Teaching (and learning) about Trauma in Zimbabwe

I was privileged to be able to co-teach a graduate course in trauma in a program in Child and Family Psychology, which is designed to train mental health professionals at the masters’ level.  My mentor for this w

I was privileged to be able to co-teach a graduate course in trauma in a program in Child and Family Psychology, which is designed to train mental health professionals at the masters’ level.  My mentor for this was an anthropologist who is a full-time faculty member at Africa University, and whose work over the past decade has been focused on two issues: mass trauma and the experiences of children who have HIV/AIDS.  I clearly learned much more than I taught in this class.

The other instructor argued strongly that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a conceptualization originating in Western culture and not particularly applicable to sub-Saharan Africa.  He had us read numerous critiques of PTSD, which partly focused on important things like the inherent but unrecognized culture biases in the diagnostic criteria.  (I think that argument could be made for most of the current diagnostic categories, and he acknowledged that sub-Saharan Africa has contributed little to date to the research literature and the discussion and formulation of diagnoses, so has to share responsibility for the lack of representation of that region’s experiences and conceptualizations in the diagnostic manual. 

We talked a lot about mass traumas in Africa.  The best known to Westerners is the genocide in Rwanda in 1994, in which 800,000 Tutsis were massacred by the majority Hutus.  However, Zimbabwe has had its share of traumas.  The Second Chimurenga (from the Shona word meaning “fight” or “struggle”), lasted from 1966-1979, and involved displacement and restriction to certain guarded areas and extremely meager circumstances for many natives.  Independence in 1980 turned out not to be the end of oppression, however:

·        In 1987, there was an action by Robert Mugabe’s government to slaughter about 20,000 civilians, mostly minority Ndebele, in Matabeleland.  This was called the gukurahundi (in Shona “the early rain which washes away the chaff”).  I’d never heard of this, and suspect I’m in good company in that respect.  The remaining Ndebele, who comprise 14% of Zimbabwe’s population (compared to the Shona’s 85%), remain chronically hypervigilant about their status, because they tend to be viewed by the leaders of ZANU-PF, the dominant political party, as opposition.

·        In 2000, Zimbabwe land reform went from a gradual process that depended upon having willing buyers and willing sellers to a “fast track” system, in which white settlers (and their farm workers of local descent) were often forced off their land, which was then given to war veterans and ZANU-PF supporters.  There was a lot of intimidation, threats of deaths, and enough deaths to keep the tension high associated with this.  The process has continued intermittently for the past twelve years, with the effect that no white farmers feel safe, and most debate every time they think about making an improvement or planning a crop what the likelihood is that they’ll still own the land for long enough to recover the expense.

In addition to these major traumas, there are many individual ones.  I heard about maybe a dozen, and will share just two here:

·        A man I met while touring told me that in 2000, his parents were killed by ZANU-PF because they were believed to have been recruiting votes for the opposition part.  ZANU-PF soldiers encircled their home with wire so they couldn’t get out, poured petrol on it, and lit it.  The man I talked to was in his mid-20’s at the time and was also sought, so he fled the country and stayed away for almost two years before returning.  He had five younger siblings who were all still children, and therefore not targets.  They remained in Zimbabwe and were cared for by relatives.  He’s still trying to pick up the pieces of his life and reconnect with his remaining family.

·        A student told me about being taken from her work by ZANU-PF interrogators because of her association with a woman friend of hers during the time when that woman’s husband was dying.  He apparently had been engaged in opposition activities.  My student was held, but was allowed to use the restroom at one point and managed to get a message out so that help arrived for her.  She continued to be fearful at work, however, and eventually quit her job because of her anxiety about being singled out for interrogation.

There is a real struggle to try to depict the Zimbabwean experience.  One of the graduate students in the trauma course talked about a community outreach event she participated in, in which people started out talking about a cycle of violence and ended up renaming it “cycle of disappointment”.  Grief over loss and disappointment over the government seemed to be major themes.  Most of what they discussed would not meet the diagnostic criteria for PTSD, and shouldn’t necessarily be pathologized if people are functioning adequately.  The student reported that in one group where this issue was discussed, participants began talking about “emotional suffering” as a persistent pattern for many Zimbabweans.

