Chapter 4
Rhodesia:
Guerrilla War and Political Settlement, 1972–1980

During the 1960s, Rhodesia's black nationalist leaders failed to build a movement capable of challenging settler rule. The sporadic armed incursions that punctuated the latter half of the 1960s also proved futile: insurgents engaged vastly superior security forces but were poorly trained and organized; they made little effort to create a base of support among rural peasants and suffered infiltration by Rhodesian intelligence operatives.

The picture changed dramatically in the 1970s. By 1973 successful guerrilla attacks had begun to shake the foundations of settler rule. The repressive system that had smothered black mobilization in the 1960s was mobilizing to defend the settler state and social order. Rhodesia experienced in the 1970s what South Africa fears today: a "total onslaught," including international political and economic sanctions and full-scale domestic insurgency. Yet for several years the white regime weathered international pressures and the costs of the escalating guerrilla war.

This chapter examines several developments in the Rhodesian state and society during the turbulent 1970s. First, protracted unrest and armed insurgency had an empowering effect on the security establishment. As threats to the state mounted, the security sector grew into a Leviathan branch; its agencies were galvanized with infusions of material resources, personnel, and legal and extralegal powers; security forces were relieved of all semblance of accountability. Second, the metropole remained, until the end of the decade, a spectator without leverage over

this settler state—despite its occasional attempts to broker a political settlement. Third, under the most trying circumstances, the besieged white settler community showed remarkable solidarity in support of the Rhodesian Front regime—notwithstanding chronic conflicts within the state itself. Despite the regime's success in maintaining settler cohesion and keeping the metropole at bay, it was ultimately unable to defeat the guerrilla armies. By the end of the decade, the war's growing costs led the Government to search for a political solution that culminated in the transfer of power to a popularly elected black regime in 1980.

The Rhodesian case shows that all three conditions for stable settler rule are vital. Two conditions—settler solidarity and the country's insulation from metropolitan interference—continued to be satisfied, but the third—effective control over the native population—could not be. In shattering this pillar, black insurgency made the state's breakdown inevitable. Yet for several years the other two pillars remained sufficiently strong to maintain unstable settler rule. Settler rule collapsed much more rapidly in Northern Ireland (1969 to 1972) as a result of the simultaneous crumbling of all three pillars.

Insurgency after 1972

The occasional guerrilla incursions of the late 1960s were launched from Zambia, across the Zambezi River, which was flanked by inhospitable terrain. By 1972 developments inside Mozambique created further opportunities for Rhodesia's guerrillas. The Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (FRELIMO) had forced the Portuguese to withdraw from Tete province, which borders northeastern Rhodesia. FRELIMO agreed to allow ZANU's military wing, ZANLA (Zimbabwe African National Liberation Army), to operate within Tete and eventually to open up a second front for the war in Rhodesia. In December 1972, the first incursions from Tete resulted in the killing of white farmers; by mid-1973 ZANLA had established itself in northeastern Rhodesia.

In 1974 the fortunes of the ZANLA guerrillas brightened: a military coup in Portugal in April 1974 precipitated its complete withdrawal from Mozambique in 1975. Almost immediately, guerrilla sanctuaries appeared along the vast eastern border—a frontier impossible for the Rhodesians to secure. By January 1976, several thousand ZANLA guerrillas were encamped in Mozambique, from which they made increasingly frequent sorties into Rhodesia.

The war intensified dramatically after 1976, as official statistics reflected. Between 1972 and 1976, 215 members of the security forces and 1,917 insurgents died; in 1977 alone, the casualties were 197 security personnel and 1,774 rebels. (Official figures tended to underreport casualties of the security forces and inflate those of the insurgents.) The number of guerrillas operating inside the country was another gauge of the temperature of the war. The official (conservative) estimate of 700 in early 1976 grew to 10,000 by early 1979—the majority were members of ZANLA (the wartime role of ZIPRA, the Zimbabwe People's Revolutionary Army, was much less substantial).^[1] The exodus of whites is another index: in 1971 the country had 9,403 white immigrants; in 1976, 7,072 residents left, and in 1978, 13,709. White flight affected the morale of the remaining settlers and drained scarce human and financial resources from the war effort.

Learning from one of their previous mistakes, the rebels attempted to politicize and convert rural people to the cause. They solicited the active support of village chiefs, headmen, and spirit mediums along the eastern border; with villagers, they aimed at undermining the authority of the regime and capitalizing on peasants' grievances over land. But the twin goals of raising consciousness and cultivating popular support were hard to realize without fully liberated zones, where insurgent forces could operate unabated (as had occurred in Mozambique and Guinea-Bissau).^[2] The Rhodesian war machine had a long reach, and the white farming strongholds were distributed throughout the countryside, scattering insurgent operations and preventing rebels from gaining a secure foothold in particular areas.

Though extensive, Rhodesia's military capacities were never as formidable as Pretoria's, and its terrain permitted greater clandestine activity than the South African. The Rhodesian insurgents thus had opportunities for their guerrilla campaign that the African National Congress of South Africa lacks. Yet Rhodesia's insurgents had two weaknesses: they were fragmented into ZANLA and ZIPRA, often antagonistic guerrilla

[1] ZIPRA's forces (which were linked to ZAPU) remained in Zambia for much of the war but fought more on the western front in the late 1970s.

[2] Martin Gregory, "Zimbabwe 1980: Politicisation through Armed Struggle and Electoral Mobilisation," Journal of Commonwealth and Comparative Politics 19, no. 1 (March 1981): 63–94; Lewis Gann and Thomas H. Henriksen, The Struggle for Zimbabwe (New York: Praeger, 1981), pp. 66, 119; Paul L. Moorcraft and Peter McLaughlin, Chimurenga: The War in Rhodesia (Marshalltown, South Africa: Sigma and Collins, 1982), p. 90; Thomas Henriksen, "People's War in Angola, Mozambique, and Guinea-Bissau," Journal of Modern African Studies 14, no. 3 (September 1976): 377–99.

armies, and had few links to urban movements or underground cells, unlike the ANC.^[3]

The linchpin of a successful rural insurgency is often said to be the cultivation of civilian support, through persuasion and politicization. As one observer maintains, civilian support "cannot be obtained at gunpoint."^[4] Yet the use of naked force to achieve civilians' compliance is not uncommon—varying, of course, across time and place, in severity, and in effects.^[5]

The small body of literature on the Rhodesian insurrection disagrees on the extent to which the guerrilla armies used coercion. Some analysts say little about the dark side of the insurgents' campaign and present a romanticized view of the liberation forces, describing their support among rural blacks as voluntary, natural, and unproblematic.^[6] Ranger, for instance, leaves the impression that ZANLA cadres rather easily capitalized on and intensified peasants' discontent over loss of land: the peasants' nationalist consciousness "was highly conducive to mobilization for guerrilla war."^[7] Rarely do these works address guerrilla violence, and it seems to have had no effect on peasant support: "Even if particular guerrilla bands behaved brutally ... peasants continued to back guerrilla war in principle."^[8]

Other accounts center on the difficulties of winning popular support and the rebels' use of force to elicit compliance from uncooperative peasants. Sithole states, "The commandist nature of mobilization and politicization under clandestine circumstances gave rise to the politics of intimidation and fear."^[9] Kriger draws conclusions from fieldwork in one district in Zimbabwe:

[3] ZANU and ZAPU, the political wings of ZANLA and ZIPRA, respectively, merged in 1976 into the Patriotic Front, a tenuous alliance.

[4] Eqbal Ahmad, "Revolutionary Warfare and Counterinsurgency," in National Liberation, ed. N. Miller and R. Aya (New York: Free Press, 1971), p. 159.

[5] Ted Robert Gurr, Why Men Rebel (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1970), chap. 8; Nathan Leites and Charles Wolf, Rebellion and Authority: An Analytic Essay on Insurgent Conflicts (Santa Monica: RAND, 1969).

[6] Terence Ranger, Peasant Consciousness and Guerrilla War in Zimbabwe (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985); David Martin and Phyllis Johnson, The Struggle for Zimbabwe (London: Faber and Faber, 1981); Julie Frederikse, None But Ourselves: Masses rs. Media in the Making of Zimbabwe (Harare: Zimbabwe Publishing House, 1982).

