Grace Mutandwa

Judges and Fudges

There's a right way and a wrong way to approach a cordon of Zimbabwean riot police. It's not clever for example to don an MDC t-shirt and ask the plod for the results of the Presidential election.

I usually try and carry it off with a self-confident swagger, as if a line of big cops in crash helmets and heavy boots carrying nasty sticks is an everyday hurdle. I try to look like a man who has proper business in Zimbabwe's High Court, rather than what the state media portrays me as: a colonialist who is sabotaging Zimbabwe's economy because he wants to restore white supremacism. As I reach the thick blue line I manage a cheerful:

"Good morning! How are you sirs?",

in the Zimbabwean style. This usually elicits some tentatively cheery responses and a gap in the cordon big enough to walk through. And the technique works today.

I note that there are no officers in the line, which is good as it means there's nobody to order the cops to start hitting me. But then again if they do start hitting me there's no one to tell them to stop.

Enough bravado. The risks we pampered British diplomats run are pretty modest. The worst we see are occasional flashes of temper from the regime's tame media. Last year a columnist said a female colleague of mine might go home in a body bag. The brave man who issued those threats hides behind the pen name Nathaniel Manheru. But beyond bluster of that sort we simply do not share the risks that ordinary Zimbabweans face.

Since 29 March, the regime has launched its youth militias - drunken mobs of indoctrinated thugs - on the poor rural people who dared to vote for the opposition on 29 March. We can't corroborate many of the rumours of violence we hear. We are certain that 150 people have been attacked and at least one killed. And we fear that the real toll of abuse could be much worse. Yes, we diplomats get it easy.

Anyway, back to the High Court. Inside the police cordon is a scrum of journalists, observers and lawyers all struggling to get into a tiny room to hear a judge rule whether Zimbabwe's election results should be released, more than two weeks after the people voted.

A long wait. Boiling hot. The judge appears, flings a copy of a written judgement at the lawyers and runs for it. The judgement is 15 pages long - enough reading time for the judge to escape the building. It says that the election authorities must act legally, but that the courts cannot question the authorities' decisions. So if the authorities want to delay announcing the election indefinitely, that's fine. It's a fudge by a judge who's been bought; and then threatened.

Outside the court, the scrum re-engages. I hare across the road to avoid the cameras and trip over a man sitting on the roadside selling apples (20 Million dollars each). He doesn't have any doughnuts, unfortunately:

"What is going to happen to us, sir? I am waiting and waiting and I cannot sleep. I am sure I will die if we carry on like this."

Sadly he's probably right.

Posted at 11:13 18 April 2008 by Philip Barclay  |  Comments[5]

A Trail through Two Cities

It is the best of climes, the worst of crimes....

I can honestly say, even on day 742 of my posting in Zimbabwe, that I never overlook the beauty. As I’m brewing up in the kitchen, I see armies of Abdim’s storks impaling frogs, shadows 10 metres long cast by the dawn sun; hooded weaver birds defying gravity with their nest-building and my ancient Rhodesian Ridgeback, bounding around consumed with the joy of another bright morning, impervious to the fact that the country he’s named after no longer exists. It’s a great day for us both to be alive.

Sadly not all is beautiful in Harare and as I cycle the 20km from home to the British Embassy, I see much that is vile and immoral, alongside the decency and kindness of a terribly put-upon people.

First I pass the turn-off for Hatcliffe Extension: a township flattened by the Government in 2005 as a collective punishment for electing an opposition MP. I remember standing chatting with Savemore, a remarkably crinkley granny, in the ruins of her house, a plastic sheet her only roof. She can’t understand why she’s been targeted, as she’s never voted. Her grown-up son and daughter-in-law died of AIDS leaving her to look after four grandchildren, in her damp and feeble shelter. God knows if she’s still alive – and indeed God is the best chance for her and her family. Churches are doing brave work rebuilding homes and lives smashed by the Government in 2005, with a little help from the British taxpayer.

