African Tears (part 2 continued)
I sat in the lounge staring out at
nothing as Ian, my husband,
loaded the lifeblood of our farm onto two cattle trucks.
The war veterans occupying our
fields had "liberated" our
grazing and our dams, claimed our timber plantations and
stolen thousands of dollars' worth
of firewood. Without any
income, we had to sell our breeding cattle. With more than
1,000 Zimbabwean farms occupied by
squatters, the only
people buying were the butchers.
First to go were 12 magnificent
Charolais heifers, born and
nurtured on our farm. Next, two massive pedigree Brahman
bulls. Richard, our seven-year-old
son, had helped me to
choose the names for them. One was Barry and the other
Huffy
- "because he
always huffs at us, mum". Then 23 Charolais and
Hereford cows.
When Ian had finished, he came and
sat next to me, holding my
hand. We had nothing to say to each other; there were just
no
words.
We had sunk everything we had - and
didn't have - into Stow
farm. We had obeyed the three Ls that my sister, Wiz, said
were the prerequisites of life: to
live, to love and to leave a
legacy. Lived - we had. Loved - we had. But the legacy was
sitting on the edge of a
precipice.
Life had been a happy but continual
uphill struggle. We both
had a deep love for wildlife and Zimbabwe's beautiful
countryside
and we
had managed to capture a tiny part of it. Ian had planted
hundreds of indigenous trees. We
had had reedbuck, duiker,
steenbok and even kudu on the farm. The birds were
exquisite,
attracted
by Ian's wild fruit trees. This little piece of our heaven
was to be for Richard, and it broke
our hearts to think that we
might lose it all for someone's political survival.
It was May last year. President
Robert Mugabe had launched
his general election campaign. His Zanu-PF government was
desperate to hold on to power. If
it lost, many of Zimbabwe's
leaders would have to answer for the collapsed economy,
the
fraud, the theft,
the murders; they would perhaps retire to jail
cells.
Young "war veterans" were in charge
of running the Zanu-PF
campaign in rural areas. The veterans who had been
occupying
Stow farm
since March moved their attention to intimidating me.
Jane, the black Zimbabwean who ran
our little trading store, was
used to them; but I found it nerve-racking. Every afternoon
they
would be waiting
for me when I went to cash up at the store.
Jane would keep glancing across at me to see
if I was on the
point
of exploding. Her eyes were saying calm down, just ignore
them.
When one of them blew smoke in my
face and stubbed his
cigarette out on the yellow Formica counter-top I lost
control.
They all
roared with laughter. I shut up shop immediately and
leant against the doors with my hands over my
face.
"Don't you worry," Jane said with
her hand on my shoulder,
"they are just rubbish."
As the encounters grew more
bruising, I wrote in my diary:
"Never have I hated people as much as I hate
these maggots."
It was so painful to be feeling this
hatred. It wasn't a racial
hatred but a people hatred.
I could remember when I was an
18-year-old first-year student at
the university of and Ian Smith's white
government had had me
followed because of the work my parents were doing to
bring
freedom to the
country. I remembered so well the fear I had felt
as I rode home from lectures on my bicycle
and always they
were
there, following me to see where I went, whom I spoke to.
When a black government was elected
in 1980, I shared the joy
of my black friends. I, too, had fought for an end to racism.
Now,
20 years later,
Zimbabwe seemed to be collapsing around us
and our minds were filled to overflowing with
horrific details of
beating and burning and torture on other farms.
One morning Richard threw a tantrum
of the sort I had not seen
since his nursery school days: kicking, sobbing, begging
me
not to take him to
school. He cried all the way in the car and
when we arrived he would not get out,
pleading with me not to
leave him. He was inconsolable, finally spluttering: "What
if
something happens
to you and dad while I'm at school?"
Richard went to a co-ed government
school where teachers and
pupils were about 65% black and 35% white. Soon he came
home with a letter and told me
happily that it was "about what
we're going to do if the war vets come to the
school". If anything
happened, the children would be taken to a big shopping
complex in Marondera, our local
town, where they could be
collected by their parents.
Carefully, and of his own volition,
he wrote his name, address
and telephone number on a piece of paper which he stuck
inside his suitcase - just in case,
he said.
After I had put Richard to bed that
night, I read the daily
situation report from the farmers' union on my computer.
Two
intruders had
entered a farmhouse, cutting through the security
fence and burglar bars, and shot the farmer
as he reached for
his
revolver. His wife had been hit on the head but managed to
radio for help. He died as a nurse
was giving him first aid.
I moved from room to room, checking
every window and door.
