Writings

Walking Back to Happiness…

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: If you are in a bad mood go for a walk, if you are still in a bad mood, go for another walk.”-Hippocrates

Pic courtesy of Sally Scott.

I can feel the sun on my back, already warm as toast, as I set out through the farm gate following the road that leads down to the protea field and then past the tall pines where a clamorous row of black crows are having a huge argument over which direction to fly. I know in a general way where I am headed and what I will most likely encounter along the way although each day always brings its subtle differences. I don’t, normally, wonder too deeply about my motivations for doing what I am doing. Going for a walk is just something I do and enjoy. I find it healing. Outdoor therapy. It helps me to think. It is my form of meditation. If I am feeling down in the dumps it gets me – mostly – back on the right track.

There are no limits to where I walk. I am quite happy to keep exploring the same patch of ground because over time you develop a sense of intimacy with it that comes from an accumulation of particular observations. Likewise, there is a special fascination in testing one’s expectations in less familiar backgrounds. The important point, I think, is to be able to relish both the ordinary and the extraordinary.

The habit of walking manifested itself at a very early age. When I was about three years old my father, an airline pilot with a yen for country life, decided to relocate us from our house in the then Salisbury (now Harare) to a smallholding in Umwindsidale, about thirty kilometres outside town. He chose to call our new home “Dovery” after the crooning Cape Turtle Doves that were such a feature of the place. For me, their call remains one of Africa’s most beautiful, evocative and comforting sounds.

My main memory of the property is the view which was spectacular. From our front verandah, we looked over an open stretch of land, extensively cultivated, along whose edges the Umwindsi (now Mvinzi) River flowed, its path marked by an outline of dark green. Beyond this fertile plain stretched a further succession of hills and valleys, blue and hazy, each one becoming successively paler, in turn, as they rose to meet the sky. From an early age, I liked to create worlds of my own, in which I could slip away unnoticed and undisturbed and the countryside that surrounded our home provided plenty of places where I could do just that.

Umwindsi (Mvinzi) river with my brothers and sister. I am on the left.

The Umwindsi was a lovely little rivulet that tumbled and crawled and blundered its way through a network of rocks, roots and tall shady trees. For a young child, it was a magical place and I spent a lot of time adventuring up and down it, playing in the pools and exploring its secret places to see what lay hidden there.

It was also the ideal preparation ground for our next grand adventure – a move to a remote farm at the northern extreme of the Nyanga mountain range.

The farm occupied a broad stretch of land, mostly valley but bordered on two sides by mountains. Jutting out from the main range were several castellated buttresses which stood like imperious guardians, mute witnesses to the goings on below. Along the floor of the valley stretched miles of grassland with woody patches, winding rivers which fed into one another and soft hills inset with elephant-coloured boulders, many covered with old stone walls, left behind by some forgotten people. Over it hung the intense blue sky of Africa.

The Old Dutch Settlement Road, Nyanga. Our farm was at the end of the range.

The land on our farm hadn’t been worked for many years and felt wild and untamed. At the night the wind would howl down from the mountains and the very air seemed to seethe with phantoms, both good and bad. They whispered to me as I lay in my bed with only a flickering candle, on the table next to me, to keep the shadows at bay. In the moonlight, the whole landscape beyond my window seemed to possess a strange alchemy all of its own, a spirit ancient and impassive permeating the land.

My brother Pete, bird-watching on Muchena Mountain…
Granite mountains on west side of farm. Pic courtesy of Patrick Stidolph.

There was much to discover and endless opportunities for exploration. Most mornings when the sky was clean and ready for whatever lay ahead I would set out into the wilderness to see what I could find. I learnt to watch, wonder and recognise all the landmarks: the curves in the road, the shape of the hills, the twists and turns of the mountain streams, the outlines of the fields, the size and weird contortions of the baobab trees. No horizon seemed too far away. The more I saw, the more the place insinuated its way into my soul. It deepened my love for Africa. Sometimes I would go with my elder brother Pete – an avid birder even back then – mostly I would go on my own with just the farm dogs for company. My memory of these walks and the years on the farm have never left me.

It wasn’t just at home that I walked. Bastions of robust sportsmanship, all three of the boarding schools I attended -REPS in the Matopos, Plumtree on the Botswana border and UBHS in the Eastern Highlands – encouraged healthy outdoor activities, seeing it as an essential element in character-building. Most weekends would find me exploring the surrounding countryside.

On the summit of Cecil Kop, Umtali (now Mutare). I am in the middle. My brother Pete is on the left and my friend Stu Taylor is on the right.

Eventually, the idyll came to an end. My life took a turn for the worse. Bad replaced good. War broke out. I got called up.

As an ordinary foot soldier in the army, I got to do a great deal of walking although most of it was not voluntary or even pleasant. Having bullets and mortar bombs whizz past me didn’t add to the enjoyment.

Getting shot at or mortared was not the only thing which occupied my mind patrolling in the stupefying heat of the Zambezi valley. On foot in Africa, one will sooner or later have a hair-raising experience with a wild animal. Of them all, I think it was the lone Black Rhino I was most scared of. To have one suddenly come crashing through the bushes is not an experience I want to repeat too often although I had my fair share of scrapes with this cantankerous character.

On patrol in the Zambezi Valley

Still, the army toughened me up, got me superbly fit and introduced me to some wonderful new scenery so I mustn’t grumble.

The Rhodesian Bush War finally dragged on to its inevitable conclusion. I got discharged. Like all wars, the conflict marked our lives. It left a lasting legacy. In my case, I don’t think I emerged from it suffering from Post Combat Stress Syndrome or anything as dramatic or personality-changing as that. Still, it did leave me with a vague sense of melancholy, restlessness and an inability to settle down. Unsure what to do, the horizons seemed to close in around me. I felt trapped and constricted.

Bored stiff with my office job in the Mining Commissioner’s office in Gweru, I resigned and moved onto my parent’s new farm at Battlefields, near the Midlands town of Kadoma. Needing time to think, I walked and walked. By the end of it, there was hardly an inch of the farm I didn’t know. Walking had, once again, become my solace, my cure. It also made me realise it was time to move on. To go somewhere new. To start my life again in a place where I wasn’t surrounded by the constant reminders of the futility of what I had been through.

And so I packed my bags and moved to South Africa. With me went my nostalgia for landscape which I quickly transferred to my new surroundings. I set about exploring the country. I went on birding expeditions to Marakele, Mapungubwe, Kruger and the Richtersveld. I trundled through the Little Karoo and Baviaanskloof. I walked on the Wild Coast to the sound of crashing breakers. With my sister, the artist Sally Scott, and her family I made countless trips to the Drakensberg. We slept in caves, hiked along numerous mountain trails and plunged into icy rivers.