Onwards up steep Crow Hill. As I labour along, gasping and wheezing, everyone has a friendly word – wishing me a good morning and asking after my health. (My health would be better if I lost some weight). The humblest Zimbabwean is literate and fluent in several languages and the universal practice of good manners never fails to lift my spirits. There is a dark-side, of course. Female cyclists can be harassed with wolf-whistles and rude suggestions; an echo of the silent crimewaves of rape and child abuse, which shatter families and fuel the HIV epidemic.

Finally the top of the hill – it’s flat all the way now. There is a remarkable number of people waiting at the junction for a bus. The buses aren’t running too well at the moment, because ZANU-PF has appropriated their fuel for electioneering.

And there’s another problem deterring people from travelling. The police – plundering like modern Defarges – have set up a roadblock a few hundred metres along. They are pulling over buses and making passengers turn out their bags. Anyone carrying maize meal is threatened with arrest for being an illegal trader. So people trying to take food to their families on the other side of town don’t want to risk boarding transport just yet. They may have to wait for hours. As I cycle round the roadblock the coppers give me a cheery wave – amazing how people can be so happy while condemning their compatriots to hunger. But I suppose they are desperate too trying to survive on a few pence a day.

Down Domboshawa Road I cycle past waste ground. A group of Apostolic women pray in radiant, white robes. Graffiti: "Vote MDC!" has been crossed out and replaced with blood red letters: "Vote ZANU-PF or you will all starve." It’s normal for parties to play dirty tricks on each other, but the message is a chilling reminder that the campaign leading up to the election here on 29 March will be more than dirty – it will cost many lives.

Picking up speed, I head into town on Borrowdale Road. I pass a particular rock, about the size of a football. It sticks in my memory because one dark, rainy night a year ago the Presidential guard pulled a man from his car, beat him, then hit him on the head with that rock. His ‘crime’ was failing to pull his car sufficiently far off the road as the motorcade roared by. He was lucky to survive. The truck carrying these brutes then drove dangerously fast to catch up with the presidential limousine and had a horrific head-on collision. L'État, c'est moi.

A right turn into quiet Fifth Street. I pass a hospital and remember a sunny day when I handed over a generator paid for by the British Embassy Community Projects fund. We do what we can to help the people left behind as the economy crashes. Again there are darker memories, of March 11 last year when dozens of civic and opposition leaders were brought here after being tortured by the regime. Doctors braved death threats to help them - it is a far far better thing they do than I have ever done! The state media accuses us of using British resources to bring down the Government. In fact our assistance goes to victims like those tortured on March 11. We have nothing to apologise for.

Nearly there now. Avenues lined with dense purple jacarandas. Parents carrying children tied with towels to their backs. I pass State House, dripping with gaudy furnishings. I can almost imagine the residents to be Louis and Marie, baking huge cakes to celebrate their endless birthdays, which the people never eat.

The Embassy. Two floors of a failing office block right in the centre of town. There’s a power cut, so no traffic lights. I weave my bike through gridlocked chaos. The lifts are out so I drag my sweaty blubber up six flights. As I get into reception a stick-thin woman gets painfully to her feet and introduces herself as Esther. Can I look at her application for funding? I could really murder a shower and a coffee (and maybe a doughnut), but there’s a spring of hope in Esther’s eyes, rather than the usual winter of despair. She’d like a few billion dollars - which luckily translates into little more than a hundred pounds - to set up a small peanut-butter factory in her area for HIV+ people (of whom she is one). The scheme is well thought-out, practical and offers a chance to a group of people who will soon return to dust if they can’t make a living. I agree to the grant on the spot. I hope she doesn’t think I spend my whole day in crumpled shorts and a sweaty t-shirt.

After meeting Esther I check out the notice on the Embassy door. The exchange rate for a pound has gone up from $12 Million to $35 Million. Damn. I’ve got $500 Million in my pocket, so I’ve just lost £25. We live in the age of foolishness here.

Finally through the door and nearly in my office. It’s 8.05am, I’m almost on time, the day’s just starting, but I feel that I’ve lived my whole life in Zimbabwe - a country with everything before it and nothing before it - in the course of my journey to work.

We've decided to expand this blog from just my observations to those of other members of the Embassy. We hope this will enable us to give a broader picture of life in Zimbabwe and our work here.

Posted at 14:50 29 February 2008 by Philip Barclay  |  Comments[19]