DEAR WORLD          - 25/3/2007      <--Prev : Next-->

Dear World,

I am a 16 year old person living in Zimbabwe. I think the time has come for a more direct appeal, and so I am writing to you, the world.
Maybe, just maybe, there might be someone out there who can help us...
It's tough here now. The inflation rate is so high that if you don't change money within 6 hours you could get half the amount of foreign currency that you would have originally received.
We're starving now; people die around us. In the last year alone at least ten people associated personally with my family have died despite the fact that they were only middle-aged. Other people don't make it to middle age. They don't even make it past childhood.
Our once-proud nation is on it's knees. We flee or die. This beautiful, bountiful once-rich land has become a living hell. We have dealt with it until now; we have made a plan. That was the Zimbabwean motto: "MAKE A PLAN".
But now we can't make a plan. We're too tired, too broken, too bankrupt. We can't afford life, and life does not cost much, not really. We cannot afford to eat, we cannot afford to drink, and we cannot afford to make mistakes, because if we do we die. We don't have the capital to support ourselves, and those few who do, have to deal with the horror of watching their friends and family fall into absolute poverty as they cannot afford to help them.

Here is a poem I wrote on the January 2nd, 2007:

The rising sun finds us in yet another year,
And we look back over every disappointment,
Every bitter failure,
Every salty tear.

The future sits golden before us,
But we are afraid to hope or care.
We've been beaten down too many times before
And life holds no promises there.

At this very same instant every year
We glimpse the rainbow of hope above the street,
But every one of us nurses the very same fear
And faith lies dying at our feet.

Many men have perished,
Claimed by starvation, disease or another's hand.
A nation knocked down to its knees
Now desperately struggles to stand.

Perhaps this year will be different,
Perhaps a hero will come.
But deep down we know
That this cannot be so,
For if it were it would have been done.

There is no light to splice the darkness,
No dawn to dispel the night,
No one to see our struggle,
No one to pity us in our plight.

Who in this world will save us?
Who in this world will come?
Where will next year find us?
If God's will be truly done?

I think that this poem sums it all up. That's life in Zimbabwe. We're sick of struggling; sick of fighting. We're waiting desperately for a great hand to pick us up out of the dirt because at the moment we are outnumbered by Fate herself, and so we close our eyes and pray. We have fought for too long, and have been brought to breaking point. We simply stand, heads down, and bear it. Our spirit has gone; we are defeated. After a valiant struggle of over fifteen years, we have been broken. There is no will left, no spirit. Like a horse that has been beaten until it cannot fight anymore; we are the same, and, like that horse, we stand dusty, scarred and alone, with dried blood on our sides and lash marks along our flanks. Our ribs too stand out; our hide is also dull. Our eyes are glazed, our throats are parched, and our knees struggle to support us so that we stand with splayed legs to bear the brunt of the next beating, too dejected even to whimper...

This is my plea. The thought of picking ourselves up again is sickening; one can only take so many blows before oblivion is reached, and we are teetering on the rim of the bottomless void. One more push will be the end of us all...
There must be someone out there who can do something. There must be someone out there who cares! We are a destroyed nation, and the world sits back and watches, pretending they cannot hear our cries. I appeal to you all...