Orange River, Richtersveld.
Hiking the Wild Coast…

The Drakensberg had a different feel from the mountains I had grown up amongst in Nyanga. Higher, more precipitous, austere, jagged, cold and with fewer trees they were inhabited by a different set of gods and mountain deities. I loved it all the same. Climbing them, I always felt I had risen above the material plane and entered another, more enchanted, realm. The scenery and views left me breathless.

Mont-aux-Sources, Drakensberg, with my nephew Craig Scott.

When I wasn’t out walking, I worked as a political cartoonist in Pietermaritzburg. As I got older, I grew increasingly disenchanted with city living. Some friends suggested I move up to their farm, high on a hill overlooking the Karkloof Valley. Viewed through the soft, filtered light of the swirling mist, there was something dream-like about its beauty; my heart was immediately smitten with delight. I accepted.

The Karkloof Valley. The view from our farm.

Moving into the country changed the shape of my life. It helped renew my sense of deep connection with the natural world. I spent many happy hours tramping over a familiar circuit of paths, seldom meeting a single person en route. Revelling in the sense of discovery and freedom that comes with this, I developed an increasingly close and intimate relationship with the local flora and fauna. However, nature still managed to spring surprises on me.
Lockdown came. I had always thought that the advances in modern medicine would provide a solution for everything but Covid, at least initially, proved me wrong. The virus transported us all back to the fear-ridden, helpless days of the Great Plague. It reminded us of just how vulnerable we still are and demonstrated that we are still at the mercy of the whims of nature.

Over the next two years my life – like many others – took on a slightly surreal aspect. As part of the locked-down community, I found the days blurring together. Whether it was Monday or Friday came to hold no interest for me. Alone in the house, isolated from the world, I lived in silence and solitude, with only the sound of birdsong, the whistle of a reedbuck, the howl of a jackal and the croaking frogs to sustain me. When I went to town, which was not often, I talked through a mask to other people wearing masks. It felt a little weird and dehumanising at first but I got used to it.

The national confinement stretched on through the months that followed with intermittent breaks. In the end, I learnt to get used to a world with little direct communication, so much so that I almost began to prefer it that way. Again, it was my walks which brought me the most relief, gave meaning to my life, helped me feel less trapped and provided me with a sense of quietude which conquered despair. I was lucky living in the country because the people living in town weren’t permitted to go beyond their front gates whereas I had our entire farm to roam over.

Heading out…Pic courtesy of Craig Scott.

If you had to ask me then why I walk so much, I would have to concede that – apart from the obvious health benefits – it stems back to a longing to be the boy I once was, innocent again and seeing the world for the first time. My walks remind me of a more carefree period of my life. More than that, though, they have become part of a growing awareness of myself, an increasing reflectiveness and a developing sense of my place in the world and the environment. It nourishes my sense of self-sufficiency. It makes it easier to exist in these tumultuous times.

Time has, of course, dissipated some of my innate restlessness but while I still have the energy in my legs and air in my lungs I intend to keep walking…

Book Reviews

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published by 4th Estate

The 1994 Rwanda genocide, conducted mainly against the Tutsi minority ethnic group, was one of the great traumas of the twentieth century. During roughly 100 days between 500 000 to 662 000 people were killed. The scale and brutality of the genocide sent shock waves around the world although no country intervened in the slaughter.

The immediate trigger for the massacre was the downing of the jet carrying not only the Rwandan President Habyarimana but also his Burundian counterpart, Cyprian Ntarymira. Determined to avenge the slaying of their president, thousands of youth militia went on the rampage, bent on exterminating not only Tutsis but any Hutu deemed as being hostile to the regime. The long-standing tension and resentment between the two cultures provided the combustible fuel that sparked a raging riot.

In the aftermath of the genocide the rebel Tutsi-led Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), who swept through the country and restored some degree of order, was originally seen as the good guys – or at least the more virtuous of the various warring factions. It is a reputation which does not always stand up to scrutiny as author Michela Wrong shows in her often chilling but always compelling account of what transpired.

Wrong, who won deserved plaudits for her book about the rise and fall of Mobutu Sese Seko, In the Footsteps of My Kurtz, and who, as a reporter, witnessed many of the massacres that took place in Rwanda, is perfectly placed to write about the genocide.

In her introduction, she admits, however, the difficulties she had obtaining accurate and reliable information in a society where duplicity and lying are seen as a political virtue but her book nevertheless contains much intriguing anecdotage from many of the principal characters involved. It also has the ring of authenticity.

Opening her account with the assassination in South Africa, of the popular but now exiled Patrick Karegeya, the former Rwandan chief of Intelligence and one-time close friend of President Kagame (the book’s title comes from the sign the assassins left hanging on the door of his hotel room while they went about their grisly business), she then moves back in time, tracing the trajectory of the RPF from its origins in the Ugandan conflict of the 1980s to its present-day position as the ruling party in Rwanda. In the process, she strips away the carefully constructed façade and shows how a rebel movement that once inspired awe and respect and pitched itself as the party of ethnic reconciliation, has become, in true Orwellian tradition, as corrupt, autocratic, vindictive, ruthless and power-hungry as the regime it overthrew – and equally guilty of its own atrocities.

One of the many questions that springs to mind on reading the book is how ordinary people, people such as you and me, were able to act with such barbarity? In part, this can be explained by the country’s toxic history which allowed one side to dehumanise the other and consider them less than human. As Wrong observes “brutality is contagious” and the whole Great Lakes area has a long history of violence. Another interesting question that emerges from the book is just who shot down the jet carrying the two heads of state? Although the truth has never been completely established, much of the evidence points in one direction

Blended with vivid descriptions of place and character, Wrong manages to weld together all the myriad strands of this difficult and shocking period of recent African history in a language that is simultaneously poetic and down-to-earth. The result of much painstaking research, Do Not Disturb demonstrates with terrible clarity the ultimate potential consequences of racism, militarism and authoritarianism.

published by Melinda Ferguson Books

South African journalist, academic and former anti-apartheid activist, Malcolm Ray has set himself an epic challenge with this book – to attempt to explain how the social and economic turmoil that has engulfed so many post-colonial African states came about. This was always going to be a tough task but it is one he tackles with determination and enthusiasm and backs up with a great deal of hard research and careful analysis.

Fundamental to his argument is the whole concept of Growth Domestic Product (GDP) which has become the core creed of most countries’ financial planning. Ray devotes much of the earlier part of the book to explaining how it evolved and how an obsession with it has come to dominate economic thinking.

