In Rebel Hands

In Rebel Hands

In Rebel Hands Trish Perkins

Sovereign World

Sovereign World Ltd PO Box 784 Ellel Lancaster LA1 9DA England www.sovereignworld.com Copyright © 2009 Patricia Perkins 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 or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher.

Short extracts may be used for review purposes.

Scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. ISBN: 978-1-85240-504-5 The publishers aim to produce books which will help to extend and build up the Kingdom of God. We do not necessarily agree with every view expressed by the authors, or with every interpretation of Scripture expressed. We expect readers to make their own judgment in the light of their understanding of God’s Word and in an attitude of Christian love and fellowship.

Cover Design by CCD Typeset by Hurix Systems Pvt. Limited Printed in the United Kingdom

Contents

Acknowledgments

7

Foreword by Her Royal Highness Princess Michael of Kent

11

Foreword by Friedrich von Reibnitz

13

Prologue

15

Chapter 1

Night of the Full Moon

17

Chapter 2

The First March

37

Chapter 3

The Mozambican Response

59

Chapter 4

The Families Hear the News

69

Chapter 5

The River Camp

81

Chapter 6

The Pungwe Valley – Personalities

97

Chapter 7

The “Hospital” Camp

109

Chapter 8

A Call to Mozambique

123

Chapter 9

The Beginning of Intrigue and Meeting the Baroness

147

Chapter 10

The First Attack

161

Chapter 11

Pioneering Activities

183

Chapter 12

March to Gorongosa Mountain

195

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Chapter 13

March to Casa Banana

207

Chapter 14

Helicopter Central – The Prayer of Faith

221

Chapter 15

Return to the Mountain

237

Chapter 16

Moonrise over Mount Gorongosa

251

Chapter 17

The Potter’s Hand

269

Chapter 18

Breakpoint

287

Chapter 19

March to Freedom Begins

307

Chapter 20

Two Rivers

321

Chapter 21

Approaching Malawi

335

Chapter 22

Malawi Stopover

359

Chapter 23

Zimbabwean Welcome

379

Epilogue

393

About the Author

398

Acknowledgments

Many people have urged me to write this story. There are too many to mention all by name, but some have really distinguished themselves as having shaped my life and my writing. Also, their contributions have been embedded in the foundations of Maforga.

The first I’d like to honor is my husband, Roy. You are the bravest man I know – you taught me not to be fickle. You received the vision from God and gave it everything, every single thing you had, without looking for a reward. You have given, even when it left you with nothing – cars, time, money, food, love, encouragement. No, you are not perfect – but you have helped me towards that goal! You heard from the Lord, and nothing stopped you from doing what you’d received to do. Only God knows the abuse, the rejection, the tiredness, the struggles with corrupt officials, that you have quietly endured, saying nothing about them to anyone but the Lord. Without you, I would have been trapped in myself, but through you I’ve learnt to look into the wind and enjoy it.

I would like to give honor to Baron and Baroness von Reibnitz, without whose foundations Maforga would not have happened. The Baron developed the farm at Maforga into a beautiful and majestic place, and Baroness Rosemarie endued it with a very special atmosphere of graciousness and a mystique difficult to describe. Without her stubborn courage in staying on alone, the farm may never have fulfilled what we believe to be its God-given destiny. She entrusted the farm into Roy’s hands, knowing she might never see it again.

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Freddie – Baron Friedrich von Reibnitz – thank you for being Freddie, for your investing your time in honing my skills as a writer, even with the glaring faults I displayed in my writing. You have encouraged us in the destiny that we believe God had in mind for Maforga when you could easily have been critical. You have been a friend and a part of the very unique history of Maforga, that has made it the place it is today.

To my dear friend, Meg Doidge, who endured months of my sitting in your lounge at the computer, in a wheel chair (because of a broken ankle). Your astute criticism contributed greatly to the book and also helped me to see things I wouldn’t normally have seen. You have also been there for years, enduring the chaos of provisions, shopping and meetings at your house, listening with understanding and care.

For printing out the hard copy of the manuscript, correcting confused trains of thought, and generally beating me into shape, thank you!

To two people whose passion for the Lord and fearless stand against the darkness have taught me so much – Pastors Langton and Chido Gatsi, thank you. You have been pastors to us and prophetic leaders who always cared and were available. Your insights into the spiritual world in Africa have greatly helped our understanding of Mozambique. I am indebted to you for your spiritual guidance and commitment to us, and for reading and praying for the book.

Many thanks to Ellel Ministries for your healing work and for believing in the story of Maforga. Your teaching has been a great source of understanding many things here in Mozambique and we value the depth of your ministry into our lives. Thank you to Peter Horrobin for your open arms ready to receive us with such warmth and for your commitment to take this book in to be published. Also to Paul Stanier for your encouragement and commitment to the project.

To another wonderful mentor, Graham Beggs, thank you for your love for Mozambique and your unique way of ministering. Also for being a part of the prophetic foundation of Maforga and for your counsel over the years.

To Pat Teal and the North Fellowships – you have been the means of many doors opening and of many blessings and many

Acknowledgments

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people coming out to lay down their lives to work among the people of Mozambique. Many thanks for your help and love over the years.

To our friends, Phil and Chrissie Gascoigne and Steve and Joy Cresswell, who have encouraged, visited, taken time and hosted us through many years – thank you for your help and encouragement.

I would like to acknowledge two very special people – though they are not here to read this. My mother, Florence Quirke, always believed in the call of God on my life, and prayed ceaselessly all my life till she passed away in 2003. Your commitment to missions and acceptance of my life in Mozambique greatly helped Roy and me with the knowledge that there was support back at home. And my Dad, Ted Quirke, who taught me to be creative and innovative.

My thanks too to my sister Margie Biggs and brother-in-law, Tim Biggs – for welcoming us in your home and encouraging me to push through with the book.

To Vic and Nicky Ferreira, thank you for believing in us and encouraging me to write this book over the years. Nicky, you have been a mentor who always encouraged me. Your hospitality has been a refuge to us over the years.

