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Zimbabwe's Descent Into Chaos
By Stephanie Nolen
The Globe and Mail
11-30-3


A deluxe funeral package in Harare these days comes with a guard who sits on the grave overnight. If you can't afford that (and most people can't), the funeral company will supply concrete slabs to lay on the freshly dug grave. And if that is beyond of your budget, then you must spend the first few nights of your bereavement guarding the grave yourself.
 
After dark, in Harare's cemeteries, the gravediggers come to dig up the newly dead. They steal their coffins for resale, once unthinkable in a culture with a mingled respect and fear of the dead, but now just one of dozens of ways people are struggling to survive as Zimbabwe implodes.
 
Once one of Africa's fastest-growing economies, this is now the fastest-shrinking. The annual inflation rate has reached 560 per cent. In the supermarkets, clerks do not bother putting stickers on the groceries any more because the prices change so often. But its catastrophe is much more than economic: More than 3,000 Zimbabweans a week die of AIDS, while hospitals lack even Tylenol to treat them.
 
The government of President Robert Mugabe, once one of Africa's heroes, is shunned internationally and lashes out each day at the "enemies of the state" he says seek to undermine it. Union activists, members of the political opposition and journalists from the besieged independent media are routinely detained, beaten at police stations and then dumped back out without charges.
 
When trade unions planned a march to protest the economic catastrophe last week, the government responded by putting armoured personnel carriers on the streets of the capital and posting soldiers, slapping metre-long truncheons against their legs, on every corner.
 
Zimbabwe's crisis is likely to dominate the agenda of the Commonwealth meeting in Abuja, Nigeria, next weekend, where Prime Minister Jean ChrÈtien will spend some of his last days in office. But Zimbabweans know there is no easy answer to their problems: Nothing will change while Mr. Mugabe rules, as he has since independence in 1980, and he won't go easily. Yesterday, the country replaced its retiring armed forces chief with a staunch ally of the President who was involved in rallying soldiers behind Mr. Mugabe's re-election last year.
 
"I sometimes think the world won't pay attention until there is bloodshed here," says a young member of the opposition Movement for Democratic Change.
 
Mr. Mugabe has been ostracized by much of the world, including the Commonwealth, which has imposed a travel ban on his regime. Most of Africa's democratic leaders have also shunned him, including Nigerian President Olusegun Obasanjo, who refused to invite him to next week's summit.
 
But despite the many pressures, he continues to show the sort of defiance that ordinary Zimbabweans have come to know, and dread.
 
"These days you could be led to the guillotine, and your friends would watch you walk by," the head of a Zimbabwean human-rights group said recently in a clandestine interview. Like virtually everyone else who speaks in hushed tones about politics in Zimbabwe today, he was afraid to be identified by name. "People are very afraid. Exhausted and afraid."
 
Although the country's economy has been in trouble for more than a decade, its rapid decline began in 2000, when disgruntled farmers, industrialists and the labour movement combined to form the first real opposition to Mr. Mugabe's ruling ZANU-PF party. The government and its security forces set out to seize many of the large commercial farms, which were owned by opposition supporters.
 
Today, few dispute that land reform was badly needed in a country where 4,000 white farmers owned 70 per cent of the nation's land while the vast majority of impoverished blacks farmed tiny plots. But after a violent campaign to seize prime agricultural land, largely for government supporters, the commercial farming sector collapsed.
 
More than a million people, commercial farm workers and their children, were driven from their jobs but not given land, while senior government figures collected farms like toys; the minister of justice is said to have 15. With no revenue from traditional cash crops such as cotton and tobacco, the government has no foreign exchange. Most foreign donors have suspended their programs, except for the World Food Program, which says that as of this month it will be helping to feed 5.5 million Zimbabweans, half the population.
 
The government itself is more than $1.5-billion (U.S.) in arrears to the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund, and has another $4-billion of foreign debt. The economy shrank 20 per cent last year. There is a huge fuel shortage, with blocks-long lines at the few stations that are open in Harare and almost no gas to be had in rural areas.
 
