The Gukurahundi genocide — arguably the darkest chapter of post-independence Zimbabwe — catapulted the newly sovereign state into a whirlwind of human-rights abuses.
Innocent civilians were summarily executed, homes torched to the ground, livestock and property looted and pillaged. People disappeared - detained, buried in clandestine graves and mine shafts, never to be heard from again. And women were raped.
In the recounting of Gukurahundi’s atrocities, the phrase “and women were raped” often appears as a grim footnote. Spoken last, almost reluctantly, as though its horror defies language, too unbearable to dwell on, yet too central to be left unsaid.
The raping of women was not incidental. It was systematic, deliberate, and deeply symbolic – meant to shame, terrorise, degrade, and destroy the social fabric of Ndebele communities for a political end.
Yet that phrase carries a heavy silence. A silence shaped by the ambivalence many survivors feel about sharing their experiences.
They are torn between a need to be heard and the fear of retraumatisation, social stigma, and potential backlash.
I write not as an expert, but as someone who has sat in many a round hut, listening to stories so heart-wrenching they linger long after the telling.
Stories that have been silenced for so long; their very existence has been eroded. Academic Tamara Tompkins argues that few people understand what happens, physically and psychologically, to a woman who is raped, let alone one who experiences wartime rape.
I echo Tompkins when I say that my intention is to convey the experiences of these strong women who have dared to share them with me.
I intend to provoke, disturb, and unsettle the reader by retelling just a snippet of the horrible experiences these brave women endured.
Interviewing women who have suffered from not just the physical violence of Gukurahundi but also the sexual violence is no easy feat.
I faced suspicion, unease, and distrust borne of their 40-year-old experience.
I have spoken to women who are traumatised and angry. Women who have never shared their ordeal with anyone.
Women who wonder if they will be sought after for daring to speak of the unspeakable, and thus need assurances that their identities will never be revealed.
So yes, I speak of their experiences for them, acknowledging their pain, fear, trauma, and long silence.
The million-dollar question is, how does one write about sexual violence without engaging in a pornography of violence or giving in to the desire to shock?
In her book Bush Wives and Girl Soldiers, Chris Coulter states that while the desire is not to shock, one cannot escape the shock because the material is shocking.
So I had two options: honour the voices of survivors and share their experiences as they are, or save the reader the shock and edit what I am told, placing my voice over their already smothered voice. I choose the former.
Presenting the information as is, though uncomfortable, facilitates the amplification and recognition of important issues in women’s wartime experiences of sexual violence.
Whilst the number of women who experienced sexual violence during Gukurahundi remains unknown, one indisputable fact is that it was widespread.
I have listened to numerous accounts of horrific experiences of sexual violence. Being accused of being wives of, sleeping with, or harbouring dissidents was the primary justification for the assault and rape of many women.
Edna* was sexually assaulted on numerous occasions by Gukurahundi soldiers.
Her first experience occurred when a Gukurahundi soldier came to her home and accused her of being a dissident’s wife and kicked her in her genitals. She said, “Wathi urimukadzi wamadizidenti iwe. Wangitshaya, konke la, engivuse engisukumise engikhab’isibumbu, ethi ufuna ukukhawulisa amadizidenti.”
On a separate occasion, a soldier came to her home and raped her without saying a word: Uthe efika kuphela azange akhulume lami, ethathe engidonsela endlini, engenzumfazi.
Edna was not just raped. Her identity as a respectable Ndebele woman was shattered.
Nokuthaba* recounts how a Gukurahundi soldier raped her several times: “Aqoqode ebusuku. Ungubani. Vula msathakanyoko, vula. Yeyi. Usukume ke uvule. Buya la... Ungaphi umdonda wakho?...Wena uyalala lamadizidenti. Hayi angilali lawo. Ya manje namuhla uzalala lomsoja angithi?... Siyahamba lapha enjini laphana kulomuntu? Azenzele ukuthanda kwakhe umuntu... Ubatshele abantwana bakho bengakhuluma ngiyalidubula lonke”.
Penina* was raped in her home with her daughter-in-law: “Kwathi ngelinyilanga ebusuku, silele endlini khonaphana... sokulomalukazana lami. Babe befika ebusuku...sebeqale bengene kumalukazana. Ungawuhlabumkhosi?...Wawuzakuyanga? Loba bekudlwangula uzahlaba umkhosi uhlabela ba? Ngubani ozabuya?... Babebezenzela, futhi okudlwangulayo, uyabephethe ingwadlangwadla yakhe...Ngale kulabanye kumalukazana, bezongena ngapha kimi. Ah sez’ubuhlungu okunye okumangalisayo...uzayakubani? Uthi lapha sengiretshiwe. Uyathi uretshwe ngubani? Yena engakuzwa ukuthi usuhambe wayamtshelela abantu, hanti sokuyikufa kwakho?
Despite enduring such horrific experiences, most women have remained silent, never sharing their stories with anyone.
Many continue to suffer in silence four decades on, an indication of the social and psychological impact of the violence.
For the majority of these women, there has been no support whatsoever, medical or psychological.
The ongoing chiefs process is indeed a step toward healing and reconciliation for all Gukurahundi survivors, including survivors of sexual violence.
However, there are significant concerns about how it addresses women's experiences.
For starters, where do women’s experiences of sexual violence, often shrouded in silence and shame, fit into this process? What does it mean for women to testify before a predominantly male panel?
While I have great respect for our chiefs and the mammoth task ahead of them, I doubt that our traditional justice system is adequately equipped to handle the specific trauma of sexual violence, which often involves a different kind of shame and a more private narrative.
The male-dominated panel has the potential to reproduce the very power imbalance that led to the violence in the first place.
Furthermore, panel members have rudimentary training in psychosocial support. We have to ask: are they the best equipped to handle the deeply complex, often fragmented, and traumatic narratives of sexual violence?
For a survivor to share a story of “being made a wife” or of her “underneath throbbing with pain” requires a safe, confidential, and trauma-informed space.
A layperson may not have the tools to recognise and respond to triggers, to avoid re-traumatising the witness with insensitive questions, or to provide adequate emotional support.
What recourse is there for the survivor who leaves the panel more traumatised than when she arrived?
We must also consider the unforeseen cost of this process on the panel members themselves.
Listening to these horrific stories daily is not easy. Are they equipped to deal with the vicarious trauma and burden of receiving such pain?
What kind of support system is there for them to process the after-effects of these testimonies? Let me be clear.
This is not to say that the process should be halted, far from it. Instead, it must be enhanced with the necessary professional support it requires.
These stories demand listeners who are not only empathetic but clinically trained. We need mental health professionals, equipped with trauma-informed care, to be part of the process.
Women’s stories of rape and sexual violence need to be heard. Yes, the chiefs’ process is underway, but for it to be a valid path to healing, it must make space for these narratives. It must find a way to hear the throbbing pain and the silent shame of the women.
These stories are a testament to survival and a stark reminder that true reconciliation cannot happen until we listen to the whole unadulterated truth - particularly those truths that have been most painful to share.
*Sibonginkosi Moyo-Mpofu, writing in her individual capacity.