From The Economist print edition
Morgan Tsvangirai is now doubly charged with treason
HE MUST be getting used to it by now. On June 10th, Morgan Tsvangirai, Zimbabwe's opposition leader, appeared in court to be formally charged with treason for a second time. This time, the charge relates to his having tried to organise demonstrations of the sort that the government recently made illegal without police permission, which is rarely granted. The judge ordered that he be held in one of Harare's cells for a month, which will make it harder for him to organise peaceful expressions of popular discontent. His deputy, Welshman Ncube, was also arrested this week, but was released shortly after Mr Tsvangirai's appearance in court.
| |
 | |
|
Back inside |
Mr Tsvangirai is already part-way through another treason trial. One of President Robert Mugabe's lavishly-paid agents claims that he plotted to assassinate the old man. Even Zimbabwe's tainted legal system might have difficulty convicting Mr Tsvangirai on the basis of such evidence. He was released on bail, perhaps in the hope that he would skip the country. Instead, he stayed, and organised a series of general strikes, including one that shut down most of Zimbabwe's remaining businesses last week.
He also tried to organise street protests, but these were greeted by hovering military helicopters and armoured vehicles with machineguns mounted on rotating turrets. Despite this show of force, several thousand people took to the streets, and were duly tear-gassed and beaten. More than 800 were arrested, according to the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC), the main opposition party. Suspected ringleaders were rounded up and tortured. At least two people died.
The government threatened that it would revoke the licences of businesses that observed the MDC's call to shut down last week. Some shopkeepers pulled down their shutters because they feared that Mr Mugabe's heavies would start shooting. Factory owners protest that they could hardly have kept the production lines humming when none of their employees arrived to man them. But cancelling the licences of people who do not support him might enable Mr Mugabe to award more licences to his cronies.
In the past, his arbitrary style of government has enriched many within the ruling party, ZANU-PF. Party bigwigs have used their contacts to exploit the rigged exchange rate, or grabbed shares of farms and businesses confiscated from the regime's opponents. But even some of the least scrupulous ZANU hacks are starting to worry that if things carry on this way, there will be no Zimbabwean economy left for them to plunder.
There are growing signs that rage at the regime could evolve into violent unrest. The half or so of the population who are short of food are, perhaps, too weak to revolt. But urban Zimbabweans, furious at the hasty erosion of their living standards, may not be cowed for ever. As Mr Mugabe finds it ever harder to pay his various and sometimes mutually antagonistic security forces (the army, the police and the irregular militia), the danger of a coup grows daily. Alternatively, Zimbabwe might simply collapse.
The government of South Africa, Zimbabwe's powerful neighbour, does not want a failed state on its doorstep, so it is urging talks between the MDC and the government. The MDC insists that such negotiations can be useful only if they lead to a fresh round of elections, which, unlike last year's presidential poll, would have to be free and fair.
Mr Mugabe, however, says that he cannot step down while his people are “disunited”. In a rare interview, he told South African state television this week that he is determined to battle on. “As long as there is that fight, I am for a fight. And I can still punch,” he said. Indeed