The trauma, or suffering, or whatever we choose to call it, is compounded for Zimbabweans, in my opinion, by restrictions in the range of affect they have been allowed to express.  In talking with a community leader about a proposed seminar to help Early Childhood Development (ECD) educators help children deal with their emotions, I mentioned that I think of three basic emotions (sad, mad, and happy) from which all others are derived.  She thought about it and said that Shona are allowed two emotions, happy and mad.  Then she thought some more and said that they’re allowed “mad” only under some restricted circumstances.  I’ve heard the stereotype of the happy Africans for decades, but had never realized that it might have developed out of the restrictions on expression of other emotions.  These restrictions are rooted in culture, which makes them difficult.

For example, Shona people don’t express grief when loved ones die.  Within hours, they’ve put on their happy faces and gone on with life.  I discovered that the basis for this is a traditional belief in the nzuzu, the water spirits.  These spirits not only control rainfall, but I was told that the traditional Shona explanation of death is that the nzuzu abduct people and take them to an alternative world with crops and trees, sky and rain.  The nzuzu also come back and listen at the doors or windows of loved ones of the person they’ve abducted.  If they hear crying, they kill the abducted person.  What a powerful belief to squelch expressions of grief!  If a person expresses grief outwardly, they may be responsible for the death of their loved one.  In Zimbabwe, 25% of people say they are Christian, 24% adhere to traditional indigenous beliefs, and 50% identify themselves as “syncretic”, meaning that their beliefs are a mixture of Christian and traditional elements.

Because of the difficulty with outward expression of grief and, to a lesser extent, anger, Zimbabweans experience many more somatic symptoms (e.g. headaches, stomachaches, fatigue) associated with distress than I’ve ever experienced with other groups of people.  This is true of children as well as adults. 

There are special challenges in helping people who have experienced trauma (or persistent grief, or emotional suffering) in Zimbabwe.  Their situation is not safe, and cannot readily be made safe.  Threats of death and actual deaths of individuals suspected of opposition activity continue.  Much of Mutare was locked down when Robert Mugabe arrived to celebrate his 85^th birthday, as members of the Desert Southwest Conference delegation in the city during that time can attest.  I’m told that schools at all levels, from ECD through university level, will close for several weeks before the next election, and foreign NGO’s will have employees leave the country.  This is because prior to past elections, ZANU-PF enforcers have threatened and beaten teachers and others suspected of being sympathetic to the opposition (and anyone with education or social services jobs is suspect).  It is safer to abandon the schedule, close services, and resume them again after the election.

On a day-to-day basis, the attention paid by everyone in Zimbabwe to surroundings and people present is difficult for an American to imagine.  To get the 10 km from Mutare to Africa University meant having the potential to be stopped at three different check points.  Police have the right to search cars at any time.  They often charge “spot fines” for minor infractions, which may not correspond with law.  Once some police tried to charge a fine to a passenger in the back seat of a car in which I was riding because she didn’t have a seat belt on, but I’m told there’s no seat belt law in Zimbabwe.  Another person was hauled out of his car and sat by the side of the road for about an hour before paying a $100 spot fine because of a car registration that had expired, but was within a 3-day renewal grace period which is officially sanctioned. It is widely known that spot fines, of which no official records are kept, are simply graft on the part of police officers.  Additionally, everyone is constantly aware of their setting and who is within earshot, and factors that into what they say.  I was told that every class has at least one member who is CIO (sorry, I don’t know what that stands for—it’s a ZANU-PF informant).  If I wanted to talk politics with someone, I waited until we were alone in a car, or maybe in their home, though some people are even careful about what they say at home because house help or another family member might be CIO. 

This has been a bit rambling because the current context in Zimbabwe and the experiences of Zimbabweans since independence have been complex.  There are many interlocking pieces which contribute to people’s experiences of trauma, violence, disappointment and suffering.  Americans have had a few—9/11 and the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City in 1995 come to mind.  But with the exception of the first few weeks after 9/11, I don’t believe I’ve lived with the kind of uncertainty and sense of threat that is present for many people in Zimbabwe all the time.  Thank God we don’t have to, and pray to God for relief from this kind of pressure in the lives of Zimbabweans.
as an anthropologist who is a full-time faculty member at Africa University, and whose work over the past decade has been focused on two issues: mass trauma and the experiences of children who have HIV/AIDS.  I clearly learned much more than I taught in this class.

