Zimbabwean police beat a protestor at a recent rally.
Promise and I stand on the sidewalk, under the beaming afternoon sun in downtown Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe. Across the street from us, next to a three-story furniture and electronic store draped by a poster advertising a couch and television combination sale for $200 US Dollars, hundreds of Zimbabweans gather before Harvest House, the headquarters for the Movement for a Democratic Change (MDC) opposition party. The protestors take up half the street, Nelson Mandela Avenue, congesting the ongoing traffic. Cars drive by on the singular lane of the four-tracked street left unperturbed, providing a real-world vehicle historical panorama. There is a BMW straight out of the 80’s, emitting enough smoke to congest our view, and a brand new Lexus, which would have been at home on the streets of Manhattan. They all honk. Some out of solidarity, as they smile and raise their fists out of the window. Some out of annoyance, struggling to get by. The pedestrians on our side of the street walk on, barely paying attention, implicitly acknowledging that the downtown weekday rally was now just part of everyday life in Harare.
The rally’s ringleader, adorned in a Che Guevara camouflaged beret, matching his faded baggy pants, shouts into a bullhorn, decrying the recent surge in police brutality against activists. As he transitions into disparaging the government’s economic policies, and bemoaning the country’s unprecedented unemployment rates, the bullhorn fails, and his voice struggles to rise above the sound of cars and buses passing by. Sensing the crowd beginning to disburse, he begins a chant, which swiftly reconvenes the masses. They shout in unison:
“Mugabe Must Go! Mugabe Must Go!”
The protestors begin marching away, following the Zimbabwean Che, en route to the Office of Home Affairs, five blocks to their west. Promise, the leader of a new youth party called Tajamuka, or “We Have Rebelled,” calmly looking out for my safety as an outsider, insists that we duck inside a fast-food outlet, where we order chicken sandwiches and fries.
Perpetually tied to his phone, as he Whatsapp messages his youth comrades, Promise explains that protests, once completely rare, are now becoming commonplace. People are fed up. He indicates that the upsurge in opposition activity signifies that his movement’s ultimate goal, President Robert Mugabe being deposed of his position, is close to fruition.
“He has turned graduates into vendors,” Promise decries, shaking his fist. Promise, a revolutionary at heart, or at least in training, declares that the Zimbabwean government has, in fact, legally de-legitimized its right to rule, citing their inability to provide economically for the population, in addition to the state’s growing oppression and crackdown on protests. Logically, according to Promise, the people have an obligation to rise up against the oppressors by any means necessary.
Promise indicates that the Tajamuka youth movement, while refusing to be tied to any political party or figure, is doing its part in the struggle by attempting to combine the lessons of civil disobedience of the American Civil Rights, and refusing to abide by unjust laws, with the social-media organizing tactics of the recent Arab Spring. He turns around his phone and opens the internationally ubiquitous WhatsApp messaging platform, demonstrating his ability to send around videos of police brutality, and organize activists through group chats.
Promise suggests that the youth will go above and beyond peaceful protests if Mugabe refuses to cede power, “We will use violence in response to the government if needed.”
As we leave the restaurant, the stench of tear-gas suddenly fills the air. We shield our eyes. Protestors run in our direction, and cars anxiously reverse through the street, driving the wrong way down a one-way street to flee the scene. The police have descended on the protestors. We can see them using batons to physically beat the marchers they caught up to, while spraying tear gas and water cannons to force others away. We flee the scene in Promise’s Toyota.
“By any means necessary,” Promise says under his breath, explicitly echoing the creed of Malcolm X.
A week later, back in the United States, I send a Whatsapp message to Promise to check on a quote. When he didn’t reply, I Google his name. He had been arrested a week earlier- the government claimed he had set a police car on fire. He remained in jail for almost a month, before the government granted him release on $100 bail.
--------------
An August trip to Zimbabwe provided a glimpse into a political and economic situation that is increasingly becoming untenable in a country full of paradoxes. Zimbabwe defies logic: it is difficult to describe to outsiders.
It is currently in vogue in the West to describe countries in Africa in one of two ways (when these countries are actually distinguished from the actual continent). On one pole, we generalize Africa as comprised of war-torn impoverished states completely incapable of governing themselves, and needing our care, attention, and activism. We look to the conflicts in South Sudan, Somalia, and the Democratic Republic of Congo, and the intractable conflicts defy logic and solutions. We blame colonialism, a lack of effective leadership, or some combination of all the above for the never-ending strife. We send these poor Africans food, or shoes, or clean water.
