Missionaries, Mercenaries and Madmen

By J. Worth

“We’ll have to leave. This country has had it.” My husband made the decision and I followed along feeling like my heart was being ripped from my chest. Robert Mugabe switched the trigger that changed our lives. He announced that University in Zimbabwe would be for black people only. We were white Africans and so needed to find a place where our children would have educational options. Australia was the obvious choice. This memoir takes the reader on a journey to places most Australians have no idea exists in their own country. The isolated, remote locations where Aboriginal people live, not as their ancestors had done but propped up by government welfare. Wild places where hunting and gathering had become recreational rather than a way of life and where western culture, knowledge and values were imposed on ancient knowledge and ways of being. The confused, bastardised culture emerging felt like stepping into hell. The dregs of white society had gravitated north; economic refugees, criminals, drunks and druggies and God botherers all trying to survive in a melee of heat, dust, flies, mosquitoes, and topical downpours. We were not welcomed. This is where my story began.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781398458932

J. Worth

Jean was born in South Africa and moved to what was Southern Rhodesia with her parents when she was two years old. Her upbringing was typical for all African children in that day and age. Her happiest times were when running wild and free in the Rhodesian bush. With wild animal encounters all part and parcel of daily life, Jean grew to love the African bush. Conservative values, Christian ethics and for Jean, the Catholic religion defined her world view. Growing up in a single parent household and as the eldest of four children, Jean learned responsibility at an early age. She developed an abundance of compassion for anyone less fortunate, suffering or needing help in some way. Showing kindness towards all, including one’s enemies, became Jean’s response to life.

Book preview

About the Author

Jean was born in South Africa and moved to what was Southern Rhodesia with her parents when she was two years old. Her upbringing was typical for all African children in that day and age. Her happiest times were when running wild and free in the Rhodesian bush. With wild animal encounters all part and parcel of daily life, Jean grew to love the African bush. Conservative values, Christian ethics and for Jean, the Catholic religion defined her world view. Growing up in a single parent household and as the eldest of four children, Jean learned responsibility at an early age. She developed an abundance of compassion for anyone less fortunate, suffering or needing help in some way. Showing kindness towards all, including one’s enemies, became Jean’s response to life.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my children, Michelle, John, and Adam, who are my reason for carrying on when all seems lost and hopeless. To my Australian Indigenous students, I have encountered over the decades, you have filled my life with frustration beyond belief while at the same time filling my life with love and laughter to drive away the frustrations. You have taught me much about being a better human being. To my friends, Liz, Helen, and Jo, who helped me understand the crazy world in which we lived and always had my back. My old friends from Zimbabwe days who are like family to me and love me unconditionally I’ll always love you. There is a special place in my heart for those who stood by me when things turned bad. Finally, to Jackie, my red ochre adopted sister who patiently taught me about ‘culture’ and how to hunt for mud crabs, I miss you sister girl.

Copyright Information ©

J. Worth 2023

The right of J. Worth to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398458925 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398458932 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

I would like to acknowledge Indigenous Australians and the trauma you have suffered because of invasion, massacres, colonialism, and ongoing brutality. I know your wounds are still bleeding. I am sorry. Your story is what motivated me to do whatever I could to try and redress some of the wrong doings through education. If I achieved anything, I know it was a drop in the ocean of need.

Chapter 1

Rhodesia, 1976

If the house is attacked, get yourself and the kids into the hallway and stay there. Andre’s instructions were delivered each time he left to fight in the bush war. Make sure you take the shotgun and the pistol with you. His voice faded into the background as I gazed over the serene beauty of our garden carved out of the African bush. The weaver birds were busy building their nests and flashes of brilliant yellow darted in and out of the branches of the Marula tree as they constructed their new homes. Put the guns back in the safe every morning and then take them out in the evening. Be careful!

He delivered the same warnings and advice each time he took off to fight the ‘terrorists’ who were causing ‘trouble’ in the bush—far removed from our lives in our rural suburban homes. We called it the Rhodesian Bush war because it was largely fought in the wild bushlands of the country with only occasional incursions into suburbia. In recent times, fighting was getting closer to the towns and cities. Shops had been bombed and hand grenades thrown through suburban windows. The country was on high alert.

