Heavy Burdens | Just like women in the marketplace, South African teachers also carry a heavy load.

A crowded public bus sputters through the suburban hills outside Durban, South Africa, on a cloudy Wednesday morning. Jammed with people, the bus jostles a tangled mass of bodies, swaying against each other and jockeying for position. Standing in the crowd is a schoolteacher named Lungie Zama.

Because she doesn't own a car, Mrs. Zama must endure the congested bus to get to school each day. "Move back!" a man shouts angrily at people in the aisle. More passengers squeeze on board.

Statistically, for every five people boarding the bus, at least one of them has HIV or AIDS. The pandemic of AIDS threatens the entire globe, but the province of KwaZulu-Natal has the highest rate of infection with HIV in South Africa, according to UNAIDS, a United Nations-affiliated program.

Yet on the bus, and across the society, the insidious problem is virtually unseen. Because of fear, ignorance and cultural stigmas, people desperately and cleverly hide the disease.

Mrs. Zama has had friends die from the disease, and one of her nieces. "As a Christian I can't ignore HIV," says Mrs. Zama, 47. "I must do something."

But how can one woman—especially a teacher at a poor school—do anything about such a widespread problem?

Today she goes to school. After a 90-minute ride, Mrs. Zama steps off the bus, carrying a large purse and a bag of books over her shoulder. The bus disappears in a puff of diesel smoke. Mrs. Zama joins a flock of children and other teachers as they amble up a gravel road toward her school.

Makhapha Primary School includes children in grades kindergarten through 10. The poor suburb is mostly populated by Zulus, the largest ethnic group in South Africa.

A barbed-wire fence surrounds the perimeter of the schoolyard. The school consists of six industrial buildings with metal roofs and a gravel parking lot. In the distance, a variety of dwellings dot the rolling green hills: houses, decaying shanties and thatched huts.

Mrs. Zama grew up in these same hills.

When she was young, Mrs. Zama dreamed of being a teacher. It was a high aspiration: Teaching is one of the most influential professions in South Africa.

Mrs. Zama's accomplishments far exceed a typical teacher. She recently finished her master's degree in education and plans to pursue her doctorate. "If I want to be a good teacher I must remain a student," she says.

Reminiscent of a tornado siren, the morning school bell wails, and the students quickly filter into classrooms. Clad in faded uniforms, even the girls have hair shaved short to deter the spread of lice.

Mrs. Zama walks into a classroom, and sets down her purse and books. More than 50 children occupy the room, packed three students to a desk. "Let's be quiet, grade seven," says Mrs. Zama in a powerful voice. The steady murmur hushes, and the students face forward.

	Big Business | Hospices, like the Sukuma Wenze Place of Care (above), are overfilled.

The children appear healthy, normal. Yet many are HIV orphans, and some may even have the disease themselves. In the last five years, there has never been a public case of HIV at Makhapha, though some students have died mysteriously from illnesses that point to the disease. "HIV is a silent killer to the people of South Africa," she says. "People pretend as if it is not there."

One of Mrs. Zama's students has missed school for more than two months because of tuberculosis—in many cases a telltale sign of HIV. Since it attacks a person's immune system, HIV can hide behind a mask of many other health problems.

Concerned for her student, Mrs. Zama went to visit the 15-year-old girl, Ntombifuthi Nojiyeza, yesterday after school. The girl was coughing constantly and appeared much thinner than Mrs. Zama remembered. Ntombifuthi's parents haven't taken her to get an HIV blood test—perhaps from fear or ignorance. So a cloud of the hypothetical hangs over the family.

In the area where Mrs. Zama teaches, often there is a gap of knowledge between the students and their parents. Many of the parents are illiterate, she says, and they have little or no understanding of HIV.

Six years ago, the department of education made HIV and AIDS teaching mandatory in South Africa's schools. Twenty-four of the schools near Durban use a curriculum from CrossRoads, a ministry of Campus Crusade for Christ (for more, visit CrossRoads' web site at www.crossroadslink.org). Called Life Skills, the program equips teachers to help students stop the spread of HIV and AIDS by teaching them about character, using Jesus as the role model.

"We are fighting a battle that no one can win on their own," says Nami Mchunu, chief education specialist with the South African Department of Education. "We see CrossRoads as a complement to what we have already been doing in the schools."

An evangelist by nature, Mrs. Zama sees CrossRoads as a way to talk about her faith with her students. While the curriculum can also be taught by a non-Christian teacher, the purpose is the same: to teach the children character and values so they'll make good decisions and avoid life-threatening problems. In KwaZulu-Natal, the enemy is HIV and AIDS.

Mrs. Zama must juggle the CrossRoads lessons with her regular curriculum. In total, she teaches about three hours of CrossRoads a week. Today she is teaching it to her second-period class of seventh-graders.

"What are some things that hinder our lives?" she asks the class.

Hands shoot in the air.

"Smoking."

"Drugs."

"HIV."

"HIV is the consequence of something," says Mrs. Zama, scanning the room. "What is it?"

"Sex?" a girl with bottle-thick glasses says, sheepishly.

In South Africa, sex has long been a taboo subject. Because people avoided talking about sex, HIV spread more rapidly. In Mrs. Zama's classroom, the children grow comfortable talking about it—focusing on abstinence and respect, not experimentation.

The day's teaching is one of the first lessons in the CrossRoads curriculum—a foundation Mrs. Zama will build on throughout the year. In a few months, she will show the children the JESUS film, a movie based on the Gospel of Luke. Later they will discuss topics like loving others, intimacy and marriage, and how to say "No."

