Howard Gilman (Gil) worked for 5 years as a United Methodist Volunteer in Mission in Mutare, Zimbabwe

This is his account of his arrest and incarceration by Zimbabwean authorities.

Thursday, 27 May 2005, started like most days. Before finishing breakfast I had already received two visitors: a high school student looking for money for exercise books and the mother of a graduate student wanting to buy some US dollars to purchase an air line ticket for her son to travel to the US.

The third visitor was Mai Felistas. I have known this poor lady for about three years. She has three children; the oldest was born with a number of birth defects. I first met the little girl while working with kids in OTS, the poorest part of the Sakubva suburb of Mutare. I first noticed that the child’s fingers were webbed on both hands. The bone structure seemed separated so I sought out the mother and found the child had never even seen a doctor. Two operations later her fingers were separated and therapy begun. Within three months she was able to hold a pencil and started school. I will never forget the day she came running up to me, took my pen and some paper, and printed her name for me. I later gave the paper to the surgeon who had operated. His words were, “Felistas is a brave little girl.”

Now Mai Felistas stood before me with a look of total despair. The previous day she had come to me and told me her husband had died two weeks before. He had not worked for over three years and had died the slow and painful death. She said she had many unpaid bills, the rent was over due, and the electricity had been turned off. I told her I had no money for such things, all my money went to kids … school fees, uniforms, school supplies, shoes, etc. I told her to go to the Social Welfare Department to see if she could get help with the rent and to go to the HIV/AIDS testing center … her husband’s death was from AIDS.

On this Thursday morning her face told me the answer … she was HIV/AIDS positive. She broke into tears and kept asking over and over, “What will become of my children?” This wasn’t the first time I had been in this situation. I felt so helpless. What can you say … “Don’t worry, things will get better”? With AIDS every day just gets worse … slowly, painfully worse. All I could think to tell her was to concentrate on what she could do to prolong her life and to make the best provisions possible for her children.

I had a number of things to do that day around town so I took Mai Felistas and the three kids to Dr. Manyeza’s office in town and told her I would be back in a couple of hours. It was actually about four hours later when I returned and found she had seen the doctor but he had left … I was unable to talk to him. She told me what he had said about available medications, their high costs, special diet, etc. I decided to take her to FASO, an organization that gives support to families of AIDS. I watched the kids while she went in for an interview. When she came out she had what she needed most: things to do. We got into the car and headed for Sakubva.

Sakubva is called “a high density suburb” by the city fathers. Anyone else would call it a huge, overcrowded, dirty slum. The permanent buildings there (square, concrete, block houses and Quonset huts) were built to house male workers for the Mutare factories during colonial days. Men were housed four or six to a room and no families were allowed to live, or even visit, there.

In 1980 when independence was achieved the travel restrictions were removed and many families moved to Sakubva. Soon the open spaces between buildings were filled up with shacks made of wood, tarpaper, sheets of metal, plastic sheets, or anything else that might keep out wind and rain. There are many saw mills in the area and forestry is a big business. When logs are cut and squared, the “off cuts” of wood and bark are cheaply available to construct wood shacks.

Because the introduction of families raised the population of Sakubva to four times what it had been, the stress on the infrastructure was too much. Water and sewer systems started to fail. Soon little ditches of raw sewerage began to appear, especially in the OTS portion of Sakubva that was at the lowest level. Most of these shacks were about 10’ x 10’. The main furniture would be a bed, a table, and, if not a chest of drawers, storage of clothing in old suitcases or just plain cardboard boxes. Cooking was all done outside over open, wood fires. There were outside water taps used for drinking and cooking water, bathing, and washing dishes. Much of the excess water just ran into the open sewer ditches.

As we drove into Sakubva I first noticed the smell of smoke and then saw some military trucks with loads of soldiers and policemen. Next we saw people coming up the hill from OTS with armloads of blankets, pots and pans, and pieces of furniture. Some had their loads on wheelbarrows or pushcarts. My first thought was “refugees.”

When we got to OTS it was clear what had happened. The place was covered with broken stick houses … wood, tarpaper, and plastic everywhere. People were sitting in their yards with there possessions scattered around them. The people had this bewildered look as though they were in a dream, sitting helplessly as they watched their world crumble around them.

I have never felt such an outrage building up inside of me. These were the poorest of the poor simply trying to eke out an existence, to feed their families, to survive. How could a government simply swoop down on the defenseless and destroy what little they had? What was the point? What could the government gain? Even if this had been done by an invading foreign army they would have destroyed the livelihood of the rich and well-to-do, not those on the bottom of the economic ladder. This was a crime against humanity … An outrage!

I left off Mai Felistas and returned to my home. My heart was racing, my hand was shaking, I wanted to scream over this obscenity. By the time I got to my house I knew I had to do something … I could not sit still …. I was pacing back and forth. I had to do something … I had to let the world know of this crime. Then I saw my camera.

As I held the camera in my hand the thought kept coming into my head: “This is not a good idea!” I put the camera down … then I picked it up again. I was torn down the middle. I am not a courageous person. Quite frankly, I am a coward. It was like standing on the edge. Deep inside I knew that the “right” thing was to return to Sakubva with the camera. Those victims of the police riot were the people I had worked with and loved. Their struggle was my struggle; their hopes were my hopes. I wanted to wash the images out of my mind with a good, stiff drink … but I could not. I grabbed the camera and headed for the car. I did not feel I was doing a courageous thing. I felt that my desire to do the cowardly thing had been overcome by my sense of needing to do what was right.

I returned to OTS. There were even more “refugees” than before. I saw what had been a church. All that was left was the upright poles. This was a small church made of “off cuts”. On Sundays the kids and I would pass the church and hear the singing of Zimbabwe Gospel songs with drums and rattles. One time I had stopped and looked in the door. When they saw a smiling white face they waved and the singing became louder and more spirited. I stood there for about ten minutes, not understanding the Shona words of the song but feeling the power of the Holy Spirit. I left smiling and on a higher spiritual plane than when I had arrived. Now that church was just a few upright poles. I took a picture.

Next to where the church had stood was a man standing in front of what had been his house. He asked me to take his picture as he stood there with his clothes, pots and pans, a few pieces of furniture around him. I took two pictures.

