FOXTROT 3 The Moment of danger
Standing with the military on the podium were representatives of officials from the Rhodesian government - the Ministry of Social Welfare and other relevant arms of the administration including the CID (plain clothes police). We, the pathetic six white journalists had stood in front of the podium taking our photographs and recording the speeches which were mainly about the benefits of peace - schools, dams, homes, jobs and such enticements, all such marvelous promises. I do not recall that there were promises of land, but assume that land would have ranked high in the expectations of most of the guerrillas. It might well have been taken for granted that redistribution of Zimbabwe’s richer soils would be on the agenda since the constitutional agreement had been signed at Lancaster House a few weeks previously. Everybody was sick of the war anyway except, of course, Robert Mugabe. It has become clearer now that he would not have given a hoot if a continued war might have resulted in a scorched earth and it was Samora Machel who nudged him to settle. (By 2005, he had personally overseen an economic scorching - described by the United Nations in that year as the fastest declining of a national economy in a country not at war).
When the British flag was symbolically lowered and the Zimbabwe national flag had just been raised, military salutes and hand shaking done and speeches not quite finished the tranquil scene ended. A strange and very ominous murmur, rising to an increasingly angry pitch arose from the throats of the thousands of guerillas who started to edge forward, closing the hard square. I could make nothing of the events that immediately followed. It all happened so fast that I had to ask Elijah - now into mega-trembling mode - what was going on. A senior commander whose name I was told was Dan - spoken of with great respect I remember - blew his whistle and shouted an order for the assembled soldiers to step back. They instantly obeyed. At the same time, a corridor of British and ZANLA soldiers protecting the dignitaries opened up behind the podium and the official party was quick-marched out of the arena. A few seconds later, military helicopters flew overhead, carrying the visitors and Nhongo’s High Command out of the apparent danger zone - never mind the cluster of pale-skinned journalists left to face whatever had caused the guerrillas to frightn them.
But goodwill prevailed that afternoon. When the order came to dismiss, a huge roar of shouting, singing, ululating, whistling and stamping men and women went up from the great throng of guerrillas surrounding us. They were celebrating the end of hostilities, the end of wartime bloodletting, death and destruction. They broke into spontaneous dances, stirring up clouds of dust. I had a close-up view of the smartness of the uniformed men and the many women soldiers. It was quite wonderful to be able to photographe and record on my little machine the scene of such jubilation.
Elijah, still sweating and looking fearfully around had explained the cause of the sudden departure of the officials: a section among the guerillas had spotted a black Rhodesian, a former intelligence agent, among the officials on the podium. A deep note, like a long grunt had rumbled threateningly all around the square We could only imagine that the soldiers, these trained killers or their friends and relatives, had not been well treated in previous encounters with the former enemy whose representatives were standing there at their mercy.
But now it was it was time to go back without army escort or protection of any kind through that dangerous country - and I badly needed fuel. No luck. There was none on the ground. A guerilla leader looked at me with utter incomprehension when I asked for help and the British soldiers were nowhere to be seen. So I had to freewheel down every hill urging my little car to get us safely through the ninety miles back to Enkeldoorn.
Copyright © 2004 Diana Mitchell
Monday, January 30, 2006
Saturday, January 28, 2006
FREEDOM FOXTROT : PART 2
MILITARY HANDOVER AT FOXTROT ASSEMBLY POINT continued
In order to be present at this important ceremony I drove, as usual, in my little Ford Anglia, this time through dangerous, guerilla infested country, carrying my photographic equipment. I was determined to witness what was going on out there in the bush but had no idea of the significance of the day until I snapped that picture, capturing guerilla General Rex Nhongo at the moment of his triumph. My photo, a real scoop, was published after I sent it to Peta Thornycroft, a journalist friend, who was then working for the South African Daily Express newspaper. I was ridiculously proud of my achievement at the time.
It had been quite a business getting to Foxtrot Assembly point. There were moments of real fear among my three companions, hitching a ride was a Portuguese journalist from Sao Paulo called George, a Belgian girl whose name I have forgotten and we were accompanied by our official Zanu PF liaison officer guide, a beefy, squat fellow named Elija Gararurimo. Elijah's fear was palpable. He probably knew better than we three ignorant whites in the car with him, just how dangerous was the territory we were entering. I suppose I was too stupid to be frightened. We were travelling ninety kilometers from the small town called Enkeldoorn, once a dubbed `The Repulic of Enkeldoorn’ because, as its Afrikaans name implies, it was a stronghold of Afrikaaner farmers. (The place has since been renamed Chivhu). For me, in the driving seat, the day was to end with heart-stopping worry about getting back before dark in that wild, destroyed part of the country. It was touch and go whether my little old Ford Anglia would make it back to civilization and reach a petrol pump.