Ours was a typical old farmhouse. It had started out as
one
room and, over
the years, more and more bits had been added
to it. There were numerous doors to the
outside. None of the
windows really closed well and I just thanked God that less
than
a year ago we
had found the money to put burglar bars on every
window.
When Ian and I finally went to bed I
lay listening to every creak
of the tin roof as it absorbed the cold night air. I must have
got
up at least half
a dozen times to check on Richard.
For weeks my nights had been plagued
by two recurring
nightmares. The first was very familiar to me, although I
hadn't
had it for
more than 20 years. The house was completely
surrounded by flames. I raced with a baby to
the bathroom to fill
the tub with water so that we could protect ourselves. As I
bent
down to put the
plug in, flames shot up through the plughole and
then through the ventilation bricks and
overflow pipes. Flames
roared into the house above the pelmets and between the
window panes. Then I would wake up,
not knowing whether I
had managed to save the baby or escape.
The second nightmare began after the
war veterans had held
one of their weekly meetings down on the field. In the dream
I
was lying in a
hammock in the garden with Ian. Richard and his
closest friend, Linnet, the daughter of one
of the farm workers,
were in the kitchen playing with their Lego on the floor. It
was
almost dusk.
Suddenly coming towards us were eight white
men. They all wore blue boxer shorts and
carried rifles and said
they were soldiers and that we should get inside quickly.
We tumbled off the hammock and ran
inside, followed by the
eight men. Everyone was slipping and tripping over
Richard's
Lego as we
hurried to close windows and doors and switch off
the lights. Richard and Linnet hid under the
kitchen table,
screaming.
A bright red car with black-tinted
windows drove round and
round on the front lawn. The car's windows were open and out
of
each one was a
rifle that spat bullets at us, at the house, and
the windows were exploding and shattering all
around us. Then I
woke up, again not knowing if anyone had been killed, if
Richard
and Linnet
were all right.
In the morning I had three visitors
- two middle-aged women and
a man, all well dressed. They called themselves "really
war
veterans", unlike
the young men occupying the farm, and
demanded money. They kept coming back every
day. The man
wanted
my truck for a political rally that weekend. I told him I
needed it, but he took to waiting
for me in the store, asking me
if I had made a decision.
Jane - dear, clever Jane - began a
diversion each time and
bailed me out. But I was distraught by the end of the
week,
crying a lot,
short-tempered with everyone. Ian and I decided to
get off the farm for the weekend and stay
with friends in Harare.
As the 40-odd miles to the capital
sped by, it seemed almost
as if I was in another country. Children waved to us,
businesses
were open
and there was not a war veteran anywhere in sight.
I took Richard to a popular and
upmarket fresh produce complex
so that he could play on the swings and eat
the biggest slice of
chocolate cake he'd had in his life.
As I sat drinking coffee, I
eavesdropped on the conversations
around me. These were the black and white
elite of Harare.
They
weren't talking about farms or war veterans or the
breakdown of law and order. They weren't
discussing the horrific
beatings and rapes. They weren't even talking about the
elections, which were only three
weeks away. I was at the point
of standing up on the table and screaming at
them: "Do you live
in
the same country as me?"
My fists were clenched and my eyes
full of tears as I watched
Richard working his way through his monstrous piece of
cake.
As we left with
the remnants in a doggy bag, Richard whispered
to me: "Mum, I'm as happy as a butterfly."
Then I couldn't hold
back the tears any more.
We returned to the farm just before
dark. Emmanuel, one of the
workers, told us that Jane wasn't feeling too well. She
was
nowhere to be
seen.
Next morning Arthur, the night
guard, wouldn't look me in the
eye. George, the foreman, was also reticent.
Usually when
something happened there would be a great to-do. Now it
was
as if they all
had a secret and were frightened.
At last I saw Jane. She was bent
over and limping very slowly.
As she came nearer, she lifted her hand and tried to cover
her
face. I gently
lowered her arm.
"Jane, my God, what's happened to you?"
She turned away and again tried to
cover her mouth. "I can
work," she whispered, barely able to speak. "I will be all
right.
Maybe I'll go
to the clinic later."
"Jane, no, come on, come and tell me
what happened. You
can't possibly work like this."
Jane's eyes widened and filled with
tears. She looked nervously
over her shoulder. She was terrified, of what or whom I
didn't
know. On her
cheek was a large bruise and running through it
were two jagged cuts. One of her eyes was
hurt. Her lips were
almost completely enclosed in a massive swelling; and
between
her upper lip
and nose was an open wound, which she had
packed with cotton wool.
Her hands were shaking badly and she
looked at her watch and
then again over her shoulder. There was some reason she
wanted to get to her job in the
store and she clearly didn't want
to be seen to be late. There was nothing I
could do.
