FIRST DEMONSTRATION
It was on the Sunday after the Revolution that the real independence ceremony occurred. I say real because I had no doubt that the colossal turnout of every African on the island, or so it appeared, each in brightly coloured dress, each singing and smiling at the same time was spontaneous. The first groups appeared at ten o’clock chanting the song which was to be the great song of the revolution, stamping their feet in time to its strong hypnotic rhythm with the result that the house vibrated. “Oh Oh Eha ru meh na jen gan chi”. The highpitched voices intoned an extempore calypso-like antiphon and then this refrain with its rhythmic pauses would follow, reinforced by a multitude of rhythmically clapping hands “o oh na geng anchi oh na jeng anchi”.
I looked down upon this sea of colour of head scarves in cerulean blues and vermilions, deep deep blue dresses, and shining stimulated faces with teeth and eyes flashing. Never were the inanimate objects so thrust into the background by the seething life below.
They came in close-packed ranks of ten or more, but there was no military-style pattern. This was a truly spontaneous universal expression of true ‘uhuru’. which was without doubt Suwena’s ‘Uhuru tena’. It was a freedom which noone could deny, or so it seemed to me at the time. People came in such numbers that I visualised the villages empty, the roads silent elsewhere on the island. It was the culmination of the carnival and no day later was so joyous, political or contrived. Background intelligence seemed to be clearly discernible behind subsequent occasions of this sort. No great subtlety was needed – a jeep, Nussa’s friends in their Cuban uniforms, their automatic weapons, the look of concentration on their vigilant faces, a jeep to patrol the procession, the organisation of the procession on the lines of a Catholic confraternity and the polyglot slogans. Fruits of hour-long tongue-between-teeth backroom activity held by persons known to me and known by me to be unable to read or write testify to this.
I stood on my verandah for three hours while the great procession filled the streets below me, passing on its way to the one-time Residence. The capacious grounds proved inadequate to hold the multitude so the procession had to move on through the grounds leaving them full to overflowing. Within the grounds, out of my view, it seemed that the President was visible, probably on a dais or a balcony, because the chant which had political overtones when passing me (“Americans get out” or “down with capitalists”) changed in the vicinity of the Residency gardens to a chant of acclamation for the leader. “0 0 Kha roo meh na jeng anchi.” Two hundred yards back it had been “0 0 Meri cani tokeni” (“Americans get away”).
JAMHURI 1964]
POST OFFICE
THE FLAG
Throngs of Happy Africans
The flag of the People’s Republic of Zanzibar and Pemba is, unlike so many flags, a thing of very great beauty and enough to delight a painter’s eye. The colours are black, blue and green and each has an equal surface area. The rectangle, in its proportions, conforms to the ‘golden number’ of Pythagoras and each of the three subdivisions is of like dimensions.
The flag arrived so early on the scene that it must have been decided and designed before the Revolution. After a few days this flag was to be seen wherever one went. It flew from the flagstaff of the President’s Residence (formerly the Residency), from the flagstaff of the People’s Palace (formerly the Sultan’s Palace), from the poles of official buildings large and small. It appeared as pennants on the official cars which were mostly large black Zephyrs and Zodiacs taken from the showrooms of the Indian Garage which sold them.
Facsimiles of the flag were painted on the outside walls of private dwellings replacing the scarlet red cockerel. Houses so decorated were either proclaiming loyalty or surrender and acceptance. No doubt it was thought that this painted symbol might confer a degree of immunity on the house and its occupants during the days of silent uncertainty when house-to-house searches were being made for arms and wanted persons.
In the absence of a flag or of the colours required to paint the emblem, many houses signified their acquiescence to the new state of affairs by attaching green, black or blue cloths or even bunches of green foliage to their front doors.
All this, no less than the happy throngs of Africans, added to the general carnival air. Africans with their wives began to stroll in the streets, dressed in expensive finery. Their attitude clearly said “the place belongs to us now”. And, as if to agree with this, Indians, Goans and Europeans tended to keep off the streets. Arabs were conspicuous by their absence. There was no clinking of coffee-cups, no street cries. By evening time, however, even the Africans returned to their homes and as the shadows lengthened, the place became sinister and silent.