I had set off on our epic journey in a tiny convoy with two other small cars, each driven by foreign journalists. They probably thought that I knew what I was doing. I should have guessed at the danger because, considering its news value, the event was seriously under-attended by members of the Fourth Estate. When I went to pick up my `permit' to enter the Assembly point, I found that a former, BBC reporter friend, Justin Nyoka, was in charge of issuing the permits from ZANU PF’s headquarters at 88 Manica Road in Harare. He was clearly on edge, scared stiff about the possibility of a mauling at least and a massacre at worst of white foreign journalists venturing into terrorist/guerilla territory. He was likely to be held responsible for our safety and any deaths among observers could set of a ripple of panicky violence and put paid to the whole peace process. When he saw me in the offices for the first time since we had met in Lusaka five years earlier (I went there to interview exiled nationalist leaders – another story here) he refused point blank, at first, to give me a pass. “You are a local writer – this is not allowed,” he said sternly. Who knows what was passing through his mind. He is long since dead, a tragic victim of a disease that is currently killing Zimbabweans at the rate of three thousand a week. But standing with me in his office that day were two of my colleagues and friends. They knew that I was well acquainted with most of the country’s future leaders through my political contacts (revealed in my published Who’s Who). My new friends ganged up behind me and told Justin that they were determined to go and they would not leave without me. Justin rolled his eyes, shrugged and caved in. Elijah Gararirimo, a former information officer from ZANU (PF)'s Maputo office in Mozambique, was assigned the duty of accompanying us. After the introductory formalities, he planted his ample rear on to the back seat of my little old car. The sight of my ancient vehicle, I realise, with hindsight, was reason enough for Elijah to appear extremely fearful of our prospects of traveling safely through former terrorist-infested terrain. It was almost deserted bush country and the roads were rough.
Just off to the sides of the tarred roads we passed small, rural villages that had been totally destroyed during the seven years of a bush war. The sight of the burnt out remains of the pathetic little trading stores along the route should have caused me to me quiver a bit, but I was only too happy to be able to get my first sight of the war zone. We had been safely insulated in the cities from all but some rare sounds war, the rumble of distant explosions when a very few small bombs had been planted in churches in Harare and a single fuel storage tank had been sabotaged in the industrial sites by infiltrating guerrillas towards the war's end.
Our first sight of a human being came as we neared the Foxtrot assembly point.
A British soldier, serving with the international monitoring force overseeing the ceasefire came out in his military vehicle to escort us into the camp, driving to meet us across a stony river bed that marked the boundary to its entrance. Before we reached the camp and following behind his sturdy, camouflaged vehicle, marked with the white cross of the monitoring forces, our soldier escort had warned us, “Whatever happens, DO NOT STOP, just follow me into the camp”. We were loaded to the back axles with photographic equipment, handbags and effects filling every space inside the car - and Elijah’s girth wasn’t helpful. Unsurprisingly, we got thoroughly stuck on the rocks in the middle of the crossing. Emerging from beneath the trees lining the river banks, a small swarm of guerillas advanced towards us. They swiftly inserted their arms inside my vehicle, trying to grab our bags. Now I understood why Elijah had been sweating so freely; he had seen them in action in the war. They killed people, especially white people.
But the British soldier, as I learned that day, is a brave fellow: Our escort stopped his vehicle and came raging (all alone mark you) towards the would-be thieves. Roaring loudly at them he ordered them to fall back. I doubt they understood the words, but there was no doubting his body language. They shrank back, clearly having been given orders and dire threats by their own commanders about breaking the peace. `Shamwari chete” (only friends) they said meekly and melted back among the trees.
The Moment of danger
All had gone well with the speeches and the final raising of the new Zimbabwean flag, a multi-coloured one - now unfortunately identified as a ZANU PF flag rather than a national emblematic symbol - until after the handshake ...
