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Reporter's journal inside Zimbabwe: A Special Report by Sheri Fink
Sheri Fink, The World
August 28, 2006

http://www.theworld.org/worldfeature/zimbabwe/zimbabweRJ.shtml

Zimbabwe has a reputation for treating journalists harshly – reporters there have been harassed and independent media outlets shuttered – so I never imagined a Zimbabwean military officer would casually invite me to visit his country on a reporting trip. But that’s what happened one evening last year in Nairobi, Kenya.

I met Lt. Col. Carlos, a Zimbabwean special forces soldier (he’s asked me to keep his real name secret because he’s involved in covert operations), at a dinner party given by the local head of an American non-profit group. I was in Kenya reporting on HIV for The World. Carlos was there visiting his girlfriend, a neighbor of the dinner host.

Carlos and I chatted casually, and when he learned I was a reporter, he began complaining that the Western media were failing to give an accurate picture of his country. He said I should come to Zimbabwe and see for myself whether it was the disintegrating, violent place people said it was. I told him I thought Western journalists weren’t allowed to report there. He assured me that everything would be fine.

I filed Carlos’s unusual invitation away, and its memory didn’t resurface for nearly a year. I was heading back to Africa for The World, and I mentioned the invitation to my editors. They were intrigued, but wary. They knew that American and British journalists had been arrested in Zimbabwe in recent years. They wondered to what extent Carlos could provide protection. And what was Carlos’s motive? Was he really offering to help me gain unfettered journalistic access to his country, or did he intend to promote a positive view of Zimbabwe by leading me around its famed tourist attractions?

My sense was that Carlos was a patriot who truly believed that an open-minded journalist would see the country as he did—a still-proud nation that was being mistreated by those bitter about the steps its government was taking to redress the inequities of colonialism. Because Carlos was entirely unashamed of his country and its military, I had a hunch that he would provide very open access to it. Here was an opportunity to understand Zimbabweans who passionately defend the country’s policies in the face of widespread international condemnation.

It took numerous phone calls and emails, and a meeting with Carlos in Nairobi, to settle most of our concerns. Still, there would be no way to know whether this was a good idea until the trip was complete. What I worried about logistically was getting into and out of the country without having my recording equipment confiscated. Any airport x-ray machine would easily pick up the array of microphones and audio recorders. Carlos promised to accompany me from airplane door to airplane door, arrival to departure.

The abnormality of the country’s situation became apparent just moments into the flight from Nairobi to Harare. Flight attendants passed out copies of The Herald, Zimbabwe’s official daily newspaper, and the business section carried this advertisement: "Own a Samsung laser printer for only $29 million…" The country’s inflation rate had hit nearly 1200 percent. (New money is currently being issued and three zeros have been removed from the currency.)

The financial stress that runaway inflation and an acute shortage of foreign currency places on even the top echelon of Zimbabwe’s society became clear when I stepped into the hotel. Its owner looked harried. She was willing to offer a significantly lower price if I would pay in U.S. cash. "It’s not as if we have tourists here anymore," she said.

On my first full day in the country, another business owner, chain smoking cigarettes, explained the intricacies of the country’s black market. "The first thing you need to know about Zimbabwe is that nobody obeys the law here," she said. "It’s impossible." Her comment stuck with me. I soon realized that the fact that many people break the law to survive means, among other things, that many are paranoid of being prosecuted should they run afoul of the government. This contributes to their general unwillingness to speak on the record to journalists about any politically sensitive matter.

Still, nearly everyone I met was willing to speak with me, at least on background. Much of that was due to Carlos’s influence. He was extremely well connected across the country’s political and racial divides, and he was utterly fearless. Once, as I was interviewing him in his car, we drove past the State House where President Mugabe lives. I noticed cameras pointing at the road, and I said, nodding to my microphone, "I think I’ll put this down." Carlos replied, "No, it’s OK, don’t worry," and he described, using an expletive, what he would say to Mugabe if he questioned us. He added, "I’ll tell him I’m minding my own business, better mind his own."

Over my time in Zimbabwe, Carlos introduced me to senior military officers, white farmers, poor black urbanites, wealthy business people, lawyers, musicians, university professors, and journalists working both for government newspapers and those working furtively in violation of the country’s restrictive media laws. Most importantly, Carlos also respected my need to report independently. Without him present, I met with opposition political leaders, human rights activists, health workers, and impoverished Zimbabweans who had been displaced by the government’s massive slum clearance campaign.

The reporting trip exceeded my expectations. The only challenge left was to get the precious audio recordings and myself back out of the country. The night before I left, Carlos and some of his friends gathered at the hotel bar, celebrating and drinking double gin and tonics. When I went to bed, the group headed out to continue the party. I reminded Carlos that my flight was early in the morning. He assured me not to worry, just call him at 7 a.m. to wake him up, and he’d come to pick me up at the hotel.

In the morning, I called and called, but Carlos didn’t answer. I phoned his friends, but they couldn’t reach him either. An hour passed, and I took a taxi to the airport. I checked in for the flight, hoping in vain that Carlos would appear before I had to proceed through security. Surely, when it came time to pass my bags through the x-ray machine, the screeners would spot the radio equipment and audio recordings. Would they ask what I’d been doing, confiscate the evidence, or even toss me in jail? Had I been set up? I waited until just before departure. Then, trying my best to look nonchalant, I placed the two carry-on bags on the x-ray belt and held my breath.

I walked to the other side, expecting the contents of the bags to trigger a hand search, as happens almost everywhere else I fly. But, miraculously, the guards didn’t ask me to stop. I picked up the bags and turned toward the gate, and at just that moment Carlos burst through the security checkpoint, brandishing his airport ID. "See, I told you everything would be fine," he said. And, while it hadn't been fine for some journalists who went before, for me, indeed, it was.

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