In the Midst of Adversity

John 16:33 “In the world you will have tribulation, but be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.”

Some people think that becoming a Christian means that you will be delivered from adversity, but that’s not what it means. That lie has thrown too many of us off track. The truth of the matter is that being a Christian means we are delivered in adversity.

God doesn’t erase the tribulations, trials, and circumstances of the world. God gives you the power to stand in the midst of them. Psalm 91, “He who dwells in the secret place of the most high God, shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, you are my refuge and my fortress, my God, in you I will trust.” When troubles come, we take refuge in the fortress of God, and we fight the good fight of faith because God has already given us victory over the world. Fear not people of God, for we have overcome the world by the blood of the lamb and by the word of our testimony!

“God does not give us the overcoming life, He gives us life as we overcome.” Oswald Chambers

Written by Frederick A Hanna

What Purpose Do Prisons Serve in America's Justice System?

The question has been raised again and again, "What purpose do prisons serve in America's justice system?" Is it to rehabilitate and reform, or is it simply a place to gain a stigma that will follow the offender throughout his or her life? A stigma that will tacitly deny the former offender opportunities to enjoy the liberties that many of us take for granted. To be labeled as a criminal, an offender, an ex-con is not something that goes away. Offenses stay on the offenders record, even offenses for charges that have been dismissed, and people make judgements based upon these offenses. The failures of a justice system that has disproportionately prosecuted and convicted poor minority offenders, often for minor infractions are magnified by high rates of recidivism and reports of atrocities in juvenile detention centers like those in New York state. These detention centers are now under fire for use of excessive force due to a federal investigation:

4 Youth Prisons in New York Used Excessive Force

While we cannot hold the entire penile system responsible for the repeat offenders, we must address the fact that prisons in the U.S. do very little to rehabilitate inmates. What purpose is served when a juvenile inmate is subjected to full prone restraint or has his teeth knocked out for sneaking an extra cookie? The four NY centers singled out in the federal report excessively used physical force, and they failed to provide adequate counseling and mental health treatment for a population of prisoners who often enter into the justice system because of misdiagnosed and undiagnosed mental health issues. Many (3/4) of the children entering New York’s youth justice system have a history of drug or alcohol problems, more than half have diagnosed psychological problems and a third have developmental disabilities, according to statistics published by Office of Children and Family Services.

Instead of being astonished and appalled by the size of America's inmate population, we seem to grow more accepting of it. Prison after all is big business. The United States spends an estimated $60 billion on corrections each year. We cannot continue to allow poor policy and poor implementation to circumvent programs and activities that would discourage recidivism and promote real rehabilitation, nor can we allow state and federal funds to be funneled toward community and non profit based organizations who have found that recidivism programs are the latest way to pimp the misfortunes of the poor. The problems in our prisons, much like the problems in our schools, start long before the offender enters the system. Conditions of poverty and oppression create feelings of desperation that often result in illegal activity and acts of violence. Don't think that I am attempting to justify acts of lawlessness as being acceptable under certain conditions. The importance of individual responsibility must be asserted, but we must also strive to understand the conditions that often precede criminal activity. Working to correct social inequalities would go a long way towards decreasing our future inmate populations. We must also be concerned about the disproportionate number of African-Americans and Latinos involved in the justice system and what this says about the color of American justice. Until we address how justice is meted out, we will continue to see this disproportionality. Inside of prisons, we must have improved mental health care, medical care, and education and literacy programs. Having a prison system that houses over 2 million inmates on a given day, 60% of whom will return as repeat offenders is just not acceptable.

Written by Frederick A Hanna

Who's Your Rhoda? - You need a little one.

Who is Rhoda you ask? Rhoda was a doorkeeper at the house of Mary in Jerusalem. She was the servant girl who answered the door when Peter knocked after being released from prison.

Acts 12:

12 So, when he had considered this, he came to the house of Mary, the mother of John whose surname was Mark, where many were gathered together praying. 13 And as Peter knocked at the door of the gate, a girl named Rhoda came to answer. 14 When she recognized Peter’s voice, because of her gladness she did not open the gate, but ran in and announced that Peter stood before the gate. 15 But they said to her, “You are beside yourself!” Yet she kept insisting that it was so.

When all of the prayer warriors were focused on the task of praying, it was Rhoda who was able to break away and see that their prayers had already been answered. It took Rhoda's persistence, the persistence of a child... a little one who was willing to imagine that Peter's presence wasn't just her imagination.

Sometimes it takes a child to point out the obvious... to "lead us" to see God. Why is it that Jesus always points to a child when He wants us to see the truest example of discipleship?

