I recently travelled to South Africa to attend a work related seminar. From the moment I heard that I was going to be part of the team that would travel to South Africa I was overjoyed. Some people may wonder why this was so? The joy arose just from the thought that I was going to eat a healthy meal, be in an environment where there were no burst sewage pipes, get clean cholera free water from a tap and just enjoy a hot shower and more so be able to watch my favourite TV programme as there would be electricity.

With just the thought of travelling to Johannesburg, my pregnancy suddenly felt light, my body was rejuvenated and energised because of the excitement. The moment I got out of the airport in Johannesburg, a sense of relief engulfed me, that feeling one enjoys when a huge burden has been lifted off his or her shoulders. Just the thought of being away from grim poverty, frustration and misery aroused this euphoria in me, the euphoria I last felt as a kid when Xmas was approaching.

On my day of arrival in Johannesburg I did not have any meeting scheduled so I had time to move around and admire the plenty and abundance in the South African shops.  As I moved around the Johannesburg shopping malls I was surprised to hear the jingle of Christmas carols signalling the coming festive season, a thing you hardly find in Zimbabwe. I was suddenly drawn to the reality of the times. What really shocked me was that we were approaching the end of 2008 and yet I did not feel the festive mood in Zimbabwe. As I continued moving down the malls, I was surprised at the number of people doing their Christmas shopping and the fully stocked shops. I rushed into the baby shops and bought stuff for my baby to come. I wanted to buy everything in the shop as I was surprised by both the affordability and availability of goods, the goods I never find in my country.

In the grocery shop, I bought basic food stuffs and even bought sour milk as I have a serious craving for it. Unfortunately when I got to the airport I did not know that liquids such as milk and drink were not allowed into the plane as hand luggage. The South African security officer told me to go back to the checking in point and request inclusion of the milk and drink in my luggage. She told me that I could not leave my stuff as I would need the stuff back home. The South Africans wrapped my two  2 litre bottles and helped me to check them in telling me that with the suffering in Zimbabwe I needed to carry the stuff. I appreciated the gesture of help but also felt pity for myself as by virtue of being a Zimbabwean people felt obliged to assist me as I came from a country well known for its humanitarian crisis.

Getting home, the first thing I noticed was the lifeless and miserable airport with little activity and this was a significant cue of the lifelessness of the Zimbabwean nation. The saddest part is that this is my home and this is where my baby is going to be born.

What outrage?
as you watch your much loved children starving
as your family is beaten and killed

What outrage?
as there is no seed for this years planting in Zimbabwe
as the schools are closed because the teachers are not being paid
or there is no phone
or electricity
or water

Along side this barrage of abuse
this abandonment of lives
this huge dying
there is a place on the other side of outrage
where we search for ways to keep our lives and our spirits intact

the welcome first rains feel like the unshed tears
held back for so long

Last week, Tendai wept in the circle
telling of her abduction and gang rape by 15 men
kept for 2 weeks
now with STD and HIV her life has changed forever

we sat whilst she cried

but at the closing circle she sang
and drummed and danced
and sang and sang . . .

On the other side of outrage
where we begin to consider what really matters
and look at other ways of survival
there are ripples of love and forgiveness and sharing
that emerge uncalled for

what space is this?
where the resilience of spirit
can still be sung?

speaking in many tongues
beyond outrage about who owns our words
we sing of a spirit that is still ours

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.

Because of the challenges and difficulties I am exposed to on a daily basis I wake up with pains all over my body. My body is mostly swollen and weak. My doctor tells me that my blood pressure levels have gone high. She tells me that I need to rest, but I cannot afford rest, I cannot afford to be sick. Not in this environment where I am subjected to economical, social, political and psychological frustrations. My bulging stomach has become representative of the problems I endure on a daily basis and an antithesis of the joys of womanhood and every growth of my tummy is an increase in my pain, frustrations and agony. I long for joys of motherhood but the environment I live in makes sure I can only long and dream of how it feels to be pregnant in an environment where I can afford the basics – a reality that remains an elusive quest.

Every day I wake up with worries and serious issues of concern regarding my pregnancy. I am employed but nothing seems to balance and work for me. I have to think of ways of raising money for my next appointment with my gynaecologist and for the hospital delivery charges and the doctor’s delivery fee. All these are charged in US Dollars. I have even attempted to apply to the Reserve Bank for the authority to withdraw cash in excess for the 50 000 daily limit but with no success as the whole financial system is corrupt and dysfunctional. Every day that passes brings an element of fear and anxiety as I still do not know when and how I will be able to raise the monies.

The doctor and the hospital fees are just one of the few elements I have got to worry about. Most of my clothes can’t fit anymore. I need new big clothes to accommodate my growing body and for my baby. The clothes are very expensive. I move around shops daily hoping to find something affordable but have no luck. I have money in the bank but can only withdraw fifty thousand dollars a day which only covers my one way transport costs to work. The cheapest clothes I can get are around 700 to 800 thousand dollars and I am expected to pay for them in cash. The shops do not accept cheques or transfers. The prices change on a daily basis and have no idea how I am expected to raise such figures a day. In Zimbabwe being pregnant has grown to be some form of punishment whose fine no one seems to know.

The sad part is dealing with my cravings. The environment in Zimbabwe just wipes away the joys of womanhood. Everything is a frustration for me. I can’t seem to find things I crave for and if I do the price just thwarts the excitement completely. It is an unfathomable task to afford a basic healthy diet something I need seriously in such circumstances. Sometimes my appetite just fades as eating the same vegetables and sadza everyday is a pain to me. I lead a miserable life and cannot wait for the day I will deliver and look at the new challenges.

With my mind dawdled with the challenges and frustrations of pregnancy, after work I get to a home without electricity and water. I now have to fetch water from a nearby school borehole and make fire as no one knows when the electricity will be back. I now view pregnancy as a burden and the burden is made worse by the miserable living conditions I am expected to endure every day. I dread the day my baby will be born in this environment and I shudder to think if he or she will be able to survive in this mire.

The Kubatana team went to a public meeting last night in Harare. The speakers: four men. The moderator: a man. The audience: over 100 men, and maybe 30 women. Audience members who asked questions: Men again. Why are there so few women panelists and moderators at public meetings organised by civil society in Zimbabwe? What can be done to ensure that more women attend these meetings, and participate in them?

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.