ON July 31, a chilling tweet from the Zimbabwe Lawyers for Human Rights (ZLHR) left me physically and mentally drained.

The tweet reported the abduction of three pro-democracy campaigners — Namatai Kwekweza, Robson Chere and Samuel Gwenzi — along with sound engineer and artist Vusumuzi Moyo.

These four brave souls, en route to a conference in Victoria Falls, were forcibly removed from an airplane at Robert Gabriel Mugabe International Airport by individuals believed to be state security agents.

The tweet stated, “We are trying to ascertain their whereabouts & what is happening to them”.

This triggered painful memories of July 2020, when Tawanda Muchehiwa, nephew of ZimLive editor and investigative journalist Mduduzi Mathuthu, was abducted and severely assaulted — again, allegedly by state security agents.

As activists, we have walked this treacherous path before, our minds racing between worst-case scenarios and fragile hope. We cling to the hope that our fellow advocates for a democratic Zimbabwe will emerge unscathed, that the state — on the cusp of hosting the 44th Southern African Development Community (Sadc) Summit — will at least maintain a facade of rationality and peace.

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But reality is harsh: the Zanu PF-led government has never been guided by reason. It does exactly what you think it shouldn’t. As the late Alex Magaisa once said: “Think of the worst thing Zanu can do, and it will do 10 times worse.”

This rings painfully true in a climate where the state brazenly uses violence against dissenting voices, crushing any citizen perceived as a threat to its iron grip on power.

In this climate of fear, every tweet, every call from an unknown number, every missing person, becomes a stark reminder of the unsafe and dangerous tightrope we walk in pursuit of justice.

That night, I found it impossible to sleep, as though resting was a betrayal to those who had been taken and a denial of my own fears for the safety of activists across Zimbabwe.

I tossed and turned, scrolling through X, checking reliable news sources for updates. I was restless, and I am convinced many of us were.

At 11.42pm, ZLHR tweeted that its lawyers had finally gained access to Kwekweza, Chere, Moyo and Gwenzi. They had been held incommunicado for at least eight hours.

Chere was visibly tortured and in severe pain. The four were charged with “disorderly conduct”, allegedly for participating in a demonstration at Rotten Row Magistrates Court when Jameson Timba and others appeared in court.

They were set to spend the night at Harare Central Police Station. A wave of relief washed over me knowing they were alive, but I could not shake the images indelibly printed in my mind.

As a woman human rights defender, my worst fear was for Kwekweza. I prayed and hoped that she had not been raped or sexually violated.

The next morning, we all woke up to a ghastly image of Chere’s backside circulating on X. His buttocks were blue-black from the beatings, resembling the remains of a charred body — a painful and horrifying sight. ZimLive, an online media house, initially shared the picture.

Chere, the secretary-general of the Amalgamated Rural Teachers Union of Zimbabwe (ARTUZ), which advocates for pro-poor education and labour justice, had been cruelly tortured. Yet he was not released to seek medical treatment, raising fears that if he does not receive urgent care, his kidney could fail. We saw the physical damage, but the emotional, spiritual and mental scars remain invisible.

I wonder if Chere will ever question the presence of God in all this. I certainly would. Where is the God who supposedly makes justice roll like a river? Would Chere doubt his decision to be an activist or a pro-democracy campaigner? Does he feel defeated?

The enormity of what this means for Zimbabweans is staggering: getting brutally tortured for being an unarmed activist. Who will cover Chere’s medical bills? Who will bear the cost of the trauma he will endure from this severe torture? Who will pay for the meals and visits to Chikurubi Maximum Security Prison by his family members?

The Airport 4 — Chere, Kwekweza, Gwenzi, and Moyo — and their families will carry the brunt of this ordeal for the rest of their lives, while the rest of us continue with our lives as if nothing happened.

We have done this before, countless times, moving on and leaving many activists to bear the costs of activism alone. The state responsible for their abduction will deny its involvement and not pay a cent towards their physical and mental health.

A tweet from the handle Nkayi Centre claimed, “All those activists get paid whenever they get arrested.”

This widespread misconception underscores a painful truth: activism in an oppressive state like Zimbabwe is costly in ways many fail to understand. It is not about financial gain; it is about sacrifice and often isolation.

The person behind this handle is not alone in believing state-sponsored propaganda that activists are paid. There are many who parrot this falsehood.

The term “Cashvists” was coined to describe activists, a word some of us are still allergic to and despise because it undermines the agency and efforts of those advocating for a just society.

Contrary to such misguided beliefs, activism is, as Kenyan activist Boniface Mwangi says, simply being an active citizen.

Trevor Ncube, a prominent Zimbabwean figure, elaborates: “Activism is an engaged citizenship, a caring citizenship, a citizenship that exercises its constitutional right and responsibility to oversee the government of the day.”

As I reflect on the events of this weekend — the abductions, the torture, the public misunderstanding — I grapple with a haunting question: At what cost does this engaged citizenship come? And more importantly, who truly bears this cost?

  • Tshuma is a human rights activist.