To the House of Prayer in Stirling, Australia – and especially to Jenny Hagger who taught us so much about prayer, and supported Maforga with so many containers of goods – we will always treasure the wealth of memories that your generosity inspired.

To the memory of Elizabeth Austin, who passed away in January this year (2009), an extraordinary warrior of the Lord who has taught us tenacity and whose prophetic insights have shaped our lives – we miss her very much. She also paid a price in her love for Mozambique, which she chose to remain hidden.

Much gratitude is owed to John and Doreen Betts. John, you came at a kairos time and spoke many words of new life into this ministry which are still bearing fruit. Doreen actually sat and read through every page with me and corrected many things, insisting that I finish in a set time – without which I may never have finished. I owe you special thanks for your amazing commitment to me and to getting this book to the publishers.

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Many thanks to Loren Cunningham, a man who has been an example and inspiration to us, and his sister, Janice Rogers, both of Youth With a Mission, for your belief in me as a writer when I didn’t even believe in my ability myself. You prophesied words which had the seal of the Holy Spirit on them and now they are coming to pass.

To Sister Gwen Shaw – we had the very great privilege of your presence at Maforga before there were any teams, but what you prophesied has come to pass. We are greatly indebted to you and are blessed to have sat under your anointed ministry. May the qualities you imparted become the fabric of Maforga life.

To the people of Mozambique – you have taught us so much and enriched our lives so much. May your children see a new life where war is only a distant memory and health and spiritual peace rule in your homes.

And – most of all – may all honor go to Jesus. You are Lord and King and our desire is for Your Kingdom to come, Your will to be done in Maforga as it is in Heaven. Without You Maforga – and our lives, as rich as You have made them – would not exist. You called us here – may we accomplish all that You desire. You are the incomparable God-become-man: we love You and ask that You continue to use our lives as we revel in being Your son and daughter.

Foreword by Her Royal Highness Princess Michael of Kent

The starting point for this remarkable book by Trish Perkins is Maforga, for over twenty years a Christian mission providing spiritual, educational and health support to thousands of often desperate people in the center of Mozambique. The book’s descriptions of Maforga took me back to an earlier era in its life, when it was a farm and home to my father and stepmother.

In 1962 I first came to Maforga as a seventeen-year-old barely out of school, to reconnect with a father I had not seen since I was a young child, and to meet my new stepmother Rosemarie, so vividly and poignantly described in the book. In the year that I was there I fell in love with Maforga and with Africa, and both have never let me go.

I became part of the rhythm of a thriving, productive farm; I also spent long periods with my father on safari, getting to know him again after so long; and I grew to love Rosemarie like a second mother. In the mid-sixties my life took me to Europe and England, but the bonds established at Maforga remained. In the early seventies I had the chance to return and fall in love with Maforga anew. I was fortunate to visit Rosemarie many times in Europe and have her stay with me in England. She remained my second mother until her death in 1999.

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My father’s twenty years in Maforga were ended by his failing health in 1976, and he retired to Germany, but Rosemarie’s ties to Maforga continued through the difficult years following Mozambique’s independence, and were only ended when an accident took away her mobility in the mid-1980s. How fortunate she and her beloved Maforga were to find new custodians in Trish and Roy Perkins, and the Christian mission which has given Maforga new life. The journey described so vividly by Trish, a forced march for that brave small group which became a spiritual odyssey both for them and their captors, has surely enriched and strengthened them all. I have no doubt that the Maforga mission as it is today was forged out of the experiences on that long march through the bush of central Mozambique.

I warmly commend this book, which moved me on so many levels.

H.R.H. Princess Michael of Kent

Foreword by Friedrich von Reibnitz

I first came to Maforga in 1960, a seventeen-year-old fresh out of school in my gap year before starting university. Like my sister two years later I came to rediscover a father I last saw as a child, and to meet my new stepmother Rosemarie. My months with them on that visit were the stuff of any adolescent boy’s dreams – getting to know and treasure them both, helping where I could in the operations of that beautiful farm in the hills of central Mozambique, and periods of high adventure hunting with my father in the bush.

I returned for a number of shorter visits in the early 1970s, all of them idyllic, but I knew as they did that the foundations for their life there were no longer sustainable. Both my father and Rosemarie were realists and ready to embrace the aspirations for social change in the new Mozambique. My father’s failing health compelled him to leave soon after Independence, but Rosemarie continued to spend half of each year on her beloved Maforga, and thrived in the midst of the challenges and hardships of the post-Independence years. She was indomitable, a fighter and a survivor all her life, with a remarkable ability to live each day to the full and to face each new circumstance with her powerful blend of qualities: forthrightness, intelligence, pragmatism, humor and warmth.

Like my sister I marvel at Rosemarie’s good fortune in finding Roy and Trish to lead Maforga into a new era of dedicated service to

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meeting the acute needs of the very large population dependent on it.

As I told them four years ago on my first visit to the Maforga Christian mission, I cannot help but feel that in their work Maforga has found its true voice. I am sure that the trials and experiences of that small group of captives, and their discoveries about themselves and each other, in the bush odyssey so poignantly described by Trish in this book, have contributed enormously to making Maforga the remarkable community it is today.

Fred von Reibnitz

Prologue

This book has taken many years to write. I knew it had to be written.

There are many other books, too, that subsequently need to be shared with those who are keen to be involved in missions.

Today Maforga is a large community of missionaries and Mozambican families and children, carved out of much sacrifice and prayer. Maforga Christian Mission is a “City on a Hill,” a collection of departments including a baby center, a small children’s department, boys’ center, primary and technical schools, clinic and baby clinic. It’s based on a farm on the Beira Corridor and is run by many different nationalities of people, as well as hosting hundreds of guests each year.

