The confirmation of my statement was immediate. The woman of the house lined up her five sons and one daughter. Of the four sons only one lives in Mbare, all the others work “down south”. Leonard works in a vinery in Cape Town, Francis with a construction company in Johannesburg, and the other two also work 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 organiser 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. You want an eight-metre-long white Rolls Royce 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 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, and he has been trying to get it for the benefit of his wife and family – without success.
The employer went bankrupt and the garage was closed down. For a foreign worker it is even more difficult to get a fair deal and see justice done.
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, but the cancer did not allow him to escape. A few days after his departure, he came back in a coffin.
Time and time again Zimbabweans come home in that way. Instead of desperately needed cash bringing 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 is a “prophet” preaching to mostly young people and children in a small stadium. They used to play five-a-side soccer there, but at the moment it is equipped with huge loudspeakers transmitting the booming voice of the “prophet”. In between the screaming and shouting there is ear-splitting rock or gospel music. I need earplugs to be able to sleep.
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. – Oskar Wermter SJ
Post published in: Analysis