A few days ago I told some mothers and fathers at a neighbourhood meeting, “There is not a family here in Mbare without some members living and working in South Africa.” The confirmation of my statement was immediate. The woman of the house lined up for me her five sons and one daughter: of the four sons only one is staying here in Mbare, all the others have gone “down south” and work there. They just all happen to be at home for a brief visit. In a few days, Leonard is going to be back at his job in a vinery in Cape Town. Francis [is] with a construction company in Johannesburg, and the other two also jobbing somewhere “south of the border”. The man in Cape Town feels quite safe and well accepted by his workmates, but Johannesburg is “hot” and you stay close to your Zimbabwean friends for protection. 

Mr Tsuro used to buy motor spare parts in South Africa and sell them in Zimbabwe for a profit. Too many cross-border traders had the same idea. So Mr Tsuro thought of something a bit more original. He is now an organizer of lavish “white weddings” in South Africa and lately also this side of the border. You want to have a wedding in the latest South African style? Mr Tsuro is your man.

His customers tend to be Zimbabweans working in South Africa who come back home to celebrate a big “white wedding” in style paid for with the money they have earned “down south”. You want an 8-metre-long white RollsRoyce for your daughter’s wedding, or hot-air balloon for the ceremony in the sky? Ask Mr Tsuro. 

He is poor himself, but he has two sons to send to a good school, so he has learnt to please the rich. 
Zimbabwean workers are easily exploited. The husband of a mother of five, a motor mechanic, is owed his wages for a whole year. He has been trying to get it for the benefit of his wife and family – without success. The employer went bankrupt, the garage was closed down. For a foreign worker it is even more difficult to get a fair deal and see justice done than for a local. 

Harold had been fighting cancer of the throat for a long time. He could no longer speak. A few weeks ago he went “down south” for therapy, to learn how to speak again. But the cancer did not allow him to escape. It caught up with him after all. A few days after his departure, he came back – in a coffin. 
Time and again, Zimbabweans come back home in that way. Some meet with accidents. Some are robbed and killed. Some die of a chronic disease they had tried to defeat. Instead of getting the desperately needed cash and, with it, some relief, the family has to pay for the very expensive home-coming of the deceased relative. 

Life is precarious and insecure, if it depends on the good fortune of a son or daughter walking the streets of Jo’burg, Durban or Cape Town, always on the look-out for a job, homeless, without friends or family, full of fear and never sure where the next meal is coming from.

For the last three weeks, I have had no peace. Our next-door neighbour these days is a “prophet” preaching to a not very large crowd of mostly young people and children in a small stadium. They used to play five-a-side soccer there, basketball and volleyball. But at the moment, it is equipped with huge loudspeakers (the size of wardrobes), transmitting the booming voice of the “prophet” to the people of Mbare, whether they like to listen to him or not. In between the screaming and shouting, there is an ear-splitting rock or gospel music. I need ear plugs to be able to sleep. 

I feel I am being assaulted. The sheer brutality of this acoustic onslaught in the late hours of the day when you want a little peace is just unbelievable. 

This too is a question of justice, the members of our Justice & Peace group agree. Suffering in silence is not always a virtue. Standing up for justice, without anger or aggression, is the better option. There must be living space and a tolerable atmosphere for all of us in Mbare. There is freedom of expression, freedom of religion, sure. But my freedom ends where my neighbour’s freedom begins.