Many of these are teams of young people using it as a stopover on their way north or south, as Maforga is on the narrow neck of the country in the middle. It reaches into the community surrounding us, is the base for an AIDS home-based care organization, and is often a place where Mozambicans from all walks of life find help for all sorts of issues. How long it will remain depends on the Lord who called it into being in the first place. Things are never secure in Africa, and the communities around us are always shifting spiritually and in every other way. The political climate is at present peaceful though our neighbor Zimbabwe is filled with rumblings – Zimbabwe is straining towards a solution to its deep divisions, and the Church has a real challenge on its hands to bring reconciliation and care.

If we can have made it possible for a single young Mozambican to gain an advantage in life, and to find the peace that comes from knowing the salvation of Jesus Christ, would it have been worth it?

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If even one young couple have learnt that in Christ they have a rich destiny, and that their horizons are limitless, and that they can change the course of the lives of others – that they can bring others into the Kingdom of God – perhaps it will all have been worth it. There are several such couples at Maforga and others have gone out to serve Christ, both Mozambicans and foreigners, to other parts of Mozambique and other nations, including Congo, Uganda, Zambia, and the Muslim North. We pray that somehow the Lord will use these humble ashes to bring a great harvest in the days to come. We have been very faulty; we have sometimes felt defeated or useless. But the vision of the dry bones in Ezekiel gives us hope that God who can raise up bones that are very dry, can and will do it here through our lives.

No destiny can be greater.

I pray that the reader will live through the experiences in this book with me, that we will walk through the journey together and through the midst of the challenges, admire the beauty of God’s creation and exalt in the saving power of prayer and faith in Jesus Christ who died on a cross and rose again so that we could be forgiven and given a new and eternal life.

We never felt resentful about the time of our captivity; we knew it was our destiny and that we were privileged to have been chosen to go through it. It was also a lesson that nothing is wasted in God’s economy; He can take the simplest thing and turn it to good use. Every lesson is in His plan; nothing is random. He also graciously lets us see ourselves so that we cry out to Him for reality, for our salvation.

I pray that the reader will be encouraged to step out of his or her comfort zone and take that first step of going out into the unknown for God.

Chapter 1

Night of the Full Moon

Actually, it was the night just before full moon: about five in the evening. It was a fragrant autumn dusk, heavy with the scent of orange blossoms. The vast sky glowed with a crystal-flawless, champagne light, dwarfing the ring of black forest round about us.

The sand driveway, passing for half a kilometer beneath a high vault of giant eucalyptus trees, echoed with the whirr and squeak of Abigail’s pushchair wheels as we strolled along it, enjoying the evening sounds.

I pulled my jacket close as a chill breeze wafted the coldness of the forest across our path. We’d set out from the farmhouse for the sunflower field on the rise. The dogs trotted ahead.

A single brilliant star hung over the crisp, black, lacy silhouettes of the eucalyptuses as we looked back. The stage was set for the giant golden-red moon to lift, radiant, into a firmament of deepening blue. It cast pulsating rays over a world seemingly bewitched. Below it, the cleft 17

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between the trees, where the road passed, indicated the direction of the farmhouse. Phil turned to watch it as it lifted above the treetops – a brilliant harvest moon. Roy walked on ahead, and I trotted to keep up with his long, easy stride, but the others stood, mesmerized.

I remember Phil, shoulders hunched, angling his camera to get the best shot of the scene, Vikki, his wife, pushing the pushchair beside him. “Wow, look at that! Impressive, hey!”

“It’s full,” Vikki agreed. “You could actually read a newspaper by it, it’s so bright. Look, Abby darling! Isn’t it big!”

The eighteen-month-old baby girl stared up with wide pale eyes, the moon gleaming on her soft gold hair.

Nanna walked behind with Kindra, admiring the sunflower crop tinged with silver light. The plants’ heavy leaves drooped like swirls of Gothic script, in smudging black ink, a backdrop to the glimmering golden blooms. The two nurses had had a busy day. “Even with these drugs and more bandages from Zim,” she was saying, “we’ll soon finish the drugs Phil brought. We’ll need more hydrogen peroxide, too. The scabies cases are increasing... Did you see that little boy with the scabies today? He’ll have to be given regular treatment for the next few days.”

“The infection’s really set in,” agreed Kindra. “He’ll worsen if we send him to the hospital.”

“We must go to Mai Nota’s house tomorrow.”

“She’ll have to finish the course of antibiotics… It would be harmful if she missed a dose. I was so amazed how you took out that flake of bone from her hip. You are amazing, Nanna. In the States, only a doctor would be authorized to do the operation.”

“Well, here there’s no alternative, Hon. You’ll find out as we go on,” said Nanna.

“Let’s go back!” Roy was suddenly cautious.

“Let’s hope the photos come out. Quite a sight, hey.”

Roy turned on the drive and started back, keen to get home. He’d brought our camera and snapped the sunflowers: just for the record.

We’d passed the first field and were opposite the forest engulfing the farm’s cemetery. The giant trees overgrown by untidy creepers looked

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as if someone had taken a black crayon and scribbled over them, black on black, their leaves glittering faintly in the brilliance of the moon.

Night-apes screeched. Spotted eagle owls’ hoots began to echo through the silence. The haunting call of a rufous-necked nightjar quavered shrilly. A bird flashed up from the road’s surface, long white streamers floating behind from each wing-tip – a pennant-winged nightjar. It dipped and tumbled along the road, into the black tunnel of forest, away towards the main road. Too far in that direction, at this time of night, would not be wise. In fact, even where we were, was not at all wise. But we brushed that thought aside. I looked back along the drive, reluctant to leave. I loved the nights in Africa: they seemed to breathe space into your soul.

“Phil, tomorrow, could we leave together?” Roy proposed. “I’d planned to go to Zim today, but with this fever I couldn’t go. I’ll do some shopping and come back, and the next day Trish and I’ll go on to South Africa, she has her visa now – it’s what we’d planned before we heard of the raid. Nanna and Kindra can stay here and look after things.

I’m sure it’ll be all right. Vicky Hopper should’ve come back tonight.

It’s a bit late now, maybe tomorrow.”