Gradually, I began to find out what
had happened over the
weekend. Zanu-PF youngsters had been round, door-to-door,
telling everyone to attend a big
meeting in our field, where they
had been forced to line up for hours to buy
party "data" cards.
From what I understood, this was an updating of party
membership.
Later they were supposed to go to
the main rally at another
farm, where a register was called. But only two workers from
our
farm attended.
They had to show their cards, swear allegiance
to Zanu-PF and denounce the
opposition.
The spotlight had moved to another
farm. A suspected
opposition supporter was forced to lie in the dust while
others
poked him with
sticks and threw stones at him. But what had
happened to Jane?
After lunch I went back to the store
and found her. Her forehead
was beaded with sweat.
"Jane," I said quietly, "I want you
to let me take you to a doctor
tomorrow." She shook her head, but I
continued. "You haven't
been to the clinic, have you?"
"I was there," she whispered. "They
said they couldn't treat
me."
"Okay, we'll go early in the morning
to my doctor." Jane was
terrified. She had obviously been told not to let whites help
her.
The youngsters who had intimidated
us in the store were
standing across the road watching us. I wanted to make
them
lie in the dust;
to throw sticks and stones at them. I turned
down the path for home.
On the way, as I always did, I
stopped and solemnly shook
hands with two-year-old Cecilia, the daughter of another of
my
workers, and gave
her a sweet. Her high, innocent little voice
called out goodbye to me, but today I
couldn't answer and just
waved.
At seven the next morning, Jane was
waiting for me. She would
not get in the front of the truck with me, but climbed in the
back,
wriggling down
until she was out of sight. Sitting outside the
doctor's room she was very
nervous.
"I fell off my bicycle," she said,
not looking at me. I nodded, but
said nothing. I knew Jane didn't have a
bicycle. She knew I
knew.
My family doctor gently picked out
the cotton wool stuck to the
wound. As every piece came free, it bought with it a piece
of
flesh. The blood
dripped down onto Jane's lip. She didn't even
wince.
When the whole thing was exposed, I
gasped. From the base of
her nostrils to the top of her lip, and running right across the
full
width of her
mouth, there was a mush of flesh. It looked like the
inside of a rotten peach.
"What did they use, Jane?" my doctor
asked. Jane shook her
head and turned away. For the first time her eyes brimmed
with
tears.
When we left, Jane still didn't dare
be seen with me, so I gave
her the money for a taxi and she went home alone. I never
asked who had done this to her and
she never volunteered
anything. I did discover the answer, however, from someone
I
still cannot
name.
The youths had come just before
dark, calling everyone out,
demanding to see Zanu-PF data cards. When Jane could not
find hers, they ransacked her home.
When the card could still
not be found, they had shoved a steel rod into the cooking
fire.
When it glowed
red with heat, they lifted it to Jane's face and
held it against her mouth.
After they had gone, my informant
had rushed her to the clinic,
but the nurses would not help her.
Soon afterwards it was my turn to
get a taste of terror. One
morning I heard chillingly familiar shouting and whistling
outside
the house.
Seven drunken young men stood at the rusty,
rickety gate.
"Good morning. How may I help you?"
The sound of my voice
made the ringleader angry.
"This is my farm," he said slowly
and loudly. "This is my farm
and this is my fields."
I shoved my hands in my pockets so
that he wouldn't see them
shaking and said quietly: "Oh."
"This is my fields."
"Oh."
"This is my cows."
"Oh."
Running out of ideas, he saw our two
ostriches. "And this is my
ostrich."
He was wearing grey trousers and a
black jacket, his eyes
bloodshot, his breath stinking of beer.
"So what is it that you want?" I asked quietly.
He went berserk. "This is my farm,
this is my fields, this is my
grass, this is my cows."
"Yes, I understand," I quavered. "But what is it that you want?"
"Give me your workers, NOW!" he
screamed at me through the
fragile gate. "NOW, give them now." He wanted our workers
to
attend a political
education meeting.
"The workers are unloading a National Foods truck," I said.
"National Foods! National Foods is
for Africans. We are
Africans. You are British. You f*** Britain."
Dry-mouthed, I couldn't speak.
"You know this farm? This is MY
FARM! Give me the workers
NOW!" he screamed, shaking the gate ferociously. His eyes
had widened and spit was dribbling
down his chin. I felt an
urgent need to go to the toilet.
"That store there," he bellowed,
pointing vaguely, "that store it is
for Africans. We are Africans. You whites,
all you whites, you
f*** off to Britain."
I'd had enough: "The workers will
come as soon as they have
finished unloading the truck."
"Now!" he screamed. "They come now.
This is my farm. Even
that there, it is my house. You get out of my house now.