[7] Ranger, Peasant Consciousness, p. 24.

[8] Terence Ranger, "Bandits and Guerrillas: The Case of Zimbabwe," in Banditry, Rebellion, and Social Protest in Africa, ed. D. Crummey (London, 1986), p. 386.

[9] Masipula Sithole, "Zimbabwe: In Search of a Stable Democracy," in Democracy in Developing Countries, vol. 2, Africa, ed. Diamond, Linz, and Lipset (Boulder, Colo.: Lynne Rienner, 1988), 248.

The ZANU-PF organizations set up by the guerrillas required guerrilla violence and force to function. Consequently, I reject the concept of sustained popular support or voluntary cooperation between guerrillas and peasants or local elites. [The] guerrilla inability to establish "liberated zones" made it inevitable that mobilization would require ongoing violence.... Peasants were unlikely to be enthusiastic supporters over an extended period.^[10]

This stark coercion thesis simply inverts that of persuasion. Drawing on the empirical findings from both approaches, we may conclude that neither coercion nor persuasion was "inevitable" in mobilizing peasants' cooperation in specific instances or their sustained support for armed struggle. There is no logical reason why the absence of liberated zones made violence necessary; it simply made the insurgents' task of cultivating peasants' support more challenging. Likewise, there is no logical reason why peasants' support for the guerrilla cause should be automatic; it had to be won and maintained. A more balanced account seems appropriate.

At first, Rhodesia's guerrillas attempted to gain the political sympathies of rural civilians. When this failed, they, like rebels elsewhere, were not averse to meting out rough justice. For villagers suspected of selling out to the Rhodesian authorities or those who refused aid to guerrilla units from fear of reprisal by the security forces, insurgents resorted to intimidation and violence (threats, beating, rape, mutilation, and killing). In short, as in other rural insurgencies, the guerrillas used a variety of tactics to gain villagers' cooperation, and the balance between coercion and persuasion varied over time and place.

Counterinsurgency after 1972

In the early 1970s Rhodesia's intelligence service grew increasingly concerned about guerrilla advances in neighboring Mozambique and alerted the Cabinet to the dire consequences of a Portuguese defeat next door. A top official at the CIO lamented that these warnings went unheeded:

The Portuguese experience in Guinea, Angola, and Mozambique was very closely studied and I believe all the appropriate lessons were passed to Cabinet whose members suffered from a "Portuguese blind spot," which took nearly eight years to clear up—and was then too late for clear vision. Why? I suppose because Ian Smith's Government was getting a much more encourag-

[10] Norma Kriger, "The Zimbabwean War of Liberation: Struggles within the Struggle," Journal of Southern African Studies 14, no. 2 (January 1988): 306, 313.

ing account out of its emissaries to Lisbon and elsewhere, and there were too many politicians inside Rhodesia ... who believed that just as the Portuguese had been in Africa for four centuries, so would it continue. In consequence, CIO warnings on this subject probably cut less ice than on any other.^[11]

In the fall of Mozambique and Angola in 1974–1975 some white Rhodesians saw handwriting on the wall and believed the Government should strike a political deal with the black majority while whites were still ahead. Prime Minister Ian Smith was prepared to do nothing of the sort. He revealed his view in a broadcast to the nation in 1976:

We shall be urged by some people to heed the lessons of Mozambique and Angola and to surrender now in order to avoid chaos and strife ... I say to these people that if we were to surrender the reins of Government nothing would be more certain than the inevitability of civil war between blacks and whites in Rhodesia.... The fundamental difference [between Rhodesia and the Portuguese colonies] is that in Rhodesia there is no metropolitan government to surrender on our behalf. We made certain of that when we assumed our independence ten years ago.^[12]

In addition to its autonomy from the metropole, Rhodesia had military forces far superior to the insurgents'. The regime had about fortyfive thousand security forces, of which it could field twenty-five thousand at any time without seriously disrupting the economy and administration.^[13] The security system received increasingly generous allocations, an index of both the intensification of the conflict and the steady ascendancy of the security apparatus within the settler state. From 1971–1972 to 1976–1977 the budget for the Ministry of Internal Affairs (previously the Department of Native Affairs) skyrocketed from (Rhodesian) R$9.7 million to R$42 million; that for the Ministry of Law and Order (including police) jumped from R$17.5 million to R$50 million; and expenditure for the Ministry of Defense grew from R$20 million to R$98.7 million.^[14] In 1976, defense expenditure consumed 25 percent of the total budget; by 1979, it was 47 percent. Vital to the Rhodesian war economy were massive infusions of South African aid, which

[11] Correspondence with author, 2 May 1984.

[12] Transcript of broadcast, Department of Information press statement, Salisbury, 6 February 1976.

[13] Gann and Henriksen, Struggle, p. 65. The Rhodesian security forces were no thin white line; blacks were 40 percent of the 15,000 army personnel and 60 percent of the BSAP; they also worked in the Department of Internal Affairs. Few blacks deserted or were disloyal to the white regime; they (like their South African counterparts) enlisted primarily for economic reasons.

[14] Government of Southern Rhodesia, Estimates of Expenditure (Salisbury: Government Printer, 1971–1972 and 1976–1977).

accounted for roughly 50 percent of Rhodesia's defense costs after 1976.^[15]

As the war grew more regionalized, Rhodesia resorted to frequent cross-border air strikes against enemy targets and against the infrastructures of Mozambique and Zambia as well. Roads, bridges, communication Dines, and development projects were pulverized, costing the host nations dearly. Rhodesia also engaged in covert action in other countries, including assassination of nationalist leaders in Zambia, Mozambique, and Botswana.^[16]

Cross-border attacks occurred in part because white citizens and military officers pressed for external operations. Such attacks also demonstrated the regime's refusal to recognize that the conflict had domestic roots, just as political elites in the 1960s denied that African nationalism had internal sources. The standard official line, that black discontent and political violence were caused by outside "agitators," was consistent with the policy of cross-border military strikes and also explained the regime's reluctance to consider domestic reforms. Privately, some elites—including Rhodesia's intelligence services—contested official dogma, to no avail. A senior CIO officer described the situation:

The military increased its external raids into Mozambique. But the CIO believed ... we must win the war inside the country.... Counterinsurgency was 80 percent political and 20 percent military. But for that you need a government that will act politically and our Government got beyond this.^[17]

Preferring a military victory, the Rhodesian Front Government steadfastly refused to attend to the political causes of the war:

The military, supported by the politicians, believed more and more that the anti-terrorist war could be won by striking at terrorist bases as far outside the country as possible; and CIO/Police believed that the war would be lost unless we could stop recruiting within the country, and towards the end being able to prove that we were not winning if 1,000 "terrorists" (mostly untrained recruits) were killed each month beyond our borders, when the recruiting rate was 2,000–3,000 a month, and each month there were more armed terrorists within the country. But we had to concede the impossibility of convincing politicians, and some others, that recruiting was proceeding at the rate de-

[15] Anthony R. Wilkinson, "The Impact of the War," Journal of Commonwealth and Comparative Politics 18, no. 1 (March 1980): 115; Martin Gregory, "Rhodesia: From Lusaka to Lancaster House," The World Today 36, no. 1 (January 1980): 17–18. During the 1970s South Africa became increasingly a de facto metropole, giving Rhodesia critical material support and, toward the end, putting decisive political pressure on the Smith regime.

[16] Ron Reid Daly, Selous Scouts: Top Secret War (Alberton, South Africa: Galago, 1982).

