Soldiers’ Daughters Don’t Cry: The Cost of Early Survival

They barked accusations I didn’t understand but knew meant trouble. I wanted to leap out and scream, “Leave my daddy alone!” But I couldn’t. And they didn’t.

By Featured Writer, Belinda Bennetts.

Note: This account is based on childhood memories; while it reflects my experience, some details may be imperfectly remembered.

They smashed through the veranda door, sending shards of glass across the freshly polished wooden floor. As their shouts echoed through the room, the pieces scattered and slid under the table I had turned into a fort, stopping just short of my dusty bare feet. Picking my way carefully through the pieces, I crawled to the edge of the table and peeped round the side of the draped sheet. There were two of them, in black boots and camouflage. Soldiers, but not the soldiers I was used to seeing with my father. I took a deep breath and dashed behind the couch, pressing my forehead into the soft leather that smelt of linseed oil. My heart pounded so loudly I thought it might burst through my red and white striped dress onto the floor. I snapped my eyes shut, hoping that in doing so I might escape. But the shouts continued, and I curled myself tighter, until every inch of my five-year-old body was wrapped into a ball.

Their words were part Shona, part English. I knew they were calling for him, and with every fibre of my being, so was I. I heard his voice, his footsteps coming across the floor. I eased my head round and watched him stop in front of them. His voice was sharp and angry, his fists clenched at his sides. One of the soldiers spat at him. I flinched and ducked back behind the couch. They barked accusations I didn’t understand but knew meant trouble. I wanted to leap out and scream, “Leave my daddy alone!” But I couldn’t. And they didn’t. I heard them say “Zimbabwe”, I heard them say “freedom”, and then I heard the thud. His angry voice was silent after that, and I heard the scrape of his heels as they dragged him outside.

Too afraid to move, I froze until their voices disappeared. Then, ever so slowly, I crept out from behind the couch and raced to the window. I climbed onto the sill and pressed my face against the glass, watching as they bundled him into the back of a green Land Rover and sped away in a spray of gravel. My hands slid down the glass, and emptiness engulfed me like a vacuum. I slipped down off the windowsill and went to my room, where I sat on my pillow, rocking slowly backwards and forwards.

I didn’t hear mother come in, didn’t hear her try to comfort and explain. I had slipped into another world.

For two days, I said nothing. I found refuge under the Bougainvillaea bush at the bottom of the garden, where I drew in the earth with a stick. Sometimes lightly, sometimes ripping through the soil as anger pulsed through my tiny fists. I would take Paddy, my spaniel, with me and bury my face in his fur.

Later, I turned over every photo of my father in the house. When my mother found me, I said, “he’s never coming back.”

But a few days later, he did come back, and when he called my name and reached out to me, I ran to my room. When he came and sat beside me, placing his hand gently on my shoulder, I finally leaned against him and said, “You left me, Daddy. But I didn’t cry.”

Why Soldiers’ Daughters Don’t Cry
Growing up, crying wasn’t approved of. It was understood as something that was weak and, in that respect, strength meant silence. It was a way of being that was mirrored to me by adults who had had it mirrored to them, and as such, it was never deliberately forced.

That said, learning not to cry doesn’t happen in a moment. It's something you train to do, and it shapes who you become. The child who holds back tears becomes the adult who never asks for help. The child who tries to stay composed in the middle of chaos becomes the adult who feels guilty for having needs at all. We hide our vulnerability, and we over-function. We tell ourselves we are fine when our bodies say otherwise.

Learning to Feel Again

I was in my late twenties when I first sat in a therapy room and began exploring my emotional patterns. I remember how feeling and allowing sadness felt unsafe, and there was a sense that if I began to let it out, I would lose control. But with the support of my wonderful counsellor, I began to learn that tears were not signs of weakness but a natural human process.

For anyone who has spent years keeping everything inside, learning to feel again is a practice. It begins with a breath you notice and with letting someone see the part of your story you usually hide.

Slowly, you build a kind of safety that doesn’t rely on shutting yourself down. And in time, the armour that once protected you becomes something you can finally set down, piece by piece, as you learn to live with your whole self again.