I saw Roy was tired, but he didn’t seem to notice. He kept just ahead of his own energy levels. Thoughts of the afternoon’s meeting and the many arrangements for the next weeks ran through his mind. He’d been running so fast there’d been no time for reflection.

Deep inside, he’d been crying out for a chance to stop, but didn’t know how.

It was relaxing to amble along, chatting, our voices echoing in the silent air. But Kindra took hold of the pushchair and turned it round.

It was six o’clock...we were some distance from the house. Time to return to a meal of hot soup and bread at home. Shadows engulfed us as we entered the eucalyptus “tunnel” down through the dip and on, up the next hill, to emerge at the farmhouse.

For Phil and Vikki Cooper it had been a short, but satisfying three-day visit – now they understood much more about Maforga and the surrounding area, dominated by the peak of Mount Nharu-nharu

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(pronounced nyaroo-nyaroo), the triangular granite gomo* with forested slopes, eight kilometers in the distance. From the front veranda of the main house, the view of the mountain was framed by two gracefully bowing msunganyemba trees leaning towards each other. You look north towards the mountain across the circular lawn, ringed by a sandy driveway and hedged by dark-green bougainvillea with gaudy purple flowers. Across the circle from the veranda the hedges open to form a neck through which the path sloped towards a pineapple field, down under the msunganyemba trees. Nharu-nharu was appropriately named – its name means “madness,” “confusion” or “a boiling pot.” Anyone who crossed that far into the bush would be entering RENAMO territory – Resistencia National de Moçambique, the guerrilla rebel opposition to the FRELIMO government. It was rumored that there was a RENAMO camp somewhere on the mountain. The area had been named “Maforga,” after a local chief from around the turn of the nineteenth century.

Evening activities Phil and Vikki had brought boxes of drugs for Nanna to use in the clinic. Vikki, a nurse, and Phil ran a chicken farm together with his father, Dennis Cooper, at Shiloh-Shalom, near Harare in Zimbabwe.

(Shiloh-Shalom was a community that had risen out of the Christian Community movement of the sixties and seventies. This movement sought to train the Church to live in communities that effectively reached out to the surroundings and provided a safe place for vulnerable people.) They’d driven down in Dennis’s blue Peugeot and, apart from Abigail’s car-chair fastened on the back seat, all available space had been filled with Nanna’s boxes and other supplies. Ever since they’d met Roy a year before, Phil and Vikki had wanted to see Maforga. But always it had been the others from their community who’d come, leaving him to tend the farm. This time, they’d managed

* Rocky hill.

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to come themselves, bringing their youngest Abigail and leaving their two older children in the care of their parents.

When they’d driven through the border gates, they had entered another world. They’d been fascinated by all the aspects of a land so different from their own country, neighboring Zimbabwe – exotic and tropical, beautiful and ravaged by war. You could never understand from what people told you. Now, they had a better idea of how to be a support; tomorrow they would begin the journey home.

Twenty-seven-year-old Kindra (Bryan) fed our spotted orphan lamb with a bottle, kneeling on the carpet with its tasteful shades of pink and green. It wasn’t as grand as the Persian carpet that had been there before, but perhaps that was a good thing. She’d been in Africa for three weeks, and Mozambique for three days, and it was all very new – and very different from the Houston Children’s Hospital in Texas, where she’d been responsible for post-operative recovery. She had decided to take a break to come to Africa and had approached Youth With a Mission in Harare for an opening to work. Since there were no vacancies the leader, Mike Oman, had contacted Roy with her application and asked if she could come to Maforga. We’d picked her up on our way back from an aborted trip to South Africa to visit my family. Whilst making a stop in Harare, we’d received news that the farm at Maforga had been attacked. The Zimbabwe army were holding a young man in connection with the raid. We’d felt we needed to return to Mozambique immediately to assess the damage and asked Kindra if she would like to travel back with us. Roy had felt that it was highly unlikely that there was any danger from another attack. If the Matsanga* had just raided, it would most likely be several months before they would come again. After thought and prayer Kindra had agreed to take the risk. She was helping Nanna run the newly begun clinic.

We were all sitting in the lounge together. Vikki was preparing Abigail for bed. “Come, darling,” she coaxed. “Mummy needs to get

* Another name for the RENAMO rebels.

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up early tomorrow. Mummy and Daddy are taking you home! We’re going back to Amy and Addie. Granny and Grandpa are waiting for us. Here, give me that...” She took the cup from Abby, placed it on the low, hardwood sideboard, and then scooped the golden-headed little girl in her arms. I remember, they went through to their room to start packing. It had been the Baroness’s room before we’d moved into it after she’d left for Germany. But we’d vacated it for their stay and moved to the guest cottage. The music of the Tom Ingles video we were watching wafted right through the walls, and we all heard the words: “You’ll rise up, with wings like eagles, and fly through every situation…the champions of God!” It was a song about a victorious faith in the Living God – a faith that laughed at trials.

Kindra crooned to the lamb, holding it under her arm and pushing the coke-bottle with its improvised teat – the finger cut from a rubber glove – into its pink lips. “Come on, darlin’. Sweet little leyam!” She stroked it affectionately, the same way as she hugged and cuddled the children that came to the clinic.

Roy didn’t say much: he was flushed with fever. He had postponed the journey to Zimbabwe which he’d planned to make that day. The road to Zim was a strain when you weren’t feeling well – a two-and a-half-hour trek, picking your way around potholes and through military cordons. He’d decided to postpone the trip and go back with the Coopers the next day, to do some shopping for our absence; the nurses needed some things and food was always difficult to get in Mozambique at that time. A day trip would set them up for our absence. Then we would leave together for South Africa the following day – our trip to South Africa had been delayed yet again.

Bedtime at Maforga Nine o’clock. Time for bed. Roy had spent the early part of the afternoon resting but the fever persisted. He needed to sleep and I needed to check our cases for the coming journey.