Next I drove down to where a line of little businesses had been standing just the day before. One had been a little tailor shop in a shack about five feet square. The tailor had a sewing machine … an old Singer powered by a foot treadle. He was the father of a little girl whose school fees I was paying. Her name was Tambu, in her first year of high school, and turning out to be not only an outstanding student but also a remarkable runner. She had won in her event for Manica Province and had gone on to win in her age group for all of Zimbabwe. Her father’s shop was in ruins … all he had salvaged was his sewing machine. In all the rubble it was hard to distinguish what had been his shop and what was the ruins of the shops on either side and the little houses behind the shops. I took four pictures.

I walked from there over to the barber shop where I had taken my kids for haircuts. It was in one of the permanent buildings and had not been damaged. I stood with Amos, the barber, on the front step and took a picture of the wide area with the smoke rising in the distance where the police had set other shacks on fire. At this point I had hoped to go farther into OTS to where most of my kids lived but my time had run out … I was grabbed by two undercover police men.

They confiscated my camera and kept asking me if I was a journalist. They said I was taking pictures of a police action. I told them I had taken pictures of no policemen, only the results of the police action and of sites that I had personal knowledge. I told them the pictures were for my own use only … and that was one of the biggest lies I have ever told. My intention was to show those pictures to anyone … to let the world know of these atrocities.

Within a few moments we were surrounded by at least 200 people. I spotted one of my Sakubva Kids plus a number of adults I knew. These people were angry, frustrated, and very quiet. This worried the police (some uniformed police were there by then) so they put me in my car with three policemen and told me to drive back downtown to the Central Police Station.

At the Police Station there were a number of plain-clothes policemen and two Immigration Department officers. They searched me and the car in the courtyard. They went through my wallet and started asking me questions. I identified myself as a US citizen, said I wanted an attorney, and asked that the US Embassy in Harare be notified. This was all ignored. I was told I had no rights, as I was not a Zimbabwean. After about an hour in the yard I was handcuffed, put into the back of a police pickup truck, and driven to my house with a carload of detectives following. They said they were going to search my house but when I asked about a search warrant the said they didn’t need one … I was a foreigner.

There were nine policemen and they took two-and-a-half hours to comb through everything in my house … they even went through my garage, under the eves, kitchen cabinets, under rugs, and even stomped the floor to find any loose floorboards.

When they got to the bedroom I had converted to an office they were like ants on a piece of candy. They went through all my records, my cancelled checks and bank statements, file folders of individual records of children I was supporting, personal correspondence, etc.

These records were extensive. There are 23 children to whom I give complete support … school fees, uniforms, school shoes, play clothes, school supplies, etc. There are about 50 others for whom I pay school fees only. I have given interest-free loans to three people starting small businesses and was supporting three students at university level. Most of the cost of these activities was paid out of my own pocket from my pension and my Social Security checks. A small portion, about 10%, was paid by donations from people in the US. Once they saw the pattern they claimed I was running “an unregistered NGO”. (Non-governmental organization.)

They ordered me to turn on my computer and three of them started going through all my computer files. Fortunately all my e-mail is kept on-line at Yahoo.Com. They never asked how to get on line or what my password was. Only one of the three was even half-way computer literate. They did find the saved text of an e-mail I had recently sent to a dozen or more people with my views on the Zimbabwe economy, the way the election had been run, and some examples of the effects of the run-away inflation. They ordered me to print out copies that they took with them.

Next they found my passport and then I knew I was in trouble. I had come into Zimbabwe the last time on a tourist visa. My two-year TEP (temporary employment permit) had expired. When I entered I told the Immigration official that I was going to be connected with the Fairfield Children’s Home, not Africa University, and was going to apply for another TEP. He gave me a tourist visa that stated no duration period and the place where the Immigration officer writes the expiration date was left blank.

In the months that followed no one seemed to know how to go about applying for the TEP. This has to be done by the host organization. Also, the laws were being changed and those who applied were being charged five hundred US dollars for a one-year TEP that had formerly cost $50. Others were telling me that an “agent” had to be hired for another $500 to handle the processing of the paperwork. I always thought it was ironic that these fees had to paid in US dollars … the government will not take payment in its own Zimbabwe dollars.

As we got closer to the election (last March) I was hearing of people having their TEPs cancelled and others saying there would be no TEPs issued until after the election. I knew that my visa with no expiration date couldn’t last forever but decided to just wait it out. I planned to return to the US on June 23 for a month’s vacation and thought I would just start afresh when I came back in August.

The policemen showed great glee when they found the passport: now I was an illegal alien.

When they got to my bedroom they discovered my strongbox and ordered me to open it. The box had about $8,000 worth of US currency and Euros, six million Zimbabwe dollars (at the time worth about US$300), some slips of paper with financial notes, and envelopes with money for particular projects. They took out the papers and envelopes and had just started going through them when they found the box with the $8000. They dropped the papers and envelopes back into the strongbox and started counting the cash. At this point they said it was obvious I was running an illegal foreign exchange operation. They confiscated the US cash and the Euros but not the Zimbabwean currency. They said was not illegal to keep the Zimbabwean dollars. At this point the door to the strongbox was open with the key still in it. I reached over and relocked it and put the keys in my pocket. The unchecked papers and envelopes were in the box.

By this time my house was trashed. They even pulled the bedding and mattresses off the beds, had my clothes strewn about, and there were papers and books everywhere. I have four large bookshelves of books, lecture notes, student papers and records from Africa University, etc. They went through all of it. They took pictures off the wall, pulled the drawers out of my desk to see if anything was taped underneath, and moved furniture away from the walls.

They found a little hand-held, micro-cassette tape recorder. Whenever I take a trip around Zimbabwe I use it to record comments on what I see and what pictures I take. It is easier than stopping to write notes. As a geographer, it is just natural for me to want to keep travel records. When I do this I usually carry a small GPS receiver and record the latitude and longitude of various places. The two policemen who were listening to the tape didn’t say a word but I knew they thought they had captured a spy!

When we left the house they had a box of things: my taper recorder, the cash from the strongbox, my wallet, my camera with the eight pictures from Sakubva, my passport, and various print-outs of documents in my computer.

When we got outside the gate there were six or seven of my Sakubva Kids and Mai Felistas waiting. The girl I had seen in the crowd when I was first arrested, Betty-Lynnette, had spread the word. The terrified and worried looks on the kid’s faces gave me such a helpless feeling. These kids were scared. For them to just come to my house took a great deal of courage. I went over to them and passed my cell phone to Mabel, one of the older kids, and told her to call Cecillia at Old Mutare Mission.

