Mugabe seems intent on starting his last war - one against his own people, writes Walter Marwiziin Harare.
SOUND SLEEP is nearly impossible in my suburb these days.
For the past three weeks, young people have been singing all night just a few steps from my home. It is winter here, but that has not deterred them from camping in the open, wearing only shorts and blue-and-white shirts bearing the image of a fist-waving President Robert Mugabe.
They chant chilling slogans that remind people of the pre-independence bush war, which resulted in some 30,000 deaths. One particularly popular refrain, especially in the dead of night, is: "Win or war, win or war!" They also go door-to-door denouncing opposition leader Morgan Tsvangirai.
We have not slept easily, really, all spring, since the March 29th presidential election that showed Mugabe's grip on power might indeed be in jeopardy.
But what I have seen in the past few days is something different from those days of hope. No longer are people desperately discussing the runaway inflation rates or thinking of an opposition victory; rather, they are scrambling for something, anything, to show that they are with Mugabe and that they should not be made a target in what looks to be Mugabe's last war - one against his own people.
Sometimes, the young Mugabe minions use a loudspeaker to order everyone out of their beds for a political meeting in the dead of night. For many, it is a bewildering, sleepy reminder of the war of liberation, when these night meetings - called pungwes - were used to rally the masses against Ian Smith's racist regime in the 1970s.
The meetings were understandable then. Smith, who was considered an enemy by the majority of Zimbabweans suffering under the yoke of colonialism, waged a war against the majority. But now, 28 years after independence, it is difficult to understand why anybody should camp in the open in winter and sing war songs all night.
While I struggle to make sense of this, I have to explain it to my five-year-old son, who is now taking a keen interest in Zimbabwe's history. He asks me one of the hardest questions I've ever heard: "Will we be safe when the war breaks out?"
"No, no," I say, trying to sound reassuring. "Nobody is going to war."
But what is happening outside - and what is streaming into our living room over the state-run ZBC television, where daily bulletins show Mugabe threatening war if he loses power - is not reassuring.
Three months ago, no one could imagine militias operating in Harare in broad daylight. But in response to Mugabe's campaign call to defend the revolution, soldiers have established bases all over the city. For the first time since independence, residents here have to worry about their safety. Today, we live in a city under siege.
What do you need to survive such an offensive? The right gear helps.
Coveted items these days are cards and T-shirts from Mugabe's party, the Zimbabwe African National Union-Patriotic Front (Zanu-PF). Most Zimbabweans loathed such objects a few months ago, but they come in handy in times of trouble with Mugabe's foot soldiers.
In the suburbs, young thugs can mount illegal roadblocks and demand proof of one's support for Mugabe. They force people to chant slogans affirming that war is imminent if Mugabe is removed from power. Chant unconvincingly, and you may be brutally beaten.
But Mugabe's force is not felt only on the street. The young people and war veterans who have joined his violent campaign set up shop wherever they please. Take a recent Saturday at a beauty salon in the Glen View suburb of Harare. Beautiful young women laughed and chatted, flipping through fashion magazines while waiting their turn in the stylist's chair. They were abruptly interrupted by a dirty, dishevelled young man.
"Everyone should get out," he shouted. "It's time for a Zanu-PF meeting."
Women leapt out from under the driers, and everyone sprinted toward the door. In less than five minutes, the salon was closed, and the women were sitting on the grass nearby, war rhetoric blasting at them.
Nearby, in Mbare, Harare's oldest suburb, young people wearing shirts bearing the image of a fist-waving Mugabe stormed into a popular bar.
"This is the wrong time for drinks," they shouted. One of them grabbed a beer from one of the patrons, emptying the nearly full mug in seconds.
Minutes later, the patrons were among more than 50 people who were forced to chant slogans praising Mugabe. They were also told, in no uncertain terms, that war would break out if they happened to vote the wrong way in the election.
In Chitungwiza, another part of this city, the militias have imposed curfews. Alice, a 24-year-old personal assistant, knows all too well that by 7pm, residents in these high-density suburbs should be indoors. Her boss probably knows that as well, but she was still kept at work late on Tuesday to type an urgent report for an emergency board meeting.
She left the office at 8pm and arrived home nearly an hour later. As she was about to open her gate, a hoarse voice shouted at her from the dark: "Sister, you have just arrived in time for our drills, so join us."
Before she realised what was happening, a group of youths had removed her stiletto shoes and her jacket and began forcing her to chant pro-Mugabe slogans. For six hours, she and several others were held captive in the darkness just outside her door.
"This is the worst moment in my life," she said, describing the way the men groped her. "They forced me to do all kinds of things." The captives were also forced to march, Alice said, "the way veterans of the liberation struggle used to do while preparing to fight Smith in the '70s." They had to know this drill, the youths told them, in case Zimbabwe was recolonised again and they had to join Mugabe's army.
It is reliving this particular history that makes me most fearful for the future. What drills will my son have to learn? He and his young friends have already picked up the habit of waving their tiny fists the way Mugabe does on television. They do this at the slightest provocation. Already, the children have clashed a number of times, threatening each other with war.
Walter Marwizi is a journalist in Zimbabwe
- (LA Times-Washington Post)