Fearing for her life, outspoken commentator Thandekile Moyo
fled Zimbabwe this week with little more than the change in her pocket.
My name is Thandekile Moyo. I come from Zimbabwe. I was
born and bred in Zimbabwe.
In all my 34 years there, I have never known peace. I grew
up in Matebeleland, where in the minds of my parents, older siblings and
friends, memories of the 1980s Gukurahundi massacres were still fresh.
We inherited a profound fear of soldiers. Whenever we saw
or heard a military vehicle on our way from school, we would all scurry into
the bushes and hide. Hundreds of children in little maroon uniforms, all living
on high alert.
I went to university in 2003, when the economy was well on
its way down. My cousin and I would have to smile and “chat up” motorists who
gave us lifts to campus, just so we didn’t have to pay for transport. In my
final years, students would go for days without eating. We lived on a prayer.
Through all this, I noticed the lavish lifestyles of
Zanu-PF children and those close to power. Their lunchboxes were always filled
to the brim. They were brought to school in their Mercedes Benzes, they had
cellular phones and they spoke with a twang. We called them “amasalads” — those
who were privileged enough to eat salad at home. Not all amasalads were Zanu-PF
kids, but most were.
This taught me about inequality. As an adult, I learned
that most of it was linked to corruption. And I detest it. Because I have never
known peace and because I have learnt that my struggles over the years were
man-made, I deplore injustice of any kind. Injustice against each other at both
the personal level and the mass injustice by the powers-that-be against their
populations.
Last Saturday, Emmerson Mnangagwa, president of Zimbabwe,
announced yet another injustice: a 150% increase in the fuel price. To compound
the insult, he insisted that the bond note — the pseudo currency introduced by
the administration of former president Robert Mugabe — was valued at 1:1 with
the US dollar. This is a lie that has impoverished Zimbabweans and brought the
economy to its knees, allowing the politically connected to profit while
devastating the savings of ordinary people.
In response to the fuel hike, the Zimbabwe Congress of
Trade Unions called for a nationwide stayaway. I was in full support, and
participated in the accompanying demonstrations in Bulawayo. The crowd was
excited, yes, but peaceful. Imagine my horror when the riot police came with
their batons and their teargas — a modus operandi repeated across the country.
The city’s high-density areas turned into a war zone. It
felt like teargas was being thrown at everyone, everywhere. My friend’s
eight-week-old niece is battling for her life after a canister of teargas was
thrown into their home.
The government of Zimbabwe blamed the protests on
opposition parties and civil society. I received a tip-off that my name was on
the list of “troublesome internet activists”. A few days earlier I had appeared
on Al Jazeera, commenting about the unjust fuel price hike: little did I know
that this, along with my outspoken tweets, had made me an enemy of the state.
On Tuesday 15, at 8.46am, my messages stopped delivering. I
could not access my Twitter. I switched my wi-fi on and off. No luck. I tried
mobile data; still no luck. The government had shut down the internet. A voice
inside me said: “Run!”
I have always known just how dangerous the Mnangagwa government
is. But I have never entertained the idea of being afraid of them. I was so
contemptuous of their disrespect for humanity, human rights and human life that
I had always refused to be governed by just how dangerous they are. So when my
instinct said run, I wasn’t sure how to respond.
A man is loaded into a car after allegedly being assaulted
by soldiers. (Zinyange Auntony/AFP)
I decided to take a bath and clean my room as I
contemplated what to do. I slowly realised that I was preparing to leave: I was
putting my house in order in preparation for an indefinite absence.
I checked whether I could get a flight anywhere. All
systems at the airport were down. The only option was road travel.
Only one problem: I had no money. I had about R120. I decided
to just go. I would see. I threw my laptop and a few toiletries in my handbag
and went to knock on my dad’s door. What was I going to say to him?
I went to the kitchen, gulped down a few shots of gin and
felt ready to face the old man. I said to him: “Look dad, the internet has been
shut down. I am extremely vocal on Twitter and my instinct is telling me to go.
I could be a target.”
My heart breaks as I think of how shocked he was, and how
he tried to hide the shock from me. He is not on Twitter, you see.
“Do you have money?” he asked. I lied and said “yes”. He
gave me everything he had in his pocket: $4 (R55). He offered to transfer money
into my mobile money account, but I said: “Don’t worry Dad, I’m good.” I was
afraid he’d need that money because all the shops and the banks were closed.
I couldn’t tell him where I was going. It was the only way.
I called my brother to say goodbye, but didn’t reveal my plans to him. I don’t
know whether they’ve told my mum yet. Part of me hopes they haven’t. It’s her
60th birthday this week; I don’t know whether she’ll be able to handle it.
So here I am, in exile and afraid. Not for myself, but for
my people. Zimbabwe is imprisoned by very dangerous men.
When Mnangagwa announced the fuel hike, he was flanked by
Vice-President Constantino Chiwenga and Cabinet Minister Perence Shiri. All
three of them have been implicated in the Gukurahundi massacre.
Are they now, under cover of the internet blackout,
unleashing similar horrors? This is my fear. Pray for Zimbabwe. mail and guardian
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