November 25 to December 10 marks 16 Days of Activism Against Violence Against Women. Pamberi Trust held a musical and poetry extravaganza to bring home a strong message of saying no to violence. One performance in particular was all that and precisely what activist voices can embody. The poignant words of performance poet Xapa and hip hopper Misfit along with an affecting and we won’t stand down drum beat by Rumbi provided inspiration. The words and the drumming made the hair on my arms stand up. Made me want to change the world and hug every person I can find who personifies peace. The title of the performance was apt with respect to violence against women. And with respect to a great many other on-goings in Zimbabwe.

We should protest always

Always
The beating of the bongo like the beating of my heart
The beating of the bongo like my heart before you come
The pounding of the bongo like your fists upon my skin
The pounding of the bongo like the agony within

Violence in the garden
Violence in the house
Violence from the children
Violence from the spouse
The weeping and the wailing and the terror and the tears
The weeping and the wailing and the terror and the tears
The fat and the thin, the soul and the hurt and the fears
Violence from the sober
Violence when he’s drunk
Violence on the weaker
Violence on the young

The rhythm of the bongo like the rhythm of my soul
The rhythm of the bongo like the agony
The pounding of the bongo like his fists upon my skin
The pounding of the bongo like the agony within

Violence is coordinated, violence is control
Violence is from the place of the young of the soul
The fighting and the pressure and the struggles and the drone
The beating and the fighting and the immediate unfolds
Abuse of her body and abuse of her soul
Abuse of her feelings and abuse of her hopes

The throbbing of the drum is like the throbbing of my pain
The throbbing of the drum is like crying in my grave
The booming of the bongo there it is, let me go
The booming of the bongo, there’s victims no more

In the US of A where I hail from, seeing a pick up truck on the road generates several stereotypical thoughts about the people in the truck.  Likely they’re from a small town, perhaps farmers.  Or they might be contractors or construction workers, and sometimes they’re put in the category of beer drinking rednecks.  If a woman is driving and she’s not the truck owner’s wife, then there’s a good chance she’s a lesbian.  People are quick to put the stereotypes aside when moving residences because in that situation anyone with a pick up truck is your new best friend.

In Zimbabwe, or rather I should say in the urban hub Harare, pick up trucks are more common than any urban hub in the US.  Of late, I’ve been looking carefully at the people in pick up trucks in Harare.  And in nearly all cases, the sights pain me.  The intersection of Sam Nujoma and Herbert Chitepo is full of pick up trucks with people spilling out of the back side.  The passengers have sad faces. Likely the professionally dressed men and women are thinking:  What happened?  I used to drive my own car to/from work.  Now everyday I stand with 1000s of other people at this intersection and hope a kind pick up truck driver will stop right at the spot I’m standing so that I can beat the crowd and jump in.  If the driver stops 10 meters either side of where I’m standing I will miss my chance; therefore, I will curse that truck and pray to God the next driver receives my telepathic message to stop in my spot.

Most NGOs, UN agencies, etc. have the grand daddy of all pick up trucks.  The vehicles are big, bold and a truck, jeep, 4X4 statement of patronage and wealth all rolled into one.  I can’t see the faces of the passengers because the windows are usually tinted.  These trucks never stop for passengers.  And they always have the 4X4 features fully operating because Harare is full of bush and dirt roads.  I guess that’s why the drivers travel with machetes to clear a path if need be.  Yes.  It makes sense to spend the extra money on the additional fuel needed to operate these gas guzzlers.  Logical so that it’s easier to navigate the rugged terrain of Harare’s roads and robots during the daily routine of being driven from one meeting to another.

There are plenty of pick up trucks packed to the gills with people of all ages singing and cheering.  These are the shiny new silver trucks.  Inscribed on both doors in big black letters is ZANU PF.  Other words appear, but no need to read because the six letters are enough to understand. The drivers swerve a lot, make sharp turns, and ignore the robots as they gallivant around town spreading their message of 100% empowerment.  They zip around so quickly it’s hard to get a good look at the people making all the noise.  Often the rhetoricians are standing in the back of the cab.  Sometimes, given the reckless driving, the cheerleaders verge on falling out.  I suspect a good many of these brainwashed souls would like to fall out.

But where would they fall?

The other day I woke up and my phone didn’t work.  I’m a lucky Harare resident who’s had next to no problems with my line; thus, I’m not used to having a non-functioning phone.  I was sure a big mess and stress would ensue to get the line working again.  But it was also a troublesome feeling, this idea of being used to the possibility that basic services can come to an end.  I didn’t bother to wait it out and had no luck phoning because ironically Tel One’s phones never seem to work.  Instead, I marched myself down to Tel One so I could start my lobbying to get my line fixed.  Once there, I was told it was a city-wide problem being fixed and that my line would be working soon.  I so did not believe this.  Having gotten used to the fact anything and everything might stop working at any given point.  Having gotten used to the fact that people such as Tel One representatives might stretch the truth and tell customers what they want to hear.  But alas. When I got home, my phone was working. I was happy about that, but sad about what I’ve gotten used to.

