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Silent Spring
This is a harsh time of the year in southern Africa. We have had 7
months of
dry weather and the hot season is upon us with temperatures in the 30's
and
sometimes low 40's. It is also absolutely dry - rivers have stopped
flowing
and pools are drying out, the grazing is almost exhausted and the
colors of
the open veld are stark and vivid. The yellow/white of the remaining
grass,
the early green flush of the figs and the pod mahogany, the startling
pastel
colors of the mountain acacia and Msasa.
But it is always a time of great expectation. All of creation knows
that
soon the storm clouds will arrive and with them the first rains and
that
unmistakable scent of the wet African earth. The birds know it and are
nesting, the migrants have arrived from their European and Central
African
winter sojourns and the swallows are back.
Normally the countryside is alive with activity - tractors crawling
across
the dry lands with clouds of red and gray dust billowing up behind,
oxen
straining their harness in front of steel ploughs and harrows. In many
parts, man is speeding up the whole process with his usual impatience
and
the irrigation lines are out and the sprays fly into the wind and bring
fourth the first early seedlings. The flowering shrubs throw off the
burden
of winter and burst out in their new costumes of purple and red, white
and
yellow, defying the realities of the winter world they have just been
through.
In the days of the civil war in Zimbabwe, I always took comfort in the
subtle shift in human activity that took place in the spring. Somehow
if we
went out and ploughed our lands and brought in all that we would need
for
the summer rains, seed, fertilizer, herbicides, insect sprays, fuel and
oil,
we knew that we had committed ourselves to another season, another
year.
This year it is quite different, this year the spring is silent, almost
eerily so.
The farms are abandoned, homesteads which once rang with the games of
children home from school at the weekend, are derelict and occupied in
many
cases by miserable squatters. Some are occupied by families whose real
lives
are in the cities nearby and they come out at the weekend to uneasily
sit
where they do not belong and enjoy the use of things that are actually
the
property of others. They ride guiltily through the weed-encrusted
fields and
past the broken down sheds and cattle kraals. The spirits of those who
are
buried there and whose lives are bound up in the springs of the past
make
for uneasy companions.
But it is not only on the farms that this spring has died before it
began -
in the peasant farming districts, the specter of another hungry season
is
upon the communities that live there. The majority of the young people
-
especially the men folk, have left for Egoli or Gaborone, London and
New
York. Those that are left have nothing to live on except from what
comes in
from the outside. Perhaps strutting, threatening Party men in trucks
and
Mercedes cars. Perhaps World Vision or Save the Children. Perhaps the
World
Food programme or the USAID. Sometimes help comes in the form of a
letter
with some greasy pounds inside or a mysterious deposit in a Post Office
account of which they were alerted by a phone call or a message from
the
local store.
But they are exhausted before they even begin. Their cattle are thin,
the
grazing and water sparse. Seed and other essential inputs are either
not
available or are too expensive and there are now so many demands on
their
limited resources that they have to spend their money wisely, dollar by
dollar. The other problem is that each family has new burdens - the
children
of other families left behind when both parents died or left the
country.
Sick relatives from the urban areas told by the last hospital or doctor
they
saw to "go home " - better to die there where your relatives do not
have to
rent a truck to carry your body home. Many of the actual breadwinners
are in
fact sick with many ailments - tuberculosis, pneumonia, malaria and
various
forms of carcinoma. All made more deadly by HIV and Aids.
We know what this failure to prepare for the summer means - it means
there
is no commitment to this season, to next year. Our streets are
unusually
quiet, people do not have the fuel to use their cars and transport is
just
prohibitively expensive. Factories are closing their doors and sending
their
staff home without pay, customers walk through the stores looking at
the
prices and wondering just what they can afford to buy. The sight of
people
leaving empty handed or with tiny parcels of essential foods is
heartbreaking - you want to step in and take over and allow them to use
your
debit card to fill their baskets.
This is a nation that is dying on its feet, exhausted after a long trek
through a winter of hardship and struggle. A nation that cannot smell
the
scent of early rains and now thinks that even if it does rain, it is
simply
too late. The Bible says that a nation without vision dies. We have no
vision of the future, just of survival like shipwrecked passengers
hanging
onto flotsam in the open sea.
Watching Mugabe rant and rave at the FAO Conference in Rome brought
into my
mind an image of the passengers in the sea watching as the Captain of
this
ship, who was criminally responsible for its capsize, sails past in a
life
boat. The image extends to Mugabe making a speech to the sailors in the
boat
with him. While this is going on a pleasure cruiser sails past us both
- the
passengers in the water and Mugabe in his lifeboat and this cruiser
called
the UN Fair and Ample Oligarchy is jammed with overweight slugs that
clap
and cheer the silly old man in his Captains uniform.
As this circus of clown and congregation sails out of sight, we the
poor
passengers are left with nothing but the sea and endless waves and the
sharks. Our only hope is to either drift ashore or be rescued by
another
vessel. This is our silent spring, but tonight there is a beautiful
full
moon and one of my succulents has given birth to a spectacular single
flower
that will bloom overnight and be dead in the morning.
The one thing we cannot afford at this time is a fight for a better
place in
the water. Rather we should be caring for each other and helping each
other
to believe that there is a future and that when we finally get back to
sanity, we will be able to live again. I am reminded of a shepherd who
wrote, "even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will
fear no evil, His rod and His staff will guide". Perhaps next spring
will be
better.
Eddie Cross
Bulawayo, 19th October 2005
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