And now let us return to the matter of human beings. Throughout history, aggression against others always begins, curiously, by depersonalizing them. The first US operation against Vietnam was not of a military character. It was psychological in character and consisted in dehumanizing the Vietnamese. They were no longer humans: they were “yellow,” they were beings of another type, upon whom one could drop bombs, Agent Orange and napalm without ethical problem.
The genocide in Rwanda occurred not so far from here and not that long ago. Communities that lived in harmony were manipulated by criminal elites to the point of committing the biggest massacre in contemporary history. If we asked a Tutsi or a Hutu before 1994 if they believed such a thing could happen in their country, they would have answered that it was impossible to imagine. But it happened. And it happened because the capacity for creating demons in our countries is still considerable. The poorer a country is, the greater its capacity for self-destruction.
Beginning in April 1994 and for the next one hundred days, more than 800,000 Tutsis were murdered by their Hutu fellow countrymen. Axes and knives were used to butcher 10,000 people every day, which works out at an average of ten people every minute. Never before in human history had so many been killed in such a short time. All this violence was made possible because once again, efforts had been made to prove that the others were not human beings. The term used by Hutu propaganda to describe the Tutsis was “cockroaches.” The massacre was thus exempt from any moral objection: it was insects being killed, not people, and certainly not compatriots speaking the same language and living the same culture.
In neighbouring Zimbabwe, the discourse of unity that characterized the beginnings of a multiracial society was suddenly altered to take on a markedly racist and aggressive tone. The vice-president of Zimbabwe, at a political rally in Bulawayo, stated openly that “whites aren’t human beings.” He was merely repeating what Robert Mugabe had proclaimed. And at this point, let me cite Mugabe: “What we hate about whites isn’t their skin but the devil that emanates from them.” The leaders of ZANU had distinguished themselves only a few years before as defenders of a multiracial nation. What had changed? It was the forces at play. Ambition for power provokes surprising changes in people and political parties.
In Mozambique, such dark clouds, we know, are remote and unlikely to ever happen here. This is reason for pride and faith in the future. But this certainty requires us to remember the lessons of a history that is ours as well.
Dear friends,
I was asked to talk about people. This subject is a vast, limitless universe in which no one can claim to be a specialist. I was forced to choose just a tiny corner of this boundless canvas. I spoke of the evil that is our abdication from responsibilities, our abandonment of our capabilities. I spoke of our dependency on a way of life in which everything is obtained through favours, through contacts and handouts. I spoke about all this because the banking system is profoundly vulnerable and permeable to these situations.
The real question that we have to face as a nation concerns our ability to produce more wealth, but we mustn’t confuse wealth with easy money. I once gave an address on our obsession with getting rich quickly no matter how. I was the target of demagogic claims that I didn’t want to see rich Mozambicans. I shall finish today by reiterating that which I have always defended:
My desire is not only to see rich Mozambicans in the true meaning of the word “rich.” My desire is to see all Mozambicans sharing this same wealth. Only this will make us more human, more worthy of being called people.
Opening address to the
International Bank of Mozambique Millennium Conference, Maputo, 2008.
Half a Future
I remember an experience I had as a journalist in 1974, during what we then called “the period of transition.” We didn’t know that it was only the first of an endless series of transition periods, and I sincerely hope that many more transitions will occur as we continue the process of discovery to which we have dedicated ourselves.
It was 7 April, 1975, the first time all Mozambique had commemorated the Day of the Mozambican Woman. I was working for the Tribuna newspaper, and was sent to cover the celebrations in the port of Maputo. The person in charge of the rally was our late and fondly remembered general, Sebastião Mabote.
Right at the beginning of the meeting, there were songs and the obligatory slogans were shouted, as was the custom in those days. The enthusiasm of the dockworkers was unrestricted, and their support for the speaker total. Mabote shouted “Long Live Women!” And hundreds of manly arms and harsh voices were raised in vigorous and unanimous accompaniment.
Suddenly the general paused, and from his improvised podium, contemplated the crowd, which consisted solely of men, hardened and muscular by the nature of their work. His look was one of a commander of souls, used to leadership. It was then that he issued his order: “Everyone shout with me. I want your voices to be heard far beyond Maputo.” And the men answered as one that yes, they would join their leader in chorus. Then Sebastião Marcos Mabote raised his arms to encourage the masses, and launched forth with the following rallying cry: “We are all women! We are all women!” And he urged them, vigorously, to repeat his words. There was a shocked silence, and a wave of unease swept over the dockworkers. Some, just a few, timidly began to repeat the strange slogan. Mabote knew the art of communicating with the masses. And he persisted patiently until after some painful minutes, more and more masculine voices proclaimed their feminine identity. But no one did so wholeheartedly. And those who timidly raised their voices were never more than a tiny minority. This time, the general wasn’t fully successful.
I share this memory with you because it confirms what we all know: it is easy (although it is becoming less common) to show one’s solidarity with others. It’s difficult to be the others. Not even if it’s only for a fleeting moment, not even if it’s just a brief visit. The dockworkers were disposed to declare their solidarity with women. But they weren’t willing to travel over to their feminine side. And they refused to think of themselves as reborn beneath a different skin, within another gender. We say we are tolerant towards differences. But being tolerant is still not enough. We need to accept that most differences are invented and that the Other (the other gender, the other race, the other ethnic group) always exists within us.
It’s obvious that I’m not talking literally about being the Other, I’m not proposing that we men become transvestites, parroting women’s traits, painting our lips and nails, wearing bras and high heels. For men use this kind of disguise far more often than they would willingly admit. Let us not forget that during Carnival, the most common costume involves a man dressing up as a woman. It’s almost an obsession. Even the most hardened males feel a strange compulsion to parade as women, on those days when it is socially accepted. It would be worth asking ourselves — even from a psychiatric point of view — why there is this desire to take on an identity that men otherwise repudiate so vehemently.
I’m not talking about this type of mimetic conversion. I’m talking about our willingness to travel over to what we understand as the soul of others: our capacity to visit, as ourselves, that which we might call the female soul, even if we don’t quite know what that is, even if we do not know where the frontier between masculinity and femininity begins or ends.