One of the policemen pulled me back from the kids and said one of the most incredulous and disgusting things I have ever heard. After all I had seen and been through in Sakubva that day, he looked at me with disgust and said, “Leave those children alone, they don’t need you British and Americans. They are Zimbabwean children and we Zimbabweans take care of our own.” I felt like vomiting!

At this point they “officially” arrested me and, as the kids looked on, put me in handcuffs and threw me (literally) in the back of the police pickup truck. We headed for the Central Police Station.

At the police station I started the worst 12 days of my life. I should say “days and nights” because the nights seemed to last forever … and the first night was the worst.

First they took all my valuables … watch, ring, my gold cross, wristwatch, glasses, shoes and socks, belt, and undershirt(??). I had only my undershorts, shirt, trousers, and two handkerchiefs they had overlooked. They also missed a little plastic card with the Prayer of St. Francis. I was put in handcuffs and led, painfully barefoot, out of the building, across some broken pavement and sharp rocks, to the lockup. It was about 9:00p.m.

We went through the outer gate into a cage-like courtyard. Along one side were five or six heavy steel doors with double bolts and little peepholes. These led to the cells. One of the doors was unlocked, I was handed a thin blanket, pushed inside and the door slammed behind me. It was pitch black inside. I could hear some snoring, some mumbled grumbling, and water running. I put my hand out and felt for the wall. I inched forward and stepped on someone. I stepped over a sleeping body and got down on my hands and knees. I moved cautiously forward until I came to a corner. I put my head down there and stretched my feet back to the body I had stepped over.

The concrete floor was very cold. I tried to wrap myself in the blanket to get some insulation from the cold concrete as well as a little cover over the top of me. I used the two handkerchiefs they had not taken from me as a little insulating pillow between my head and the cold floor.

My mind was racing … the scenes from Sakubva were replaying; I was seeing the looks on the kids faces; I thought about many different people in my life and wondered who knew where I was. What was going to happen next? What were my options? The one thought that occurred the most often was, “Why hadn’t I listened to that little voice that said, ‘Don’t pick up the camera’”? Soon I realized I had to make a conscious effort not to look back. Thoughts that start with, “If only I hadn’t …” are just not productive. I had to concentrate on what was before me, not behind.

I doubt if I got more than an hour’s sleep that whole night and even that was in ten or twenty minute restless naps. My mind was racing from question to question and even my prayers were disjointed. At one point I was shivering so badly I asked God to just give me the peace of sleep.

When the daylight started to creep in from an iron grill window way up on the back cell wall I saw there were five of us in the cell. Three had been arrested the previous day in connection with the “police riot” in Sakubva. The fourth person was the only one who had been formally charged.

From this point in time until I was finally released the days and nights are a big blur. As I write this I will try to get things in the right chronological order but I’m sure there will be memory errors. The whole time I was incarcerated I wanted, more than anything, to have pencil and paper to make notes.

The first people to see me were Lynn Norman and Emile, the husband of my housekeeper. As I recall, two of the older kids, Olinda and Mabel, came with them. They brought me a meat pie, a Coke, and some fruit. The guards let me out into the courtyard cage where Emile could pass the food to me through the chain link fence. We talked briefly and Emile told me he had hired a lawyer who would be coming to see me the next day. It was a great relief to know that something was being done. Seeing Lynn was a great lift to my spirits … someone knew, someone was praying!

My stomach was in turmoil. Hunger was one pain I was not feeling. I ate a little of the food they had brought and shared the rest with the others in my cell. In the holding cells a prisoner only gets one meal a day … usually sadza with a tiny piece of meat and some green vegetable. What I needed more than food was to be able to sit in the courtyard in the warming sun and see people I knew, even if for only five or ten minutes.

Later in the day I was taken back into the police station and formally charged. The police detective said I was being charged with violation of the Immigration Law and the Censorship Law. Both charges called for fines which, combined, were about Zim$800,000 (about US$40.) If I plead guilty he would try to get me into court that afternoon and I would be released as soon as someone showed up with the fine money. Actually, I had over a million Zimbabwe dollars in the wallet they were holding and could have paid the fine myself. The thought of not spending another night on hard concrete was too tempting … I signed the guilty plea. (Not a good move!)

During all of this time I had constantly asked to talk to a representative from the US Embassy. They laughed. Once they had my signed guilty plea I was returned to the cell. From then until Monday I was taken at least a dozen times, barefoot, back and forth between the lock-up and the police station. I am not a “bare foot” kind of guy and my feet were bruised and cut. I had one cut on my right big toe that was bleeding but I managed to snatch a piece of old newspaper to wrap it. I didn’t want to ask for medical attention because I was afraid it would delay my getting into court that afternoon. Shortly after that I met my lawyer, Mr. Innocent Gonese, and found out there was no way I was going to get to court until at least Monday. The thought of three days under these conditions made me question how I would survive. The cold, the filth, the odors, the totally helpless feelings … Zimbabwe jails cannot be put into word descriptions.

Just a word about Mr. Gonese. I couldn’t have had a more competent or understanding attorney. He is actually a Member of Parliament for Mutare District and a leader in the MDC (the opposition party.) Later, when I was transferred to the Remand Prison, I heard many prisoners say good things about him. He is a man dedicated to the law and a champion of justice in a country where justice is often very difficult to find. It takes a courageous man to work for what is right and just in a country where democracy, rule of law, and fairness are being constantly eroded by a regime that is becoming more and more despotic.

Innocent (great name for a lawyer!) told me that he believed I would just be fined a few dollars and then released on Monday. I had heard of other cases, particularly with newsmen, where an arrest would be made on Friday, the person locked up in one of those horrid cells over the weekend, and then told on Monday that the charges had been dropped. Legal harassment!

There was one good thing about the lock-up at the Police Station … I could have visitors and they were allowed to bring me food. Lynn Norman, my attorney, my housekeeper and her husband, and the Sakubva Kids kept me well supplied … more than I could possibly eat! Nothing was wasted … my cell mates were happy to get my “leftovers.”

During this time the police were arresting a lot of the street vendors who did not have permits or were selling from unauthorized locations. This was all part of Mugabe’s “clean up.” They would be arrested and held until someone would show up and pay their bail. Most of these vendors were women. Many of them had small children clinging to their skirts and babies in their arms. I started giving some of my extra food to the children when I was allowed to get out of the cell and into the courtyard cage.

