ANGELS IN THE DUST

From the executive producers of An Inconvenient Truth, Angels in the Dust is the inspiring story of Marion Cloete, a university-trained therapist who “with her husband and two daughters” fearlessly walked away from a privileged life in a wealthy Johannesburg suburb to establish Botshabelo, an extraordinary village and school that provides shelter, food, and education to more than 550 South African Children.

ABOUT FILM

Angels in the Dust is a story of hope and healing in the face of a staggering crisis. AIDS is leaving entire South African villages decimated and thousands of children orphaned, with no adults to raise them. The inspiring story of Marion Cloete, a university-trained therapist who with her husband and three daughters fearlessly walked away from a privileged life in a wealthy Johannesburg suburb to build Botshabelo, an extraordinary village and school that provides shelter, food, and education to more than 550 South African children.

Angels in the Dust is the true story of Marion and the orphans she cares for. The stories of the children are interwoven with the dramatic parallel saga of the orphaned elephants of Pilanesberg National Park in South Africa. The longtime government practice of culling brutally killing adult elephants to control herd sizes has torn apart the complex social fabric of elephant culture, a fabric that is not unlike that of the traditionally close-knit African village before Apartheid. Because the elephant society has been torn apart by culling, orphaned elephants have grown up exhibiting unusually violent behavior, such as attacking and goring rhinos. In the last few years, elder female elephants have been re-introduced into the Pilanesberg population in the hopes of resocializing the young. The experiment is working and it offers a resonant reflection of the healing taking place for the human children being reparented by Marion at Botshabelo.

DIRECTOR’S INTENT

Before deciding to make this documentary, I heard many stories of the HIV/AIDS pandemic in South Africa but what affected me most was the vast number of children afflicted by the virus. South Africa is among the hardest hit nations in the world, with more AIDS orphans than any other country. South Africa also has one of the highest incidences of rape and child rape in the world.

There are currently two million orphans in South Africa, 1.2 million of whom have lost one or both parents to AIDS. In 2005, AIDS was the cause of parental death for 48% of all newly orphaned children in South Africa. These numbers are expected to rise over the next seven to 10 years. The most serious and lasting consequence of the African AIDS pandemic is its impact on children. Historically, African orphans have been taken in by grandparents, extended family members, friends or neighbors but the magnitude of the AIDS crisis has simply overwhelmed these traditional safety nets, leaving orphans to fend for themselves. Many live in child-headed households, where the eldest raises the younger siblings; others end up living on the streets. Without parents or caregivers to provide for and protect them, orphaned children often suffer from abject poverty, hunger and poor health and are victims of violence or sexual coercion. Many lose access to education, thereby furthering this cycle of poverty and deprivation, often for their lifetimes.

These reports and statistics made me very angry. Then I found the Boikarabelo orphanage. My film centers on the compelling and charismatic founder of the orphanage, Marion Cloete and her incredible young charges, orphans suffering from AIDS and the terrible effects of all the afore-mentioned ills. Marion and her immediate family chose a spiritual world over a material one, devoting their lives to this orphanage so that these children have a chance at a better life because of it. The Cloetes walked away from a privileged life in Johannesburg over 15 years ago to found this orphanage and have experienced tough times but never regretted their decision. The Cloete family demonstrates courage, tolerance, forgiveness and a love of humanity that I have never encountered anywhere.

FILMMAKERS

Director: Louise Hogarth
Writer: Louise Hogarth
Producers: Louise Hogarth, James Egan
Editors: Melinda Epler, May Rigler
Camera: May Rigler
Composer: Simphiwe Dana
Exec Producer: Participant Productions

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LETTER FROM MARION

This is a letter written by Marion Cloete, the founder of Botshabelo, which describes a day in their life of her family and the orphaned children who reside at Botshabelo. Bothshabelo means a resting place for these orphaned children.

It’s freezing, but I have to finish taking the last of the babies and some teenagers to the toilet. It is 2:00 clock in the morning, the only sound, is the sleeping children all 98 of us. Some children whimper in their sleep while we hustle the babies to bed, the cement floor sends up waves of freezing air. Our home is large but has too many holes to count. I wake up through waves of tiredness, it is time to wake up, and for a moment, I wonder what the new day will bring. Dire poverty and all its permutations make each day unpredictable. 