As originally conceived, the drive to identify and prioritise GDP had its merits. At the end of the Second World War, for example, the United States, as the world’s leading economic power, launched what became known as the Marshal Plan whose purpose was the revival of the world economy after the devastation caused by the conflict. As US Secretary of State George C Marshall, after whom the plan was named, made plain when discussing it, the doctrine was not directed against any country but against “hunger, poverty, desperation and chaos”. Noble in intention the plan initially worked well enough although by the 1970s (and thereafter) those innocent days were long gone. Since then, a growth-at-any-cost-doctrine and unchecked free-market economics have resulted in what Ray calls bandit capitalism which, in turn, has often gone hand in hand with bolstering up repressive regimes – like Zaire’s kleptocrat Mobutu Sese Seko. Poor countries have found themselves coming increasingly under the control of mostly American multinationals.

Perhaps hardly surprisingly, Ray examines the role played in all of this by organisations like the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the World Bank, who were tasked with monitoring developing countries’ finances and whose extremely unpopular austerity measures had plunged many countries into seemingly intractable debt traps. He also shows how the whole aid for trade doctrine pushed by the US and its subsidiaries has in many cases been a tragic, epic failure.

South African readers will find the chapters devoted to this country especially interesting. Ray provides a compelling and convincing narrative to explain how President Thabo Mbeki’s ambitious economic reform programme came undone, paving the way for the rise of the opportunistic, predatory, Jacob Zuma whose “oligarchy was a populist manoeuvre to seize the ill-gotten gains of an old oligarchy, not for the benefit of the people who made it, but for himself.”

Well-informed, broadly convincing and certainly alarming, Tyranny of Growth is a timely and important book. The strength of Ray’s argument lies in his humanising Africa’s descent into economic chaos and also his posing of the all-important question – who exactly does the growth at all costs doctrine benefit when it has led to the marginalization of the continent and produced not only growing joblessness but an almost obscene inequality in the distribution of wealth?

The answer, he suggests, lies in the flawed economic model we are using…

Book Reviews

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Published by Weidenfield & Nicholson

Just over a century ago, Russian society suffered a massive convulsion, the after-shocks of which are still being felt across the world to this day. A widespread discontent amongst peasants, workers and soldiers, serving on the WW1 battle fronts, both with Tzarist imperial rule and a system of government they regarded as anachronistic, corrupt, extremely unequal and exploitative, led to a series of revolts and uprisings which culminated in the overthrow of the Romanov dynasty. The deposed monarchy was replaced by a liberal Provisional government (Duma) which did not last long and was, in turn, overthrown by the Bolshevik Revolution of October 1917.

The Bolsheviks were, by no means, the majority party but their leader Vladimir Lenin – ably assisted by Trotsky and Stalin – was more than happy to sacrifice ethics on the altar of the cause, tell useful lies and suppress harmful truths if it got him what he wanted. Their ruthlessness, obsessive vision and scorn for all forms of conventional morality helped propel them into power.

In Marxist mythology, both the revolution and civil war that followed are usually cast in heroic terms but the reality, as this book makes only too clear, was anything but with both sides displaying an almost limitless capacity for killing once the means were in their hands – thanks in part to an indoctrination programme that persuaded murderers that their victims deserved their fate.

The more vulnerable or threatened they felt, the more brutal they got. Terror begot yet more terror.

Most famous amongst the many murders carried out was that of Tzar Alexander and his family, whose execution, in cold blood, represented, in the author’s words, “a declaration of total war in which the ‘sanctity of human life’, as well as notions of guilt and innocence, counted for nothing.”

Opposing the Bolshevik’s Red Army were the Whites, a somewhat shaky and improbable alliance of moderate socialists, reactionary monarchists and members of the old military officer class. Like the Bolsheviks, they were quickly corrupted by the cause and perpetrated their share of horrors and atrocities. At various stages, both sides were aided and assisted by several outside powers, including the US, England, Germany, France, Poland, China and Japan..

Riven with internal divisions and wide ideological differences, the Whites, in the end, proved, no match for the single-minded dedication and relentless determination of the Reds. Their victory helped usher in the modern era of the all-powerful, all-seeing state.

In this fascinating and meticulously researched account author Anthony Beevor, who earned plaudits for his previous book Stalingrad, takes the reader on a chronological journey through events, showing how an incompetent and out-of-touch tsar, a group of ruthless revolutionaries and a catastrophic world war, all combined to plunge Russia into a maelstrom of human hatred and destruction. Offering new insights and drawing imaginatively on a range of eyewitness accounts, it provides a powerful panorama of a watershed moment in history

With Vladimir Putin seeking to rehabilitate the memory of Josef Stalin with his own dangerous gamble in Ukraine, the legacy of these years remains as relevant now as it ever did.

It is why histories like this one must continue to be written and read.

Published by Jonathan Ball

The Anglo-Boer War which took place between 1899 and 1902 was one of the seminal events in South African history. It came about as the result of a deliberately aggressive policy adopted by imperial Britain – and in particular the high commissioner at the Cape, Sir Alfred Milner (hence its other name: Milner’s War) – towards the Boers of the Transvaal and Orange Free State republics. The major prize on offer was control of the incredibly rich Rand goldfields.

In the end, it did not turn out to be the quick dust-up many of the British had anticipated and for a while, the Boers actually held the upper hand, a situation which only changed when the British poured in more troops. At the end of the conflict, twenty-five thousand British and imperial troops were dead, many of them by disease rather than enemy fire.

More than this, it provided Britain with its first taste of modern warfare and it proved a humiliating lesson for a country which then laid claim to a substantial portion of the world.

The war was also modern in the sense that it was one of the first to be photographed extensively thanks to advances in photographic technology and the introduction of hand-held cameras. Tinus Le Roux, a South African photographer, has sifted through thousands of these old black and white photographs and selected a representative sample which he has then hand-coloured with the aid of a computer to give them an added freshness and lustre.

Put together in chronological order, the first volume of his The Boer War in Colour covers the conventional phase of the war, from October 1899 to September 1900. The result is a triumph of judgement and selection, that offers a vivid new picture of a country preparing for and then torn apart by what effectively became a civil war; a war that left behind a legacy of bitterness that still lingers on today. Famous faces are there but perhaps it is the portraits of ordinary burghers, civilians and soldiers going about their everyday business in a time of great upheaval and change that gives these iconic historical photos their power and poignancy.

Travels Back: The Lure of the Frontier

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Although its importance has long since declined, the “Great North Road” was, in its time, one of South Africa’s most famous roads and considered of great strategic value, in spite of the fact it passed through some of the harshest, driest, least populated parts of the country. Skirting, for much of its length, the north-western border of the country, it was the original highway into the interior and favoured by many of the early traders, hunters, transport riders and missionaries. The significance of the road was not lost on the politicians either. The conniving arch-imperialist Cecil John Rhodes saw it as the key to British expansionism, and the opening up of the African continent. As part of his plan to outflank and contain the Boers (as well as ward off the threat posed by the Portuguese in the East and the Germans in the West), he sent his ‘Pioneer Column’ up it to annexe all the land north of the Limpopo.