[17] Interview with author, 30 May 1983.

scribed, because this signified that their political policies had failed—when, of course, they had.^[18]

Several observers have commented on the "ingenuity," "flexibility," "efficiency," and "tactical brilliance" of the Rhodesian security forces;^[19] others have noted their success in producing guerrilla casualties while keeping military casualties "low."^[20] Evans claims that "while the Rhodesian security forces had won every battle, the Rhodesian politicians had lost the war."^[21] This claim neglects the military's own role in undermining the war effort. Although the official line was that winning black hearts and minds was absolutely vital to overall success, military practices routinely contradicted that objective; lower-level commanders and soldiers preferred insurgent casualties to civilian support.^[22] And some elites candidly admitted that a hearts-and-minds approach was eventually forsaken.^[23] The Ministry of Internal Affairs insisted that blacks were too primitive to appreciate such appeals and only "respected force." In practice, therefore, a military solution remained the hallmark of Rhodesia's counterinsurgency strategy throughout the war.^[24]

If this was the favored approach, there were those inside the executive who appealed for sensitivity to Africans' hearts and minds. Some senior military officers favored this strategy, as did certain intelligence elites who argued for a policy to address black grievances, minimize ruthless and counterproductive military practices, and begin political negotiations with black leaders. According to one ranking Special Branch officer, the branch was "advocating dialogue with the nationalists, versus a

[18] CIO officer, correspondence with author, 2 May 1984. Ken Flower supports and elaborates these points (Serving Secretly: An Intelligence Chief on Record, Rhodesia into Zimbabwe: 1964 to 1981 [London: John Murray, 1987]). Recruits (some abducted or press-ganged), came from Rhodesian villages, from urban areas with high African unemployment (exacerbated by the world recession of 1973–1974), and from refugee camps in Zambia and Mozambique.

[19] James Bruton, "Counterinsurgency in Rhodesia," Military Review 59, no. 3 (March 1979): 27–39; Mike Evans, Fighting Against Chimurenga: An Analysis of Counterinsurgency in Rhodesia (Salisbury: Historical Association of Zimbabwe, 1981).

[20] Gann and Henriksen, Struggle, p. 66.

[21] Evans, Fighting, p. 24.

[22] J. K. Cilliers, Counter-lnsurgency in Rhodesia (London: Croom Helm, 1985), pp. 146, 148.

[23] Minister of Combined Operations, Assembly Debates, vol. 98, 11 August 1978, col. 1724. By the time martial law was instituted, another noted, "hearts and minds had less adherence in Cabinet" (former official in Ministry of Law and Order, interview with author, 3 June 1983).

[24] Ian Beckett, "The Rhodesian Army: Counter-Insurgency 1972–1979," in Armed Forces and Counter-Insurgency, ed. I. Beckett and J. Pimlott (New York: St. Martins, 1985); J. K. Cilliers, Counter-Insurgency in Rhodesia (London: Croom Helm, 1985).

purely military approach, as far back as 1963."^[25] Sensitized to the lessons of failed counterinsurgency efforts in Mozambique, Angola, and elsewhere, the CIO consistently pressed for a political settlement in its reports to Cabinet. The intelligence director insisted that by the mid1970s Rhodesia was neither winning the war nor containing the threat, and that the security situation was increasingly desperate. The Quarterly Threat Assessment of July 1977 is a case in point:

No successful result can be attained by purely military means. It is now more vital than ever to arrive at an early political settlement before the point of no return beyond which it will be impossible to achieve any viable political or military/political solution.^[26]

By 1978 the CIO held that Rhodesia had reached the point of no return. But its advice had little impact on a ruling party determined at any cost to maintain its grip on state power, and whose white constituency adamantly opposed black majority rule.

The Rhodesian state did not rely on coercion alone to preserve settler domination. It waged a multifaceted propaganda war with pamphlets, films, newspaper stories, and posters, directed at both whites and blacks.^[27] My analysis of a sample of this material showed that its messages concentrated on the atrocities committed by the rebels (including the killing of missionaries and the mutilating of peasants), the specter of communism, and the inevitable "degeneration" of independent black African nations—all of which stood as an object lesson in stark contrast to the achievements of white rule and the security forces' glorified defense of the state against the enemies of Western Christian civilization in southern Africa.

The regime's propaganda and censorship paid high dividends among the white electorate inasmuch as they systematically distorted the political roots of the conflict and deprived whites of information on atrocities by the military. Exploiting whites' anxieties and resonating with their supremacist orientation, official thought control reinforced settler cohesion, minimized protest by white civic institutions, and prevented the growth of a progressive white alternative to the incumbent regime.

The propaganda machine registered much less success within the black population, as officials involved later admitted.^[28] Grossly out of touch with peasants' concerns, the propaganda disseminated by Psycho-

[25] Interview with author, 24 June 1983.

[26] Quarterly Threat Assessment, reproduced in Flower, Serving Secretly, p. 310.

[27] Frederikse, None But Ourselves .

[28] Ibid.

logical Operations units made light of the grievances of the black community and often contradicted their experiences; it proffered a crude caricature of the guerrillas and a benevolent picture of the security forces that military brutality routinely undermined. A typical article appeared in the Government Information Services paper, the African Times, after an early rebel attack: "Let us thank the spirits of our ancestors who watch over us that a good, strong Rhodesian Government made sure that such bloated, cruel, and greedy liars never came to power, and never will."^[29] Such exhortation did nothing to shore up the legitimacy of white rule among the majority of black Rhodesians. One classified army assessment revealed that in some rural areas "the civilian population is totally alienated against the Government."^[30]

Given the abiding interest of the regime in preserving minority rule and whites' control of the best agricultural land, it is questionable whether any hearts-and-minds program could have registered success. The propaganda failed to take black grievances seriously, driven as it was by the official insistence that genuine grievances did not exist but were instead manufactured by outside agitators. Blacks' discontent over unequal land distribution, racial discrimination, the lack of opportunities for economic advancement, and undiluted settler rule was not accepted as genuine. Instead whites took pride in the racial harmony prevailing in the country. As Ian Smith told me, "We had the happiest blacks in the world here in Rhodesia, which was based on the fact that we weren't a UK colony. This was our home, and we were concerned to ensure good race relations." Blacks who participated in the liberation war were duped by "Communist Russian exploitation of grievances; it had nothing to do with race relations."^[31]

Only in the late 1970s did the regime begin to dilute settler rule by incorporating moderate Africans into the state and by removing some forms of "unnecessary discrimination." Yet, like the Pretoria regime today, it failed to win popular approval through its belated reformist efforts. They were widely perceived as too little and too late; and the concern with reforms was altogether secondary to repression. Tellingly, the Minister of Information, who was responsible for overseeing propaganda, stated after the war, "I wanted to step up the use of the bayonet. That's the most effective propaganda—the bayonet."^[32] The regime was

[29] African Times (Salisbury), 30 November 1966.

[30] Quoted in Cilliers, Counter-Insurgency, p. 99.

[31] Interview with author, 29 June 1983.

[32] Quoted in Frederikse, None But Ourselves, p. 126.

obsessed with "kill rates," and its ideological campaign did little to build peasant support for counterinsurgency. Force, to quote Gramsci, was "predominating excessively over consent," and this imbalance sent legions of blacks over to the guerrilla side.^[33]

Innovations in Repression

The reliance on military repression and neglect of civilians' hearts and minds was most pronounced in the eastern countryside, the principal theater of the war. Both sides judged that control over the rural population was vital and, as usual in a guerrilla war, the civilians suffered most. Torture, beatings, mass arrest, rape, and execution were commonplace in the war zone. State elites repeatedly justified harshness in extinguishing rural support for the insurgents and persuading villagers to assist the security forces; civilian neutrality was unacceptable: "It is no good for people to close their eyes and say to themselves—this is between the terrorists and the Government."^[34] One minister went a step further: "When somebody deliberately refrains from reporting terrorists, or indeed assists a terrorist in any way, then he or she is in fact a terrorist."^[35]

The legal powers available to security agencies grew dramatically during the war. The Law and Order (Maintenance) Act was amended in 1973 to provide the penalty of death for aiding guerrillas or failing to report their presence, for undergoing, recruiting, or encouraging others to undergo guerrilla training, and for acts of "terrorism or sabotage." "Assisting" or "failing to report" rebel units became a crime on a par with guerrilla activity itself; in court cases, intimidation and fear of reprisals were flatly rejected as extenuating circumstances.^[36] In April 1975, the Government issued an edict that executions for such offenses would be carried out in secret, and that relatives would be informed only if they inquired after the fact.

