Over the weekend I had a talk with some friends about what life must have been like for people our age, 100 years ago. We wondered what was different, not just in terms of infrastructure and the several freedoms we enjoy today, but also about our culture.  What would they have thought of how the Zimbabwean culture has evolved and the point at which it now is?

Culture is by definition: “An integrated pattern of human knowledge, belief, and behaviour that depends upon the capacity for symbolic thought and social learning. The set of shared attitudes, values, goals, and practices that characterizes an institution.” (Wikipedia)

This definition implies the need for a societal effort to store and share this acquired knowledge and belief systems. This in itself is now much harder to achieve, as many parts of the modern Zimbabwean society are no longer enjoy the communal living of old.  Some knowledge that was once shared in a communal setting is now passed on more privately, or not at all. I feel that, it is in personalizing and becoming private about some aspects of our culture that we are losing the plot. It is definitely among the reasons I feel I know as little about my culture. I mean, do you think much privacy existed back then?

Some would then argue the culture is ever changing, and that this is just one of the many adaptations Zimbabwean culture has made. After all, the very essence of cultural development is firmly rooted in continually linking already acquired knowledge, with new ideas for its modification. Despite truth of this statement, it still saddens me to think about how much knowledge has been lost along the way, as that past knowledge seems not to have stood the test of time.

The link between culture and language is one that cannot be ignored. Many view language as the verbal manifestation of culture. And even though the majority of human communication is non-verbal, language, is another way cultural practices and values are passed on. Zimbabwe has 5 regularly spoken languages, namely, Shona, Ndebele, English, Kalanga and Tonga. It would be interesting to know how much these languages have evolved over the last century, and if indeed, we would even understand each other, if given the opportunity. If a man of woman from Rhodesia 100 years ago were to go into the Harare CBD right now and merely ask for directions in Chizezuru, would they understand them? Are we too far gone or is there still resemblance with our ancestors from colonial times?

Is the stigma of AIDS as devastating, if not more than the disease itself?
Kenneth Cole

I was part of a discussion with a group of youths about getting tested for HIV. One of the guys, let’s call him Fred, wanted to go and get tested, but he was afraid to go it alone. He asked his ‘Boyz’ if they would come and get tested with him, and this is where the drama started! The ‘Boyz’ said things like, “I’ll come with you and even hold your hand, for moral support. But I will NEVER get tested!” I felt sorry for him, because he desperately wanted to know his status, but was too petrified to do it alone. I asked them why getting tested was such a big no-no, and they basically said that they were scared and ashamed of dying of AIDS and would rather go on living in blissful ignorance, and then, die anyway. Sadly, these ‘Boyz’ represent a vast majority of Zimbabwe’s youth.

So, why are so many people scared of AIDS? Looking back early HIV/AIDS awareness and prevention campaigns in Zimbabwe, it is not difficult to see why. AIDS was depicted as this beastly killer that savagely tortured it’s victims until they withered away and eventually died, pitiful shadows of their former selves. I remember the ‘AIDS IS A DEADLY KILLER DISEASE!’ posters that were plastered all around my primary school. There was not so much information about the disease then. All we knew was that people who got it were bad people, who got it doing bad things, and that it kills. That was all we needed to know.

Looking at the history of HIV/AIDS in Zimbabwe, we see that most people never admitted to having the disease. People came up with all sorts of phrases, (The silent killer; A long illness; Ari muBhazi (Shona)), to avoid having to say AIDS. This culture of shame and secrecy surrounding the disease still has a strong hold on us today. Even now, when we have so much more information on HIV/AIDS that can dispel a lot of the cultivated myths and counteract our earlier mis-education on the disease, people are still ashamed, secretive and scared to talk about it. One can’t talk openly about AIDS without encountering some prejudice and apprehension. This has to change, because the reality is that people are dying needlessly.

What’s most alarming is that we can’t be absolutely sure of the number of people who are infected, (as demonstrated by the ‘Boyz’), since so few people actually get tested for HIV (about 5%), mainly because having a positive HIV status is viewed as iniquitous and disgraceful or as a death sentence. This stigma leads to discrimination of those infected and prevents more people from admitting to their status, getting tested and seeking treatment and psycho-social support. It is important for us to find was to destroy this stigma and render it powerless in Zimbabwe, with the aim to increase awareness and reduced infection in youth, because let’s face it, our youth are having sex earlier and earlier, and condoms are not exactly cool. If they continue to behave like this, they WILL get infected. But, will we never know this for sure, if they are they are so scared and unwilling to get tested?

In fighting the stigma and we can follow the examples of the late Natasha Richardson, (whose father died of the disease), and was involved in countless fund-raising efforts for HIV/AIDS research, and ex-NBA basket-baller, ‘Magic’ Johnson, who in 1992 began a life-long, HIV/AIDS awareness, education, and prevention campaign, when he announced to the world that he was HIV positive.

From a logical point of view, one would want to know their status as soon as possible, in order that they may get on proper medication, and live as long a life as they can. But when faced with the reality of a positive HIV status, all that logic/reason flies out of the window, and ignorance and fear take over. Let’s fight stigma so more can feel encouraged to know their status, stay protected and truly live positively.

