Showing young minds how to break the cycle of poverty
School soldiers on despite insurmountable challenges
A Beacon of Hope in Montford: Evangelos Mantzaris (edited)
WHEN a person you admire and respect calls to invite you for a special occasion, it is impossible to say no.
Dr Anshu Padayachee, an old colleague from the University of Durban-Westville and renowned founder of the Desk for Abused Women, invites me to visit the “poorest and best school in Durban”.
I respond that it will be an honour to visit such a school in Inanda, KwaMashu and Umlazi, or wherever. She provides me with the name of the school and address: Road 706, Montford — Beacon Ridge Primary.
The friendly bodyguard opens the Beacon Ridge gate. I wear a blue shirt, black pants, my blue suede shoes and a UDW tie. I am greeted by well-behaved pupils who communicate almost mutely.
They seem eager for the occasion. The children call me “Sir”; I have not heard the word in more than 20 years. They ask me about my health and seem eager to ask me about my shoes, but they don’t. They eagerly wait for the dignitaries.
We settle in the well-prepared school hall. We are heartily welcomed by the principal, Mr KR Vayapuri, whose eyes sparkle before they get misty. He wears a black suit, red tie and shiny black shoes. He humbly thanks Dr Padayachee and the donors for the handing over of new computers and
This is not despair; it is sorrow mixed with hope
the laboratory. He is brief and to the point, outlining the problems of the school and its achievements. He does not boast. He is clear and to the point. The kids are attentive, quiet and respectful. After Dr Padayachee’s short speech, Logie Naidoo closes the ceremony. He is brief, for a change.
Then the programme be- gins. A 10-year-old Indian boy speaks for 10 minutes off the cuff. He speaks about education, peace and justice, quoting Bertrand Russell and Albert Camus. Spell- bound. Is it the power of Google or the zest for knowledge? Possibly both.
Then the dances: Zulu dances by Indian and African kids, perfection and enthusiasm combined with the zest of youth. Indian dances by African kids done far more professionally than Bollywood amateur flops.
In the end, there is the time for ululation, the kids overshadowing the dignitaries in exuberance.
Time for lunch. Dignitaries, myself and teachers dish out mutton biryani, plenty of it.
I feel like hugging the tall principal. He does it first before thanking me profusely. I tell him I have done nothing to deserve thanks.
He says that there are problems of safety in the school, but things have im- proved. Things have been stolen, the school had been vandalised and teachers held up.
The school services the people from Welbedacht East, one of the poorest informal settlements in the city. He said the school could not afford to provide fencing and that only 10% of the students attending were able to pay their school fees of R150. The community and NGOs like Gift of the Givers and local businesses have done much to provide meals.
Another major issue is the number of Aids orphans in the area.
He said that they had done their best to instil discipline and excellence and ensure that the community is part of the school effort.
As I drive back to relative luxury, the principal’s words haunt me: “In this school, sir, we do not only build character — we show young minds the path to break the cycle of poverty.”
I still feel the gentle hug of this eight-year-old girl, her dark black eyes thanking me silently. No words. This is not despair; it is sorrow mixed with hope, the most powerful feeling of humanity. Hope for the future. Nurtured in Road 706, Montford, and Chatsworth.