Regulations issued under the Emergency Powers Act in January 1973 empowered provincial commissioners to impose collective fines (of cash, livestock, property) upon entire villages suspected of assisting guerrillas;

[33] Antonio Gramsci, Selections from the Prison Notebooks (New York: International, 1971), p. 80n.

[34] Minister of Law and Order, Rhodesia Herald (Salisbury), 28 July 1973.

[35] Minister of Combined Operations, Assembly Debates, vol. 98, 11 August 1978, col. 1720.

[36] See Geoff Feltoe, "Hearts and Minds: A Policy of Counter-Intimidation," Rhodesian Law Journal 16 (April 1976): 47–63.

the villagers in question had no benefit of trial or appeal. Collective fines (usually the seizure of precious cattle) were destined to punish innocent people, as the Minister of Internal Affairs stated: "The imposition of collective fines must necessarily involve people who might ... be innocent, but ... they are all living in a communal society and must bear the responsibility for the lack of co-operation in the [counter-]terrorist exercise."^[37] Officials claimed that collective punishment was consistent with African tradition, which deemphasized individual culpability. One Secretary of Internal Affairs refuted this view: "I said I disagreed with collective fines totally, since they would punish the innocent.... It was a fallacious argument that collective punishment was rooted in African tradition."^[38] In February 1974, new emergency regulations gave local officials authority to confiscate or destroy crops, stock, and property of possible use to guerrillas; to compel residents of an area to build and maintain bridges, roads, dams, and fences; and to resettle villagers en masse into "protected villages" (PVs).

By the end of the war, over seven hundred thousand peasants had been forcibly uprooted and relocated into several hundred PVs. A Rhodesian Army idea, PVs were designed to drive a wedge between peasants and insurgents, thus isolating the latter from their supportive social base in the countryside. A governmental newspaper attempted to convince blacks that protected villages were "havens of peace, where work, study, and play can be carried on in an atmosphere of tranquility and order."^[39] Yet most PVs evidenced miserable living conditions and tyrannical control by members of the Guard Force. Not surprisingly, villagers came to look on the guerrillas as their liberators from these prison camps.^[40] An internal report by the Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace found that conditions in the PVs produced "a great intensification of political awareness" and "resistance" among the affected villagers.^[41] In addition to deepening popular alienation from the state, the resettlement program failed to stem the tide of insurgency, much as the aldeamento resettlement programs failed in Angola and Mozambique.^[42] Some top

[37] Assembly Debates, vol. 83, 30 March 1973, col. 1173.

[38] Interview with author, 7 June 1983.

[39] African Times, 9 August 1978.

[40] A. K. H. Weinrich, "Strategic Resettlement in Rhodesia," Journal of Southern African Studies 3, no. 2 (April 1977): 221.

[41] Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace, "Report on Chiweshe T.T.L." [Tribal Trust Land], Salisbury, 26 August 1974, p. 14.

[42] Gerald Bender, "The Limits of Counterinsurgency: An African Case," Comparative Politics 4, no. 3 (April 1972): 331–60; Brendan Jundanian, "Resettlement Programs: Counterinsurgency in Mozambique," Comparative Politics 6, no. 4 (July 1974): 540.

officials at CIO and Internal Affairs had been opposed to PVs because of the expected counterproductive impact. One Secretary of Internal Affairs explained after the war, "PVs were definitely forced on Internal Affairs. The Army had a stonewall case for this (Malaya) and Internal Affairs couldn't refute the military's arguments."^[43] Rhodesia, unlike Malaya, never coupled its program with a serious effort to win popular support from resettled villagers or addressed their socioeconomic needs.

In addition, curfews were imposed, minefields created, and "free-fire" or "no go" areas declared along the border with Mozambique in an attempt to forge a cordon sanitaire in areas vulnerable to insurgent penetration. Any person violating curfews or caught inside "no go" zones was fair game to the security forces. When questioned about the shooting of curfew violators, the Minister of Defense, P. K. van der Byl, replied, "As far as I am concerned, the more curfew breakers that are shot the better, and the sooner it is realized everywhere the better."^[44] Between December 1972 and 31 July 1978, official figures listed 322 African curfew violators killed by security forces. The curfews and the cordon failed, however, to prevent infiltration.

An additional 263 African dead were officially listed as persons "caught in the crossfire," and another 645 dead were labeled "collaborators" with the guerrillas.^[45] According to the former CIO director, these categories were frequently used to cover up the extralegal murder of villagers.^[46] Generally, the authorities took a callous stance toward civilian casualties, which they considered "a normal operational hazard."^[47] The use of lethal force against civilians was one means whereby the regime believed it could strike fear into the rural population and thus deny succor to insurgents. As the authorities and white civilians continually insisted—not only in Rhodesia but throughout colonial Africa—"Africans respect force." One ranking security official noted that "Africans responded to the threat of violence; it was either us or the terrorists' threats."^[48]

As the temperature of the war rose, the beleaguered regime found it increasingly important to remove all legal strictures on the security forces' operations. Prosecution of members of the security forces for abuses might be embarrassing to the government and demoralizing for

[43] Interview, 7 June 1983; Flower, Serving Secretly, pp. 122–23.

[44] Assembly Debates, vol. 90, 31 July 1975, col. 1706.

[45] Department of Information, Terrorist Casualties, Salisbury, 1 August 1978.

[46] Flower, Serving Secretly, p. 205.

[47] Ministry of Defense spokesman, Rhodesia Herald, 15 June 1974.

[48] Author's interview with former Ministry of Law and Order official, 3 June 1983.

security personnel. Using language identical to South Africa's Defense Act, Rhodesia's 1975 Indemnity and Compensation Act exonerated the security forces for acts done "in good faith for the suppression of terrorism" "Terrorism" and "good faith" were elastic conditions, whose satisfaction the minister determined case by case.^[49] In practice, the act permitted carte blanche. Wanton killing, burning of huts and fields, beating, collective punishment, and destruction of livestock became commonplace as the war escalated. Police and soldiers routinely used torture, including electric shock and immersion in water.

On those relatively rare occasions when the behavior of the security forces was criticized in public, the authorities promptly attempted to discredit the accusers. Typical was the case of a black MP who presented a motion in the Assembly in March 1974, requesting a commission of inquiry into alleged incidents of beating, property destruction, and killing by the military. An outraged Minister of Law and Order castigated the MP for his insidious attempt to spread "alarm and despondency" (which was a crime under the security law) and noted that it was part of the "communist code" to "derogate the forces of law and order." He demanded that the author of the motion apologize for insulting the integrity of the security forces.^[50] The Minister of Defense described such criticism as "vulgar and obscene,' an "abuse of the privileges" of Parliament, and added that the army commander would "shudder" to think of an inquiry into military abuses.^[51] Given the incidence of military brutality, one can understand why army chiefs might shudder if atrocities were brought to light.

One organization attempted to do just that. Beginning in 1973, the Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace made a series of fruitless representations to the prime minister, the Minister of Law and Order, and the Minister of Internal Affairs over the security forces' brutality. When it called for an impartial inquiry in April 1974, it was pilloried and accused of trying to advance the guerrilla cause and of provoking a confrontation between church and state.^[52] In the next few years the commission published a series of reports documenting state repression, including "deliberate use of illegal and inhumane" interrogation procedures, "gross disregard for the life and property" of rural Africans,

[49] See Geoff Feltoe, "Legalizing Illegalities" Rhodesian Law Journal 15, no. 2 (October 1975): 167–76.

[50] Assembly Debates, vol. 86, 27 March 1974, cols. 367–71.

[51] Ibid., cols. 448–53.

[52] Ian Linden, The Catholic Church and the Struggle for Zimbabwe (London: Longman, 1980).

and assaults "which no appeal to military urgency or national interest could justify"^[53] Denounced for "spreading alarm and despondency," each commission report was promptly banned by the authorities.

As atrocities by the security forces mounted, the Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace stepped up its protests. Its public opposition only made the authorities more belligerent and recalcitrant. The commission's offices were bugged and periodically raided; some of its leaders were detained or deported. The Minister of Law and Order labeled the commission a "subversive organization," but never banned it as such.^[54] The Rhodesian Front's identification of dissent with treachery was consistent with the approach of previous ruling parties and, as Chapter 6 shows, remains integral to the political culture of independent Zimbabwe.

