Jason Claire taught health care in a rural school in Zimbabwe seven years ago – and was enthralled by the land and its people. He returned for the 25th Anniversary of Independence last week – and found a very different country.

The riot police charge at the crowd. Most are wielding brand-new batons. One has torn a branch off a tree. He uses it to thrash a young man on the back of the legs. I am caught up in the stampede, forced to jump a barbed wire fence, which collapses under me.

“Twenty-five years of independence and they are still beating us like this,” sighs a young woman. “It’s not right.”

This is April 18, 2005 – 25 years after Zimbabwe gained its independence. The state-run media have been counting down to the Silver Jubilee, heralding it as a celebration of independence and democracy.

Most Zimbabweans have little to celebrate. We are outside Barbour Fields stadium in Bulawayo. Inside, the official programme is underway, with military drills, marches and music. President Mugabe’s speech is being read out, berating Tony Blair and the West for interfering in African politics, and boasting of Zimbabwe’s “mature democracy”.

Thousands of supporters, who have come to watch the Highlanders play in the Independence Cup final, are stuck outside. People arrived at the stadium early to take advantage of the free entry and, three hours before kick-off, the police have shut the gates.

Some supporters manage to force open a gate and people start rushing into the stadium. The police move in with dogs. One man is slapped around the face. Another is beaten on the backside.

And then they charge, trying to clear the area immediately outside the stadium wall. That’s when I jump the fence. An old lady falls beside me. Children scream. People scatter into the surrounding streets.

This area is an opposition stronghold. The people here are angry with the ruling party over the recent rigged elections, soaring inflation, high unemployment, rising transport costs, and the shortage of fuel, sugar and basic goods.

On match days Barbour Fields is a place for them to vent their frustrations, an enclave from the fear of recrimination. “Football has become political,” says a supporter. “It’s the only place that people can express themselves. It’s become like a rally – but football. And the government doesn’t want to see it develop into anything.”

A group of about 200 start a running battle with the police. They turn to throw rocks at Zanu (PF) buses. The police move slowly forward behind their riot shields. There is none of the brutality of the European soccer hooligan. There are women and children in the crowd, and people are even smiling as they run. They are happy for a chance to let loose against Mugabe’s regime.

Tear gas canisters rattle on the tarmac behind us, releasing plumes of white smoke. Running street battles break out all around. Riot police huddle behind their shields, blocking both ends of the street. There are police on horses and police on bicycles. And then a siren wails as a truck, mounted with a giant water cannon, arrives.

The street battles continue and the football match is stopped in the second half as tear gas drifts across the pitch. Local residents are forced to close their doors and cover their faces.

A female Highlanders fan, who had been beaten on the arm and lost her shoes escaping a police charge, comes up to me, still annoyed at missing the game. She sums up the situation: “No match. No shoes. No life.”

A heavy downpour causes a lull. But when the Highlanders lose, supporters who have been inside the stadium, now make their way out and join in. Many of them had been able to watch the action going on in the streets from vantage points high up in the stadium. They barricade roads.

The next day the Chronicle newspaper claims “property worth millions of dollars was destroyed”. But millions of Zim dollars could be as little as £100. Hyper-inflation has created a nation of poor millionaires. The Reserve Bank issues Z$20,000 bearer cheques. Z$50 notes are litter on the streets, no longer accepted by many as a form of currency.

There is no mention of the political edge to the violence. These “unruly elements” are dismissed as “hooligans”.

Back outside Barbour Fields I meet a man who had offered me refuge during the riot. He is surprised to see me and tells me to be careful. After the match the police had come to his house and dragged him to the station. A neighbour had informed on him to the authorities.

“I was at the station until three in the morning,” he says. “They were asking me this and that, but I didn’t tell them anything. I am not afraid of them.” His bravado is refreshing. Most Zimbabweans are scared of what will happen if they stand up to the government. “What can we do?” is the refrain. “If we take to the streets they will crush us.”