The War as I Saw It E-Book

George Makonese Matuvi

• Herausgeber: Wolsak and Wynn
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 164

Beschreibung

In The War as I Saw It, George Makonese Matuvi invites us into the world of a young boy living through a war he doesn’t understand. As violence drives his family from their home in the mountains to the streets of Zimbabwe’s towns and then cities, the author shares his family’s story with honesty, composure and a touch of humour. Interspersed within this tale of flight, hardship and the eventual return to rebuild, Matuvi shares stories of his life as a child, from making soccer balls out of discarded plastic bags to the tales his father told around the fire at night, adding depth and joy to his portrait of a family struggling with displacement. The War as I Saw It is not a tragedy, though there were many tragedies during the war, it is a story of love, of strength in difficulty and of the ingenuity of one family as they cope with forces beyond their control.

Leseprobe

Cover

About This Book

In The War as I Saw It, George Makonese Matuvi invites us into the world of a young boy living through a war he doesn’t understand. As violence drives his family from their home in the mountains to the streets of Zimbabwe’s towns and then cities, the author shares his family’s story with honesty, composure and a touch of humour. Interspersed within this tale of flight, hardship and the eventual return to rebuild, Matuvi shares stories of his life as a child, from making soccer balls out of discarded plastic bags to the tales his father told around the fire at night, adding depth and joy to his portrait of a family struggling with displacement. The War as I Saw It is not a tragedy, though there were many tragedies during the war, it is a story of love, of strength in difficulty and of the ingenuity of one family as they cope with forces beyond their control.

Title Page

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my father who passed away in 2002.

My brothers and sisters and I are so grateful for the life lessons that my father and mother gave to us.

My mother is one of the most resilient people I have ever known. It’s because of her strong nurturing and love for each of my siblings, her nine children, that we survived.

Contents

Cover

About This Book

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1: War Arrives

Chapter 2: Escape to Mashaba

Chapter 3: The Hunt for My Father

Chapter 4: Fleeing to Harare

Chapter 5: Going Back to Chamini

Chapter 6: Life After the War

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

Preface

This book describes a true story of the war that I saw as a young boy and how it affected my family. All my father ever wanted was to provide his kids, us, with a good education, food and shelter.

Introduction

This book is about my life growing up during the War of Liberation in the southern African country of Zimbabwe, formerly known as Rhodesia.

My father was a small businessman in a rural area in the Midlands province of Zimbabwe, a small place called Chamini, near the town called Zvishavane. It is surrounded by mountains and a river called the Runde wiggles through the steep topography into our valley. The river and the mountains serve many purposes in this remote area: people fish in the river, bathe in it, grow gardens next to it and get their fresh drinking water from it. The mountains serve as a space for feeding the cattle and as a source of various fruits – from guavas to an assortment of wild berries. As a child, a day trip to the mountains to bring back the cattle was an adventure not to miss. Now living near one of the major cities in Canada, I begin to realize why all the young boys always wanted to go up to the mountains. Whenever I have gone back to Chamini, I have not been able to go back to the mountains, but as I looked at them, I could visualize the winding paths running through the valleys and over the mountainside. Even now, I can remember a beautiful spring oozing from the ground where people and animals could not pass without a sip of fresh water. The water seeping from that aquifer is probably the best I have ever tasted.

In my memories going up the mountains and spending the day out there was special. We always had a plan. We would go early to find the cattle then slowly make our way home. We would stop to climb the wild fruit trees, pull fruit straight from the branches and eat the juicy sour fruit called matamba, Natal oranges as they are called in English, or we’d stop by a boy-high bush with fresh fruit called nhengengi, sour plums. I always tell people if you go to Africa do not go and stay in some fancy hotel all the time – go to the rural areas. This is where you see life from a different angle; you feel it, literally taste it. This is where time is measured by the amount of sunlight or moonlight. Time slows down for you, as if the entire world is yours to enjoy. At least that’s how it felt when I was growing up there, in my early childhood years.

This is also a place where you realize that this universe is huge. Looking out into the sky at night with no artificial lights around, you can see every little star, shooting stars, strange formations of stars and the dark corners, which your eyes cannot see the furthest edges of in the sky. Tiny flickering green and red lights from planes flying thousands of feet above the earth appear now and then. You begin to understand that even darkness is important sometimes, the land below your feet starts to cool off as the night progresses towards the inevitable approach of morning. Your thoughts start to wander in a calm way; you begin to think about nothing. You ask yourself what it all means and you cannot wait to see the sun again in the morning and enjoy the day and the sunset again.

Sunsets in Chamini are absolutely breathtaking as the sun looks like it’s sitting on top of the mountains and a shadow from the mountains is cast on the valley below, almost as if warning you that it’s time to go home for dinner. In this area most people do not care to have watches; the position of the sun tells you the time. As I was growing up, the sun setting meant it was time to gather the cattle; a signal to start herding your cattle home to the kraal.