Because children are innocent? pure? unjaded? Nope... Nope... Nope!

Those are modern day depictions of children and childhood, but they are not consistent with biblical depictions of children. Children were considered to be of the lowest status in Jesus' day. The reason that "Jeeeesus loves the little chiiildren" is because in the kingdom of God, the last shall be first and the first shall be last... BUT still, we can learn a lot from the little ones.

A few reasons why you need a Little One in your life:
1. Rhoda's keep you dreaming. For some of us whose dreams have long since faded, little ones allow us to dream through them. As we dream of all that we hope they will be, our dreams are given new life... even if its only in our hopes that their dreams will come true.

2. Rhoda's help us to remember our nightlites. My nightlite comforted me when the lights were turned off at bedtime as a child. I now know that there was nothing there in the dark that would harm me, but the imagination of a child is still capable of wondering what's out there.

3. Rhoda's keep us small. Have you ever watched a child play with a new toy? OR watch the same movie over and over and laugh at the same parts each time. I'm always amazed at the power of stickers with children. Children love stickers! I'm not sure why, but I vaguely remember loving stickers too. Little ones help us to remember the meaning and significance of the small things.

4. Rhoda's keep you light. If you ever start taking yourself too seriously, hang out with some children. The don't play for entertainment or because their bored. They play because its fun.

Who's your Rhoda? Who keeps you dreaming... keeps your imagination alive... helps you to remember the importance of the little things... and helps you to NOT take yourself too seriously?

Written by Frederick A Hanna

Working While Waiting

Luke 24:49 (NKJV)
49 "Behold, I send the Promise of My Father upon you; but tarry in the city of Jerusalem until you are endued with power from on high.”

Have you ever been in a place where you felt God had told you to go... AND you expected that when you got to that place there would be some kind of reward... ONLY instead of a reward there was nothing... JUST more waiting?

In Luke 24:49, Jesus instructs His disciples to go and wait, BUT tarry -or kathizō in Greek- doesn't simply mean to wait. It has the connotation of patience or sojourning. As if to say that this waiting is part of your journey; part of your process. Sometimes God requires us to just wait until the "promise" comes. In this text the promise is the Holy Spirit, so what God really wants us to wait on is Him.

"He works where He sends us to wait" Oswald Chambers

Written by Frederick A Hanna

South Africa – Day 18, Going Home-Leaving Home

Well, what do you say after spending nearly three weeks doing something you have dreamed about all of your life? I remember watching the movie Roots as a child, and being fascinated with the prospect of finding my own ancestors in Africa one day. I remember the black consciousness movement during the late 80’s when we were all listening to Public Enemy, X-Clan, The Jungle Brothers, and other conscious hip-hoppers. We all wore our “Africa Pieces.” “I wear no gold around my neck, juuuussst black medallions… (Jungle Brothers—Straight Out the Jungle)” These were leather, metal, and stone medallions bearing images of Africa—hanging from leather strings or wooden beads—in colors like green, black, red, and gold—“The red’s for the blood, and the blacks for the man, the green is the color that stands for the land… Africa! Talkin’ ‘bout Mother Africa…” I finally got to experience it for myself, and I was able to come during a time of personal growth that allowed me to look below the surface, beyond my fascination with Africa to see the struggles of a people, a nation, a continent. The struggles made even more telling, more complex, and more indelible as viewed through the lens of a country still emerging from Apartheid.



As we disembarked our first flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg en route home, Heather overheard a coloured fight attendant say, “All these Americans look coloured.” If I had heard her make this statement, I would have told her, “We are.” We haven’t gone so far as to create a separate classification in order to define ourselves as separate from other blacks. If we did, we would likely all be categorized as coloured. I recently began work on my family tree and found out that my paternal great grandfather was Cuban; my maternal great grandfather was a mulatto (white and black parents); my paternal great-great grandmother was a Cuban immigrant; another paternal great-great grandfather was a Seminole Indian; my great-great-great grandfather was a slave whose mother was African and whose father was a white slave master. So yes, “I am coloured” according to Apartheid. I would be quite amazed to find any descendants of African slaves in the U.S. whose blood remained purely African, let alone of a single tribe. As I told the students at Bergendal, African slaves in America were separated into groups who didn’t speak the same language, were not from the same tribe, didn’t practice the same traditions; families were separated; slaves were raped, escaped and married Native Americans, etc. This explains our many hues, and it explains our deep desire to find out who we are and where we come from. It explains why Africa beckons us to “come home.” The question now is, “How do I just go back home, when a big piece of my heart was left in Africa?”

