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Zimbabwe at 27: The harvest of silence
By Wallace
Chuma
ALEXANDER
Kanengoni’s Echoing Silences is probably the most engaging
and brutally frank account of Zimbabwe’s guerrilla war narrated
quasi-fictionally.
Published 10 years ago, it unravels the war’s ugly underbelly: regular torture and killing orgies sanctioned by kangaroo courts, raging male sexual predators targeting junior female combatants, indiscipline and betrayal among fighters…the list is endless.
What strikes me about the book though is none of this. It is Kanengoni’s spot on diagnosis of one of independent Zimbabwe’s terminal ailments: silence.
Twenty seven years into independence and the wheels of state have come off, it seems to me that the ‘culture of silence’ among many Zimbabweans—especially those who absolutely should have spoken— is a key factor to the crisis. I’ll come back to this later.
In the last chapter
of his book, Kanengoni captures a fictional rally addressed by Herbert
Chitepo and Jason Moyo, a rally where “fundamental policy changes
to the struggle” are supposed to be announced. Although located
in the theatre of struggle, the issues raised there describe a post-independent
Zimbabwe. He writes: “…the Chairman (Chitepo) talked angrily
of a series of monumental historical betrayals and he said he and a
few others were the living examples of such betrays; and Jason Moyo
wondered how politics, the wealth and the economy of the entire country
was slowly becoming synonymous with the names of less than a dozen people
and he asked how in such circumstances the struggle could not be said
to have lost its way”.
The atmosphere tenses up, and fiery-eyed Chitepo continues: “It’s
shocking to see the reluctance that we have to tell even the smallest
truth. Ours shall soon become a nation of liars. We lie to our wives.
We lie to our husbands. We lie at work. We lie in Parliament. We lie
in Cabinet. We lie to each other. And what it worst is that we have
begun to believe our lies. What I fear most is that we will not leave
anything to our children except lies and silence” (my emphasis).
The speech is briefly interrupted by Dr Samuel Parirenyatwa who breaks down weeping, and Leopold Takawira leans on to comfort him. Chitepo continues, like one possessed: “It all began in silence. We deliberately kept silent about some truths, no matter how small, because some of us felt that we would compromise our power…then the silence spilled into the everyday lives of our people and translated itself into fear which they believe is the only protection that they have against imaginary enemies whom we have taught them to see standing behind their shoulders. They are no longer able to say what they want. Neither are they able to say what they think because they have become a nation of silent performers, miming their monotonous roles before an empty theatre…We owe the people an explanation.” (my emphasis).
Of course, this fine speech is fictional. But its engagement with the tragic duo of lies and silence is breathtakingly real. Anybody who has followed Zimbabwean politics will confirm this. Since independence, Zimbabwe’s nationalist leadership has actively discouraged debate, within and outside Zanu PF. Silence tops the list of recommended behaviours, and when it’s broken, it better be to express acceptable, rather than unacceptable opinion. The unwritten, though enforceable rules are framed in binaries of good and evil, treachery and loyalty. To question the official line is to betray the struggle and sell out to the enemy, a transgression punishable by complete ostracism or the “people’s” wrath—violence. To speak without expressing complete loyalty to the party leadership is to succumb to the deadly sin of pride, another punishable atrocity. Political life is a matter of the straight and the narrow. President Mugabe prefers the term “gwara remusangano” (the party’s immovable, non-negotiable position) to enforce the spiral of silence.
As a result, those within the party and state leadership who have chosen to speak—since independence—have either parroted ad nauseum, or dared express their minds and faced instant political gallows. Many within and outside the party and state have opted for the safer option, silence or parroting. Examples abound of grown men and women within Zanu PF and the state who, because they’ve parroted all their post-colonial lives, have grown hoarse and clownish. Mugabe’s current cabinet, for example, largely comprises a legion of lifelong praise singers who are way beyond their sell-by dates. Take the example of Home Affairs Minister Kembo Mohadi’s contributions during a recent interview with SW Radio. Throughout the interview, he offered poorly framed but charged denials to straight questions, including police torture of opposition activists, whose pictures were beamed across the world.
If Mohadi’s contribution is a classic example of official gobbledegook, his cabinet tenure is assured for life. For this is exactly what the system rewards. It therefore makes perfect sense that Agriculture Minister Joseph Made repeatedly survived a disastrous misreading of the nation’s food security situation, presumably after a fleeting, helicopter-inspired delirium! You invest in either silence or drivel, and your mistakes, no matter how costly, will be overlooked.
It is the system’s ability to rehabilitate “fallen” members that strikes me most. Take Dzikamai Mavhaire’s famous “Mugabe must go” statement which made world headlines in 1997. Predictably, the system moved swiftly to clip his wings, and for half a decade confined him to his extremely modest roots in Masvingo. I would hazard to suggest that when he uttered the ‘unthinkable’ declaration in Parliament, he was expressing an opinion shared by many within the party hierarchy. But none of them was available to side with the proverbial intrepid mouse that dares tie the bell around the cat’s neck. Like the prodigal son, Mavhaire must have come to a sobering conclusion that his future would better guaranteed by a return to the fold. He was forgiven, rehabilitated and ushered back via the Senate route. You need to listen to his (very rare) public utterances these days and you’ll be rest assured he will never, never, never repeat muromo wa 1997 (sounds familiar?).
