Growing up in Harare in the late 1990s, I thought I understood the shape of justice. As a young Black Zimbabwean, born after independence, I had been raised on the glorious and often grim stories of our liberation struggle.  The sacrifices of the chimurenga, the promise of majority rule, the dream of a Zimbabwe that belonged to all its people – these were the foundations of my worldview.

I recall the day the 2000 fast-track land reform initiative was first proposed by the government. I was 18 years old and was watching the news with some neighbours at our local barbershop. The screen hummed with activity: war veterans storming into white-owned farms, promises of land redistribution,and an opportunity to correct past injustices.

The room buzzed with a mix of emotions. Many eyes sparkled with a certain passion i had not seen before, voices rose in delight: “At last, we are taking back what is ours.” But there were also murmurs of concern, cautious voices asking, “I just hope it’s done right. We need change, but not chaos.”

Back then, I did not quite understand these worries. To my teenage mind, the land had been stolen under colonialism and we were now recovering it. It sounded straightforward. What could be more just than that? The first cracks in my confidence surfaced a few months later. Tatenda, who lived just a few houses away, arrived at school with red eyes. His uncle, a farmworker on a large commercial farm, had lost his job and home when the property was seized. The new owners had no use for the existing workers, many of whom had lived on the land for generations. “Where will they go?” Tatenda asked, his voice breaking. “What are they supposed to do now?”

I had no answer for him. It was the first time I realised that justice, when used crudely, could create new victims even as it attempted to right old wrongs.

As the years passed, so did the contradictions grow. I saw families who had never farmed before being given vast tracts of land, while skilled agricultural workers were left destitute. Productive farms fell into disrepair, and our once-booming agricultural sector began to falter. In the cities, food shortages became commonplace, and prices soared.

Yet even as these problems grew, I noticed a reluctance among many to criticise the program. “At least the land is in Black hands now,” people would say. “We must give it time.” And there was truth in this – centuries of injustice couldn’t be undone overnight. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that in our haste to correct past wrongs, perhaps we had also sown seeds for future conflict.

I remember visiting my relatives in rural Mashonaland East in 2005. My cousin Farai had received a plot of land through the reform program. He showed it to me proudly, pointing out the maize he had planted, the chicken coop he was building.

“This is what our ancestors fought for,” he said, his chest swelling with pride.

But as we walked, I noticed the dilapidated farmhouse in the distance, its windows broken, cattle wandering through what had once been a thriving garden. I thought of the family that had lived there, generations of them, now displaced. Were they not also Zimbabweans? Did their loss not matter? I hesitantly voiced these thoughts to Farai. His face darkened.

“You sound like a sellout,” he snapped. “Those whites stole this land. Why should you care what happens to them?” His words stung, however, they also made something clear to me… In our pursuit of a particular vision of justice, we had created a narrative that dehumanised a whole group of our fellow citizens. We celebrated their downfall as our victory. But at what cost?

It was around this time that I had a conversation with a friend, whom I will call Aaron. We were sitting in the shade of a jacaranda tree after school, discussing the changes sweeping through our country. Aaron’s face was drawn, his eyes distant. “My classmate Jessie,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “her father died last week.” I felt a chill despite the warm afternoon sun. “What happened?” I asked, dreading the answer. Aaron’s hands clenched into fists. “They were forced off their farm a few months ago. Jessie’s family had nowhere to go, so they pitched a tent close to the road. But the people who took their farm… they weren’t satisfied with just the land.” He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. “They followed Jessie’s family to the road. One night, they broke into the tent. Jessie’s father tried to protect them, and…” Aaron’s voice trailed off, but I understood. The violence that had simmered beneath the surface of the land reforms had boiled over, claiming yet another victim.

I felt sick. This wasn’t justice; this was revenge, pure and simple. And it was tearing our nation apart. “How’s Jessie doing?” I managed to ask. Aaron shook his head. “She’s not coming back to school. Her mum is too afraid. They’re trying to leave the country.”

That day, as I walked home, my thoughts were all over the place. I thought of Jessie, forced into exile by the very policies that were supposed to bring about justice. I thought of her father, who had lost first his livelihood and then his life. And I thought of the perpetrators, my fellow Zimbabweans, who had allowed their pursuit of restitution to transform into a quest for retribution. Was this what we had fought for? Was this the Zimbabwe our liberation heroes had envisioned? A place where families lived in fear, where violence begat more violence, where the wounds of the past were not healed but deepened?

As hyperinflation gripped the country and political tensions rose, I began to see how this mindset infected every aspect of our society. It wasn’t just about land anymore. Every issue became a zero-sum game, where one group’s gain had to come at another’s expense. We stopped seeing each other as Zimbabweans first, instead we retreated into ethnic, social, political, and economic enclaves.

I thought back to the history I had learned in school, the promises of our liberation struggle. Had we fought so hard for independence only to create new forms of oppression? Had we become so focused on settling old scores that we lost sight of building a truly just society for all?

Throughout my time at university, these questions lingered. I saw how the injustices of the past continued to echo through our present, how it created new victims and perpetuated cycles of violence and retribution.

But I also saw hope. I met Zimbabweans from all backgrounds who were working tirelessly to build bridges, to find common ground, to imagine a future where justice meant more than just reversing past wrongs. Farmers – both Black and white – who were collaborating to revitalise our agricultural sector. Activists who fought for the rights of farm workers as fiercely as they had once fought for land redistribution. Young people who dreamed of a Zimbabwe defined not by the colour of its citizens’ skin, but by the content of their character and their commitment to our shared future.

I learnt a valuable lesson from these events: true justice cannot be achieved by simply flipping the script of oppression. It requires us to reimagine the entire story. To create systems and societies where everyone’s dignity is respected, where opportunities are truly equal, where we measure our success not by how much we can take from others, but by how much we can lift each other up.

It’s a lesson I wish I had learned earlier, on that day in 2000 when we celebrated the beginning of the land reforms. If we had approached that moment with more nuance, with a commitment to justice for all rather than vengeance against a few, how different might our nation’s path have been?

But it’s not too late. As Zimbabwe continues to grapple with its past and chart its future, we have daily opportunities to choose a better way. To resist the temptation of easy answers and quick fixes. To do the hard work of building genuine understanding and reconciliation. To create a society where no one celebrates when their neighbour’s home is on fire, because we all recognise that our fates are intertwined.

This is the Zimbabwe I fight for now. Not a nation divided into winners and losers, oppressors and oppressed, but a true home for all its children. A place where justice rolls down like waters, nourishing every corner of our land, leaving no one and no place behind.

It’s a daunting task, but as I look at my own children, I know it’s one we must undertake. For their sake, and for the sake of all Zimbabwe’s future generations, we must learn to seek justice not just for ourselves or our group, but for every member of our national family. Only then can we truly honour the sacrifices of those who came before us and fulfil the promise of our hard-won independence.

I often think of Jessie and her family. The human toll of our mistakes is blatantly shown by their narrative, as it is by many others. We cannot build a stable and prosperous nation on a foundation of fear and revenge. Instead, we must find the courage to break these cycles of violence and dispossession, to create a Zimbabwe where no one needs to fear for their life or livelihood because of who they are or what they own.

The work begins anew each day, with each choice we make, each hand we extend across the divides that have for too long defined us. May we have the courage to keep reaching, to keep building, to keep believing in the possibility of a just Zimbabwe for all.