Messages From Zimbabwe

Robert Mugabe’s formative years were spent as the fatherless, friendless favourite of a cold, religious mother, writes Heidi Holland in her new book.

Robert Mugabe’s only surviving brother, Donato, (now deceased) is sitting on an upturned plastic milk crate on the veranda of his house at Kutama, about 100km southwest of Harare, the village where he and his siblings were born and where Donato has remained all his life.

He is a large, white-haired man with a lot of laughter lines on his face, but he looks decidedly wary on this occasion.

He and his wife, Evelyn, invite me indoors reluctantly. Huddled together on the sofa, they are silent and unblinking.

I am acutely aware that few, if any, journalists have been to talk to Donato before me, possibly because we were collectively not interested enough to uncover Mugabe’s ancestry in earlier years when the going was good, but later on because it’s dangerous to ask leading questions in Zimbabwe, let alone to walk into the middle of the terrorised country’s first family.

Donato begins by telling me that for some years during his schooling at Kutama, Robert Mugabe lived with his maternal grandparents “so that he could be watched carefully by them”, he says.

“He was a good boy and he loved to play tennis at school. That was what he did besides reading. He passed teacher training in 1942 but he did not show off.

“He was quiet and never harsh to anyone. He was always determined. Whatever he wants to do, he can do.

“He never recognised the word ‘no’; it was not in his language. He went to Ghana for teacher training and sent letters to our mother.”

His wife says something to him in Shona and he suddenly bellows: “Sally came from Ghana.”

Looking delighted at the thought of his late sister-in-law, his eyes stare into space again for a while.

“She was a lovely person. It was a happy marriage,” he remembers. “It was a happy time in Zimbabwe.”

When I mention Grace, Mugabe’s second wife, Donato nods sagely, offering no comment at first.

“She gave him children,” he says on reflection, nodding slowly.

Behind the sofa is the large official portrait of Mugabe that hangs in government offices and most public spaces in Zimbabwe.

Alongside the couple on a table is a framed, unsmiling photograph of Bona, the president’s late mother, her unusually elongated head wrapped in a scarf that typifies the attire of local rural women.

Robert Mugabe adored his mother. He attended Mass with her every day and twice on Sundays in the years following the deaths of two of his older siblings.

Both of the dead children were boys. One of them, Michael, was the acknowledged family favourite, loved by everyone in the village, not only the Mugabes.

Donato’s description of Michael’s cause of death as “something he ate” is typical of the bare details on offer, not only because the man sitting in front of me does not entirely trust me with his story but because, in the ’20s, life at Kutama was austere. People endured, they fell ill, and they died.

Donato, who was christened Dhonandho and called Donald at school, does not remember how or why Raphael, the second son of the family, died.

Their father, Gabriel, left home after Michael’s death, says Donato. “He went to live in Bulawayo, where he could get work, and he remarried there. He was a very good carpenter. Robert remained cross with him because he would never help us with our schooling. He came back later with three children, and died at Kutama.”

That was a lot of loss for Bona to bear. After her husband left, she became depressed by all accounts. She could not cope alone.

Robert, although only 10 at the time, stepped into the breach.

Suddenly the oldest child, he became his mother’s favourite.

It was he who set about trying to restore the light in her eyes, to be what she wanted him to be.

He could not forgive his father the hurt he had inflicted because Robert’s life was so difficult in Gabriel’s absence.

“The other children used to tease him and he became lonely. He didn’t seem to care, but maybe he did,” muses Donato.

“Our mother protected Robert from everyone, especially me, but he himself did not fight. Our (half) sister Bridget was the one who fought with me. She was the strongest one – never Robert. She had the courage of a man, not like him.”

The Catholic head at Kutama was an Irish priest, Father Jerome O’Hea, a gifted teacher and an exceptional man.

He soon noticed the solemn, talented Robert Mugabe and began to nurture him as a scholar and a credit to St Francis Xavier.

Donato remembers Robert “hanging around” outside the priest’s classroom, ever eager to help the man (who had probably become a substitute father) by carrying his books or cleaning the blackboard.

Unlike the happy-go-lucky Donato, Robert’s childhood had effectively ended when his brothers died and his father left home.

He found solace from the pressures of Bona’s disappointment and expectations in books, not in other children.

An introspective child who may have been neglected in babyhood by a burdened mother and therefore failed to develop confidence in himself, Robert began to adopt a lofty attitude towards his siblings and fellow students.

As Bona’s special one in the family and an increasing favourite among teachers in the classroom, he focused all his energy on being “a good boy”.

“Robert was always a loner,” recalls Donato. “He was a person who was not interested in having many friends. His books were his only friends. I was the opposite, talking to everybody and even fighting with some of them. I could run fast but Robert could not, he was lazy, just reading all the time.

“When he went to herd cattle because our grandfather told him to go out into the fields, he would take his book. He held the book in one hand and the whip in the other. It was a strange thing for all of us to see. When the cattle were settled, he would sometimes sit in the shade under the trees.

“Sometimes, if our grandfather asked him to get something for supper, he would catch many birds, especially doves. He would cut sticks, tie them with grass and put some soft leaves inside with some seeds. This nest he would put near the river and wait quietly, reading his book.

“When the birds came to drink water, he could catch them. He was the only one who could get the birds because he could sit very quietly and that’s why grandfather said it was his job.”

