By Lloyd Gideon Makonese, Public Health and HIV Interventions Specialist
When the announcement came in January that former United States President Donald Trump had signed an executive order freezing foreign aid to multiple countries, few anticipated the scale of destruction it would bring to Zimbabwe’s HIV response. The sudden suspension of USAID and PEPFAR funding left critical health programmes stranded and thousands of healthcare workers without jobs.
The Organisation for Public Health Interventions and Development (OPHID), one of the country’s flagship implementers in the HIV response, became one of the most visible casualties. Clinics shuttered. Programmes halted. Community health workers vanished from the field. But behind the headlines lies a deeper tragedy that rarely makes the news. That tragedy is written on the faces and in the voices of Zimbabwe’s health workers. They are the silent casualties of a global funding decision they neither caused nor could prevent.
Following my earlier publication analysing the implications of these funding cuts, many disgruntled former OPHID employees and frontline health professionals who had been directly affected reached out to me. Their stories were heartbreaking. Each one revealed another layer of loss. Loss of income. Loss of identity. And above all, loss of dignity.
One former HIV nurse shared, “We gave everything. We worked in the most remote clinics, travelled long distances, endured shortages. Then one day, we were told it’s over. No meeting. No explanation. Just a message saying your contract is terminated.”
Another dismissed staff member, a community programme officer, said, “The letter came without any figures. No mention of how much I was owed, when I would be paid, or even a thank you. It felt like a betrayal.”
For many, it wasn’t just the job that ended. It was the sense of purpose and stability that came with it. One individual, a regional data officer, described the moment they received their final payslip. “It was empty. No figures. Just my name on a blank document. That is how they said goodbye.”
These testimonies reveal a pattern. A deep disconnection between organisational leadership and the people who gave life to the work on the ground. There was no emotional preparation. No psychosocial support. Not even a uniform process for termination. Some districts received partial salaries. Others did not. Some employees were told to sign off timesheets for unpaid work. Others were left in total silence.
Even more demoralising, many of those who were terminated were later asked to submit their CVs and IDs for consideration as locum staff. These are temporary, casual contracts that come without the benefits, security or dignity of their previous roles. The message was clear. Return, but with less protection. Re-enter, but with no assurance. Be grateful for whatever scraps remain.
Several workers I contacted expressed deep discomfort with the process. “We were made to feel disposable,” said one outreach coordinator. “First they terminate us. Then they want us back as casuals. What kind of respect is that for people who carried this programme through droughts, COVID and political unrest?”
The emotional fallout has been immense. Staff formed WhatsApp groups not just for updates but to grieve together. Shared scriptures, exhausted humour, and late-night voice notes became the new form of workplace solidarity. What once were professional networks have transformed into virtual support groups for people mourning the loss of their livelihoods.
It is important to acknowledge that this crisis is not merely about unpaid salaries. It is about broken systems. When healthcare programmes rely entirely on foreign aid, they become vulnerable to political whims and global shifts. But what this moment has exposed more than anything is the absence of an ethical framework for how organisations exit, restructure, or downsize. The failure here is not just financial. It is moral.
OPHID is not the only organisation affected. Nor is this critique aimed solely at them. This is a wake-up call for the entire global health architecture. If the people who implement the programmes are not protected, recognised or cared for, then the system itself is fundamentally flawed.
And yet, despite the pain, there is extraordinary resilience. Many of those I contacted are already helping each other apply for new jobs, sharing information on vacancies, and even pooling money for transport and food. Some have found temporary work at clinics or pharmacies. Others are still waiting. Still hoping. Still believing that justice will be served.
One person summed it up with quiet strength. “We have accepted the loss. But we will not accept being forgotten.”
As discussions around funding resume and new political relationships take shape, it is essential that the story of Zimbabwe’s HIV workers does not fade into the background. These are not just employees. They are the backbone of the health system. They are the reason Zimbabwe has made the HIV progress it has. They are the faces behind every statistic. And they deserve more than silence.
They deserve accountability. They deserve respect. And above all, they deserve to be seen.
Editor’s Note: OPHID and USAID Zimbabwe were contacted for comment but had not responded by the time of publication.
The author is a Public Health and HIV Interventions Specialist with expertise in health systems strengthening and HIV programme delivery. My most recent work focuses on documenting the lived experiences of frontline health workers in fragile and donor-dependent settings.