Four
o'clock, hear
me. Four o'clock you get out my house."
"The workers will be at your meeting
soon," I said, and stupidly
asked: "What is your name?"
"My name? My name? You want my name?
You f*** off! Look,"
he opened his jacket. "You see this? This, it is my gun. I
can
drop you right
now."
Oh God, he had a gun. This rabid,
drunk, spittle-laden little shit
had a gun. I could see it in his inside
pocket. I could see the
scratched, cold, black butt of it.
Scream! I could feel it in the back
of my throat, could feel it
coming. I bit my lip until it hurt to stop the scream from
getting
out and
tensed my thighs to stop any more urine from dripping
out.
"Yes, I can take you right now. Even
10 metres, or 20, or even
40 metres. I can drop you."
"I'm going to call my workers," I
whispered. I staggered away,
my legs refusing to do what I desperately needed them to
do.
With every step I
waited for the click and the bang. The 30 or so
yards to the inner security fence seemed
hundreds of miles
away.
As soon as I thought I was out of
sight, I ran and stumbled,
fumbled with the gate and ran again. I was crying and
babbling
long before
I reached Ian and the workers.
I tipped two, or perhaps even three,
tots of brandy into a glass,
filled it with water and drained almost half of it before I called
the
police. Soon a
police Land Rover was at our gate. There were
five of them and they listened carefully,
took notes and set off in
their vehicle to the field, where more than 200 people
were
gathered.
Nearly an hour later the police
returned. I sat, foetus-like,
hugging my knees as I listened to them. They knew the man
who had threatened to kill me, they
said, but I wasn't to worry.
He was just a youngster. He was drunk. He wouldn't do it
again.
As they sat sipping tea from my best
china I felt as if I was on
another planet. I had reported a gunman to the police, a
man
threatening to
kill me, and they told me not to worry. How would
we ever get past this
madness?
When the police had gone, I
discovered that for five hours my
own workers had been sitting in the freezing
wind in the field.
The men at my gate had gone to their houses. Everyone had
been told to go to the meeting in
the field immediately. No time
to grab a jersey or a chunk of bread, or to
run to the toilet.
Jane was ordered out of the store,
the women were dragged out
of their houses. My sweet little Cecilia had to go. All
the
children too
young to be at school were marched behind their
parents to be "re-educated". Vote for
Zanu-PF, they were told,
and you will all be given land, farms, houses. There will
be
peace, jobs,
prosperity.
Jane was waiting to see me. "I'm so
sorry, so very sorry about
what's happened," she said, close to tears. We were in
this
together now.
Perhaps it had been the same man who had
terrorised us both.
Richard's eighth birthday, Sunday,
June 25, was celebrated in a
much quieter fashion than normal. It was the second day of
the
elections. He had
presents and balloons, chocolate cake and
ice cream. But I couldn't guarantee that a
mob of drunken war
vets would not gate-crash the party, so instead of the usual
two
dozen screaming
kids wreaking havoc, this year we had only
three: Brian, Linnet and
Simba.
Simba was the vivacious son of the
district administrator, who
lived over the road from us. DAs were very much in the
forefront
of
organising war vets. It had seemed peculiar that Simba's
mother continued to send him over to play,
but I never made him
feel unwelcome.
The election put 58 opposition MPs
in parliament, but left
Mugabe with a majority. Afterwards, our Zanu-PF youths
moved
on to terrorise
another farm, but word came that about 300
people were about to move onto our land,
accompanied by their
wives, children and extended families, their household
belongings and their goats,
chickens and cows. I went to
Marondera police station, determined that I was not going to
be
fobbed off this
time.
"I am very sorry, very sorry," the
sergeant said quietly. "We
cannot help you. But please, Mrs Buckle, do not try and
stop
them. Please do
not do this. It could be very dangerous . . .
Just let them do what they are going to
do."
I was angry and the questions poured
out. "What must we all
do? Where should we all go? How should we survive? Will
you
be next? Will
they come and squat on your property tomorrow
or the day after? Will you still say then:
let them do what they
want?"
He leant across the desk and put his
hand on my arm. "We do
understand. We really do. It is becoming very serious now
and
we, too, are
suffering . . . The best is to stay quiet and wait. If
you try and do something or say something,
there will be
blood."
But I had reached crisis point. I
had to decide how much more I
could take, how much more I could put my son through.
For months we had been living behind
permanently locked
gates, sleeping with car keys under the pillow. We had not
been
able to farm the
land that was ours, had made no plans for the
coming season, had made no money and had
lived off the sale
of
our assets.