For all its efforts to neutralize political dissent and check the advance of the guerrilla forces, the regime was operating under growing duress by 1978. The arsenal of military firepower and legal repression was proving inadequate. For years, sections of the white community had seen martial law as a panacea, yet the Government and the security chiefs were not eager to declare it. The police believed it would strengthen the military at the expense of the police.^[55] The military already enjoyed carte blanche in the war zone and did not relish the added civil responsibilities of martial law, which included administering martial courts. The Cabinet also was reluctant to introduce martial law, since it would concede that Rhodesia was in dire straits and might boost the morale of the enemy.

Why, then, was martial law announced in September 1978 ? The Rhodesian Front's frustration with the deteriorating security situation interacted with the white community's growing outcry to make more drastic measures seem attractive. A senior official at CIO underscored these factors:

The implementation of martial law was opposed consistently by all commanders. No one believed this was necessary, since the emergency legislation was all powerful. But martial law suited the politicians, to make them appear determined to people. Martial law wasn't going to achieve the objective of winning the war, but how can you explain this to a public that doesn't understand?^[56]

[53] Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace, The Man in the Middle: Torture, Resettlement and Eviction (Salisbury: CCJP, 1975), pp. 3, 16; Catholic Commission for Justice and Peace, Civil War in Rhodesia (London: Catholic Institute for International Relations, 1976).

[54] Assembly Debates, vol. 97, 5 October 1977, col. 686.

[55] Author's interview with former Ministry of Law and Order official, 6 May 1983.

[56] Interview with author, 30 May 1983.

A former Minister of Law and Order highlighted the concerns of the besieged white farming community:

Martial law was a morale-boosting move. The military [chiefs] constantly said, "We don't need martial law because we have enough powers." ... At every single meeting with farmers which we went to—and they were frequent—the farmers strongly wanted martial law introduced, and they didn't like the military's excuses for not invoking it. Farmers thought we were pussy-footing around. It was really that pressure from farmers which led to it.... The courts weren't really interfering with the security forces prior to martial law, but the average soldier felt inhibited by the possibility of court scrutiny. So martial law did allow the security forces to act more freely without any interference.^[57]

Martial law—or martial license—relieved the security forces of all semblance of accountability. But its net effect—coupled with the protected villages, the summary shooting of curfew breakers, collective fines, indemnification of security personnel, and the "free-fire" practice in "no go" areas—was counterproductive in the long term. These measures were destined to deepen the gulf between peasants and the state and widen the stream of recruits enlisting with the insurgents.

Settler Solidarity and Military Ascendancy

An essential condition for stable settler rule is the cohesion of the settler community. Between 1963 and 1978, the Rhodesian Front Government enjoyed ever-growing support among the white electorate. It won 77.8 percent of the vote in the 1970 election and 86.4 percent in 1977. Political parties to the left of the RF remained marginal and offered the settiers no real political alternative. The few pockets of white liberalism that existed in the early 1960s (the press, legal and academic communities, moderate political parties) grew silent during the 1970s.^[58] Only church leaders consistently fought draconian security measures and publicized military atrocities; their protests grew as the war proceeded but had no appreciable impact on security policy.

The regime's failure to win the war generated pressure from the far right for the use of greater force against the country's foes. As in contemporary South Africa, hard-line whites in Rhodesia (e.g., the Rhodesian Action party, white commercial farmers) fought what they per-

[57] Interview with author, 6 May 1983.

[58] See Ian Hancock, White Liberals, Moderates, and Radicals in Rhodesia, 1953–1980 (New York: St. Martins, 1984).

ceived as "watering down" of Rhodesian Front principles (those of undiluted white political power and rigid segregation) and "pussy-footing" in the war effort, even demanding that the government resign and transfer power to the military. The minority on the far right, however, was in no position to replay the 1962 electoral coup. Although increasingly concerned over the deteriorating security situation, the white electorate did not desert the RF. The "relatively monolithic character of white Rhodesia" thus contrasts with the South African scene, where the settlers are considerably more fragmented and where parties on the far right have diminished the electoral base of the ruling National party.^[59]

The RF's steadfast white support was largely a function of the "laager effect" of protracted threats (economic sanctions, guerrilla attacks, diplomatic isolation) on the small white community. Georg Simmel observed that it is rather common for group solidarity to increase in the face of external attacks, but it is not inevitable.^[60] Whereas in Rhodesia in the 1970s the growing threats unified the dominant caste, in Ulster (see Chapter 5) the increasing disorder of 1969 to 1972 irreparably fractured the settler bloc and led Britain to terminate settler rule.

Contemporary South Africa, like Israel, presents a different pattern: South Africa is free of metropolitan interference but troubled by deepening cleavages between English and Afrikaner settlers and, of greater political significance, within Afrikaner ranks. The "laager" model therefore applies better to Rhodesia than to South Africa. Not only is South Africa's settler community split ethnically and politically, but civil society also provides significant debate and dissent. Despite governmental restrictions, democratic opposition from the churches, trade unions, universities, voluntary associations, and the media is stronger and more sustained than it ever was in Rhodesia (although it has as yet exerted little leverage on the Pretoria regime). Reflecting both the impressive solidarity of whites and the disorganization of urban blacks, Rhodesia's civic institutions remained rather dormant throughout the 1970s.

Settler solidarity and autonomy from the metropole facilitated the steady fortification of the Rhodesian security apparatus. Unlike other settler populations containing sizable factions at odds with the regime—in Ulster, South Africa, and Israel—Rhodesian settlers saw little disjunction during the war between their own political and security interests

[59] Kenneth Good, "Settler Colonialism in Rhodesia," African Affairs 73 (January 1974): 22.

[60] Georg Simmel, Conflict and the Web of Group-Affiliations (Glencoe, Ill.: Free Press, 1955).

and those of the Government.^[61] Moreover, independent of the metropole, the Rhodesian Front regime could ignore British calls for reforms and a political settlement. During the crisis of 1969 to 1972 in Northern Ireland, Britain clashed with the settler regime as it attempted to rebuild security organs. Such conflict gave the impression of a Unionist regime weak and too susceptible to British demands for reform—which accelerated splits within the settler caste.

The tolerance of repressive measures within Rhodesian society accompanied the steady erosion of checks and balances within the state. Stripped of most of their powers over the security system, the Assembly and Senate ritually endorsed the proposals of the Cabinet. The justification of "national interest" alone was sufficient to convince most MPs. One former president of the Senate explained the logic to me in 1984: "It must be remembered that the country was at war and to open 'National Interest' to debate could possibly not be in the 'National Interest'!"^[62] When asked about Parliament's role in scrutinizing security measures during the war, a former Speaker of the Assembly responded candidly: "The Rhodesian Parliament of the day was a pretty tame affair. I could never have dreamed of taking any action to curb the Executive and would certainly have rubber-stamped the proposals of the PM."^[63] Parliamentary debate on security policy, legislation, and practices was strictly circumscribed by the Speaker, whose rulings disallowed any discussion of the pros and cons of specific emergency regulations, the underlying causes and necessity of the state of emergency, and allegations of atrocities by the military.^[64] My examination of the relevant parliamentary debates found that anyone who questioned such measures or actions of the security forces was ridiculed by ministers and other MPs and accused of supporting the insurgent cause.^[65]

With one exception, Parliament grew increasingly marginal to decision making on security matters. This exception was the Senate Legal Committee, formed in 1970 to review specific legislation that contravened Rhodesia's Declaration of Rights. The full Senate routinely overrode its adverse reports on specific security measures because the

[61] Morris Hirsch, A Decade of Crisis: Ten Years of Rhodesian Front Rule (Salisbury: Dearlove, 1973).

[62] Correspondence with author, 26 March 1984.

[63] Correspondence with author, 12 March 1984.

[64] Assembly Debates, vol. 67, 25 April 1967, col. 145.

[65] See, for instance, the comments of the Minister of Law and Order, Assembly Debates, vol. 84, 21 June 1973, col. 222 and Assembly Debates, vol. 87, 20 June 1974, cols. 151–52.

