Atlantic Unbound - Part Two
It's interesting that even though Mugabe has tried to silence the MDC and the Daily News, those battles are now being fought in court. Do you think the courts in Zimbabwe could actually rule against Mugabe?
Well, the Daily News lawyers believe that will happen because they have to believe it. They have a lot invested in the hope that they will stumble upon a judge who remains independent. And the government has a lot invested in retaining the appearance that the paper was shut down for legal reasons—that it hadn't met registration requirements. There's this crude legalism in Zimbabwe, a pretence of "legality" to everything the government does. It's a very peculiar autocracy. It stands out from other contemporary dictatorships in the lengths it goes to to work through the legal process. Even when it comes to the stealing of the farms, white farmers receive "legal notices," against which the farmers sue on "procedural grounds"—and they're much more likely to succeed than if they sue on the grounds that the stealing of farms should be illegal in and of itself! Everybody is caught up in this whole fiction that the rule of law still holds. And yet, what little inroads that are being made on behalf of human rights are being made in the courts. There's really no other route.
A number of judges have gotten caught up in Mugabe's crimes and have become corrupt; they're kleptocratic and have amassed various farms and other assets. But a number of other judges are, like other citizens, saying, "Wait a minute—what the hell happened to our democracy? What the hell happened to our breadbasket?" Mugabe has forced a number of these judges off of the high court. They got too independent for his taste. But some have survived in the lower courts. So the hope of white farmers, the Daily News journalists, and the Tsvangirai supporters is that their cases will happen to cross the desk of somebody who's in that camp.
It sounds like a crapshoot.
It is a total crapshoot. The poverty and the economic and social breakdown are such that a judge debating his future isn't just saying to himself, "Do I stand by Mugabe to get fringe benefits, or do I stick to my principles?" Many pose the question more starkly, like, "Do I feed my family, or do I starve?" Many are afraid that if they lose their job, they fall prey to all of the ravaging forces in Zimbabwean society—they join the 70-80 percent of the country that's unemployed, waiting in bank queues, trying to somehow scrounge up food.
The day may come, and it may not be far off, when people give up on the courts altogether. And if that day comes, the only option will be for the disgruntled to take to the streets—and that's where you get a very dangerous and potentially violent scenario. I worry about Zimbabweans. They bend, they bend, they bend, they bend—where do the people break? How long can they go on scrounging for food in garbage dumps and using the moisture from sewage drains to plant vegetables? They're losing weight, they're severely malnourished, they rely on humanitarian aid—the supplies of which are shrinking. Where, physically, is the breaking point? When does massive malnutrition become outright starvation? When, politically, do they say "enough" and really rise up?
I wonder if religion has provided a place for people to rise up. Has the Anglican Church spoken out against Mugabe's moral atrocities?
I went to a number of church services while I was there, and I was stunned by the vocalness of local church leaders, by the extent to which they were willing to put themselves on the line, and to politicize their sermons. But those local church leaders who do speak out will tell you that the official church hierarchy, those more closely associated with Mugabe, were mute for a very long time. In fact, there was an amazing church statement issued while I was there by the council of churches and other official leaders, formally apologizing to the people of Zimbabwe for turning their heads away from their suffering, and for not speaking out sooner.
But I don't think the church is going to be a force for revolution—it's a cultural force, a glue for communities that helps insure that people who would otherwise be left behind at least have a place to go to find food. And, it's one of the few places where people feel they can gather and talk. The security act that Mugabe recently passed insures that churches are one of the few places where more than five people can still gather without a permit.
Unfortunately, Mugabe is so determined to maintain control of food supplies himself that churches have to hide them—I visited one church that used its confessional booths to hide little dried fish and beans. You'd think the state would be bending over backwards to make it easy for churches to help feed the people, but Mugabe wants to control them. He treats church leaders like he treats judges—many can be co-opted in terms of church lands, grain, and things that the government has access to that the local people don't. Mugabe seems to believe that every leader of every institution has a price.
We haven't talked about your own brush with Mugabe's government yet—which took place when you were poking around at the Grain Marketing Board. Despite having a surplus of maize and wheat in years past, the GMB has run dry—and they weren't thrilled about your peeking. You wrote that your encounter with them led to a "harrowing car chase." What exactly happened?
It was as scared as I ever remember being in a non-war situation. Which is saying something—I've been very scared on a number of occasions. I was driving in a van with a colleague who had been filming the Grain Marketing Board Warehouse as we drove by. We thought we had been subtle. Suddenly, somewhere between a half dozen and a dozen men in a white pickup truck pulled up behind us. Ordinarily, we would have pulled over and handed over the tape, which wasn't exactly juicy stuff, but in the back seat of our vehicle was a Zimbabwean farm worker, and we were afraid that he would get into serious trouble for talking to journalists. So we decided to make a run for it. Our driver quickly revealed a certain amount of experience in such situations, and the whole thing turned into something of a "Starsky and Hutch" chase, at 80 miles an hour. They'd give a burst of gas and come alongside us, motioning furiously for us to pull over, then fade back, then come up again, and fade back.