So far the picture was clear enough. It was an African Nationalist uprising. The Afro-Sherazi Party and its supporters had fought a battle. They won this battle with an ease which may well have surprised themselves. They had accomplished in less than twelve hours what they had planned to do and deeply desired for a great many years.
Drugged with success and driven on by hatred, they carried out reprisals against their beaten enemies. Many old and personal scores were settled too during a time of opportunity. This happened on the second day. The events of the first twelve to twenty-four hours could not be described with certainty as honourable, though they may have met some resistance from organised groups of desperate Manga Arabs.
By the third day, however, I had reason to believe that control of events had begun to slip into other more wily hands. This was the day which saw the reemergence of Mussa and the appearance for the first time of a number of men armed with automatic rifles and dressed in Cuban-style uniforms and sporting Castro-style beards. One of them, in fact, had re-named himself `Fidel”. They were a small corps d’elite.
Certain elements, whose interests were not motivated by Nationalism, appeared to have remained in the background until the outcome was clear, until they knew for certain which way to jump. This period saw the beginnings of recruitment of a new army, the first moves in the creation of a pattern which eventually dominated affairs. On this day also one or two strange faces, Chinese faces, became visible on the streets.
It became relatively safe to move about on the third day. It was only necessary to exhibit a small piece of green cloth – memories of St. Patrick’s day – or to fabricate an armband out of a handkerchief or any suitable piece of white cloth. A Churchillian V sign also helped to ensure one’s safety. Green foliage on a vehicle ensured its safety also — up to a point. Lorries had come and collected the dead and the bodies were buried without count or record, in large communal graves.
Gangs of men roamed about and were justifiably viewable with suspicion. The prison had been thrown open – on what authority no one exactly knew. A threatening voice had ordered the prison in Pemba to be opened too, the voice was never identified, and Kharume was angry when he heard that it had been done. These gangs of men, armed with clubs and knives, might have been criminals or they might have been accredited soldiers of the new regime. There was no way of knowing.
Looting, over and above that which had occurred during the first frenzy, was still going on sporadically – and no longer with the approval of the new authority. Okello’s broadcasts to the looters and the dire punishments with which we threatened them, no less than the appearance of shattered Africans in the wards, shot by `police’, attested to this.
Only the riflemen were likely to be trustworthy. There seemed to be a definite selection in this regard. Riflemen appeared to have the status of N.C.Os. But an added flavour of excitement was related to the fact, easily appreciable on inspection, that the rifles were not handled with knowledge. They were waved about dangerously and sometimes went off, shocking the gunman no less than the bystanders.
Nevertheless, we had Okello’s word for it, twelve rifles were missing and believed to be in unauthorised hands. He called out the number of each rifle, called the holder to give the rifle up to him, and promised in return that he would kill him! I was told that this promise had been fulfilled.
Cars, obviously commandeered, drifted into and out of the hospital grounds. It was queer to sec the small saloon which had once been the property of the D.M.S. and in which he had driven on picnics to Chukwani and about whose merits he had enthused, sprouting with guns and pieces of foliage!
It was at about this time that the nurses changed their uniform. The red flag of the Sultan had become the red rag to the bull. It was inadvisable to wear any red garment whatsoever or to have any piece of red cloth about the house. It was most dangerous of all to have a red flag. The junior nurses had worn a pink uniform but this had to be changed at once, on orders from highest authority. in the house.
I had played my part, as a matter of courtesy, by decorating my house for the Independence Ceremony. The house was so conspicuous, the first house on the principal street of entry to the city, that an absence of decoration might have been construed as a discourtesy. With some reluctance I had bought a red and green clove flag and now this flag was somewhere in the house. On my first return to the house, on the third day of the revolution, I searched for it in vain, one of my servants having disposed of it.
In the General Post Office a young man was gleefully, energetically, and sadistically stamping ‘Jamhuri 1964′ on the effigy of the Sultan.
BOREDOM – NOTHING TO DO
There were a great many public holidays after the revolution. Zanzibar always seemed to have more than its share, but since the revolution May Day had become a holiday, and there was a holiday declared for a victory rally. When holidays were added the others relating to the Muslim festivals were retained.
