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Four days at Harare Central Police Station
Netsai Mushonga
November 25, 2005

A personal account of 50 hours detention in the Harare Central Police Station holding cells

On the 5th and 6th of November Women Peacemakers Program (WPP) held a peace and nonviolence training workshop for church leaders from Epworth and other areas of Harare. The workshop intended to raise awareness of nonviolence and methods of nonviolent civic protest realizing the culture of violence prevalent in Zimbabwe. The workshop was oversubscribed with almost 60 participants turning up. It was also a successful workshop where we got people talking of injustices and violence in their community and how they can overcome these nonviolently.

On the 7th of November the Police (Peace Section!!) made threatening phone calls to one of the workshop participants and later phoned me to come to the police station. The police officer stressed that it was to my advantage to co-operate with the police. I went in the afternoon, arriving at 2.30pm. Surprisingly the whole section seemed to be waiting for me.

"She is here", one officer shouted when I introduced myself.

I am ushered into a dilapidated office, which looks like a reception room. There is an old desk with a famously old typewriter on top. There are four officers in the room and one looks bored and drunk. He seems to have a problem sitting up straight. They ask if I was responsible for organizing the meeting over the weekend. My reply is affirmative. They tell me that the meeting we had was a political one and we should have informed the police in advance under the Public Order and Security Act (POSA). I argue that it was a peace and nonviolence meeting but the officers believe otherwise. One officer asks me questions whilst the others giggle foolishly. They ask about WPP and I explain that we operate with a constitution, which is perfectly legal. The officers believe the meeting was political since it discussed the history of Zimbabwe and they were very worried that we mentioned Gukurahundi (the uprising in Matabeleland where 20 000 civilians were killed in the early to late 1980s).

I maintain my cool and when the other officers discover that I am not going to be a pushover they slowly leave the reception room and find something more exciting to do. For the whole afternoon the officer who had called me talk of the illegality of the meeting and I maintain a pleasant attitude together. I even ask if we can give the police nonviolence training to which he replied that they were very peaceful already! I have lots of work and would like to leave as early as possible. I give the police officer the story that I have to pick my kid up from school. He detains me until they close for the day and only release me at 5.00pm. He asks me to come back 8.00am the following day.

I was very sure of my innocence and did not raise the alarm or try to find a lawyer. I do not even tell my husband who I know is very protective with me. The following day I rush to the office to plan for the day since I have a meeting to attend in the afternoon. I then go to the police station at 8.30 and it seems that no one is interested in me this time. I am told to sit in a higher-ranking office and after about 10 minutes a police officer asks me to come with him.

We go through the corridors and I realize from the notices that I was now in the Central Intelligence Office (CIO) division, which deals with intelligence for the government. The offices are also poorly maintained and a pitiful sight. I must confess that the first thing that struck me was the apparent poverty you can see in the dress of some of the police officers in this division. This division does not wear uniforms; they go about in civilian clothing. They are also required to wear ties and appear formal. Almost all of them wore cheap and worn out clothing. This however, did not stop one of them from bragging that the security and intelligence in Zimbabwe is the best in the world.

I am first taken to the head of the division who gets a junior officer to sit with me in a less important looking office. They now refer to me as a prisoner and one officer always sits with me. The head of the division comes frequently to give orders to juniors but I suspect his real reason is to check up on me. He informs me that I will have to wait a very long before anyone talks to me. I chat with junior officers who seem to enjoy talking to me. I ask one of the officers to phone my husband and he does so gladly. My husband as I expected is shocked by the news and wants to find a lawyer fast. I am still convinced of my innocence and I ask him not to panic.