I thought we were either going to crash or get machine-gunned—I couldn't imagine how else the sequence would end. And I remember thinking to myself, I can't believe I'm going to die over maize stocks. Because in any society like this, when something means that much to those in power, they just don't lose. And they always use guns.
But these men never did use guns, and eventually they gave up. That was when I first really understood how unusual Zimbabwe is. It's very violent and very coercive and confrontational and repressive, but it is not yet a gun culture. Many white farmers, too, describe being thrown off of their land without the use of firearms.
Land reform has emerged as one of the biggest issues in Zimbabwe right now—and it is the first "step" you highlight of Mugabe's program of destruction. Even though Mugabe has made a real mess of land reform, you write in the piece that a "well-ordered, selective re-distribution program" is necessary. What might that involve?
That's a great question. Everyone you meet in Zimbabwe now, and certainly every white farmer, says "we all agree" that land reform is necessary. But saying that you agree on ends is one of the oldest tricks in the book. There's this prickly set of questions about the means to that end.
In Zimbabwe there are a number of proposals on the table that are quite reasonable. One is the idea of one man, one farm—so that any farmer with more than one farm sells those extra farms for reasonable compensation. Or another proposal would allow for multiple-farm holders who would have to pay a tithe for the privilege. Money would be gathered to help the landless, and black farm ownership would be incentivized with tax programs, apprenticeships, and the like. Any land-reform program would, once and for all, also have to provide for the legitimate war veterans of the civil war, as they are a political force that will need to be involved in any long-term settlement.
Now that Mugabe has already taken the white farms, redistribution becomes much more complicated. Because now you have to ask yourself how you can start the whole process over again. What do you do about the people who are now squatting on these farms—do you just go in and bulldoze their concrete huts down? And a lot of white farmers are going to want to leave now anyway, because they're never going to feel safe again after what they've been through. But they need compensation of some kind. And where does that compensation come from? Well, I think Mugabe's palaces are a good place to start.
I wonder if Great Britain could get involved in some way. As a recent colonial power, they gave 70 million dollars back in 1980 to help Zimbabwe get off its feet, and they were prepared to help again in 1998 before Mugabe went off the deep end. Could you speak more broadly about the involvement or responsibility of former colonial powers in Africa today?
Yeah, I mean it's really tricky. There's always a smack of paternalism involved. It's, "Oh, Tony Blair to the rescue. Here I come with my Windsor fortune to bail out 'the natives' who can't sort out their own mess." In much of southern Africa, these initiatives have often been put forth with the wrong tone. On the other hand, though it's in nobody's interest to boast about it, the British, the Europeans, and the Americans are paying to keep Zimbabwe fed right now. So when it comes to food aid and other forms of investment, nobody complains. But when it comes to something as prickly as land reform, it's just really tricky because the white farmers are seen to be the vestige of the colonial empire.
It would be ideal if the response could be forged through the African Union, or a southern regional organization, with the backing of Western powers. It's so important that these regional solutions are generated. Not only because of our soiled hands in so many of these countries, but also because of our general indifference to these kinds of places. And so it's really time for local actors to start acting. Thabo Mbeki (the president of South Africa) is taking a strong stand on Burundi and on the Congo, but he has turned away from Mugabe's brutality. I think it's just too close to home. Not only geographically, but because Mbeki is the leader of a liberation party, like Mugabe's, that someday soon, too, will have outstayed its welcome. And I think Mbeki is terrified that the same kind of future awaits his party in South Africa.
What about U.S. involvement? When President Bush made his tour of Africa back in July, he talked about the problems in Liberia and Zimbabwe, but only sent troops to Liberia. Should the U.S. also intervene militarily in Zimbabwe?
If we needed a reminder of how dangerous military intervention is, I think we've all gotten that reminder in Iraq. My basic feeling about military intervention is that it should be a last resort, undertaken only to stave off large-scale bloodshed. I think the trigger for it, on the humanitarian side, anyway, has to be something on a mass scale like genocide. Tony Blair said, "Well, I would go to Zimbabwe if I could, but I can't. So let me go to Iraq." That level of trigger-happiness is unwise because of all the risks inherent in military intervention. The visible evidence through history is that the most successful transitions come when they are organic. Neither the African Union nor the West has even begun to exhaust high-level diplomatic options.
What about diplomacy? As you pointed out, the U.S. hasn't exerted much pressure in that arena, either.