Danger was an academic concept. I experienced it through the eyes and feelings of my husband who eagerly enlisted to fight the ‘enemy’ who were ‘trying to destroy our way of life’. The ‘Gooks’, as they were derogatively nicknamed, were black freedom fighters recruited by external organisations funded by Russia and the US to fight and overthrow colonialism (or that was the accepted narrative of the left). The more conservative view was that Rhodesians were simply protecting their way of life.

As in any war, deception fuelled both points of view. Black Africans were the ‘gooks’ or ‘terrorists’ causing trouble in the bush. But they were also the people who worked for us, looked after our children, cared for us and formed a large part of the colonial army and police force that protected us. Their children played with my children as I’d played with them as a child. My rich imagination could not stretch to view black Africans as anything other than friends; people I loved and trusted. The enemy were ‘communists’ and faceless. They were not black or white.

I was young and naïve and just wanted everyone to get on with each other. I suffered from cognitive dissonance. My beliefs and values were contradictory and brought on by the stress of living through a war. I believed all were equal and that white skin should not be used as a privilege. I had sympathy for the terrorists and understood why no person wants to be subjugated by another, but at the same time I stayed within the safety of my white privilege. My mind and heart were filled with contradictions, which were so overwhelming at times that it was easier to just ignore what was going on politically.

As Andre droned on, I shut down. I must visit Chishawasha farm again. We need more vegetables. I wonder if oranges are available yet. My mind wandered away from unpleasantness and focussed on mundane things I could deal with.

Coping mechanisms are developed individually. Under extreme stress where I have no control over the outcome, I disappear inside myself to a safe and calm place where problems vanish, and solutions are easily formed. Growing up in a patriarchal society, marrying at a young age and belonging to a faith that suppressed women, I coped with stresses in my life with a form of denial. I couldn’t seem to have what I wanted so it was easier to slip into that state of contradiction than try deal with the terrible reality.

Are you listening, Jean? Andre’s voice was laced with annoyance and frustration.

Yes, I muttered as I focused on the beauty around me. Denial was the same strategy I used every evening watching the evening news on our small black and white television set. As soon as the announcer said, Security Forces regret to announce the deaths of ----- I made sure I wasn’t in the room to listen to the names of young men who’d been killed in battle. I could do nothing about it and therefore preferred to ignore what was happening. But it did prompt me to register to vote the next time elections came around. That was an action I could take.

We’d been back in Rhodesia post our stint in Mozambique, a previous Portuguese colony, for about eighteen months. Adam, our youngest, was born in Mozambique during the rioting and fighting that erupted after the coup in Portugal. The Lisbon ‘Carnation Revolution’ military coup of April 1974, so called because soldiers were handed carnations, which they immediately put into the barrels of their guns, triggered off rioting in Portuguese colonies as different groups vied for power. Mozambique borders Zimbabwe or what was known as Rhodesia. As a Portuguese colony, Mozambique authorities were sympathetic and supportive of Rhodesia.

During economic sanctions imposed by the world on Rhodesia, there was much underground activity taking place in countries like Mozambique as the Rhodesian authorities sought to find a way around the sanctions imposed on our land locked country. My husband, Andre worked for the Department of Customs, which was actively involved in sanctions busting. After the Lisbon coup, we fled the rioting in Mozambique. Escorted by a military convoy through a city of burning vehicles, angry crowds and hurt, traumatised and murdered civilians was a nightmare. Gripped by a cold, immobilising lethargy, until terror for my three young children forced me to act swiftly.

I packed a bag for our journey and left out essentials in my haste to escape. With Andre driving and me clutching two-month-old Adam, we joined the dozen or so vehicles leaving in the convoy. Michelle and Johnny lay low on the back seat, silent as they sensed the urgency of the situation. Adrenaline swamped my senses and my heart hammered as we drove through the rioting population. Panga wielding black Mozambicans lined the streets chanting, Viva Frelimo! Viva Mozambique.

