ON
July
31,
a
chilling
tweet
from
the
Zimbabwe
Lawyers
for
Human
Rights
(ZLHR)
left
me
physically
and
mentally
drained.
The
tweet
reported
the
abduction
of
three
pro-democracy
campaigners
—
Namatai
Kwekweza,
Robson
Chere
and
Samuel
Gwenzi
—
along
with
sound
engineer
and
artist
Vusumuzi
Moyo.
These
four
brave
souls,
en
route
to
a
conference
in
Victoria
Falls,
were
forcibly
removed
from
an
airplane
at
Robert
Gabriel
Mugabe
International
Airport
by
individuals
believed
to
be
state
security
agents.
The
tweet
stated,
“We
are
trying
to
ascertain
their
whereabouts
&
what
is
happening
to
them”.
This
triggered
painful
memories
of
July
2020,
when
Tawanda
Muchehiwa,
nephew
of
ZimLive
editor
and
investigative
journalist
Mduduzi
Mathuthu,
was
abducted
and
severely
assaulted
—
again,
allegedly
by
state
security
agents.
As
activists,
we
have
walked
this
treacherous
path
before,
our
minds
racing
between
worst-case
scenarios
and
fragile
hope.
We
cling
to
the
hope
that
our
fellow
advocates
for
a
democratic
Zimbabwe
will
emerge
unscathed,
that
the
state
—
on
the
cusp
of
hosting
the
44th
Southern
African
Development
Community
(Sadc)
Summit
—
will
at
least
maintain
a
facade
of
rationality
and
peace.
But
reality
is
harsh:
the
Zanu
PF-led
government
has
never
been
guided
by
reason.
It
does
exactly
what
you
think
it
shouldn’t.
As
the
late
Alex
Magaisa
once
said:
“Think
of
the
worst
thing
Zanu
can
do,
and
it
will
do
10
times
worse.”
This
rings
painfully
true
in
a
climate
where
the
state
brazenly
uses
violence
against
dissenting
voices,
crushing
any
citizen
perceived
as
a
threat
to
its
iron
grip
on
power.
In
this
climate
of
fear,
every
tweet,
every
call
from
an
unknown
number,
every
missing
person,
becomes
a
stark
reminder
of
the
unsafe
and
dangerous
tightrope
we
walk
in
pursuit
of
justice.
That
night,
I
found
it
impossible
to
sleep,
as
though
resting
was
a
betrayal
to
those
who
had
been
taken
and
a
denial
of
my
own
fears
for
the
safety
of
activists
across
Zimbabwe.
I
tossed
and
turned,
scrolling
through
X,
checking
reliable
news
sources
for
updates.
I
was
restless,
and
I
am
convinced
many
of
us
were.
At
11.42pm,
ZLHR
tweeted
that
its
lawyers
had
finally
gained
access
to
Kwekweza,
Chere,
Moyo
and
Gwenzi.
They
had
been
held
incommunicado
for
at
least
eight
hours.
Chere
was
visibly
tortured
and
in
severe
pain.
The
four
were
charged
with
“disorderly
conduct”,
allegedly
for
participating
in
a
demonstration
at
Rotten
Row
Magistrates
Court
when
Jameson
Timba
and
others
appeared
in
court.
They
were
set
to
spend
the
night
at
Harare
Central
Police
Station.
A
wave
of
relief
washed
over
me
knowing
they
were
alive,
but
I
could
not
shake
the
images
indelibly
printed
in
my
mind.
As
a
woman
human
rights
defender,
my
worst
fear
was
for
Kwekweza.
I
prayed
and
hoped
that
she
had
not
been
raped
or
sexually
violated.
The
next
morning,
we
all
woke
up
to
a
ghastly
image
of
Chere’s
backside
circulating
on
X.
His
buttocks
were
blue-black
from
the
beatings,
resembling
the
remains
of
a
charred
body
—
a
painful
and
horrifying
sight.
ZimLive,
an
online
media
house,
initially
shared
the
picture.
Chere,
the
secretary-general
of
the
Amalgamated
Rural
Teachers
Union
of
Zimbabwe
(ARTUZ),
which
advocates
for
pro-poor
education
and
labour
justice,
had
been
cruelly
tortured.
Yet
he
was
not
released
to
seek
medical
treatment,
raising
fears
that
if
he
does
not
receive
urgent
care,
his
kidney
could
fail.
We
saw
the
physical
damage,
but
the
emotional,
spiritual
and
mental
scars
remain
invisible.
I
wonder
if
Chere
will
ever
question
the
presence
of
God
in
all
this.
I
certainly
would.
Where
is
the
God
who
supposedly
makes
justice
roll
like
a
river?
Would
Chere
doubt
his
decision
to
be
an
activist
or
a
pro-democracy
campaigner?
Does
he
feel
defeated?
The
enormity
of
what
this
means
for
Zimbabweans
is
staggering:
getting
brutally
tortured
for
being
an
unarmed
activist.
Who
will
cover
Chere’s
medical
bills?
Who
will
bear
the
cost
of
the
trauma
he
will
endure
from
this
severe
torture?
Who
will
pay
for
the
meals
and
visits
to
Chikurubi
Maximum
Security
Prison
by
his
family
members?
The
Airport
4
—
Chere,
Kwekweza,
Gwenzi,
and
Moyo
—
and
their
families
will
carry
the
brunt
of
this
ordeal
for
the
rest
of
their
lives,
while
the
rest
of
us
continue
with
our
lives
as
if
nothing
happened.
We
have
done
this
before,
countless
times,
moving
on
and
leaving
many
activists
to
bear
the
costs
of
activism
alone.
The
state
responsible
for
their
abduction
will
deny
its
involvement
and
not
pay
a
cent
towards
their
physical
and
mental
health.
A
tweet
from
the
handle
Nkayi
Centre
claimed,
“All
those
activists
get
paid
whenever
they
get
arrested.”
This
widespread
misconception
underscores
a
painful
truth:
activism
in
an
oppressive
state
like
Zimbabwe
is
costly
in
ways
many
fail
to
understand.
It
is
not
about
financial
gain;
it
is
about
sacrifice
and
often
isolation.
The
person
behind
this
handle
is
not
alone
in
believing
state-sponsored
propaganda
that
activists
are
paid.
There
are
many
who
parrot
this
falsehood.
The
term
“Cashvists”
was
coined
to
describe
activists,
a
word
some
of
us
are
still
allergic
to
and
despise
because
it
undermines
the
agency
and
efforts
of
those
advocating
for
a
just
society.
Contrary
to
such
misguided
beliefs,
activism
is,
as
Kenyan
activist
Boniface
Mwangi
says,
simply
being
an
active
citizen.
Trevor
Ncube,
a
prominent
Zimbabwean
figure,
elaborates:
“Activism
is
an
engaged
citizenship,
a
caring
citizenship,
a
citizenship
that
exercises
its
constitutional
right
and
responsibility
to
oversee
the
government
of
the
day.”
As
I
reflect
on
the
events
of
this
weekend
—
the
abductions,
the
torture,
the
public
misunderstanding
—
I
grapple
with
a
haunting
question:
At
what
cost
does
this
engaged
citizenship
come?
And
more
importantly,
who
truly
bears
this
cost?
SOURCE:
This
article
was
first
published
in
the
Zimbabwe
Independent
Samkeliso
Tshuma
is
a
ZimRights
member
and
the
Executive
Director
of
Girls
Table,
an
organization
that
focuses
on
empowering
young
women
and
girls.
Post
published
in:
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