The other instructor argued strongly that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a conceptualization originating in Western culture and not particularly applicable to sub-Saharan Africa.  He had us read numerous critiques of PTSD, which partly focused on important things like the inherent but unrecognized culture biases in the diagnostic criteria.  (I think that argument could be made for most of the current diagnostic categories, and he acknowledged that sub-Saharan Africa has contributed little to date to the research literature and the discussion and formulation of diagnoses, so has to share responsibility for the lack of representation of that region’s experiences and conceptualizations in the diagnostic manual. 

 We talked a lot about mass traumas in Africa.  The best known to Westerners is the genocide in Rwanda in 1994, in which 800,000 Tutsis were massacred by the majority Hutus.  However, Zimbabwe has had its share of traumas.  The Second Chimurenga (from the Shona word meaning “fight” or “struggle”), lasted from 1966-1979, and involved displacement and restriction to certain guarded areas and extremely meager circumstances for many natives.  Independence in 1980 turned out not to be the end of oppression, however:

·         In 1987, there was an action by Robert Mugabe’s government to slaughter about 20,000 civilians, mostly minority Ndebele, in Matabeleland.  This was called the gukurahundi (in Shona “the early rain which washes away the chaff”).  I’d never heard of this, and suspect I’m in good company in that respect.  The remaining Ndebele, who comprise 14% of Zimbabwe’s population (compared to the Shona’s 85%), remain chronically hypervigilant about their status, because they tend to be viewed by the leaders of ZANU-PF, the dominant political party, as opposition.

·       In 2000, Zimbabwe land reform went from a gradual process that depended upon having willing buyers and willing sellers to a “fast track” system, in which white settlers (and their farm workers of local descent) were often forced off their land, which was then given to war veterans and ZANU-PF supporters.  There was a lot of intimidation, threats of deaths, and enough deaths to keep the tension high associated with this.  The process has continued intermittently for the past twelve years, with the effect that no white farmers feel safe, and most debate every time they think about making an improvement or planning a crop what the likelihood is that they’ll still own the land for long enough to recover the expense.

 In addition to these major traumas, there are many individual ones.  I heard about maybe a dozen, and will share just two here:

·         A man I met while touring told me that in 2000, his parents were killed by ZANU-PF because they were believed to have been recruiting votes for the opposition part.  ZANU-PF soldiers encircled their home with wire so they couldn’t get out, poured petrol on it, and lit it.  The man I talked to was in his mid-20’s at the time and was also sought, so he fled the country and stayed away for almost two years before returning.  He had five younger siblings who were all still children, and therefore not targets.  They remained in Zimbabwe and were cared for by relatives.  He’s still trying to pick up the pieces of his life and reconnect with his remaining family.

·         A student told me about being taken from her work by ZANU-PF interrogators because of her association with a woman friend of hers during the time when that woman’s husband was dying.  He apparently had been engaged in opposition activities.  My student was held, but was allowed to use the restroom at one point and managed to get a message out so that help arrived for her.  She continued to be fearful at work, however, and eventually quit her job because of her anxiety about being singled out for interrogation.

 There is a real struggle to try to depict the Zimbabwean experience.  One of the graduate students in the trauma course talked about a community outreach event she participated in, in which people started out talking about a cycle of violence and ended up renaming it “cycle of disappointment”.  Grief over loss and disappointment over the government seemed to be major themes.  Most of what they discussed would not meet the diagnostic criteria for PTSD, and shouldn’t necessarily be pathologized if people are functioning adequately.  The student reported that in one group where this issue was discussed, participants began talking about “emotional suffering” as a persistent pattern for many Zimbabweans.

