“I am the Living One; I was dead, and now look, I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.” Revelation 1:18

 

Our setting is Pollsmoor Prison, Medium B. The bed sheets pretending to be curtains reveal the breath of the wind as it moves in and out of the room. The windows here haven’t closed properly in nearly 15 years. The concrete walls have adopted the permanent scent of cigarette smoke and mold.

 

Up across a crooked screen there’s a PowerPoint using the same transition effects I used for my 6^th grade presentation on Pet Raccoons. 8 metal tables with table cloths that aren’t quite big enough are staggered through the room. A full scale professional film crew led by a local actress sits at the back of the room, not so quietly moving equipment.

 

An accountant is pacing at the front of the room, egg yoke, coke, dirt and water cover his white dress shirt. I imagine he has sacrificed dozens of shirts to this lesson – intended to show inmates the mess things like rape and murder leave behind in the lives of victims. He has given the better part of his life to this place.

 

A retired sheep farmer sits in the corner. She reaches into a bag of potato chips and quietly munches on them as the the accountant splashes another egg against the wall. A smile crawls onto her face as she tells an American college student about the farm her and her husband used to own. The pride is evident in her eyes as she tells about her husbands love for flowers and all the different types they had raised over the years. Her language hints that he has passed.

 

Across from her an ex gangster stands with his hood up, a flat bill hat covering his forehead. His fingers page through the bible in his hands, the leather worn and discolored. His shoes are brightly colored and his jeans are tight. On his forehead, hidden under his hat, two devil horns are tattooed. On the right side of his neck the number 28 is written, proclaiming his choice of gang to the world. Across his throat, faded ink spells out “Mr. No Jokes”. The tattoos haven’t aged well; they’re begging to be forgotten. But their host is stubborn – he knows the value in the stories they tell. What were once clean black lines have become gray and spotted.

 

An 85-year-old white man near by is speaking Xhosa flawlessly, puzzling most in the room. He was raised by missionary’s in the eastern cape and has a lifelong familiarity with the tongue; a rare but incredible asset to any team within prison. He pulls out a canon camera and slowly takes pictures as people wonder if he actually has clearance for it.

 

A 20-year-old missionary struggles to understand the broken English of one of her students. The jetlag from her flight from Zambia still taxing her, she uses another inmate to translate from Afrikaans. She has spent the last year traveling through Africa, chasing Gods calling into Prisons all over the continent. She will celebrate her 21 birthday here in Cape Town and will be away from most all friends and family.

 

Lastly, an aspiring author with writers block sits next to a 21-year-old convicted murderer named Ronaldo. The accountant poses a question to the group – how many people have we killed that we’ve never been caught for. With a sigh he raises his hand. When called on, he looks at his shoes with a childlike embarrassment and softly says one word. “Seven”.

 

At the age of 21, Ronaldo has killed nine people, seven of those families have never found justice. Seven families with questions have never had them answered. Seven fathers and Seven mothers have lost a child and have no idea why. Those seven voices will never be heard again, a quick decision and a gun have ensured that.

 

And so we march – all 7 of us. An actress, an accountant, a sheep farmer and an ex gangster. An 85-year-old man with a unique talent, a 20-year-old girl with a unique heart and an aspiring author; we march. We march into Pollsmoor and speak for those who cannot. For those who have had their voices taken, those who deserve to see justice and hear answers, we march. Through these disgusting halls – to meet with these broken people, we march.

We have not been murdered and that is why we are here – To stand for those seven who were.

That their lives may live on and that their loss may bring change. That their voices may be heard in the weeping of those left behind and that life would be found, despite death.

 

Until flags may be raised,

 

D.M.