- 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.
-
- 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.
-
- HELP US!
-
- A 16 YEAR OLD ZIMBABWEAN
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