Written by Frederick A Hanna

South Africa – Day 17, Last Day and Bergendal, 2nd Visit to Vlakte Brick and Farewells

Today is our last full day in South Africa, and I am not looking forward to saying goodbye. I have arranged for someone from the staff at Bergendal School to take Monique over to Vlakte Brick Farm. I wanted her to go as a physician in hopes that she might be able to advise the people who live in a tiny village where everyone has tuberculosis, and in order for her to experience what I experienced there. It was a feeling of utter helplessness that words just could not express.

We started off the day with our normal ritual of morning devotion before I spent some time outside just loving on the kids and letting them love on me. I sought out some of my little friends to enjoy some laughs and smiles on what would be a difficult day of goodbyes.




Soon it was time to go over to Vlakte Brick. As we drove over, I tried to prepare Monique and Gay for what they would see, but again words seemed to fail me. As we drove in, we were greeted by the village matriarch, Rhoda. We chatted a little, and I asked Rhoda if she could take us into one of the houses so that everyone could see the living conditions. We had driven passed a number of informal settlements during our trip, but had never been able to go inside. Most people advised us that going into an informal settlement was far too dangerous a thing to do. Visiting this farm community gave us a chance to go into the living quarters of some of South Africa’s poor and get a sense of what it is like to actually live in these cramped inhumane conditions. The home that Rhoda took us into was actually a bit better than the first one I visited a few days prior. The dimensions of the space were the same, but only 3 families lived in this unit. It was also a little cleaner than the first unit I visited, and there was a homemade bed in one of the rooms as opposed to blankets on the floor.

Still it was unimaginable that people were living like this. Monique would later say that she felt as though she had entered a time warp and traveled 200 years back in time to a slave plantation. While Monique and Gay talked to Rhoda, I decided to walk around and take some pictures. I spotted a friend from my last visit and went to greet her. She took me over to the building that had the water spout on the side. This is where all 48 families must get their water. She told me that there were bathing facilities in the building. She also showed me the drains where they must empty the contents of the Porta-Potties. The drains are at the same site where the clean water spout is located, and my friend expressed to me that the people were sure that their water was contaminated by the waste. Across a span of about 20 yards from where we stood in front of the water building was the farm owner’s office. On my last visit, I asked if I could talk to the owner and I was told that he was in there with his gun and would probably be “happy” to see me. Well, “momma didn’t raise no fool,” so I elected not to go over and visit that day. As I noticed customers and trucks going in and out of the office area, I turned to my friend and asked her, “Is the owner there now?” She replied that she did not know. As we talked, I noticed that there was another building adjoining the water building. I asked my friend what was inside, and she said, “that is the church.” She then asked, “Would you like to see it? Shall I get the key?”

The church was locked up. Just like many churches in America, closed and locked up most of the time. I’m so tired of irrelevant churches that haven’t figured out how in infect communities with the gospel message by seeing the church as a vehicle for social transformation, not just a place to Bible thump on Sunday’s and one other day when Bible study is held… BUT that’s another blog post… BACK to business… As she ran off to get the key, I started my steady determined walk to the owner’s office half wondering if these would be my last steps.

I walked confidently into the little building where I was greeted by a receptionist. It was a brightly lit, clean, well kept office, and it seemed that business was good.

Keep in mind that the people of the village had all told me that the farm had been sold and that the clay (brick making) business had been shut down as a result of the sale. This was the reason they had all lost their jobs. I was perplexed by what I saw, and figured that there must be more to the story. I walked up to the counter and was greeted warmly by the receptionist. She asked how she could help me. I said, “I am a pastor from the United States and I would like to speak to the owner about the living conditions of the people on the farm.” I was hoping he might not shoot a clergyman. The woman said, “I will see if he is available,” and to my surprise he agreed to speak with me. I walked into the office to see a rugged looking, forty-something white male sitting in front of his computer and talking on his PDA phone. He told me that he was not the owner, but the manager (the owner’s son-in-law). I asked him what had happened with the business and why the people had not been paid their severance. His response to me was that the business was broke. I asked him about the trucks going in and out and he forcefully replied that he could show me the books that business was down 85%. He stated that the recession had killed the clay business. This is a fact which I had pointed out to the people of the village the day before. I asked him if the farm had in fact been sold (as the people had told me) and he said that it had not been sold, it had all but failed and that’s why the people lost their jobs in December of 2008. He also informed me that there are 2 businesses on the farm: a clay (brick) factory and a cement factory. The cement factory was still running and about 5 of the people in the village were employed there. This was news to me, but it still didn’t explain the living conditions of the people in the village. I asked this man if the people would be paid their severance, and he said that he didn’t have money to pay them… even though the farm owner owns several other farms in the area. I asked him if he had seen their living conditions and if he knew that they often didn’t have food to eat (farm owners provide and maintain housing for their employees on these farms).