PART 3 tomorrow
Copyright © 2004 Diana Mitchell
In order to be present at this important ceremony I drove, as usual, in my little Ford Anglia, this time through dangerous, guerilla infested country, carrying my photographic equipment. I was determined to witness what was going on out there in the bush but had no idea of the significance of the day until I snapped that picture, capturing guerilla General Rex Nhongo at the moment of his triumph. My photo, a real scoop, was published after I sent it to Peta Thornycroft, a journalist friend, who was then working for the South African Daily Express newspaper. I was ridiculously proud of my achievement at the time.
It had been quite a business getting to Foxtrot Assembly point. There were moments of real fear among my three companions, hitching a ride was a Portuguese journalist from Sao Paulo called George, a Belgian girl whose name I have forgotten and we were accompanied by our official Zanu PF liaison officer guide, a beefy, squat fellow named Elija Gararurimo. Elijah's fear was palpable. He probably knew better than we three ignorant whites in the car with him, just how dangerous was the territory we were entering. I suppose I was too stupid to be frightened. We were travelling ninety kilometers from the small town called Enkeldoorn, once a dubbed `The Repulic of Enkeldoorn’ because, as its Afrikaans name implies, it was a stronghold of Afrikaaner farmers. (The place has since been renamed Chivhu). For me, in the driving seat, the day was to end with heart-stopping worry about getting back before dark in that wild, destroyed part of the country. It was touch and go whether my little old Ford Anglia would make it back to civilization and reach a petrol pump.
I had set off on our epic journey in a tiny convoy with two other small cars, each driven by foreign journalists. They probably thought that I knew what I was doing. I should have guessed at the danger because, considering its news value, the event was seriously under-attended by members of the Fourth Estate. When I went to pick up my `permit' to enter the Assembly point, I found that a former, BBC reporter friend, Justin Nyoka, was in charge of issuing the permits from ZANU PF’s headquarters at 88 Manica Road in Harare. He was clearly on edge, scared stiff about the possibility of a mauling at least and a massacre at worst of white foreign journalists venturing into terrorist/guerilla territory. He was likely to be held responsible for our safety and any deaths among observers could set of a ripple of panicky violence and put paid to the whole peace process. When he saw me in the offices for the first time since we had met in Lusaka five years earlier (I went there to interview exiled nationalist leaders – another story here) he refused point blank, at first, to give me a pass. “You are a local writer – this is not allowed,” he said sternly. Who knows what was passing through his mind. He is long since dead, a tragic victim of a disease that is currently killing Zimbabweans at the rate of three thousand a week. But standing with me in his office that day were two of my colleagues and friends. They knew that I was well acquainted with most of the country’s future leaders through my political contacts (revealed in my published Who’s Who). My new friends ganged up behind me and told Justin that they were determined to go and they would not leave without me. Justin rolled his eyes, shrugged and caved in. Elijah Gararirimo, a former information officer from ZANU (PF)'s Maputo office in Mozambique, was assigned the duty of accompanying us. After the introductory formalities, he planted his ample rear on to the back seat of my little old car. The sight of my ancient vehicle, I realise, with hindsight, was reason enough for Elijah to appear extremely fearful of our prospects of traveling safely through former terrorist-infested terrain. It was almost deserted bush country and the roads were rough.
Just off to the sides of the tarred roads we passed small, rural villages that had been totally destroyed during the seven years of a bush war. The sight of the burnt out remains of the pathetic little trading stores along the route should have caused me to me quiver a bit, but I was only too happy to be able to get my first sight of the war zone. We had been safely insulated in the cities from all but some rare sounds war, the rumble of distant explosions when a very few small bombs had been planted in churches in Harare and a single fuel storage tank had been sabotaged in the industrial sites by infiltrating guerrillas towards the war's end.
Our first sight of a human being came as we neared the Foxtrot assembly point.
A British soldier, serving with the international monitoring force overseeing the ceasefire came out in his military vehicle to escort us into the camp, driving to meet us across a stony river bed that marked the boundary to its entrance. Before we reached the camp and following behind his sturdy, camouflaged vehicle, marked with the white cross of the monitoring forces, our soldier escort had warned us, “Whatever happens, DO NOT STOP, just follow me into the camp”. We were loaded to the back axles with photographic equipment, handbags and effects filling every space inside the car - and Elijah’s girth wasn’t helpful. Unsurprisingly, we got thoroughly stuck on the rocks in the middle of the crossing. Emerging from beneath the trees lining the river banks, a small swarm of guerillas advanced towards us. They swiftly inserted their arms inside my vehicle, trying to grab our bags. Now I understood why Elijah had been sweating so freely; he had seen them in action in the war. They killed people, especially white people.