With their salaries declining by 90 per cent in real terms since 2001, teachers, nurses and doctors have left in droves, to seek work in neighbouring South Africa or overseas.
 
At Mudzi District Hospital in the country's northwest, nurse Eugenia Chinaka supervises a crumbling program of community care. Her vaccination coverage rates are disintegrating: where six months ago her beleaguered team (19 nurses and the occasional visiting doctor for 135,000 people) had 94 per cent of children vaccinated for key diseases such as diphtheria and polio, that coverage rate has dropped to 74 per cent and is falling fast.
 
Ms. Chinaka's district hospital has two vehicles at her disposal to take the Unicef-supplied vaccines (which must be kept refrigerated) out to rural areas, but it has been three months since she had gas for them. Life expectancy here was 61 a decade ago; today it is 37.
 
Although the situation has deteriorated steadily for the past three years, there has been no revolution in Zimbabwe, no mass taking-to-the-streets, only the most muted opposition. Frustrated activists puzzle why. The memory of the bloody cost of the war of independence in the late 1970s, in which 30,000 people died, is one reason given; another is the traditional "peaceful nature" of the majority Shona peoples.
 
But the best explanation is probably the stranglehold that Mr. Mugabe maintains on the country. Dissent is quickly and brutally crushed. Amnesty International reported more than 70,000 incidents of torture and abuse in 2002.
 
Zimbabweans have had to learn not to wave, because the open palm is the symbol of the MDC. Now, on pain of arrest, mothers teach their children to say "bye-bye" waving a closed fist.
 
In Hatfield, a slum on the edge of Harare that is home to 25,000 people, people sit listlessly outside their wooden shacks. The few who had jobs don't go any more, because the price of transport in the shared trucks or taxis has risen past their day wages. "Mealie [the staple maize] costs two times as much this week as last," one mother said.
 
"Last week we sold the bed mats to buy it," said another. Who do they blame? The women turned away.
 
"We can't say," the first said.
 
"Really, we don't know," said the second, her face like stone. "Please don't ask us that."
 
The young MDC activist, who was badly beaten when she was detained earlier this year, said she will not protest publicly any more and discourages her compatriots. "We can't do it, so there has to be international pressure."
 
There is no question that quiet international diplomacy has failed, but the Commonwealth has not, so far, shown itself willing to intervene more than symbolically. When South African President Thabo Mbeki came to Canada last month, he assured Mr. Chretien that there was ongoing dialogue between the Zimbabwe government and the MDC.
 
Outraged, the MDC denied it. The party is in court, attempting to overturn the results of the 2002 presidential election, which the opposition and many international observers said were rigged. The case is being heard by a judge, Mr. Justice Ben Hlatshwayo, who was given a huge farm by the government.
 
"There is no dialogue going on," said a Commonwealth diplomat who has repeatedly attempted to facilitate talks on behalf of his government. "None. None at all. And there won't be until [Mr.] Mugabe has a successor; no one else dares to speak or act."
 
Mr. Mugabe has declined to name an heir, and the internal wrangling in Zanu-PF is said to be at fever pitch.
 
In a bold, front-page editorial on Zimbabwe last month, the Nigerian-owned Johannesburg daily This Day proclaimed, "Mugabe should be freed of the burden of rule. Only the people of Zimbabwe can show him the door. But we can help. Removing Mugabe is a first step. The international community should press for free and fair elections, monitored without hindrance. It should agitate for a neutral international body to oversee the elections.
 
And it should do so loudly, consistently, resolutely."
 
"We keep thinking we can't go on like this," said the human-rights activist, who did not want to be named. "We've said it for three years now. But the nightmare doesn't end. We can't wake up."
 
© 2003 Bell Globemedia Publishing Inc. All Rights Reserved.
 
http://www.globeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.
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