The study of genocide in Africa calls for moral courage, methodological precision, and rigor.

The Gukurahundi genocide, in which an estimated 20,000 people in the Matebeleland and Midlands regions of Zimbabwe were killed between 1982 and 1987,1, is one of the most devastating cases of violence in post-independent Africa. As a historian, tapping into this history required me to embark on archival and oral history interviews amongst the affected communities living along the Zimbabwe-Botswana border: the Kalanga.

Archival research offers a powerful tool for excavating the structural, political, and social dynamics that underpin mass violence, after all. Moreover, archives are central to establishing the evidentiary basis for genocide as a state-planned and bureaucratically-organized human rights violation. They enable historians to trace the evolution of state policy, the language of incitement, and the administrative apparatus that makes large-scale killing possible.

I travelled to the Bulawayo archives, where I had hoped to discover archival documentation of this genocide, especially as it ended in 1987.2 I scanned several records from the Bulawayo records center section at the National Archives. Although I found some newspapers and other reports, the number of records available for this period was insufficient. The paucity of materials was mainly due to the unprocessed state of many documents that were not yet accessible to the public. Moreover, the absence of many documents on this issue can be attributed to the government’s reluctance to encourage the collection of documents on Gukurahundi. In this regard, conducting archival research on the Gukurahundi genocide presents distinct methodological and ethical challenges.

First, the accessibility of archives on this subject has been highly politicised. For example, the post-genocide Zimbabwean government has discouraged the collection of these narratives, declaring it a not-yet politically ripe topic, and citing national security and reconciliation concerns. I, therefore, had to navigate a complex terrain of permissions, censorship, and selective openness. Second, the fragmentary nature of documentation also limited the comprehensiveness of the narrative.

Nonetheless, despite the challenges, archival research offers an indispensable lens through which to understand the machinery and ideology of genocide in Africa. It grounds historical analysis in the texture of bureaucratic process and policymaking, while also revealing the silences, absences, and contradictions of state-controlled narratives.

Due to these challenges, I had to be attentive to what Michel-Rolph Trouillot termed “archival silences”3 —the voices and experiences that are systematically excluded from official documentation or records. This led me on a journey of oral history fieldwork amongst the affected communities, whose voices were not present in the archival documents. Conducting oral history interviews in post-genocide contexts demands a careful balancing of scholarly inquiry with ethical responsibility, emotional sensitivity, and deep cultural understanding. As Rosaldo observes,4 oral history helps to show the connection between a story told and the lens with which the historian can now view the past.5 Thus, oral history enabled me to use the shared stories as a lens for better understanding the impact of the Gukurahundi in these communities, and possible ways of building lasting peace.

Identifying participants willing to participate in the study was not a challenge in Bulilimamangwe. Although some were initially skeptical due to the sensitivity of the topic, they eventually opened up upon realizing that I came from the same communities as they and was not a government agent. I held robust discussions with both the community leaders and ordinary individuals. This helped in countering biases that could arise if one interviewed only one group of people. Interviews with members of the younger generation proved to be fruitless, as most of them did not experience the genocide. However, there was a significant and representative number amongst the elders (aged between 40 and 90) who did experience and remember the genocide.

I realized that making the interviews as informal as possible worked well. Initially, I was using question guides, but these did not produce good results. The informants were tense and did not feel free to express themselves. Therefore, they said little. I subsequently realized the best course of action was allowing them to tell their story as freely as possible, and to avoid any interruptions (except for instances where I requested clarity on certain issues). Informal discussions in a relaxed atmosphere proved to be very effective; I gathered most of my data from such settings. I recall instances where visitors would arrive, join in, and share their own stories before I even had a chance to ask questions. I therefore got a few more informants in this way.

However, it should be mentioned that trust was the most important element. The visitor joined the discussion after gaining confidence through witnessing how freely the colleague was engaging with me. So, I learnt that being rigid in the field does not work. There is a need for some flexibility to adapt to prevailing circumstances, at least if fieldwork interviews are to be a success. Sometimes it is necessary to think outside the box and do something you had not originally planned to get the information (if it remains within ethical bounds).

Conducting oral history-related fieldwork amongst these communities was more than the mere collection of data. Interviews were conducted as co-constructed narratives rather than the extraction of information. In addition, I was careful in treating these stories as fixed or purely factual, but considered that these narratives were shaped by trauma, silences, politics, and the present moment of politically charged landscapes. While language was not a huge factor, I also allowed the participants to choose their preferred language during the conversations. In some instances, I worked with translators who were trusted and sensitive to local idioms, silences, and cultural codes.

Fusing archival research and oral history during my research on the impact of the Gukurahundi genocide on the Kalanga communities along the Zimbabwe-Botswana border proved to be not merely a methodological choice, but a robust ethically imperative journey. Archival records preserve the silences and structures of violence. Oral testimonies restore voice, memory, and humanity to survivors. Together, they challenge erasure, affirm dignity, and reconstruct histories that resist denial. I hope my methodological approach and subject will stimulate debate and conversations amongst scholars, archivists, the media, and stakeholders in the fields of genocide studies, conflict resolution, and peacebuilding initiatives.

Endnotes

  1. Trouillot, Michel-Rolph. Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History. Boston: Beacon Press, 1995.

  2. Rosaldo, Renato, “Doing oral history,” Social Analysis: The International Journal of Social and Cultural Practice 4 (1980): 89-99.

  3. Ibid.

  4. Trouillot, Michel-Rolph. Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History. Boston: Beacon Press, 1995.

  5. Rosaldo, Renato, “Doing oral history,” Social Analysis: The International Journal of Social and Cultural Practice 4 (1980): 89-99.