Robert was different from his siblings in other ways, too.

He loved to be at school even when his brothers and sisters were home playing.

Their house was so close to St Francis Xavier College that he could come and go as he pleased.

“He used to be very serious and not always happy,” recalls Donato. “He seemed to have matters to think about.”

Then came the prestigious endorsement of Robert’s scholarly efforts that was to have profound implications not only for his life but for the future of the country he would lead to disaster six decades later.

“Our mother explained to us that Father O’Hea had told her that Robert was going to be an important somebody, a leader.

“Our mother believed Father O’Hea had brought this message from God; she took it very seriously. When the food was short she would say, ‘Give it to Robert.’ But he would refuse and say he didn’t want to eat.

“A doctor (academic) from Salisbury (Harare) came to talk to Robert about his lessons. We laughed at him because he was so serious, until he became cross. Then our mother told us to leave him alone. She believed he was a holy child and she wanted him to become a priest.”

Father O’Hea went out of his way to help the shy child he described as having “unusual gravitas”.

With “an exceptional mind and an exceptional heart”, the boy merited extraordinary attention, he believed.

Promoted to the next class as soon as he could hold his own, Robert was always younger and physically smaller than his contemporaries.

His greatest desire was to please his mother and to earn praise from Father O’Hea.

However, the favouritism of two such important adults in a tight community made him increasingly the butt of jokes among his peers, including his brothers and sisters.

As the children teased him mercilessly, Robert became defiant and presumably angry.

With his reputation for cowardice well established, he was constantly mocked for having his nose in a book by the village children who had not scored highly enough for ongoing study.

As he grew up, Robert got his sense of who he was from Bona, a cold, stern nun of a mother.

She left him in no doubt that he was to be the achiever who rose above everyone else; the leader chosen by God himself.

She may also have viewed him as a substitute for her own failure to serve the church as she and her parents had intended.

Aloneness and the inability to co-operate are the dominant features in all the descriptions of Mugabe’s childhood.

Considering all the available evidence, Mugabe seems to have been driven from very early on by a determination to show those who scorned him and his books, who called him a mummy’s boy and a coward, that he was, nevertheless, the king of the castle – and that they would all have to acknowledge it sooner or later.

Instead of seeing their taunts accurately as sibling rivalry and jealousy from less-accomplished classmates, Robert seems to have felt persecuted, bitterly resenting the failure of everyone around him to appreciate his difficult role in a fatherless family.

“He said he did not have time to play and we always laughed when he said big stuff about himself,” admits Donato.

What the young Robert achieved by single-mindedly pursuing his studies at school, and for years after he left Kutama, was truly remarkable.

To become one of the most erudite Africans in the country from the humblest of beginnings – with no electric light to switch on at home and read by, seldom enough food to eat, and little support except from those whose ambitions robbed him of childish things – was a triumph of discipline over adversity in the classic Jesuit style.

Against the odds, the angry little boy with no friends did become the king of the castle.

But Robert’s diligence was also his way of coping with a universe he believed to be against him.

Despite periods of contentment, he was to be consumed by distrust for the rest of his life.

· Holland’s book, “Dinner with Mugabe”, is due to be released by Penguin Books this month.

(Source)

Howzit

I have tried for two days to do this posting, and try as I might, I cannot get the html code for these articles to behave! Very frustrating.

So rather than post the articles, I will post the links instead.

Very interesting reading – and proof, at least, to me, that there are people living in various places around the world that the story of the Zimbabweans crisis is slowly, ever so slowly, getting through.

Andre Carrel – The Zimbabwe Experience – Part One

Andre Carrel – The Zimbabwe Experience – Part Two

Andre Carrel – The Zimbabwe Experience – Part Three

Andre Carrel – The Zimbabwe Experience – Part Four

Andre Carrel – The Zimbabwe Experience – Conclusion

Take care.

‘debvhu

Police at OR Tambo International Airport have seized a consignment of handguns which might have belonged to the Zimbabwean police force. The weapons – 50 CZ 75 9mm parabellum handguns – were found yesterday in the cargo hold of a passenger plane, packed in a simple wooden padlocked box which had “Zimbabwe contingent” scrawled across it. The plane had stopped over in Zimbabwe. Most of the weapons, which appeared secondhand, had ZRP stamped on them with an additional serial number. According to a security expert, ZRP stands for Zimbabwe Republic Police. The firearms were made in the Czech Republic, and still had their original serial numbers. No ammunition was found in the consignment, which is estimated to be worth about R175000.

(Source)

From my book “Without Honour“:

“The CZ ‘75 is a semi automatic handgun made in the Czech Republic and originally introduced in 1975 by Ceska Zbrojovka Brod (CZUB) in 9mm calibre parabellum. It is one of the original ‘wonder nines’ featuring high-capacity double column magazine, sturdy all-steel construction, great accuracy, and superb reliability.

Weighing in at exactly 2 kilograms with a full magazine and one up the spout, the CZ is a remarkable weapon and had slowly become the issue pistol of the ZRP, taking the place of the aged and somewhat antiquated P1. I know how good the CZ ’75 is because not only had I qualified as a marksman with it every year I was in the Police, but I had also used it in the Police Pistol Shooting Championships in Harare for two years and found it to be the perfect pistol for myself – I have rather large hands.”