Adding to its allure for me was the fact my ancestors also toiled up it in their ox-wagons, in 1892, as part of what became known as the Moodie Trek (see Travels Back: Trekking with the Moodies). Having received the blessing of Rhodes, they had set out with high hopes for their promised land but within a year of attaining it, their leader was dead. Unable to carve out a life there, many of the others drifted on.

A rebel group, who, on reaching Fort Victoria, had elected to continue on to Salisbury in the north rather than struggle on to their original destination – Gazaland in the east -, fared slightly better, in many cases finding a more permanent base to operate from.

After the demands and travails of their journey it must have felt good to be able to put down roots although, having only been established a few years earlier with the arrival of the Pioneer Column, Fort Salisbury was still barely a town. A few robust iron and wood structures, as well as mud-brick houses, had sprung up alongside the tents and grass-thatched, pole ‘n daga huts of the original settlement. It still had a frontier feel, a hint of the American Wild West with its wagons, stagecoaches, noisy bars and men on horseback with guns.

Stagecoach (Pic: Stidolph family collection)

Determined to establish their place in the sun, my ancestors wasted little time. Within months, another thatched hut had been added to all the others – a photograph from the time dutifully records it as “Moodies First House in Salisbury”. From an architectural standpoint, it wouldn’t have won any design awards but judging by their self-confident, languorous poses its occupants were pleased enough. It was a start. Wanting a place he could call his own my great-grandfather John Warren Nesbitt lit upon a happy patch of fertile agricultural land in the Mazoe Valley, just north of Salisbury – an area which would play a small part in my family annals as we shall see. Unfortunately, it was here the sins of his past caught up with him for he was told by the BSA Company that he could not register it because he had broken the terms he had agreed to when he signed up for the Moodie Trek. Undeterred he would go on to acquire two other farms, one in Goromonzi and one in Nyanga, both of which he duly named after himself (Warrendale)

Moodie’s first house in Salisbury.

Not too surprisingly, this willy-nilly parcelling out of land among the white settlers, at the expense of the local tribes, caused a certain amount of resentment and bitterness, as well as a desire to shake off the yoke of the invaders. In 1896, the Ndebele, who had occupied much of what came to be known as Matabeleland, launched the first sustained campaign against a colonial authority anywhere in Africa. Although a warlike people (they had conducted periodic raids into Shona country) with numbers on their side, they had no answer to the British Maxim Machine Gun and the revolt was eventually crushed. The settlers who had helped suppress it were rewarded with yet more land.

Salisbury laager. Note Maxim gun.

In Mashonaland, the white community was caught napping a little later on when – encouraged by the failure of the Jameson Raid in South Africa – the supposedly more docile, downtrodden Shona also rose up in a similar rebellion. My great-grandmother Marjorie Coleman and her two grand-daughters Josephine ( better known as Josie – my father’s mother) and Nora were to get a foretaste of what was to come when they narrowly escaped being killed as they were returning from Umtali to Salisbury and found themselves surrounded by an armed horde. Fortunately for them, the order to kill all white people would only come a few hours later and they were allowed to continue on unmolested.

In the short but bloody conflict which ensued another relative, Randolph Cosby Nesbitt – the brother of John Warren and uncle of my father – would distinguish himself as one of the heroes of the beleaguered white community holed up behind their defensive laager in Salisbury.

A captain in the Mashonaland Mounted Police during the rebellion, he led a patrol consisting of only 13 men to rescue a group of miners who had been surrounded by over a thousand rebels, armed with an assortment of Lee- Metfords, Martini-Henrys and old muzzle loaders, at the Alice Gold Mine in the Mazoe valley. J.W.Salthouse, the manager of the mine, had had the good sense to fit out a wagonette with bulletproof iron sheets to give protection to the women and one sick man. Riding alongside this, Randolph and his men succeeded in getting the beleaguered party – which included three women – back to Salisbury, some 27 miles away, despite coming under particularly heavy fire as they fought their way through the long grass and well wooded, hilly country that bordered the Tatagura river, on the side of which the road ran. Considering how outnumbered they were, their casualties were surprisingly light, with only three of the small rescue party being killed and five wounded. The arrival of the exhausted little group back at the Salisbury laager was greeted with gasps of astonishment as everybody had given them up as dead.

For his actions Randolph was awarded the Victoria Cross (see picture below), the first Rhodesian to receive Britain’s highest award for gallantry and combat. As a national hero, his medal used to be housed in the National Museum in Salisbury. The famous episode also became the subject of a popular book – Remember Mazoe by Geoffrey Bond.

There exists a snapshot of Randolph in officer’s regalia posing outside the old BSAP Mess in Nyanga, the same area where we would, much later, buy our own farm. Backdropped by a high mountain and a house that looks like it was built by elves, it is a study in contrasts and, somehow, captures an era.

With his snowy hair, military dress, spread-eagled legs and a mouth masked by a large moustache, he looks every inch an imperial officer. Handsome with something of a sportsman’s build, he comes over as a man who cannot imagine failure and who is clearly accustomed to being in a position of authority, command and living a life of discipline and order. From every pore, he projects purpose and certainty. Tough, resourceful and obviously used to leading from the front, one can easily imagine him remaining calm and collected in the face of overwhelming odds.

Sitting beside him, the loyal, supportive, spouse, his wife cuts a more demure, feminine figure although, in her own way, she, too, exudes an air of quiet competence. Calm, steady-eyed, in her sun hat and long dress, one can easily imagine her organising tea parties or quietly setting out to recreate the comforts and dignities of the Victorian upper-middle class in the depths of the African bush.

Standing behind them are two, uniformed black servants. They are staring dutifully at the camera but with looks, one can’t quite interpret. Whatever they are thinking, they are not letting on

In the light of history, there is a slightly surreal quality to the picture. Little could that imposing couple have foreseen or foretold that within eighty years their secure, timeless, confident world would be gone; the era of their mastery would be over, the colonial order they represented would be dismembered, their monopoly of political power lost or that White Rhodesia would have been swept away.

Within nationalist historiography, the African resistance of 1896-7 became popularly known as the First Chimurenga War and provided both an inspiration and a dress rehearsal for what was to come. Seventy years later the country would once again find itself facing an armed uprising as the ZANLA and ZIPRA forces led by Robert Mugabe and Joshua Nkomo clashed with the Rhodesian security forces of Ian Smith. This time around, the Shona – who would go on to become the dominant political group in an independent Zimbabwe – were better prepared and better equipped. They ensured they had plenty of weapons, something the Soviets, who were then involved in some Empire-building of their own, were only too happy to supply. Once they had replaced the white government they turned their attention to their former foe, the Ndebele, settling a few old scores with the help of some instructors from North Korea.

