The white elephant in the room

Shamwari,

Have you ever tried not to think of a pink elephant? It didn’t work, huh? The more you try not to think about it, the harder it actually becomes to focus on something else. Being a white researcher in rural Zimbabwe works pretty much the same. Most times, I feel like a big fat, white elephant in the room, who takes up so much space that nothing else seem to matter anymore. The harder I try to disappear to the background, the more visible I become. The only thing that works to shift the focus of attention to my research, instead of myself? Playing along. You agree to be the show pony for a minute or few - let people touch your hair and stroke your skin, take a picture or twenty, you laugh and wave a lot, and practise some of your Shona. It may seem contradictory, but I have learnt that fully embracing my whiteness is the only way to “blend in”.After some time, people no longer care that you are a “murungu”, and are willing to talk about what you came for.

Before I came to Zimbabwe, I put a lot of thought into my positionally as a white researcher in a formerly colonised African country. As a European woman who grew up with certain values, I am opinionated about child marriages. However, I know that my personal opinion does not matter and should never impact my objectivity as a researcher. I think it is especially important not to push one’s own assumptions and values to the foreground when working with people whose traditions have for centuries been ridiculed, called “savage”, and whose cultures have partly been erased by colonialism and globalisation. For that exact reason, I was hoping not to take on a too dominant position as a white researcher. But this strategy does not seem to be working.

When I came to Zim, I was surprised to find out how racially segregated this country still is. After all, there is a significant minority of white Zimbabweans who have been living here for more than a century now. You would expect them to have blended in a bit. But, I quickly learnt that this is not the case. In Zimbabwe, white people stay among themselves, and so do black Zimbabweans.They tend to go to different schools, different bars, have different jobs, and date different people. Mixed raced marriages are very rare here. Even dogs in Zim are not used to people who don’t look like their owners: they will always bark to people who have a different skin colour than the people they know.

Zimbabwe has always been racially segregated, but it got far worse after the Land Reformations, when the hundreds of white farms were violently confiscated. Many white Zimbabweans left, and those who stayed, never mingled anymore. It’s very sad and I can’t understand it as someone from a racially diverse country, but whenever you go to a place where someone of your skin colour would not normally go, this is abnormal. When I went into Chimanimani Town with Sharlene and everyone kept staring at me, I told her I was a bit surprised, as this area is a popular holiday destination among white Zimbabweans. But Sharlene assured me they were not necessarily staring at me because they had never seen a white person, but because it is very uncommon for a white woman to walk around in a town like Chims. “The reason why everyone knows you are a tourist, and not a white Zimbo, is because you go to places where white people from Zim don’t go.” Shame. I was so proud when companion Ray told me he did not believe I’m from the Netherlands because I sound like a white Zimbabwean…

One of the areas where very few “murungu’s” go, is Chipinge. After a lovely stay in Chimanimani, I was collected by Blessing, who works as a volunteer for the Green Institute. This NGO is very active in the Chipinge district and mainly works on climate education and climate awareness. They have a special interest in working with women and girls. Many teenage girls in the areas they work in, marry very young. Dressed in a T-shirt saying “environmental justice”, Blessing drove me to Chipinge Town. He was accompanied by his friend Ellen, a midwife at the local hospital. She told me that many of her patients are child brides. “I never know how old they are exactly, as many lie about their age. But it is clear that the pregnant women I look after are still children. Officially, everyone under the age of 18 is supposed to get a C-section when they go into labour, but in reality, most girls don’t because they cannot afford it.”

In many ways, Chipinge is far more rural than Chimanimani. Tourists don’t come here, and roads are so bad they could hardly be called roads. People are clearly not used to seeing foreigners: even when people see you sit in a car, they start pointing at you, or stare with their mouths wide open. Being the nice guy Blessing is, he always pulls over or drives back so locals can say hi to me. I know it probably makes their day, but for me, it feels very uncomfortable to be treated as some kind of a celebrity just because I’m white. But, like I said, I learnt to play along. After three days, I no longer wait for people to come to me, but just wave at everyone I see, and greet them by saying “mangwanani”, or “maskati”. It’s far easier to acknowledge that you look different than to pretend that you don’t.

In Chipinge, I was invited to Ellen’s house. For the first time in my life, I had Zimbabwean “sadza” - porridge made of maize. Whilst waiting for it to be made, I played with Ellen’s lovely daughter (and the rest of the neighbourhood who came to look at murungu Lottie). It’s a good thing I like sadza, because here in Chipinge, it is pretty much the only thing you can get.