On the other hand, pushback comes in the promotion of an increasingly popular “Africa Rising” narrative. No, the argument goes, the continent is not a mess, and does not need our charity. Rather, its young innovative entrepreneurs are paving the way for a uniquely African moment of growth and innovation. The 21st century will be the African century.
Zimbabwe is decidedly none of these narratives.
Zimbabwe is not the western-generalized war-torn country replete with pot-holed infested roads and replete with crime. It possesses modern infrastructure, a functioning health-care system that has actually led to a decline in HIV-AIDS rates, and well-run schools that have maintained an incredibly well educated populace: the Economist estimates that its 90% literacy rate is the highest on the entire African continent. One could arrive in Harare’s modern airport, take a metered taxi to a glamorous bed-and-breakfast, eat at a delectable seafood restaurant, and vacation in some of the best game parks in the world.
At the same time, Zimbabwe’s economy is one of the worst in the world. Its unemployment rate is roughly equivalent to its literacy rate, wavering between 90-95%, as virtually the entire workforce has entered an informal bartering market. The adequate infrastructure stems from the fact that the country used to be the breadbasket of Africa, seen as a post-colonial success story with a GDP rate of over 10% in the mid-nineties. Now, the country’s economy has completely flat-lined, vacillating between divergent dire crises. One of the eeriest parts of traveling through the capital city is that, different from many African capitals, there is literally not a crane in sight. The grim economy has resulted in a complete lack of modern construction and infrastructure development.
In the late 2000’s, the country experienced one of the world’s worst hyperinflation crises in history, which peaked with an inflation rate of 231 million percent in 2008. After tying the currency to the dollar, the inflation rate stabilized, but the country now has entered a new economic predicament: the government literally has no money.
In recent months, the situation has become so dire that public officials, including the military, have begun to receive their salaries late. Whereas there were no goods in stores in 2008 in the midst of hyperinflation, now there is no money to buy the goods that actually do exist, because the government cannot print money. Just six years ago, there was too much currency. Now there is none. It is unprecedented for a country to vacillate between two completely different types of economic crises in a decade-long period. It has responded to the latest crisis by printing and circulating bond-notes, much to the frustration of citizens who refuse to use the illegitimate currency.
The challenges are inextricably tied to Mugabe. A war hero who liberated Zimbabwe from Great Britain in 1980, he was once seen as one of the greatest heroes on the entire continent, mentioned in the same breath as Mandela and Kwame Nkrumah, Ghana’s first president and a leader of pan-Africansim.
But he has refused to give up power, and presided over a controversial land reform effort that, while perhaps justifiable in its initial motivation, resulted in the decimation of the agricultural economy. Endeavoring to destroy any lasting remnants of colonialism, Mugabe attempted to more equitably distribute land from white Zimbabweans of European ancestry, who benefited disproportionately under the British rule, to black Zimbabweans. While the policy began with a “willing seller, winning buyer” clause, which ensured that any white landowners were fairly compensated for their land, the government began a more extreme “Fast-Track Land Reform Program” in 2000, which involved illegally and forcibly seizing land without compensation. Statistics confirm that the start of this program led to the beginning of the downfall of Zimbabwe’s economy.
From 1999 too 2009, when the more drastic land reform seizure was carried out, food output capacity fell 45%, and manufacturing output by over 50%. The banking sector also collapsed, and farmers were unable to obtain loans or training.
In addition to sparking the economic crisis, Mugabe turned to dictatorial methods to retain control, stifling free press and free speech, and using the military to intimidate and bludgeon opponents. According to Mugabe, anybody against the drastic land reform efforts, or against his rule, is pro-colonialism.
Mugabe, though, has just turned 92, possessing the dubious distinction of serving as the oldest head of state in the entire world. He is clearly not well, with social media accounts constantly sharing pictures of him falling asleep at government events, or repeating the same speeches over and over again. There is a sense in the country that his flailing health means that a transition is impending. His own party seems to be in disarray, with as many as eight politicians attempting to position themselves as his successor, including his wife, Grace. Reckoning with this impending change, and attempting to ensure that Zimbabwe returns to its glory days, is the question on everyone’s mind. Given the dismal global track record of a toppled dictator leading to a successful democracy, Zimbabwe’s political realities are worth the international community’s collective attention.