Howzit

If there is anybody in the UK who would like a copy of my book “Without Honour“, please be advised that I now have a very limited stock of printed books.

If you would like to purchase the book, they are £10 plus £2 postage each.

You can contact me direct at mandebvhu(at)ntlworld.com and I will work it all out with you.

This is a limited stock and I intend to use the money from sales to replenish the stock.

Take care.

‘debvhu

Howzit

A couple of weeks ago I emailed the local newspaper, The Derby Evening Telegraph, to see if they did a book review service.

Better ‘n that, they put a reporter onto it, and despatched a photographer to see me.

The result was published yesterday:

“A former policeman who spent more than 30 years living and working in Zimbabwe has written a book about his experiences.

Robb Ellis has lived in Derby for the past seven years but grew up in the African country after his family emigrated from Britain when he was a baby.

But he and his family left for England in 1998 when they decided the political situation had become too dangerous under the rule of President Robert Mugabe.

Now he has documented his time spent working under the Mugabe regime – during which thousands of people have been killed – in his book, Without Honour.

Mr Ellis, 44, said he had always wanted to become a policeman and joined the Zimbabwe Republic Police in 1981 when he was 18.

He was posted to a station in Essexvale, now known as Esigodini, and took up the position of public prosecutor.

Mr Ellis, of Devon Close, Chaddesden, said he had to deal with ambushes, murders, rapes, robberies and political violence as part of his work during this time.

He said he saw a marked increase in the number of crimes in the area as people rebelled against Robert Mugabe’s rule.

“Being a prosecutor, I only became involved in the investigation of cases which would be heard in a higher court and so had my pick of volatile, vicious cases to investigate,” he said.

“One of the first instances of political malcontent I attended was the killing in an ambush of two friends of mine who were driving to Bulawayo one evening early in 1982.”

Later that year, Mr Ellis was transferred to Plumtree, on the Zimbabwe‘s western border with Botswana.

He said: “By the time I arrived there, Mugabe’s Korean-trained Fifth Brigade had been ordered into the province, where they robbed, murdered, pillaged and raped the local tribe.”

It is estimated that 20,000 to 30,000 people were killed during this period.

In 1985, Mr Ellis left the police force after becoming disillusioned with the justice system in the country and worked for several large companies until leaving Zimbabwe in 1998.

He came to Britain with wife Bernie but, in August 2000, fell 13 feet while working in a warehouse in Swindon and shattered his left arm.

The couple then moved to Derby so that Mr Ellis could receive treatment at the Pulvertaft Hand Unit at Derbyshire Royal Infirmary.

He was encouraged to write about his experiences by a friend from South Africa and began penning the book last year with the support of his wife and his mother, who also lives in Derby.

He said: “It was an amazing emotional release to write of the events of almost a quarter of a century ago but events, nonetheless, which are still relevant today as Mugabe is still in power, albeit undemocratically, and the people of Zimbabwe still suffer for his leadership.”

Without Honour is available as a print-on-demand book at www.lulu.com/content/779062 and costs £12.99 plus postage.”

Take care.

‘debvhu

In an attempt to get the book “Without Honour” into the public domain, I have reduced the retail price to just £9.99 + postage. My return on this is negligible, but becoming a rich man is not my objective.

The link to the relevant Lulu page is here…. I will leave this price in place for just 50 days – that is, until and including 23rd September 2007.

Other news on the book front is that I am working on my second book, which, at this time, masquerades under the working title of “Three Blind Mice” – I will be sure to keep you informed.

Take care.

‘debvhu

In early May this year, I was asked by the editor of Disability Now to write an article on disability in Zimbabwe. I didn’t take much asking and I wrote the following article. As you read it, please remember that May was just 2 months ago, and that the figures quoted reflect those of just 60 to 90 days ago

The article was published in the internet here.

“I left Zimbabwe 8 years ago, but having lived there for almost 40 years and grown up in a family with a strong medical background, I have a very good concept of what living with a disability in Zimbabwe entails.

That I myself am now disabled is a coincidence.

Family values in Africa as a whole and Zimbabwe in particular, are high.

But in the current political and economic climate in Zimbabwe, living with a disability in a huge encumbrance. The country does not have the disability network we see in the UK. Small organisations like St Giles, Jairos Jiri and RESCU have all but stopped operating, as costs are just too prohibitive.

Families with members that are disabled, whether physically or mentally, are largely left to handle the situation on their own. Some relatives see the birth of a child with a disability as a taboo that has brought bad omen to the family. One must remember that African people are very spiritual. The subject of disability in Zimbabwe has largely been sacrosanct, and therefore, remains unresolved.

Zimbabwean families are too busy just trying to get through the present day to spend time looking after the disabled. Only the fit will survive.

Whilst society is aware of their responsibilities to the disabled, time does not lend itself to providing that care.

The political and economic woes of the country no longer lend themselves to providing a society where people with disabilities can be afforded.

The British pound fetches a little more than Z$500 on the official exchange rate, whilst on the unofficial market it will fetch in excess of Z$50000! The Poverty Datum Line – the amount of money that a 5 member family requires to break even in any given month – is Z$1.4 million, but the average worker earns about Z$50000 per month.

Disabled people in Zimbabwe routinely face exclusion from education, employment, cultural activities, festivals, sports and social events and are especially vulnerable to poverty, physical and sexual violence, lack of access to health care, emotional abuse and neglect. Only 33% of children with disabilities in Zimbabwe have access to education, compared with over 90% for the able-bodied populace.