"national interest" demanded it. At best, the Senate Legal Committee functioned to delay but not withhold legislative endorsement of farreaching measures.

The marginalization of Parliament coincided with that of the judiciary. During the 1970s, Rhodesian courts became increasingly subservient to the executive.^[66] Apparently unsure that judges would consistently rule in the desired manner, the Government sought to expunge judicial authority over security matters. The 1969 constitution removed the courts' jurisdiction over legislation in violation of the Declaration of Rights, after the Whaley Commission reported that it was "inadvisable to involve the judiciary in political controversy" by giving it powers to review legislation and "better to place reliance upon the self-restraint of the legislature"^[67] In addition, the regime frequently used its power of preventive detention in cases it could not hope to prove in court.^[68] Security-related cases that did go to court often carried minimum or mandatory sentences, bypassing the traditional discretion of the judges. Even under these circumstances the judges might have done more to defend individual liberties, as their exceptional decisions in favor of individuals' rights suggest.

The judicial process was beset by chronic delay and overload of cases as the war intensified. To speed decisions and reduce the burden on the ordinary courts, Special Courts were created in May 1976 to process captured insurgents and villagers implicated in security offenses. Hearings in Special Courts were held at short notice and concluded quickly.

Even more reminiscent of the Star Chamber were the Special Courts Martial established under martial law in 1978. Run by the security forces and held in camera, they permitted neither legal representation nor appeal to ordinary courts and could impose sentences of greater severity than the civilian courts.

The progressive concentration of state authority in the executive branch coincided with changes inside that branch: the most important was a shift from civilian to military preeminence. As in many other nations facing security threats, the political influence, authority, and

[66] Amnesty International, Rhodesia/Zimbabwe (London: Amnesty International, 1976), p. 5.

[67] Government of Rhodesia, Report of the Constitutional Commission (Salisbury: Government Printer, April 1968), W. R. Whaley, Chair, pp. 131, 133.

[68] The Detainees' Review Tribunal survived, to rubber-stamp executive decisions; from 1971 to 1972, for instance, the tribunal reviewed 255 cases but recommended release in only two cases. Throughout the 1970s its meager annual budget was under R$5,000 (Estimates of Expenditure ).

resources of the Rhodesian military grew tremendously. It gained ascendancy over the police in counterinsurgency and over civilian agencies (e.g., Internal Affairs) that were involved in security affairs.

The center of decision making on security matters shifted in 1976 from the Security Council to a War Council and in March 1977 to a new coordinating organ: the Ministry of Combined Operations (Com-Ops).^[69] Headed by a civilian minister, Com-Ops was run by its military commander, General Peter Walls, who became the de facto supremo in the security system. The steady militarization of decision making reached its peak in 1978–1979 during the brief premiership of Bishop Abel Muzorewa (discussed at greater length below). Muzorewa and his black ministers were excluded from control over the security core of the state. The country was "essentially run by a military regime over which there is no political control";^[70] "the Rhodesian military had begun to act as a state within a state)."^[71]

The ascendancy of the military did not, however, completely eclipse civilian departments or eliminate jurisdictional struggles between agencies. Com-Ops was set up to coordinate the civilian and military dimensions of the war effort, but it was preoccupied with immediate and routine matters rather than interorganizational coordination and longterm strategic planning.^[72] Thus rivalries remained endemic to relations between the CIO, Internal Affairs, police, Law and Order, Foreign Affairs, Special Branch, and the various military forces.

Despite a shared commitment to winning the war and maintaining white settler supremacy, "each ministry took a different view both of the threat itself and any countermeasures to be taken)."^[73] Government ministers repeatedly defined the threats in terms of "black barbarism" versus "white civilization" in southern Africa and the specter of the "Red peril," much as Pretoria's officials now warn of the Communist threat to South Africa. A contrary view was held by Rhodesia's intelligence agencies, expressed by the CIO director:

For many years now the consensus of opinion in CIO and Special Branch had been that it was more important to accommodate African nationalism than to over-concern ourselves with the communist threat.... [Yet] the politicians

[69] Evans, Fighting, pp. 9, 11; Martin and Johnson, Struggle, p. 289.

[70] Anti-Apartheid Movement, Fire-Force Exposed: The Rhodesian Security Forces and Their Role in Defending White Supremacy (London: Anti-Apartheid Movement, 1979), p. 3.

[71] Moorcraft and McLaughlin, Chimurenga, p. 232.

[72] Beckett, "Rhodesian Army," p. 171.

[73] Cilliers, Counter-Insurgency, p. 66; Flower, Serving Secretly .

were still promoting the belief that communism was the greatest threat, whereas the [Intelligence] professionals maintained ... that communist countries were no more likely to interfere in the Rhodesian issue than Britain or other Western countries.^[74]

Needless to say, the accommodationist arguments of the intelligence chiefs fell on deaf Cabinet ears.

Bitter jurisdictional struggles also hampered intelligence gathering. CIO, Army Intelligence, the Selous Scouts, Internal Affairs, and the Special Branch each considered the intelligence collected by other agencies to be inferior to its own and insisted that competing agencies were imperiling its informers and undermining sources.^[75] A former Secretary of Internal Affairs recounted such friction to me:

I told District Commissioners not to provide the police with any information on who our informants were, because the police would blow it. Due to the police, our good informers were knocked off as sell-outs. The police were angry about not getting names.... The Government suppressed intelligence coming from the field and believed the top intelligence advisors.... I conflicted with [CIO Director] Flower. He often used to say that I was interfering with his prerogative and his field [and] encroaching on his turf. I said I couldn't care less. Internal intelligence was part of my job.^[76]

The Special Branch and CIO held a diametrically opposed view. Consider the remarks of a senior Special Branch officer:

The task of the Special Branch was to gather intelligence, but the shortage of manpower led to a reliance on Internal Affairs. The quality of intelligence coming from Internal Affairs was very poor. The subordinate African staff—responsible for sending intelligence to the District Commissioner—tended to report what was required by District Commissioners. DCs wouldn't listen to advice from the Special Branch, because it was their own territory.... Internal Affairs would say we were telling them lies, and they wanted to operate in their own areas. DCs wouldn't believe that Africans had guns until real contacts occurred. They didn't know how to run informers. They would blow our sources.^[77]

In fact, no agency appeared ideally suited to conduct intelligence gathering in war-torn Rhodesia. The Special Branch, CIO, and Internal Affairs

[74] Flower, Serving Secretly, pp. 213, 138.

[75] See Reid Daly, Selous Scouts ; Flower, Serving Secretly, p. 219; and my "Continuities in the Politics of State Security in Zimbabwe," in The Political Economy of Zimbabwe, ed. M. Schatzberg (New York: Praeger, 1984), pp. 111–12.

[76] Interview, 7 June 1983.

[77] Interview, 24 June 1983.

were organized to collect intelligence under peacetime conditions, and the military had chronic and serious problems in this field.^[78]

The Rhodesian armed forces remained loyal and reliable; the guerrillas never captured a city or established liberated zones inside the country. Yet the intensifying conflict raised the material costs of maintaining white rule and fueled dissension within the state; personal animosities, substantive disagreements over policy and its implementation, and organizational turf battles interfered with the state's capacity to win the war. These tensions nevertheless took place within a context of broad agreement on basic goals, eclipsing the position of those few elites who favored accommodation with the black majority. Intrastate friction was therefore not of sufficient magnitude seriously to undermine the survival of white settler rule. Escalating rural insurgency played the decisive role, ultimately forcing the regime to accept a negotiated settlement in 1979.

Transition to Majority Rule

In 1966 the United Nations Security Council passed mandatory economic sanctions against the Rhodesian regime, treated it to diplomatic isolation, and announced that the international community would endorse only a settlement that provided for majority rule. To rid itself of its Rhodesian albatross, London also attempted several diplomatic initiatives guided by the principle that legal independence required free elections and majority rule. Rhodesian settlers were prepared to concede nothing of the sort, and Britain had no leverage against this intransigence.

