Dear Family and Friends,

I think that like most people I have an intense love hate relationship with Zimbabwe these days.

It seems you have to go through all manner of hardships and horrors in order to truly be able to call yourself a Zimbabwean. These are Zimbabwe's rites of passage and they are not for the feint hearted. Land seizures; cancellation of title deeds; state acquisition of personal property and equipment; being removed from the voters roll; being called an 'alien' in the country of your birth and residence; having your own money seized from you by the state; having to go and collect the police if you get burgled; sitting in a petrol queue for at least one day; having to queue all night in order to get a number on a bit of dirty cardboard which will allow you - not to get a passport- but to stand in another queue to get a form to get a passport.

There are places too that you have to visit if you want to say you are really a Zimbabwean.  Places whose names bring to mind a whole range of possibilities including: heat, dirt, dust, arrogance, rudeness, bureaucracy, inefficiency and endlessly long queues. You just have to say the words 'Makombe', 'Linquenda', 'National Registration' or 'Market Square' to a Zimbabwean and the automatic response is a sympathetic groan and an outpouring of empathy and friendship.

This week I have endured another rite of Zimbabwean passage. I have thought long and hard about how to write this letter, about what I should
or should not say and in the end have decided to do what I've been doing for 6 years and just tell it like it is. I woke up last Saturday morning to find computers, cell phone, stereo, radio, TV and reading glasses gone after a burglary in my home. In the days that have followed there has been utter despair one minute and tears of humility the next. There has been complete exhaustion too as sleep is hard in coming. To be honest, it is hard to know how to carry on after this; small losses are devastating blows.

There has been irony and absurdity in this week too - police who had to be collected from the police station as they had no transport; the CID car that had to be pushed as it had no starter; the glass that was ordered cut and paid for and got home to find it was over a foot too short; only being able to find "zhing-zhong" door locks that did not have a single standard feature about them - they were too thin, too short and too narrow and in order to use them I would have to buy new doors!

It took me five days to get to the point where I had the means to hear even a local ZBC news bulletin on the radio. The irony of that first news report is something I will never forget. The news reader said that there had been a burglary of the Norton Police Station and the perpetrators had got away with weapons, police uniforms and handcuffs. To be able to find out what else was happening in the country was a real mission. I have begun to understand how easy it is to bury your head in the sand in Zimbabwe if you want to; accessing information is not at all easy: independent newspapers only coming out once a week, independent radio stations that are jammed and just incessant propaganda everywhere else. In the week that I have been in the dark and quiet there has apparently been a 200 strong MDC leadership protest march to parliament and trade unions are calling for stay aways on Wednesday the 13th September. Perhaps yet more rites of passage are looming for Zimbabweans.

I apologise for having been unable to reply to any of the emails that have come from all over the world but am humbled and most grateful. Your
messages of love, concern and support have kept me sane and given me the strength and courage to try and carry on.  There were many people involved in helping me get to the point where I could actually write and send my letter this week and I thank you all for your kindness, patience and help.  Special thanks to my Mum and Sis who managed to make me laugh every day and who have put their lives on hold to help me get mine back in order.

Until next time, with love, Cathy.

Copyright Cathy Buckle, 9 September 2006.

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