The long weekend finally ended and I got to court. My guilty pleas were entered and the judge said time was needed before sentencing. It was then that I learned my offense was not punishable by fines only … I was liable for up to three years in prison. I suddenly learned what a bad mistake I had made by listening to the police officer on Friday morning and signing the guilty pleas. What my attorney had said was overly optimistic … his words did make the weekend a little more tolerable.

I was taken back to the lock-up and then told that I would have to be transferred to Mutare Remand Prison. I was put into handcuffs and leg shackles, dumped into the back of a pick-up truck, and hauled off to “the real” prison. This was the first of many trips back and forth between the Remand Prison and the Police Station and Courthouse. They always took me through the center of town. It was very humiliating to be paraded down Main Street in front of many people I had known during my five years in Zimbabwe. The purpose, however, was not to humiliate me … it was to intimidate the people of Mutare.

Remand Prison is located between the police camp and the public swimming pool. I had many happy times with my kids at the pool, never realizing what a hell-hole was located just behind the line of trees. From the street all that can be seen is the entrance road and a sign saying “Mutare Remand Prison … Zimbabwe Prison Service.”

The prison houses about 400 inmates. There is an outer fence with guard towers at the corners manned by guards with automatic weapons. There is only one gate in the fence with an open area between it and the entrance to the prison. When groups of prisoners are brought in, usually by the prison bus, they are held in this open area where they are screened, checked for contraband, and accounted for by name before they are led into the prison.

Once inside the prison we were held in the prison yard near the office, or “Reception” as it is called, while our handcuffs and leg irons were removed.

Since I was coming in for the first time, I was led to Reception and told the rules. I cannot remember all of them but some of them were:

1. Do not speak to a guard until given permission to speak.

2. Do not ask questions, just do as instructed by the guards.

3. Never sit in any chair … they are for guards only. (When we were in Reception we were allowed to sit on a bench. Otherwise, we were to squat on our haunches.)

4. The only personnel possessions allowed were toiletry items and reading material that had been censored. (Newspapers were allowed but they had to be at least five days old and all stories about local matters had to be cut out by the guards at Reception.)

I was given a prison uniform and told to put it on. All my jewelry, watch, wallet, etc., that had been taken at the Police Station were transferred to the Remand Prison and I had to check it and sign off that it was accounted for. I then had to strip totally naked and all my clothes were placed in a canvas bag with my other possessions. I was then given a pair of canvas shorts with a draw-string belt and a matching, pullover, short-sleeved shirt … no underwear … and told to dress.

I was then taken across the prison yard to Cell #5. All doors in the prison, except for the entrance hall area and the commandant’s office, open to the prison yard. In the center of the yard is a large cage, about 20 yards square, where meals are served. The sides and roof are all chain-link fencing. Meals are taken in this cage regardless of the weather conditions.

All the cell doors are heavy iron with double slide bolts that are padlocked at all times. One guard roams the courtyard with a huge ring of keys. He is called on by other guards to open cell doors when needed. Most of the time prisoners are locked down except when one or two cells are unlocked and the prisoners assigned to them are allowed out to eat. Individual prisoners are allowed out of their cells as necessary to go to the Dispensary or to Reception.

When we got to Cell #5 the key guard unlocked the door and I was pushed inside and the door locked behind me. There was a small open court about 15 feet square, with a chain-link roof and two more iron doors on the far wall. During the day these two doors are left unlocked. The door to the left opened to a small cell and the one to the right to a larger cell. I was assigned to the larger cell, about 15 feet by 18 feet. It had a very high ceiling and two small windows very high up the wall with bars and double screening. In one corner was a hole in the floor with running water coming in one side and leaving on the other. It was on a small, 3 foot by 3 foot, raised concrete platform. That was our toilet.

The second, smaller cell was otherwise identical. The small cell housed about 10 inmates and ours housed 19. Most of the inmates were young, I’d say about age 23 to age 40, and their sentences ranged from 6 years to 40 years. Everyone in Cell #5 had a square, red patch sewn on their shirts. I found out that the red patch meant they were second offenders and/or had sentences of longer than five years. They used to joke about the red patches. They said if there was a riot or attempted break-out the guards in the watch towers were told the red patches were targets. Prison humor!

My prison shirt was the only one with no red patch. “Why was I in with these ‘hardcore guys’?” I wondered. First, I found out they were under high security and, secondly, they were the only ones with no work detail. They were given the least amount of freedom to move around the yard. I was the unknown quantity … white, American, and sentence pending. I later discovered that being assigned to Cell #5 was actually a blessing in disguise but at the time I was very apprehensive.

My first meal was supper that afternoon around 5:00p.m. They unlocked our cell door and we filed out into the yard and then formed a single file queue at the entrance to the cage. Some worker inmates passed down the line and gave us each a plate. The plates were greasy … they had been rinsed off but not washed from the previous meal. The line moved forward until I was standing in front of another prisoner-worker with a huge, black, plastic garbage can filled with sadza. This was not the standard, white sadza I had grown to enjoy in Zimbabwe. It was thick like kindergarten paste, sort of grayish in color, and was cut off in flat slabs and slammed onto the plate so it wouldn’t stick to the big plastic plate used to slice and serve it. Next to the sadza server was another prisoner serving the “gravy.” This was a sort of thin soup with a faint smell of beef. It was poured onto the sadza. The sadza was so thick and hard that it absorbed very little of the so-called gravy. Next to this guy was a prisoner who gave each of us a tiny piece of pork. I was the new novelty prisoner so he gave me a rather large piece. When I sat down to eat it I found that there was one very small piece of actual meat in the center next to a layer of fat. Around it all was a thick layer of tough pigskin. There were two black hog hairs coming out of the skin portion. I gagged just looking at it and passed this prize morsel on to the fellow sitting next to me. Just the thought of eating it was nauseating. Although there are very few Jews in Zimbabwe there are a significant number of Muslims who, like Jews, would rather die than eat pork.

