On Friday the Tree of Life team sat with parents from Epworth and Whitecliffe communities and heard about their fears  for their children.

This time last year
when the youth militia rampaged through their neighbourhoods in ‘preparation’ for the elections
the children went through the most terrifying ordeals one can imagine.
They were taken to the militia bases,
they watched their mothers being raped,
their fathers beaten and tortured
and they were beaten and raped themselves
they watched their houses being burned down
and their parents killed

the fabric of their lives destroyed

and a year later they still live in the ashes
with old memories haunting their dreams

Nothing has been done for the children

‘They visited hell’ said one mother who had her 8 year old son taken for 3 months
‘and they still live in fear – for it has not gone away
they are still training the militia for the next elections’

And then we began speaking of the healing
and of Chiyedza offering her skills in drama and counselling
to go out to the communities to help teach new ways of working
We heard people offer their small houses as venues
and their time to learn techniques of counselling
These people who have been stripped of their livelihoods
volunteering to help protect the orphans
and repair the damage
what little they had – they were prepared to share.

‘For these children are the parents of the new generations’ they said

Utterly shaken we came out of the meeting
to the news that the years funding we had asked for
had been reduced to a bridging loan for 3 months

Throughout civic society
those groups who, on meagre budgets, have helped with the healing
and with gathering the orphans
the groups that help hold the dignity of the nation
are struggling to survive

“there is no money for Zimbabwe (global economic crisis/ unstable government/uncertainty/hold up in funding/etc.) sorry for that”

so we have to wait
wait for the children
a year
a lifetime

It is mid-winter
the leaves are falling
the grass is dry
beige-gold world  lit by the first crimson lucky bean trees
and filled with butterflies

Back when I was a little girl, in Bulawayo, my sister and I would frequent the Indian grocery store down our road to buy ourselves the cheap fruity sweets that cost only a cent each.

“Warrr you want?” would ask the old Indian storekeeper’s wife, purring away in her broken English. At her question, we would let out a few unrepressed giggles, and then point to the clear jar on the counter, filled with the bright-coloured balls of sweets.

Meanwhile the storekeeper would be carrying on the most laughter-inducing conversations with one or other of his Zimbabwean employees. “You!” he would shout, “Hamba thatha sinkwa, faka lapha.”

In translation, this is an instruction, given in IsiNdebele, for the employee to go to the delivery van parked outside and bring in the loaves of bread ordered for the shop for that day.

But though understandable, the instructions would be given in what is often called ‘chilapalapa’ – language that is neither syntactically correct, nor complete, but which is coherent enough to be understood.

Because we were so young and laughed ruthlessly at the couple’s language gaffes, my sister and I were not the shop owners’ favourite customers at all.

In fact, the storekeeper’s wife eventually took to hiding that jar of one-cent sweets each time she saw us passing outside the shop window, just so we wouldn’t come in.

I often cringe when I think about how rude we were.

But as life would have it, today I find myself in the very same situation. Little children, probably the same age as I was, laugh at me now, each time I try to string together a sentence in German.  Suddenly, I am the foreigner whose thoughts are unintelligible!

What goes around, indeed, comes around!

Having been in Germany for three weeks now, and having taken a short German lesson course during that time, I feel it only right that I should try to blend in with the crowd with a few sentences in the local language.

But alas, my tongue almost always fails me when it comes to all those guttural sounds that one must produce when speaking German.

And this is why the little boys and girls tug at their mothers’ coats and laugh as I try to order a meal or find out how much something costs. Perhaps it’s better that I can’t understand what they will be saying to their mothers as they point at me, giggle then whisper in German!

How degrading it feels when the shoe is on the other foot!

But kids will be kids.

The grown-ups are always quite patient, though, and often willing to try their own shaky English when we can’t seem to click in German. And what ends up ensuing is an informative conversation in pure pidgin. “Where is die … err… die zug, please,” I might say, asking for directions to the train station. ( I always seem to get lost when I meander about on my own!) “Dast ist over ze,” the person might respond, pointing in the direction of the train station. “Ah, dankeschon,” I will respond, giving my thanks in unadulterated German, before scampering off to the station to bother yet another stranger with more of my Ger-nglish!

John 11 verse 35 is the shortest verse in the Christian Bible. And in its conciseness, it describes the pain that Jesus, one of the most prominent figures of history, felt at the death of a much-loved friend, Lazarus.

“Jesus wept,” it reads.

Jesus – a teacher and man of great esteem – was actually humble and unashamed enough to show his emotions.

But today, any man who dares let the floodgates of his innermost emotions fling open is derisively termed a ‘cry baby’ or ‘little girl’.

