As a thirty-something born and raised in Zimbabwe, my generation had it easier than most.
We could be termed the first fruits of freedom, the first generation to be raised in an independent Zimbabwe, a liberated land brimming with hope, excitement and possibility.
The war for independence in the 70s was a story we read about in history and Shona literature books.
The economic meltdown of the recent decade didn’t affect us much because 80% of us had already packed up and left.
But for all we have been given it would seem that, as I see it, we have turned out to be the most complacent generation.
The hope and freedom which was fought for and handed to me as part of the first independent generation of Zimbabweans seems to have fizzled in my hands.
My lack of patriotic drive is something observed every time a crisis hits our country. With each catastrophe, I am vocal and opinionated — peruse through Facebook, Twitter, any major social media platform and I am there. I (try to) intelligently debate the issues with my loud, sharp and differing views but it seems this is as far as it goes.
My apathy may be masked by my vociferous debates but it does not go unnoticed; I have nothing to show for my opinions or for my discussions across restaurant tables. What physical contribution have I made to my nation?
What Zimbabwean causes have I championed and followed through?
Besides watching my country fall to ruins, what have I done to ensure my generation goes down in the history books with a personal legacy that our children will be proud of? What will they say about me after I am dead and gone?
South Africa, so much has happened here, major incidents that grabbed international headlines and many of those incidents involved our fellow Zimbabweans.
Incidents of xenophobic violence in various communities, displacement of foreign nationals (mostly Zimbabweans) and poverty on all levels was the order of the day.
With all those incidents, I was shocked, disgusted, saddened, moved . . . and I did what I do best, I talked about it — to my friends.
But to those who had lost homes, been assaulted and were affected by the senseless violence, I said nothing and the sum of my efforts were a few hours doing a charity drop on a Saturday afternoon. I remained the silent generation.
How did I become so passive?
Did I have it so easy that I have become hedonistic and self-serving in my approach to life and others, focusing only on the betterment of my life and the lives of my immediate family?
I am supposed to be the voice crying out for justice and calling for or driving change from wherever I am. I am the generation that has known the best of Zimbabwe and what it represents.
What stops me from speaking out and having a heart for those less fortunate?
Surely this is the purpose we should all seek . . . to take on a cause bigger than ourselves and to make our mark on this world, make a difference in our countries.
It’s not enough to call for change, yelling “out with the old, in with the new”. Who among us is worthy to take up the reins and lead our country should the “old” be gone?
We have the brains and the desire but something is missing.
And if we don’t work together to find out what it is that has us acting like observers in pertinent matters that concern our fellow countrymen, we will remain the silent generation.