Now, youngsters brought in hunting
dogs that petrified the last
of our stock. A man cut down 200 prime gum trees and built
a
house by our dairy,
throwing stones and threatening us when
we asked him to stop. I lost count of the
different groups of men
who came to our gate, claiming the farm.
I was so very tired of it all, day
after day, week after week,
month after month. I hated coming home.
As a mother I was trying to raise my
son to have principles, to
love his fellow man, to tell the truth, to help people when
they
were in trouble.
I didn't set a very good example, though, when
the squatters got into
trouble.
They had decided to burn land around
their huts to plant maize.
Burning was my forte. I loved it. You didn't just go down into
the
fields and drop a
match. You ploughed two strips on either side
of the grass you wanted to burn; then you
cleared the plough
lines of any overhanging vegetation. When the conditions
were
right, the grass
dry enough, the wind blowing in the right
direction and at the right speed, then, late
in the afternoon, you
burnt in between the plough lines. I never went without at
least
five men to
help me.
The squatters didn't clear a fire
break; didn't call friends to help
them; didn't have anything to extinguish the
fire with; didn't wait
until late in the afternoon. They just dropped a match. The
result
was an
enormous fire that was totally out of control in a matter
of minutes.
We saw the smoke from the house, but
did nothing. So many
times in the past six months the squatters had told me to
keep
off their parts
of the farm, so I did just that. I just sat on the
veranda and watched as the lower part of our
farm burnt down.
Richard came and stood next to me.
"Aren't we going to the fire, mum?"
"Not this time, Rich," I said with a
catch in my throat. "It'll go
out by itself."
Decision time was drawing ever
closer. I wrote to friends: "We
all begin to feel more than a little like the
Jews who were
stripped of their human rights, their property rights and
then
their lives in
Nazi Germany. We can only hope and pray that, for
us, we can leave our land with our lives and
can remain in the
country of our birth and try to rebuild. Ethnic cleansing - such
a
strange term. How
terrifying to be the victims of it."
I called the workers together under
the muhacha tree in the
yard. They all stood looking at me. The fear was in their eyes
-
they knew exactly
what was coming. I looked at the ground and
cleared my throat. The moment I looked up, I
could feel the
tears
stinging and turned away.
For 10 years the chicken house we
stood next to had been filled
with incessant pecking, scratching and gossiping. It was
so
quiet now that I
could hear myself swallowing. I turned back to
the men who had stood by us so
faithfully.
"I am so very sorry," I said, "but
we have decided to leave the
farm and I have to give you all a month's notice." I couldn't
say
any more. Tears
were running down my cheeks.
I had never cried in front of these
men before. When the big ram
had hit me so hard behind the knees that I fell flat on the
ground
and put two
discs in my neck out of line, I hadn't cried. When
No 8, the maddest cow in Marondera, had
butted me around the
dairy, I hadn't cried. When the electricity lines collapsed
and
started a huge
fire in the ostrich pen, I'd got caught in the blaze
and lost all the hair on my arms and legs,
eyebrows and
eyelashes singed, but I hadn't cried. Oh God, so many times
I
had found the
strength, but now it had gone.
Arthur, the big, loud, burly night
guard, put his hand out and
touched my arm. "Don't cry," he said quietly. "We know this
is
the right thing;
we understand."
Arthur's words broke me. I cried for
myself, the farm, Zimbabwe,
but mostly for these men and their families: 34 people
depended
on me for a
roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, food in
their stomachs, and I had let them
down.
The war veterans had not finished
with us, however. In late
September, when all the belongings we had not sold or
given
away were boxed
inside the house waiting for our imminent
departure, I saw smoke rising from the other
side of the little
dam. My farm was burning and a strong wind was pulling the
fire
towards the
house.
The way the fire was racing across
the field, I knew we would
never be able to stop it, so we lit a wide firebreak around
the
house, finishing
as night fell. We were filthy, covered in soot,
ash and sweat. The wind changed and the
flames streamed
towards two plantations of gum trees I had planted.
I was too exhausted even to walk, so
I waited as the workers
went down to do what they could. The only light came from
the
burning trees. I
could hear the men calling out to one another in
the dark.
Suddenly I heard a rustle in the
grass behind me. Out of the
smoke appeared an enormous man, well over 6ft tall. His
glistening face was inches from
mine.
"May I help you?" I whispered.
"Siya," he hissed. The word meant "leave".
"Siya!" he repeated, before disappearing into the smoke.
Within four days we had gone.