With the arrival of the war my family lost everything, including our feeling of tranquility and our sense of purpose. Our lives were changed forever. Many in Zimbabwe still suffer even now as a result of the war. Liberation is always tricky. Who does the liberating and what are the effects of the war on the children and families? These effects can spread across generations, as I witnessed growing up. While I now live in Canada, every time I go to Zimbabwe, I see families whose lives still bear the scars of the war, having lost their son, father, sister or other relative during it. War does not only affect those who are directly exposed to it, it impacts them and their families for years to come.

Chapter 1 War Arrives

Hidden in this quiet mountainous area my father, Cleophas Kira Makonese, built a little store for the community. In the store he sold everything from bread, sugar and clothes to manual farm implements such as hoes and plows. He also sold corn seeds for the locals to farm their staple food. The store was situated next to the school, which was also a gathering point for the community. My father had two wives, Jesslin and Esnati Makonese, and several rural farming fields to sustain our huge family. He had gone to school up to the equivalent of a second year in high school today. During his time he could have been a teacher, but he chose to be a small businessman. My mom, Esnati, his first wife, was a very hard-working woman who helped him to set up his business in a place that is now named after him – KwaMakonese.

On the day the war arrived, I was playing keep-ups with my brother Paul using our homemade soccer ball in the yard. Soccer was the most popular game that young boys played in Zimbabwe when I was a child. The ball was normally made of a collection of plastic bags rolled together into the shape of a ball. Plastic grocery bags formed the inside of the ball and the outer plastic bag was normally from a mealie-meal bag, which was slightly thicker and could withstand the kicking much better than the grocery bags. Mealie-meal is ground corn, used to make the staple food called sadza. In the olden days people used to grind the corn on a piece of stone, crushing the corn between two rocks, causing the dry corn shells to break apart and form a kind of coarse flour. The flour was poured slowly into a pot of boiling water and gently stirred into a thin porridge. Nowadays people go to a grinding mill where pulverizing the corn takes a matter of minutes. But you can also just buy the already made cornmeal from a shop in plastic bags ranging from ten to fifty kilograms. We used to make our soccer balls from a twenty-kilogram empty mealie-meal bag. It was just the right size to fit enough plastic bags inside it to make a ball.

This homemade ball did not bounce very well and it took some getting used to to control it. It was heavy and did not go extremely far when you kicked it, but I tell you it brought a lot of joy for most kids in the rural areas. You only got to kick a genuine leather ball when you started school. Normally the school had one or two leather balls that were used by the school team and the best way to get to kick a real ball was when the school team was practising. The younger kids would hang around the goalpost area waiting for the ball to be kicked off the football pitch out of play. Since there were no nets, the ball normally flew through and as young kids we would run to pick it up for the older students playing on the team. Once the ball was in hand, we kicked it as hard as possible back to the players in the field. That was our only way to feel a real soccer ball. Soccer is my favourite game, I could go on and on talking about my love for soccer, but on this day it was different. This day the course of my life was changed forever.

My mother was preparing dinner. Normally we ate sadza as the main course with sour milk and some boiled fresh corn and vegetables. This was not sour cream, this was fresh milk from the cow, which had been left out for about a week, that way it started to separate, and the water went to the bottom, while the thick cream stayed up in the jar. The locals call it “mukaka wakakora.” Boiled corn, roasted corn and cornmeal porridge – it was always corn something, since corn was our staple food. Though in Zambia the sort-of-sadza thick porridge is made from cassava.

The sun was almost leaning on the mountain’s side and outside it was still ridiculously hot when I saw the line of heavily armed men approach our home. I froze on my feet. This was my first time to cast my eyes on the so-called freedom fighters. The Comrades were known by the villagers as “Vana” or “Vana­vevhu,” meaning Children of the Earth. Their guns were hanging from their shoulders and some had guns on their backs. Some were even carrying two guns on their backs and at the back of the line one of them was carrying this long cylindrical weapon, which I later learned was called a bazooka or RPG, meaning rocket-propelled grenade. The weapons were of assorted colours, shapes and sizes, and ranged from AK-47 to FN rifles, but many of the guns had these curly bullet holders.

The freedom fighters used anything they could lay their hands on. They even used FN rifles that they took from the fallen Rhodesian forces. They would take away the weapons from their enemies after they killed them in a battle and they would store the weapons in mountain caves, carrying whatever guns they could on them. Sometimes the freedom fighters would get the locals to wrap the weapons up in plastic bags and bury them in cornfields for storage.

Our home was a principal place in our village. It was where the school was and where my father’s store was, which was the only store in a twenty-kilometre radius.