Largely ignorant of (or perhaps just indifferent to) the cataclysm of social change their arrival had unleashed on the local tribes and happily oblivious of what lay ahead, the whites carried on creating new urban centres and taming the land. Not without reason, they were immensely proud of what they were able to achieve in so short a period of time. The tribes who had been ejected from the more fertile, productive land, however, probably saw it through more jaundiced eyes. When her husband died, Marjorie Coleman opened the first boarding house in Salisbury which, although on a small two-room structure, was evidently able to accommodate 32 boarders at a time. Ironically my grandmother’s sister Nora, who achieved the rare distinction of living in the country longer than any other white, would survive to see both the first and second Chimurenga wars and the rapid dismantling of all of Rhodes’s dreams for the country.

Although Nora would live on to become the grand old lady of Rhodesia, her sister, Josephine, having given birth to four children, including my father, would die, while she was in confinement with her fifth, Joseph, on the 21st of August 1921. She was only 33. From the pictures I have seen of her, she was an attractive lady, with a smile both gentle and a little whimsical.

Sarah Susannah Nesbitt (centre) and her daughters Josephine and Nora.

Her husband, Alan Stidolph, a slightly more austere figure, later got remarried to Marion Hughes and around 1948 they moved to Broadlands Avenue on the Avondale Ridge, in Salisbury, where they built a double-storey house, named Badsel after the family home in Kent.

Alan Stidolph – lying in front, mysteriously clutching the end of the walking stick. I am not sure who the others are. (Pic: Stidolph family collection)

When Alan died he was buried in the nearby Avondale Church where my father’s ashes would, in turn, be interred.

There are numerous other black-and-white photos from these bygone eras stored away in my files under the heading ‘Family Mix’. And what a mix they are. Frozen in time and place with their peculiar hairstyles (the ladies’ abundant hair usually bobbed up on top), strange clothing, their starched and frilled dresses, their old-fashioned jackets, neck-ties and wide-brimmed hats, their pipes, their faithful mutts and gawky children (is that really my father in flannels with a tennis racket?), they provide a link to a now departed world of over-dressed Europeans and half-naked Africans, of conflicting cultures, class systems, languages and tribal differences. Precious keepsakes of the past, the pictures also help give these now long-dead relatives an identity, a sort of existence, a life of their own – although, since they left so little behind in the way of letters or memoirs, their stories must, sadly, remain forever incomplete, their inner lives mostly unknowable.

Spectres in a hazy, monotone landscape, they glitter on the edge of my imagination but I can never quite grasp them.

GALLERY

Some more photos from the Stidolph family collection:

This photo is titled ‘Picnic on the Shashe River’ although the surrounding trees, which look like Miombo woodland, suggest another location. I have no idea who any of the people are but they presumably have some connection with my family.
From the family collection. Again, I have no idea who the man with the pipe is but the photo does give you a good idea of the master/servant relationships of the time
Picnic time. My father, Reginald Neville Stidolph (top left), his mother, Josie (top left second) and father, Alan (top left third). Around 1920.
Stidolph offspring. From top left: Jack (killed WW2), Harold, Joyce, Reginald (my father)
My father as a tennis player
My father’s siblings: Phyllis, Jack (who later served in the RAF and was killed during WW2) and Harold at the wheel (who would go on to become the Provincial magistrate for Matabeleland). Kutema in the background.

My father’s Uncle Randolph’s medals.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Many thanks to my eldest brother, Patrick Stdolph, whose research into our family history filled in many of the blanks…

Travels Back: Trekking with the Moodies

/ stidyatkusane / 11 Comments

I grew up in the dying days of Empire, that now fast receding period in history when the British nation spread out across the globe and ended up laying claim to and governing a substantial portion of it. Their motives for doing so were numerous, their impact (both good and bad) enormous. In terms of size and influence, it was the greatest empire of all time. As the historian, Niall Ferguson put it, in his critically acclaimed book Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World: “No other country in the world came close to exporting so many of its inhabitants…The Britannic exodus changed the world.”

For better or worse, I am a product of this mass exodus. My father’s grandfather, Harold Edward Stidolph, a musician, organist, composer and writer of verse, was among the countless many who decided to try their luck in the colonies arriving in Cape Town around 1884, ship unknown. Patriotic and devout (if his verses are anything to go by) and very much a man of his time, he took to South Africa with enthusiasm – among other things, touring the Cape Colony with Ede Remenyi, a popular Hungarian violinist who had worked with Franz Liszt.

Harold Stidolph.

There are Scots and Irish in my ancestry on my father’s mother’s side and their connection to this country goes back even further. In 1817, Benjamin Moodie, the last Laird of Melsetter in the Orkney Islands, facing ruin and a drastic decline in social status, led a party of indentured Scotsmen out to South Africa, on the ship Brilliant, with the intention of establishing a settlement in the Cape where he hoped to recoup his position and fortune. For various reasons – a separate story in itself – Benjamin’s feudal visions were never fully realised but he did end up buying land at Groot Vader’s Bosch near Swellendam which his descendants still farm to this day.

Not my side of the family though. For reasons unclear, Benjamin disinherited his firstborn son, James – from whom I am descended – which meant Groot Vader’s Bosch was left to his second son. It was a decision I had good cause to regret the moment I first laid eyes on the farm with its magnificent old house sheltering on the slopes of the beautiful Langeberg.

What is known is that James equipped with a wagon and a load of either timber or of saleable mixed goods decided, to head inland towards the Orange river to seek his fortune. He fell ill near the northern borders of the Cape Colony, got taken in by a Boer family, and was then nursed back to health by Sara Van Zyl (whose South African family tree dates back to the days of Van Riebeek) who he subsequently married.

She bore him eleven children one of whom, Thomas – or Groot Tom as they called him because of his size and amazing strength – would also uproot his extended family and take them off in search of pastures new.

The trek that he would lead – the Moodie Trek – was an experiment, in that it marked the first organised attempt to establish a European settlement from the south in Gazaland. The inspiration for it had come from George Benjamin Dunbar Moodie, a young adventurer from Natal who, having explored the area and realised its potential, put the idea to his uncle Thomas, then a wheat and maize farmer in the Bethlehem district of South Africa. Taken in by Dunbar’s glowing descriptions (”the prettiest country I have ever seen”) Thomas agreed to lead the trek. Hoping, like his grandfather before him, to create a new Melsetter in the wilds, he led a small delegation of interested farmers, in January 1892, to see Cecil John Rhodes.

It must have been a relatively easy sell. Rhodes’s interest in the area was well known and had, over the years, grown even greater (to say nothing of his grand plan to attach the whole of the continent to Britain). Realising the importance of establishing a European settlement in Manicaland to act as a buffer against the Portuguese who were actively seeking to resuscitate their ancient claims to “Monomatapa”, as well as outflank the Boers of the ZAR by claiming the territory north of the Limpopo, he readily agreed to the proposal once suitable terms had been arranged.

