At a Zimbabwean court
My first ever visit to the Harare Magistrates Court was disheartening. The uninterested police officer at the front/information desk barely looked up from texting to tell me to go in the wrong direction for court five. The building looked full of distressed relatives and distracted looking lawyers, and the scent of urine as I turned a corner reminded me of the broken window theory. The theory postulates that a house falling into disrepair has deep psychological effects on a community. With time the entire community becomes like that house – dysfunctional. I wondered where our broken window was and if it wasn’t too late to fix it.
I met a woman whose husband was one of the accused. We found ourselves sandwiched together in a crowd that was vainly attempting to overhear what was going on in the court room, which was a whole lot of nothing. Our magistrate decided not to show up that day. Seeing the state of the 45, I couldn’t help but get emotional. But she was stoic, and even managed to give me some words of comfort. It wasn’t my husband who was charged with treason but hers, yet here she was comforting a foolish, emotional woman who was there to show support for a co-worker.
On my second day I arrived in time to be sandwiched in the back of the court itself. While we waited for the magistrate, who was over an hour late, I overheard some interesting conversations, one of which was between two student activists. ‘They’re trying to frustrate us into leaving’, the one said as people began to leave. ‘The magistrate is there waiting for people to leave’. Another pointed out that it was unreasonable to charge the 45 with attempting to overthrow the government, ‘after-all’ he said, ‘a revolution is not started with a laptop, a projector and an analysis of the legal system’. ‘It’s the repressed people’, the other whispered back, ‘who will start it’.
Interestingly, that was the same day the million man march was supposed to be held at Harare Gardens ‘from 11am until the fall of a dictatorship’. Later that evening a BBC journalist reporting from Johannesburg reported the attempt at revolution. 40 people showed up for the march. I believe the rest are located in places with better internet connections.
When the judge did finally arrive, he ordered the public gallery be cleared of anyone who was standing. Before he had even finished giving the order the entire gallery was seated on the floor, some knelt where they could. ‘They will not take this away from us!’ I heard the student activists mutter. Everyone in that room was determined to stay. I was awed (and tearful again) this was where the revolution was happening.