After my two-day career as a programmer in Zimbabwe, it was time to visit Immigration again. We were coming to the end of our extended visitor’s visa. Frankly, I was tired of the conflicting “stories” I had received from the Zimbabwe Consulate in D.C., the low-level clerk at Immigration when we first arrived, the daughter of the Chief Immigration Officer, and everyone else who claimed to hold the keys to our future in Zimbabwe.
To be fair, Zimbabwe was in a confusing swirl of constantly changing policies as the Rhodesian Front had given way to first Zimbabwe-Rhodesia and now Mugabe’s Zimbabwe. It was just three years since the transition from white minority rule to black majority rule. Significant white flight had left government ministries and businesses without experience at all levels. There had been a war after the “war” in which Mugabe’s Mashona armies laid waste to the Matabele supporters of Joshua Nkomo in southern Zimbabwe. In addition, the Rhodesian-financed Renamo guerillas who had fought against Samora Machel’s communist government in Mozambique had been raiding the eastern border areas.
Former members of the disbanded Rhodesian Light Infantry were now fighting side by side with former terrorists in the new Zimbabwe Army. The Rhodesian African Rifles had been used to subdue “rebellious” Matabele supporters of Nkomo before being themselves disbanded. The Zimbabwe Air Force was also merged with pilots trained on aircraft in Soviet-bloc countries.
Both whites and blacks sought to ignore a century of white hegemony and 15 years of bush war. Unfortunately, some of the emergency war powers enacted by Ian Smith’s government were now being used against white Zimbabweans to establish black dominance. Bishop Abel Muzorewa, the prime minister of Zimbabwe-Rhodesia (1979) was imprisoned in the maximum security Chikirubi prison. He had been critical of Mugabe.
There was an undercurrent of fear among blacks and whites which surfaced whenever Mugabe’s armored motorcade drove through the streets. All cars immediately pulled to the curb as his armored Mercedes sped past. He was escorted by trucks bristling with the automatic weapons and wild glare of 5 Brigade soldiers whose reputation for brutality had begun with their North Korean instructors.
Farmers and business owners had to get permission from the Workers’ Committee before they could dismiss an employee. Although the government continued to maintain a free-enterprise style economy, Marxist rhetoric dominated the political discourse.
For the demobilized white members of the Rhodesian Security Forces, jobs were scarce as they were for unemployed whites in general. There was an understandable effort to give preference to black job candidates. Nevertheless, the discrimination against whites engendered greater insecurity and increased emigration, especially to apartheid South Africa.
And then here we were, former members of the Rhodesian Army, trying to get permission to work as “missionaries.” Even the role of the missionary was confusing. During the war, many missionaries had been tacit supporters of the guerrilla forces. Now, many of the missionaries seemed to be sympathetic to the ways of old Rhodesia, especially Americans influenced by Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell. There was no way that Immigration could know that we were apolitical. Indeed, since most missionaries were American and all but a handful were white, there was justifiable suspicion as to what our real “mission” was.
As a recruit to the Rhodesian Army in 1977, I was suspected of being a CIA operative. In 1983 Zimbabwe, I was now suspect as a missionary CIA operative. Is it any wonder that we kept getting different stories at Immigration?
Anyway, a face-to-face discussion was warranted. I wanted to talk to someone directly to explain exactly what we needed to do to stay in Zimbabwe.
We took our place in the queue behind a fifty-something African-American dressed in a dark suit and tie. As we waited, I struck up a conversation. He was originally from Philadelphia and had been in Zimbabwe for several months as the head of a large humanitarian relief agency. He too was seeking a five-year residence permit, having gone through several cycles of visitor visas by traveling back and forth to his office in New York. He was frustrated with the same confusing morass of advice and regulations. More importantly, every return trip to New York was draining much needed funds for relief work on the border of Zimbabwe and Mozambique. [South Africa was not a good option for visa return trips if you were not white in 1983. Mandela was not released from prison until 1987.]
I listened as he spoke with the clerk behind the counter who demanded a copy of his university transcripts before considering his application for residency. My American friend replied that he would have to contact his 80 year old mother to see if she could find the copies and ship them to him. Otherwise, it would take more than a month to get transcripts from the schools themselves. If his mother couldn’t get the transcripts to him within the week, he would once again have to return to New York. He told the clerk: “If I have to go back to New York, that means that we place the 3 million dollar school building project on hold until I get back.”
Unfazed, the clerk dismissed him and turned to me with a snippy “Next!”
I handed over our passports and asked for another 30 day extension on our visitor’s visa. Mulling over our documents, he informed me that an extension would require authorization from a senior officer. He instructed me to come through to the back and have a seat to speak to his superior. Actually, this was what I was hoping for--someone who could hear my story and tell me exactly what I needed to do. I was hoping that we would not be forced to return to the States--we couldn’t afford that.
After about 30 minutes, I was ushered into the private office of a black officer who actually offered me a cup of tea! That was a pleasant change from the officiousness of the clerk.
I poured out my heart to him, telling him the whole story of my having come to Rhodesia five years before, my discomfort with the discrimination and segregation that I had seen, and my desire to share the kingdom of God with rural Zimbabweans. After hearing of my frustration with the confusing information that I had received, he extended our visas another 90 days.
Then he gave me a tip. You know, you don’t have to have a residence permit to stay here in Zimbabwe. As long as you are not taking employment in Zimbabwe and get your finances through gifts to your ministry, you can stay here for up to six months at a time as a visitor. And, it is not necessary for you to go back to the States. You can just go to South Africa for a week and then come back on another visitor visa. Then, if you are offered employment by a church or mission organization, you can still apply for residency while you are here as a visitor.
As I left his office, I couldn’t help smiling. Somehow, the Lord had brought me together with a sympathetic official. I wondered if he were a Christian. I knew that Felix’s Family of God ministry had touched the lives of many of the new African urban elites. There was just no way to know for sure, but I was reassured that we had not erred in telling the whole truth of our original intent to fight in the Rhodesian Army and the change of heart which had led us back to Zimbabwe to work with those we had previously sought to destroy.
We were finding that the truth was more powerful than prejudice or a history of bad blood. It was as if the mercy in our hearts caused others to be merciful to us--not a bad basis for ministry!
Next: The Beginnings of Ministry
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