Get down on the floor, I called through tight lips to my two in the back. I attempted to throw a blanket over them. There were sights and sounds I didn’t want imprinted on their minds. Within seconds, Johnny’s head emerged to peer out of the windows. Michelle followed. The convoy crept painstakingly forwards through the mayhem of a once beautiful city. The crowds thinned and our pace picked up as we drove towards the South African border and safety. My mind was blank with relief. We were going home. Back to Rhodesia.

Slipping back into our old lives of comfortable familiarity was easy and the traumatic times in Mozambique had all but faded from the front of our memories. The children didn’t appear to have suffered from any long- term consequences and for that I was grateful. Daily life of school, meals, camping, gardening and friends pushed the memories of that bad time away. But not for long. Rhodesia was engaged in a bush war as growing numbers of insurgents crossed from Mozambique and Zambia to fight against the Rhodesian troops.

Black and white Rhodesians made up the military fighting an ever-escalating push to impose a Marxist black government on the country. Mugabe’s fighters came from Mozambique and Nkomo’s men surged across the Zambezi River from Zambia. After Mozambique was lost to the Portuguese and Frelimo led by Samora Machel took over, the insurgence into Rhodesia escalated. Every able-bodied Rhodesian man was called up to help keep the enemy at bay. A growing number of Rhodesian blacks were either coerced or willingly joined the foreign terrorists. The fighting all took place in the wild, bush areas of the country leaving the towns and cities continuing to function in a surreal reality mixed with nonchalance and fear. Women took over where only men had stood before and families learned to function with their men absent for large chunks of the year.

Stricter economic sanctions were imposed by many countries on Rhodesia and we learned to do without. Petrol rationing forced us to form lift clubs so that one mother would only have to pick up all the kids in the area from school once a week. We had no safety rules about seatbelts or how many people could legally be travelling in one car and sometimes there was standing room only in my Fiat 500 with the open-topped roof.

Rhodesians became resilient, self-reliant, and practical. Negativity was not condoned, and we all learned to be cheerful and optimistic with a ‘can do’ attitude. No matter what we faced, we tackled all challenges and problems with optimism and humour.

The poo in the toilet’s coming up, Johnny, my second born, yelled as smelly deposits backwashed and floated just below the rim of the toilet seat.

I’ll have a look at it later. Just get your gear or we’re going to be late. I shot out instructions like bullets fired from a gun. Becoming busy and bossy was how I dealt with daily stresses that I could do something about. None of this wilting violet stuff. I’d learned at an early age how to overcome challenges in life. Being the eldest of four children had bequeathed me certain responsibilities. Having a mother who was mega stressed most of her waking hours, added to my duties. Her weekly severe migraine headaches confined her to bed straight after Mass and meant I cooked the Sunday roast from about the age of eight onwards.

The main cause of her stress was our absent father. Always chasing the next big opportunity to make a million, took him travelling around Africa from one job to another. He never managed to send any money back to mum for our upkeep. The word stoicism was invented to describe my mother. The pittance she earned as the head of the government typing pool had to stretch further than one would think possible, but my mother’s Scottish thriftiness ensured we ate well and attended the best schools.

Andre was off to the bush once again to complete another six- week stint fighting ‘terrs’, a shortened almost intimate name for the terrorists. White Rhodesians were viewed with deep suspicion and hatred by the rest of the western world. Britain, Australia and New Zealand and that great power America imposed sanctions on the country in an attempt to beat us to do their will—hand over our beautiful, successful, functioning country to a black, Marxist government. The tougher the sanctions, the more determined Rhodesians were to overcome the inconveniences imposed by outside countries.

The country as a whole ‘made a plan’ when presented with each new challenge and somehow, we not only succeeded but we thrived economically. Local manufacturing, industry and agriculture boomed in our small country and engendered pride among both black and white Rhodesians. We learned not to cave in when times got tough, but to make a plan to rise above the challenges. "Making a plan’ became our unofficial mantra for every part of our lives. Whingeing was not tolerated.

