“We are incapacitated”: Zimbabwe’s teachers pushed to the brink as schools face uncertain reopening
At dawn in rural Zimbabwe, before the first bell rings, teachers are already on the move.
They walk for miles, across dusty roads, through fields and villages still waking up, carrying worn satchels filled with exercise books and hope. But increasingly, hope is running out.
For many, the journey is no longer just physical. It is economic, emotional, and deeply personal.
After years of stagnating wages, rising living costs, and unfulfilled government promises, Zimbabwe’s teachers say they have reached a breaking point.
“We would love to work and go back to work,” says Tafadzwa Munodawafa, founder of the Educators Union of Zimbabwe, speaking to 263Chat, “We are incapacitated. We are not there to fight the government or cause issues; we are simply asking to be paid.”
Teachers in Zimbabwe earn an average of just US$160 after taxes; many say it has become impossible to live on in an economy largely indexed in US dollars.
Despite government assurances of salary adjustments announced in April, educators argue that the increments have done little to ease their burden.
“The US$320 uniform base across all grades is clear wage compression,” Munodawafa explains. “The ZiG component is unstable and erodes real income.”
For many teachers, the frustration is compounded by what they describe as a punitive taxation system, which leaves them feeling “double taxed” and even further squeezed.
“The salary structure does not match the cost of living,” she adds. “There was no meaningful salary increment in real terms.”
The rural burden
Nowhere is the crisis more visible than in Zimbabwe’s rural schools.
Here, teachers often walk or hitch rides for kilometres, sometimes hours, to reach isolated schools. Many live in dilapidated housing, without access to reliable electricity or clean water. Others are forced to leave their families behind in urban areas, unable to afford relocation.
The journey to work, both literal and figurative, has become unbearable.
Some educators now spend a significant portion of their already meagre salaries simply getting to school. Others have quietly withdrawn from their posts, unable to justify the cost of showing up.
With schools due to reopen in just a week, uncertainty hangs in the air.
Munodawafa warns that unless urgent action is taken, many teachers may not return to their classrooms.
Her union has issued a 14-day ultimatum to the government, demanding a review of salaries and meaningful engagement. Without it, the reopening of schools could be severely disrupted.
“We all agree,” she says, referring to the broader teaching fraternity. “We might not be on one table, but the general feeling is that we cannot accept this. The government needs to do something.”
The educators’ standoff comes on the heels of similar tensions within the civil service, including recent protests by nurses,another signal of widening cracks in Zimbabwe’s public sector.
For many teachers, this is about more than just money.
It is about dignity. About recognition. About survival.
Munodawafa speaks of a profession that once inspired pride, now reduced to a daily struggle.
And yet, despite the hardship, the commitment remains.
“We are not fighting the government,” she insists. “We are simply asking to be paid.”
For Munodawafa, the message is not political. It is human.
Education experts warn that prolonged teacher absences could have long-term consequences: rising dropout rates, declining academic performance, and a generation left behind.
For now, the fate of Zimbabwe’s second school term hangs in the balance.
And as the countdown to reopening begins, one question lingers:
How long can a nation expect its teachers to give everything, while receiving almost nothing in return?