Urgent Lesson | AIDS education in the South African school system didn't start until the late 1990s, according to the department of education. By then the problem was already widespread.

But the results will take time. "Character doesn't change in three weeks," says John Templehoff, regional director of CrossRoads for KwaZulu-Natal. "CrossRoads is something that takes a long time to implement." Its effects will take months, even years to see. And even then, you can only prove the changes anecdotally, says John.

It's lunchtime, and Mrs. Zama chats in her native language of Zulu with several other teachers around a table, eating casually. Meanwhile, the students devour rice and beans so they can use the time to play.

Nearby, eight teenage boys play soccer with a small rubber ball. "I'm Nomvete [a well-known South African soccer player]," says one of the boys as he spins and dribbles the ball. Meanwhile, his friend acts as announcer, complete with British accent: "Oh, this chap can play."

Lounging on another part of the schoolyard is a 10th-grader named Blessing Mbokazi. The 17-year-old, who wears a shabby blue tie, says he has decided to abstain from sex because of the things he heard in Mrs. Zama's class. He knows it won't be easy. "Girls are so pretty," he says, "and if you have had sex with different girls, you are recognized as a man."

Standing next to him and a few inches taller is his 17-year-old peer, Blessing Maphumulo. He and the other Blessing are friends, but the two boys have chosen different routes. In the last two months, he has had sex with four different girls. "I worry about HIV," he says, "but I always use a condom.

"I felt like I was old enough to have sex, so I went for it," he says, grinning slyly. "A person must do as their heart wishes."

His responses are common. A lot of teenagers look at HIV with a "not me" mentality, ignoring reality.

AIDS is a reality for 18-year-old Ncamisile Cele, who waits to die at a nearby hospice. "I have a constant pain in my bones and I can't keep food down," she says, slouching in a white hospital bed. Her limbs have withered; hope has drained from her face. A nurse wears a mask—for Ncamisile's protection, not her own.

Ncamisile found out she had the deadly disease nine months ago, after giving birth to a child. When she tested positive for HIV, her boyfriend abandoned her. The culture pretends she doesn't exist, yet here she is. From the young girl's room, Ncamisile can hear the shouts of children at recess at a school across the street.

Back at Makhapha, Mrs. Zama is in the middle of English class. "Listen while I read this passage aloud," she tells a room of 10th-graders. "The modern electronic revolution has changed the world of business completely." Participation is limited; a few students fight sleep, eyes glazing over.

Mrs. Zama takes off her glasses and wipes the exhaustion from her own eyes.

Some days Mrs. Zama wonders if being a teacher is worth it—the bus-ride hassles, unruly students, the crowded classrooms. "We are understaffed," Mrs. Zama says with a sigh. "We have 14 teachers for 700 students."

	Influential | Mrs. Zama is highly respected in the community.

Not only that, Mrs. Zama and her husband Langa, 49, have young people in their home to worry about. Wendy, 19, is the daughter of a relative and has lived with them since she was young. Lulu, Mrs. Zama's 21-year-old niece, who attends the nearby university, has also lived with the Zamas for two years. Both women are well-versed in modern culture.

"I'm a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world, ooh whoa, ooh whoa," sings Wendy, swooshing her arms like she's in a Durban nightclub.

"I worry about them," says Mrs. Zama, "because I don't know what they do when they are away from our eyes."

Mrs. Zama hopes that CrossRoads will empower youth, like her nieces, to make the right choices. And it's not just knowledge that will help teach students to avoid HIV and AIDS—it's faith. "Jesus is the answer to them," she says. "A person must change on the inside first."

Jesus changed Mrs. Zama's life 16 years ago. Attending a Christian club at the school where she taught, she heard a speaker urge the crowd to commit their lives to follow God. Mrs. Zama accepted the challenge; it was a turning point for her faith. Her character began to change gradually, day by day.

She wants others to experience this powerful process too. That's why during some of the Life Skills classes, Mrs. Zama invites the students to stay after school to learn more about Jesus.

One of the students who stayed was a 14-year-old boy named Lindani Ncube. Using a Four Spiritual Laws booklet, Mrs. Zama explained how to begin a personal relationship with God. That day, Lindani indicated a decision to follow Christ. "I want my friends to know that God is good and He is the way to freedom," he says.

With Jesus as his role model, the things he learned through CrossRoads have even greater power. "If you get HIV, you cannot reach your goals," says Lindani, who wants to be a policeman when he grows up. "You'll end up dead."

A 15-year-old girl named Nonkululeko Mkhize also stayed after school and indicated a decision to follow Christ. "If Jesus is in your life, you do not use drugs," she says. "And sexual intercourse is not allowed."

She says it like she means it, like someone who has developed a firm resolve. "I will make good decisions because I love and respect myself," she says. "I don't want to be walked on like the carpet on the floor."

Over the years, Mrs. Zama has taught CrossRoads to hundreds of students. And while not all of them listen to her, some will stay strong and make good decisions. Others will become statistics—adding to the swelling death toll in South Africa.

But there's hope. With Jesus, change can become a reality. And so Mrs. Zama presses on.

As the last bell of the day rings at Makhapha Primary School, the students empty the classrooms with fresh energy. A little later, Mrs. Zama slowly picks up her purse and her bag of books. She saunters down the hill and waits a few moments. A crowded bus pulls up and the schoolteacher squeezes on.

You can contact the writer at Chris.Lawrence@ccci.org.