In the car, you lot, I called out to the kids. Dad’s going. They clambered into the car with Michelle, my eldest, helping eighteen-month-old Adam up and onto the backseat. Andre drove and we headed out towards the southern side of town where the army barracks were and where I’d drop him off to start his ‘call up’. He’d be gone for six weeks. Depending on where he was sent, I might hear from him via letter and then again, I might not. I had other things on my mind and had left it to the last minute to discuss with him.

The constant battle to make our money stretch was largely my responsibility. To ensure I didn’t waste a cent, I had a dozen round tins which had once held tobacco. I labelled each tin with ‘bread’, ‘milk’, ‘meat’, ‘vegetables’ and so on. Money for the month was allocated to each tin and I carried the tins in a hand-woven basket purchased from an African woman who plied her wares on the side of a road. My budgeting system worked until an unexpected expense raised its nasty presence.

I paid the bill for the car and am worried because I’ve only got a couple of dollars left to last for the two weeks until you get paid, I raised the stressful subject of our finances with trepidation. For reasons unknown, I felt it as a personal failure when money didn’t stretch.

You’ll manage and it’s only a couple of weeks until my salary will be in the bank. Andre was cheerful. He was off to spend six weeks in the bush—something he loved doing. His dismissal of this very real problem made me feel wild with resentment.

I won’t manage. There’s no money to manage. How am I going to buy food, petrol and pay staff wages? They’ve got to eat too, remember. My frustrations spilled over into words.

Can’t you borrow some money from your mum? This was a ridiculous suggestion. My mother was living on the smell of an oily rag and had no spare cash.

It would be better if you asked your folks if we could borrow some money. They’ve got a hell of a lot more than my mum. I glanced over at him and by the set of his mouth could see he wouldn’t be asking his parents for anything. We drove on in silence with just the noise of the kids to soften the tension.

Andre pulled up outside the barracks and took his gear out of the boot of the car. Good luck with everything and don’t forget to write. Also, I wouldn’t mind another of your fruit cakes. He swung his gear up and over his shoulder, waving cheerfully, he walked through the gates to join his fellow soldiers.

I could barely say goodbye. Murderous thoughts took hold of my mind. You wouldn’t mind a fruit cake! And what am I going to use to buy the ingredients? Fury churned in my belly as I crashed the gears and shot forwards and back home to sort out the shitty problem waiting for me back home, before trying to conjure money out of thin air. I was too emotionally immature to have the skills to deal with conflict of any kind and so I just stewed in my own fury. I’d become a mother at the tender age of 21. I’d taught for a year prior to the birth of my daughter Michelle and had almost no experience of the wider world, let alone experience about relationships.

Adam was sound asleep on the back seat oblivious to the antics of his siblings bouncing over and around him. The kids leapt out of the car and I handed Adam, still asleep, over to Monica, our gentle, sweet maid who loved my kids as her own. I called Francis, our gardener who led a double life as a bishop in his Apostolic Church on Sundays. Long and lean, Francis made an imposing sight when dressed in his full length, white biblical robes for his bishop duties. He favoured platform shoes which added some centimetres to his already great height, and he completed his outfit with a trilby hat, still encased in plastic wrapping to show it was new.

Francis, the toilet is blocked. Do you think it’s the septic tank?

Yes Medem (Madam). I think that is so.

I knew he was just humouring me. He didn’t have a clue about septic tanks, but one could always hope. As I didn’t have a clue either, I had to make a plan. With more confidence than I felt, I instructed him to lift the heavy concrete lids that covered our tank. He managed with the help of crowbars and much grunting. There were two lids lying side by side to remove and he did this without complaint. We both stood looking down into the large, murky square hole. A thick scum covered what looked like a concrete slab a few centimetres from the top. I guessed that down there somewhere there was an outlet that was blocked.

With great presence of mind, I put on my gum boots, grabbed a sturdy stick and jumped onto the slab. Except it wasn’t a slab and my descent kept going until I hit the floor of the tank. I was up to my armpits in sewerage. I looked up at Francis who had sunk to his knees in horror.

Sorry Medem, sorry Medem, uh uh, sorry Medem.