After eating we were taken back to our cell and locked up. About 6:30p.m. all prisoners had eaten and we in cell #5 were herded out into the courtyard to prepare for the night. We all took off our shirts and shorts and rolled them up into a tight ball and then, naked, stood for inspection. My cell mates told me to bring all my “personal possessions” which consisted of only my two handkerchiefs and the tiny, plastic card with the Prayer of St. Francis on it. It had been in my civilian trousers and escaped the notice of the guards. It is a beautiful prayer and I was very thankful to have it in the days that followed.

We lined up in groups of five in front of five or six guards who checked our personal items. For some it consisted of pieces of soap, little rolls of toilet paper, a washcloth or small towel, and a few of them had copies of the New Testament distributed by the Gideons. One of the guards was wearing rubber gloves and would randomly select a prisoner to check “orifices” for contraband. Once the guards were satisfied we were hiding nothing, we were allowed to walk forward and pick up our two blankets for the night. We were then taken back to our cells.

Once we were all back to Cell #5 we gathered in our little courtyard and the guards lined us up for roll call. When they were satisfied we went into the two cells and were locked down for the night. This was done by about 7:00p.m. We were locked down until about 7:00a.m.

In the large cell there were 19 of us. Everyone had an assigned space about six feet long and two feet wide. There was about 10 square feet for the toilet area and another 10 square feet by the cell door for three large, plastic containers of water. It was very crowded.

I had heard stories about homosexual activities in prisons. This first night in Remand Prison, surrounded by 18 naked men, was not conducive for a quiet night’s sleep. I am happy and very relieved to say that I never saw or heard of any such activity during my entire stay. If, at the time, I had known that I would have slept better that first night.

One blanket was double folded to cover our assigned sleeping area and the top six inches were doubled over to form a bit of a pillow. The second blanket was used for warmth. June in Zimbabwe is winter in the Southern Hemisphere so it was cold but not as cold as it had been in the police lock-up. At Remand Prison there were so many of us crowded into the cell with so little ventilation that we were never very cold. Thank goodness for small comforts.

That first night everyone was curious about me and asked lots of questions. Although they spoke in Shona among themselves, all but one or two could speak rudimentary English. They were curious about America and wanted to know what it took to get there and find a job. I had to tell them the hard truth … with a police record they could forget it. Finally they got around to asking about me and what I was doing in Zimbabwe. I told them about teaching at Africa University, working with the Fairfield Children’s Home at the Old Mutare Mission, and working with my Sakubva Kids.

As I started talking about the Methodist Volunteers in Mission Program (VIM) they pulled out a couple of New Testaments and asked me to read certain passages and explain what they meant. As we read and got into discussions some of them started falling off to sleep. Finally one prisoner asked, “Mr. Gilman, will you say a prayer for us?” Saying a prayer together at the end of the day became regular routine. Those prayers gave me a sense of purpose in a situation that seemed so totally pointless.

When asked by people, “What do you do in Zimbabwe?” I used to answer, “I’m a missionary teacher.” After I left Africa University at the end of four years of teaching I would say, “I’m a missionary.” This bothered me. I was not a “missionary” in the sense of preaching, bringing converts to Christ, or what is usually referred to as “evangelizing.” All my efforts were directed toward helping children and youth, particularly toward furthering their educations. I tried to be a Good Samaritan by giving what I could to the poor, forever hauling people and their goods in my pickup truck, helping victims of AIDS, etc. These were “good works” but was this preaching the Gospel? It bothered me.

While in prison, God gave me the opportunity to be a “real” missionary. I led the nightly prayers and that led to even more opportunities. I found that the men with the little Gideon New Testaments carried them and treated them as some sort of talisman or good luck object … not something to be read and studied. Possession of the book somehow gave them a Divine protection. I started borrowing their New Testaments to read and soon they were asking what I was reading. I would start reading aloud and then ask them if they understood. This usually led to questions. They surprised me in that they had as many questions about Paul’s letter to the Romans as they did the Gospels. Paul’s letters intrigued them. Here was a Holy Man of God and he knew what it meant to be a prisoner! Soon they were reading on their own and then coming to me with questions.

This finally became an evening routine. They knew I had taught Physical and Cultural Geography so they would start the discussion by asking me a geographic question. I remember one night in particular when I was asked, “What is the deepest place in the ocean?” That would lead to a question such as, “Why isn’t the ocean the same depth everywhere?” Soon we would be talking about plate tectonics, volcanoes, earthquakes, tides and ocean currents, etc. Our crowded little cell became a classroom.

Eventually there would be a question that would lead to a link to scripture. I would let their questions decide the direction of the conversation and began to realize that their thirst for knowledge was not earth geography but for God’s Word. I wanted an Old Testament and a concordance would have been a great help … I was constantly thumbing through those little New Testaments looking for a particular quotation … but God always seemed to put the right words in my mouth and sometimes I would find a quotation, particularly from Paul’s letters, that were more to the point than what I had started looking for. For the first time it occurred to me, “Yes, I was “really” a missionary! Praise God!”

Now that I am finally home I am more determined to dig into Bible Study on a more regular and disciplined basis. If I am ever in that position again I want to be as prepared as I can be. One can never have too much Bible knowledge. Anyone who says, “Sunday School is for kids,” had better wake up!

There was one other duty we performed in the evening after lockdown: we all went carefully over every square inch of our blankets to find and kill lice. The prisoners showed me how to spot the white lice. These are the ones who have not bitten anyone and are very hard to spot. After biting someone, the blood they extract from the victim turns them black and they are ready to lay eggs. Killing a black louse will save a thousand white ones from being born. Even in prison we can acquire new skills!

The days dragged on in prison. I was hauled back and forth to court many times, usually to find that my case had been delayed once again. During these times we would be handcuffed and fitted with leg shackles. We had to wear these all day except when we were actually in the stand in the courtroom. They were always clamped tightly on our wrists and ankles and were very painful. We were often required to go into a squatting position and wait that way for long periods of time. I don’t do squatting … I didn’t learn how to do it as a child. For most Africans it is the natural resting position. This was nearly impossible for me to squat with wrists and ankles chained together. I would resort to falling into a sitting position. From the sitting position there was no way for me to rise up to a standing position. My fellow prisoners knew of my difficulty and always gave me a hand by pulling me to my feet.

I just cannot tell you how grateful I am to my fellow prisoners. They looked out for me so many times. They told me what to do, when to do it, which guards to avoid, and, in general, how to survive. Remember, I was with the hardcore, the hardened criminals with the longest sentences. These men showed me a kindness that I will never forget. If I ever get to the point where I can no longer do foreign mission work I think I would like to work bringing the Good News to prisoners. I love those words Jesus spoke, “What you do for the least of these you do for me.”

