the Zimbabwe book

ABOUT A GIRL WHO WENT TO AFRICA AND WROTE IT ALL DOWN

When I was 22, I joined the U.S. Peace Corps as an English teacher in Zimbabwe. My three years living in a rural village turned out to be an experience that impacted me and my thinking for the rest of my life. I can no longer approach any subject with a purely American perspective, because Zimbabwe and her lessons are forever within me.  

I knew little of Africa when I left the United States, a few broad strokes from Bob Marley songs, some chapters in a social studies book. I went with optimism and naivety, and what I learned was complicated. Zimbabwe held amazing beauty; the hospitality of strangers, the kindness of my host family, and the incredible spirits of my students are among my most treasured memories. At the same time, the acceptable abuse of power, women, and children often left me angry and cynical. Poverty, which I had previously viewed with a sort of reverence, was not a virtue, but rather something that, coupled with a lack of education, ushered in all kinds of evil. My experience was full of questions and complexities.

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As an American in Africa, everything feels larger than life. The beauty is larger and so is the sorrow. When I was there, I felt closer to the earth, closer to death, and somehow closer to life. I came away profoundly changed.    

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I am writing this book in part for myself and my children. Told through actual letters and journal entries, vignettes and poetry, it is largely my story: the tale of how a young American went to a developing nation to learn, to grow, to experience poverty and a life that was completely different from the one in which she was raised. But it is more than that, which is why it is worth sharing.

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It turns out that I was in Zimbabwe at a unique time in history. The years from 1996 to 1999 were the end of an era. When Zimbabwe became independent in 1980 under the leadership of Robert Mugabe, a revolutionary leader turned Prime Minister turned President, about 15 years of relative peace followed. The country became known as the “breadbasket” of Southern Africa, meaning it was a plentiful source of food. The infrastructure was some of the best on the continent. And it looked like the country’s leadership was committed to racial reconciliation and cooperation.

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In the years that I lived in Zimbabwe, however, this promising situation took a sharp turn toward disintegration.  The governing party, ZANU PF, violently squelched all opposition. Those who spoke out were beaten up, thrown in jail, or they simply disappeared.  Inflation raced toward unanticipated heights, a desire for economic equality and justice led to seizures of White-owned farms by unprepared Black veterans, a newspaper that dared to challenge the ruling party had its office bombed. 

Once home in the United States, I read accounts of food shortages, exorbitant prices for staples, and petrol lines that stretched for miles. By 2001, the government that had requested American volunteers to bolster the education system and provide business advising, refused to renew those same volunteers’ work visas. The program was forced to close down. I came to understand that my years in Zimbabwe had historical significance.

It’s been more than 20 years since I last stood on Zimbabwe’s red earth, yet her people remain in my heart. The students who welcomed me into their lives, who have continued to seek my friendship well into adulthood, who have endured the lean and difficult years of the past two decades, they must be seen. They, and their children, are the future of the country, no matter which power-hungry politician sits at the helm. Their stories are why this book matters.