Francis, just help me get out. I held up my hands for him to grab and pull me from the revolting hole.

Jesus wept. I cursed under my breath loud enough for Francis to hear, as I dripped stinking sewerage.

Yes Medem, Jesus is crying, Medem.

I kicked off my gum boots, ripped off my trousers and grabbed the garden hose to wash off the bulk of the evil stuff. When almost clean, I tiptoed through to the bathroom, ran a bath and tipped half a bottle of Dettol into the water. I scrubbed until my skin was raw. My brain was churning on overtime trying to figure out how septic tanks worked. I needed a book on plumbing, but until I could find one, I’d have to make a plan to unblock our septic tank. Looks like Francis and I are going to have to learn about septic tanks real fast, I thought to myself.

Clean again and with my skin tingling from the scrubbing, I opened up the wardrobes in our bedroom. We lived frugally and there were no surplus clothes. If I sold the brown skirt which I hated, I’d have even less in the way of clothing to choose from each morning. I opened up Andre’s side of the wardrobe and spotted his old, much loved, corduroy jacket. It had once been a moss green colour but was now faded and looked sad and used up. That’ll fetch a good price, I thought to myself as guilt washed through me. I found four shirts and an old pair of shoes. Feeling guilty, I returned to my clothes and the brown skirt and a couple of cotton blouses joined the pile.

Monica, please ask the second-hand clothes man to come as soon as he can. I’ve got some old clothes to sell.

I scratched through the kids’ clothes and found some baby gear that Adam had grown out of and little else. I added two old blankets, a couple of old pots and a cast iron pot I used when we went camping. Two tattered sleeping bags joined the pile of treasures and by the time the second-hand clothing man arrived, I had a sizeable stack of goods for him to look at. He spent hours fingering each item, placing it on one side and then moving it back to the original pile. I left him to it with Monica supervising. Eventually, he handed over some cash and left. There was enough to keep us out of trouble for two weeks, but only just.

Life was full and busy, and I was preparing to return to teaching. Michelle and Johnny were both at a Primary school closest to us which was about ten kilometres away. I attempted to put Adam into a child-care place, but he had other ideas. He screamed himself silly and I gave in. Both he and Monica were much happier when he stayed home. She would strap him to her back where he’d sleep contently while she cleaned and hung washing out to dry. When he woke up, she’d feed him sadza, rolling the thick maize meal into tiny balls and popping them into his mouth.

Michelle and Johnny and I would return from school at about one thirty, in time for lunch. Schools started early and finished early and afternoon sports and activities were not compulsory. Long, lazy afternoons ensured plenty of freedom and time for play for kids. They’d roam freely through the bush, jump across streams, climb rocky kopjes and ramble through Msasa woodlands with all their dogs in tow. Life was good.

Finding a job was easy. I had a good track record as a successful Primary School teacher. Various Principals I’d worked for had given me glowing references. I loved teaching and couldn’t wait to get back into a classroom. More importantly, we needed the money. Surviving on one salary was almost impossible. As a Civil servant, Andre’s salary was low. The small amount of extra money I would earn meant we could afford a few luxuries like new clothes for us all. It would also mean I could give Monica money for her son’s school fees. He attended the free government school close by, but he was fourteen and she wanted to send him to a vocational training college in another town.

Attendance was free but she needed money to pay for his travel to the town and to board at the College. I promised I’d pay and then made myself sick worrying about how I’d find the money. I needed to go back to work. This was my secret, shared only with Monica. I felt guilty about giving away money when we were living on the edge ourselves. It was better if no one knew about it.

Chapter 2

Harare, Zimbabwe, 1980

In 1980, the war of liberation, or ‘the Second Chimurenga’ as it was called by the freedom fighters, ended with the country gaining independence. War weary blacks and whites celebrated the birth of Zimbabwe all longing for peace. We took our children to independence celebrations with Bob Marley performing in a massive outdoor amphitheatre filled with thousands of black Zimbabweans and us. Our children disappeared into the throngs of people jammed closely together.

