Culture Chaos II

I feel like I don't have a culture.

Not a singular one anyway. Sure, I was born Zimbabwean. But what are Zimbabweans anyway?

I am a mixture of everything.

I am feeling somewhat amused by culture these days, and am amazed at how much it affects and influences who we are and the the decisions we make.

Perhaps I am able to see this more clearly because I have been ripped out of my culture and thrown into others a few times. Being in Korea was so freeing – there was nothing that made me feel compelled to wear frilly baby doll dresses like the Korean women, nor bows and ties etc ( I kid you not, stop laughing!)

Growing up as a kid, driving into South Africa on holiday every couple of years was a BIG deal. Ask any Zimbabwean. The first stop for us was always Messina, and without fail I would buy a cream soda can of soft drink, my brother a raspberry one, my mom a lemon twist and my dad a coke. And oh the chocolates! Do you know, we'd buy a couple of bars of different chocolates and then when back in Zim after our holiday, my mom would cut up one bar into four pieces and we'd each have some – that was SUCH a treat! Yip, fizzy drinks in cans and chocolates were a real treat, at least to us!

Moving here 5 years ago was funny. Although I went to university here, I never noticed a big culture difference until South Africa became my next home and returning home was not an option.

South Africa is a lot more materialistic than Zimbabwe - there is a larger disposable income and also just quite frankly more shops and things that are pleasing to the eye. Do you know, Harare, the capital city, had no malls until a few years ago – really. They built them all when I was a teenager I guess. And they're huge sprawling malls that are uncovered – the sky is the ceiling. So if it rains, you just have to run between the shops! If you drive down any street in Zim, especially now, you will see LOADS of people walking alongside the road (that's partly due to no petrol therefore no cars and high unemployment) – but what struck me on a recent return visit to Zim was how simply these people on the side of the road are dressed. Here, on the road past my house, the people that work along it to work pay way more attention to fashion than I do! (Not that it's hard mind you, it just isn't something that has played a large part in my life!)

Another thing that tickled me pink was the white crockery. We sold everything in Zimbabwe before we came down here as we couldn't afford to freight it here, and thought we'd just buy everything again here. I remember thinking how plain and boring all the white stuff was – there was so little colour, so few options if you didn't want WHITE!

But here's the thing...clearly this South African culture has worn off on me, because now – I own white plates! Groan!

But it got me thinking on a larger scale – how much the culture of where we live affects us. This South African culture has rubbed off on me. I feel the obsession with fashion rubbing off on me as well.

I know some Americans who have recently married South Africans, and the differences they face are huge – such vastly contrasting approaches to life. It also made me think though, about our culture as Christians and the world culture....how much have we allowed the world to erode who we really are? How different are we really to the world? Are we different at all?

food for thought.....

Whose fault is it?

This quote is reverberating in my mind today....

It is sometimes said that the worst thing to happen to Africa was the arrival of the white man. And the second worst thing was his departure. Colonialism lasted just long enough to destroy much of Africa's indidgneous cultures and traditions, but not long enough to leave behind a durable replacement.

(When the Crocodile Eats the Sun, Peter Godwin, pg155)

And Braveheart reminded me that what I am feeling is probably how countless black people have felt at the hands of white people in times gone by....

food for thought....

Cry My Beloved Country!

Being Zimbabwean is a privilege.

And I'm not sure that I fully appreciated that when I lived in that beautiful land up North.

I'm reading "When the Crocodile eats the Sun", by Peter Goodwin, and so enjoying it, although it haunts me when I fall asleep.

I'm still raw about Zimbabwe...and I hadn't realized that until this book opened old wounds.

It is written about the early period of Zimbabwe's demise, around the year 2000, the year Braveheart and I married, the years land invasions started, the years the first white farmers were murdered ... the years we were convinced Change would come. But that change was challenged by a dictator drunk on the taste of power and greed, and to this day, Mugabe has managed to snuff out all sparks of freedom.

What has been lost by the people of Zimbabwe is incomprehensible.

It seemed to me growing up, and even now when I look back at who I knew, that everyone in Zimbabwe used to farm, have a farm in their family, or be surrounded by people who farmed. The farming community was extensive. And by default, so was the community of farm laborers.

All has been lost.

Reading this book has made me remember with great pain, the loss of homes, the loss of lives, the loss of sanity in Zimbabwe. My life has moved on - the lives of the wives of farmers have been irrevocably altered, and they live with that searing loss daily. I had forgotten. They never will.

Martin Olds body riddled with bullets.
He fought bravely till his death

My aunt no longer has a home - the homestead in Norton is occupied. Her husband's father is buried on that land, and the farm I spent most of my childhood on can no longer be visited. Sure, she has the title deeds and now lives in England trying to make a living by caring...but can you fathom that? She is over 60, and has no where to really call home.

Other life long family friends lost their farm in Centenary - a farm carved out of virgin land a generation ago. There was nothing there - just natural vlei with huge towering masasa and mopane trees. This particular homestead was built by the farmer's own hands...and now? Occupied. Destroyed. Burnt. A highly functioning farm gone fallow. And on both these farms,these women ran clinics, gave medicine out, and on the Centenary farm, provided a school for the laborers children.

All lost.

It's not only my family (including my extended family) and close family friends who have lost out, but it's my children - the next generation. They are South African. They have no idea what it's like to love the rolling hills in Centenary, or enjoy the drive out to the farm in Norton. They won't ever know what it is to swim in the reservoir near the cows, or stay on a friend's horse farm. They won't grow up going to Nyanga and feeling the cold bite in the mountain air, or swimming in the crisp clear water; nor Kariba where I spent every holidays, watching elephants wander through the campsite.

enjoying a maize harvest

I recognize now, looking back, that my parents ensured I had a golden childhood when it came to holidays away and experiencing Zimbabwe. I remember with great clarity mny parents saving for years so that in 1985 we could go right around Zimbabwe on a family holiday.

Yes, my children will have different experiences here. Yes, they'll have different opportunities here. But somehow, it's just not the same. Imagine for one moment being forced to leave your home, your country, your livelihood - all that you have known.

My heart aches for the people who have fled this land, the Zimbabwe diaspora. It aches for the people who still live in the land, and their resilience and hope in the face of insurmountable odds. I ache because for many, returning to Zimbabwe is not an option.

I remember being amused moving to South Africa: I would meet people who on learning we were Zimbabwean would cry - "Me too!" and on further discussion I would learn that they had actually left Zimbabwe at independence some (32 years ago) or in the early 80's - and inside I would look at them quizzically and think, "Well you're not a Zimbabwean then! You've been in South Africa for years!" But now, now, I get it.

Zimbabweans are ALWAYS Zimabweans.

Zimbabwe is in my blood. I will always be a Zimbabwean no matter what passport I hold, or where I live.

And one day, just may be, we will go back.