I wait for four hours and a woman officer comes to get me. She wants to be high handed with me but I remain pleasant and nice to her. I know that behind the mask she is trying to put on, is a nice human being who probably wants the same things as myself - a prosperous and happy life in a peaceful and prosperous country. She acts as though I am guilty of a big crime. She phones a colleague to help her with my case. The two inform me that I can get a lawyer if I want but the case still looks trivial to me. The woman officer starts by informing me that under POSA the police have a right to be informed of any public gathering, be it a birthday party, a church mass etc. She then proceeded to charge me with holding a public gathering without informing the police. I said if that if this is a crime then I am very guilty and I ask what the next step is. The two had not expected this and they are taken aback. I still cherish the hope of returning to the office to do some work, and maybe I can still make the afternoon meeting.

They take my fingerprints, three copies of them like they do with criminals. I remain cool. Why should I really worry? No crime has been committed, of that I am very sure. My husband brings me lunch at around 1.00pm. I had not eaten anything since morning and I delve into the meal with gusto. I notice that the woman officer interviewing me is having black tea and plain bread for lunch. Its just plain bread, no margarine or fillings; I feel for her and she notices it.

At one point there is much disappointment as one officer comes in to announce that 130 people were arrested and they are required to process the dockets for them. I remember that there is case of rape I had heard of and I report it to the woman officer and ask her to phone a police station near to the place. She does so and we continue to chat. However at the end of the day the head of the unit orders that I be thrown into the cells. They take me to the cells and I sense they did not like what they are be told to do.

When I get to the reception in the cells the police officer seems to think I am his senior.

"What can I do for you Madam", he asks politely.

"I am a prisoner", I reply with a very straight face.

"Then move behind the counter, no prisoner stands there", he shouts now wanting to establish his authority.

I go behind the counter and he shouts that I must join the other prisoners. The two-day rooms look like they are full and I sit next to a distraught woman in the corridor. The officer shouts my name and I approach the desk once again. He shouts that I should remove my shoes since I am now a prisoner. He assigns a woman officer to supervise me and I have to remove my, bra and I am left in a sleeveless top. The cell phone and other personal belongings also go. I go to another room where I will leave all my belongings. They take my cell phone and ask me to hand over all the money that I have. I have a few Zim dollars and US$13. One officer looks greedily at the US dollars and wants to know if I declared them at the border. I tell him that when I arrived at Harare International Airport no one asked me to declare the funds I had. He quickly realizes that he can't get away with grabbing the money from me and puts the money down quickly. He eases away.

I join the women in a day room and they ask me why I am in. "POSA" I sigh. They are all clapping their hands and welcoming me. "You are a brave sister and we are here for POSA too." We sit and introduce ourselves. We laugh heartily for the next two hours and most of the women who were in for POSA are released. My husband brings me food, half a chicken and some chips. I share my food with two girls who are in for forgery and shoplifting respectfully. The girl in for forgery explained that she was desperate to get work and had forged an "O" Level certificate so she could get a job as a tailor in the army. The shoplifter explains that this is her profession and even boasts that it pays well. We still talk and laugh though.

At around 9.00pm we are headed off to sleep in the smelly and filthy cells. The cells are roughly 6metres by 6metres and there is a toilet inside. The toilet does not flush; police officers are responsible for flushing it from outside. I imagine that they do this maybe once a week from the overpowering stench in the cell. There are ten of us sharing three dirty blankets full of lice. I resolve to spread my newspaper on the floor and sleep there. I have a short-sleeved blouse on and cannot take the lice bites. After turning and tossing forever, sometimes just sitting up straight since the floor is cold, dawn finally comes and an officer arrives to take us down to the day rooms.

