While preparing an interview with Tendai Tagarira, a writer from Zimbabwe living in exile in Aarhus under the Friby arrangement, he send me the following text about his stay in Denmark and the time leading up to it:
ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY IN EXILE
By Tendai Tagarira
I never dreamt of leaving my country Zimbabwe. Why would I leave a country so richly endowed with eternal beauty? But I left. I was forced by circumstances engineered by political spin doctors who wrecked the mighty Zimbabwean titanic!
I fled to Botswana in 2005 and found xenophobia brewing like a hot stew. Some Batswana hated us Zimbabwean immigrants with a vile passion. They said we were taking their jobs and making their country dirty. I was greatly dismayed and confused by this intolerance and wondered what had happened to our African culture of Ubuntu.
Nevertheless, I left Botswana and proceeded to Namibia, hoping to find a more tolerant environment. The people of Namibia were generally welcoming to us Zimbabwean Immigrants. They related with our situation and treated us fairly, despite a few disheartening incidents by intolerant individuals who hated us.
In Namibia I set up a relatively successful consulting business and helped many start-up Namibian entrepreneurs write their business plans and secure funding from banks. I wrote articles in the Namibtimes and New era newspapers. Life in Namibia was sweet, until I lost a dear friend, who hanged himself because he was being deported back to Zimbabwe. His act of desperation saddened all of us who knew him personally.
But I know why he did it.
I realised that we the young Zimbabwean generation were carrying the burden of Zimbabwe’s economic and political mismanagement and I blame the Mugabe regime for our terrible predicament.
So I began to fight with my pen and paper to tell the world our story. No one knows our story. We are the future of Zimbabwe, but what kind of leaders are we going to become, if we are continually traumatized by a draconian regime that is intolerant to our ideas, needs and expressions?
So when my book came out while I was in Namibia, I stated receiving anonymous threats on my cell phone. Mugabe’s intelligence personnel set out to persecute me, for authoring several books, critical of the mad man regime. My life became unpredictable and unbearable.
While on the run, I received an invitation from the Danish City of Aarhus to become Denmark’s First Writer under the Friby arrangement with ICORN. I must admit that I knew very little about Denmark when I came here. But I made considerable research about life in Denmark.
I came across an article which stated that Denmark is the happiest Country in the world. The same article also stated that Zimbabwe was the unhappiest country in the world. I was baffled. I am not sure I can agree fully with the contents of this article. However, I was quite intrigued about Denmark being titled the happiest nation in the world.
I arrived in Denmark on the 14th of June 2010. Because of my precarious political situation I had to bribe the Namibian airport immigration official to allow me to board Air Berlin which was flying to Munich, where I would get a connection flight to Copenhagen.
The reason for bribing the airport immigration official was simple. It was the only way I could get out to safety. So I paid the gentleman a handsome amount and gave him a copy of my non political book titled Beyond Money. He accepted and told me to sit down near the boarding passage for Air Berlin.
“But if you get caught,
I don’t know you,”
He warned me.
I nodded my in agreement and proceeded to sit next to the boarding passage. I stared across the room and counted the seconds on a giant clock that was fixated against the wall, while sweating profusely on my forehead. It was a cold morning but the thoughts lingering in my head felt like the hot blazing African sun.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and sat like a gentleman, trying not to draw too much attention to myself. I didn’t have a proper passport because my old one had been raided by anonymous henchmen when they broke into my apartment. However, the Danish consul in Namibia furnished me with a Liazze Passe to travel with, which had a short term Shengen Visa affixed to it.
My palms were sweaty. I continued to stare at the large clock in the distance, wishing that time would fly so I could board the plane. But time ticked so slowly, almost as if it was in a silent slow-motion protest.
I had never been on a plane before in my life and under normal circumstances; I would have been pondering about the terrifying prospect of flying high in the sky. But my thoughts were occupied by a burning fear and deep concern of getting caught and held captive.
I faced all my demons on that clock and let me tell you; I was pretty sure if they caught me, they would have detained me and handed me over to Zimbabwean authorities.
I had committed a crime, the same crime I am still committing here in Denmark. My crime was simple; I dared to speak my mind and criticize Mugabe’s autocratic regime. I dared to fight injustice with my paper and pen. I dared tell my life story. This was the heinous crime I committed; Freedom of Speech and Expression.
The kind City of Aarhus was rescuing me from facing jail time in the confines of political torture by Mugabe’s thugs. They had done all they could to get me all the necessary paperwork to get me to Denmark, but the difficult task of getting out of Namibia was a battle I had to fight alone.
So I fought that battle and with a handsome bribe, the airport immigration official agreed to stamp my Liasse Passe with an exit visa. But he had warned me that my name was in their computers, wanted for questioning by the Zimbabwean High Commission. He pocketed the amount and smiled. But he knew if shit hit the fan, he would denounce any knowledge of me. In fact, he would be the one arresting me and detaining me.