On the first full day in Chipinge, Blessing drove me to Mount Selinda, a little town in the tropical forest. It is very near Mozambique: Mozambican girls cross the border everyday to collect firewood in Zim. Thanks to the friendly guards, I could also take a sneak peek across the border.

After 40 minutes of trying to avoid potholes, driving on dirt roads and grass, honking at goats on the road, and waving at people, we arrived at a small town where the Green Institute has built a community garden. With help from the Australian embassy, more than a hundred women and girls grow vegetables here. About thirty women were waiting for us under the tree, accompanied by the village head. They were very willing to talk about climate change and its impacts on the lives of women in the village.

Chimanimani was the epicentre of cyclone Idai, but the climate shock also ravaged Chipinge. Houses and roads were destroyed, cattle died, and people lost their livelihoods because they could no longer farm properly. According to the women, the cyclone washed the nutrients away, which has led to failed harvests for three years now. Fertilisers have become too expensive to buy. The women of the village were the ones taking responsibility for the losses: unlike the men, who drank their pain away, the women of this village took life by the horn. Because they are expected to take care of their children, the women did everything they could to earn some money for their families. They started cutting firewood, and they made bricks. Any piecemeal job available was embraced. But it brought little relief: kids dropped out of school because of lack of money, and food shortages made families suffer greatly.

When I asked if there were more child marriages in this area after Idai, the women all exclaimed: “yes.” Girls as young as 12 got married. Other girls were not much older: the child brides in this community were typically about 14 years old. The child marriages were, however, not a result of transactional sex, like in Chimanimani. Neither were they used as household coping mechanisms by parents: according to the women in this area, forced child marriages in Zimbabwe are now rare.

Here in Chipinge, girls found husbands if their parents could not give them food, in the hope these men could give them better lives. Some marry a “sugar daddy”: an older men who wants a second wife and who promises to take good care of her. Others marry younger men who have jobs. The reality is, however, not what these girls hope for. The vast majority of the girls who married in the wake of Idai ran away after a few months. Abuse and the realisation that their lives will not get better drove these girls back to their homes, or worse, pushed them into prostitution. The girls who run away, tend to leave their children behind. It is clear that there are no “winners”, but only losers after Idai.

After this extremely illuminating conversation, we went on to Emerald High School, hidden in the forests of Mount Selinda. In a way, visiting this school made me happy: seeing children get an education is a sign that there is still some hope here. However, when I had a chance to talk to the girls in this school, I learnt that many of them are suffering because of climate change. Their parents lost their livelihoods, there are food shortages, and importantly: there was no money for sanitary pads after Idai. Girls use cow dungs or rags instead. This can be very harmful: according to Sharlene, Zimbabwe is the country with the highest number of cervical cancer in the world. Apart from the discomfort of using rags or cow dung, some girls may opt not to go to school when they have their periods.

Blessing had already told me that there was a huge lack of sanitary pads in Chipinge before I came. Thanks to a lot of lovely people in Ireland and the Netherlands, we have been able toraise money to provide 60 girls with six pads and soap. I brought them all the way from the Netherlandsand after carrying them for so long, I was happy I could finally give them to those who need them most.

When I handed out the pads and soap, I was also able to talk to the girls at the school. They were extremely excited to see me and after the initial giggles, they wanted to hug me and say hi. I told them about my research and what doing a PhD involves. When I asked them if there were any girls in their school who married after Idai, they said they all new a lot of girls who left school to become mothers and housewives. I wanted to ask the girls if that was a decision made by their parents or by the girls themselves, but unfortunately, some kind of government official appeared, and started answering my questions. I did not know that he had political connections right then, but later Blessing told me that he had found out about the visit, and wanted to make sure we did not discuss politics. It was much different from my visit to the community chiefs in Chims, when an employee of the Department of Social Welfare had just sat there and chilled - this man impeded me from having a conversation. I guess this is something I will have to learn how to deal with, as I am sure it will happen again when I come back next year.

Fortunately, the headmistress was very kind and when I asked her if the school was interested in partaking in my research next year, she said that they would be. I also told the girls I was hoping to conduct my research with the help of local “buddies”: girls from the area who know the culture and language well, and who can help me run focus group discussions. Some of the girls were very keen and told me they could not wait to see me back.

When we drove back to Chipinge at the end of the day to meet my new friend Ellen and her daughter again, I smiled. In a few days time, I have been able to connect with so many lovely people, who all seem genuinely interested in my research. I really could not have wished for a better outcome. Because of my appearance, I might stand out here in Chipinge, but somehow, I have been welcomed into the community, and met people who all wish to come together to help me with my research on climate change. Like Augustine wrote to me, in the end, maybe our struggle is one.