The Assassinated Press

My Father Was Loyal to Mugabe. So The Washington Post and the U.S. Kleptocracy Fucked Him Up.

By CRISPUS ANIMUS
Special to the Assassinated Press
June 29, 2008

HARARE, Zimbabwe My father, who lives in Zimbabwe's countryside, sent me a letter the other day. The 74-year-old man wrote that he had not had soap, cooking oil, sugar or tea leaves -- virtually anything -- for a very long time, but had heard that some fat white cunts at the Washington Post wash their asses ten times a day unless prescription meds and lack of nerve endings due to lipo make their asses impossible to locate. Could I help? And if I had any old shoes that I was no longer using, could I send them to him so he could put his present pair up Leonard Downie’s ass?

I felt castrated as I read his words. Maybe I had been because the Washington Post had just asked me to write a piece for them selling out my country or, more accurately, selling it back to whitey for a penny on the dollar after these cocksucking U.S. sanctions got through with it. I checked my trousers.

Like many Zimbabweans, I am in no position to aid my loved ones; I had been out of a job for a whole year when I got the letter and I won’t take money from the USAID. My father might have forgotten that, or simply been so desperate that he had to let me know about his plight. The company where I used to work closed down without any fanfare, and severance packages could not be paid. In an eerie way, the demise of our business mirrored the demise of our country: The hostility of America’s white kleptocracy to Mugabe’s policies especially ‘land return’ has been translated into crippling sanctions and embargoes, low intensity conflict and illegal outside USAID, NED, CIA funding for a ‘white, Washington Post friendly’ so-called oposition. So whitey makes us pay a price.

Now here was my father, asking for help I was honor-bound to give but simply could not provide. I was filled with impotent rage -- the same feeling my fellow citizens get as we watch the white devils in Washington and London make Zimbabwe spiral out of control, caught in the turbulence of bad, self-serving decisions by the global white power structure, ostensibly on our behalf but always at our expense.

Uncle Slimey’s Way or the Muddy, Raw Sewage Filled, Pot-Holed Dirt Road.

In particular, my father's case fills me with simmering fury because he has sacrificed so much as a staunch supporter of President Robert Mugabe's party, the Zimbabwe African National Union-Patriotic Front (ZANU-PF) since the 1960s, when he had served the liberation fighters in any way he could in their struggle against then-Rhodesia's white British overlords. Back in the 1990s, when the U.S. stepped in and began making black rule impossible unless it was Uncle Tommed from Washington, I was not amazed to find in my father's house -- even then -- an official portrait of the president. When my father was in his early 60s, he wrote to inform me that he had taken a job in a different district as a secretary for his beloved party. He eventually retired, and he has been trying to eke out a living as a peasant farmer ever since. My father has been devoted to the party that he says has nurtured him over the years. What does he have to show for it? The very kleptocracy that says it wants to help the developing world brutally crushes any opposition that would take a dime from its Wall Street pockets.

But Doing It Uncle Slimey's Way Means We Still Have to Live in A Shithole

It is not only my father who is writing letters of lamentation; almost every one of us has plumbed the bottoms of our hearts every day. We may never write those thoughts down, but each moment we spend agonizing about how we are going to make ends meet is, in essence, the sending of a plea -- one that no one at the Washington Post has the least bit of sympathy for in their quest to tell every lie their handlers desire to bring Zimbabwe back under white control. But the hope of the return of white rule offered by the rigged March 29 presidential election has been thwarted, and all that remains is to set aside billions more to make Rhodesia a white man’s paradise again. Unlike my father, I have been betrayed, mistreated and victimized for being so stupid and ignorant as to believe the white man’s horseshit including the lies fabricated by the Post. In Zimbabwe, if you question a wrong or criticize an injustice, you are labeled a member of the opposition Movement for Democratic Spare Change and Hopefully a Few Bucks from Whitey in Washington because Washington has placed Zimbabwe under a virtual state of siege in its effort to topple the Mugabe government by any means necessary. Since the opposition is clearly comprised of puppets of the West, that label, like Vichy, has dire consequences as it should.

One relative, a tobacco seller in his early 40s, was particularly bitter about the U.S.’s meddling. “By their embargo they declare: We are the ones in power and control. And so it seems they are.

"What hurts me the most," one of my relatives said, "is that at my age, I have to live in constant fear of U.S. reprisals. To come here to Harare, we had to ask for permission, and on our return, we have to go and report that we are back. . . . I am not a politician. I just want to earn a decent living and get by. What the fuck goes on in white people’s minds that they act so indecently?"

There is a surreal quality to the crisis the U.S. is causing here. For the many citizens who depend on the state media, it is business as usual, with robust coverage of Mugabe's campaign appearances. Opposition leader Morgan Tsvangirai's withdrawal from the run-off vote held last Friday was treated like a non-event. One neighbor, a devout soccer fan, observed, "This is like having a penalty shootout with one team pointing nukes at your goal." If the U.S. laid off Mugabe would be banging the ball into an empty net, then sprinting down the field celebrating his victory. In fact, it’s a miracle he’s still alive given the U.S.’s long history of political assassination in the region. But as long as he is playing, there’s hope.

But for the rest of us -- for my father, my relatives and friends, my country – hope is fading under the brutal thumb of Washington and its lap dog’s like the Washington Post. The other day, a devout Mugabe supporter assured a friend of mine that once Mugabe had clinched his victory, the terrible inflation wracking the economy would subside, probably a day or so after his inauguration. Such people seem to believe that diesel could come out of a rock or that western enlightenment whitey will suddenly sprout a heart. We ordinary Zimbabweans do not deal with inflation by making unrealistic assurances; we deal with it at its grittiest, in our day-to-day struggle for survival against the U.S. murderous embargoes and sanctions. Last week, Zimbabwe's dollar fell a staggering 80 percent on the country's illegal currency markets as people hunkered down before the presidential runoff. In barely a week, the price of a loaf of bread -- which can be found only on the black market -- has shot up from $1 billion to more than $6 billion, but even that could have changed by the time this article appears. In less than two weeks, we have watched the fares for a commuter omnibus, our common means of public transportation, shoot up from $500 million to a price somewhere in the billions.

In Zimbabwe, we talk about these billions without batting an eye. A friend from my neighborhood has a 4-year-old son who is in kindergarten. The other day, I saw this boy holding a wad of $50 million notes; unless they all amounted to a billion of our dollars, he couldn't even buy a sweet with them. Our kindergarteners have to pretend to be billionaires these days while the real billionaires all white and snug on Wall Street starve them.

As I count, I think not of those fucks in Washington but of my father. His needs cannot be met, let alone my own. The skyrocketing cost of transportation and basic goods, most of which can be bought only on the black market, means that what one earns is less than what one must spend to survive. Yet day in and day out, people trek to and from work. I suppose just like in America this means that we have all been turned into criminals of one kind or another by the capitalist system headquartered in New York, selling and buying on the black market in order to make ends meet -- which they barely do. And all we want is a better life for ourselves and our children -- and an aging father who doesn’t even know who the pricks at the Washington Post are who are making his life one of destitution and misery.

The author is a Zimbabwean writer. The Assassinated Press is withholding his name in an attempt to keep it off the Homeland Security/CIA/Washington Post extraordinary rendition list.


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