FOXROTt 3 - Moment of Danger

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