We crossed the circular lawn, glancing back at the silver-blue hills behind the fronds of the two wild date-palms that signatured the driveway

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to the south-east. Cold, white, smaller and higher in the translucent midnight-blue sky, the moon throbbed, almost a thing alive.

The guest cottage was a round house, or rondavel – modeled on designs of rest-huts in the Gorongosa Game Park, built to imitate the simplicity of an African hut. We entered the shadow cast by its thatched eaves and stood for a moment before the closed doors to check on the truck, a white four-ton Toyota Dyna parked nearby under the flamboyant trees at the edge of the circular drive. As we opened the doors to enter, we stopped for a last look at the silver-and-black world. The snap of the light-switch transformed the interior; the gold glow of the candle-bulbs, curving elegantly from the walls, was cosy and peaceful.

I spread my newly ironed brown skirt over the towel rail in the bathroom ready for the morning.

“Well, I hope everyone has a good night’s sleep,” I said, but I felt momentarily uneasy. Slipping on my olive-green overalls and climbing into bed, I said to Roy: “Maybe we should’ve left the truck in town tonight?”

“I’m sure it’s all right, Trish. We must just trust the Lord,” Roy answered. As he pulled off his shirt – it seemed odd to me at the time – he turned to me and, in a strange voice, he whispered: “Trish, the farm’s finished.”

An uncharacteristic depression seemed to come over him. I was too tired to pay much attention but afterwards I remembered. And indeed, the farm, as we knew it that night, was finished, even as the light of the candelabra was extinguished and the black lake of night engulfed us, a tiny gathering of families on top of the hill, surrounded by the oceans of forest.

The house is surrounded Sleep took a while but came, deeply. I was nudged awake, by Roy, at about eleven. “What is it?” I asked.

“I’m healed!” he told me enthusiastically. “I feel well again!” I was too drugged with sleep to enjoy his revelation and sank back into my dreams.

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It must have been midnight when I woke again. The windows were squares of transparent blue light set in a black background; the moonlight beamed through the rooms. An old mango tree overhung the rondavel, engulfing the kitchen in a great black shadow and submerging the back door and the grassy yard in an ink-pool. The cold black leaves were etched in sharp serrations, their shiny surfaces reflecting the moonlight. The haze of brilliance silvered the rows of orange trees dotting the slopes of the hill below us in tidy rows, towards the main road, a kilometer away. It was late even for the whine of the Zimbabwe army trucks on the distant road, which echoed every night through the eucalyptus forest that stood tall and dark along its edge.

Roy was at the window, peering out. As my eyes focused I saw his alertness. Vaguely I was aware of the frantic barking of Piggy, our bull terrier. I heard Roy say in a low voice, “Trish! They’re here!”

“Who?” I asked.

“The Matsanga.”

“You must be joking!”

As I said it, I saw him shrink back behind the wall, his throat tightening. At the same instant there was the soft swish of feet, stealthy on the dry grass outside. The silhouettes of men, dim grey in the moon, moved past the windows on both sides. Flashes of reflected light glanced off their fixed bayonets. Feathers hung from hats, or stood up in the rims of caps, rags hung in strips from their arms; harsh whispers passed back and forth between them. There was the rattle and click of rows of bullets, strapped across their chests, knocking against each other, and as they moved they crouched forward slightly, like cats stalking their prey.

I dropped to the floor, heart thumping.

“Quick, Roy!” I hissed, “Put your overalls on!” I buckled on the orthopedic sandals, the left one tight over my bandaged foot (having had an operation about a month before), and fetched the small bag we always kept with us. Roy scrambled to dress without being seen through the windows and, crawling underneath them, we slipped to the front room, from where we could see the main house across the circle of lawn.

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My black handbag was stowed under one of the beds; perhaps it would not be seen there, in the dark. I dreaded losing my passport.

Our hearts thumped. We tried to lick our lips, but our tongues stuck to them, dry as suede. Our knees were jelly. Roy crawled to the lounge window and, lifting an edge of the curtain, peered into the bright moonlight beyond. We heard the crash and chiming of glass as it shattered up at the main house – we’d only just replaced the eighty panes a few days before! Shadowy forms of men ripped the curtains out through the broken windows – new curtains we’d only just hung!

Peering just above the windowsill, our eyes followed the scene.

Grey soldiers swarmed round the house, bashing in the doors... We knew the back door of the rondavel was open, hidden by the shadow of the mango tree. Couldn’t we escape and hide in the bougainvillea hedge? It would be prickly but it would conceal us... Then Roy thought of the visitors, of Nanna and Kindra, and Phil and Vikki in the main house, with toddler Abigail. Had they woken yet? Where were they, and were they all right? As we strained to see out of the window, the butt of a gun smashed through it into our faces, scattering glass across the room. We drew a deep breath. Slowly, we stood to our feet. It would never do to escape and leave the visitors. Adrenalin thrilled through us. We could not let them find us cowering here. Fear would attract violence. No, we must go out and face them. It was the word of the Lord coming to pass...

“Nanna” Nanna had retired, with her crocheting, to her room in the main house, which looked out onto the circular lawn, and Vikki, Phil and Abigail to the room at the far end of the house, which Roy and I had vacated for them.

Nanna, alias Joan Goodman, was fifty-eight years old and, before joining us, had worked in Zambia, running a government hospital’s out-patients department for ten years. More recently, she had spent some years at Shiloh-Shalom, attracted by the life of prayer there which corresponded with her own. She had had a longing to go out into

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In Rebel Hands

missions, especially in Mozambique, and had prayed that if this was from God, He would bring someone to Shiloh from Mozambique.

We had been the answer to her prayers.

A strange mixture of ferocity and tenderness, with fine hair like wisps of blonde silk and pale green eyes, Nanna wore practical baggy skirts and long sleeves to keep the sun off her fair skin. With a slight stoop, her rounded figure with large sun-hat was to be seen padding – rather like a tortoise standing up on its back feet – down to the clinic or bending over the veggie garden or dosing the sheep. She loved to work; it was her life. She loved people, and spent herself for them without reservation. She had been at Maforga for nearly six months and was thoroughly at home.