As the guerrilla war gathered steam in the mid-1970s, London's search for a peaceful solution grew. Western nations feared that the war would spread—perhaps involving Cuban or Soviet intervention on the side of the guerrillas and increased South African involvement on behalf of Rhodesia. (The guerrilla forces were already receiving material aid and training from the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe, China, and North Korea.) A negotiated solution might preempt any further internationalization and radicalization of the struggle. As British Foreign Secretary Anthony Crosland warned in a speech to NATO ministers: "If the issue were settled on the battlefield it would seriously lessen the chances of bringing about a moderate regime in Rhodesia and would open the way for more radical solutions and external intervention on the part of oth-

[78] Cilliers, Counter-Insurgency, pp. 220ff.; Reid Daly, Selous Scouts, p. 588.

ers."^[79] Nevertheless, some British officials advised against becoming stuck in the Rhodesian quagmire. According to one account, "In 1976 the Cabinet's instinct was [to] stay well clear of Rhodesia, which several Ministers regarded as another potentially debilitating Northern Ireland crisis for Britain."^[80] Yet the Crown continued to make occasional overtures toward a negotiated resolution of the problem.

Our analysis of the transitional period centers on Rhodesia's security apparatus. How did the contestants for power view repressive laws and institutions? Were reforms of these structures ever on the agenda during negotiations on the future of the country?

The position of the Smith Government during successive negotiations was that settler control over the security system was inviolate. In a meeting between Smith, South African Premier John Vorster, and United States Secretary of State Henry Kissinger in Pretoria on 19 September 1976, Smith finally agreed to accept the principle of eventual majority rule. But he was adamant that the Cabinet portfolios of Law and Order and of Defense remain in white hands and that the white commanders of the security forces retain their posts. According to the notes on this meeting recorded by the CIO director, Kissinger agreed that the two security ministers should be white.^[81]

For years, black leaders had been calling for changes in the internal security apparatus, and the leaders of ZANU and ZAPU had frequently branded Rhodesia's security apparatus "despotic" and "fascist." As early as 1963, ZANU's policy platform declared: "ZANU shall repeal the Unlawful Organizations Act, the Law and Order Maintenance Act ... and all other repressive laws enacted by the white minority SettlerGovernments."^[82] In 1976 Bishop Abel Muzorewa, the leader of the reconstituted African National Congress, condemned the "crude and brutal methods" of the Rhodesian police, adding: "The people of Zimbabwe would be scared to death if these methods continued after their liberation. Police reform is high among our priorities."^[83] Proposals for sweeping liberalization also came from international sources. The summit of Commonwealth leaders in June 1977 adopted a resolution calling for "not only the removal of the illegal Smith regime but also the dismantling of its apparatus of repression in order to pave the way for the

[79] Times (London), 10 December 1976.

[80] Martin and Johnson, Struggle, p. 256.

[81] Notes on meeting reprinted in Flower, Serving Secretly, p. 303.

[82] Zimbabwe African National Union, "Declaration of Policy," 21 August 1963.

[83] U.S. News and World Report, 6 December 1976, p. 35.

creation of police and armed forces which would be responsible to the needs of the people of Zimbabwe."^[84]

As the spiraling costs of the war approached untenable levels, the Smith regime entered into an Internal Settlement in March 1978 with black leaders unattached to the guerrilla forces. The new transitional Government consisted of an uneasy coalition of Smith and three black moderates, Bishop Abel Muzorewa, Ndabaningi Sithole, and Chief Jeremiah Chirau, in an Executive Council. A new constitution was drafted by Rhodesian Front officials and approved by the white electorate in a referendum. Under the constitution, twenty-eight seats in the hundred-member Assembly were reserved for whites for at least ten years, which gave them veto power over changes in the constitution. White personnel would also remain in control of the police, military, civil service, and judiciary for a decade: and white-owned land would not be expropriated.^[85] Clearly, this power-sharing arrangement meant only that Smith had conceded an end to exclusive settler rule and retained white control over the state's core. Tellingly, Smith privately referred to the Executive Council as a "facade" obscuring the reality of white political power.^[86] Muzorewa and the other black ministers exercised nominal authority; they were excluded from the War Council and from any role in military decision making.^[87] Far from being a model of settler-native accommodation, the Executive Council was racked by mutual distrust, conflicts, and secret plotting of white members against black.^[88]

As a departure from rigid Rhodesian Front rule, the new regime tried to win African support by dispensing concessions. In February 1979 it enacted legislation repealing petty apartheid discrimination in education, housing, health, and public facilities; it also rescinded the contentious Land Tenure Act. Elections were held under the new constitution in April 1979, ostensibly to affirm that the new order was based on majority rule. Only those parties that had accepted Smith's constitutional plan were allowed on the ballot; ZANU and ZAPU remained banned. Muzorewa's United African National Council (UANC) won fifty-one of

[84] Quoted in Martin and Johnson, Struggle, p. 269.

[85] The constitution created commissions of public service, judicial service, police service, and defense forces service; qualifications for commission membership effectively sealed white control (Robert J. Alperin, "The Distribution of Power and the (June 1979) Zimbabwe Rhodesia Constitution,"Journal of Southern African Affairs 5, no. 1 [January 1980]: 41–54).

[86] Flower, Serving Secretly, p. 211.

[87] Cilliers, Counter-Insurgency, p. 72.

[88] Flower, Serving Secretly, pp. 207, 212.

the seventy-two seats reserved for Africans and on 31 May 1979, he became the prime minister of Zimbabwe-Rhodesia.

Marking no radical departure from the past, the new regime was unable to win international or domestic legitimacy. The insurgents saw in the settlement both a ruse to perpetuate settler domination and a sign of the regime's increasing desperation. Far from creating the conditions for peace, the internal settlement galvanized the guerrilla campaign. Despite Muzorewa's earlier criticism of the security apparatus, his Government continued its predecessor's bloody campaign against civilians, putting the repressive legislation and security agencies to maximum use. New areas of the country fell under martial law, and security expenditure mushroomed. Defense spending alone absorbed 47 percent of the total budget in 1978–1979.

By 1979, the Government's position had deteriorated and the guerrillas penetrated further into the country. Of those killed during the war, one-third died in 1979 alone. By the end of the year, nearly all the country was under martial law; rural administration had broken down in many areas; the economy was bankrupt; and the war had reached a stalemate. The regime was not on the verge of collapse but was neither defeating nor containing the insurgents. Still, the balance of forces did not augur well for a decisive military victory by either side.

Finally the time seemed propitious for a lasting settlement. South Africa, which put pressure on the Rhodesians, supported a negotiated solution, as did Mozambique and Zambia, which put pressure on the insurgents (partly to end the Rhodesian military attacks they were experiencing). The new Conservative Government of Margaret Thatcher (elected on 3 May 1979) desperately wanted to recognize the Zimbabwe-Rhodesia Government but found this action politically impossible in the face of international opposition. Thatcher reluctantly announced an all-party conference at Lancaster House in London in September 1979 to address three central issues: a cease-fire, free elections, and a new constitution. Representatives of ZANU and ZAPU, the Government of Zimbabwe-Rhodesia, and the British Government attended the conference. With all of the principals involved, this conference seemed to present a unique opportunity for a political solution that might perhaps include plans to reform the country's coercive order. Even at this late date, however, the Muzorewa-Smith regime believed it could maintain settler control over the security agencies. Present at the conference to protect their organizational interests were the country's highest security officials: the Police Commissioner, Commander of the Army, Secretary

for Law and Order, Air Vice-Marshall, and the Director of the Central Intelligence Organization. The Muzorewa-Smith delegation insisted that Rhodesian security forces and other state agencies remain fully intact until independence.

At Lancaster House, the Patriotic Front of ZANU and ZAPU called for reforms of internal security agencies but not basic structural changes.^[89] One ZANU official claimed that the ZANU and ZAPU representatives at Lancaster House in 1979 "were all opposed to entrusting any future Government of Zimbabwe with the kind of dictatorial powers which their former oppressors had wielded."^[90] Yet the paramount concern of the Patriotic Front was not the statutory and institutional foundations of the repressive order, but the question of who would control the security forces during the election of a new government.^[91] The overriding fear in Rhodesia, as more recently in Namibia, was that the security forces would subvert free and fair elections. Structural change in the security sector would be left to the new regime.