At any rate there were long hours of boredom. Many of the casualties had been cured, many more had had to have staged reconstructive surgery, many had died. But the hospital routine was back to normal. The only difference was that the patients who occupied the West Wing – Zanzibar’s equivalent of the London Clinic – were now exclusively of African stock. There had not ever been any racialist bias with regard to the West Wing but the privileged people, the people with big jobs and high social positions, had been almost exclusively Europeans, Indians and Arabs.
When the day’s work was over boredom took over. Painting and reading had become, for a time, dull. I found myself with time on my hands and as a result, was constantly in danger of doing something unwise and of getting myself into trouble. As the grip of the government tightened it seemed that there was no aspect of human activity without a political significance. The government stuck its nose in everywhere. I read ‘Animal Farm’ for the first time during these days. It described so many things which were like what was going on around me that I felt a little reckless in having this book.
When I telephoned, I was almost sure that someone, (the operator?) was monitoring the conversation. When I looked at the painting I had been at work on prior to the revolution, I saw the dead figure of a Sultan and wondered whether or not to cover it because I had introduced at least two square feet of flat scarlet vermilion into the design. I was glad Hassan had not thought of this when he burnt the flag!
When I wrote in my journal it was with the knowledge that all persons passing through the immigration prior to departure were searched, and that documents in their possession had been confiscated. My journal might be examined later, hence I wrote in it with a sense of guilt.
When I listened to the radio I recalled someone telling me that a recent order of the Revolutionary Council, promulgated by radio, had forbidden listening to the B.B.C. There was said to be a penalty of twenty lashes.
Even when I sat on the verandah, which I did at dawn as well as dusk and at any time when I was not working, I felt that this activity too might be construed as spying.
There was no relief in the cinema. Patrons were instructed by a large preliminary notice that they were to stand during the National Anthem both at the beginning and at the end of the performance. The names of the cinemas, the Majestic and the Sultana had had to be changed. Even in going to the pictures there was this sense of being a small child constantly overlooked by a severe and
pitiless father, a Mr Barrett of Wimpole Street. There was this large picture of Abeid Kharume, looking anything but benign, staring at me for the interminable length of the new dirge-like anthem before and after each performance.
But I must do something. I must keep fit. I may, eventually, have to swim for it. Swimming at least is a politically neutral activity. So one quiet afternoon I sallied forth with this object in view.
I TAKE A SWIM – I GO SKETCHING
My house was very close to the sea-shore. To reach it I had only to cross the road and pass along the alley into which the ambulance had reversed on the day when it had come to rescue me. Mrs Balucci lived along the same alley.
The alley led, after about twenty or thirty paces, to a pleasant square or piazza which bordered the sea. But to gain the beach it was necessary to pass along another narrow alley between two massive houses. These had belonged, in other days, to the Chief justice and the Attorney General. The latter is illustrated in the book “Isle of Cloves” by F.D. Ommanney, Longmans Green & Co. Ltd, 1957.
I dressed myself in swimming shorts and jacket and, taking a towel, I sallied forth across the road and into the alley. When I reached the alley I found that a wall had been built across it, sealing off several of the houses, rendering them inaccessible from the square and giving them a secretive inhospitable air. This wall dampened by spirits considerably. Suddenly I felt very frivolous and naked in my brightly-coloured shorts, but there was no going back.
I reached the passage between the two houses previously mentioned and found each one surrounded by a large armed guard. One had become the Chinese Embassy, the other had become the residence of one of the Cabinet Ministers. I now had to pass along a very narrow space between these houses under scrutiny of several Chinese who looked down on me unsmilingly from the roof above me to the right.
The guards who had been talking quietly to each other when I appeared became silent as I passed. They were so close that I could touch them along the narrow passage between the two houses. I reached the beach and walked into the water, watched intently by a very large number of very hostile eyes. Then I saw that there were also gunmen on the beach.
There were about six fishing boats with large lamps fitted over the stern. This was a new departure method of fishing which had been introduced by a Greek business family who lived in the Island. As this was my first and only time seeing these boats, it was a moment or two before I recalled having heard that a Greek fishing fleet had been ‘nationalised’ – this must be the fleet.
