Reporting from Zimbabwe: a family in Bulawayo talks about politics

In a quiet Bulawayo suburb I sit with Sarah, a middle-aged mother of four adult children, whose eyes keep darting around the room following her two-year-old granddaughter. She is a middle class Ndebele woman who has lived in Bulawayo her entire life. In Zimbabwe, ‘middle class’ means a house with no hot water, frequent power and water cuts, and freezing winters where, in homes with no heating or insulation, night-time temperatures frequently dip to 5°C indoors.

We have spent the afternoon catching up over plates of chicken and beans, while the little girl tires herself out running circles around the table. After lunch, while I help Sarah clean the dishes, she looks me in the eye and says frankly: “You are my child. Do you understand?” I nod – she’s said this before many times.

I first met this family over a year ago when I stayed with them for five weeks. I’d encountered their son in the UK where he was studying, and after an informal invitation to visit, I decided to step on a plane and take the chance to learn more about this fascinating country.

This year I’m back as a Social Anthropology student for another five weeks with the plan of researching the responses of individuals – particularly young people – to the crisis (or rather crises). Political and economic turmoil resulted in the collapse of the Zimbabwe dollar in 2009 after a five-year period of uncontrollable hyperinflation. Eventually the government allowed the US dollar to become legal tender, and things are, tentatively, picking up. But 89-year-old president Robert Mugabe clings onto power.

Fixing her eyes on mine, Sarah goes on in a quieter voice: “Nobody wanted him to win, but we knew he would win. We hear all sorts of rumours. We don’t know what’s true. But he won, he always does.”

I was surprised by this remark. I’ve heard young Zimbabweans discuss Mugabe, often jokingly, nearly always with apathy. Older people haven’t discussed politics with me before, and I’ve felt it inappropriate to ask. So it came as a surprise that she brought this up so willingly, only three days after the elections. “We just want peace. I thank God that there has been no trouble. I don’t really care about the result as long as there is peace. That is the most important thing.”

Sarah repeats this point, in one way or another, many times. When her account moves back to the 1980s, she describes echoed stories of red-bereted soldiers throwing the bodies of murdered villagers down a mineshaft. This incident, known colloquially as ‘Gukurahundi’, is etched painfully into the memory of the Ndebele, the minority ethnic group. It means “to clear out the chaff’ in Shona, the language of the majority ethnic group.

Sarah holds Mugabe responsible for this massacre, as do most Ndebele who still feel deprived of any form of apology. This terrible episode began as ethnic infighting within the rival liberation movements – Zanu, now reincarnated as Mugabe’s party Zanu-PF, and Zapu, the Ndebele party founded by Joshua Nkomo. Mugabe’s 5th Brigade were tasked with ‘clearing out’ Nkomo supporters, but in popular memory (and likely in reality) the brunt of violence was inflicted upon Ndebele civilians. Sarah’s expression, moving from disgust to sadness, confirms this. “There is still pain,” she says, her eyes refusing to move from staring at the carpet.

Mugabe’s violence has taken many forms. Older Ndebele clearly still remember the brutality that was inflicted upon their people in the past. Sarah explains that this month’s elections have been fine because it is safe to visit the rural areas. This is a reference to the fact that much of the bloodshed in Zimbabwe has been hidden from prying eyes – mostly inflicted by vigilante mobs in out of the way, poverty-stricken villages. This time around, the elections seemed to have spared the rural areas of much of the violence of previous years.

Contemporary Zimbabwe doesn’t show the scars of violence to the ordinary visitor. It is a remarkably peaceful country, given the common media depictions we encounter in the West. Most of the talk today is of money – and the financial scars are very visible. The road into Bulawayo is lined with empty and often crumbling factories. Most Zimbabweans saw their life savings wiped out as the Zimbabwe dollar became worthless. The years 2008 and 2009 are etched into popular memory, with constant reference to the results of hyperinflation. Zimbabweans are, however, hopeful for their economic future, but the ruins of industry are testament to the work that will have to be done.

Though the worst atrocities are now in the past, Sarah tells me that she would only have a conversation like this in a private home. She explains: “We all talk like this, but we’re not careless. We talk in people’s houses and that is safe.” She even suggests that speaking publicly could put one in danger of being arrested – but adds that this is only really a concern for those actively involved in politics. From the way that younger people speak freely about Mugabe – some positively, others less so – I would be surprised if there is a serious threat of arrest for criticising Mugabe if you are an ordinary Zimbabwean. It seems that some older people remember the days when these fears were very real.

The power of memory is thrown into stark relief in Zimbabwe. Discrepancies between the attitudes of young and old people towards the past (and the future) suggest this. There is hope among young people who lived through economic collapse; few have witnessed bloodshed if they live in urban areas. But most are politically apathetic, which makes me curious as an anthropologist. Faith in the future seems to be placed in the private sector, and in the entrepreneurial activities of private individuals. Having seen their government powerless in the face of an out-of-control economy, Zimbabweans were forced to rely on their own survival instinct. The informal and illegal economy boomed from 2003-2009. There is now hope that this energy and resourcefulness can be channelled into economic growth and raising living standards.

Sarah’s thankfulness relates to the economic upturn in Zimbabwe. This shouldn’t be overstated: within the last decade or so the economy shrank dramatically, sometimes by as much as 17.5 per cent in a single year, but since the introduction of the US dollar there has at least been stability. Economic stability has created is another kind of peace – peace of mind. Continuous uncertainty affects everyone, and for many – even the middle classes – putting food on the table became a daily worry. Supermarket shelves were literally bare for months. Today supermarkets are well stocked, albeit with few international brands available and little consumer choice. Prices remain surprisingly high.

The overarching narrative within Zimbabwe of these recent elections is, broadly speaking, that they were peaceful. There is a general scepticism among Zimbabweans of the possibility of politicians solving the country’s problems. For ordinary people, as long as the peace and stability of recent years can be maintained, the elections will have been a success of sorts. But few see the elections as providing any answers or directions.”

Later, Sarah expresses some of her hopes. “I just want freedom. It is only God who can deprive me of my freedom – the government should not be able to. I want to drive without roadblocks. I want to be free to live my life.” Again, this sentiment suggests she wants little to do with politics. Politics has the power to deprive one of freedom – it is better if politicians can learn to intervene less. She hopes that those in power are learning to get along better, without violence.

That evening, Sarah’s husband Andrew returns from work at a local college. His thoughts on the election are more lighthearted. “It’s a matter of who cheats more! Zanu-PF have a lot of practice, so I am not surprised they have won,” he says while chuckling. He produces copies of the government and opposition papers, The Chronicle and Daily News, and comments cynically that on every point they have contradictory reports surrounding the election – neither supply any accurate information. Pointing at The Chronicle, he chuckles with raised eyebrows: “Pure Mugabe propaganda! My God.”

In Bulawayo, things seem pretty calm tonight. And that is a relief for many who have lived through decades of upheaval and change, even if, as Andrew remarked, the results are “not quite as we’d hoped… Oh well”.

To protect the identity of the family in this report, Rowan Jones is a pseudonym. Other names have also been changed.

For more information about this story, contact Alex Buxton, Office of Communications, University of Cambridge, amb206@admin.cam.ac.uk 01223 761673