I got to thinking about this whole topic over the weekend after watching Roger Federer win his first ever French Open tennis title. As the Swiss national anthem played and his nation’s flag was raised, the guy just couldn’t hold back his elation and shed a few tears of release.

But while I enjoyed his show of honest emotion, many others thought he was just being a big baby. “He won so why is he crying?!” asked a perplexed friend. “Besides, it’s really embarrassing for a guy of his age to cry like that!”

I blame such attitudes on gendered socialisation whereby as children, little boys are often told not to cry because, as the saying goes, “Boys don’t cry.”

I remember meeting one little boy walking along the street with his father, bawling as though his life were at an end. “If you keep crying like that, I will buy you a dress and turn you into a girl,” scolded his father. “Would you like that?” The little boy, who couldn’t have been more that five years old, vigorously shook his head and almost instantly stopped crying. The thought of losing his male identity was far too much for him to bear.

See how from an early age, our gender identities are already fixed for us by our elders, leaving little room for adjustment?  And also note how crying is associated with femininity, and therefore weakness? Patriarchy is already at play.

So for a grown man to show open emotion is considered a watering down (excuse the unintended pun!) of his masculinity, and all the connotations of strength and braveness that this entails.

The very few times that I have witnessed men cry is upon the death of someone. And correct me if I am wrong, but more than often, men will only cry at the death of a male someone – that is, a father, brother or male friend.

I have seen men stand strong and firm at the loss of a wife or mother, but lose all composure at the loss of a father or close friend. And perhaps even more bizarrely, break down when their football team loses a cup final, or is relegated to a lower divison!

Once again, I think that our socialisation tells us that it is okay to cry for dad, but to cry for mum – the epitome of feminine gentleness and protection – implies that you are just a big baby. And it’s somehow also okay to cry if Manchester United loses the UEFA Champions’ League final because it’s a clique of guys involved in very masculine activity.

Let’s stop justifying when it’s okay for a man to cry and when it is not. People react differently to situations and it’s really not for anyone to gauge whether or not it’s right to cry at a certain event or time.

But the name-calling has to stop. And men ought to be free to express their emotions in whatever way they please.

Over the course of two years I attended nearly one hundred events in Harare where I intently listened to the incisive words of poets, fiction writers, spoken word artists, musicians­artistes if you like.  My ears and my mind soaked in poignant ideas thoughtfully assembled into analysis.  I felt the ways these engagements facilitate deeper understandings of both the beauty and pain which is Zimbabwe.

There was also something else that caught my ear.  Once performers have microphone in hand, so often they are all about their sisters and brothers.   And in all the possible combinations.  Women thank their brothers for supporting them.  Men praise the work of their sisters.  To express gratitude in these ways perhaps signals a sense of camaraderie, belief in the power of collective voice.   In fact, comrade was used almost as often as brother or sister.    My comrade, my sister, your words make me think.

Sister and brother usage also extends beyond opening salutations.  Often a piece is dedicated to a brother or a sister.   This is for my brothers out there in the diaspora who want to come home.  This is for my sisters struggling to get by.   The dedication again speaks to a connection.  To say I understand what challenges you face, my brother, my sister.  And I want my work, and what I say, to be part of what helps to overcome these challenges together.

Proceeding into the work, sisters and brothers are again everywhere.  Words trace and piece together what brothers and sisters experience.  Hardships, aspirations, successes, and a life course bound up in so much.  To lay bare the unfolding stories, ideas and individual experiences are made known by presenting sisters and brothers in dialogue.  Sometimes the conversation is to question the actions of another.  My comrade, my brother, I am a sister who sees the hypocrisy of your ways.  Other times, the conversation is to reflect and inform.  My comrade, my sister, I am a brother seeking freedom.

What I find interesting is that these are references to brothers and sisters who are simultaneously factual and fictional.  Or more there’s a play with words leading to emotive loss being expressed.  The sister and brother and the hardships they experience exist (fact).   Space free of suffering for the brother and sister does not (fiction).    It might seem that I’m reading too deeply into common speak, use of brother and sister.  I mean is there anything significant in how often people say:  Hey, how are you?  But no.  I think there is something much deeper going on with all the factual and fictional brothers and sisters floating around in the intellectual and creative airwaves.

I was telling someone the other day that collective organizing is untenable in Zimbabwe.  So what choice is there, but the individual.  To be one.  And to focus on them.  A brother.  A sister.  Each one a factual marker of the challenges so many individual people actually experience.   Each one continually thanked, referenced, and written about.   Each one central to expressing the hope that facts become fictions.   A yearning for factual markers to not represent spaces of suffering.  Spaces which today are largely fictional.   It’s a factual/fictional play on words expressing an extreme sense of loss of what used to be.  A time where one didn’t have to speak of their sisters and brothers in pain.  A time where the collective had more voice and more power. An attempt to commandeer words (brother and sister) in an effort to turn reality around.  To hope for and make suffering, not factual, but rather fictional.

