring staff.
“Of course I could get the job. But then you think about how a person like you would get done for work in the morning versus a person like me.
“You wake up, have a nice hot shower, brush your teeth, get dressed, maybe have breakfast and off you go. When I wake up, I have to first hide my belongings, then skarrel to get somewhere to get cleaned up.
“And our clothes don’t smell nice. We don’t smell nice. And you think to yourself, what are others going to think of me.
“And then, when you see how people treat us, like third-class citizens, it breaks down your confidence.”
Through circumstances, Danny says, “your dignity is taken away from you”.
Some develop depression and many begin to display anti-social behaviour.
“But you’ve never walked a mile in my shoes, so don’t look at all of us and judge us by the behaviour of one homeless person who is a little bit crazy, or smells like wine.
“You’ll never believe the strength of someone who has lived on the streets.”
Another woman tells us there is crime on the streets.
“Drugs, prostitution, theft, yes,” she says, “but most of the time it is for essentials. What must I do with your fancy bag, or your cellphone, or your laptop?”
She says there were times she would steal women’s purses and bags.
“Years later, I thought to myself, ‘is this me? Did I stoop so low?’ “
She would remove the cash and whatever else she could find useful such as make-up, toiletries, sanitary towels and cologne.
“Sometimes there’s a coupon for something nice. But what do I do with that stuff after that? That nice bag or wallet, I can’t do anything with it.”
There are places along the Cape Town station deck, she says, where stolen goods such as laptops, cellphones and accessories could be sold off.
“But you don’t want to get involved with those people. They are serious criminals.”
Back at The Service Dining Rooms, Pastor Ricky is conducting an empowerment workshop.
“Just because we look different doesn’t mean we don’t have a soul.
“Just like that man who drives past here in a Porsche. What makes him different from you and me? You have a soul. I have a soul. He has a soul. He has blood running through his veins, just like you and me.
“You’ve just got dealt a bad hand. What are you going to do about it?”
A hand goes up.
“Focus on one small goal at a time,” comes the answer from the raised hand at the back of the room.
Pastor Ricky tries to convey to the group that regaining one’s dignity might seem like a mammoth task to overcome, but anything can be achieved if it is taken “just one step at a time”.
“Yesterday, Patricia was late and she fell asleep in the seminar,” he gestures to a woman in the front row.
“Today, she came to work on time and she’s still wide awake. That is progress,” says Pastor Ricky.
His message seems to have resonated.
The group leaves the hall inspired and cheerful, their heads held high.
Zamuxolo says all he wanted was to be greeted by passers-by, instead of being sneered at and dealt with in disdain.
“How do we get our dignity back? How do we get seen as humans?”
* The homeless people in this piece have requested that their surnames not be used.
Cape Argus