I am a Zimbabwean.
Those four words suffer the distinction of not being neutral. They cannot be said and leave one unmoved, and depending on the person you are speaking to, on the context, and their level of honesty with you; their reactions can range from mirth, mocking laughter, sympathy, pity, suspicion all they way to downright contempt.
You see the country I come from, if by some strange connivance of the gods you were born yesterday, suffers the distinction of having imploded -spectacularly imploded may I add. Of going from being one of the African continents richest countries with nicknames such as Africa's Paradise and Little England to being on the headlines of all the major news outlets for all the wrong reasons. You name it we've done it - we've run out of our own money at one point with queues stretching blocks as people waited for banks to get their hands on a few banknotes. Shortage? You name it we've managed to finish it: water, electricity, petrol, foreign currency, bread, oil.... Headline? We've been there, done it: Cholera (in a 21st century country with what was an excellent health system), starvation, too much food, poverty, wealth, from the hilarious to the sad to the downright nonsensical.
Another third world country you say? What's new about that? Well perhaps it's the irony of it all. A country with Africa's highest literacy rate, that is home to one of the seven natural wonders of the world (click here to see this awesome BBC doccie on the Victoria Falls), breathtaking scenery and fertile farmland, a country that hasn't known a state of war for over three decades, a country that in the nineties looked at South Africa and shook its head in pity before taking a sip of tea in its perfectly manicured gardens and admiring the jacaranda's. Perhaps its karma being the infamous bitch that I hear she is, perhaps it is the side effects of chasing out tens of thousands of people based on the colour of their skin (reverse racism anyone?), perhaps that's just the way life works but it is what it is.
So here I am, a Zimbabwean stuck 11,804.9 km away from the place of my birth. I should be content no? One of the lucky four million Zimbabweans to have left (read escaped) Zimbabwe's implosion. My friends assure me that I am so lucky, that I should already start forgetting Zimbabwe and plan on settling in Europe forever. Armed with a European degree what could seem easier? But the issue of those four words remains. The words that are hardly ever neutral, the words that remind me so much of the phrase that Aurther Mutambara once said to us a few years ago, "You will never be respected as a person until your country is respected".
No other place in the world will never have the right to deport me. No other place in the world is a place where the sky is as blue as the eyes of God, where the rain thunders in summer with all the awesome terror that heaven can muster. Even as I walk through the boulevards of Paris and admire the many (many) statues built in honour of 'Liberté | Egalité | Fraternité' the French fought and died for, the thought comes, unwanted but insistent, they did not fight for me. My liberty was fought for and paid for somewhere else, my dreams were paid for in blood in another hemisphere and they that died for me did not die so that I could dream in French.
They died so I could dream in Ndebele, so I could say I am Zimbabwean without being apprehensive or regretful. They died in the hope that one day all children could learn in world class schools, strive to be whatever they wanted to be. They left their kraals and huts in South Africa to be burnt by Shaka's murderous wrath to begin a new life in a land they had never seen before but certainly must have dreamed of as they crossed the Limpopo river so long ago.
What must it have been like to stare down Shaka Zulu, the most powerful man in what was their world, and tell him where to stick it? What must have it been like to face the incoming hordes of Europeans armed with guns and the bible (a lethal combination: the only thing worse than a conqueror is one armed with theology) come to take their land and still have the courage to fight. What must have it been like to think back to simpler days and know they they were forever gone but go to sleep in the hope that one day it would be okay. They dreamed, so long ago, they dreamed and I am the product of that dream. I am the flesh incarnate of their wishes, their hopes and everything that was good about them. And I am reminded of Einstein's words, "A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labours of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving."
Let it be that one day, some Zimbabwean child's life will be easier because I existed, let it be that he never knows the pain of deprivation or the murderous toxin that is hatred for the world. Let their days begin with a laugh and let their days end with a smile. Let them not need to fly to far off lands to get medical treatment because world class hospitals are around the corner. Let them dream of applying to the local university to learn and feeling as proud as if they had gotten into Harvard, let them be able to look any idiot on God's green earth and say with all the pride they can muster, their heritage, their blood and their history lined up behind them, I am a Zimbabwean. And let the world respect them for that.
