Bora Elise

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I remember the coldness of the jail cells surrounding me as I headed for the chief’s office to cover a story I had only got a short briefing on concerning a man dealing with threats to his family.  There was a thick, green paint that coated every wall and a smell that suffocated my lungs.  The door squeaked open entering into a room of a woman wearing the tags of a chief lieutenant, a local policeman and a man sitting awkwardly on the couch with an old top hat that he was restyling around in his hands.   I greeted everyone shyly as I followed the other photographer, Daylin to the corner of the stuffy room to take a seat.  I then remember the feeling that you get where you feel so incredibly small and out of place from what you are about to experience that things begin to spin around you.

            This is when the “black” spoke.  His broken English was hard to decipher at first but the pain in his voice was crystal clear.  The wrinkles on his face creased deeper with every word as he began to attempt to explain to this small and somewhat helpless police force the threats against his family.  As an American I was ignorant to racism in such extremes, in America I often float around and racism is never even a presence in my life.  In South Africa it is a constant strong hold for all citizens.  Kenam as I learned his name explained that he had forced his family to flee from the terror taking place in Zimbabwe where it was a common occurrence for his friends and family to go missing in the middle of the night.  He fled to South Africa with the idea of hope; hope for a civil existence, hope for his young son and daughter to grow old, hope for his wife to not fear getting raped every night, hope for a career, hope for a life.  This stronghold of hope had been shot down with a giant force as he attempted to settle peacefully amongst the townships of South Africa outside of Cape Town.  As a “black” his neighbors who living in horrible conditions themselves do not welcome any new job competitions instantly hated him. 

            As Kenam continued with his story the impact did not truly knock me over until I saw a single tear glide down the side of his cheek.  His voice chocked as he pleaded with the cops to please help protect his family from these threats.  “I am fifty years old, I have lived enough of a life if I die tomorrow; but my children they are nearly eight and ten…they are too young to die,” he said.  I soaked in the reality of the situation; with the thousands of refugees facing the same racism and threats everyday in the townships the poor, small employed police units are only capable of doing so much and cannot have 24 hour protection for families in danger.  This is a no win situation that faces many families everyday.  My question to myself was what can I do about this and my greatest solution is to simply share through my photos of how my eyes interpret things and write to fill in the grey areas so that others will know what goes on in other countries that so many of us are very naïve too. 

            Kenam constantly repeated how he had complained to the station multiple times and received no assistance to aid his family in any way.  The threats had gotten so intense that he was now at a breaking point and in great danger of his life.  By having to park cars at the nearby grocery store he was forced to be away from his home all day; leaving his family to be sitting ducks for harassment from his neighbors.  Every morning Kenam would get up to walk his daughter, Bora and son Elam to the closest school; which was five miles away.  He learned quickly that it was too dangerous for Bora and Elam to walk alone because other peers and adults were threatening to kill them because of their color.  Yes it is 2008 and an eight and ten year old are getting threatened to be killed walking to school because they are too black.  As the photographer covering this story I felt tremendous responsibility to portray this family with a high level of respect and to succeed in capturing on the film the agony that racism still causes in our modern day world. 

The cops found that the only solution, which would inevitably most likely lead to different threats that existed in a different township, was to relocate Kenam’s family that day.  He pleaded that he could not survive another night in his shack and that the threats of raping his wife and killing his children had become increasingly worse and he feared he could not fend off the attackers on his own.  This is when I followed Kenam, one policeman and Daylin out of the room to head towards Kenam’s township to document his move. 

            The dust swirled around the police car as we stopped outside Kenam’s shack.  Poorly strung barbwire hung over a rickety fence opening to a one-room shanty where Kenam, his wife and two children currently resided.  Up until this point I had remained primarily silent, listening to details and committing to this man’s story.  That is until I met Bora of course, his eight-year-old daughter that came bouncing up to me with pigtail braids and butterfly clips in her hair.  I thought to myself this girl?  This girl is the one that is getting threats to be killed because she is too dark; how is that possible for someone to have such hatred for a bubbly, beautiful child like Bora.  I knelt down next to Bora who was leaning against the one twin bed mattress that was the only type of bedding owned by her family that was bolstered up against the shack waiting to be moved.  Bora smiled at me and made a camera snapping motion indicating she wanted her photo taken.  I snapped away at this smiling girl who at that moment seemed to have everything perfect in her life despite the reality of the situation.  I then started to ask her questions, not surprisingly her English surpassed her father’s displaying her amongst many other youth of her age strong dedication to embracing whatever amount of education they can receive to improve their lives.  When Bora began to speak about having to move again and how she casually mentioned, “People don’t like us because of our color,” she aged at least forty years in my eyes.  This little, sweet, innocent eight year old had experienced more in her life than I could ever imagine.

            I snapped more shots of Bora and her family, striving to capture any amount of passion in their faces that went along for their strong desire to live peacefully.  When the shots hit press the next morning I studied them closely in the nearby coffee shop by my flat.  With a heavy heart I knew I was getting to ready to board a twenty-two hour flight back to my exquisite life in America and would most likely not ever get to see the smiling face of Bora again.  Bora and her family’s story is one of thousands that has occurred in regions all over Africa.  From  the horrific acts that took place in Darfur, Sudan to the thousands of refugees displaced all throughout South Africa the tragedies and pain echo on for miles.  Yet, I could not be more grateful for having the honor of being in the presence of these types of families during my stay in South Africa.  The strength and happiness that they radiate is truly moving and inspiring.  I am only one person, but I am choosing to try and do my part my sharing my story and how witnessing these horrific things that occur in other countries has changed my life and motivated me to have such a tremendous appreciation for the wonderful life I have.  The lucky day that I get to return to South Africa, I will search for Bora’s family and I hope with all of my heart that things have changed enough for them so that their hopes have been fulfilled.