The Lancaster accord did not touch the most vital branch of the Rhodesian state: "The pre-independence period should not be concerned with the remodelling of the institutions of government."^[92] Existing laws would also be left intact: "It will be for the Parliament to be chosen in free elections to decide which laws shall be continued and which shall be changed."^[93] Lord Soames, the interim governor of Rhodesia, praised "the humanity and efficiency which resides in the system of government of which Zimbabwe is the heir" (referring apparently to the Westminster model), a system based on "law, order, justice and impartial administration."^[94]

The status quo was to remain in other areas vital to settler interests: the new constitution (1) provided for disproportionate white representa-

[89] Martin and Johnson, Struggle, p. 273. See also the earlier Anglo-American proposals, Rhodesia: Proposals for a Settlement, Cmnd. 6919 (London: HMSO, September 1977).

[90] Simbi Mubako, address to the National Affairs Association of Zimbabwe, reprinted as a governmental press statement, 23 May 1980.

[91] See the Patriotic Front's submissions to the conference: Lancaster House Conference Papers, "Patriotic Front Proposals," CC(79)16, 18 September 1979, and "Patriotic Front Response to British Proposals for Zimbabwe,' CC(79)23, 8 October 1979.

[92] Government of Southern Rhodesia, Report of the Constitutional Conference, Lancaster House, September-December 1979, Cmnd. 7802 (London: HMSO, 1980), para. 2.

[93] Ibid., para. 15. The tripartite agreement on southwestern Africa between Angola, Cuba, and South Africa, signed 22 December 1988, gives an elected constituent assembly in Namibia power to draft a new constitution.

[94] Lord Soames, "From Rhodesia to Zimbabwe," International Affairs 56 (Summer 1980): 418.

tion in Parliament for seven years after independence (4 percent of the population, whites received 20 percent of Assembly seats and 25 percent of Senate seats); (2) included a declaration of rights that in effect institutionalized a multiparty system for ten years; and (3) stipulated that land could be purchased only when the property owner agreed. Whites were thus greatly overrepresented in Parliament and their land was protected against expropriation. An additional assurance to the settlers was the amnesty declared by the interim British governor in December 1979, which prohibited legal proceedings against anyone previously involved in the war.^[95] Those guilty of atrocities on either side were thus absolved.

Indicative of Britain's dominant role in the negotiated transition, the final draft of the accepted constitution was essentially a carbon copy of the original Foreign Office proposals.^[96] In sharp contrast to the reformist initiatives made during the Ulster crisis of 1969–1972, the British Government's actions at Lancaster House had a decidedly conservative effect on existing security structures. During the months preceding the March 1980 election, some Commonwealth nations and Amnesty International called on the governor to repeal the security laws and release all persons detained under emergency powers; but British officials held steadfast to their commitment not to tamper with existing security arrangements. London's principal aims were to prevent the conflict from becoming internationalized, to restore stability in southern Africa, to reopen Zimbabwe's economic lines to the West, to install a moderate government based on majority rule, and then to disengage from the country as quickly as possible.^[97] The particulars of the accord were of much less concern. Britain's priorities help to explain the reluctance to tackle reforms, a task that could be left to the coming majoritarian government—as the Lancaster agreement stated. When London assumed control over the state in Ulster in 1972, no such alternative government was waiting; hence the British themselves had to begin the task of institutional reform.

Other practical considerations militated against the metropole's involvement in modernizing Rhodesia's repressive order. The Foreign Office was convinced that the settler delegation at Lancaster would reject

[95] Amnesty Ordinance 1979 (3/79).

[96] See Lancaster House Conference Papers, "Independence Constitution," CC(79)4, 12 September 1979 and "British Government Proposals for Independence Constitution," CC(79)19, 3 October 1979.

[97] Gregory, "Rhodesia," p. 84. These aims were almost identical to Britain's objectives twenty years earlier during the Lancaster House conference on Kenya.

any plan for the sweeping transformation of state institutions. The three-month interval between the signing of the agreement and the elections for the new government also seemed to disallow any restructuring of security agencies, although legislation might have been repealed. In addition, premature tampering with security arrangements might undermine law and order during the unstable transitional period.^[98] And the Crown was averse to becoming involved in another experiment with state building; Northern Ireland was enough of a problem. The British delegation, therefore, had adequate reasons to tread lightly on the statutory and institutional terrain.^[99]

What about the other delegations? Both ZANU and ZAPU were confident that they would win the proposed election and, as noted above, did not insist on changes in security structures at the conference. The Muzorewa-Smith coalition believed that the incumbent regime would retain power, that existing security agencies would remain intact, and that white control over these agencies would continue for the foreseeable future.^[100] For their part, the settlers in Rhodesia hoped that the Lancaster accord would end the devastating war and international economic sanctions and preserve the old order as much as possible. They expected that a victory by Muzorewa's UANC would make continued, albeit diluted, white supremacy more palatable to the black population.

The Lancaster talks were successful in part because each delegation—the incumbent regime, ZANU, and ZAPU—was convinced that its party would win the proposed election. Had there been real doubt in the ranks of one of the delegations, the entire settlement would have been doomed. This expectation also helps to explain the lack of concern with existing security legislation and institutions. Believing that it alone would inherit the political kingdom, no domestic party had an incentive to demand change. In addition, each contender expected that the losing parties would have difficulty accepting electoral defeat; in this scenario, after the transfer of power the repressive machinery might prove essen-

[98] Only 850 soldiers of the Commonwealth Monitoring Force were stationed in Zimbabwe before the election, to oversee the return of guerrillas and defuse tensions (see the article by the force's deputy commander, J. H. Learmont, "Reflections from Rhodesia,' Royal United Services Institute Journal 125, no. 4 [December 1980]: 47–55).

[99] See my article comparing decolonization in Zimbabwe and Mozambique ("In Search of Regime Security: Zimbabwe since Independence,' Journal of Modern African Studies 22, no. 4 [December 1984]). On Namibia and Zimbabwe see David Gordon ("Conflict Resolution in Southern Africa: Why Namibia Is Not Another Zimbabwe," Issue 12, no. 3–4 [Fall-Winter 1982]: 37–45).

[100] Jeffrey Davidow, A Peace in Southern Africa: The Lancaster House Conference on Rhodesia (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1984), p. 70.

tial to subdue political foes, consolidate the new government's position, and maintain order.

Taking almost everyone by complete surprise, ZANU won a decisive victory in the March election—62.9 percent of the vote and fifty-seven of the eighty black seats in the new Assembly. The election results sent shock waves through the white community but no violent backlash like the rampage of Portuguese settlers in Mozambique at independence in 1975. Zimbabwe's independence was finally proclaimed on 18 April 1980 and a new ZANU regime installed.

This particular transition away from settler rule conditioned the new order in several respects. First, the legacy of the war shaped the new state elite's political culture and regard for opponents. The authoritarian and commandist practices of the guerrilla forces did not wither away once ZANU assumed state power, and the experience of fighting a long, bitter war made the new elite highly suspicious of enemies. Second, the new regime inherited the repressive apparatus of the settler state—its agencies, legal powers, and many of its personnel. Third, ZANU's electoral victory left politically marginal two black political parties, ZAPU and UANC, that had been key actors during the transition. They entered the new order decidedly disgruntled over the electoral outcome. Fourth, Rhodesian settlers were able to put their stamp on the new constitution, including reserved white seats in Parliament, a multiparty system, and land security.

But unlike many other transitions away from authoritarian rule—including that in Northern Ireland—in Zimbabwe the power structure of the old elite rapidly became a relic of the past: the settler community has little political role in the new order. This fact is particularly remarkable since the white community retains its economic dominance, which does not translate into leverage on extraeconomic matters.

The literature on transitions to democracy suggests that the displacement of a former authoritarian elite is a precondition for genuine democratization. This may be necessary, but by no means sufficient, for liberalization of structures of law and order, as exemplified in postsettler Zimbabwe. Other key variables remain to be examined in Chapter 6.