When you're at a refugee camp in Jo'burg, try not to fit in.

I'm back from my brief hiatus just so I can share this little bit of advice: if you are black and touring a refugee camp in Africa, try your best to NOT fit in. Especially if said camp gets raided by the police and military.

Here's the story:

1. Blessed are the merciful
My classmates and I were touring a refugee camp that is set in a downtown Johannesburg Methodist church. The bishop, a kindly and passionate advocate for the poor, gave us a talk about his work at the camp and the challenges they face (including having been sued by a posh law firm located a few doors down to shut the camp down). Then, he invited us to tour the facility, meet the over 3,000 residents, and play with the children.

2. Blessed are the pure of heart
We started on the church's fifth floor, where we entered a small nursery through a dimly lit hallway. The floors lined with mattresses and blankets, the walls were painted with cartoon characters. I was greeted by a young boy, about two years old, who was wearing a blue corduroy shirt and waving to me from an open shower stall. He smiled as I waved back. A little girl in a pink windbreaker ran and hid in a crevice between the bureau and wardrobe. She was a bit overwhelmed by the 22 strangers who had interrupted her mid-morning nap.
---
As we continued downstairs, I shook hands and spoke to the church community's residents, many of whom were well-educated professionals in Zimbabwe, but had abandoned their country in the wake of Robert Mugabe's autocratic grab for power. Again, a few of my new acquaintances attempted to strike up a conversation with me in their native tongues. And again, I clumsily explained that I am an American, and I don't speak their language. Yet others mistook me for being a Coloured South African, and asked whether I spoke Afrikaans. No, I'm American; I speak English.

3. Blessed are the poor
I joked with a gentleman who was making a sign that read: "13 wives, 16 children, 7 goats, 3 cats." I asked what his sign meant, to which he replied: "These are all my responsibilities." "Really? 13 wives? You must be a wealthy man!" I smiled. He shrugged as his lips parted, exposing a row of white teeth. "Noooo, my sister. I have too many responsibilities -- that's why I'm poor!" He and I laughed together, he heartily and I uneasily. My life is a freaking cakewalk.

4. Blessed are the meek
We continued downstairs into the lower levels of the church, which housed the orphaned, older school-aged children. There were two boys in the dormitory, who were probably about fifteen or sixteen, cooking some sort of stew on a hot plate. They did not want to talk, and they hovered over the hot plate, seeking warmth and looking too busy to interact with the strange intruders.

5. Blessed are they who are persecuted
As we continued toward the basement of the refugee camp, the hallways became darker and colder. Then, we heard loud shouting and chaos. We couldn't see what was going on until we were greeted at the bottom of the stairs by heavily armed police officers and soldiers holding machine guns. They were yelling and shoving refugees up the stairs, as we were trying to make our way toward the exit. Suddenly, I felt several pokes in my side, but I could not see from where they were coming. Then, my arm was being pulled, and I stopped in my tracks.

"Who are you?" A white woman wearing a yellow windbreaker marked POLICE asked me.
"I'm uh, I'm an American"
"No you are not. Where are you from?" (At this point, I realized I had no ID on me. Well, they told us to pack light . . .)
"I'm from Las Vegas, in America. I'm a law student."
By this time, my fellow students (who were white) chimed in, just as a soldier holding a machine gun glared at me, gun just barely pointing past me.
"She's with us, Officer! She's a law student from America on a winter program at Wits." I turned and looked behind me, squinting and trying to see if I could find my professor, an American ex-pat who has made South Africa his home since 1990. The officer let go of my arm, then gruffly told us all to leave the building immediately. I was happy to have literally dodged a bullet, but I couldn't help but think of my new acquaintances, and whether where they had fled to (South Africa) was any improvement upon their troubled homeland (Zimbabwe). Here, they cannot participate in the formal economy. Here, they live in deplorable conditions and survive off of hope, faith, and the charity and compassion of others. Zimbabwe must be a real horror show.
----
So, we found our way out of the chaos. I calmly, but quickly, headed for the exit. As we exited, a crowd of people had gathered by the front gate of the church. And then, there were the soldiers, menacingly tapping their machine guns. And the police, who glared at each of us as we were shoved and pushed onto the street.

My adrenaline rush permitted me to laugh and joke about my brush with an automatic weapon. But, after I parted company with my colleagues, I sat in my room. And I cried. Mostly because I realized that my new acquaintances could not use their nationality as a shield. They had no white American friends to hide behind. So, they went through this sort of thing quite regularly. Sure -- it is necessary to have security sweeps within a refugee camp. There are many dangers that come along with the desperation of a people with no home and no comfort: drugs, alcohol abuse, rape, disease, and violence. But I wonder whether those rather aggressive police sweeps aren't motivated partly by racism and xenophobia.

Because when it came down to it, those police officers and soldiers saw me as black, but my white colleagues gave me credibility. And that made all the difference.