But the British soldier, as I learned that day, is a brave fellow: Our escort stopped his vehicle and came raging (all alone mark you) towards the would-be thieves. Roaring loudly at them he ordered them to fall back. I doubt they understood the words, but there was no doubting his body language. They shrank back, clearly having been given orders and dire threats by their own commanders about breaking the peace. `Shamwari chete” (only friends) they said meekly and melted back among the trees.
The Moment of danger
All had gone well with the speeches and the final raising of the new Zimbabwean flag, a multi-coloured one - now unfortunately identified as a ZANU PF flag rather than a national emblematic symbol - until after the handshake ...
PART 3 tomorrow
Copyright © 2004 Diana Mitchell
Friday, January 27, 2006
FOXTROT ASSEMBLY POINT 1980 - I was there
I promised the Foxtrot story - not a ballroom dance but,literally, Zimbabwe's first dance of freedom. My blogspot went missing yesterday and I have reminded myself not to be paranoid about the Mugabe regime getting their Chinese friends to blot out my blog. So here's the first instalment of an eyewitness story which is going into the book I have been taking so long to complete.
FOXTROT
February 17th 1980:[check exact date] That was the day when the Rhodesian army Commander Bertie Barnard and the ZANLA guerrilla supreme, Commander, Rex Nhongo (now Solomon Mujuru) ceremoniously shook hands. They stood, for the first time side by side on a raised podium, saluting the Zimbabwe and British flags as they were raised and hauled down respectively (and respectfully I might add). Formed up in a hard square in front of them were thousands - call it a battalion or two - of ZANLA guerrillas smartly turned out in full uniform. The men and women stood rigidly to attention in the hot sun, guns at their sides, facing their officers and the dignitaries who had arrived by helicopter to conduct a solemn ceremony.
I was there that day, fully accredited for the occasion as a photo-journalist - the only Rhodesian (or new-named Zimbabwean) present with five foreign journalists to witness that historic event. We were there to record the death of Rhodesia's military machine and the first ceremonies heralding the birth of independent Zimbabwe. The scene would have justified the roar of a cannon or a roll of British military drums or, better still, a message carried by an African drumbeat. But the awesome moment passed in a resounding silence, far from the capital city, out there in the African bush. There was scarcely a movement anywhere, not a leaf trembled in the still air and there was not even the faintest bird call; indeed, nothing but quietness - like the moment of an eclipse of the sun.
I wished I could join with the solemn salute of the military officers, but I grasped my cameras and with a click of the shutter, my colonial Rhodesia had gone forever. On that historic day at Foxtrot Assembly point, I was greatly moved by the dignity and the finality of the event.
Before the day ended there was a dramatic and dangerous turn of events, but that is described in my next blog about Foxtrot.
A post script: Ian Smith's rebel Rhodesian Front rebel flag and the colonial Rhodesian flag (I have one in my collection of memorablia) had been consigned to history during the six weeks that the British governor, Lord Soames, had returned and re-raised the Union Jack in Salisbury. As Britain's last, legitimate representative of the crown it was his duty to sever his government’s ties with the `self-governing colony’ of Southern Rhodesia. The British flag had not been seen for more than fifteen long years of Rhodesia’s false Independence.
Once the peace agreement at Lancaster House had been concluded and the new dispensation began to evolve, there were several `handover' ceremonies, but one I had witnessed was truly unique in that the military supremacy of Ian Smith's army was formally and finally relinquished on that day. It was only after it was all over that the news filtered through that the Rhodesian army had plotted a last-minute coup, but was dissuaded by some sensible counsel prevailing in the political hierarchy. In any case, there were contingents of Rhodesian soldiers present in several designated assembly points and any attempt to bomb or blast the soldiers gathered in the camps would have taken their lives as well as those of the British monitoring force and, at Foxtrot, perhaps mine too. I was thankful, as on previous occasions, to come out of my adventures unharmed.
Copyright © 2004 Diana Mitchell
FOXTROT
February 17th 1980:[check exact date] That was the day when the Rhodesian army Commander Bertie Barnard and the ZANLA guerrilla supreme, Commander, Rex Nhongo (now Solomon Mujuru) ceremoniously shook hands. They stood, for the first time side by side on a raised podium, saluting the Zimbabwe and British flags as they were raised and hauled down respectively (and respectfully I might add). Formed up in a hard square in front of them were thousands - call it a battalion or two - of ZANLA guerrillas smartly turned out in full uniform. The men and women stood rigidly to attention in the hot sun, guns at their sides, facing their officers and the dignitaries who had arrived by helicopter to conduct a solemn ceremony.