Having obtained the necessary backing Groot Tom returned home. There was much to be done before they could set off. Most important, he needed people. To this end, Groot Tom set about recruiting a group of mostly Afrikaans-speaking farmers to join him. In the end, the party that set off on this long, arduous journey was made up of 29 families consisting of 37 men and 31 women, with 17 wagons and 350 horses and cattle. Where they paved the way, others would follow.

Dunbar Moodie did not join the trek party but instead sailed up to the port of Beira, in Mozambique, and then travelled via Umtali to Salisbury before linking up with the trek in Fort Victoria.

On the 8th May 1892, cheered on by a crowd, the trek rumbled out of Bethlehem “with a great lowing of cattle, whipping and whooping”. They were joined by an ox wagon in which rode John Warren Nesbitt (the Nesbitts were of Irish extraction), his wife, Sara, and their very young daughter, Josephine – my grandmother – who had been born on the farm of White Hills near the old gold-rush town of Barberton (in present-day Mpumalanga).

The seeds of my future life in Rhodesia/Zimbabwe had been laid.

Route taken by the Moodie Trek.

The wagon train struck out into the interior, heading across the open high plateau until they reached Zeerust. From there, they followed the route taken by the old hunters, missionaries, transport riders and, more recently, the Pioneer Column. For much of its length, it skirted the north-western border of South Africa, leading them across the dusty, flat plains until eventually, they sighted the waters of the Limpopo, glimmering in the distance. It is likely they crossed the river at a point, now known as Rhodes Drift, just west of its confluence with the Shashe River. From here they headed up into the Tati Concession area (now Botswana).

The Limpopo. The trek most likely crossed several kilometres upstream.

This is a harsh, arid country. In summer the sun hammers down relentlessly, and water is often hard to come by. Coming in fast, huge thunderstorms sweep across it, the lightning illuminating the landscape below in jagged flashes. There were other perils to be faced. Awareness of animals must have bought an awareness of details. One can imagine their senses growing attuned to lions, hyaenas and elephants, all of whom were common in these parts.

As often happened in these emigration stories, all did not go quite according to the script either. Groot Tom had hoped to complete the trek in four months but such were the hazards and hardships they encountered along the way it took them that amount of time just to reach Limpopo and then another four months to get to their final destination.

At Macloutsie, just over the border, there was an outbreak of foot and mouth disease amongst their cattle, many of whom grew so weak they were eaten alive by the hyena that prowled around their camp. This delayed them for another month. There were also attacks by lions and shortages of water. Snakes proved an ongoing problem with several of their dogs being killed by the fearsome, deadly, Black Mamba. Undeterred the party struggled on. Ahead of them lay more hills, more flatness.

They reached Fort Tuli on 12th September, Occupation Day where they were able to replenish their diminished supplies. They also organised a dance (“the jolliest I have ever attended” according to one of the trek members). One of their concerns for the next leg of the trek was the possible hostility of the Ndebele raiding parties who were active in the area. Apart from one or two small incidents, they got through unscathed.

They were to face more drama, however. Upon reaching the small settlement of Fort Victoria (modern-day Masvingo) a major falling-out occurred amongst the trek members when it was discovered in which direction their true destination lay. It would appear that a large number of the party had not been paying close attention when the objectives of the trek had originally been spelt out. Now they could not understand why, instead of following the wagon wheel marks up to Salisbury and the more healthy highveld, they were branching off into what looked like wild, untamed, malaria-ridden country. Or maybe they were just exhausted after months of trekking under the hot African sun and this caused some confusion in the mind…

Looming large amongst the group of dissidents was John Warren Nesbitt who, having been appointed correspondent of the trek, proceeded to pen an angry letter to the Tuli Chronicle, a newspaper, I must confess, I did not even know existed (considering that Tuli is in one of the most remote and isolated parts of modern-day Zimbabwe one wonders what its circulation figures were).

Unable to reach an agreement the party split up into two groups with one half continuing on to Salisbury while the other trekked on to their original goal, Gazaland and the Chimanimani Mountains.

Having written an equally indignant letter refuting John Nesbitt’s allegations, Dunbar Moodie decided to take advantage of the impasse by getting married to his cousin, Sarah Moodie. For their honeymoon, they chose the nearby, mysterious Zimbabwe Ruins, which were to become the subject of much contentious debate. They were, in all likelihood, the first European couple to choose this site to celebrate their nuptials…

Zimbabwe Ruins.

The Gazaland-bound group set off on the last leg of their journey. It proved every bit as challenging an ordeal as what they had already been through. Before them stretched yet more miles of wilderness, the initial terrain was rough and broken, then flat but extremely hot. The party was afflicted with malaria, and their animals succumbed to horse sickness and other ailments. Reaching the Sabie River, with the Eastern Highlands now in plain sight, Groot Tom decided to stop and celebrate. The party gathered together under a large baobab and a demijohn of brandy was produced. The ragged survivors beneath it must have seemed like some ghostly apparition. As one account, now in the National Archives in Harare, put it “Our stricken folk and wagons presented a pitiful sight. The enthusiasm of the men under the circumstances brought tears to the eyes of the owner of the demijohn of brandy (Mrs Dunbar Moodie). The demijohn was brought to the light of day and added considerably to the zest of celebrations.” Dunbar put it more pithily. In his diary, he simply recorded: “Got squiffy – all of us.”

Some photos showing location of Moodies drift taken at a later date.

They crossed the river at what would subsequently become known as Moodie’s Drift, just south of the present-day Birchenough Bridge, then headed up the final steep stretch. Eight months after they had set off, the loyal remnants of Tom Moodie’s original group finally reached the rolling green hills and mountains of what would become the new “Melsetter”, still full of high hopes and ideas about how they were going to create an ideal rural society on the land. For the Moses-like figure who had guided them, there was to be no happy ending of rippling crops and pasture lands full of fat sheep and contented cattle. Within a year of pegging his farm, Waterfall, Groot Tom had succumbed to malaria and blackwater fever and was dead. You can see his grave still there to this day, by the side of the main tar road. Above his name is inscribed the dedication “For Queen and Empire”.

The inscription is hardly surprising. The Moodies lived in an era when many of those who had gone out to the colonies were conservative by nature and loyal to the crown. They saw themselves as emissaries of established imperial power, the bearers of a universal, unquestioned, order, part of a civilising force whose duty was to uplift the rest of mankind. The fact that the people they subjugated in the process did not always see it in quite such heroically romantic terms did not occur to them or else was conveniently overlooked.

Memorial to the Moodie Trek in Melsetter (since demolished)

A memorial to the trek was later put up in the centre of Melsetter. Because of its unwanted associations with colonialism, it was dismantled after Robert Mugabe came to power. The village was renamed Chimanimani, after the nearby range of mountains.

Chimanimani Mountains

After Tom’s death, his wife Cecilia Moodie, returned to her relatives in South Africa where she died in 1905, She was buried on the farm of Rietvlei, today known as the Rietvlei Nature Reserve, south of Pretoria.