The system’s other forgiven son, Calistus Ndlovu, was recently dispatched to the People’s Republic of China to take up the ambassador’s post. This after close to two decades of isolation, contrition and endless supplication following his fall during the Willowgate Scandal. Like some deity, the system may take its time to respond to its fallen ones, but will certainly readmit them to the fold, in the fullness of time. Of course the condition remains: tread the straight and narrow, shut up or sing praises.
Which takes me back to Kanengoni. The award-winning Echoing Silences is the work of a fine storyteller who captures both the intricacies of the war and, to a lesser extent, the political nightmare of the postcolony. Given that he fought in the war for six years, Kanengoni’s account is probably one of the most credible around. The year 1997, in which a highly critical book on the liberation struggle was published and a highly regarded lawmaker openly called for the President to go, should be viewed as a watershed in the history of both the ruling party and the state. The effects of Esap were biting, poverty was rising, war veterans went on rampage to demand their share for liberating the country, and the year ended with the brutal crash of the Zim dollar. Kanengoni therefore represented emerging nodes of social and political critique within the system. However, like the rest of the “fallen” comrades, his turn for ‘rehabilitation’ did come.
Writing in the now-defunct Mirror nine years after publishing Echoing Silences, the arguably new-look Kanengoni ironically recaptured the silence in the system, but this time as part of a massive tribute to the President’s ‘humility’ after a 3-hour meeting with him. He wrote: “…What I found most overwhelming, almost intimidating about the President’s official residence was the absolute silence, occasionally broken by the sound of a chirping bird and murmuring sprinklers watering the flowers…”(Mirror, 23/07/2006, emphasis mine). If this silence of the President’s residence was symbolic, then the shockingly real silence followed during the meeting.
From the story’s account, it seems a group of cherry-picked journalists from the Mirror and the state media must have silently and patiently sat through a 3-hour presidential rambling session. Here’s what the President, according to the story, spoke to journalists about in 2006 and amidst a political and economic crisis in the country: “[He spoke] about how the public address system failed in Banjul forcing the Iranian President to abandon his unfinished speech…[he also spoke]about the predicament of a love-strung young man called Seretse Khama abdicating from the Bamangwato chieftainship because he had fallen in love with a white English girl called Ruth Williams…about how he was shocked at the 1996 New Zealand Commonwealth conference to hear former Nigerian military strongmen, Sani Abacha, had executed writer Ken Saro Wiwa”. The President went on about how he had supported Italy during last year’s World Cup and how his son Chatunga had supported France…the list goes on. Only a line in the story says Mugabe also spoke about “the suffering of the people and the effort government was doing (sic) to change the situation.”
In many societies, this encounter between the president and journalists would have made controversial and speculative front page news. It happened fairly recently in France when President Chiraq gave conflicting statements to journalists about his country’s policy on Iran’s nuclear programme. However, in the Zimbabwean case, this encounter was enough to attract glowing praises for the President. This is how the spiral of silence (or parroting) operates.
The long-term success of the system is predicated on the continued silence, parrotry and self-effacement of the lower ranks of the political hierarchy. This is achieved through multiple methods, including both coercion and coaxing. When Didymus Mutasa declares to the media and public that he has absolutely no ambitions to become President, he is merely conforming to the rules of the system. It therefore also makes perfect sense for President Mugabe to declare, as he did last year that: “Those who dream themselves ruling this country should never believe it's true. Dreams are dreams and they should end in the homes.” Those who attempt to move dreams from their safe locales are dealt with in a way which will deter possible future transgressors. You need to look at Edgar Tekere, Morgan Tsvangirai, among others. Those who hinted at the possibility of ‘availing’ themselves for the presidency should circumstances arise, like Edson Zvobgo or Emmerson Mnangagwa, also received their fair share of punishment, followed by appropriate rehabilitation.
When Vice President
Msika declared in the Sunday Mail last year that, regardless
of his age, he would remain in office until a proper crop of young patriots
was ready for the mantle, he was capturing the tenets of the system.
The same applies to the late Vice President Simon Muzenda’s bold
declaration in 2000 that, in the event that Zanu PF failed to get an
‘appropriate’ candidate for a constituency, it would successfully
field a baboon. In the system’s scheme of things, human beings
and their distant relatives still roaming the wild are the same, as
long as both remain faithful to the party’s gwara.
For many years, both the public and private media in Zimbabwe raised
false hopes of a possible intra-party transition and reform in Zanu
PF. They failed to appreciate the extent to which the terminal cancer
of silence had eaten into the party and state’s moral fabric.
The media created potential reformers out of “technocrats”
such as Simba Makoni, “feared” politicians such as Emmerson
Mnangagwa, or “kingmakers” out of Solomon Mujuru. It is
instructive that, apart from Mnangagwa in a rare interview with the
Financial Gazette, none of the media-christened reformers ever
expressed any political ambition. The unopposed endorsement of President
Mugabe last week as the Zanu PF presidential candidate for 2008 was
a significant illustration of the system of silence at work.
My argument primarily concerns the system of silence as it manifests itself within the ruling party and the state. I have deliberately left out civil society including the opposition for purposes of time and scope. Given that Zanu PF has been at the helm of Zimbabwe for 27 years, it is a tragedy that the party’s leadership has created a wall of silence which, in a big way, accounts for the country’s current multifaceted crisis. As we turn 27, is it not time Zanu PF headed Chitepo’s fictional but relevant pointer: “We owe the people an explanation”?.
Wallace Chuma
is a former journalist in Zimbabwe. He is contactable at walchuma@yahoo.com
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