We haven't even tried. Actually, Colin Powell wrote a very appropriate and unusually "undiplomatic" Op/Ed in The New York Times, laying out the human-rights case against Mugabe and talking about the steps the U.S. and Europe were taking and how we needed help from our African allies. But then President Bush completely pulled the rug out from underneath Powell. At a joint press conference with Mbeki on his Africa trip, Bush was asked if he had raised the issue of Zimbabwe with Mbeki, and Bush said, "This man knows what he's doing. Who am I to tell this man how to run his country or run his neighborhood?"
Wait a minute. Zimbabwe's human-rights record is the business of the world. The U.S. has diplomatic interaction with Zimbabwe, and with pretty much every other country on the planet, pretty much every minute of every day. And so the question is, as we are deciding what our policies should be, are we factoring in the welfare of Zimbabweans? Are we factoring in the abuse record of the leader? Are we leveraging the clout we have in terms of foreign investment, trade, diplomatic options, food aid? We have to fashion our diplomacy not just around the abuser country, but with any other countries that might have more influence. Right now, I don't think we are.
If the U.S. did apply diplomatic pressure in Zimbabwe, would it work?
Honestly, diplomatic intervention on human rights is pretty hard to do these days because the Bush Administration has so little credibility. Because of our hostility to international institutions, human-rights treaties, and multilateralism, it's really difficult for the U.S. to speak out on behalf of human rights. We have to understand that we're not always the best lead actor when it comes to advancing these principles—and that's something that American diplomats have a very difficult time understanding. We have the tradition of not ranking human rights and the welfare of foreign citizens high enough in our set of priorities, or on the occasion that we do rank human rights high, we're like a bull in a china shop, not understanding the ways in which our decisions in other policy areas really affect and undermine our ability to get what we want in the human-rights arena. We need something between the extreme of condescension and know-it-allness on the one hand, and outright indifference on the other.
Generally speaking, what should the U.S. policy be in terms of when to intervene abroad on behalf of human rights?
I'm very wary of absolutist doctrines of humanitarian intervention—there's always a balancing act that needs to take place. The question is how can you aid a country in its efforts to liberalize in a gradual fashion, so that the reformers can get courts set up and lawyers and judges trained, so that minority rights are guaranteed in the constitution, so that the military is placed under civilian control, so that citizens get multiple sources of news and opinion, so that people can vote their conscience in a secure environment. These are all excruciating questions. I mean, we don't even have the balance right in our own country. It's not just as simple as saying, "Yeah, we're all for human rights."
According to the newspapers, Mugabe got really sick on October 23, and has been sent to a hospital in South Africa.
That's what they say. But there's a big debate as to whether he's really there.
If his illness is severe and he passes away, what will happen next in Zimbabwe?
As with Cubans when Castro dies, I think there's gong to be a really conflicted reaction among local people. I mean, Mugabe is their liberation leader. And he has destroyed their country. So there's going to be a sense of liberation from the liberator, yet mourning—because he brought them something that they wanted and deserved. When you are the father of a country, the people cut you a lot of slack. Nobody who follows Mugabe will get the same benefit of the doubt. Even though Mugabe is despised in the cities and even though people talk about his palaces and his trips and his jewels and his opulence, they still have a tiny little soft spot for what he did for them. His successors will be judged strictly on the state of the country, which is disastrous.
I wonder if you could tell me about how you become interested in human rights initially?
I graduated from college in 1992, and that was the year that there were these dreadful images coming out of Europe of emaciated Muslim men behind bars. In Europe, fifty years after the Holocaust. Those images were haunting to me. Out of college, I went to work in Washington as an intern for a man named Mort Abromowitz, who was president of the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. He was completely consumed with what was going on in Bosnia. Working for him, I learned much more about what was happening there. And the more I saw, and the more of those images I encountered, the more helpless and hapless I felt. We just weren't doing anything about it. I had no skills, but I could string sentences together—I had been a sports reporter in college. So I moved over to Bosnia in 1993 and became a freelance journalist, a year into the war.
What was that like?
It was easy to break in, because it was a long war and it wasn't a place where more-senior correspondents wanted to spend time. At that time it felt really dangerous, although I must say that Chechnya, Iraq, and other wars that have happened since then seem a lot worse. There was a community of us who were in Bosnia who believed this was our Spanish civil war somehow—we just really believed that this was really unpardonable, and that the world was letting this happen.
I was there for about two and a half years, and that sort of planted the seed that in turn got me interested in ethnic conflict and in genocide, and how it relates to U.S. foreign policy. And that's the place on the spectrum that I find myself most drawn to now—trying to understand why the world stands by and allows large numbers of preventable deaths. I gravitate toward places where the stakes seem really high in terms of human life, and where there actually seem to be things that the outside world can do.
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