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
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