When disabled people become too much for any family to cope with, the normal thing is to book that person into a local government hospital under a false name so that when death occurs, the government is obliged to pick up the funeral costs with a pauper’s burial. This is because the family are unable to foot the funeral costs.

An elderly black man, blind at birth, used to spend his days playing a home-made guitar and singing popular hymns – his voice loud and melodic, he was almost a landmark of First Street in Harare. His son would sit with him and ‘manage’ the few coins that were donated by passers-by. But the municipal police chased them away and today they live at Hopley Farm, in a cold, crude hut manufactured for them by sympathetic neighbours,

He eats about one small meal every three days and cannot afford to purchase a regular supply of milk or bread.

He no longer plays the guitar. He no longer sings. He spends his days sitting in silence. The joy of his music is gone. He quietly sits awaiting death.

His life is cursed. He will not survive the winter this year. He welcomes death, if only for the freedom it will afford his son.

The disabled people of Zimbabwe – hidden, ignored and abhorred – nothing more, nothing less.”

Take care.

‘debvhu

Howzit

Yesterday, Eric Harrison’s book “Jambanja” joined the ranks of Lulu and is available as a Print on Demand book…

“This humorous and devastatingly poignant novel is a fact based story of a white African’s agonizing battle to save his home, farm and family from brutal and intimidating terror attacks. A Major Work, exploring the collective character of a rebellious Nation torn apart by racism and rationalization and offering an exciting insight into relationships between good governance and State sponsored thuggery and terrorism. The reader is taken into the story with such gut-wrenching reality, that putting down the book, is like fighting your way out of a vivid dream.“

Click here to visit the Lulu page. The book is for sale at £11.76 plus postage.

Take care.

‘debvhu

“I begged Robb to write this book for historical reasons. I think history is important. History is extremely important in politics. Winston Churchill’s own amazing political career was built largely on nothing, but a knowledge of history. Robb and I spent our high school years in Churchill High School in Salisbury, Rhodesia (now Harare, Zimbabwe). The school was named after Winston Churchill and he gave it his blessing. Prior to that Robb and I went to Admiral Tait Junior school.

Our teachers taught us many things, but they also warned us of what awaited us in life. They imbued us with values and taught us to stand up for things we believed in. I remember our teachers telling us that life is indeed unfair, but that one must go out there and put energy into life. I remember being told that you get out of life in direct proportion to what you put into it. We must not expect life to give us things. We must go out there and make things happen. Some of that Churchillian attitude rubbed off on us. Perhaps now, after all these years, these values are more important to Robb and I than we understood back then.

Those were tumultuous and chaotic times. In those days, Rhodesia made world news headlines almost daily – much like South Africa was to do. Sometimes I actually miss them. Uncertainty was ever present in our lives. I remember standing in the school hall with our headmaster leading the prayers, praying to God that he would guide our leaders on the wisest course of action to save our country from evil. To us, Robert Mugabe was the ultimate embodiment of evil.

I remember too, sitting at home listening to my parents chatting to their friends and everyone agreeing that Rhodesia must not end up like Zambia to the north of us. Zambia, like all countries which ended up under majority rule, started out great and then things went wrong. Eventually, it became a mess. Countries to the north, west and east of us were ending up like this. We wanted to avoid that fate at all costs, and so we fought a desperate war trying to hold off the inevitable.

Despite all these hopes, prayers and battles, Zimbabwe today is far worse off than Zambia ever was. And the cause is not hard to find. In our case, of all the possible outcomes which could have occurred, the worst one happened. A curse was cast upon that nation, and that curse had a name: Robert Mugabe.

I remember sitting in class, in Churchill High School on the day when Robert Mugabe was first elected. Someone had brought a radio. The first official election results were to be broadcast. All of us in the class were white. And we knew that our fate would be decided on this day. Nobody spoke. We just listened to the radio broadcast. Then it was announced that ZANU (PF), Robert Mugabe’s party had won a landslide 93% of the vote. Nobody said anything. We just sat there. My heart dropped. Of all the possible outcomes – the very worst one had come to pass. It was as if we had fought a whole war for nothing.

My brother, who had been in the Rhodesian SAS and later, in the territorial forces had fought in the war. He said we should all get out of the country. He said there was zero hope under Mugabe’s rule.

So the next year, before finally finishing off school, I dropped out and went alone, as the first member of my family to leave Zimbabwe. I went to South Africa initially in the hope of joining the Air Force, but an Afrikaans-speaking Colonel recommended to me that since I was so English, I should rather join the Navy – because there were more English-speaking people in the Navy.

So I left, and thus parted company with my school and everyone I knew, including Robb. We were to live the next 25 years of our lives apart, until one day Robb found me and left a message for me on my website.

Little could I have guessed what strange turns Robb’s life had taken. He had remained in Zimbabwe and he wanted to be in the Police. So at the tender age of 19 he became one of the very few remaining whites in Zimbabwe’s Police force. With Whites leaving the Police Force, he was to eventually stand out like a sore thumb. With his Churchillian attitude and Western values, Robb tried to play the role of the honest Policeman. He tried to do his duty, and he tried to stand up for the things he believed in – like the rule of law.

