An email I got today announcing Lesley Abdela as the winner of the 2009 UK Woman Political Journalist of the Year reminded me of how much I have enjoyed reading her articles in the past. So I had a brief look online to refresh my memory of some of my favourites. I came across 1325, in which Abdela asks “Why are women absent and warlords present when conflict-torn societies sit down for talks and rebuilding after war?”

As we celebrate International Women’s Day on the one hand, and on the other question why, of the 32 portfolio ministries in the inclusive government, only 5 are held by women, Abdela’s piece makes for a timely read.

Women’s absence in setting the formal agenda is often due to “Parallel Universe Syndrome”, as I call it. Women representatives promoting peace initiatives are mostly in the informal sector – in NGOs, civil society and advocacy groups. They are clamouring to be included on equal terms and in nearer equal numbers in peace discussions and setting a peace-building agenda. Meanwhile, those with access to formal political and economic power are mostly men. The men-at-the-tables representing conflict areas are mainly warlords, mafia, men who want to grab money and power, and religious leaders with their own power agenda. They cynically negotiate the post-conflict agenda, using reassuring “international speak” to representatives of the international community who are also primarily male – diplomats, senior personnel in international organisations, high-ranking military officers, government ministers. Time after time, women watch the lightning-quick bonding by the international male and the indigenous male, to the exclusion of women on both sides.  Read more

As Sophie Zvapera asked last month, Where are the women?

I have a subscription to a magazine called Monocle. In the December/January issue, the following piece of writing caught my eye. The suggestions are worth our “leaders” in Zimbabwe, and ourselves, reflecting on, and implementing.

Call me an optimist, but I believe we may have reached a time in history when our major expectation of leaders is that they talk to us intelligently, as adults. What this means is that information has to be provided to us in an honest, logical, non-manipulative manner, and then a course of action should be recommended based on the leader’s best reasoning – with a strong, inspirational appeal to our better human natures. The seriousness of the times demands serious dialogue. We need teachers, not demagogues, we need reason without apparent bias, and we need to be called to action by self-evident truths, not blind faith or what’s in the leader’s gut.
Excerpt from How to rule in 2009 by Paula Scher

As each day comes and goes since the decision by the MDC to participate in the inclusive government a lot of things have been happening and they are happening really fast if I may say. However, when I look at the list of ministers that Prime Minister Tsvangirai has given the question that I ask is where are the women in your cabinet sir? Only two out of 13? Is this how the equality and equity value of your party is translated into action? Secondly, Theresa Makone as the MDC Women’s Assembly Chairwoman is this the best that our party could allocate to all the women of the MDC? I am sorry to say that before this government has even gone into office you have really failed us the women of Zimbabwe who voted, suffered, were raped, maimed and killed for the struggle.

If the MDC is planning to extradite Mengistu Haile Mariam, the former Ethiopian dictator, I wonder if they’ll help get Jestina Mukoko out of illegal detention in Zimbabwe?

I’m trying to imagine the following conversation actually taking place between a pair of passion-struck lovebirds: “Honey, guess what I got you for Valentine’s Day?” the man says with a dreamy gaze into his lover’s eyes. “What?” she gasps in excitement. “Tell me!” “The best present ever,” he continues. “I got you …more quality time!” At this point, the young woman is probably imagining that her man is going to whip out a velvet box containing a Swiss, diamond-crusted gold watch, coupled with the biggest bunch of red roses ever seen.

Ha! Dream on, sister. This man actually does mean more time – as in, his gift to you for the year is more time spent together in loving bliss. More time, and less money, spent.

When a friend of mine suggested this as the most romantic gift he could offer his girlfriend, I almost fell off my seat laughing at the thought of the repercussions.

“That’s the stuff of instant break-ups,” I warned him.

But somewhere in his questionable logic, my friend actually believes that he can successfully pull off his plan and get away with showing up doe-eyed and empty-handed on the one day of the year specifically set aside for love and romance.

Now, I know that women generally have a bad name as petty, opportunistic parasites that often thrive on the financial infirmities of males. Put simply, women are often perceived as being gold-diggers, mining the wealth out of men for their own gain. But I think even those among us, who don’t consider ourselves as such, would draw the line at a man’s attempt to pass off an abstract construct like time as a gift on an important day.

To me, that reeks of cheapness and laziness. Yes, this is Zimbabwe. And yes, times are rough (though I am always startled by how many of my fellow citizens move around clutching serious wads of American dollars in their wallets and purses). But even Cupid – the hopeless little romantic that he is – would wing his way all the way here just to angle and shoot one of his arrows into the behind of such a man.

Shame on him, I say for thinking that his suggestion even constitutes a feasible gift idea. A gift for a special day needs to be something that can perceived through the senses, something she can shake about in its wrapped box, trying to guess its contents; something she can excitedly catch a whiff of, like perfume or a well-cooked meal; something palpable.

Besides, we Zimbabweans live in curious times. We suffer much and sacrifice even more -dreams, memories and even hopes. If there is any group of people whom I expect out on the streets, painting the town red with passionate and compassionate love this February 14, it is us. For when all else has ravaged us – political intimidation, economic deflation, scourges of violence and disease and condemnation – all that has remained to console us is love.

And whether you are a traditionalist who believes that V-Day is a commercial gimmick, or a fervent but cash-strapped romantic, I say to you, “Make the effort, this year!”

Pluck a simple flower from an overgrown bush, be patriotic and buy a packet of Zimbabwe-manufactured toffee sweets, or make a simple card with a meaningful message. Whatever it may be, make sure you do something special for someone you love. Our recent history has taught us to value what we have now because we have learned in a cruel way that the future is often not for us to control.

And like I told my friend, I endorse once more, “Time is a precious gift which your loved ones will greatly appreciate. Give it to them throughout the year, but on this special day, give them something more. Give them something they can move around showing off with pride at your love for them. A cheap gold-plated chain that will rust in a few weeks time will do, if that is really all you can afford. It is the moment, the day, the joy of being celebrated that matters.”

Rachel wept as they buried her 6 year old daughter. Who would have known that going to school would mean death for her bright eyed child? Who knew that she would come home barely able to walk, continuous diarrhoea a deadly torrent down her legs. They buried her frail body wrapped in a plastic bag thrust into a cheap coffin, purchased by the dozen by the do-gooder aid agencies. That day they buried 30 men and women. Was it supposed to be consolation that 600 women, men and children had also lost their lives to this plague? Rachel only knew that her child, flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood was gone.

Rachel wept when she buried her sister. When Leah’s husband left to look for work in South Africa, Leah was joyful. Maybe the poverty that had dogged their family since the factory closed would now be a thing of the past. Maybe now their three children could go to school and go to bed at night with a full belly. Leah waited and waited for the money to come. The money did not come. She heard that he was living with another woman in Johannesburg. Then one day he appeared in the gloom of twilight. You could see the jut of his collar bones through the thin shirt he was wearing. He did not look like the man who had left home back in 1999 when the troubles in the country really started. He lived on and on for two more years. And Leah looked after him. He was still her husband after all. She sold all their meagre possessions to get him the medicines that he needed. Still he died. All Leah had left was poverty. And AIDS. Rachel thinks it is the hopelessness and despair that finally got Leah. Who wouldn’t despair if they were forced to stand at the street corner, selling their body in order to feed three hungry mouths? Now Rachel weeps when she looks at her nieces. What future for them female, poor and orphaned? She wonders and worries; are they also destined for the streets?

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