We Are All Capable

by Jeffrey Walcott (United States of America)

Making a local connection Zambia

“My wife made me quit drinking hard liquor, so now I drink beer,” says the man at the end of the bar, as the barkeep at an upscale lodge on the Zambian side of the mighty Zambezi River hands him what must be his seventh beer. The sun hasn’t even set yet, and he’s already been through a six-pack and appears to have no intention of slowing. But David, as I learn his name to be, is nice enough, and I’m alone, so I idle over and take a seat next to him. The stories start easily enough, as David begins his second six-pack of the evening. His face is weathered, the sign of a life spent outdoors, and he tells me that he’s a construction contractor that’s been hired by the lodge for some building projects. He speaks with the accent of a native Zimbabwean, which is difficult for unaccustomed ears to discern from the South African accent and uses all the clichéd mannerisms: gesturing hand motions and whistling sounds to demonstrate movement. But as the second six-pack turns into a third, the stories turn from light-hearted bar chat to something deeper, uncovered by the alcohol I’m certain David’s wife wishes he would quit. He tells me how as a youngster growing up in what was then Rhodesia, he was coerced into joining the South African Army during Apartheid, the notoriously heinous governmental system of segregation and racism that only ended in the early 1990s. “The South African government would offer to pay for our schooling, but when we were finished, they’d come to the house and demand the kids serve in the army, or else they’d have to pay back all the school fees,” he tells me. “My mum didn’t have any money, so what was I to do?” David says now he doesn’t hate or discriminate against anyone. Half of the workers on his crew are black he tells me, and they aren’t like anything they were led to believe in the army. “Was it easy to be taught to hate?” I ask him. “So easy,” is his quick answer. “They showed us pictures. Pictures of white people, on their farms, with their throats slit. And we gave it back to them.” And with this, he dives into a story so horrible that I can see he’s been wanting to tell it, but perhaps couldn’t until now, until his inhibitions were lowered and he was speaking to a stranger at a bar he would never see again. “We captured this guy. And we beat him. I thought he was done for. But to our surprise he stood up, and this English guy – because in Apartheid they mixed the English and the South Africans – he just shot him, poof and walked away.” David pauses, burdened by the weight of his words, then continues. “And all the guys – remember we were taught to hate like this – they were all congratulating me, because they thought I’d done it. And I didn’t say it wasn’t me. I took credit for the kill.” At this point, he puts his head in his hands. It’s obvious he’s suffering with his own memories of what he did and what was done. And I’m reminded of the fact that throughout the course of history all the perpetrators of war and genocide have been normal people; neighbors, sons and husbands. I think about how we all are capable of terrible and wonderful things at the same time, and that the real danger comes from thinking it could never happen to us, that we could never become a monster like that. “I still see them you know. They’re in my mind,” David says as he raises his head from his hands and takes another drink of beer. “People say we were devils. And we did terrible things. It’s hard to think of the things we did. But you’ve met me. Am I a devil?”