She stayed in the guest room of the main house, surrounded by boxes of medicines and bottles of evil-smelling liquid such as “Glick & Nick” (glycerine and ichthamol), Gee’s Linctus cough mixture, frothy peroxide and formalin. Sunflower-oil dripped through brown paper into basins under the table, to refine the oil we’d extracted using our hand-pumped press. Her crochet-bag was never very far away and her hands were never idle. Plucking goose feathers to make pillows, covering couches, and bottling jams and chutneys, she often worked to exhaustion and had to be ordered to rest – orders she found difficult to obey.

That night, in spite of the relaxing evening, the silence and peace, she couldn’t sleep. She sensed that spirits were abroad, that in the night things moved – flesh and blood or otherwise. As she lay in bed, she shifted from one position to another and found her heart racing. It was around one when she definitely heard the barely audible sound of footsteps moving very stealthily on the lawn outside. As quietly as she could, she opened the guest-room door and slipped out, keeping to the shadowed areas in the house, careful not to be seen through the windows; the moonlight streamed in.

Through the opening between the curtains, she saw the soldiers.

They were moving silently up towards the house as one... She saw them, three or four abreast, and then splitting into two groups, one moving off behind the office buildings, whilst the other moved round

Night of the Full Moon

27

the front of the house and towards the back veranda. The two elderly guards had fled.

Immediately, she thought of the others. Padding from the guest room through the interleading dining-room and lounge in her thin nightdress to warn them, she’d had no thought of first pulling on a pair of shoes or a jersey. She found them sitting on the bed, rocking Abigail... She told them to get dressed and to warn Kindra, and crept back to the guest room. By this time, the soldiers had surrounded the house, and were moving in closer, towards the windows. In her room, she tried to put on her tracksuit but suddenly, on a given signal, there was the massive crash of glass as all the windows were broken at once.

Black hands reached in and pulled the curtains through the broken windows, and a hand came through her window and grabbed the crocheted jersey she had been making for Amy’s birthday.

Fear left her. The tracksuit forgotten, she lurched across the room and caught the garment as it was disappearing out of the window, shouting that the young man was not going to have it! There was a tug of war. Then she was distracted by the grating of a large piece of furniture being shifted and turned to see soldiers pushing away the cupboard that was holding the broken door of the guest bathroom shut. In the previous attack they’d wrenched the security door off the outside and shot the lock of the inside door through. Nanna had pushed the heavy cupboard against it, just in case. The door gave way as the cupboard squawked across the floor, and a stream of ragged men tumbled through, into the bedroom. With Nanna’s attention distracted, the young soldier got the jersey. Then – how dare they – they were at the cupboards, unpacking the medicines and the bales of clothes... and all her belongings.

Indignation flared in Nanna’s heart. She could hear the Baroness’s filigree china-ware, her solid silver cutlery and her cut-glass bowls with her insignia on them – what was left of them after the last attack – crashing to the ground as the drawers in the dining-room were emptied into sacks. Rage blinded her momentarily but she was jerked back to focus by the men fighting to get their hands on her belongings. Pushing her way through the bodies, she sat firmly on the cupboard and, reaching

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In Rebel Hands

among the wiry hands, she grabbed. Her one thought was that she should get some underwear – a pair of knickers, at least. The musty odor of wood-smoke and perspiring bodies, the rough gutteral snatches of talk, did not deter her. Her hand came away with two bras and two flannels, with the hard black hand of a soldier attached. She made out the words “Deixa”, “Vovo!” and, hasty as they were, they were strangely respectful. Still clutching the garments, she was led outside and seated on the edge of the lawn circle. They would not allow her back. They didn’t want her interfering, to hurt herself.

She felt no fear. She heard the crashing of gun-butts against doors.

She glanced at the rondavel, wondering what had happened to us, while in the background the dark shapes of the soldiers moved back and forth, fetching and carrying, ripping and searching. One of the youngsters – they were, most of them, quite young – came to tear the watch off her wrist, and she smacked his hand as hard as she could. He backed off.

Phil, Vikki and Abigail Having enjoyed their short visit to Maforga Phil and Vikki were ready for the return to Shiloh in Zimbabwe the next day. That night they’d tucked Abigail into her little folding cot but she’d wriggled and squirmed, crying out, “Mummy, men coming! Mummy, they coming!” – Vikki felt uneasy and Phil had hardly slept either. Then, as they were cradling the disturbed child on their laps, Nanna had quietly entered with the horrific news. Silhouettes of the soldiers appeared at the window, and Phil grabbed Abigail and they’d all dived into Kindra’s room, even as the glass crashed all round the house.

Together they’d hidden in the bathroom, entering through the door in Kindra’s room.

Hurriedly, Kindra had pulled on her tracksuit and some tennis shoes, and slipped into the bathroom where Phil and Vikki already huddled, keeping their heads low so as not to be seen through the windows. She locked the door behind them – a tiny, flimsy little lock – but it might deter them for a few seconds.

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29

They prayed, committing the situation and themselves to God. Then they could smell the hot stink of the soldiers’ sweat wafting under the door and heard their muttering voices followed by sharp rebukes. There was a loud bang, bang, bang on the door, which made their hearts flop over in their chests but, miraculously, no man forced his way in. The soldiers were going through the rooms, overturning chairs, ripping clothes off the hangers in the cupboards. They could hear the scratch and thump as cupboards were opened and goods were dragged into the passage. Half-filled sacks thudded across the floor and feet tramped back and forth. Weapons banged against the doorframes and glass shattered. There was the sound of ripping fabric as chairs and mattresses – already slashed – were stripped of their covers.

Suddenly – in spite of the crisis – Phil and Vikki felt a peace descend upon them. A sense that God’s presence was very close, watching over them. Whatever happened, they were ready. They waited with drawn breath, wondering; the awareness that the door was far from safe, made the hair on their necks prickle. Would death be waiting? Worse, still, was the thought...no, it did not bear thinking about...It was time to trust.