For many of the other emigrants, it would prove an equally, fragile, brief interlude. More died, others moved and moved on again leaving behind them an ominous hole. Soon there would be very few of the original trek members, or their descendants left.

For their part, the breakaway group had, in the interim, continued trundling their way towards Salisbury which, at that stage, consisted of little more than a village of tents, pole and dagga huts and a few brick homes sprawled around The Kopje. Bit by bit the town would spread out from this hill slowly engulfing the surrounding veld, vleis and acres of long, pale grass until eventually, it became the modern city of today with its concrete skyscrapers and buildings, just like metropolises all over the world.

Salisbury in the 1890s
Saliasbury 1890s

The arrival of the dazed and travel-stained home-seekers amongst the bare scatter of buildings caused something of a stir. As was so often the case in frontier towns, the majority of the early white settler population was young and male, so this unexpected infusion of more women was a cause for great celebration (according to Sarah Susannah Nesbitt, who later wrote an account of her experiences, there were only eight women and a few children in the town when they arrived, not counting the Roman Catholic nuns and sisters).

Sarah’s daughter, Josephine Nesbitt, would go on to marry Alan Stidolph, the son of Harold, mentioned above. They had five children together, one of whom was my father, Reginald Neville Stidolph. Another piece in the family jigsaw had slotted into place.

During my youth, none of this meant much to me. It is only that I have reached an age when I am only too aware I am living on borrowed time and have started doing some serious stocktaking of my life it has assumed a much greater significance. Each generation passes something on to the other. If you want to understand the present, the best place to start is usually looking back.

I met none of the folk here described, not even my grandmother who died at a relatively young age, but – like my father before me (another adventurous spirit) – I think I have inherited a few of their traits. I possess something of their wanderlust, curiosity and desire to seek out new frontiers. I, too, like to test myself against nature by periodically returning to a harsher – and more simple – mode of existence than the more safe and sedentary one I live on a daily basis. I have never, admittedly, subjected myself to such an exhausting physical ordeal as they did on their long trek (in my case a hike in the Berg or along the Wild Coast usually suffices). For this reason, if no other, I find their achievements awe-inspiring.

I am aware, however, that not everyone views my ancestors’ achievements – their ‘opening up of the continent’ – in such a heroic light. I am equally aware that the legacy they left behind brings its own political, spiritual and psychological baggage. Through no particular fault of mine, I was born on the wrong side of history, under a now-defunct set of ideas and beliefs; a political system which denied basic political rights to others and led to an ever-widening turmoil in the sub-continent. A certain amount of guilt attaches itself to this, an awareness that British rule was not quite as enlightened as it often tried to present itself to be. It is not something that can be easily wished away; the best thing one can do is acknowledge, understand and learn from it.

History, as we know, abounds with ironies and this story has its little postscript too. The collapse of the former Rhodesia triggered a massive reverse trek as many whites, fearful of their future under Robert Mugabe’s hard-line, Marxist-style, regime, packed their bags and became part of a new diaspora. Many of their concerns appeared justified, too, when his government launched its chaotic and violent land grab which sent the economy into freefall.

I was part of this general exodus, swept along, by the turning tide from the country of my birth. In a sense, I had returned to the starting point, and the journey had gone full circle…

REFERENCES:

Many Treks Made Rhodesia by C.P. Olivier (Published by Howard B. Timmins)

The Scots in South Africa: Ethnicity, Identity, Gender and Race, 1772-1914 by John M. Mackenzie with Nigel R. Dalziel (published by Wits University Press)

Overberg Outspan by Edmund H. Burrows (published by Swellendam Trust)

Experiences of Rhodesia’s Pioneer Women by Jeannie M. Boggie (published by Philpot& Collins)

Many thanks to my eldest brother Patrick Stidolph whose research into our family tree I have also drawn on here.

Book Reviews

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Published by Jonathan Ball Publishers

A man of great intellect and boundless drive, energy and vision, Jan Smuts’s contribution to the creation of modern South Africa has been rather glossed over in recent years probably because it doesn’t fit into the current political narrative. It is a situation which author Richard Steyn – a former editor of the Witness – sought to redress in Jan Smuts: Unafraid of Greatness. His book struck a responsive chord. Since it was first published in 2015 it has sold over 20 000 copies and has now been reissued.

Born in Riebeek West in the Western Cape in 1870, Smuts had a fierce intelligence and focus that assured success at virtually everything he turned his hand to. After a distinguished academic career, he rose to political prominence when President Paul Kruger appointed him Transvaal State Attorney at the tender age of 28. Although vastly different, the two men established a good working relationship based on mutual respect for one another. As a guerilla leader, fighting against the English in the Anglo-Boer War, he displayed great physical bravery and a good grasp of tactics even though he had not trained as a soldier.

At the end of the war, believing the best way forward was to attempt to reconcile Boer and British interests, Smuts would play an instrumental role in the formation of the Union of South Africa.

At the outbreak of the First World War, Smuts returned to his role as a military leader helping to drive the Germans out of South West Africa and then taking part in the East African campaign. Lionised abroad for his achievements, he would go on to become an adviser to numerous leaders and heads of state and served in the British War Cabinet.

At the end of hostilities, Smuts, almost alone among Allied leaders, argued that it was a mistake to place a crippling burden on defeated Germany because he believed it would ultimately backfire. In this, he would be proved correct. Adolph Hitler would later exploit this sense of grievance.

After becoming Prime Minister, he lead South Africa into the Second World War as part of a pro-Interventionist group, further alienating himself from large sections of the Afrikaans community. The British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill made full use of his talents, however, and he became both his trusted confidant and adviser. More than any other Commonwealth leader Smuts commanded Churchill’s respect and affection in part, no doubt because he appeared to share the British world view.

The massive disruption and carnage caused by both wars had a profound effect on Smuts. Believing that the world could not carry on like this he set out to transform the whole international scene by advocating the establishment of the League of Nations which later morphed into the United Nations.. In many ways, it was an impossible ideal but it initiated something we are still trying to do: put the pieces back together.

Like Thabo Mbeki, much later, Smuts enjoyed far greater fame and prestige overseas than he did back home where he remained a divisive figure despite his best efforts to unify the nation. Failing to read the mood of the country, he was eventually defeated at the polls in 1948 by the more hard-line, pro-segregationist National Party who took over the reins of power. It was the end of an era.

In charting his astonishing career, Steyn does an excellent job in rescuing Smuts and restoring him to his rightful place in history. Although largely admiring of the man’s achievements, he does not spare us his failings: he could be aloof and high-handed, paternalistic and patronising. Although far-sighted in other matters, he never really got to grips or acted decisively on the race issue

Deeply researched, but light of touch and rich in insight, Steyn succeeds in performing one of the main duties of a historian (and a journalist for that matter): he provides a highly readable narrative.