Doves, the undertakers who help us with cheap burials send for me, my daughters and the foster children follow me. Well that’s it my day has started for me. I see the coffin is for a child of 10 and not a one-day-old baby! Robert, the undertaker apologizes; they were out of baby coffins. The mother a 15 year old comes and stands next to me as she slips her hand into mine. Her 15-year old face strained and drawn, the baby strapped on her back that she had at 13. The father of the baby, not yet twenty, stands next to her, judgments and anger at the whole situation stay on my lips as I observe this time immemorial picture of poverty. The young father and mother, who look like an old couple, her bent over mother who is illiterate and stunned at dealing with yet another unexpected burden. As the lid is lifted, Richard my five-year-old grandson asks why we are burying a doll. The terrible bruises on her face testimony of her struggle to enter the world through a girl child and not a woman. She looks so small and isolated in the coffin, we decide to put in a soft toy next to her minute head. I watch as the children and adults move past the coffin giving her a blessing for her journey. Nobody cries, this is our life, most of the children filing past have been raped, lost a parent, relative or sibling from AIDS, experienced severe cold and or hunger or being abandoned. The face of poverty normally hidden from most people is our everyday companion. 

The funeral does not take long. I watch the children and adults looking forlornly towards the grave next to us, Israel, my foster son who died from kidney failure in May, his short life as a child diabetic so difficult. His biological mother’s absence from the funeral glaringly obvious, especially since she lives in the area. Israel, the abandonment cycle completed from birth to death. Not sure what Israel thinks of it but his sister and brother, Dipuo and Daniel carry the emotional strain in their posture, their shoulders bent over in pain and despair torn between supporting the teenage mother and their dead brother. Our eyes remain fixed on the small coffin there is no other place to look without seeing the grave of a mother, friend, brother or sister. 

I stare at Richard, the young boy who left his home in Zimbabwe after his mother died, traveling over 1000 kilometers before reaching our Village, crossed the border hiding on top of a truck. An adventure according to any persons standard, except when done for survival. He sees my glare to take his foot off Bennet’s grave, an eleven year old that died from a puff adder bite. Suddenly the tears come from all of us, for whom? Perhaps for all of us the witnesses and participants of a life that should not be happening in the 21st century. The sky a large open panorama of blue, streaked with wisps of cloud, the poignant singing hanging on the wind, we huddle closer to each other, knowing that while we are together we can endure. We bear the most appalling heartache and challenges but that is life and we have to continue. 

Lunch is rather a bland affair; we have run out of chicken heads, which a supplier gives to us, the attempt to make the soya and mealie meal tasty, fails without enough spices. 

Pauline, a young trust member calls me to examine one of our outreach woman who is in labour. I immediately call the ambulance, our closest hospital 45 kilometers away. I am worried about this delivery because she is HIV positive and needs to take her Nirviropene to reduce the transmission rate of mother to child infection. We debate amongst us whether to give her the Nirviropene, she has to take it at least two hours before the birth, and we give it to her. I leave a group of woman with her monitoring her contractions while I help my daughters feed, Gopalang and Palesa, 7 months old, both from HIV mothers. Gopalang known as our Box Baby, his mother left for hospital with AIDS when he was fourteen days old, and never returned, his father a farm laborer left him with an alcoholic granny who relegated him to an apple box for six months. The father brought him to us as a silent and frustrated baby unable to move much. I am interrupted to confirm that a snake caught is a puff adder. I phone to confirm with emergency services that they will collect it for their venom bank, the paramedics will take it with them. 

They are calling us for the birth, Con phones the Emergency Services, frantically trying to impress the urgency of the situation, they apologize, it is one of those days, they have lost [have died] three children consecutively at calls. They are trying their best to get to us. Too late! We have to call down the child’s angels and ours to help. Her cervix is completely dilated I realize that the baby’s head will crown any moment. We put on double gloves, hoping it will help. My daughter helping diverts my attention; I am worried about her being three months pregnant, around so much infected blood. My other daughter is phoning the nurse who helps us. The sister is nonchalant, joking that I am already experienced enough in birthing not to have to phone her. I know this but I have never seen a bubble coming out in front of the head. Suddenly we realized that this must be a cowl baby. As the baby begins to birth, my daughter and I try frantically to remove the sheath off her face so that she can breathe. The squeaking protest that comes from her small mouth ensures us that she has made it. Another Angel birth completed the possible birth complications pushed from my mind. I clip the cord in two places cut it and she begins her journey. Wrapped up warmly she is introduced to all the children waiting outside, who bless her, Lesedi (Light), Gabrielle Twala! Bafana all of 5 years becomes an uncle. The ambulance arrives, our joy and excitement of the birth, softens the strain on the faces of the paramedics who had to endure the pain and anguish of the families who lost the children. The mother and baby are in the back of the ambulance and the puff adder is in the front with the driver, the bucket well sealed. 

The children rush off to catch the last of the sun to finish their games; we wash the bedding. At last, we sit down to enjoy a cup of coffee together discussing the day. The setting sun gives us a spectacular showing, a blessing? These are nuances of humanity such as celebrations and grieving intertwined and complementary, no place to hide our acceptance and love added to this tapestry freeing us from fear and bitterness. We wonder what we are going to face tomorrow.