By Aisha Bailey

It was nearly two decades ago when I set out to visit a new land. I was 21 years old, an English Literature major at Brown University, and eager to experience something different. While my classmates considered programs in Europe, I longed for something that felt more meaningful—a place that might connect me to my ancestral roots. Zimbabwe promised a rare combination of cultural immersion and political insight.

I arrived in Zimbabwe excited to explore, to learn, to connect. I knew the country had a long-standing leader—Robert Mugabe, who had maintained power since Zimbabwe’s independence in 1980. Officially called a “president,” Mugabe’s reign mirrored something far more ominous. His opponents often vanished, were arrested, or withdrew from politics altogether. These unsettling facts were presented in our university lectures, but to my youthful mind, they seemed distant—provocative in theory but disconnected from my daily experience.

For a while, Zimbabwe’s capital city, Harare, masked its truths from me. The bustling city buzzed with commuters, street cafes brimmed with conversation, and luxury shops displayed their wares. It seemed, on the surface, like any other democracy. Yet beneath the veneer was a different reality.

One day, I visited a local post office to collect a parcel from the US. The postal worker, uniformed and professional, glanced at my ticket, then signaled discreetly toward a wooden side door. I followed his cue without question and stepped into a starkly different scene—a dimly lit room where three soldiers, armed with semi-automatic rifles, sat behind a folding table. They inspected my claim ticket and refused to release my package unless I paid $100 USD. Outraged, I protested, tears of frustration spilling down my face. They met my anger with smug indifference. I subsequently paid the fee and left, shaken yet oddly grateful that I had the option to walk away at all.

Moments like these were unsettling but not as chilling as what followed.

Three months into my stay, two classmates and I traveled to the city of Mutare to study the effects of HIV on orphaned children and the workings of local government. A couple of weeks after our arrival, we arranged to meet the mayor at Town Hall.  The Town Hall was a beautiful brick building that looked much like any other town hall in the US.   On our first visit, the receptionist smiled and asked us to return the following morning. When we arrived the next day, the building seemed strangely empty. The same receptionist greeted us, then led us upstairs to a sparsely furnished room. There, a man sat quietly in a corner, watching us.

He greeted us warmly and struck up conversation, directing most of his attention to my white male colleague. They continued on for a good 10 to 15 minutes or so before casually asking, “Are you spies?”

My colleague laughed, thinking it was a joke, and launched into a self-assured ramble about his privileged upbringing. My biracial friend joined in, chuckling along. But my unease deepened. The empty building, the isolated room, the pointed question—none of it felt right.

“Listen,” I interrupted, turning to the man. “If you kill us, no one will care. I’m a Black American woman. My government doesn’t value me. My biracial friend—same. Even my white friend here might be overselling his importance.”

I paused. “But here’s my offer: Let us leave today. Follow us if you need to, since you have been following us since we arrived to Mutare (he nodded in the affirmative) but call us back if you have questions.”

The man considered this for a long, heavy moment. Finally, he agreed. We walked out into the sunlight, free yet aware that we’d narrowly escaped something far worse.

Back home in the United States, years later, I would occasionally learn of other foreigners who had gone missing in Mutare. Even now, I can still feel the cold that washed over me when I realized how close we had come to disappearing.

Dictatorships don’t always look like prison camps and military patrols. They can wear the mask of democracy—sunlit streets, cozy cafes, functioning schools, and thriving businesses. The difference reveals itself in quiet moments—when soldiers demand bribes, when news stations air only state-approved praise, when speaking out becomes a matter of life or death.

I remember watching Zimbabwe’s state-run television, where anchors spoke in bright, cheerful tones while the ticker scrolled endless praise for Mugabe’s policies. While tragedies, like student protestor deaths at the hands of the military, were largely ignored.

Today, when I hear about crackdowns on student protests, threats to press freedom, or leaders consolidating unchecked power, I recognize the warning signs. Those who have never lived it may not see it happening. But for those of us who know what it’s like to feel the water slowly heating around us, the truth is unmistakable: once the foundations of democracy begin to crumble, they don’t simply rebuild themselves. It takes courage to resist, to rise, to reclaim the freedoms we too easily take for granted.

Now is the time to fight for that freedom—before it’s too late.