There is a particular, chilling irony in watching a man who spends his life defending the law be reminded, via a series of blows, that the law does not apply to him because he doesn’t “belong.” When a prominent human rights lawyer is beaten and told he is “not Zimbabwean,” the violence isn’t just physical. It is a surgical strike against the extremely concept of citizenship and the rule of law.
This isn’t a random act of street crime or a momentary lapse in security. It is a calculated performance of power. In Harare, the message is clear: your credentials, your degree, and your contributions to the state mean nothing if you challenge the architects of the current regime.
This incident arrives at a fever pitch of political tension as President Emmerson Mnangagwa’s administration pushes through controversial constitutional changes. For those watching from the outside, it looks like a legal debate over term limits. For those on the ground, it is a fight for the soul of the nation, where the price of dissent is increasingly paid in blood and bruises.
The Architecture of Exclusion
The phrase “not Zimbabwean” is a potent weapon in the ZANU-PF playbook. By framing critics as outsiders or foreign agents, the state effectively strips them of their political legitimacy before they even open their mouths in court. This “othering” tactic transforms a legal dispute into a nationalist crusade, making the assault on a lawyer feel, to the perpetrator, like an act of patriotism.
This strategy mirrors a broader regional trend of democratic backsliding. When the state can redefine who is a “true” citizen, it can selectively apply rights. If you are a “true” Zimbabwean, you are a loyalist; if you are a dissident, you are an alien in your own birthplace. This creates a legal vacuum where human rights defenders operate without the shield of the law they are trying to uphold.
The violence against legal professionals is a deliberate attempt to collapse the “defense layer” of Zimbabwean society. When lawyers are targeted, the entire apparatus of justice freezes. Witnesses stop testifying, clients stop seeking counsel, and the state gains a monopoly on the truth.
“The crackdown on human rights defenders and lawyers in Zimbabwe is not merely about silencing individuals; it is about dismantling the professional infrastructure that allows for accountability,” says an analyst from Human Rights Watch. “When the defenders are hunted, the vulnerable are left entirely exposed.”
Dismantling the Guardrails
The timing of this brutality is no coincidence. The administration is currently navigating a minefield of public hearings regarding a Bill designed to extend Mnangagwa’s term in office. While the government presents these hearings as a democratic exercise, the opposition sees them as a theatrical facade for a power grab.
The withdrawal of opposition parties from these hearings isn’t a surrender; it’s a recognition that the game is rigged. When the environment is so volatile that lawyers are beaten in the streets, a public hearing becomes a trap rather than a forum. The goal is no longer to reach a consensus but to manufacture a record of “public support” for an indefinite presidency.
This constitutional pivot threatens to kill political choice entirely. By removing term limits, the regime isn’t just extending a presidency—it is erasing the possibility of a peaceful transition of power. This creates a dangerous binary: either the regime holds power forever, or it is removed by force. History in the region suggests the latter is often the only outcome when the former is pursued with such rigidity.
The SADC Silence and the Cost of Stability
While the violence escalates, the Southern African Development Community (SADC) has remained frustratingly cautious. The regional bloc often prioritizes “stability” over “democracy,” a trade-off that almost always favors the incumbent. For SADC, a chaotic transition in Zimbabwe is a greater fear than a prolonged autocracy.
This geopolitical hesitation provides the Mnangagwa administration with a sense of impunity. If the neighbors aren’t knocking on the door, the state feels free to tighten the screws. The international community’s reliance on “quiet diplomacy” has become a shield for the perpetrators, allowing them to maintain the veneer of a functioning state while hollowing out its institutions.
“Zimbabwe is at a crossroads where the internal mechanisms for peaceful change are being systematically erased,” notes a senior fellow at the International Crisis Group. “The risk is that the state becomes so decoupled from the will of the people that the only remaining language of political expression is violence.”
The winners in this scenario are a small circle of military and political elites who have successfully fused the state’s security apparatus with the ruling party’s interests. The losers are the millions of Zimbabweans who still believe that a piece of paper—a constitution—can actually protect them from the whims of a powerful man.
The Price of a Silent Bar
The beating of a prominent rights lawyer is a bellwether for the future of the Zimbabwean judiciary. If the legal community is intimidated into silence, the courts cease to be an arbiter of justice and instead become a rubber stamp for executive decrees. We are seeing the transition from a “rule of law” system to a “rule by law” system, where the law is not a shield for the citizen but a sword for the state.
To ignore the “not Zimbabwean” slur is to ignore the blueprint for the next phase of repression. Once you have successfully defined your opponents as foreigners, the path to total exclusion—and potentially total erasure—is wide open.
The question now is whether the international community will continue to mistake silence for stability, or if they will recognize that a state which beats its lawyers is a state that has already lost its way. When the defenders of the law are treated as enemies of the state, the state itself becomes the primary criminal.
Does the international community’s obsession with “stability” actually fuel the violence it claims to fear? I want to hear your take in the comments—is quiet diplomacy a tool for peace, or a license for autocracy?
