Through the Lens: Remembering James Jemwa, Zimbabwe’s Silent Witness

By Regina Pasipanodya

On a quiet hillside in Chigodora Village, Mutare, the earth gently covered the body of James Jemwa, a man whose camera captured injustice without hesitation.

He was buried today, September 23rd, just days after he passed on the 19th.

For those who knew him and for those familiar with his work, James was more than a photojournalist.

He was Zimbabwe’s silent witness, a recorder of truth in a country where truth often comes at a high price.

James didn’t pursue headlines. He pursued humanity.

Whether he photographed a mother in anguish holding her child during a fuel protest or a vendor quietly protecting her goods from riot police, his images spoke more powerfully than any editorial.

They were not just photographs; they were records of lived experiences.

Born and raised in Mutare, James was drawn to photography for its power, not its glamour.

“A camera,” he once said, “isn’t just a tool. It’s a promise to remember.”

That promise guided him through decades of freelance work, often under threat and frequently unpaid, but always steadfast.

He covered elections, protests, and the daily struggles of life in Zimbabwe’s urban and rural areas.

His lens was democratic; it gave equal weight to the powerful and the powerless, and it never flinched when power became cruel.

In 2022, James was assaulted at ZANU-PF headquarters while covering a protest. His camera was destroyed, and he was left bruised and shaken.

But he refused to be silenced. “I will not forgive,” he told colleagues, not out of vengeance but out of principle.

He believed forgiveness should not be expected from those who never received justice.

When MISA Zimbabwe replaced his camera, it was more than a gesture; it restored his voice.

James treated the new device like a sacred object, returning to the streets with renewed purpose.

His work became sharper and more intimate.

He began mentoring younger journalists, teaching them how to frame a shot and how to tell a story with integrity.

Today, as mourners gathered in Chigodora, many carried copies of his most iconic images.

One showed a barefoot child defiantly staring at a line of armed police.

Another featured a woman kneeling in prayer beside a ruined home.

These were not just pictures; they were memories made visible.

They represented James’s way of saying, “This happened. We must not forget.”

His burial was simple but profound. Local elders spoke of his humility.

Fellow journalists spoke of his bravery. A young reporter whom James had mentored wept openly.

“He taught me that journalism isn’t about being seen,” she said.

“It’s about seeing others.”

James’s legacy lives not in awards—he received few—but in the strong principles he instilled in Zimbabwean media.

He believed in journalism as a public service, not a spectacle.

He believed in bearing witness, even when no one seemed to care.

He believed every image, no matter how small, could be a seed for accountability.

In a country where press freedom remains fragile, James Jemwa’s life reminds us that resistance doesn’t always roar.

Sometimes, it clicks quietly behind a lens.

Sometimes, it walks alone into danger, armed only with conviction.

And sometimes, it lies buried in a village hillside, while its work continues to speak.

James didn’t just document Zimbabwe. He dignified it. He didn’t just take pictures; he reflected the nation back to itself.