But he was in the wrong country. Being honest, and believing in the truth and in good versus evil, is not a good thing in a country ruled by an evil man, who only uses democracy as a facade to hide his totalitarian and racist mindset. Fate was to throw Robb into Mashonaland where a war would break out – a secret one-sided war – where a few Matabele people would rebel against Mugabe’s rule, and where Mugabe would respond by murdering civilians en mass with an iron fist. Without plan or design, Robb, who had only shortly been out of school, soon found himself embroiled in a black-on-black war, an honest Policeman trying to serve an evil Master who was intent on murdering anyone who even hinted at opposing him. And murder them, he did. Nobody knows exactly how many were killed. It is said that in the Rhodesian war, from 1965-1980, that 30,000 people died. Yet, in a mere few years in the 1980′s, Mugabe was to murder another 20,000-30,000 Matabele people.

It often happens in Africa that enormous wars are waged, and little is ever known or written about them. Millions die – but they are mere statistics. Back in 1998, I wrote an article for WorldNetDaily’s magazine in the USA. I warned that there was an “African World War” in progress and that millions would die. Nobody seemed to care. Now we refer to that war as the Civil war in the DRC (formerly Zaire). Twelve African nations were involved and 4 million people died. But how many books have been written about it? Only one that I know of.

Many books were written about the Rhodesian War. But how many have been written about Mugabe’s genocide of 20,000+ Matabele people? None that I know of. Yet it was people who were killed. Living, breathing humans were murdered – sometimes in the most despicable way – though they committed no crime.

Robb was one of very few white men caught up in this hideous series of events. I thus begged him to write about what he had seen because it provides a rare insight into events which were suppressed. Mugabe and his CIO (Central Intelligence Organisation), did all they could to cover up the mass graves and to deny that anything was amiss. Mugabe was the darling of the Western world in those days. As Robb and other Policeman were busy picking up bodies and parts of bodies of women and children, the Western Media was singing high praises to “moderate” Robert Mugabe.

In this book, Robb writes about his life as a Policeman. He writes about the daily grind, the excitement and the humour of life as a Policeman and a prosecutor. But then too, his experiences take him into hideous situations where he has to pick up dead bodies; or he stumbles on a mass grave; or interviews witnesses to the slaughter. His friends are shot dead and he sometimes has to pick up their bodies himself to take them to the mortuary. But in the end, there are ominous signs that if this lone white Policeman does not leave the killing fields… then he too will end up as just one more corpse.

This book is the story of a young white man, freshly out of school who just wanted to be a Policeman helping his community and his country. But fate had other things in store for him and instead he finds himself drawn into a nightmare. As Robb readily admits, those events scarred him for life. Some of the things he was involved in remain nightmares for him to this day and he tells me that he tries as much as possible to put them out of his mind.

That curse which descended upon Zimbabwe has still not been lifted. What happened in the 1980′s could easily happen again on an even bigger scale. Perhaps, given the extremely dire situation in that country now, worse, much worse, may yet happen.

I hope that when next you hear: 10,000 people died, or 100,000 people died or a million people were murdered in Africa that perhaps you will sit back and think about Robb’s book. Perhaps you may then think quietly that real, living, feeling people were involved. Their screams and their tears went unrecorded – because nobody today really cares about the suffering brought on Africa by dictatorial curses such as Robert Gabriel Mugabe.

Jan Lamprecht
Johannesburg
12 October 2006″

Learn more about my book “Without Honour” at www.withouthonour.com where you can order the book either as a printed paperback from Lulu for just £12.99, or as an e-book from Jan’s website www.africancrisis.co.za US$12, or Lulu for £6.

As I state in the book, “Please also be aware that, being a disabled person, I would want any funds raised by the sale of this book to be used to assist my wife in her daily care of myself. Thank you for your understanding.”

Take care.

‘debvhu

When I wrote “Without Honour” last year, I spent many hours on the internet doing research for the historical background that I wrote at the beginning of the book. I felt that it was very important to establish historical events for readers as some of it happened so long ago that we have forgotten, and then there are readers that do not live in the regional and are unaware of some of the finer points.

Perhaps one of the biggest single events for me during the bush war, was the shooting down of first one Air Rhodesia Viscount airliner and the subsequent murder of some of the survivors by terrorists, followed by the shooting down of a second aircraft less than six months later.

There were no survivors of the second atrocity.

I am always interested in other people’s opinions and views and so, when I found this page on the internet today, I felt that it was a must that I should share with those out there that remember with sadness, anger and futility the events that saw such a waste of innocent life.

The page that I took this from was written by Rob Rickards.

from “Serving Secretly” by Ken Flower

Page 210…

“On 3 September an incident occurred which put an immediate end to the Nkomo/Smith negotiations. This ’stroke of fate’, as Smith described it, forced all the players in the Rhodesian game on to a different course.

An Air Rhodesia Viscount was shot down by Nkomo’s ZIPRA guerrillas, using a Russian SAM-7 ground-to-air missile, shortly after take-off from Kariba to Salisbury. Eighteen out of the fifty-three people on board survived the crash; ten survivors, while still dazed and shocked, were massacred by ZIPRA guerrillas before rescuers could reach the scene of the crash. Nkomo compounded the crime when, in a BBC interview, he appeared to boast about the attack. Only twenty-four hours earlier white Rhodesians had welcomed the official release of news of the Nkomo/Smith negotiations. Now they demanded an end to negotiations and military retaliation on ZIPRA forces in Zambia. Any illusions they might have retained that they were fighting a war, not terrorism, were shattered, and as they waited in vain for condemnation of ZIPRA’S action from Britain, the United States or anywhere else, they began to realise they were completely alone in their grief and anger.