© Catherine Buckle 2001
Extracted from African Tears by
Catherine Buckle, to be
published by Covos Day Books on April 6 at
£12.95 and
distributed by Verulam Publishing. Copies can be ordered
for
£10.95
from The Sunday Times Books Direct on 0870 165
8585;
www.sundaytimesdirect.co.uk
From The Sunday Times (UK), 11 March
Britain scorns 'sinister' bid to end land grab
The British government has described as "sinister" an American-backed deal to end the crisis facing white farmers in Zimbabwe by taking a third of their land and ousting union leaders who have criticised President Robert Mugabe. Under the plan, to be put before an extraordinary general meeting of the CFU on March 21, most farmers would be allowed to keep at least two-thirds of their land. The union's name would be changed and Tim Henwood, its chairman, would be forced to stand down in favour of a new leader - perhaps, for the first time, a black farmer. The union would immediately begin to resettle 20,000 black farmers on 100,000 hectares of land, with whites providing ploughing, seeding and other logistics. In return, Mugabe's war veterans and other supporters would withdraw from hundreds of farms that have been occupied, often violently.
In London, the Foreign Office said this weekend it had "no knowledge" of American support for the plan, which has been proposed by a CFU faction linked to John Bredenkamp, an Anglo-Zimbabwean businessman and former Rhodesian rugby captain. Bredenkamp is one of the few whites to have Mugabe's ear. If accepted by the union's 3,600 members, the land deal would be another fillip for Mugabe following his visits last week to Belgium and France, where he was received by President Jacques Chirac.
With land reform in place, Mugabe could see hundreds of millions of dollars in blocked aid and loans flood into Zimbabwe, boosting his chances in presidential elections next year. Diplomatic sources in Harare said America believed the current CFU, which has been a bastion of support for the opposition MDC, had hindered reform. One official said the union had provided "very little leadership" in overcoming the crisis.
A Foreign Office official expressed strong concern, particularly at the American involvement. "I think it's fanciful and sinister," he said. "It sounds like powerful interest groups are being used to prop up a dictatorship - like something the Americans would have been up to 30 years ago." An American spokesman in Harare said that "the embassy does not take any position on the politics of the farmers' union". But at his Breco (UK) headquarters near Reading, Berkshire, last week, Bredenkamp said he had had "extremely positive" talks with American officials. "A new farmers' leadership will get everyone on board. There will be a unified approach and we'll get the thing flying quickly."
Mugabe is understood to be ready to approve the plan to turn over 5m hectares to the government if the farmers decide that compromise represents their best chance of security. Bredenkamp said that if the deal is approved on March 21, a delegation of new farmers' leaders will fly to Washington for talks with the Bush administration, the IMF and the World Bank. The Mugabe government, he said, was already on board. "This has support right from the top. This is our best opportunity, or Zimbabwe is finished."
The Bredenkamp faction within the CFU is led by Nick Swanepoel, a senior official. Sources close to Swanepoel said Mugabe was furious with the CFU, whose constitution declares it apolitical. "A lot of bad things went on in the war for independence - we whites did a lot of them - and yet afterwards there was no retribution," said one of the sources. "Then suddenly after 20 years a bunch of farmers wants to topple Mugabe through the MDC - well, that drove him mad, and he never forgives those who cross his path."
In recent weeks Mugabe has turned his anger on the judiciary, which he blames for helping white farmers challenge the legality of farm occupations. In the deal drawn up by Bredenkamp and Swanepoel, all legal cases against the veterans would be dropped. Supporters of the Bredenkamp faction said America and other governments would help to compensate the white farmers, but Britain would still be expected to contribute most of the cash. "Britain would have to be invited to the party eventually," said one.
The current farm union leadership insists that the plan represents a climbdown and says Henwood still commands enough respect to survive a vote of confidence at the union's extraordinary general meeting. But one of his opponents said it was essential to take account of Mugabe's power. "Mugabe is the chief until he dies - he can rape, murder, do what he likes, but he's still the chief." Mugabe would be expected to order the war veterans off the farms and to restore the rule of law should the deal go through. "He can do that in a couple of hours. Everybody wants this - the army, the police, the secret police, everyone," said Bredenkamp.
From The Sunday Independent (SA), 10 MarchMugabe loses control of regional defence body
Windhoek - Southern African leaders have announced measures to rein in a controversial regional defence body chaired by Zimbabwean President Robert Mugabe, who had battled to keep it under his control. A communiqué released on Friday at the end of a one-day summit in the Namibian capital said the SADC defence arm would from now on have to report to the bloc's chairperson. "The organ will now be integrated into the SADC structures. The chairperson shall be on a rotational basis for a period of one year," the communiqué said.
