Farm Life in a War Zone

Title:  Farm Life in a War Zone

The door was now cracked open that led to the place where I would question the hard-headed certainty that I understood history from a divine viewpoint.  I could see that Thieme’s real-life applications of bible doctrine didn’t always hold up.  I began to wonder if his biblical interpretations were flawed as well.  Well, I couldn’t go there right now, I was in a war zone thousands of miles from a safe place to reexamine everything.  

My misplaced overconfidence in Thieme’s teaching needed to be removed one brick at time to avoid total collapse.  Well, at least some of the political/cultural bricks had been loosened from their foundation.  

Pegi made a friend who had immigrated to Rhodesia from Mozambique after the overnight departure of the Portuguese administrators in 1975.  When the communist-backed Frelimo government took over, most Europeans fled.  Since Beira in Mozambique had been the beachside resort of Rhodesians before 1975, it was relatively easy for whites from Mozambique to drive the “Beira Road” to Umtali on the border and from there to Salisbury.

Pegi’s friend was a newlywed and invited us for a Portuguese-style meal at the home of her mother who had immigrated with her.  During the course of the evening, the subject turned to religion.  

They were Roman Catholic and it was really the first time I spoken in depth with someone who was Catholic since becoming a Christian myself.  But, my Jesus Freak, anti-organized church prejudice had been fueled by Thieme’s teaching.  He was intolerant of organized religion, teaching that Christianity was a “relationship” between God and man rather than a religion.  He saw religion as the enemy.  In his mind, it was religion that kept people from developing their relationship with God by insisting on dogma and ritual without understanding.

In my zeal to absorb his teaching, much of this as a reaction to my hippie roots which I had rejected, I was totally insensitive in my comments to this widow.  I don’t remember the specific subject, but I made some comment like, “That’s what you would expect from religion!”  The woman was so hurt by my insensitivity that she suddenly got up from the sofa and retired to her bed with a headache.  The evening was over and I had no clue what a jackass I had been.  However, I couldn’t help but notice the silence in the room.  We excused ourselves and went home.

My insensitivity was not limited to Catholics.  Pentecostals and charismatic Christians were also the objects of my disdain.  In my early days as a Jesus Freak, I had been warned not to associate with anyone who claimed to speak in “tongues.”  That seed of prejudice was fertilized by Thieme’s teaching that speaking in tongues was a psychological deception at best and demon possession at worst.  Apparently, his older sister had been a Pentecostal missionary in South America.  His need to assert himself intellectually over his own sister seemed to be at the root of vitriol against Pentecostalism.

Well, I have big feet, size 14, and yet I could still fit them in my open mouth easily.  You can imagine what the conversation was like as I drove with Capt Dodgen, a Pentecostal chaplain, on the long trip to Marandellas to visit a dairy farmer whose farm was on the edge of the Wedza Tribal Trust Land (TTL).  Although I made a conscious effort not to bring up the subject of tongues, Capt Dodgen made the mistake of politely asking me if I had been “baptized by the Holy Ghost.”  I had been through this debate before and had ended up faking “tongues” to get a Pentecostal preacher to leave me alone.                                                                     

With Dodgen at the wheel, I opened my fat mouth and said something about tongues being “of the devil”—I was fortunate that he didn’t swerve off the road from the shock!  We were had been traveling down a dirt road for the last 20 minutes.  There was a lot of mud and some deep puddles from the recent rains.  But, the mud wasn’t the worry.  The worry was that dirt roads were easily mined, especially in this area where there had been recent terrorist activity.  We were in a little Renault R-5 and although it had a rubber and steel mesh mat on the floor boards, even a small antipersonnel mine could flip us over.

We were both relieved when we pulled inside the fenced compound that contained the farmer’s home.  My relief was from the mines, his from my mouth.  This farm was typical of others during the war.  The farmhouse was surrounded by a 14’ chain-link fence topped with razor wire.  This fence had nothing to do with preventing theft.  When the gate was chained at night, the fence served as a barrier to terrorists.  The dairy barn and other out buildings were outside the fence as were the brick and thatch huts where the farm workers lived with their families.  

The farmer was returning from the dairy and greeted us as we climbed out of the Renault.  Now, I had been visited some ranches in south Texas where ranchers carried rifles, but it took a moment to adjust to the sight of this farmer with an Uzi submachine gun slung over his shoulder.  This was a war zone and the Uzi and security fencing were part of everyday life for a Rhodesian farmer.  

Another fact of life in a war zone was that his children spent the weekdays at their boarding school an hour’s drive on those same dirt roads to Marandellas, the nearest town.  They boarded their children because of the war, not because of the drive.  It was just risking too much to travel those roads every day, even in the daylight.  No one traveled at night.  Not only did you risk attack by terrorists at night, but also from the Rhodesian Security Forces who would not be able to distinguish friend from foe in the darkness.

We chatted for about an hour over a cup of tea, seated near the fireplace which was stoked up to take the chill off this winter day at 4000 feet.  Although the farmer was a Christian and that is why we were visiting him, we studiously avoided any discussion of religion—it was safer to talk about politics as that was something on which we all agreed.  Dodgen and the farmer were both in the same Pentecostal denomination and the two of them spoke privately for a few minutes while I drank in the view of the Wedza valley from their hillside home.

Both Capt Dodgen and this farmer would have significant roles to play in my life.  Capt Dodgen’s part would play out a few months later.  The farmer would become my close friend when we returned six years later in 1983.  His farm would actually become our home and base of operations in 1983-86.  

But for now, Capt Dodgen and I had more driving to do.  We were on our way to visit troops stationed on the border with Mozambique.

Next:  Tea with Landmines