I well remember Smith’s double-edged reaction to the ’stroke of fate’: firstly, great relief and a sudden release of tension for, ironically, settlement with Nkomo had by 3 September been there for the taking and Smith might have had to grasp it, to his own embarrassment and the condemnation of many of his party; and secondly, righteous shock and horror.”

Page 219…

“Within a week of my return to Salisbury from Morocco another Viscount airliner was shot down on take-off from Kariba, killing all on board. Among the dead were my son-in-law’s parents and members of five families within sight of my home. On this occasion Nkomo claimed that his troops had planned to shoot down Walls, who was in Kariba at the time. It was a palpable lie…”

Serving Secretly

-o00o-

from “Rhodesians Never Die” by Peter Godwin & Ian Hancock

Page 288…

“Two days after Smith’s speech, and eleven minutes after taking off from Kariba, bound for Salisbury with fifty-two passengers and four crew members on board, Captain John Hood of Air Rhodesia’s flight RH825 radioed a distress signal. His Viscount then disappeared near the Urungwe TTL.

Wreckage was spotted from the air the next morning, and a ground search arrived soon after. Thirty-eight bodies were found in and around the aircraft, obviously victims of the crash. Another ten were heaped together a short distance away, all of them shot dead. Three survivors were found near the scene, and another five – who had walked off looking for help – were located later. A macabre story soon emerged. A heat-seeking SAM-7 missile had hit the inner starboard engine. Captain Hood almost executed a safe crash landing in a cotton field except for the last moment when the Viscount hit a ditch and broke up. The tail section broke away and eighteen lives were saved. Half an hour after the crash, and after the five had gone for help, a group of ‘terrorists’ appeared on the crash scene and ordered the remaining survivors to assemble whereupon they opened fire with their AK-47s. Three started running and got away, and watched as the ‘terrorists’ looted the aircraft before finally leaving.

For days on end, White Rhodesia was overwhelmed by shock, grief, and anger, a reaction strengthened by the further news that Umtali’s residential suburbs were rocketed on the night of 8 September. The demand for instant retaliation extended through the Security Forces, stopping only when it reached Walls. The anger increased with the news that Nkomo had claimed credit for downing the plane – while denying that ZIPRA had killed any survivors – and had accused Air Rhodesia of ferrying troops and military equipment. A false report that he had laughed (or ‘cackled’) merely strengthened demands for revenge. So did the stories of individual and family tragedies circulated in the media, spelt out in the condolence columns, and passed around by word of mouth. Although the names were not released it was reported that two of the ten murdered survivors were children and that another six were women. Eight of the ten, therefore, were the traditional ‘innocents’.

Cheryl Tilley, the sister of the schoolboy killed by ‘terrorists’ in January, did not survive the incident, nor did her fiancé. Captain Hood and his co-pilot died on impact and became instant heroes because of their skilful and valiant attempts to save the aircraft. Hood’s own story saddened its readers. A Bulawayo boy, with 8,000 flying hours, he had two young daughters by a previous marriage. A happy photograph recorded his remarriage just three months prior to the crash. One prominent Asian family was especially devastated; eight of its members were killed. There were also the customary tales of distraught relatives waiting for news, of people who joined the flight unexpectedly, and of others who had a miraculous change of plans. By coincidence, there was a routine meeting of NATJOC set down for 4th September where Ian Smith was expected to press for tougher military action against the ‘terrorists’. Ken Flower observed that Walls kept the session within bounds but also noted that the sense of outrage ‘took some time to develop’.

Outrage was certainly evident by 6 September when parliament met to debate the estimates. By then the execution of the ten survivors was uppermost in members’ minds.

The killers became ‘vermin’, ’sub-humans’, ‘Neanderthal’, ‘animals’. Their presumed backers – most notably Owen, Carter, and Andrew Young – were, in the words of the Afrikaner farmer who represented Karoi, ‘dripping with blood -blood from the innocent and helpless’. The RF’s Chief Whip assured the government that feeling was ‘running high about this matter’ as members canvassed the potential responses: more raids into Zambia, the imposition of martial law, a general mobilization. Wing Commander Gaunt wanted a nation-wide curfew and the shooting of any curfew-breakers as ‘terrorists’. Ministers hastily assured their back-bench that there would be some form of retaliation. Irvine warned that Rhodesians ‘will not let these innocents go unavenged’ and promised the Patriotic Front ‘that those who seek to ride the wind, will reap the whirlwind’. Ian Smith promised something more definite: on 9, September he told parliament that Rhodesian patience had been tested too far and it was now time to embark upon ‘a positive and firm course’.

