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Subtle Agroecologies
under a tree and ask for food. It wasn’t magic; it was a strong connection between the creator and
the people.
Within historical memory, trees on cropland were forbidden, seen as hampering productivity.
The punishment for such agricultural transgressions was imprisonment. People were even ordered
to remove sacred fg trees that were not only indicators of water, but providers of abundance during
drought years, and under which communities would gather (Mukamuri, 1995b). The loss of these
sacred places, the ritual of sharing, spending time talking about what happened in the past, and
learning from and connecting through each other’s innate spirituality are still keenly felt.
Folk stories can be written down and documented, but these are our stories, to be repeatedly
communicated across generations. The loss of spaces for communication is the same as losing the
power of communication. As these stories that guide people through times of change and upheaval
are lost, memory is wiped, and the ground for division is sown.
Concerns about the loss of sacred woodland and the pollution of sacred springs connect to concerns about destructive farming practices and the loss of intricate land-use systems associated with
riverine gardens, dryland farming and livestock rotations. They relate also to how farmers use
intentionality to celebrate or to give thanks, in the feld or at home.
When planting seeds, we are not simply planting in the ground, but placing them in different
parts of the feld as an offering. In the same way, before eating, we remove our shoes and place the
grain around different corners of the home. The food is cooked without salt, as a mark of purity and
respect. We believe that these rituals protect the home and felds from damage.
In 2017, an infestation of the moth larvae of the fall armyworm, Spodoptera frugiperda, damaged some 150,000 ha of maize and millet in Zimbabwe (FAO, 2017) and led to a state of national
emergency. Many farmers were advised to use a pesticide or experiment with integrated pest management, while others deposited sharp lacerating sand in the central core of the emerging leaves that
harbours the larvae, to great effect.
In Chikukwa, on the frst reports of fall armyworm in 2018, a ceremony was arranged. The
larvae were collected by hand and placed in a calabash before being taken to a sacred pool where
ceremonial songs were sung, and the calabash was left overnight. The following morning, no larvae were found in anyone’s feld across the community, which remained free of fall armyworm for
the rest of the season. The effectiveness of this traditional response seemed as surprising to the
community as the process may seem to outsiders. Nonetheless, the response to why it was effective
rests with a belief in the power of actions that beneft the collective. This is because, when the rain
falls, it doesn’t fall on one man’s feld. When a disaster attacks, it doesn’t just attack one man or
one woman.
On returning to the question about authentic spirituality in context, one of us is reminded of
the challenges closer to home. Our conversation has highlighted the disconnect between leaders
failing to honour their commitments, protect important spaces, undertake their duties fairly and
transparently and support the needs of all in a non-partisan way. Life in this beautiful yet troubled
microcosm may not be as different as we, elsewhere, may like to believe.
CONCLUSION: CONNECTING THE DOTS
The moment that you use your intention to work the land – you are aware of the life in the soil.
And at that moment, you give value to where you are standing. Self-awareness needs time and
honesty to oneself, and trust between people to explore these things openly. It calls on us to learn
to listen to the landscape – to the suffering of the earth, to the rivers and trees and to the anger of
the nature spirits – now only ever heard above the avarice and poverty during a gasping drought
or raging cyclone. Finding ways of listening to, and within, our ecosystem is more important than
ever.
Subtle Agroecologies
under a tree and ask for food. It wasn’t magic; it was a strong connection between the creator and
the people.
Within historical memory, trees on cropland were forbidden, seen as hampering productivity.
The punishment for such agricultural transgressions was imprisonment. People were even ordered
to remove sacred fg trees that were not only indicators of water, but providers of abundance during
drought years, and under which communities would gather (Mukamuri, 1995b). The loss of these
sacred places, the ritual of sharing, spending time talking about what happened in the past, and
learning from and connecting through each other’s innate spirituality are still keenly felt.
Folk stories can be written down and documented, but these are our stories, to be repeatedly
communicated across generations. The loss of spaces for communication is the same as losing the
power of communication. As these stories that guide people through times of change and upheaval
are lost, memory is wiped, and the ground for division is sown.
Concerns about the loss of sacred woodland and the pollution of sacred springs connect to concerns about destructive farming practices and the loss of intricate land-use systems associated with
riverine gardens, dryland farming and livestock rotations. They relate also to how farmers use
intentionality to celebrate or to give thanks, in the feld or at home.
When planting seeds, we are not simply planting in the ground, but placing them in different
parts of the feld as an offering. In the same way, before eating, we remove our shoes and place the
grain around different corners of the home. The food is cooked without salt, as a mark of purity and
respect. We believe that these rituals protect the home and felds from damage.
In 2017, an infestation of the moth larvae of the fall armyworm, Spodoptera frugiperda, damaged some 150,000 ha of maize and millet in Zimbabwe (FAO, 2017) and led to a state of national
emergency. Many farmers were advised to use a pesticide or experiment with integrated pest management, while others deposited sharp lacerating sand in the central core of the emerging leaves that
harbours the larvae, to great effect.
In Chikukwa, on the frst reports of fall armyworm in 2018, a ceremony was arranged. The
larvae were collected by hand and placed in a calabash before being taken to a sacred pool where
ceremonial songs were sung, and the calabash was left overnight. The following morning, no larvae were found in anyone’s feld across the community, which remained free of fall armyworm for
the rest of the season. The effectiveness of this traditional response seemed as surprising to the
community as the process may seem to outsiders. Nonetheless, the response to why it was effective
rests with a belief in the power of actions that beneft the collective. This is because, when the rain
falls, it doesn’t fall on one man’s feld. When a disaster attacks, it doesn’t just attack one man or
one woman.
On returning to the question about authentic spirituality in context, one of us is reminded of
the challenges closer to home. Our conversation has highlighted the disconnect between leaders
failing to honour their commitments, protect important spaces, undertake their duties fairly and
transparently and support the needs of all in a non-partisan way. Life in this beautiful yet troubled
microcosm may not be as different as we, elsewhere, may like to believe.
CONCLUSION: CONNECTING THE DOTS
The moment that you use your intention to work the land – you are aware of the life in the soil.
And at that moment, you give value to where you are standing. Self-awareness needs time and
honesty to oneself, and trust between people to explore these things openly. It calls on us to learn
to listen to the landscape – to the suffering of the earth, to the rivers and trees and to the anger of
the nature spirits – now only ever heard above the avarice and poverty during a gasping drought
or raging cyclone. Finding ways of listening to, and within, our ecosystem is more important than
ever.