I remember one Sunday morning when we were all herded out into the courtyard for “church”. It was the only time I had seen all the cells emptied at once. They had doubled the guard force and they were watching us like hawks. As I was walking over to the place where my cellmates and I were to sit I stumbled and broke open the cut on my toe. When we sat down it was bleeding freely and I only had one of my dirty handkerchiefs to wrap around it. The fellow next to me motioned me to stop and then whispered something to the prisoner on his other side. The message was passed down the line and soon I could see some object was being passed back towards me. It turned out to be a small roll of clean gauze. The fellow next to me took it and started to wrap my toe. I felt tears come to my eyes. This little piece of bandage was very dear and may have even been considered contraband. To pass it down the row of men and to bandage my toe when there were so many guards around took courage. They were being the Good Samaritans and I was the recipient. I will never forget their kindness. They were the missionaries and I was the grateful recipient.

There was one other activity in our cell after lockdown … smoking! Cigarettes were obviously contraband. I would really like to tell you the way cigarettes was smuggled in but I don’t want to put it in black and white … the story might get back. I can only tell you how they were lit.

High up on the cell wall was a 150 watt light bulb that burned day and night. One prisoner would bend over at the wall under the light. Another prisoner would take a running jump onto the first prisoner’s back to his shoulders. The first would then stand up and the second could just reach the light bulb. In his hand would be a piece of newspaper that had been dipped in water on one side. He would put the wet side on the light bulb where it would stick. He would jump down and then everyone would watch the paper until it became hot enough to smolder. At that point they would repeat the climbing process, bring down the smoking paper, and light the cigarettes.

I noticed that above the light bulb there was a stain of smoke residue. I commented that surely the guards had spotted the stain and could figure things out. I was told, “Yes, they know what is going on but can’t do anything about it!” It is all part of the tricks and schemes, along with prison humor, that keep long term inmates for going crazy. Humor is one of God’s greatest gifts.

There are no clocks or wristwatches in prison. There are no calendars. Even in Reception there is no way to find the time or the date. This must be done deliberately. Prisoners use the sun to recognize time. Zimbabwe is close enough to the Equator that the differences in length of day between mid-winter and the middle of summer are only about an hour. Tracking time is an activity engaged by everyone.

I missed clocks and knowing the exact time but the one thing I missed most of all was pen and paper. I had this terrible urge to make notes and to record each day’s activities. Thankfully, my routine was a lot more complex than my cellmate’s boring schedules. I was going back and forth to court just to hear that my case was being delayed for one reason or another.

In Remand Prison I was allowed no visitors other than my lawyer. He brought me food and drink, which I shared with my cellmates until the guards figured out I was not eating it all. After that I had to sit in Reception until all my food was eaten. Anything I could not eat was taken and eaten by the guards.

What I did not know, was what was happening on the outside. The reason for all the court delays were the police attempts to come up with additional charges. They could not prove I was a foreign exchange dealer. The $8000 they confiscated was less than the amount I listed on the form travelers have to fill out on entry to Zimbabwe. They wanted to be able to confiscate that cash but it was a matter of court record and they had to prove I was illegally exchanging money. They could not.

Their next objective was to try to show I was an unregistered foreign journalist. There was no evidence to prove that. They wanted to charge me with being an unregistered NGO but there was no way to prove the money I was spending on kids came from anywhere but my own pocket. Actually, about 10% of what I paid out for charitable purposes was from the donations of people from the US and Switzerland. I almost never solicited contributions … I hate asking people for money … but sometimes the contributions came and I was very grateful for any help I received.

Finally the police started the dirty tricks. They went to some of my Sakubva Kids and to the kids at the Fairfield Children’s Home and tried to get children to say I had taken sexual liberties with them. These kids stuck to the truth. One of the Sakubva Kids was even threatened with a beating but could not be coerced into making a false statement.

The next step was to plant a story in the local, government-controlled newspaper. The article said I was keeping 14 girls, ages 7 to 15, in my apartment, video taping them and showing them pornographic videos. I do not own a video camera. Anyone who was ever been in my house knows I not only have no video player but in my five years in Zimbabwe have never owned a television set.

Like kids everywhere, they always wanted to do “sleepovers.” We did that on three occasions and each time I made sure there were two adult females present. During April and May of this year I had a 26-year old Africa University student staying with me. She had finished her final year at AU and was waiting for graduation. I had financed her last two years at AU after her father lost his job and was unable to pay her tuition and fees. She stayed with me for three reasons: to attend a computer training course in town during the time between the finish of classes and the graduation ceremony; to avoid daily transportation costs from campus to town; and to save on the cost of room and board had she stayed on campus.

While this young woman was staying with me, one of my Sakubva Kids came to stay for about a week. She is an orphan who bounced back and forth between her grandmother’s house and the home of an aunt. The grandmother had no food to feed her and sent her to the aunt’s house. The aunt had gone back to her rural area and left her daughter and this niece to fend for themselves. I took her in but she was never in the house except when the AU student was present.

Both the AU student and the orphan girl were interrogated by the police. The AU student had graduated the day after I was arrested. Her parents were in town for the graduation. The next day they came to my house to take their daughter back home to Mozambique. They could not find her all day and were in a panic. At the end of the day they were reunited and learned that the daughter had been questioned all day by the police. She later told me they kept asking her the same questions, over and over, about her stay with me. They were trying to make her contradict herself. I learned all this by e-mail from her after I got back to the US. The police would not believe that I had paid for her two years at the University and given her food and lodging without getting “something in return.”

No matter what they tried, they could not find additional charges. I was finally taken to court one last time. Since my guilty pleas were entered I came for sentencing. I was fined the equivalent of thirty US dollars, given three years of probation on the condition of leaving and staying out of Zimbabwe. I was then turned over to the Immigration Department pending deportation.

At this point I came under the custody of Immigration and, even though convicted and sentenced, was returned to Remand Prison. It was now up to Innocent Gonese to arrange for my return to the US. He went with me to the office of the Chief of Immigration in Mutare. I said that I needed some time to arrange things before I left … they wanted to take me directly to the airport in Harare and put me on the first plane going anywhere outside of Zimbabwe! I said had been in Zimbabwe for a number of years, owned a pickup truck and a sedan, had a house full of furniture, owed some bills, etc. He agreed to my release and a 48 hour special visa.

