It’s difficult for me to imagine what it’s like in Zimbabwe now. I read in the New York Times how Zimbabwe’s Rulers Unleash Police on Anglicans or In Zimbabwe Jail: A Reporter’s Ordeal. And my thoughts return to a once beautiful country.

When I lived there as a girl (1963-1965), it was impoverished, but reasonably safe. More than anything, I remember what you never read of in the news.  I remember the countryside — the most beautiful flora and fauna I’ve ever seen, the spectacular sunsets, the dusty air and near perfect temperatures.

In retrospect, the seeds of what was to come were evident. The racism was palpable even to a child — much worse than anything I’ve witnessed in the United States. For example, I, a young white (”European” in their lingo) girl, was expected to call a grown African man “Boy.” I don’t think I ever did. You find ways to dodge things like that. But it was all around.

And look what it’s become.   I grieve.