Surfacing

Sometimes I have to lift my head above the surface of my own story and take a breath. I am dragging my heels a bit over the writing and organisation of these later chapters, because these are things that are not pleasant to remember, and I haven't thought about them for years. It was more fun writing the chapters where living in Zimbabwe was idyllic, for the most part.

It is interesting to think that I have this huge part of my life that most of my friends just can't understand. One does, because she grew up in Zimbabwe too, and when we get together we talk about how no one else can completely understand us. Our need to draw the curtains and lock all the doors as soon as it gets dark. Our fear of being out alone at night, even in a safe neighbourhood. Our immediate assumption that every backfiring car is a gunshot. Our distrust of police. Our tendency to start crying at every news item about Zimbabwe. Our conflicting desires - to put down roots and to avoid putting them down (in case they have to be ripped up again). The world we grew up in has gone, and it only lives in the memories of the people who were there. We will never be able to take our husbands to the place where we grow up and say, 'that was my house, that was my school, that was where I learned to swim,' because almost everything is gone. And if it isn't gone entirely, it has fallen into such disrepair that it would be unrecognisable.

We know what it is like to leave beloved pets behind, or put them down because we couldn't find them a home. We have been caught up in the middle of riots and farm invasions. We have been robbed, and threatened, and we have lain awake at night listening to every snap of a twig thinking that maybe this time it really is Them, come to get us at last.

There is a huge chunk of my life that my husband and my close friends here will never understand, although they try to. And I can't explain it all. It is a lonely place to be, until you meet another Zimbabwean, and exchange that glance that says, "I understand. I know where you're coming from. I really do." And there is an undercurrent of warmth and communication there, whether you talk or not. Just knowing that they Know What It Was Like is comforting.

But this book is my attempt to explain some of it to those people who don't understand. And my attempt to record it for those people who do.

I just hope I can get it right.