I was able to gain access to both political leaders and ordinary citizens as I traveled throughout the country, partially because my father formerly worked as the Chief Political Officer in Harare, and partly because it became obvious that Zimbabweans are eager for the rest of the world to hear their story, and there has been relatively little interest in telling it. There is sometimes a sense of Africa fatigue- one can tire of hearing seemingly endless stories of a people in plight. Zimbabwe, though, is singular in its story: its rapid ascent, and even quicker deterioration into economic disaster. How can one understand the paradox of a country, once so full of promise, and now so desperate for change?
--------------
Themba Mzingwane is, in many ways, a typical modern Zimbabwean. At 31 years old, he appears in impeccable physical shape, and is constantly wearing a smile to accompany his jeans and Liverpool-branded sweatshirt, despite his economic realities. His story is both unique, and representative of so many throughout the country.
Themba never knew his father, and his mother was a housekeeper who died three years earlier, after being hit by a bus on the way back from retrieving groceries for her employees. Tearfully relating the experience, Themba blames the country’s deteriorating situation for his mother’s death: it took too long for an ambulance to arrive, and doctors continually attempted to shuttle her between hospitals, while trying to black-mail her employers for more money to treat her condition. By the time they actually started to operate, it was too late. For Themba, the government’s incompetence and corruption is not a matter of theory- he adamantly feels that it took his mother’s life.
A year prior to his mother’s death, Themba, like millions of his compatriots, was forced to migrate to bordering South Africa to find a steady job. He now resides in the capital city of Johannesburg as a houseboy, spending his days cleaning, gardening, and cooking for a rich South African family. He does this despite the fact that he is one semester short of a college degree, and has frequently written eloquently on the situation in Zimbabwe, including a piece on the Huffington Post in response to the death of Cecil the Lion, proclaiming that #ZimbabweanLivesMatter, which was shared thousands of times on Facebook. Themba’s story makes Promise’s slogan of turning “graduates into vendors” eerily prescient. He talks of desperately wanting gainful employment in his home country, but knows that the only way he will be able to support himself and his family, and make enough money to afford the bride sum for his girlfriend, Sabrina, is to remain in South Africa.
Themba is back in Harare for a week to visit with his sister and her two daughters, and to continue to court Sabrina. While in town, he stays in his sister Sally’s modest three-room home in a high-density slum called Kuwudzana Extension. While lacking décor on the walls, and any sense of space, the home is centered on a big-screen television in the living room, always turned onto old American movies or the Olympics. A water pump, constantly surrounded by people waiting for its use in an orderly line, is located across the dirt-street, next to a butchery and rowdy liquor store. Beginning at 5:30 each morning, the front of the house becomes a bus stop, with mini-vans noisily advertising rides to Harare, located 20 kilometers away.
After a traditional meal of Sadza, a Zimbabwean staple of cooked cornmeal, Themba and his family provide their analysis of the situation in Zimbabwe while watching Usain Bolt take the Gold Medal in a tape-delayed 200-meter dash. At one point, Themba jokes that after Iraq, Zimbabweans thought that Bush would invade Zimbabwe next.
“First Saddam, and next Mugabe. They are the same! We kept waiting for the military to come. And then when Obama won, since he is part African, we were sure that it would happen. We keep waiting for a change that never comes.”
After the Olympics, Themba, hogging the remote, switches over to the BBC, which is showing a documentary about the Ivory Coast singer, Tiken Jah, who had returned to his desolate hometown to help build schools. The one-room, dirt-laden schoolrooms Jah visited in the documentary would be familiar to those who travel throughout sub-Saharan Africa. But they were not familiar to Themba, who demonstrates a pride for Zimbabwe rooted in its antiquated roots of development.
“Wow. That is terrible. We do not have schools in that bad of shape, even in the rural areas. How do they even learn in those rooms?”
Despite its historically abysmal economy, Zimbabweans fundamentally do not see themselves as living in a developing country. They still believe they can be the breadbasket of Africa.
Themba is hopeful that a 92-year old Mugabe will croak soon. But he is tired of waiting for change, and a wife, thousands of miles away from his home.
“I just want my country back.”
--------------
As I enter Tendai Biti’s office, the stout, bespectacled man warily looks up from from a desk completely covered in books and papers to reach across his long desk, barely able to reach to shake my hand through the clutter. As I sit down, I notice that, almost a parody of himself, Biti has been leafing through a copy of the recently reformed Zimbabwe Constitution. He looks tired, acting as if the country’s plight is entirely on his shoulders.
