Zimbabwean Independence Day

Suffering knows no race or age. All it knows is the human spirit and how to break it.

Every Zimbabwean, no matter what their background, has been affected by the current economic and political situation. Instead of me blogging about all the usual negativity we know and hear about Zim, which I'm sure I'll get slated for, this is simply a personal message of true CAMARADERIE to all my fellow Zimbos in limbo!

Maybe I only speak for myself, but I feel so lost, not knowing my identity anymore. We grew up as Zimbabweans (black and white) but now we're spread all over the world and have had to adjust to other cultures, not knowing if we'll ever go back. Although travelling and living in a different country is a rich experience for anyone, perhaps the most difficult thing we have to deal with is this fact of the unknown: that this is not just an experience, this is our life now and we don't have a 'home' to go back to.

I have such mixed emotions about Zimbabwe. I'm very hesitant to talk about it and I find it easier to talk about my carefree time at university in Cape Town or in Europe. There are too many emotions involved.

It feels like when you love someone so much and you think it's forever, never thinking it will end. And then one day, everything changes and forever becomes never. The person becomes completely unrecognisable to you and all of a sudden, you are forced to move on with your life. Your love turns to hate and anger and you can't understand why these things are happening to you and you forget about all the good times, because it's easier to be angry. Unlike a person though, what you have lost in our case is our home. And maybe it's easier to move on to love another person, but it's very difficult to ever find 'home' again.

Every one's life changed in Zim around 2000. Suffering does not discriminate. Some people left, some people were forced to leave, some people stayed behind. It's hard to move to a foreign country and establish yourself again but as a person who stayed behind, it was equally heartbreaking to watch the destruction of the place you loved most on Earth. And for me personally, I get affected when I see people suffer. And people suffered. They still do.

I miss the smell of Africa. I miss driving home on Enterprise road, dodging pot-holes while blinded by the huge African sun setting. I miss Mazda 323s and Peugeot 504s. I miss Hellenic and the crazy Greek-Zimbo vibe it had. I miss Arundel, every part of it. I miss 'digiting' in Avondale and Borrowdale. I miss the ice-cream man ringing his bell every afternoon as he drove past the house. I miss the Jacaranda trees, which signalled it was time to start studying for exams. I miss the pine trees of Nyanga and staying in National Park lodges. I miss Kariba sunsets while you watched the hippos playing in the water and the elephants talking a bath. I miss gin and tonics-they don't taste the same anywhere else. I miss the red soil and the thunderstorms. Especially I miss the smell after a storm. I miss so much I can't cover it all.

This is why I don't talk about Zim. Because it's too difficult. And then I start to hate it again for splitting up families and for causing so much suffering. I hate that all my friends are scattered all over the world too. And most of all I HATE not being with my family.

I feel guilty too that this is all but a memory for me now and I live a relatively carefree existence, while millions back home still suffer. That is something I can't seem to move on from and am constantly asking 'why me? why am I ok?' And it makes me angry when I see how spoilt people are in the First World, that they have so much but don't know how lucky they are.

So I'm not going to say Happy Independence Day, Zimbabwe. I'm going to say I'm waiting for the day when EVERY person from Zimbabwe can truly celebrate being independent. Black or white, rich or poor, first generation or tenth generation.

This poem sums up how I feel:

Within my soul, within my mind,
There lies a place I cannot find.
Home of my heart. Land of my birth.
Smoke-coloured stone and flame-coloured earth.
Electric skies. Shivering heat.
Blood-red clay beneath my feet.

At night when finally alone,
I close my eyes - and I am home.
I kneel and touch the blood-warm sand
And feel the pulse beneath my hand
Of an ancient life too old to name,
In an ancient land too wild to tame.

How can I show you what I feel?
How can I make this essence real?
I search for words in dumb frustration
To try and form some explanation,
But how can heart and soul be caught
In one-dimensional written thought?

If love and longing are a “fire”
And Man “consumed” by his desire,
Then this love is no simple flame
That mortal thought can hold or tame.
As deep within the earth’s own core
The love of home burns evermore.

But what is home? I hear them say,
This never was yours anyway.
You have no birthright to this place,
Descendant from another race.
An immigrant? A pioneer?
You are no longer welcome here.

Whoever said that love made sense?
“I love” is an “imperfect” tense.
To love in vain has been Man’s fate
From history to present date.
I have no grounds for dispensation,
I know I have no home or Nation.

For just one moment in the night
I am complete, my soul takes flight.
For just one moment… then it’s gone
And I am once again undone.
Never complete. Never whole.
White skin and an African soul.