“The silence that nearly killed me.” These words, spoken by Kudakwashe Murisa, echo through the lived experiences of countless intersex individuals in Zimbabwe whose identities are shrouded in misunderstanding, stigma, and systemic erasure. For decades, the intersex community has endured discrimination born from ignorance, cultural misconceptions, and the persistent confusion between intersex variations and LGBTQ+ identities. Intersex people are born with biological characteristics that do not fit typical definitions of male or female, yet society too often labels them as “confused,” “demonic,” or part of the LGBTQ+ community, further deepening their exclusion.

Kudakwashe Murisa, now the Director of the Intersex Community of Zimbabwe, was named Yvonne at birth because his parents longed for a girl. Raised as female, he participated in women’s sports, all while battling an internal truth he was not allowed to speak. “I was born intersex, but my parents decided to raise me as a girl because they wanted a girl,” he explained. “Opponent teams and referees sometimes threatened to check if I was really a girl or a boy. It was a secret I had to keep. The silence nearly killed me.”

Kudakwashe eventually abandoned football due to persistent abuse from teammates and officials. Even today, he struggles to access essential services because his documents do not match his physical appearance. “A process that takes others a few minutes takes me much longer because I have to explain myself first,” he said, adding that the medical system itself lacks the knowledge needed to support intersex individuals. “I was operated on when I was young, and the surgery was unsuccessful. At puberty they discovered I had no womb, and there is no way to reverse that.”

For many, the journey is even more harrowing. Tanatswa (not her real name) lost her parents young and grew up with her grandmother. Her relatives subjected her to sexual violence under the guise of “confirming” her gender. “I was raped by relatives who wanted to see if the female organ works or to confirm if I was male or female,” she said. After being beaten and rejected, she fled her home and lived on the streets. Though she now works in a shop, her traumatic past continues to haunt her.

Nicholas, once a devoted preacher, only found rejection in the place meant to offer spiritual refuge. “I was demoted from being a deacon because the pastor said I was a demon,” he recalled. “People on the streets call me names—‘a confused person,’ haazive gender yake, or unotiudzei iwe usingazive your own gender. It hurts. I started drinking just to cope. I drink my wine and sleep.” The religious condemnation he faced mirrors a widespread attitude in many churches across the country.

Talent Chikukwa, known by many as Madzibaba, said, “I was born with both organs, and no operations were done. My parents wanted me to be a girl, so I grew up wearing dresses. In my teenage years, I started developing feelings for ladies. I have breasts, and I even wear busters. I got married, ndakatomboita mukuwasha weMasvingo, but I failed to impregnate my wife and got divorced. I like going kuMasowe, but they say it’s demonic. They tell me I have to choose which gender I want. In the family, sometimes they call me bamunini or tete. In sport, I loved to play football and athletics, but I was barred from competing. I got violated every hour, pamwe pacho unoudzwa mashoko ekuti sadza harimedzeke no matter how much I try to be strong.”

Mothers of intersex children also carry a heavy burden, facing stigma from families and institutions. A woman from Chinhoyi described how her husband abandoned her after the birth of their intersex baby. “He said I had a demon that made me give birth to a child like that,” she said. Beyond family rejection, many other parents of intersex children are being refused baby cards at hospitals because staff insist that they must first decide the child’s gender. Parents often end up spending large sums of money seeking medical advice or trying to “correct” the child’s body, frequently without reliable guidance or support.

Marshall, another intersex individual, explained how harassment followed him from school to the workplace. “They frustrated me until I resigned. I lost my job because of who I am,” he said. His documents list him as male, but he has several female characteristics, leading to constant confusion and mistreatment. “Even at church, I was harassed and never went back,” he added.

Representing the Intersex Community of Zimbabwe, Tsitsi Ndabambi urges parents not to subject their children to early, irreversible surgeries. “I was operated on while I was young, and the scars still hurt,” she said. “I advise intersex mothers not to go through surgeries too early. Leave the child as they are until they are old enough to understand themselves.”

The voices of Kudakwashe, Tanatswa, Nicholas, Talent, Marshall, and countless others reflect an urgent need for legal recognition, medical training, social awareness, and policy reform. Intersex people are not “confused,” not LGBTQ+ by default, and not in any way demonic. They are human beings born with natural variations who deserve dignity, protection, and the freedom to live without fear.

Until Zimbabwe acknowledges intersex individuals in law and practice, educates its communities, and equips its medical institutions with accurate information, the silence will continue to suffocate them. The intersex community’s plea remains simple yet profound: to be seen, respected, and allowed to exist beyond the silence that has oppressed them for generations.