Calmer voices could not compete with the wrath of a society. Bishop Paul Burrough appealed to Rhodesians not to seek revenge and to remember that ‘the most grievous suffering is still among the defenceless people in the tribal trust lands’. A spokesman for the mourning Asian family pleaded for peace and said he feared retaliation. But the words urging caution, brotherly love, and reconciliation were ignored in the memorial services held around Rhodesia on the following Friday. The spirit of the Old Testament prevailed over the New. John da Costa, Dean of the Anglican All Saints Cathedral in Salisbury, observed that the 2,500 mourners who crammed into the cathedral, or listened outside, ignored one part of his sermon. Looking directly at Smith and other senior figures in the front pew, the Dean spoke of the blameworthiness of politicians who made opportunistic speeches, and of men who called themselves Christians who treated other human beings as expendable and did not show enough real love and understanding. He also wondered how clergymen (such as Muzorewa and Sithole), who were supposed to be great reconcilers, could involve themselves in divisive politics. These comments were soon forgotten. What mattered was the Dean’s tirade against those whose bestiality ’stinks in the nostrils of Heaven’ and those leaders whose ’silence’ in condemning the atrocities was ‘deafening’. Outside the cathedral two men held placards one of which told Smith what to say to Nkomo at their next meeting: ‘GO TO HELL YOU MURDERING BASTARD’.

The Dean and Bishop Burrough wanted the demonstrators to leave. Some of the crowd agreed. It was not the time or the place for political spectacle. Yet the RF back-bench, most of the electorate, the hot bloods in the Security Forces, and the demonstrators outside All Saints Cathedral all wanted that message delivered to the Patriotic Front.

Smith announced the NATJOC decisions on 11 September. He made his now-familiar denunciation of the British and American governments whom he blamed for the escalation of ‘terrorism’ and for the Elim and Viscount ‘massacres’, and he accused Julius Nyerere of being the ‘evil genius’ behind Nkomo. The Prime Minister admitted that his contacts with Kaunda and Nkomo had become unpopular but insisted that these negotiations had been in the best interests of the country and would resume if necessary. The ’stroke of fate’ – as Smith called the Viscount incident – may have horrified him; it also saved him from having to sell Nkomo to a suspicious electorate. Forced back upon his colleagues in the Transitional government, Smith made the best of the situation by calling upon the Rhodesians to exercise their virtues of ingenuity, energy, resourcefulness, and ‘well-known and well-acclaimed valour’. They should accept his measures and eschew the desperate alternatives of capitulation or making a do-or-die stand. He knew that his earlier remarks in parliament had fuelled some unrealistic expectations. The Herald, which had previously urged caution, described Smith’s speech as a ‘damp squib’, and claimed that the overwhelming public response was one of bitter disappointment. A minority opinion was that he could do little else. Relieved that Smith had not launched a programme of vengeance, NUF accused him of incompetent leadership and called for his resignation and the formation of a national government. The RAP was predictably contemptuous, and called for a ‘ruthless prosecution of the war’. Ever hopeful, the party expected a surge in support following Smith’s apparent failure to read the mood of the electorate. Once again, it was disappointed. In no time, the electorate resumed its customary position of accepting that ‘Smithy’ was doing his best.”

Page 243…

“On 12 February 1979 another civilian Viscount was brought down by a heat-seeking missile just after taking off from Kariba. All fifty-nine people on board were killed outright. Sixteen days later on 28 February – Ian Smith addressed parliament for the last time as Prime Minister.”

Rhodesians Never Die

-o00o-

from “The Great Betrayal” by Ian Douglas Smith

Page 266…

“With a traumatic week just over, with a number of innocent civilians being murdered by terrorists, all of them black people — their only crime that they were not prepared to co-operate in terrorism – came the news of the tragic disaster of the shooting down of one of our civilian Viscount aircraft on its flight from Victoria Falls via Kariba to Salisbury on late Sunday afternoon, 3 September. The terrorists had managed to procure a number of heat-seeking missiles from those sources all over the world that are looking for financial gain, even at the cost of human life and tragedy. The bringing down of the aircraft and, still worse, the cold-blooded murder by the terrorists of ten of the survivors, including women and children, caused a degree of anger among Rhodesians difficult to control. During the days that followed, resentment and the accompanying desire to exact retribution mounted and I received more than one representation seeking permission to enter the area of the tragedy and make the local people pay for their crime of harbouring and assisting the terrorists. I, too, would have derived great satisfaction in getting to grips with the gangsters associated with the crime, but sadly, this is easier said than done. We would continue to hunt down and destroy terrorism wherever it was found, but we knew on the evidence before us that many, if not the majority, of the tribal people were not voluntarily on the side of the terrorists, but had had pistols pointed at their heads. There was a strong feeling for me to broadcast to the nation, and on Sunday 10 September I announced that the government would introduce ‘a modification of martial law which will enable us to streamline procedures in order to facilitate the prosecution of our war effort while at the same time leaving intact those civil authorities which are required to play their part’. The new measures, I said, were to be applied in particular areas as and when required, and not on a nation-wide basis many, if not the majority, of the tribal people were not voluntarily on the side of the terrorists, but had had pistols pointed at their heads. So it was necessary, although difficult, to counsel cool heads and remind people that two wrongs do not make a right: the sins of the gangsters should not be visited upon their fellow-tribesmen.”

The Great Betrayal

-o00o-

from “The Story of My Life” by Joshua Nkomo

Page 165…

“But our success against the Rhodesian Air Force was far greater than they allowed to be known at the time. We could not claim the credit that we deserved, because we needed to keep secret the fact that we had been given some Soviet surface-to-air missiles, Sam-7s. We deployed them first in defence of our camps in Zambia, and caught the enemy by surprise. The first time we used them we knocked down two of their strike aircraft, the second time we got four. In all we shot down almost thirty of their planes and helicopters: the Rhodesian minister of defence was forced to resign, and they replaced the losses only by importing second-hand Hawker Hunters from Israel, with South African help. One of the Smith government’s great propaganda successes was in covering up the extent of the damage we had done them. The only times they would admit to losses of aircraft were when we brought down passenger planes, which we did on two occasions.