I had not paused; by the time I had put two and two together I was in the water and swimming out to sea. I then realised with much discomfiture that there was quite a good chance of my being shot at. Might I not be taken for a Greek setting out to recapture the boats? I came out of the water as though I had remembered an urgent appointment. I returned gratefully to my house – I now had recently taken to calling it my warehouse – and never ventured to bathe in that place again.
My swim meant a great deal to me. Before the revolution I swam at least once every day and had an infinite number of choices. The distance to the seashore from any point on the main street was no more than a hundred feet. ‘T’here were innumerable coves all along the main road from the town past Nazi Moja and Mazzizzizi to Chukwani.
Swimming near the hospital, beyond the Chinese Embassy and farther along the beach, was prevented by the armed guard stationed on the sea side of the President’s Residence. Further along there were the sentries and pickets guarding the enclosed estate in whose extensive grounds a part of Mussa’s new army was in training.
So I resolved to go further afield to Chukwani. This meant a drive in the direction of the airport and a right turn at Mazzizini. Swimming here was not congenial either because all the flats had become to all intents and purposes a barracks. This area was reserved for the East Germans. But again they were
quite distinctly unsmiling and unfriendly and it was not an attractive proposition to go and swim under their noses.
I drove on and on through countryside which was always flat and almost empty. Neglected overgrown estates, densely forested, lay on my right. Scattered here and there were the crumbling villas, most of them deserted. There were no bathing beaches along this part of the coast, only sinister reaches of mangroves.
Then the road suddenly straightened out and three quarters of a mile away I saw a roadblock manned by two armed gunmen. The road led only to the beach and to a few isolated homesteads and fishing settlements. So why the roadblock? Should I turn round – it was a four-point turn – or should I drive right up to the two gunmen?
I chose the latter course. It would seem an unduly suspicious action to turn and drive away from them, so I drove closer and closer to them. I noticed that they were in uniform, square flat peaks to their caps, and that their automatic rifles had bright yellow stocks.
They levelled their guns at me. I could go no further because they were standing athwart the road. Would they believe that I had merely come to swim? I had also equipped myself with sketching materials; what purpose would they suspect if they examined these? On the whole I felt rather silly and felt a queasy feeling in my stomach at the point where their guns were aimed.
I attempted to take a jolly conversational line with them, gave them a formal greeting and told them what intention had brought me to the place. But neither one said anything. I told them that I could see that I was not supposed to go any further and that I had not been aware that I was approaching a restricted area. But neither said a word. I turned the car with difficulty and drove away. I half expected a burst of gunfire, with luck, over my head. But nothing happened.
I felt relieved when I had negotiated a bend and there was cover between myself and the silent gunmen. A mile further on I stopped. I still had thoughts of painting a water colour and did not want my expedition to be entirely negative. After a few moments I heard the motor of a Cesna aeroplane and then I saw it. It came from the direction of Dar es Salaam and it landed in the restricted area from whence I had just come.
It was as well, I think, that I abandoned the intention of sketching and resumed my homeward drive because just as I reached the East German quarters in Mazzizini, the big black saloon, the personal car of the President, turned into the road from which I had just emerged. The black, green and blue pennant fluttered, indicating the presence in the vehicle of the leader. But, incongruously, it was towing a large, ocean-going motor launch. I had no idea what to make of this. I drove on and reached my warehouse.
At that time there was talk of two armies, that of the President which would include the police seconded from Tanganika and that which Mussa had been liaison for, and which was being trained under the auspices of the cryptocommunists. My adventure added some fuel to the fire of speculation. ‘T’here was at any rate some reason to expect another war. This may be far-fetched. But it was beginning to look as though some of the tension in the general atmosphere was a result of a conflict which went on behind closed doors.
The crypto-communists had been concentrated in a party called U.M.M.A. which had been formed following a dispute with the party of Ali Mushin. The cryptocommunists, led by Babu, had been supporters of the deposed Z.N.P. The commanding officer of the new army had been in Cuba and was probably trained there for the function which he performed after the revolution. Had he wished to do so he could have freed the imprisoned ex-ministers and deposed Kharume. He would have forfeited African support by so doing, but he was not as likely to lose his grip as had been the leaders of the overthrown regime.
There was, therefore, if not actual, at least theoretical grounds for tense speculation. There were practical issues also in so far as expatriate officers like myself were concerned because, in any renewed fighting, European immunity would not necessarily be maintained. We might find ourselves no longer sitting on the fence.
