Let me tell you of a country I once knew
I've spent a good part of the last two days trying to think up a post that explains why I've been biting my nails since Saturday. Saturday was election day in Zimbabwe, the chance to finally get rid of Robert Mugabe who, during his 28 years as president, turned from lauded freedom fighter (please take with large grain of salt) to bull-headed despot and led the country into ruin. There is still no official result. Every indication points toward a victory for Morgan Tsvangirai, but that hasn't stopped Mugabe before.
So why do I care? In 1998 a twenty-year-old Ghani went to Zimbabwe to work with a youth project, and later travelled the country as garden variety backbacker. My relationship with the country is very different than to what binds me to Tanzania: there is a great deal of ambivalence there. I'm in the habit of keeping a journal when I go abroad. My Africa journal followed me when I moved to Ireland so I've done some reading to refresh my memories.
What I remember is that our project had to be relocated because the organisation didn't feel confident it could guarantee our safety. A short time before our arrival the seezing of white-owned commercial farms had started. I want to make clear here that I never felt in any danger at all, though.
I remember being invited to a wedding in Masvingo where I met young men who excitedly told me they were soldiers about to go to Congo to fight for freedom. I didn't know if I wanted to beat my head against the wall or start crying.
I remember meeting a young German medical student who'd just finished her practical year in a public hospital in Mutare. She spent an evening telling tales of things you'd never see in European hospitals because they'd have been treated way before the illnesses reached the final stadium: of tumours eating holes in stomachs, amputations with minimal anaesthesia, people dying of AIDS and people dying of AIDS and people dying of AIDS.
I remember, back at the project, wondering why there are so few people between twenty and thirty years of age around, and how many of the children at the school we lived at had the virus.
I remember staying at a hostel in Bvumba whose owners wouldn't accept the local currency because they had no idea how much it would be worth the next week.
I remember reading the newspaper and wondering if I'd be stuck in the country when the Big General Strike came.
I remember wondering in the subsequent years if any of the Zimbabwean boys I had met were now members of Mugabe's youth militia.
I remember a strange, beautiful, complicated country. I remember a country in trouble. That was 1998.
In 2008, Zimbabwe is on the edge of ruin. People are starving, unemployment is rampant, inflation is the highest in the world (the last number I heard was 150.000 %). Money isn't worth being used as toilet paper.
I want to know if Mugabe will display that love for his country he claims is his driving motor and accept the lost election so I can then start worrying which way the military will jump.
Further reading:
Key dates in Zimbabwe's recent history, 1998 - 2007 [Guardian]
Country profile: Zimbabwe [BBC]
Key role for Mugabe's security chiefs [BBC]
ETA: Follow-up post.
So why do I care? In 1998 a twenty-year-old Ghani went to Zimbabwe to work with a youth project, and later travelled the country as garden variety backbacker. My relationship with the country is very different than to what binds me to Tanzania: there is a great deal of ambivalence there. I'm in the habit of keeping a journal when I go abroad. My Africa journal followed me when I moved to Ireland so I've done some reading to refresh my memories.
What I remember is that our project had to be relocated because the organisation didn't feel confident it could guarantee our safety. A short time before our arrival the seezing of white-owned commercial farms had started. I want to make clear here that I never felt in any danger at all, though.
I remember being invited to a wedding in Masvingo where I met young men who excitedly told me they were soldiers about to go to Congo to fight for freedom. I didn't know if I wanted to beat my head against the wall or start crying.
I remember meeting a young German medical student who'd just finished her practical year in a public hospital in Mutare. She spent an evening telling tales of things you'd never see in European hospitals because they'd have been treated way before the illnesses reached the final stadium: of tumours eating holes in stomachs, amputations with minimal anaesthesia, people dying of AIDS and people dying of AIDS and people dying of AIDS.
I remember, back at the project, wondering why there are so few people between twenty and thirty years of age around, and how many of the children at the school we lived at had the virus.
I remember staying at a hostel in Bvumba whose owners wouldn't accept the local currency because they had no idea how much it would be worth the next week.
I remember reading the newspaper and wondering if I'd be stuck in the country when the Big General Strike came.
I remember wondering in the subsequent years if any of the Zimbabwean boys I had met were now members of Mugabe's youth militia.
I remember a strange, beautiful, complicated country. I remember a country in trouble. That was 1998.
In 2008, Zimbabwe is on the edge of ruin. People are starving, unemployment is rampant, inflation is the highest in the world (the last number I heard was 150.000 %). Money isn't worth being used as toilet paper.
I want to know if Mugabe will display that love for his country he claims is his driving motor and accept the lost election so I can then start worrying which way the military will jump.
Further reading:
Key dates in Zimbabwe's recent history, 1998 - 2007 [Guardian]
Country profile: Zimbabwe [BBC]
Key role for Mugabe's security chiefs [BBC]
ETA: Follow-up post.