The officers had promised they will take me to court this morning but no one comes to take me to court. Albert, my husband, and friends have found a lawyer for me. However they are misinformed that I am at Chitungwiza prison, 30kms out of Harare. My lawyer from Zimbabwe Lawyers for Human Rights goes there only to be told I am still in Harare Central Police station holding cells. I get food at about noon when my husband and friends are finally allowed to speak to me for two minutes. Albert is so angry and I see him trying to control himself. He looks intensely at my bare feet and finds it difficult to take. Margie my friend looks so serious but composed. They give me the food, we speak briefly and the officer asks them in very low tones to bring me something warm since I am in a light short-sleeved top. They have brought lots of food; rice, meat for maybe three people, potatoes, bread, bananas, apples, drinks. The officers and other prisoners look enviously at the food. I share the food with three other women prisoners who look like they are about to collapse. I also give some food to the child of a vagrant woman. The baby is so hungry that she cries continuously. After the food she goes to sleep.

The day is spent uneventfully. New arrests come, most of them in different states of shock, introduce themselves and we laugh and talk. We counsel one another. More food comes for me and I share it with the shoplifting girl. She has just informed us that she is pregnant and I can't get over the shock. She is so young and looks innocent but I discern she knows how to survive even better than me. I want to cry for the woman she could have been. My daughter is only three years younger than her. I feel very sad. I could actually have been her mother if I had had a child at 19. We talk about everything, husbands, boyfriends, shortages, political situations etc. We head to sleep at 9pm. Our cell has two heaps of faeces and the sight and smell is unbearable this time. We cover the excrement with newspapers and try to go to sleep. I again sleep on the floor and this time I manage to catch some sleep. I am becoming angry by the minute. I know for certain I did not commit a crime. Why I am I in prison? Did I hurt anyone? But I can't be angry at the police officers either. One of them took away my newspaper from me and spent five minutes apologizing and explaining why he has to do it. I tell him that I understand the position and sympathized with them.

I get a hearty breakfast in the morning and share it with three people; including one man who said that he is starving. Two young men who are in under POSA slip into our day room and we talk and laugh with them. One of the young men was arrested under POSA in the company of his girlfriend and the girl is with us. She has not committed any crime and she looks distraught and homesick. I try to cheer them up. I explain non-violence to them and they gape at me, interested about the prospects of making soldiers and police officer their friends in the struggle for food, jobs etc.

It seems every police officer is interested to know why I am in. I tell them, anyone who cares to listen, and somehow they do not comment, fearful I guess of who is listening. More prisoners are picked up for court and I give up all hope of leaving that day. I still believe that my case will go to court.

At around 12.30 the officer who investigated me comes to tell me that I am free to go. I pack my bags and after hasty goodbyes I leave my food with my new friends, the shoplifter and the forgery girl. Other POSA cases are still in. The senior woman officer informs me that they will prepare a docket for me and they will proceed by way of summons. Outside, my lawyer, Rangu of Zimbabwe Lawyers for Human Rights informs me that the Attorney General's office threw out the case and therefore they had to release me after the mandatory 48 hours. He says that this is the end of the case as there is no case to start with.

We head home. I feel angry. A fire has been ignited deep inside me. I expect that people around me, my friends and colleagues, would be angry with me but they are not. They are angry with the law and the system. They also realize I have been a victim. Its one thing to talk of injustices, It is another to be a direct victim. I now know what POSA means. I now know about unlawful arrests and detentions. Nonviolence principle number four has taught me that unearned suffering is strengthening.

I only broke down and cried once during my detention. That was when I received the news that my daughter was very worried about my absence from home. My husband had told her that I had gone for a workshop and she did not believe it. She thought I had had a terrible car accident and each time my husband came home she cried bitterly. This is just about the worst news I received whilst in the holding cells.

I am wary of the suffering and stress that my family has gone through especially my husband. In our custom one of the good roles a man plays is to protect his family. I know that my husband is disappointed that he could not offer me this protection. I saw the way he looked at me each time he caught a glimpse of me in prison. He did not say it but he fears I might have been assaulted. Even as we drive home he casts nervous glances at me and I do not know how to reassure him that I am okay. I would not like him to go through such hell again.

What happens next? Our society still needs nonviolence and peace education and we will continue to give it. Thanks to all my friends' support during this ordeal. I am blessed to have all of you as my friends.

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