He said to me, “Look man, I don’t lose any sleep over that. I don’t have a guilty conscience. That place wasn’t like that when those people moved in!”

I replied, “But you underpaid them for years, and you did no upkeep on the property. Of course it doesn’t look the same.”

He said, “Would you like me to take you into town to one of the compounds man? Can I show you how they live there?”

I replied, “I have been to those settlements. They are horrible. BUT you are not responsible for those settlements. You are responsible for the housing here on this farm.”

He replied, “There is a housing problem all over South Africa man!”

I replied, “That’s true. BUT you are not responsible for all of South Africa. You are responsible for the housing here on this farm.”

He responded, “Pastor, I am going to have to ask you to leave,” as he stood up from his desk.

I said, “You have to be accountable to those people.”

He responded, “Pastor, I am going to have to ask you to leave,” as he walked me towards the door.”

I said, “The living conditions are deplorable.”

He responded, “Pastor, I am going to have to ask you to leave,” as he walked me over the threshold of the door.”

I said, “Don’t you care about their children?”

He closed the door and locked it as I stood outside facing him.

I walked back to the church building in disbelief. The door was open and my friend rushed over to find out what happened in the owner’s office. An older woman accompanied her. They stared at me, but wouldn’t ask the lingering question… “What did he say?”

I told them that he said the farm wasn’t sold, and that their job loss was due to a decline in business. I also told them that he said he was broke, and that he had no plans of paying them any severance. I didn’t believe that he was broke, but it didn’t matter because that’s what he had said, and it was obvious that he had no plans to pay any of those people a dime. “He doesn’t care about you,” I said. “If you dropped dead on this farm, he would be happy. You have to leave this place. There’s nothing here for you. He doesn’t care.” They nodded in agreement. Easy for me to say (well not really), but some of them have lived on that farm for 30 years. The prospect of leaving can’t be easy.

I looked at the makeshift church, and rejoined the group. As we drove away, those who had visited for the first time were visibly shaken. As we contemplated what we had just seen and heard, I began to explain how the people as laborers on the farm are tied to those properties, which they don’t own, and can be evicted from at any time. If they gripe about anything, they have to worry about being kicked out. I also began to share that the schools on farms, like Bergendal, had to play a political game of chess with the farm owners who actually own the schools. These kinds of schools were built by farmers to educate the children of the farm laborers. It was obviously in their best personal interest to educate the children only to the point that they would be the next generation of farm laborers. The farm owner’s wife would have been the schoolmarm at one time. Eventually, schools like this were leased to the government, but principals must still play nice with the owners. Ultimately, the farm schools belong to the farm owners. Now that’s power. Employment, housing, and education all in the hands of one man… This is the case for countless farm laborers in this part of South Africa.

I also began to share that all farm owners weren’t so heartless. I had heard that the owner of the Bergendal School was known to be generous, and to take good care of his workers. Adele (a teacher at Bergenadal and our escort) began to expand on this. She took us to the Seidelberg Wine Estate. Mr. Seider is the owner of the estate, the Bergendal School, and the Fairview homes. Mr. Seider has paid for some renovations at the school, secured donations of coats for the children, and recently held a jazz concert where the proceeds were donated to the school, and more (more info here: http://www.seidelberg.co.za/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=24&Itemid=49). We stopped at the estate, and had a look at their glass blowing operation. There is a store on the site where beautiful glass art pieces blown on the site are sold.



From there we went back to the school which is right next door. I decided to take Monique on a walk through the Fairview homes located just next door to the school for comparison to Flakte Brick. We found a couple of students who lived at Fairview and they took us on a quick tour. It was a thousand times better that Flakte Brick.

Monique’s comment was, “So it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Exactly,” I said.

Truth be told, the whole farm laborer/farm owner relationship needs to be overhauled, as it does in many parts of the world including the U.S., but people should be treated like their lives matter.



We spent the rest of the day hanging out with the kids… laughing, dancing, singing… it was a great time. It was capped off with a few songs from the Bergendal Gospel Choir, and boy are they good. I mean they are fantastic. We each said our farewells, Tristian wowed them with a quick Que Dawg step show, I told them my life story, we prayed, we all cried, hugged, blessed, ate, exchanged gifts and eventually tore ourselves away. Two words, “life changing.”






We finished the day with several celebrations, food, reflections, a visit to 2 churches, words of encouragement and affirmation. One thing that was interesting for me is that they let me speak and pray as a minister on several occasions. I usually try to keep the clergy and the academic separate, but they allowed me to be both with no censoring. I’m saddened to say goodbye to my new family.