One encounter during the walk home strengthened my thoughts around accepting what I’ve gotten used to.  A pedestrian engineered himself into my route. As expected the same old ridiculous conversation came my way.  Not even a greeting from this man, just the usual.  Where do you stay?  Can I get your phone number? I want you to marry me.  A persistence occurs that is out of this world unbelievable.  No matter whether I provide polite, engaging, rude, witty, silent, or whatever response, some men believe it’s ok to ask random strangers these questions and if they’re asking, I guess they’re holding hope that one day a random female pedestrian will say:  Yes, let’s go now to the chapel and get married, but first you better tell me your name.

I’ve gotten used to this.

So there it is.  Two vignettes.  One where what I’m used to did not come to be. And another where what I’m used to did come to be.  Everybody navigates all the possible outcomes concerning what one is used to, but for Zimbabweans seems it’s become a more complex navigation, one which disrupts the patience and confidence to assert rights around what citizens are entitled to.  In turn, potentially disrupting the ways people understand and practice the broader concept of entitlement.  Citizens are entitled to services such as phone lines, running water, and electricity.  For the many Zimbabweans who don’t regularly receive these services, this can brew into frustration and anger. People become complacent and get used to things.  I can’t help but wonder where the frustration and anger goes?

Certainly the male pedestrian I encountered is operating in a deeply historical, layered cultural, and unjust mind set which makes him feel he’s entitled to have power over women.  Yet I have this sneaking suspicion there’s a link with respect to the degree to which basic services (or entitlements) are denied and the persistent pursuit of at least being or feeling entitled to something.  This is to suggest that perhaps, to a degree, some men subconsciously feel that something such as having to just shrug your shoulders and accept a broken phone line becomes a threat to their masculinity because what they are entitled to has been taken away.  In turn, the frustration and anger is misplaced and this propels even greater desire to assert entitlement for something, such as power over women.

A couple days ago was my birthday. I went through the usual range of emotions around being happy and noting I’m creeping further into being less young. Amidst this I didn’t skimp on celebrating (thanks to very kind friends) and I reveled in a much loved hobby of mine, finding new favorite songs. Venturing into new music dates me, and worse I caught myself saying: Kids today. I don’t understand their music. Why do the boys where trousers ten sizes too big? And those skimpy tops and high heels girls wear can’t possibly be comfortable. Did I sound like my mother or what!

Still I went onward in search of a cool new song. One with a message. One that would make me think about the world in which we live. Sometimes a tall order given music today seems dominated by teenagers. Even with poignant lyrics I wonder how a 16 year old really understands the intricacies of what they belt out. I stumbled across a song by Rihanna, who I’m told is all the rage. I had doubts since her last hit was about an umbrella. But this new song ­ Disturbia ­ got me thinking about ranges of emotions. I’ve put some of the lyrics at the end and below are reworked lyrics along with a bit about wonder and what is disturbia.

Harare is one city of wonder Rihanna might be referencing. Wonder because it still functions. Disturbia for what it does to you. The politicians don’t play nice and some of the citizens might just go under. Just to get by each day is a disease of the mind. It can control you. The city of wonder, it’s a thief in the night. To come and grab you. It can creep up inside you. And consume you. Yet many people manage to go on. Nothing heard, nothing said. Can’t even speak about it. Better think twice. Your train of thought will be altered. So if you must falter be wise. Your mind is in disturbia.

It’s not just Zimbabwean cities which expose disturbia. As much as Obama’s campaign and victory are profound, they also make me think about how US cities are those of wonder. Time will tell if Team Obama delivers their enlightened visions. The wonder is to think about the beauty of those possibilities. And the wonder is to recognize the mixed messages and disturbia so deeply embedded in the minds of far too many Americans. Obama’s new title President-Elect doesn’t change the (unintended?) message when McCain corrected a supporter by saying: Obama is a decent man, he’s not an Arab. Nor does it change that someone at a Palin rally shouted out “kill him” (presumably referring to Obama. The US often hides behind labels such as democracy, land of opportunity, or some such. When simultaneously a whole lot of Americans are, like there’s no tomorrow, unwilling to embrace difference and diversity. Thankfully over 50% of Americans felt Obama was the better candidate. Staying up all night to witness this victory afforded me a rare moment of not minding being an American. But I’m also not hesitant to point out that even though Zimbabwe is perhaps the more obvious and immediate wondrous space caught in disturbia, Obama too is up against a lot of disturbia.