At that moment, Roy and I stepped out of the rondavel into the brilliant moonlight.

The pineapple patch For just a moment we hovered behind the doors of the rondavel.

“Here goes… Please, Lord, help us!” we silently prayed. “We are in Your hands.” Then we stepped out into the presence of our attackers.

Instantly, we found ourselves in a ring of bayonet blades, pointed at us, waist-high. It was a shock to see how young these soldiers were, how excited. They surrounded us in a tightening circle. Others entered the rondavel. These were just young boys, like the ones that came to the clinic!

“Boa noite!” we said. “Amigos!” I held out my hand to one of them.

His eyes glowed like black coals from beneath the rim of his cap; the moon cast a sharp black shadow over his eyes.

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In Rebel Hands

He pointed at the bag. “Armas! Armas!”* he barked.

“Não armas!” protested Roy. The man ignored him.

“Deixa!” he snapped. He poked at the bag with his bayonet. We dropped it on the grass, lifting our hands. They dived for it, scattering its contents as they grabbed for them. Within a few seconds, everything we’d packed – basic medicines, Bible, change of clothes, blanket, toothbrush-and-paste, pens and paper – was gone, shoved into pockets or down the fronts of ragged shirts. Several soldiers were entering the rondavel. One of them emerged in the moonlight and, dragging out one of the Baroness’s feather eiderdowns, ripped it and scattered a sea of white down over the lawn. It floated, in clouds, in front of the rondavel, whilst behind it dark figures hurried back and forth.

We saw Nanna sitting on the edge of the lawn circle, barefoot and hunched in the cold. I joined her and Roy tried to speak to the soldier guarding us. Nanna was praying. She looked at me with wise green eyes, pale in the moon.

I sat next to her on the lawn. “Are you alright?” I asked.

She nodded, silently mouthing words in prayer. “We were warned, Hon,” she said. “This is His word coming to pass. They took everything from my room.” I stifled a stab of anger at the thought that she had not at least put shoes on. She continued to pray, mouthing the words silently. The traffic of soldiers flowed back and forth, carrying, commenting, passing information. I saw one with a teardrop-shaped bomb with fins at one end, about the size of a rugby ball, if not slightly larger, carrying it to the Toyota truck. Fighting the chill of shock that rippled through me, I called to him in Portuguese, “What are you doing?”

“This is a war!” he shot back. He placed the mortar under the cab of the truck. Others went into the garage where the ewe, which had rejected her lamb, was shut up. I tried not to look in that direction. Roy

* Weapons. Roy replies, “No weapons.”

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turned to one of the soldiers nearby, and spoke in crude Portuguese: “Where is your leader? I want to speak with him!”

The soldier tried to ignore him but he persisted. Then he went and called out to another and presently, after the message had been passed along, a slim man came round the veranda and down the steps towards us. In the moonlight, beneath his wide hat with conical crown, we could see his thick arched eyebrows and his villainous baby face. A pistol was strapped round his hips, its leather sheath shining softly in the moonlight. For a moment Roy and he sized each other up. Then Roy spoke in lapa-lapa, the colonial language of Southern Africa: “I have the key to the main door – don’t break it. You can come with me. Take anything you want – we have lots of medicines.” His aim was to see what had happened to the others.

The security door was locked and they were wrenching it with crowbars, but drew back, allowing him to open it. Then they swarmed in after him, joining the rampage already taking place within. Roy made his way through the dark dining-room to the lounge, the soldiers’ guns knocking against the Baroness’s hardwood chairs. As he passed – he wanted to get Phil and Vikki, Abigail and Kindra out of the bathroom, where he guessed they were hiding – he saw his new camera on the windowsill. As he reached for it, one of the soldiers grabbed it from him, but the leader called out an order and it was returned. Slipping it over his neck, he saw two soldiers pulling the VCR out of the television cupboard. It was a large, multi-system one and he bent down and pushed it back.

“You guys don’t need that,” he ordered, in English. “Where are you going to find electricity to use it, eh?” They ignored him and pulled it out again.

He pushed past the smelly, agitated bodies to the bathroom, the door of which was locked. He knocked. “Hello, there!” he called. “It’s me, Roy! Open up!”

The sound of the key turning in the lock preceded the tearful and grateful faces of the fugitives as they emerged into the passage. Kindra kept very close to Phil, terrified by the fierce gestures and rough movements of the men. Vikki, clad only in a shocking-pink nightdress and

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In Rebel Hands

blue fluffy slippers,* hugged Abigail to her. They filed out, but refused to leave the passage till Roy had joined them. The soldiers ogled at their fair skin, their frightened eyes. The commandante and Roy went into the bathroom, followed by some of the men who stripped the cupboards of the precious medicines, all the linen, all the blankets and all the coats. (We’d been sent a bale of coats by the Rhema Church in South Africa, and these were the remaining ones.) A brand-new fiveliter bottle of sheep-deworming medicine was carried out on one of their heads. Phil and Vikki saw Abigail’s clothes, her little car-chair and the pushchair being carried past them.

Roy made his way back outside, and huge relief flooded our hearts as we saw Phil and Vikki, Abigail and Kindra, all looking none the worse for wear – a little underdressed, perhaps, but untouched. They joined us on the lawn. I tried to plead with the commandante.

“Please, leave these people – they won’t be able to live in the bush!”

They refused to heed. I was afraid that little Abby was terribly vulnerable: a delicate white baby, used to being pampered, in the bush? In a war? With dysentery, cholera and malaria common, how would she recover if she contracted these diseases? How would she survive the sun? I thought of her pearly skin, surely the fairest I’d ever seen. How would she manage? And if they were going to kill us, why should she die for nothing?

We were herded together by the small, dark men, wiry and with staring black eyes, and directed across the lawn, bayonets in our backs. Roy was a head and shoulders taller than all of them. Phil thought it better if he had Abby on his shoulders – if he took a run for it, it would be easier to move fast. A group of soldiers approached and stripped his watch off his wrist. They went to Roy, but the commandante stopped them.