My father hastily stood up in surprise and horror. I saw the fear on his face and I knew then and there that this was not good. Time froze for me; the gap between my father and my brother and I playing with the soccer ball was too big for me to run to him. The freedom fighters were very fast; they surrounded the home quickly and I soon found myself face to face with a heavily armed man who was greeting me, smiling at me. I could not smile back. He gestured for me to kick the ball to him, but I was confused and just held the ball in my hand. I remember him saying, “Give it your best shot, kick it hard.” I kicked the ball towards him and he kicked it back and stopped, staring at me with a big grin on his face. He asked me to kick again, gesturing with his swinging motion as he threw the ball back to me. I kicked the ball again, this time harder, and he said, “That’s more like it.” Then he started talking about the national soccer team.

I could not seem to get myself to listen. I was in shock and fear and so he eventually moved on to the end of the yard of our home, facing the forest to look for intruders. His movements were quick and I could see him watching from side to side, sort of scanning the area. It was weird to see him moving around with all the guns and equipment he was carrying.

Not knowing what was going on outside, my mother yelled for me to come in to the kitchen, a hut in the centre of the yard. After waiting for a few minutes and wondering what was going on outside, since it was common that if she called that dinner was ready we would be there in seconds, she shouted again and this time as she shouted, she came out of the kitchen.

She was met at the door by a gun barrel to her face. The soldier was not actually pointing his gun at her, he had just swung his gun in her direction as he turned to look at her. I was scared and confused, not knowing what was going to happen. I thought the freedom fighter was going to shoot her. Time seemed to stop again. My mum yelled, “Mai hwe, Mai hwe!”

The freedom fighter then spoke rapidly. “Mai mushatya henyu,” he said. It means “Mother, do not be scared,” and he continued to say everything is okay. He sat down by the door of the hut and started talking to her, trying to calm her down.

My mother was visibly shaking as she looked over and saw her husband surrounded by gunmen. The freedom fighter repeated himself several times, telling my mum not to be scared, but with no success. My mum sat down, breathing heavily and sobbing in horror, with her hands to her head. I feared for her and for all of us. I could not do anything for my mum or dad or for me. The freedom fighter asked what she was cooking, trying to calm her down and said that they were all hungry. Then he told her that they wanted to talk to my father first.

The men introduced themselves as the Vanavevhu, the Children of the Earth. They asked my father to sit back down and one of the freedom fighters put his gun down. He explained to my father that they were there to liberate all the povo, the people. They told him the war had now arrived in the area and that increasing numbers of the Vanavevhu would arrive from that day on. My father was told that he would be required to support the struggle for liberation. They demanded goods from the store that they did not pay for, but there was no choice. This was the minute that changed my life forever, the turning point of my childhood. I believe the person I am today has a lot to do with that moment.

The freedom fighter talked to my father for about half an hour, though it seemed like an awfully long time to me. One of the men came over to where we were standing and asked for our names, grade in school and how school was. I do not know what I said to him; it did not matter that much at that time. I was very scared. I know he was trying to make us feel relaxed, but there is one thing I learnt during the war: you can never relax if someone carrying a gun is standing close to you, whether it’s pointed at you or not. However, it is a completely different feeling when the gun is pointed at you, as I learnt a few months later.

I had heard a lot of stories about the Vanavevhu, how they beat up people and, in some cases, killed people if they suspected that they were a “sellout.” It was a weird feeling, standing there as my brain whirled, wondering what was going to happen to my parents, our family. My mother had been ordered back into the kitchen and a soldier stood by the door. I continued standing there as the soldier talked to my father. After some time he gave a hand signal to the other freedom fighters and the gunmen disappeared into the bushes as quickly as they had arrived. They moved so smoothly it looked as if the forest swallowed them, as if the forest and soldiers were one.

By now it was getting dark. I could hear cowbells ring and echo between the mountains as older boys brought back the cattle from the grazing areas. My father was talking to my mother in the kitchen and from the way they were talking I could sense there was more trouble to come. My father was whispering and using very subtle and minimized hand gestures. I could see him leaning into my mother’s face, making sure that we children could not hear what he was saying. However, even if you were a baby you could have picked up that he was scared too.

Growing up I had never actually seen my father scared. The fear you feel as a child when the person that protects you is scared is intense. It felt like something in the air had snuffed out the happiness in our home. I followed my father to the shop. As we walked, I asked who those people were, if they were going to come back and kill us. At that moment my father turned around and looked at us, the children who crowded around him: my sister Evelyn, also known as Tadzidza (which means “We have learnt” in Shona); my brothers Paul, Sydney, Wilmore and Tomson; and myself. We stayed at home with my mother all the time, while the older siblings were away in boarding school at Dadaya High School. He realized that we were all standing there waiting for an answer and that we were more scared than he was. Then my father smiled and said no, we just must be more careful now, the war was getting closer to our area. He said the freedom fighters were going to stay in the mountains and that they would not bother us. He told us they said they were here to free everyone. It did not make sense to me. Free us from who or what? Our lives as I knew it were very nice. I did not understand. He told us not to worry.