These tragic incidents need explaining. The Rhodesians used their civil airliners equally for carrying passengers and for carrying troops. The first time we shot one down was immediately after Smith’s troops had carried out a particularly brutal attack on the camps at Chimoio, in Mozambique, where well over a thousand of our young people died. Rhodesian television had shown pictures of Viscount aircraft in Air Rhodesia markings ferrying in their paratroopers for the attack. And a plane carrying armed soldiers is surely a legitimate target in a war.

Of course it was not our policy to shoot down civil airliners: if we had wanted to we could have done so often, but we carefully refrained from that. What happened was that we identified one of the same aircraft that had been shown on television loaded with troops. It landed at Victoria Falls, where we knew paratroops were stationed, and as it took off we shot it down with a Sam missile. (Error: the aircraft took off from Kariba – WebMaster) Forty-eight people, most of them holidaymakers, died in the crash; eight survived. Ten of those who died were said to have been shot on the ground after escaping from the wreck.

It was a tragic mistake. I felt it personally. One man was killed with his mother and father and his wife and children – the whole family wiped out. Their name was Gulab, Zimbabweans of Indian origin. Mr Gulab was a good friend of mine, who often fixed me up with airline tickets in ways that avoided alerting the police. I regret his loss very much.

The Rhodesian propaganda people at once claimed that our anti-aircraft team had killed ten survivors on the ground. This was obviously untrue, since the plane fell well away from the firing-point. Some of our ZIPRA boys did approach the crash site, and did help the eight survivors to get to safety, bringing them water and looking after them. I truly have no idea how the ten died. I do not believe they were killed by our people: I hope not.

I then made an error of a different kind. The following day the BBC telephoned me for a comment on the shooting-down. I told them as much of the truth as I knew. Then, fairly enough in the circumstances, they asked me what weapon the plane had been brought down with. Clearly I could not say it was a Sam-7: it was a secret that we had such things. To turn the question aside, I answered that we had brought it down by throwing stones, and as I said so I laughed a bit. I was not laughing at the deaths of all those civilians, but at the evasive answer. The laugh was remembered, rather than my regret at those unnecessary deaths. In retaliation for the first Viscount disaster, the Rhodesians mounted a savage raid on our Freedom Camp, just north of Lusaka. It was not a military training camp, but a genuine refugee camp for young boys. Most of the 351 who died were, just youngsters.

Later we again brought down one of Air Rhodesia’s Viscounts, with serious loss of life. This time too civilians died because the Rhodesians used the same aircraft for civilian and for military purposes. Our intelligence people in Salisbury had identified the Rhodesian army commander, General Walls, getting into a Viscount plane. The same aircraft was landing at Wankie, at Victoria Falls and at Kariba: General Walls was reported to be still on board. After takeoff from Kariba, the plane passed our Sam emplacement on the hill: the missile team identified the plane by its number fired and brought it down. Shortly afterwards another Viscount took off and flew past our missile crew, who did not fire because spies had not identified it as carrying a military target. (The aircraft took a completely different track as the crew were aware of the crash. Web-designer)

Walls had changed planes, and was aboard the second. Walls and his staff officers were clearly a legitimate target. A few years later, when I was a minister and he was commanding our post-independence army, I asked him why he had swapped planes. He just laughed. We talked about when his troops raided my home in Lusaka and killed four people in the house, while I eluded them. We had tried to kill the other, and in both attempts innocent people had been killed by mistake. It was that kind of war.

I still wonder whether Walls had switched aircraft because they had intercepted our radio talk and knew it was a likely target. We, of course, could not say publicly that Walls was our target; we could not admit either that we had a sophisticated radio link, or that we had spies in all the civil airports of Rhodesia.

One other attempt to shoot down a civil airliner was unsuccessful. The target was PW Botha, the South African defence minister, who was flying in to Victoria Falls. That very day some South African soldiers who were operating in the area were killed by our men on Rhodesian territory.

Botha was a legitimate target – but the missile malfunctioned, and missed his aircraft. He left in a hurry, without performing his task of inaugurating a swimming-pool for the troops.

The worst thing about the war was the callousness it bred. It is true, and I regret it, that atrocities were committed by people on our side, by ZIPRA fighters as well as by ZANLA men. Some of those killed were isolated white farmers and their families who happened to be in the way. Some were African chiefs who may have collaborated with the Smith regime, but who had little alternative if their own families and their people were to survive. It was not our policy to kill such people. But armed men, alone or in small groups, may come to disregard the importance of human life. It was necessary to fight a guerrilla war, and in such a war terrible things are bound to happen.”

The Story of My Life

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I don’t suppose there is much to be gained in reliving these horrific events – apart from the fact that many of the people that carried out these atrocities are today either in positions of some authority or are living in abject poverty in Zimbabwe.

Poetic justice or not, I post this so that we can understand a little more of the mind set, a little more of the thought process that drove the different sides to fight so ferociously for so many years…

Take care.

‘debvhu