* During the war in Mozambique we usually told visitors to wear something dark when they went to bed at night, and to keep their shoes nearby in case a quick escape was needed. But noticing that they all came to breakfast with black rings round their eyes, not having slept, we decided not to tell them anymore.

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Then we turned down the path that led north from the circle, in the direction of Nharu-nharu, and passed between the two rows of the bougainvillea hedge towards the pineapple field. I glanced back – behind me advanced a line of soldiers, guns raised to their shoulders and trained on our backs like a firing squad, and in the distance the retreating view of the door onto the veranda. The Baron and Baroness who had landscaped the garden, knew how to do things on a grand scale, I thought, oddly. The path ended and we walked towards the ancient mango trees at the bottom of the garden.

The Baroness had planted rows of pineapples beneath the towering msunganyemba trees, on the way to the mangoes. The splayed tufts of spiky leaves caught the silver light on their raspy edges. Dried leaves around the plants crackled beneath our feet. We became aware that our escorts had stopped. They were standing behind us, spread out in a row. The moon shone on the barrels of the guns, which they had raised to their shoulders, taking aim: at us! They squinted through the sights, ready to shoot. One young soldier who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, hopped up and down, eyes glittering in a frenzy of blood-lust.

“Mata! Mata!”* His voice squeaked hideously with excitement. I swung round and faced him.

“You’re just a little pipsqueak!” I rebuked him. “Kill who?”

One of the others, holding his weapon up at his shoulder with his right hand, flapped his left hand in a rough gesture, indicating that he wanted us to walk.

“Anda! Anda!” he ordered, swinging his hand round to indicate that he wanted us to turn our backs towards them and walk away.

I thought, Is this how we are going to die? Will there be no time even to prepare ourselves? Is this all? The moon shone benignly down, as if it were laughing. It seemed as if its very rays transformed themselves into a freezing fear, spreading through our bones, burning like dry ice.

Our heads tingled. They were just going to shoot us in our backs.

* “Kill, kill!”

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In Rebel Hands

Roy was glancing right and left, his flashing eyes showing the frantic battle in his mind. He looked ahead – the slope was largely open and if we tried to run, some of us would definitely get killed. At night people tended to shoot higher than necessary, though... What were the alternatives? When they told us to walk, Roy shouted: “Don’t walk! Mix with them!” – and jumped backwards, in between two of them. They swung round, their weapons suddenly pointing at each other, with him in between. He thought, If I am going to die, some of them can go with me!

The two stood, uncertainly; one began to upbraid the other as they debated our fate. They gesticulated to one another, shouting, as Nanna and I turned to face them, walking towards them (almost provoking them to shoot) and Phil, Vikki and Kindra waited hesitantly, staring in disbelief, looking from Roy to the soldiers. Phil spoke in a low voice to Nanna and Vikki. “Keep close to them!” he said. “They’re going to kill us!”

Nanna thought, “No, they can’t be!” She didn’t understand their Portuguese. Bewildered by shock and disbelief, she pressed close to Phil.

Time froze. The fingers of the soldiers hovered over their triggers. We stared back at them, icy rivers of shock flowing through our nerves. Then, suddenly, something changed. Confusion began to ripple through the ranks. Their attention was distracted as they bickered about our fate. Arguments passed back and forth; suddenly a loud shout from the direction of the house released the indecision. The barrels of their guns dropped and they moved in around us, herding us into a line, bayonets in our backs. The awful iciness seemed to flow around us, melting into desperate relief. A peace descended, almost tangibly.

“Avança! Avança!” the leader snapped. “Pamberi-epaaah!”* Abigail’s eyes were huge and green with terror in the moonlight. We swung down from the pineapple patch into the grassy verge of the orange

* Forward.

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35

orchard, heading for the path that joined with the driveway. We couldn’t believe it. We were being taken captive – as we were. There wasn’t even time to get dressed properly. The crunch of their feet on the grassy path shattered the icy silence as we moved swiftly in the direction of the main road. And soon we were on the sandy drive, heading down the hill past the cypress trees that lined its upper reaches, past the vegetable garden where the Baroness’s strawberries glittered in the moonlight.

The driveway sloped down to the river, its usual gurgling silenced by drought. Cold air rushed up to meet us, clamping in round our bare heads and our legs. We passed over the little bridge of stones through the dank shadows of overhanging branches and on up through the winding forest to the main, tarred road.

We passed the Zimbabwe army camp. Phil hoped that if the soldiers saw us they would notice the little gold head of Abigail as she sat on his shoulders and not shoot. Nanna padded along the rough, gravelly road in bare feet. On we walked, over the ridge of the escarpment and down the other side, onto the old, tarred track where it crossed the railway line beneath the towering elephant grass. As we descended the hill, the silence was shattered by a massive explosion.

“That was our truck!” said Roy... Then another... “That was your car, Phil.”

Roy felt stripped, helpless and naked before God. It was just God, now. There were no choices any more, no rights. There was no escape. Helplessly we looked back towards the farm and the Zimbabwe army camp which might have provided help. Questions about the near future swirled round in our head: What would happen if the Zimbabwe army tried to get us back? What about the crossfire?

Mines? Food? Illness? Rape? Would we cope? Would we bring glory to God? Did we have what it took for our faith to endure, or would we doubt?

Strangely, one of the two soldiers who had planned to shoot us and between whom Roy had jumped, came up behind Roy and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t be afraid!” he reassured. “We will look after you – we are your friends!”

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In Rebel Hands

Thus we entered the strange world of our relationships with our captors, with which we were to wrestle in the days to come.

We later heard that on that night some friends of the Coopers, John and Cicely Lenton, had been unable to sleep, feeling a deep uneasiness as they thought of us. Kneeling on the floor by the side of their bed, they had poured out their hearts to God, praying for our safety for several hours. At about the time of the pineapple patch experience, they had suddenly felt a great sense of relief and known that we were going to be all right. They had gone to sleep, peacefully, after that.