Written by Frederick A Hanna

South Africa – Day 16, Stellenbosch, Amstelhof, Madiba House and Dennegeur

A day ago I received a message that I would not be back at Bergendal on Thursday. Today, Claude de Jager was to pick me up spend a little time giving me his perspective on South Africa, education, poverty, and the issues that impact the schools in Paarl. Claude is the principal of Amstelhof Primary and is very knowledgable about the local school sytem. We started off by taking a ride to the University of Stellenbosch. I had heard about this university the night prior from Mr. Thomas. He was talking to me about accessibility to South African universities, and whether or not blacks and coloureds could get a fair shake at “university.” Regarding Stellenbosch he said (paraphrasing), “How could one expect to get a fair chance sitting in classroom with the same professors who had told them that blacks and coloureds did not belong in schools with whites because they lacked the mental capacities... the same professors who had voted for Apartheid?” Mr. Thomas said that if perhaps, on the long mile to freedom, they had each walked a half mile he could make sense of it, but since blacks and coloureds had walked a half mile and whites had only walked a few meters, it didn’t make sense.



So with these thoughts in mind I arrived at the University of Stellenbosch, which would simply be a site to set the stage for my day with Claude. We went there to have coffee and to begin a dialogue. Having been in the midst of the impoverished sections of Paarl and inundated with the narratives of the children for the last few days, driving through the streets around the university was a bit surreal. It could have been almost any university in almost any U.S. city… beautiful buildings, students hurrying to and from classes, signs about upcoming functions, and very few students of color. The school is priced out of consideration for most non white South Africans. Stellenbosch is one of South Africa’s former all white institutions and the powers that be have fought to maintain its cultural heritage; thus, the primary language of education is still Afrikaans. Afrikaans was used in schools in South Africa very much in the same way that English was used throughout America’s history. It was used to exclude and prevent certain groups from both attending schools and from achieving in schools. Some could forcefully argue that the English language is still used for exclusion and subordination in American schools today. Claude’s own daughter attended Stellenbosch. For Claude, his daughter’s attending and graduating from Stellenbosch was a way of conquering a myth that students of color couldn’t compete with whites at the university level. It was a way of “showing them” that we were/are every bit as good as they are. This narrative echoes those of many African Americans who desired to prove to whites that they were/are every bit as intelligent as whites and able to compete academically at the best universities. Claude also discussed South Africa’s educational legacy… that blacks were to be educated as laborers, coloureds were to be educated as artisans, and whites were to be educated to be society’s elites. At one time it was against the law for a black man to pick up a hammer or a trowel in South Africa. The black man’s tool was the shovel. This subordination was perpetuated in the schools through the Bantu laws, and substandard curricula for black and coloured schools… the different teacher student ratios: 1:20 for whites, 1:50 for coloureds, and 1:Whatever for blacks. A black school could have 100 learners and 1 teacher. Blacks were typically educated to a 5th grade level, coloureds to a 9th grade level… reminiscent of industrialized education for blacks in the Jim Crow era… actually worse. Keep in mind that South Africa today has approximately 49 million people: about 4 mil white, 5 mil coloured, 1 mil Asian, and the rest black. A hierarchy was set up which even taught the coloured man to fear the black man. Can you see what was happening? All of this was designed to keep the majority at bay while this small group of immigrants, who now claim to be indigenous people, raped the land of its resources, became filthy rich, and took ownership of the land. It was genius in its insidiousness. It was so powerful that it continues to manifest 15 years after Apartheid. According to Claude, whites in South Africa still own 87.5% of the land. This against the backdrop of informal settlements (squatter camps or shanty towns), and inadequate housing throughout the country which are inhabited by blacks and coloureds. LAND equals WEALTH equals POWER. So even though you have a black government in charge in South Africa, the prevailing question is “Who really has the power?” To most South Africans, the answer to this question is obvious.

In terms of teachers… teachers in South Africa were once educated to an 8th grade standard, and required to attend a teacher’s institute for 2 years to attain a teaching certificate—again similar to what was happening with rural teachers trained at places like Hampton Institute in the U.S.—many of these South African teachers did not receive the proper academic training in subjects like math, and some of them are still in the classroom today. Eventually the requirement was extended to make grade 12 matriculation a requirement, but for many teachers already in the system, this amounted to little more than writing an essay. Then they extended the requirement to demand 3 years of training beyond matriculation which could be done in the form of a correspondence course. According to Claude, this ended up being more of an on paper requirement, than one requiring elevation of teaching skills. “He/She is now 45 years old, completing a correspondence course, and still struggling in the classroom.” So today many of South Africa’s teachers can say that they have met the 12th grade matriculation plus 3 years post requirements and hold all of the appropriate credentials although they have not been in a formal educational institution since age fifteen. In all fairness, the people who are taking this circuitous route have full time jobs, families, other responsibilities, and live great distances from the universities. It would be impossible for most of them to just put their lives on hold to go and fulfill these requirements any other way. Its probably worth mentioning that the same low standards did not apply for white teachers in South Africa.