Mugabe infuriated some SADC states when he rallied fellow members Angola and Namibia to intervene in the DRC to support the Kinshasa government against Ugandan and Rwandan-backed rebels. Playing down Mugabe's loss of control over the body, Namibia's president and current SADC chairperson, Sam Nujoma, said: "There is no division in SADC. We remain united and all decisions were reached amicably and unanimously." Diplomats said the move was a major blow to Mugabe, who faces political and economic crisis at home. But the SADC countries rallied around Congo's young President Joseph Kabila and assured him of their continued support.
The organ on politics, defence and security had been under Mugabe since its inception in 1996 had remained outside the control of SADC proper. Nelson Mandela, South Africa's former president, had fiercely opposed the idea, arguing that it should fall under SADC. The summit also agreed to create four directorates under which all existing sectors will be clustered according to their cross-sectoral linkages. These would be: trade, industry, finance and investment; infrastructure and services; food, agriculture and natural resources; social and human development and special programmes.
From The Zimbabwe Standard, 11 March
Priest ordered to leave Zimbabwe
Bulawayo - The government has ordered the Anglican Church priest who presided over the funeral of Gloria Olds' - murdered at her farm last week - to leave the country today, amid reports that controversial Bulawayo Catholic archbishop, Pius Ncube, has fled the country for Germany. Reverend Paul Andrianatos, 44, who last year also presided over the funeral of Martin, Olds' son also murdered by suspected war veterans, was given up to today to leave the country after government refused to renew his work permit.
Rev Andrianatos conducted his last ceremony on Friday when he handled the funeral. Rev Andrianatos has been in the country for the past seven years. The Reverend told The Standard yesterday that concerted efforts to renew his permit with the ministry of home affairs had failed and that he was ordered to leave Zimbabwe by today. He confirmed he would be leaving for South Africa. Last month, the government expelled two foreign journalists after it had refused to renew their work permits.
Rev Andrianatos, who is married to a Zimbabwean teacher, said he was sad to leave the country during its trying moments. "It's sad that my work permit has not been renewed, I would have wanted to remain in Zimbabwe. Since I conducted Martin Olds' funeral last year, I have been constantly visited by members of the CIO who have been quizzing me on statements I made during the funeral proceedings. "Last week, they phoned me asking about details of Gloria's funeral and why specifically the ceremony was being conducted at my church," said a distraught Rev Andrianatos.
Parishioners from Bulawayo who spoke to this paper said the reason not to renew Rev Andrianatos' permit culminated from his strong stance against government. "The security agents are saying his speech at the funeral of Martin Olds was too harsh and we believe that is the reason they are sending him away," said one of the parishioners. Addressing about 400 farmers and mourners who had come to pay their last respects to Gloria Olds, Rev Andrianatos said it was sad and cowardly for anyone to murder a defenceless 72 year old woman. "These cowards, one with an AK 47, were able to steal Gloria's life, but they were not able to steal her dignity. I say to all the farmers here, they may take away your land, but they can not take away the love your family has for you - that love is more important than any land. People can do many things to us, but they can never determine our response to it."
Andrianatos' deportation comes in the wake of reports that Rev Ncube, accused by President Mugabe of sermons which led to Zanu PF's poor showing in Matabeleland in last year's elections, slipped out of the country three months ago after receiving death threats from suspected CIO operatives. Rev Ncube is a well known vocal critic of President Mugabe's misrule. He was in the news last year when President Mugabe threatened not to attend the late vice president, Joshua Nkomo's memorial service if Rev Ncube was not removed from the officiating list. Contacted for comment, the archbishop's secretary refused to shed light on the whereabouts of Rev Ncube. "I do not know where he is and besides I do not give interviews to journalists," said the unnamed secretary before hanging up.
Sources within the church told this paper that the archbishop's whereabouts were not openly discussed within the church for security reasons. "Reverend Ncube has been threatened a lot and that includes threats from the president and with the current situation as it is, it is safer for him to disappear from public view," said one source.
From The Daily News, 10 March
Zesa cuts off State House
Bulawayo - Three daring Zimbabwe Electricity Supply Authority (Zesa) technicians plunged Bulawayo State House into total darkness on Wednesday when they switched-off electricity over unpaid arrears amounting to $123 000. This prompted a quick response from the CIO who arrested and detained the workers for over four hours before forcing the Zesa area manager, Danisa Sibanda, to order the technicians to restore power.
Sources at Zesa said CIO operatives and army officers guarding the State House panicked when the complex was plunged into sudden darkness. They then descended on the technicians. One of the technicians said they were confronted at gunpoint by soldiers while on their way out of the State House complex. The soldiers demanded to know who had sent them to make the disconnection. "Soon we were taken by some CIO agents who locked us up in a room and questioned us for a good four hours. It was frightening," he said.