I was there that day, fully accredited for the occasion as a photo-journalist - the only Rhodesian (or new-named Zimbabwean) present with five foreign journalists to witness that historic event. We were there to record the death of Rhodesia's military machine and the first ceremonies heralding the birth of independent Zimbabwe. The scene would have justified the roar of a cannon or a roll of British military drums or, better still, a message carried by an African drumbeat. But the awesome moment passed in a resounding silence, far from the capital city, out there in the African bush. There was scarcely a movement anywhere, not a leaf trembled in the still air and there was not even the faintest bird call; indeed, nothing but quietness - like the moment of an eclipse of the sun.
I wished I could join with the solemn salute of the military officers, but I grasped my cameras and with a click of the shutter, my colonial Rhodesia had gone forever. On that historic day at Foxtrot Assembly point, I was greatly moved by the dignity and the finality of the event.
Before the day ended there was a dramatic and dangerous turn of events, but that is described in my next blog about Foxtrot.
A post script: Ian Smith's rebel Rhodesian Front rebel flag and the colonial Rhodesian flag (I have one in my collection of memorablia) had been consigned to history during the six weeks that the British governor, Lord Soames, had returned and re-raised the Union Jack in Salisbury. As Britain's last, legitimate representative of the crown it was his duty to sever his government’s ties with the `self-governing colony’ of Southern Rhodesia. The British flag had not been seen for more than fifteen long years of Rhodesia’s false Independence.
Once the peace agreement at Lancaster House had been concluded and the new dispensation began to evolve, there were several `handover' ceremonies, but one I had witnessed was truly unique in that the military supremacy of Ian Smith's army was formally and finally relinquished on that day. It was only after it was all over that the news filtered through that the Rhodesian army had plotted a last-minute coup, but was dissuaded by some sensible counsel prevailing in the political hierarchy. In any case, there were contingents of Rhodesian soldiers present in several designated assembly points and any attempt to bomb or blast the soldiers gathered in the camps would have taken their lives as well as those of the British monitoring force and, at Foxtrot, perhaps mine too. I was thankful, as on previous occasions, to come out of my adventures unharmed.
Copyright © 2004 Diana Mitchell
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
CHEWING BITS OF STRING
`The chief defect of Henry King/Was chewing little bits of string.' HILAIRE BELLOC's whimsy is a long time favourite. I began my blogging in October last year with half a borrowed and a wholly fractured quote:`Let go the hand of Nurse' for my title. `Nurse' back then was my computer guide and helper. I was reluctant to strike out on this blogging thing without him, the worthy Parafeen. I was led to believe, when I left the political arena, that what I had to record, especially about Zimbabwe, might be worth a few minutes of a reader's time.
Now that the splintering of the MDC opposition party has taken us back to where we started in 1998 - with the search for a new constitution - we democrats are left with nothing new to say. We are left chewing little bits of string. The state is tottering, people are looking desperately for hope, for help ... and for now, for all of them, trapped by an infamous regime, there remains only a tyrannical old Nurse to hold on to. Methinks there is a long wait ahead... So now,I must go back and correct that quote:
`And always keep a hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse'
I shall keep slogging ... and blogging away on this machine. I plan to thrill my reader, starting tomorrow, with some excerpts from my memoirs - a Two for the Price of One, for the time being.
I leave you with a message of hope, more of Belloc:
'Oh let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about'
Copyright © 2004 Diana Mitchell
Now that the splintering of the MDC opposition party has taken us back to where we started in 1998 - with the search for a new constitution - we democrats are left with nothing new to say. We are left chewing little bits of string. The state is tottering, people are looking desperately for hope, for help ... and for now, for all of them, trapped by an infamous regime, there remains only a tyrannical old Nurse to hold on to. Methinks there is a long wait ahead... So now,I must go back and correct that quote:
`And always keep a hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse'
I shall keep slogging ... and blogging away on this machine. I plan to thrill my reader, starting tomorrow, with some excerpts from my memoirs - a Two for the Price of One, for the time being.
I leave you with a message of hope, more of Belloc:
'Oh let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about'
Copyright © 2004 Diana Mitchell
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