“I miss your father very much. We used to have conversations all day long! He had very many friends in this country.”
Biti, a locally trained lawyer, has been involved in politics his entire life, beginning as a student at the University of Zimbabwe in 1988, when he led protests against the government’s suppression of media, as Mugabe first began to demonstrate his dictatorial tendencies. He became Finance Minister under the Government of National Unity, formed after the contested elections in 2008, before falling out of favor with political leadership as the fragile agreement fell apart before the 2013 presidential elections. He formed his own party soon afterwards- the People’s Democratic Party. Although I am meeting him in the party’s headquarters, there are only three other people present in the building as we meet. They are all watching an English Premier League soccer game.
Biti’s new political infrastructure is one of almost a dozen opposition parties in the country, which lends itself to worries that the divided governmental obstruction will lead to Mugabe’s Zanu PF party continuing to hold power in the upcoming 2018 elections. Biti insists however, that, despite the party’s name, his main goal is not necessarily to actually convince people to actually join.
“We are going to be a big party intellectually. The goal is to provide a structure to go beyond just Mugabe. We want to fill stadiums with ideas, not people.”
Growing animated by his ideas, and barely pausing to take a breath, Biti provides, or lectures, comprehensive 10-point arguments to explain why his country is riper for change than ever before, describing specific policies he considers necessary to dig the economy out from the abyss. Claiming that Mugabe’s state “has never been as weak as it is now,” Biti argues that social media, or “Hashtag Activism”, as he calls it, has made a substantial difference in allowing ordinary citizens to bypass the government-dominated media, engaging in free-form political debate and spreading the word about ongoing plight, such as posting videos of police brutality on Whatsapp.
Despite Biti’s professorial demeanor, which gives off the vibe that he would be perfectly content to analyze and write about comparative constitutional law all day, he himself has recently plunged into the “Twittersphere”. Since first posting in late July, he has averaged almost 50 tweets per day, fully embracing the ability to engage with everyday Zimbabweans. Biti cannot resist intellectualizing the platform, though, claiming that the country’s ultimate success will come when “we have the convergence of Hashtag Activism with political demands.”
During the 2008 presidential elections, significant concern existed that the opposition’s main strategy was to simply remove Mugabe, and that the rest would fall into place. Biti notes, however, that a glance at post-dictator states around the world indicates that such a naïve strategy tends to fall short. Whether it is Libya, Egypt, Iraq, Afghanistan, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Somalia, or countless others, when despotic leaders go, peace and stability does not automatically follow. While Zimbabweans often point to their neighbors to the south, in South Africa, as a post-colonial success story, the analogy is challenged- Mandela was a once-in-a-generation leader, and, since his death, his African National Conference party has descended into a corruption that masks one of the most unequal countries in the world. The party was recently pummeled in local elections that took place in August.
Unlike in 2008, Biti is pushing for a sense of awareness that it is not sufficient to assume that a post-Mugabe Zimbabwe will thrive. Biti’s intellectual revolution is designed to promote governance concepts and beliefs to implement after the “Old Man Bob”, as Mugabe is callously referred to, inevitably goes.
Biti’s inflection rises, as one might grow excited when talking about a favorite sports team, when describing one of his favorite ideas: the formation of a National Transitional Authority (NTA). Envisioning a way for Mugabe and ZANU PF to “land the plane”, and gracefully exit power, the NTA would be comprised of non-politically affiliated technocrats who could design the infrastructure and policies needed to create a stable and thriving Zimbabwean state. Biti’s hope is that, for two years, the NTA, modeled off of the post-Mussolini 1946 Constituent Assembly of Italy, would help to align laws with the recently re-written constitution, building strong judicial and political institutions, and beginning a process of international re-engagement.
Despite the idealistic premise of such a technocracy, activists and opposition leaders alike see the idea as a pipe dream at best, and an elitist maneuvering at worst. Regardless of its prospects, the exchange of ideas of a post-Mugabe presidency provides a semblance of much-needed optimism as the country watches the dictator’s every move, seemingly hoping that he is unable to get out of bed one morning.
“I am optimistic,” Biti says, finally smiling. “I can smell change in the air.”
He guides me to the door, and as I turn back, I can see him immediately start to, once again, begin to leaf through his copy of the Zimbabwean Constitution.