NASSER’S BIG FOOT
Having been on leave in Mombasa I flew back to Zanzibar, stopping at Tanga – the “milk run’=where there was a long wait. ‘Where was a desolate air about the small concrete room in which I waited with the other passengers. Outside it was exceptionally dark; absence of all light from the sky proved the presence of cloud. Maybe the delay was due to some troublesome weather ahead, maybe it was due to some political complication, maybe the aircraft was defective.
There was very little for sale at the small shop. I succeeded in finding a battered and much-thumbed copy of Time magazine to read. There were sections in it devoted to Zanzibar, a good photograph of Okello looking young, handsome and immature and holding the cylindrical mouthpiece of a microphone to his lips. There was a paragraph which suggested in the peculiar pert, all-knowing manner which Time adopts, that the Communists were in control in Zanzibar and that a very large number of Arabs had been killed. Thousands.
When at length we settled into the plane, I recognised two or three extra passengers. From Mombasa I had had two seats to myself, but now, on reentering the plane, I found I was to have a neighbour, a thick-set African. He was in good humour and seemed anxious to talk. I thought it polite to turn the pages of my magazine to a more innocuous section because he was quite uninhibitedly reading over my shoulder with great avidity. We were, in fact, reading the magazine together.
In the article which I had just concealed, in addition to the reference to Okello, there were speculations about the role of Babu. Everyone wondered about Babu’s role but Time made no bones about staling that he was Peking’s man in Zanzibar. I did not much like the idea of this particular paragraph being read by my neighbour. I wondered whether the magazine had been banned. I could easily have missed the announcement in the welter of regulations, each having immediate force which poured from the radio. it might have been banned during my absence – a single broadcast announcement would have been enough in these days of government by radio announcement, many of which had an impressive character. Events and people were highly unpredictable and it was not impossible that if he read the paragraphs that he might not have reacted violently.
My companion, by contrast, was quite at ease. He was full of that good cheer and exuberance which were the carnival fruits of nationalist victory. He told me very soon, with scarcely any preliminary small talk, that he was the Area Commissioner for Tanga and went on to say that he was a high-ranking officer of the Tanganika African National Union. He had been its General Secretary until a short time ago.
“People think that we” – he referred of course to TANU – “organised the Revolution in Zanzibar” he said. “In fact it came as a complete surprise to us. We had absolutely no knowledge of it beforehand, no knowledge at all. We only
knew a couple of days before.” All these statements followed each other with only a pause for a short intake of breath.
I felt free to comment on this. I had thought that TANU had played a considerable part in instigating the revolution and in supporting it. I said so. “Of course” said the Area Commissioner “we’re very glad about it. We didn’t like the idea of an Arab state on our doorstep. No, we didn’t want that at all.” He paused for a while then he added “Very soon there would have been NBF.”
“You know”, he said, “I was a prohibited person – a prohibited person – me!” He gave a loud laugh of mingled joy and derision. “I could not get into Zanzibar, no not at all, before the Revolution. But when I was passing through last week they didn’t even ask me for my papers. Babu, who is my brother, was standing a little way behind the immigration desk. When he saw me he shouted out my name and ran towards me and embraced me.” He gave another chuckle, this time of pleasure at the recollection.
“What do you think of this?” I asked, thrusting the magazine at him, having opened it again on impulse at the picture of ?keIIo. He read it most attentively and took a long time over it, long enough for me to feel regret at the rashness of my silence, having given way to curiosity. He began to chuckle and the chuckle increased to a laugh which caused other passengers to glance at him. “Oh! This is all nonsense. Babu is not a communist, Babu is a Nationalist. I know him well, he is my friend.” Then he exploded in renewed laughter. “Do you think he could ask the Imperialists to give him money for a revolution? Do you think they’d give it to him?”
At this moment the usual pre-landing announcement was made. Our landing was uneventful. We queued at the Immigration desk for very long drawn-out formalities. My friend was treated no differently from anyone else, though he greeted several people loudly and cheerily. Their response was cold, almost inimical. Then his face became worried and broody.
Note: This is the last of 8 instalments.
Section 8 of 8 in Part 1
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