The clock ticked and before I was dripping in my own sweat, a German lady opened the boarding passage and I joined the queue to board Berlin Airways. I showed her my Liasse Passe and ticket and she nodded in approval. I proceed to board the plane. It was a Boeing jet with red Berlin Airways stripes.
Quickly I searched for my seat and found it. I placed my small African weaved bag in the hand luggage carrier above my seat. My seat was on the window and an old German man came and sat next to me. He smiled and placed his hand luggage in the overhead luggage carrier. A few munities later, the plane was filled with many Germans and I was the only African on board. This didn’t bother me at all.
I was worried and praying that some airport officials would not budge into the plane and ask me to disembark. I was so worried I barely understood the safety instructions of the flight attendant. Somehow I managed to strap myself to the seat and I kept fiddling with great unease.
I have no idea how the plane took off to the sky, but I noticed the Windhoek Airport building getting smaller and smaller through my seat window. At that moment I felt a great relief and I knew I was safe. There was no way the Namibian airport authorities would ask the pilot to fly me back to Windhoek.
“Aren’t you afraid of flying?”
The old German guy asked me.
“No. Not at all,”
I responded and continued staring outside through my seat window.
I could see the sky and the clouds and the plane felt as if it was flying higher and higher by the second.
“Here in the sky, Mugabe can’t get to me,”
I thought to myself.
Shortly I drifted into a heavy nap and I was awakened by the flight attendant who was serving us breakfast. I barely touched the breakfast, but I drank the coffee and drifted back into a heavy nap.
In my dreams, I pondered what life would be like in Denmark and if I would ever feel welcome there. I knew I had only two years to live in Denmark, but I was not worried because one more day with my head above the water is a good day.
It was a long flight to Munich, almost ten hours and my buttocks felt like cold ice. I was relieved when we arrived at Munich Airport and so I proceeded to the checking booth with my Liasse Passe in hand and some books in the other hand.
The German airport personnel smiled at me as I handed over to him my travelling document which they began to scrutinise with a suspicious look on his face. I guess it’s not every day that Denmark gives a Liasse Passe to an immigrant to travel to Denmark.
“I am a political exile.
I write books and you can goggle me online,”
I told the officials while handing him a copy of the book which was the cause of my persecution by the Mugabe regime.
He smiled and looked at me with stern eyes. He called another official and together they began talking in German. By now some onlookers where staring at me inside the booth. Perhaps they were wondering if I was some kind of terrorist being detained at the airport.
Nevertheless, after the officials enquired something on the phone, they stamped my Liasse Passe and handed it back to me, together with my book.
“Welcome to Germany,”
One of them said to me.
I was relieved and i quickly began the long journey in the vast Munich airport, to find my connection flight to Copenhagen. Soon, i was inside an SAS regional jet heading to Copenhagen. I arrived at the bustling Copenhagen Airport around 10pm and I simply followed the crowd.
I walked for a couple of munities and then I spotted two gentlemen holding a plague with my name on it. They were two officials from the City of Aarhus, Michael Jaap and Lars Lyngsdal.
“Welcome to Denmark Tendai!”
They said to me.
“Thank you. It was a long flight,”
I responded.
Shortly we booked a taxi and drove to a nearby guesthouse where they briefed me about a press conference which would take place the next day in Aarhus. We also talked about the situation in Zimbabwe and the ongoing soccer world cup before retiring to bed.
I barely slept that day. I sat in my room and prayed. Here I was in a new and completely different country.
“How is life going to be here?”
I pondered to myself.
...............................
But now I know.
I have been living here for about a year now and I am left with 12 months before my temporary residence permit to stay here expires. I have met many Danes from different backgrounds and shared my story. I have drunk all sought of Danish liquor and tried all the traditional food. I have written several books here and most importantly I have carried on my work as a Human Rights Defender effectively because of the safety in Denmark. I have come to love Aarhus and Denmark as my home.
But a nasty thought now lingers in my head. What will I do after my stay here expires? Where will I go? If I return to Zimbabwe my fate is sealed. Sometimes I consider jumping out through the window of my forth floor apartment and just ending it all in a painless way, instead of the prospect of facing lengthy torture in Zimbabwe.
But I will never kill myself. I love life and I will fight to the bitter end. My future in Denmark is uncertain and if I return to Zimbabwe I am a dead man. So armed with the knowledge of my possible demise at an early age, I do what is important. I keep fighting injustice with my pen and paper. I fight it with my voice. I fight it with my hair which I am growing into freedom dreadlocks. I will not cut my hair until freedom prevails in my country Zimbabwe.
This is how I fight:
On the streets of Aarhus.
On the internet.
In the media.
I shout, I scream,
I write.
I write.
“IN THE EVENT OF MY DEMISE,
I HOPE TO DIE FOR PRINCIPLE”
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