I’m at my best first thing in the morning, hair sticking out at all angles and a face that needs ironing.  The kids, on the other hand, wake up as though they’d never slept – their eyes might be a bit droopy, but the energy bubbles just under the surface.  Such “tail-wagging” is reserved for the weekend of course, when I want to lie in.  On a school day they have to be coaxed from bed and scooped into their uniforms with a shoe spoon.  Daniel never has his hair brushed, and ignoring his feet, I sometimes only realize he’s forgotten his shoes when we get to Tyla’s school (having removed them to jump on the bed).  Tyla has her hair brushed, but inevitably the skirt is rucked to the side, her shirt is partially untucked and her socks are inexorably slinking south – and this is how we arrive at school.  Carrying satchels and silkworms and mulberry tree leaves and flowers and extra glitter (Xmas is almost upon us – the decorations are going up, and come December 24 we will all be ready to murder anyone who sings “jingle bells”!).

But at the weekend, you are prodded and whispered at and when Daniel gets impatient you might get a finger full of slobber in your ear – otherwise known as the “wet willy.”

So I started writing this on Sunday morning, closer to 5am than 6.  Aunt Jen gave Daniel some fishing lures; plastic worms with all sorts of wiggly bits and colours to fool the fish, and both kids have taken great delight in hiding them where I will inadvertently find them.  My shrieks, the first genuine, the rest contrived it must be admitted, are mirrored by happy squeals and giggles.  As I sip my coffee, they are busy planting lures all over the bed where Graham is still sleeping, or trying to, their giggles are hard to suppress and tip-toeing is out of the question.  I am unashamed at having made the suggestion and obstinately ignore the lure wedged between my toes.  It must be the best part of my day.

Louise (not her real name), fell pregnant at a crucial stage in her life. After having passed her A Levels with flying colours, she decided that when she grew up, she wanted to be a doctor, and had just been awarded a scholarship at a university in South Africa, to study medicine. She was on an all-time high and felt nothing could get her down, until her period just would not come. After a month of avoiding the issue, Louise realized the issue would not resolve itself, and that she had to tell Frank, (the then, love-of-her-life). And how would she even tell her family and friends? How could she face the shame? She also worried about her well-earned scholarship. Having this baby would ruin her life. Plus, being a mum was hard work. She had seen her older cousin struggle with her 2year old son. ‘No!’ she decided. ‘I will not have this baby!’

She bled for days after the procedure and grew frightened that it would never stop, and that she would die. Since she told no one that she had been pregnant to begin with, she attributed the heavy bleeding to her periods (which, luckily, were quite bad themselves), and stayed in bed for days, only getting up to freshen up when she got too messy. The subsequent weight-loss she blamed on anxiety about starting her medical degree, and they all believed her, which strangely enough, made her secret that much harder to bear. As she bled and weakened, Frank secretly moved on with someone else, who wasn’t sick all the time. He would later tell her that they needed a break from each other. How could he? She had done it all, in part, for him!

She eventually went to university, and although she thrived academically, emotionally and socially, Louise was a tortured soul, steering clear of any intimacy in fear that people might find out her shameful secret. Her secret always weighed heavy on her heart and mind. When time came for her to specialize, Louise decided that she would dedicate her life to helping women give life. A qualified, successful gynecologist, the now married Louise has attained all she thought the unwanted pregnancy would have prevented her from achieving. She has 2 beautiful children and one could say she is living her former self’s dream, except that something is amiss. With every child she successfully delivers, Louise feels as though she has paid a small amount towards a never-ending debt to humanity. In a twisted way, her job makes her feel better about what she did. But when a patient loses her baby, she seems the most hard-hit.

Louise now shares her secret with many young girls who have not yet made the decision she made all those years ago. She speaks with them about the psychological effects of her experience. “There is a gaping hole in my heart that cannot be filled. No matter what I do, or who I become, I just can’t move on. Looking back, I can’t help but wonder what that child might have been. I can’t honestly say that I regret having all the things I have today, that I might have had to sacrifice if I had had my baby, but when I look at my sons and feel that they are not enough. My family will never be complete.”

There is no feeling like the joy one feels when he/she lets Jesus Christ into their heart. The term “being born again” is a more than apt description of this experience. It literally feels as though you’ve been re-introduced into this world with renewed vigour, your mind and heart converted and restored to their intended state of purity and clarity. It’s like being given a clean, fresh start. Many say, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

However, with the sudden surge in the number of different churches in Zimbabwe, many people are now being born and re-born, again and again. I’m sure we are all familiar with people, (each of us knows at least 3), who bounce about from church to church, searching for the light of salvation. We’ve watched them at this crusade and that revival, each time, re-dedicating their lives to Jesus and once again experiencing this re-birth of the spirit, and transformation of the heart and mind. Every time you meet these people, they are worshiping at a new church (usually the latest).

It used to be that one remembered the time they received salvation. I know many people who even remembered the exact date, and related details of this momentous occasion, like one would remember their wedding day, or the day the day their only child was born. Yet, with so many now opting for spiritual transience, how do they keep track of the many times they have been saved or indeed, the last time they saw the light?

In the bible, a man named Nicodemus asked Jesus, “How can a man be born again?” However, with things the way they are, I feel the question should now be “How many times can a person be born again?”