The cost of the special visa was to be $1000. My lawyer got him to agree to take the payment in Zimbabwe dollars at the official rate rather than the parallel market rate. This cut my cost to about $750. After I paid I was told the receipt would be given to my lawyer. The next day I got the receipt … for thirty US dollars. The Immigration official made a nice profit! In Zimbabwe a government job is a license to steal.

I was taken back to Remand Prison for one last night. I was to be released the next day. “At last,” I thought, “the ordeal is finally over.” I was celebrating too soon.

About 7:00 that evening we were locked down for the night and the guards came banging on the cell door. They threw me a prison uniform and told me to dress and come to Reception. When I got to the office there were two uniformed and two plainclothes policemen who told me I was being taken back to the police station. I protested. I said I have been tried, convicted, and sentenced. I was under the custody of Immigration, not Manicaland Police. My protests were ignored. I was again shackled, handcuffed, and tossed into the back of a pickup truck.

When we got to the police station I was taken to an office with about six or seven policemen. It was obvious they were angry about my sentence and were looking for additional charges. I refused to answer any questions until my lawyer was present. They tried to convince me that if I just answered a few questions to clear up some “misunderstandings” I would be taken back and then released in the morning. By then I knew better than to believe anything told me by a policeman and demanded to have my attorney present before I said anything.

They tried for about an hour … first telling me that they only wanted some background information and started asking me very harmless questions. One had to do with my age. On one of the forms I had shown my age in the American style, MM/DD/YY, whereas Zimbabwe uses the European way, DD/MM/YY. Then they started asking questions about my employment and retirement from the US government. I refused to answer even the simplest questions.

I began to realize that two of the questioners were not local police officials. The local people took subservient roles to them and I began to wonder if they were sent from Harare. It became evident they were getting impatient and their statements were starting to get nasty. There was every indication that if I didn’t start answering questions things would start getting physical.

Finally they gave up and called Innocent Gonese. He and his wife were out to dinner with friends but he said he would get to the police station as soon as he could. In the meantime he told his assistant go to the police station.

Both of them arrived at about the same time. They told the police to either charge me with something or release me back to prison. The two from Harare finally identified themselves as members of the Zimbabwe Anti-Espionage Department of CIO (Criminal Investigation Organization.) They said that they believed I was still working for the US government and that my brother and I had been an espionage team.

Some of you know the story of my brother but, for those who do not, here it is in a nutshell. My brother, Richard Gilman, was a semi-retired CPA and businessman from Torrington, Connecticut. He used to come to Zimbabwe every November and supported a number of charities, in particular the Vumbunu Primary School near Watsomba … about 25 miles north of Mutare. In 2002 he was stopped by police at a roadblock and there was some question about his car papers. An argument ensued and he was shot by one of the policemen. Before he could be transported to the hospital he bled to death. An inquest was finally held nearly nine months later and the magistrate found the policeman who fired the shot and his commanding officer at fault for the death.

Zimbabwe authorities would have loved to have found some mud to fling at my dead brother. Once the inquest had cleared his name I thought the matter was settled. I was urged by some to file a wrongful death suit but I had no desire to go through such an ordeal. His name was cleared and that is all I wanted. It seems Zimbabwe now wanted to find a way to dump some garbage on Dick’s grave. They are ashamed of what happened … and rightly should be.

What the police questioners didn’t know was the full story of my US government employment. I was employed by the Defense Mapping Agency in Bethesda, Maryland. A couple of years before I retired there was a reorganization and Defense Mapping was combined with a division of the Central Intelligence Agency and renamed National Imagery and Mapping Agency. My position and duties remained basically unchanged in the merger although I then had daily contact with CIA people. Since retirement in 1999 I have had no contact with anyone related to these NIMA or CIA. If Zimbabwe authorities had known of even this vague CIA connection I wonder if I would be home today! Thank God for their ineptitude!

Finally the police and the two CIO people gave up as Innocent Gonese pressed them to either bring charges or let me go. He threatened to call Immigration since, technically, I was their prisoner. The two guys from Harare looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and walked out. The local police loaded me into the pickup truck and took me back to Remand Prison … this time directly instead of through the middle of town.

There were two other times I want to recall although I am not quite sure when they happened. One was when I was coming back to Remand Prison from court. As we pulled into the drive up to the gate I looked over to some people standing under the trees. It was then that I spotted Tim Warner from the Baltimore-Washington Conference of the United Methodist Church. Tim and I go way back to when he was hired by my church, Covenant UMC in Montgomery Village, Gaithersburg, as our Youth Director. Tim was also the very first person I ever talked to about the possibility of going into mission work. What a joy it was to see him standing there with Bishop Schol. They were about twenty yards from me so I waved and they waved back. Just then one of the policemen gave me a kick and told me not to communicate with anyone from outside. That wave sent my spirits soaring. In prison it is so important to remember there are those who care on the outside.

The second incident was the day before sentencing. The Consular Affairs Officer from the U.S. Embassy in Harare had come to se me. The authorities did not want her anywhere near the prison and denied her entry. She persisted and came back the next day. Finally I was allowed to meet her in the Prison Warden’s office with guards and prison officials present. They tried to make things as difficult as possible for her … Zimbabwe males and especially prison and police officials, do not like to deal with women as equals. She was up to the challenge, pressed her points, quoted International Law and diplomatic conventions, and got the warden to back down. She did manage to bring me some food and bottled water.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Mutare has some of the best water in Africa … clean, cold, sparkling, and better than we have here in Southern Maryland! The only time I ever drank bottled water was when I was away from Mutare. In this case it was the thought that counted. Her visit did as much for my spirits as seeing Tim Warner under the tree!

The next day I went to Reception, got my clothes and valuables back, and was led out the front gate without handcuffs or shackles … but at last wearing underwear! Mr. Gonese was there and drove me home.

Once home I had dozens of things to do and only 48 hours to get them done. My housekeeper had bought food and other items out of pocket and I owed her money. I went upstairs to my strong box to get some the US$300 worth of Zimbabwe dollars. The first thing I noticed was that my office was in an even worse mess than when I left it on the night of my arrest. There were even more papers and records scattered about. That is when I knew the police had returned to the house after they had arrested me. When I went to unlock the lockbox I found was unlocked. When I lifted the lid I saw all the papers and envelopes were gone. The box was totally empty. I knew I had locked it the night I was arrested and my keys had been in the hands of the police until they were given back to me, along with my passport, cell phone, and pocket tape recorder that day.