What’s wrong with me?
Why do I feel like this?
I’m going crazy now

No more gas in the rig
Can’t even get it started
Nothing heard, nothing said
Can’t even speak about it
All my life on my head
Don’t want to think about it
Feels like I’m going insane
Yeah

It’s a thief in the night
To come and grab you
It can creep up inside you
And consume you
A disease of the mind
It can control you
It’s too close for comfort

Put on your green lights
We’re in the city of wonder
Ain’t gonna play nice
Watch out, you might just go under
Better think twice
Your train of thought will be altered
So if you must falter be wise
Your mind is in disturbia
It’s like the darkness is the light
Disturbia
Am I scaring you tonight
Disturbia
Ain’t used to what you like
Disturbia
Disturbia

I recently read Time Magazine’s special issue on Heroes of the Environment. More than I expected to be the case, I found the heroes inspiring. It’s fascinating to see 30 examples of what people all over the globe do to protect the little patch of earth they live on as well as the earth we all share. I can’t pick a favorite hero because the first one was my favorite, then I read the next one and that was my favorite and so on.

I did wonder if it was by accident that the only two black heroes happened to appear one after the other. The first was Liberian Silas Kpanan’Ayoung Siakor who states the mission of his NGO is to look at environmental issues “from a human perspective. It’s not about greenery. It’s about people whose lives have been affected by the unsustainable and destructive exploitation of resources.” Siakor was able to draw attention to President Charles Taylor’s use of logging profits to fund his war, which, in turn, was integral in the 2003 UN ban on the export of Liberian timber and in developing the war-crimes charges against Taylor.

The second black hero is Van Jones, an African American, who is working to stop what he calls “eco-apartheid”. The Time reporter describes Jones as the “vanguard of a necessary change in the green movement. In the past, environmentalism in the US has been a mainly white and white-collar phenomenon, one that had little resonance among working class and minorities.” Jones’ organization is predicated on the idea that building a green economy could represent a job creation program for minorities and the working class.

Both of these heroes interestingly direct attention to the devastating ways political corruption, political violence, class differences, and poverty disproportionately affect the human condition. Issues we tend to think of more through the lens of economics as opposed to through the lens of environmentalism. In Zimbabwe, the human condition is suffering terribly. Journalists, analysts, bloggers, and passengers on combies are quick to speak about this through the lens of economics. For example, the introduction of US$ products is a hot topic and most speak about this in very technical economic language: it’s messing things up. I mean how can it be good to have an economy that’s partially US$ and partially ZWD. It’s not right, the volume of US$ a Spar clerk will handle in one day only to then receive their salary in ZWD.

As heroes of the environment, Silas Kpanan’Ayoung Siakor and Van Jones help us better understand the full impact of US$ products in Zimbabwe. The emergence of US$ products is the result of political corruption and they exacerbate class differences and poverty. Equally, US$ products are impacting the environment in Zimbabwe. Walk 100 metres on any street in Harare and I guarantee you will see 100 empty beer cans. That litter did not exist when this country was producing and selling locally brewed bottled beer. I mean who would toss a bottle with a deposit attached to it. In the end, the economy of Zimbabwe is unjustly sending people to the poor house and the economy of Zimbabwe litters likes nobody’s business.

I was catching up on some reading the other day, looking at a Guardian newspaper from August. At first I thought, what’s the point? This will be news I’ve already read in other places. To compensate, I started from the back with book reviews and culture-related articles since those are not so time sensitive. It didn’t take long for me to become engrossed.

As I worked toward the front of the newspaper, the old news ended up interesting. I got to an article titled Impasse for Zimbabwe. The article was full of words like negotiations, suspended, no closer to resolution, sticking points, concessions, refuses to cede, cling to power. I read the article twice. The analysis was excellent. Made me really think about the power-sharing deal signed on September 15. How it was all a big to do for nothing. That ZANU-PF never had one iota of intention to honor what they signed off on.

Wait a second. How is this journalist writing about the September 15 power-sharing deal in August? I must have read the date on the cover wrong, I thought. This must be a current Guardian I’m reading. I checked and double-checked. Stared at the cover, which said August 15-22, 2008. It must have been my peaceful, have faith nature that was tripping me up. I was really, genuinely, truly confused, felt like I was in some sort of time warp. As if the Guardian is actually a science fiction publication with writers who analyze the future before it’s the present. Maybe these futuristic journalists also drive cool bubble-shaped rocket cars. And have digital tape recording devices in their brains.

But no. Sadly, I was in a different kind of time warp. The continuous and painful repetition of denying Zimbabweans a democratically elected government. What was going down pre power-sharing deal is exactly the same as what’s going down post power-sharing deal. In fact, so entirely word-for-word the same, makes me wonder if there are journalists who just cut and paste their material.