 The trauma, or suffering, or whatever we choose to call it, is compounded for Zimbabweans, in my opinion, by restrictions in the range of affect they have been allowed to express.  In talking with a community leader about a proposed seminar to help Early Childhood Development (ECD) educators help children deal with their emotions, I mentioned that I think of three basic emotions (sad, mad, and happy) from which all others are derived.  She thought about it and said that Shona are allowed two emotions, happy and mad.  Then she thought some more and said that they’re allowed “mad” only under some restricted circumstances.  I’ve heard the stereotype of the happy Africans for decades, but had never realized that it might have developed out of the restrictions on expression of other emotions.  These restrictions are rooted in culture, which makes them difficult.

 For example, Shona don’t express grief when loved ones die.  Within hours, they’ve put on their happy faces and gone on with life.  I discovered that the basis for this is a traditional belief in the nzuzu, the water spirits.  These spirits not only control rainfall, but I was told that the traditional Shona explanation of death is that the nzuzu abduct people and take them to an alternative world with crops and trees, sky and rain.  The nzuzu also come back and listen at the doors or windows of loved ones of the person they’ve abducted.  If they hear crying, they kill the abducted person.  What a powerful belief to squelch expressions of grief!  If a person expresses grief outwardly, they may be responsible for the death of their loved one.  In Zimbabwe, 25% of people say they are Christian, 24% adhere to traditional indigenous beliefs, and 50% identify themselves as “syncretic”, meaning that their beliefs are a mixture of Christian and traditional elements.

 Because of the difficulty with outward expression of grief and, to a lesser extent, anger, Zimbabweans experience many more somatic symptoms (e.g. headaches, stomachaches, fatigue) associated with distress than I’ve ever experienced with other groups of people.  This is true of children as well as adults. 

There are special challenges in helping people who have experienced trauma (or persistent grief, or emotional suffering) in Zimbabwe.  Their situation is not safe, and cannot readily be made safe.  Threats of death and actual deaths of individuals suspected of opposition activity continue.  Much of Mutare was locked down when Robert Mugabe arrived to celebrate his 85^th birthday, as members of the Desert Southwest Conference delegation in the city during that time can attest.  I’m told that schools at all levels, from ECD through university level, will close for several weeks before the next election, and foreign NGO’s will have employees leave the country.  This is because prior to past elections, ZANU-PF enforcers have threatened and beaten teachers and others suspected of being sympathetic to the opposition (and anyone with education or social services jobs is suspect).  It is safer to abandon the schedule, close services, and resume them again after the election.

On a day-to-day basis, the attention paid by everyone in Zimbabwe to surroundings and people present is difficult for an American to imagine.  To get the 10 km from Mutare to Africa University meant having the potential to be stopped at three different check points.  Police have the right to search cars at any time.  They often charge “spot fines” for minor infractions, which may not correspond with law.  Once some police tried to charge a fine to a passenger in the back seat of a car in which I was riding because she didn’t have a seat belt on, but I’m told there’s no seat belt law in Zimbabwe.  Another person was hauled out of his car and sat by the side of the road for about an hour before paying a $100 spot fine because of a car registration that had expired, but was within a 3-day renewal grace period which is officially sanctioned. It is widely known that spot fines, of which no official records are kept, are simply graft on the part of police officers.  Additionally, everyone is constantly aware of their setting and who is within earshot, and factors that into what they say.  I was told that every class has at least one member who is CIO (sorry, I don’t know what that stands for—it’s a ZANU-PF informant).  If I wanted to talk politics with someone, I waited until we were alone in a car, or maybe in their home, though some people are even careful about what they say at home because house help or another family member might be CIO.  There's a reason I didn't post this while I was in Zimbabwe.

This has been a bit rambling because the current context in Zimbabwe and the experiences of Zimbabweans since independence have been complex.  There are many interlocking pieces which contribute to people’s experiences of trauma, violence, disappointment and suffering.  Americans have had a few—9/11 and the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City in 1995 come to mind.  But with the exception of the first few weeks after 9/11, I don’t believe I’ve lived with the kind of uncertainty and sense of threat that is present for many people in Zimbabwe all the time.  Thank God we don’t have to, and pray to God for relief from this kind of pressure in the lives of Zimbabweans.