Most of the money in the envelopes was from other people. There was $200 from someone in the US to be given to their former housekeeper at $10 per week. There was $650 of funds from Morris Taber that was to be held for emergencies. I had an envelope for the Burial Fund … money to pay for coffins and grave markers for AIDS victims at Fairfield. I don’t know how much was in the Burial Fund envelope because the totals were written on the envelope. There was $230 from kids in an after-school program in Remington, Virginia. It was for a family in Sakubva. There were other envelopes with smaller amounts. My guess is that all totaled there must have been close to $1600 to $1800.

Fortunately, they had not been able to prove I was a forex dealer so they had no cause to confiscate my $8000. Since it was officially confiscated it was returned to me. From it I was able to pay Mr. Gonese’s bill (30 hours at $125 per hour = $3750), and the cost of the special visa ($750). If they had managed to keep the $8000 I don’t know what I would have done.

The real financial kicker was my plane ticket. I had bought a round-trip ticket to the US in April at a good price of $1500. When I had to buy a ticket for my deportation there were no bargain seats. The only thing available was business class, not economy, and I had to surrender my round-trip ticket plus $450 to get a one-way ticket home.

The next two days were totally hectic. I gave the furniture, refrigerator, small appliances, pots, pans, tableware, etc., to Cecillia Thobani, the Assistant Administrator at Fairfield. I also gave her four, full sized bookcases loaded with all my books. Most of my geography and reference books she can either keep of give to the AU library. Some of you who have visited me in Zimbabwe know of my love for Shona stone carvings. All those statues, some weighing over 400 pounds, went to Fairfield. My truck was given to Cecillia and my car is being bought by Janine Roberts for her mission work.

Finally it came time to leave. There was no time to say good-by to my Sakubva Kids … no time and no emotional strength. Kenny Chunga and Kenny’s friend, Cornelius, drove me to Harare. As we drove through Mutare for the last time I looked around at the downtown I had come to call home. It was about 4:00a.m. and we saw the new look of Mutare … homeless women and children sleeping in doorways trying to stay warm.

I was still apprehensive as we left town. My attorney had told me to be very careful as I was probably still under surveillance. I just wanted to get out of Zimbabwe … to know the prison was behind me. The ride to the airport was uneventful. I checked my luggage at the airport and got through the Immigration check point without incident. My passport was stamped and I was officially out of Zimbabwe.i

Finally it was time to board the plane. I got to my seat and settled in with a sigh of relief. In a few minutes the plane would be in the air and I would be on my way. They couldn’t touch me now! I sat back in the seat, closed my eyes, and started to doze. It had been a hectic 48 hours with little sleep. Suddenly, I heard my name called! A wave of panic hit me and in the half second it took me to open my eyes a hundred visions of the past two weeks passed through my brain. I focused and looked … it was Bishop Schol! He was on the same flight to London! We had a quick talk and a longer one later during the flight. I promised him a copy of this to be delivered the next week … it has now been just short of two months.

It was late on July 10^th when I landed at Dulles Airport outside Washington. Lynn Norman met me at he airport. As we came out of the terminal I was first hit by the heat and humidity of a Washington summer night. Then my eyes were caught by the huge flagpole in front of me. There, in the spotlight with the dark sky in the background, the Stars and Stripes waved in the breeze. I grabbed Lynn’s arm and stopped in my tracks. Tears formed in my eyes. I was home … thank God! God bless America!

It has now been two months … two months of regaining physical and emotional strength. Spiritual strength was another matter. I think spiritual strength was growing during those two weeks behind bars. God gave me the strength to endure … a strength I did not have on that last Thursday in May when this all started. I recall one day sitting on the cement floor awaiting the call to go into court. I looked down at my ankles and saw those painful leg shackles. Suddenly I had a vision of the Apostle Paul sitting in prison in chains. How unworthy I felt to be in such a setting … how humbling it was to be in the shadow of Saint Paul. How blessed I am to be called “missionary.” As I look back now I realize that my spiritual side was being strengthened the whole time by the Holy Spirit and I had done what I never could have done without the Hand of God.

These two months in Maryland have been renewing and restful. I have made wonderful contacts at St. Paul’s United Methodist Church in Leonardtown. My son Dave, his wonderful wife Jennifer, and my two beautiful granddaughters, Leslie and Rachel, have taken me in, fed me, and shown great love and understanding.

I suppose the biggest accomplishment of these two months has been to recognize God’s hand in all these events … to come to realize that what happened in Zimbabwe was not a disaster but the closing of one door and the opening of another. My regrets about leaving the people so dear to me have been overshadowed by the good memories of my years in Africa. I can now reflect on five years in Africa and smile … what a blessing that is.

Now I am getting restless … it is time to move on. My future plans are very loose. I know God will show me the way. My feeling is that the future lies in Central America. I have made arrangements to leave for Nicaragua a few days from now. The plan is to enroll in an intense Spanish language school for nine weeks. At the end of that time I believe I will know if my future is there and how much more language study I will need in order to be effective working with the people of Central America. Right now my vision seems to be work with orphans and street kids. This, however, is just my vision, not my plan. My plan is to “hang loose” as we used to say in the military … hang loose and see what opportunities God places in my path.

Thanks to all of you for taking the time to read this testimony. If you get any message out of it I hope the message is that God rewards us with riches beyond belief if we just listen for His directions and take little steps in faith.

I will take personal credit for only one thing: When the call to mission work came to me I just said, “Yes.” It wasn’t an emphatic “yes” as I had no idea how it was going to work. If anything, my thought was, “God, I just don’t see how this is going to work but I will put my trust in you.” After that it was all God … and for Gil it was a wonderful, blessing-filled ride.

Please pray for the people of Africa, particularly the children. If there is any prayer time left please say a little prayer for me.

Yours in Christ, Howard “Gil” Gilman

California, Maryland

August 6, 2005 Copyright, 2005, Howard Gilman

Note by Tabers: Gil is now in Nicaragua in a Spanish language school, preparing himself for more mission work with the people of Central America. Please keep him in your prayers as he continues to serve “the least of these”.