The CIO proceeded to the Zesa offices in the city centre, where they grilled the credit controller, Norman Ncube, about the blackout. A uniformed soldier is said to have gone to the Zesa offices to settle the debt, at almost the same time the CIO agents were quizzing Ncube, who refused to accompany them to an unknown location for questioning. Both Ncube and Sibanda were yesterday reluctant to talk to The Daily News about their ordeal. Zesa, which is owed millions of dollars by its customers, recently launched a campaign to force defaulters to pay their bills. A top official at the parastatal said: "We have no sacred cows in this exercise."
From CNN, 10 March
Angola, Zimbabwe rift complicates Congo peace efforts
Abidjan, Ivory Coast - Just as hopes for an end to the war in the DRC are rising, evidence of a rift between Angola and Zimbabwe threatens to complicate peace efforts and further destabilize the central African country. Regional analysts and diplomats say Angola and Zimbabwe, which have backed the Congolese government in a 32-month war against rebel groups, are vying for influence after the assassination of president Laurent Kabila and the accession of his 29-year old son Joseph. The rift has taken an ethnic dimension as the two countries support rival factions from Laurent Kabila's native Katanga province competing for power in Congo -- Angola the Lunda from the west and Zimbabwe the Balubakat from the northeast.
The first prominent casualty of the turf battle appears to have been Edy Kapend, the late president's aide-de-camp, placed under armed guard in a military camp in the capital Kinshasa last month. Sources say Zimbabwean troops are guarding him. General Nawej Yav, until this week commander of the Kinshasa military region and a close associate of Kapend, has also been arrested and both are being investigated for their alleged role in Kabila's assassination, according to military sources.
Kapend, very much seen as Angola's man in Kinshasa, imposed himself as kingmaker in the immediate aftermath of Kabila's death, taking charge of the delicate succession. He leads the Lunda faction against the Balubakat, whose main representatives in the government are Justice Minister Mwenze Kongolo and Interior Minister Gaetan Kakudji, a nephew and close confidant of the late Kabila. "The arrest of Kapend would seem to indicate the Angolans are being elbowed out. Unlike his father, Kabila appears to be leaning more on the Zimbabweans for security," said Patrick Smith, editor of Africa Confidential newsletter in London. Other civilians and senior military officials are reported to have been arrested in the past two weeks.
Angola and Zimbabwe reinforced their troops in Kinshasa after Kabila's assassination and they continue to patrol the streets and military camps. The two countries and the government's third ally, Namibia, helped set up the commission investigating Kabila's death on January 16. The commission was due to report in the first week of March, but this has been pushed back a month. A senior Zimbabwean foreign affairs official denied that the two countries were fighting for influence, saying the claims had been fabricated to drive a wedge between them. "There is a clear understanding on the part of our governments and our leaders that, as allies, we must continue to cooperate to promote an atmosphere in Kinshasa that will promote the search for lasting peace in the DRC," he said. "Since the death of Kabila, the West has been trying to divide us by spreading false rumors and linking this or that ally to this or that official in the government."
But analysts say that rivalries among Congo's strongmen and their foreign backers could undermine the stability of Joseph Kabila's government, and ultimately its survival. After a remarkably trouble-free transfer of power following the assassination, a sense of renewed insecurity pervades Kinshasa. The government has admitted that a number of people, including several Lebanese, were killed in reaction to Kabila's assassination, although it declined to elaborate. Witnesses said this week that Zimbabwean, Namibian and Congolese troops had set up roadblocks along several of the capital's main arteries.
But the main worry is that a split between Angola and Zimbabwe may complicate peace efforts, which have been given new impetus by the new president amidst reports that both countries are looking for a way out of Congo. "Kabila needs to work very hard to keep both Zimbabwe and Angola on board, otherwise the security situation could seriously deteriorate," said Africa Confidential's Smith. "Angola has poured into Congo military equipment and cash resources but cannot commit as many troops as Zimbabwe because it's fighting a civil war on its own turf." Analysts say Angola, which borders Katanga province, has a much more vital interest in the Congo because its support for Kabila, and his father Laurent, is linked to its own fight against rear bases of Angola's UNITA rebels.
Zimbabwe, in turn, is keen to play the role of regional power broker. It has also secured lucrative mining contracts in the vast former Belgian colony in exchange for its support. However, analysts say the rivalry between Zimbabwe and Angola is unlikely to turn into an outright confrontation, such as the one opposing Rwanda and Uganda, which now back rival rebel groups against the Congolese government and have at times fought each other on Congolese soil. "It's a competition to fill the vacuum...Everyone wants an upper hand. But I don't see Angola and Zimbabwe's strong and old relationship dying as a result of this competition in the DRC," said David Monyae, lecturer in international relations at the University of Witwatersrand in South Africa.