Zimbabwean street vendors hawk their goods.
--------------
The next day, David Butau picks me up at nightfall in his sleek SUV Mercedes Benz. Butau, formerly a leader in Mugabe’s ZANU PF, was now a member of parliament for yet another opposition party, Zimbabwe People First (not to be confused with Biti’s People’s Democratic Party. Apparently branding specialists have avoided Zimbabwe). Butau wants me to meet his boss, Joice Mujuru, formerly Vice President of Zimbabwe, now one of Mugabe’s principal opponents, and widely rumored to be plotting a presidential run in 2018.
Butau, a burly man, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, speeds through the dimly-lit nighttime streets of Harare, ignoring the loud beeping from his SUV alerting him to the fact his seat-belt remains unfastened, alternating between barking orders to youth activists into his cell phone and blaring American pop music. He is in a hurry, daringly passing cars along the road, as if the fate of the country is dependent on his ability to get to his next meeting quickly.
“Your father was a good man,” Butau articulates when his distractions finally die down. “In fact, he was one of the reasons I got in trouble in my party.” ZANU PF officials were not supposed to engage with American official, in rules that our government reciprocated. My dad, however, apparently did not abide by these restrictions, engaging with members of the governing party, including meeting with Mugabe multiple times, and Mujuru, the woman we were about to meet. “I have no idea who is in the US Embassy anymore. They are completely divorced from the situation on the ground,” Butau exclaimed.
I do not quite understand why I, a 29-year old American who held no official American role and had not been to Zimbabwe in four years, am about to meet one of the most powerful and important politicians in the country. Part of it is indisputably my dad’s connections. Part of it is that, because of her former ties to Mugabe, Mujuru remains on the United States sanction list, unable to travel to the country, or do business with Americans. Butau wants her removed from the list, as he feels that visiting America would give his boss a sense of political authority as she begins to plot for post-Mugabe rule.
As we wait in the parking lot of a gas station, two blocks from my parents’ former home, Butau calms down, turning down the radio, and actually fastening his seatbelt. He explains that he wants me to do everything in my power to get her off the list. Just as my own heart rate begins to slow down, he receives a phone call, and we are cleared to drive onto Mujuru’s premises. He speeds through multiple intersections, and we arrive at a wide gate. A trio of security guards lets the car through.
As we park, a different set of guards approach the car, and open our doors, accompanying us into the house without responding to our greetings. We enter into an opulent, presidential-style palace, walking past Greek-style pillars and blown-up, framed pictures of Mujuru, her daughters, and her late husband, into an office adorned with multiple Zimbabwean flags and large local Shona sculptures of elephants and lions.
“Scott, it is so good to meet you! Please send my regards to your father. He was so smart and so helpful.” Mujuru leaps up from her desk, and greets me with an impossibly strong handshake. What Mujuru lacks in her small height, she makes up for with a formidable presence. As soon as I enter the room, she gives me her undivided attention, clearly possessing the politician’s ability to make a subject feel like the most important person in the world.
One of the first women commanders of the liberation war throughout the seventies, she was known as Teurai Ropa, or spill blood, partially because of her alleged role in personally downing a British helicopter with a machine gun. Mugabe’s former deputy and likely successor, Mujuru was purged from the party in 2014 amidst allegations that she was plotting to overthrow boss. In recent months, she has been seen as an increasingly menacing opposition candidate, partially because her background indicates that she could command respect from the all-powerful military. Grappling with this threat, the state-run newspaper ran a Sunday multi-page spread days earlier that explicitly alleged she had slept her way to the top throughout her military service. The government had also recently convinced the Chinese government to revoke her daughter’s visa as she studied abroad. Politics in action.
We sit down for a late, 9:30 PM dinner of Sadza. Three servers enter the room, each bringing us our individual meal on plates that they meticulously unveil, anxious to please their boss. Mujuru ignores their presence, continuing to focus on me, and regaling stories of her military past. Calling herself the “Zimbabwean Hillary”, Mujuru rails against Mugabe and his lackeys.
“Is this what we fought for? We are once again suffering through an oppressive government. We need liberation for the second time. We went from breadbasket of Africa to the begging ball of Africa”
Despite being late at night at the end of a long day, which had involved signing an agreement with all other opposition groups to support just one candidate against Mugabe, she remains present and engaged throughout the entire dinner.