That's why I care.
Those four words suffer the distinction of not being neutral. They cannot be said and leave one unmoved, and depending on the person you are speaking to, on the context, and their level of honesty with you; their reactions can range from mirth, mocking laughter, sympathy, pity, suspicion all they way to downright contempt.
You see the country I come from, if by some strange connivance of the gods you were born yesterday, suffers the distinction of having imploded -spectacularly imploded may I add. Of going from being one of the African continents richest countries with nicknames such as Africa's Paradise and Little England to being on the headlines of all the major news outlets for all the wrong reasons. You name it we've done it - we've run out of our own money at one point with queues stretching blocks as people waited for banks to get their hands on a few banknotes. Shortage? You name it we've managed to finish it: water, electricity, petrol, foreign currency, bread, oil.... Headline? We've been there, done it: Cholera (in a 21st century country with what was an excellent health system), starvation, too much food, poverty, wealth, from the hilarious to the sad to the downright nonsensical.
Another third world country you say? What's new about that? Well perhaps it's the irony of it all. A country with Africa's highest literacy rate, that is home to one of the seven natural wonders of the world (click here to see this awesome BBC doccie on the Victoria Falls), breathtaking scenery and fertile farmland, a country that hasn't known a state of war for over three decades, a country that in the nineties looked at South Africa and shook its head in pity before taking a sip of tea in its perfectly manicured gardens and admiring the jacaranda's. Perhaps its karma being the infamous bitch that I hear she is, perhaps it is the side effects of chasing out tens of thousands of people based on the colour of their skin (reverse racism anyone?), perhaps that's just the way life works but it is what it is.
So here I am, a Zimbabwean stuck 11,804.9 km away from the place of my birth. I should be content no? One of the lucky four million Zimbabweans to have left (read escaped) Zimbabwe's implosion. My friends assure me that I am so lucky, that I should already start forgetting Zimbabwe and plan on settling in Europe forever. Armed with a European degree what could seem easier? But the issue of those four words remains. The words that are hardly ever neutral, the words that remind me so much of the phrase that Aurther Mutambara once said to us a few years ago, "You will never be respected as a person until your country is respected".
No other place in the world will never have the right to deport me. No other place in the world is a place where the sky is as blue as the eyes of God, where the rain thunders in summer with all the awesome terror that heaven can muster. Even as I walk through the boulevards of Paris and admire the many (many) statues built in honour of 'Liberté | Egalité | Fraternité' the French fought and died for, the thought comes, unwanted but insistent, they did not fight for me. My liberty was fought for and paid for somewhere else, my dreams were paid for in blood in another hemisphere and they that died for me did not die so that I could dream in French.
They died so I could dream in Ndebele, so I could say I am Zimbabwean without being apprehensive or regretful. They died in the hope that one day all children could learn in world class schools, strive to be whatever they wanted to be. They left their kraals and huts in South Africa to be burnt by Shaka's murderous wrath to begin a new life in a land they had never seen before but certainly must have dreamed of as they crossed the Limpopo river so long ago.
What must it have been like to stare down Shaka Zulu, the most powerful man in what was their world, and tell him where to stick it? What must have it been like to face the incoming hordes of Europeans armed with guns and the bible (a lethal combination: the only thing worse than a conqueror is one armed with theology) come to take their land and still have the courage to fight. What must have it been like to think back to simpler days and know they they were forever gone but go to sleep in the hope that one day it would be okay. They dreamed, so long ago, they dreamed and I am the product of that dream. I am the flesh incarnate of their wishes, their hopes and everything that was good about them. And I am reminded of Einstein's words, "A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life are based on the labours of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving."
Let it be that one day, some Zimbabwean child's life will be easier because I existed, let it be that he never knows the pain of deprivation or the murderous toxin that is hatred for the world. Let their days begin with a laugh and let their days end with a smile. Let them not need to fly to far off lands to get medical treatment because world class hospitals are around the corner. Let them dream of applying to the local university to learn and feeling as proud as if they had gotten into Harvard, let them be able to look any idiot on God's green earth and say with all the pride they can muster, their heritage, their blood and their history lined up behind them, I am a Zimbabwean. And let the world respect them for that.
That's why I care.