“I hope you see this whole spiral of reasons why we are struggling in our schools.”
Claude de Jager

The question going forward, "So how do you lift the standards in the schools with this backdrop?"


From Stellenbosch, Claude took me on a tour of his pride and joy, Amstelhof Primary School where he is the principal. Before we went to the school, we drove through the neighborhoods where the children who attend the school live. It is painfully plain to see that the conditions for learning begin to take shape well before the student enters the classroom. At Amstelhof Primary one need only look through the schoolyard gate into the adjoining informal settlement… shacks, people with no jobs, no healthcare, little food, trash, drugs, gangsters, squalor, and abject poverty all intersecting right there for all to see. The teachers here can’t deny the harsh realities of their students’ lives.








As we drive at a slow crawl through the settlement adjacent to the school, Claude speaks to everyone. A teacher is still respected in many places here and Claude has been an educator for over 30 years. It rained yesterday and the sun is shining bright today. These are the perfect conditions for clothes washing in a place where everyone still washes by hand and dries on a clothes line (clothes dryers are a commodity, even for working class people), thus the community is bustling with clothes washing activity. Women pump water at a communal tap, as though they were living in a rural village, not in the heart of an urban area.




They scrub clothes in plastic basins, and carry the clothes back to their homes where they hang them on clothes lines. We drive pass a set of communal toilets. They look like permanent Porta-Potties made of concrete with sinks adjacent.



Lots of children scurry about. Some are school aged children who should be in school at the time we are driving through. Many more are preschool aged children who would benefit from early childhood development centers.



Many are unemployed or hustling… selling candy or other goods from their homes, selling an illegal home brewed alcohol, drugs, doing hair, etc. Julius Wilson documents similar practices in the ghettos of Chicago in “The Disappearance of Work.” One of the things that has always amazed me about poor people is their resourcefulness.

It takes great resolve, courage, and oftentimes genius to hustle and survive in the throngs of poverty. Many of these poor people display the same kind of leadership qualities and ingenuity that it takes to be successful in the corporate world. These are some of the realities that the children of Amstelhof face everyday before they even get to school.

Once at school, I am told that the children of Amstelhof engage in practices that are designed to build basic math, writing, and reading skills before they enter into a more formal class schedule. Claude likes to point out that on one side of the school are the informal settlements and on the other side of the school is the highway—metaphorically the highway to the world beyond the throngs of poverty—. The school, or EDUCATION, then serves as “the pathway to the world.” Great concept made concrete by the fact that you can stand outside of the front door of the school and see both sides.



Amstelhof would be more consistent with what I would call an urban school. Though I am able to clearly see differences between the urban schools and the farm schools (like Bergendal), what’s most telling are the similarities. The students and the teachers are fighting the same war on different terrains. It is essential that the educators at these schools understand their terrain, and the sources of opposition they must face in these environments. They must also align themselves to share each others successes and failures in order to better implement best practices. Claude showed me around and explained to me how he leverages resources, and how the generosity of many contributes to his unending efforts to provide the best education possible for the students of Amstelhof. He demonstrates that good leadership is a key to the success of schools. Research has shown this time and time again. School leaders who are tough, determined, committed, and inspired can make a difference. Claude is clearly a man of great faith.




Mandela (Madiba) House
Next we visited the house that Nelson Mandela stayed in during his final months of incarceration. The house remains largely intact and helps to tell the story of his continued movement towards an amicable negotiation of the end of Apartheid. This was the last prison that would ever house Mandela, and the gates we walked out of were the same gates he walked through as he strode to freedom.





Visting a place where such an incredible human being lived was nice. Personally, I was mentally preoccupied with what I had seen over the last few days, and I was struggling to keep being a tourist on this trip. I was processing, and praying and wishing I could help people. Taking pictures at Madiba House just didn’t seem important.