I peered over heads in front of me that stretched right the way down to the stage where Bob Marley performed. Just as I wondered if I should worry about my kids, I saw them emerge out of the masses right at the front of the crowd. Black hands scooped them up and placed them on shoulders for a better view. Kindness knows no colour. For one brief evening, we could all forget our woes. For a moment in history, people were joyful and rancour of past hurts melted away.

I was still teaching, and hopeful life could go on as it always had, even during the bush war. Robert Mugabe our new leader, acted with dignity and displayed no retribution. As a married woman, I’d not been allowed to become part of the permanent staff of any of the government schools I taught in. A stupid rule I could do nothing about, so I just got on with the job. At the end of each year my temporary position would end, the principal of the school would fight to keep me, to no avail, and I received no holiday pay.

At the beginning of each year, I’d be offered a new temporary position in a different school. It was frustrating, but I was grateful to have a job and I loved teaching. Mugabe ended that discriminatory rule and married women were now eligible to become permanent members of staff. I felt vindicated for having voted for him, although I still kept that secret tight to my chest.

We settled into our new state of safety and imported goods. Sanctions had been lifted and the market was flooded with goods, the like of which we’d never seen. New books filled me with joy but the biggest impact for the country as a whole was the end of petrol rationing. Just as hopes rose and white Zimbabweans felt easy about committing to the new administration, Mugabe announced the first of his positive discrimination policies. The University, which at that time was the only one in the country, was to be for black students only. We were devastated. We wanted our children to have access to a university education. Some white families had enough money outside the country to send their children to South African or English universities. We were not so fortunate.

Australia would be our best option, Andre announced one evening once the kids were in bed. He was the decision maker in our family as was normal in most families in Rhodesia in that day and age. I didn’t argue. I had no knowledge of Australia or Australians and was used to taking a back seat when big decisions were made.

My sister and her family love it over there.

I’d met Andre’s sister and brother-in-law but didn’t really know them. His brother-in-law had connections and could sponsor Andre into work in ‘the land down under’. All I wanted was for my children to grow up in a safe and happy place and to have access to good education. I loved Zimbabwe, the bush, the animals and my close and supportive group of friends. Our favourite thing to do was to stash the car with camping gear and head off to wild places like Mana Pools, Matusadona and Hwange game reserves, where we camped under sprawling Marula trees, encountered wild animals and enjoyed the beauty of the African bush. I didn’t want to leave all that and go to a foreign land.

My children were attending academic schools where the majority would one day go onto University. Discipline was strict and the kids were respectful and happy. I didn’t want any interruptions in their education. I worried about what the schools in Australia would be like. I expressed my concerns.

That’s ridiculous, Jean. Of course, there’ll be good schools over there. You don’t think my sister would send her kids to rough schools, do you?

No, I suppose not. I’ll write and ask her advice, I capitulated.

We waited with impatience to hear if our sponsored application to live in Australia was approved. Friends and acquaintances were packing up and leaving. Most headed ‘down south’ as we referred to South Africa.

We won’t be going to South Africa, Andre stated bluntly. I know how anti-apartheid you are.

I felt exposed. My secret vote for Mugabe was trapped in the prison of my values. Many would have considered it treason. I was confused and juggled my notions of justice and equality with the practicalities of life like education for my children. Fear of disapproval from friends and family kept me silent on the question of ‘who did you vote for?’ One of my brothers lived in South Africa. That was a draw card, but I knew deep down that Andre was right. Going to South Africa would be like jumping from the frying pan into the fire.

My life became even more complicated. Mum’s breast cancer had resurfaced. She was seriously unwell, and I moved her out of her flat in the city and brought her to live with us where I could care for her. Each day saw her health and wellbeing slip further into darkness. She read that carrot juice cured cancer. Twice a week I’d head to the markets and bid for a large, orange sack of carrots, which I juiced, and Mum drank until her skin turned yellow.

My siblings rolled their eyes with disapproval.

She should just get chemo, they advised.

She tried radiation and it made her so sick she said she’d rather die than go through that again, I countered. I understood Mum’s suspicion of poisons being pumped into her body, which was already so sick.

"Try to make