I nervously ask why she feels she is the best opposition candidate to take on Mugabe, given the fact that she had been so close with him and his oppressive regime for so long. She sighs and takes a deep breath, before citing her military experience, and chemistry with the other opposition leaders, including the leader of the Movement for Democratic Change, Morgan Tsvangirai. At the same time, she takes a dig at Tsvangirai, who has been the de-facto opposition candidate for the last three presidential elections, insisting that the country needs someone who had fought in the war. Morgan has not.
Becoming increasingly at ease and friendly as the dinner went on, Mujuru begins to talk about her desire to visit America.
“There is nothing wrong with becoming a friend of America. We have a lot to learn from you. And in fact, you have a lot to learn from us.”
This rhetoric is a far cry from the language frequently utilized by Mugabe and his cronies, who frequently cite colonialism as the reason for Zimbabwe’s stagnant economy. Mujufu shoves this logic aside. “The only person who honestly thinks that colonialism is at blame for our current problems in Mugabe. He is the only racist person left in this country,” she insisted.
After she regales me to a tea grown in her own extravagant backyard, and has me promise to tell my friends and American leaders about the gregariousness of Joice Mujuru and the tastiness of her tea, the former Vice President packs up her three cell phones, closes the office door behind her, and leads us to Butau’s car, while showing off a contraption of couch cushions that her grandchildren had constructed to play with in her multi-car garage.
“Please tell my story in America. Zimbabwe is on the precipice of change. This time, we are close”
--------------
Zimbabweans protest the recent bond noes
It is sometimes challenging to comprehend how ordinary Zimbabweans have survived, given the fact that so few have jobs in the formal sector, and many seemingly spend their days in hours-long lines for ATM machines. I asked almost everyone I met- from taxi drivers to vendors to pedestrians, how they were doing. In the United States, the refrain is, “Fine.” In Zimbabwe, it is “Not so good.” But given the tenacity of the population, and the obvious intellect of its political leaders, it does seem like rapid change could come to the once-thriving country.
In my myriad of conversations with political leaders and regular Zimbabweans over my time in the country, a discord between optimism and despair became apparent. There’s a sense of “Zimbabwe fatigue”, evident both amongst the domestic citizenry, and internationally. There has been countless times in which the country thought it was on the verge of change, only to see Mugabe wrestle power, and life, back from the brink. It becomes challenging to imagine that change will actually occur. Presidential elections are scheduled for 2018, with Mugabe fully intending to once again run, at the age of 94. Citizens seemed almost resigned that he could make it to the age of 99 as the country’s leader.
At the same time, there is a purposeful deliberation to envisioning a post-Mugabe Zimbabwe that is rare in dictator-enforced countries. Amongst the opposition, and everyday Zimbabweans, there is widespread acknowledgement concerning the importance of establishing governance stability to ensure that the international community’s confidence can result in foreign direct investment. Mujuru and Biti both spoke about instituting a countrywide training for newer black Zimbabwean farmers.
The Responsibility to Protect Doctrine (R2P), a global political commitment unanimously endorsed by the United Nations in 2005, explicitly outlines that all sovereign states have a responsibility to protect their populations from mass atrocities and human rights violations. If they do not uphold these obligations, then the international community may intervene. This doctrine has been oft used in attempting to justify further intervention in Syria.
Traveling throughout the country, it became clear that Mugabe’s regime is perpetuating and causing economic and political strife amongst its own citizens in order to stay in power. While economic freedom and prosperity is not listed under R2P, Zimbabwe provides a powerful case study that the international community should do more when states cause such economic harm amongst their people.
The United States can help promote better conditions. While political change must come from within, and the US will not come in with the Marines to depose of Mugabe, to Themba’s dismay, there are small things that can be done. This includes lifting the sanctions off of Mujuru and allowing her to begin to talk to the business community. Americans, and the international community, should also be ready to both invest in the country, and provide governance and agricultural training when change does come.
We also would do well to listen to their stories. I began my trip skeptical of my father’s four years in the country. Had he actually done anything besides fraternize with political elites and play tennis at our house? It became obvious, though, through every conversation I held, that my dad had listened to Zimbabweans. They all felt like he had heard and internalized their struggle. He did not save Zimbabwe. But he is remembered in Zimbabwe. I visited Themba and his family the night before I left the country. As we took pictures together, I felt a little helpless. I wanted to do more to help him, his family, and his people. I asked Themba if there was anything more that I could do as he walked out the door.
“Do not forget us.”