Ok maybe this sounds like a wacky line of thought.  But listen carefully, not only to how much brother and sister are used, but also consider what emotions are going on when used.

Recently I was at a function in London when, upon introducing myself as a Zimbabwean, someone ventured to ask me a question I have become very much accustomed to now, ‘so, what has changed with this new government?’ In response I explained that as far as I was concerned, there had been no fundamental change in political direction and that the levers of power remain firmly in the hands of those who wielded power in 1980 and as such, we are not really in a new political dispensation as yet. The person who asked the question was clearly unimpressed, he pointed out that in fact he had information that ‘a lot of positive changes’ had taken place in Zimbabwe and cited the so-called miracle reduction of inflation from 231 million percent to just 1.1 percent as an example some of the positive changes that are not being highlighted. He then noted that Zimbabweans in the Diaspora and international media have a tendency of reporting only negative news on Zimbabwe because, he quipped, ‘good news does not sell.’ It appears this is a generally held view among some international observers which I wish to address in greater detail here.

Well, I do not see how my grandmother in Bikita would take comfort in the miraculous reduction in inflation because she still does not have access to foreign currency. The switch-over to use of foreign currency which cured inflation in one stroke may be significant to political elites but certainly makes little difference to ordinary men and women in Zimbabwe who continue to suffer. It is like focusing on improving working conditions for those who are employed when 94 percent of Zimbabweans are unemployed!

Personally, and I am confident many other Zimbabweans share this view, I desperately desire to hold great hope and optimism that Zimbabwe’s future is bright and that political change has come. I want to be able to proudly tell the world that Zimbabwe is open and ready for business. I want to tell anyone who cares to listen that my country is a beacon of democracy and persuade investors to rush to Zimbabwe and do business with my countrymen. It is my wish that l should tell the world that violence, human rights abuses, police brutality and repression belong to the past. Unfortunately, sadly, that would be untrue; I would be telling blatant lies if I were to lay claim to such things. Creating false hope and false images of change does not bring the desired change to Zimbabwe.

It appears to be that the desire to be ‘positive’ about Zimbabwe and project a positive image of Zimbabwe may have led some of our erstwhile colleagues who now occupy high political offices to massage the truth and polish the rough edges of reality in their presentation of the situation in Zimbabwe. All of a sudden, themselves victims a compromised and corrupt court system, because they are now part of government, they believe there is rule of law and that their colleagues who face various politically motivated charges must face trial by ‘impartial courts.’ One minister from the smaller MDC faction, when asked why farm violent farm invasions were continuing unabated responded, ‘government is broke, we do not have financial resources to deploy police to stop the invasions.’ Was this not precisely the same political excuse given by the police in 2000 when farm invasions began?

Clearly, but for reasons as yet unclear to me, many former advocates of rule of law and democracy who are now in government have become shameless liars quite ready and comfortable to sing from the same hymn book with those who once persecuted them.

Being frank and truthful about the minute changes that have taken place in Zimbabwe does not make one a pessimist. My great hope and optimism for Zimbabwe lies in the hope that there are many who will realize that the struggle for democracy and good governance does not end when one gets a seat at the high table; that is precisely when the struggle begins. Only the truth will set our leaders free, and, in the same vein, set us all free.

I recently discovered that I needed about US$400 to have my name changed to MGCINI NYONI, the name my father gave me. My father disappeared in the early eighties during the Gukurahundi madness. I was only about three or so. Along with thousands other Ndebele people he was hunted down by the notorious Korean trained fifth brigade. He was not a dissident like other thousands of people lying in mass graves somewhere. In some cases bellies of pregnant women were slit open by sadistic soldiers. Armored vehicles ran over the hands of school teachers as they lay on the ground. Entire villages were shot and killed, their homesteads burnt down because they did not know were the dissidents were. After the disappearance of my father, mother remarried and we assumed the surname of our stepfather. I know she meant well, may her soul rest in peace (we buried her mid last year). Thanks to Mugabe, I’m now an orphan. My family will have to go hungry for several months for me to be able to afford changing my name. Shouldn’t Mugabe pay for it and compensate me for the disadvantages I grew up with because I did not have a father who had been killed by forces sent by Mugabe to do some ethnic cleansing. His crime was belonging to the Ndebele tribe.