To that end, I was treated to a trip to a development that was committed to making a difference for the families of Farm laborers in South Africa… Dennegeur…

Dennegeur is a community built for local farm laborers with donated monies. The idea of Dennegeur shows that situations like Flakte Brick farm do not have to be… There are other paths that farm owners can take to ensure the well being of their employees, and to repay them for their decades of hard work by ensuring that they have adequate housing and resources that position them to give their children a better future. Dennegeur was paradise for a farm laborer compared to what I had seen so far. In addition to a rugby field, basketball court, pavilion, huge swimming pool, health center, daycare center, and educational/spiritual training facility, they are growing their own food and installing tunnels for tunnel farming. The community is clean, with green backyards and beautiful gardens in the front yards. Its secure and it feels safe. It has rules to foster social cohesion. It is night and day from the housing that I have seen for most poor South Africans up until now. In addition, the people will own these properties and pass them on to their children. This is a a far cry from living on a farm where your employment is directly tied to your housing and the education of your children. More info here: http://www.la-motte.com/index.cfm?event=centralContent&intCentralContentID=7957

From Dennegeur we took a quick ride up to a French village amongst the Paarl mountains called FRANSCHEOK. It’s a quaint little town that looks like its for the wealthy. We grabbed a cup of Rooibos tea there before heading back to the bed and breakfast.



We finished off the day at our final dinner with the Bergendal staff. The restaurant, De Kelder, boasted a “Bottomless Ribs” special on Thursday nights. We ended up cleaning out their ribs… SERIOUSLY! Most of us were on our 3rd slab of babybacks when the waiter told us that they only had 3 slabs left. I wanted to come back later and vandalized their sign so that it would read “LESS Ribs,” but that’s not why I was in South Africa. It was another excellent time of fun and fellowship. Bergendal really adopted us, and loved on us. They made Tristian and I feel very special. Great day.

Written by Frederick A Hanna

Who's Your Zacchaeus? - You need a misfit!

Remember little Zacchaeus? The little despicable man with the despised profession? The one who robbed all of the people's money and got rich in the process? Yeah! That guy!


Luke 19

1Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through. 2A man was there by the name of Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was wealthy. 3He wanted to see who Jesus was, but being a short man he could not, because of the crowd. 4So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore-fig tree to see him, since Jesus was coming that way.
5When Jesus reached the spot, he looked up and said to him, "Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today." 6So he came down at once and welcomed him gladly.

7All the people saw this and began to mutter, "He has gone to be the guest of a 'sinner.' "

8But Zacchaeus stood up and said to the Lord, "Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount."

Funny, Zacchaeus wasn't just a tax collector, he was architelones, the "chief tax collector," a phrase used only once in the New Testament. He was the best of the bad, but he was in need.

Your Zacchaeus is someone who needs your help...

1. This is someone who is up a tree.

This person is disgraced and isolated "either socially, mentally, physically, or economically." The thing about people like this is that if we genuinely look at them, we will get clearer glimpses of ourselves. To be able to look at someone who is "up a tree" and to acknowledge them as a person like you or me, just an everyday person with needs, mirrors the relationship we ourselves have found in our personal relationship with Christ. We all have needs and we all need somebody.

2. This is someone who is an outcast.

Society sees this person as an enigma, and so they have pushed her/him to the borders. Oddly enough, they can't get rid of Zacchaeus because he is a structural part of the community. Think about that? People society wants to get rid of, but can't. How do we "handle" those people?

3. This is someone who wants to follow, but can't get close enough.

Sometimes we can be so consumed with the Messenger, that we forget the message... and more importantly who the message was for... the outsider, the cosmos, those who don't know...

Sometimes we have to remove ourselves - literally "self" in order to reach those in need.

HERE's the BEST part!

4. Zacchaeus is in position to do something that you can't do.

Because Jesus took the time to stop and "see about" lil Zacchaeus, Zacchaeus was able to see himself in a new light... AND he was able to pour out his resources—which need not be money—in a way that helped the very people who rejected him.

Do you just hang with the folks in the crowd, or do you look outside of the crowd to find those who may not fit? The misfits, the outcasts, those on the margins...

Written by Frederick A Hanna

South Africa – Day 15, The Bergendal School Day 2 and Flakte Brick Farm

Today we started off at the Bergendal School with the normal ritual of devotion and morning meeting. I am slightly struck and pleasantly pleased that the day starts with the teachers gathered together at a table listening to a devotion, a prayer, and a thought for the day. However perfunctory this might feel, I think its an important part of the day when you are often facing such difficult circumstances.

Its raining and cold today. The rain is hard at times, and many of the children walk to school. Attendance is low on days like this, but many learners arrive and stand outside in the rain waiting for school to start. The siren sounds to call them to order and they all stand in their lines for an Our Father before scurrying off to their classrooms. What I am most struck by today is the orderly fashion in which they proceed. It reminds me that circumstances don’t necessarily determine the child or the child’s future. Some children find a way to succeed against all odds.

