by Cleo Handler
Yale College, SY 2012
Whenever anyone asked me what I was doing this summer, I had a hard time trying to explain. “I’m taking this class,” I’d say, “that attempts to combine theater and public health into a thorough, psychosocial approach to dealing with the HIV/AIDS epidemic and helping those affected by it.” Blank stares. “Well, uh…” I’d continue, “it’s about trying to use art to help educate people about public health…or at least to try to get a message across.” Cocked heads. “Umm… I don’t totally know yet, but it involves using theater to try to bring people’s attention to certain aspects of the epidemic, in order to allow them to more fully understand it, and possibly get them to change their deeply-rooted outlooks toward this hushed-up, stigmatized disease.” At this point, I’d be met by more looks of confusion, accompanied by glossed-over eyes. “I’m going to Africa!” I’d sputter at last, and then receive wide smiles and enthusiastic nods of approval.
Yet after all of my attempts at describing the course - which was actually called 'Arts and Public Health in Action: Study of HIV/AIDS in Swaziland'- it turned out to be even more impossible to describe than I could have ever expected. And even more incredible. This year, the agenda was to spend three weeks in Durban, South Africa, working with a socially- sensitive dance company and then two weeks in Swaziland, collaborating with groups called 'Clowns Without Borders' and 'People’s Educational Theater.' Our intention was to create and perform various clown shows for the children and, in addition, to lead after- school workshops teaching them how to make up their own plays and to engage their imaginations. And, of course, we would also be providing them with food.
In Durban, we worked with one of the first performance companies to be racially integrated at the end of the apartheid, a very talented group of dancers called Siwela Sonke (meaning “going across together” in Zulu). Together, we did a project called ‘Secrets,’ in which we interviewed local people about their secrets, especially in relation to health issues, and the embarrassment, stigma, and shame associated with being HIV- positive. We created four separate pieces involving dance, music, and poetry, based on what different people had told us about their secrets, and then performed them on the streets of Durban, as people got on and off buses all around us and gathered into an attentive, ever-growing crowd.
In Swaziland, we spent our days clowning, our evenings reading about epidemiology and public health, and our nights writing in our journals. As the country with the last remaining absolute monarchy in the world, and the country with the highest rate of HIV, Swaziland was quite an adjustment for us all. Swazi women have very limited rights and are considered perpetual minors, which means that they go from being wards of their fathers to financially, legally, and socially dependent brides. They cannot buy property or make important decisions without their husbands’ approval. The country also still places large value on the traditional notion of the dowry, or “lubuli”- the typical matrimonial price is 17 cows. Yet, while these different customs and gender- related attitudes interested us and raised many questions, they were not our main focus.
After performing our clown shows at different schools in the mornings, we led our workshops with certain students who had been identified by communities as OVCs (orphans and vulnerable children) in the afternoons. This classification was given to kids who had been seriously affected by the AIDS epidemic and, as a result, were either living with incredibly overworked and underpaid caretakers, many of whom were unrelated to them, or in child- headed households.
Being with the kids, teaching them songs and theatrical games that made them laugh, gave me a mixed feeling of hope and futility. Our project only lasted two weeks. How much could we really do? Even though we gave them food at the end of each session, how useful really were our chants and “zip-zap-zop” exercises, when they would get home and probably not eat again for the rest of that day? Although it was great to see them smile, it was hard to keep up my own smile as we drove away. One thing that gave me hope was the knowledge that, despite the fact that our program had an end- date, Clowns Without Borders would come back multiple times a year. In addition, other local organizations would do their best to help. And even if it was only for a brief amount of time, I felt sure that we had helped to make their lives a little easier, and a lot more fun.
This experience with clowning and teaching the kids made me start thinking about something that had happened a few weeks earlier, at the beginning of the trip. We had visited an HIV clinic in Durban and had gotten the chance to talk to one of the head doctors about her job. Extremely passionate, yet understandably embittered, she explained to us that the situation was grim. The epidemic had hit southern Africa hard, and did not seem to be letting up any time soon. After presenting these statements, she started to get really riled up. Her life would be a lot easier, she went on to say, if it weren’t for “that damn human rights problem.” In her opinion, the HIV epidemic could be stamped out in a few decades if the government started regulating automatic screening and treatment of all those who tested positive. “However,” she said, “there are those damn human rights issues: the right to not know your status, the right to not take medicine, the right to die, blah blah blah. This is what really stands in the way and makes the virus virtually unbeatable.”
Shocked, we stopped her right there. Was that really how she saw it? Did she truly believe that, given the rampant prevalence of the disease and the powerful stigma associated with not only having, but even just talking about being HIV positive, people really didn’t have the right to not pay it a lot of attention? And, if that were the case, was she actually advocating that, in this situation, the inalienable human right to decide whether or not to know the full facts or to take action based on individual preferences and comfort levels, be stripped away? Was she really telling us that, given the severity of the epidemic, as a contagious, ever-spreading, unchecked, and indiscriminate attacker, no one really had the right to not care?
“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Or as we say in Zulu, ‘yebo.’” I have been mulling over this doctor’s thought- provoking statements ever since. In the service of public health, is it actually justifiable that the rights of the individual get sacrificed on the altar of the bigger picture? Is there a point at which personal liberties become less valuable than more global considerations, and, as a result, must bow down to them?
Well, I never thought of it that way before. Maybe this is something I need to think about some more? Yebo. Yebo, indeed.