I decided that today I just want to sit in a classroom and observe the teaching styles and techniques of Bergendal’s teachers, and Florina and I head off to her math class with the 9th graders. The learners enter the cold class very orderly and take their seats. They sit quietly and they listen to their teacher intently. At first they appear as though they are not interested in the basic algebra lesson, but within 10 minutes they are more and more engaged. Their desire to learn for me is without question. As I listen to the sounds of the learners responding to the teacher's questions over the sound of pouring rain, I am reminded of how privileged a profession teaching is. It is not privileged because you make lots of money, and achieve great status from being a teacher, its privileged because you have the opportunity to mold and shape young minds and to perhaps help a child to achieve her/his dreams. As the rain comes down harder, the learners disengage a little and begin to chat as 15 year olds do. Though I don’t understand Afrikaans, my impression of Florina is that she is a thoughtful and knowledgeable teacher. My conversations with her yesterday ensure me that she is concerned about the well being of these young people.

The teacher steps out for a minute and the learners fall into disorder, but it is not the Hollywood- Dangerous Minds disorder that people tend to associate with poor disadvantaged students. I am continually struck by the feeling that these are just regular kids.

As I sit here in class typing notes, I am reminded of how cold the class is by the temperature of my fingertips. 9:30am and some of the children are summoned to eat. They eat as food is ready today so only a small group eats at first. The meal, bread covered in some kind of porridge. It doesn’t look appetizing, but they seem to enjoy it. Eating is a necessary disruption.

Next we visited Flakte Brick Farm to give some rations to the families there. This is a farm where all 48 of the families living there have lost their jobs. The families that work on many of the farms live in little “villages” on the estates.



It is reminiscent of the quarter communities that African slaves lived in on American plantations. Some of the children from Bergendal school live in the village at Flakte Brick Farm. A lady named Rhoda met us at the village and she took me around. When she led us into the first house, I was speechless. I was told that the conditions there were horrible, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw there. Four families live in each house. The house is actually more like a room. In fact my living room at home has more space than one of these houses. The house is made of brick with concrete floors. There is no plumbing, no heat, no air conditioning, and the people sleep on mats or old dirty comforters. There are 3 Porta-Potties that serve all 48 families and a “hall” with a tap where they go to fetch water for baths, clothes washing, drinking, etc.



There is a pit in each house where the 4 families must burn wood for heat.



The kitchen, where one of the four families lives, is a hotplate… that’s it… a hotplate on a makeshift table.



I looked over at the fire pit in the house I visited and there was one of the bright faced little boys I had met at school the day before. He had stayed home because he was sick, and there he was standing in front of a fire pit shivering. That really brought it home for me. How is a kid able to bring himself to go to school 6 kilometers away on the back of a pickup truck with 20 other kids when he lives in these conditions? How does he find the strength to hope when he lives in squalor?





The ladies told me that everyone in the village has TB… the men told me that no one has a job, and the owner cheated them out of their severance when the business went sour… no one has a car… what worried me the most was that no one had any hope. The women told me that they “couldn’t leave because of the children.” I told them that they “couldn’t stay because of the children.” They said, “OK, where do we go?” I have no answer… No answer… and my heart is breaking… They showed me around a little more… I talked to them about hope, but I knew the needed money and food… they don’t even have enough money to leave… I was overwhelmed… I fought back the tears as we drove away from that place…

Somehow I ended up walking about the campus having chats with students who were mingling about, still thinking about Flakte Brick, and I bumped into a little ray of chocolate sunshine named Abigail. She said, “Hi sir! When are you coming to our class?” She told me that she was in grade 5, and I said I would visit ASAP. I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up and she said “a singer.” So, of course I asked for a song. After a few minutes of blushing and indecision, she grabbed my arm and said, “I’m ready sir.”
Then she stole my heart with a song. After I hugged her and did my best to encourage her and the other 5th graders, I hurried off to lunch.

We had a nice lunch again with the staff at and a spirited conversation about the poverty in places like Flakte Brick Farm. I finished the school day in the computer lab before Ms. Thomas took us around to the Flatse… This is the slang name for the informal settlements and the schemes (projects) in town… SmartyTown, SpookieTown, Kingstontown, Fairy Land, Chester Williams Town, etc… The level of poverty is beyond belief. Its just more than you can imagine, and yet some people, like Ms. Thomas and her husband have managed to escape it.

It was an incredibly emotional day capped off by dinner at Martha’s, excellent conversation with Randal (Ms. Thomas’ husband, a special education teacher), and great fellowship again. I’m so happy that the teachers brought us into their homes. They really made us feel like family.


Written by Frederick A Hanna