Published by Jonathan Ball

As Governor of the Cape and High Commissioner of South Africa, Alfred Milner was a man who cast a long shadow and it is largely as a result of his, often devious, machinations that the country came to exist in its current form.

Having already written several acclaimed books on the era, including one on Louis Botha as well as the recently re-released Jan Smuts: Man of Greatness, Richard Steyn – a previous editor of the Witness – is the ideal candidate to resuscitate and re-examine Milner’s contribution and place in history. While researching and writing his recent series of books, Steyn has acquired a terrific knowledge of the subject and in Milner: Last of the Empire Builders he tackles the political circumstances, the personalities and the rationale behind their actions.

Sent to South Africa to try and resolve the heightening tensions between the Boers and the Uitlanders in the Transvaal, Milner was and remains a controversial figure. Entrenched in his belief in English racial superiority he was, as some commentators have mentioned, the wrong man to handle the country’s complex, multi-layered, problems. In negotiations, he showed little concern to appease grievances or try and bridge the gap between the two camps. Driven by his messianic belief in Empire his overriding aim was to unite the whole of Southern Africa under British rule.

What seems beyond doubt is that he was ready to go to war to achieve this goal and thanks to a bit of political skulduggery on his part he achieved just this. It soon emerged, however, that he had misjudged his adversary and instead of the hoped-for quick, decisive victory what he got was a long, clumsy, chaotically fought campaign that left him a detested figure in the eyes of the Boers, for whom he never showed any real sympathy.

As a man, Milner embodied a contradiction. A brilliant scholar, he could be warm, personable and charming (although he married late he seems to have been popular with women) but when it came to his life work he could, as an imperialist ideologue, be arrogant, haughty and single-minded. Convinced of his rightness and confident in his powers of persuasion he was not easily swayed from his chosen course of action.

He was hardly exceptional in his crusading zeal. Nowadays, it has become quite commonplace to look upon Empire as a bad thing but back then a whole generation of, often very gifted, young men grew up believing themselves to be the true heirs to the Romans and considered it their duty, as Englishmen, to bring civilization to decadent or barbarian people – by whatever means necessary.

(An irreverent aside: it has been observed elsewhere that the rise and fall of the British Empire coincided with that of the British moustache so it is interesting to see that most of the main protagonists in this book – Milner, Lord Roberts, Kitchener – all sported very fine examples of these).

After he left South Africa, Milner’s vision of a unified South Africa was partly realised by the group of carefully selected young administrators he left behind him – his Kindergarten as they came to be known. Back in England, he remained a prominent and respected public figure although not without his detractors. Steyn makes a convincing case that, as War Secretary in Lloyd George’s five-man War Cabinet, he played an instrumental role in shaping an Allied victory. In so doing, he not only cemented his legacy but partly redeemed himself for whatever damage he may have done to his reputation in his often high-handed handling of the South African crisis.

In writing about his achievements, Steyn has found a single life that illuminates a dark chapter. For any biographer, it is a fascinating story but the author is exceptional in bringing not only a thorough knowledge but also an elegant style and a gift for narrative,

Book Review

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published by Profile Books

It is not news that classical liberalism is under assault, across the globe, from both the political right and left. In an age when the dumbness of many plays into the hands of the scheming few it has become the convenient whipping post for populists (as well as social theorists) everywhere.

In this devastatingly reasonable critique, Francis Fukuyama lays out the case for the defence of what he prefers to call “humane liberalism” and explains why it would not be a good idea to ditch it at this point. Fundamental to his argument is that it is a doctrine of moderation, a means of governing over diversity and in its purest form it prioritises public-spiritedness, tolerance, open-mindedness and active engagement in public affairs

His belief in liberalism does not blind him to its shortcomings, past and present. As he puts it – if liberalism is to be preserved as a form of government, we need to understand the reasons it has generated opposition and criticism. As an example, Fukuyama admits that the neo-liberal policies that became dominant in the 1970s were not an unqualified success. Amongst other things, it led to excessive inequality and financial instability. As a result, life got harder for most people.

In admitting this, however, he takes issue with those critics of the system who insist that liberalism must lead inevitably to neoliberalism and an exploitive form of capitalism. He shows how, historically, liberal societies have, in many cases, been engines of economic growth, creators of new technologies, and producers of vibrant arts and culture

He also acknowledges that the checks and balances that liberal regimes place on the exercise of power prevents radical redistribution of power and wealth – but then counters that by pointing out these same checks and balances prevent autocratic abuses of power.

In taking us on this fascinating journey through the history of liberal thought, Fukuyama displays a masterly understanding of his subject and in a book that combines scholarship with readability, he proves himself to be the perfect guide. Even when dealing with the more abstruse theoretical positions, he never reveals anything but a lively and compassionate engagement with the subject matter.

Fukuyama is probably shouting across too great a gulf to win over anti-liberal nationalists and authoritarians of the Putin, Orban, Erdogan and Trump mould – to say nothing of our disgraced ex-president Jacob Zuma and his RET crowd – but in the increasingly polarised and uncertain times we live in the books release could hardly have been more timely – or pertinent.

Published by Basic Books

The constitutional guarantee of individual freedom of religion and speech lies at the very heart of Western rationalism and democracy. As developed by thinkers like Locke, Mill, Thomas Paine and others, the liberal notions that underpin it have proved the most effective antidote to tyranny and arbitrary injustice.

In the last few decades, though, it has found itself very much on the back foot. Not only has liberalism become the scapegoat of contemporary political and cultural discourse but the whole concept of Free Speech has come under increasing question and threat. The belief that it is now a moribund ideology has been given further traction by the advent of the new communication technology which has given access to those previously unheard and in the process amplified division, sown distrust, and unleashed a flood of unmediated disinformation (and hate speech) and eroded trust in public institutions.

No less a figure than Barack Obama has warned that an unrestrained internet and social media pose “the single biggest threat to our democracy”. It is a claim that is being echoed around the world by others.

The argument that free speech breaks down respect for authority is, however, one that has been used countless times before by the ruling elite and is one we still need to be very wary of according to author Jacob Mchangama. A telling reminder of just how fragile the liberal political order is, his book,Free Speech: A Global History from Socrates to Social Media, offers an admirable historical summary of how we got to our current position, the sacrifices that have been made along the way and why we should fear the forces of reaction and repression.

Although its roots go back far in time, it was the ancient Athenians, of course, who first made the right to free speech an inherent part of their political system and civic culture (although women, foreigners and slaves were specifically excluded). During the Middle Ages, it was, interestingly enough, in the Islamic world where the ideas of the Greeks were rediscovered and where a more fruitful environment existed for the cultivation and dissemination of rationalist philosophy and science. In Europe, it was a different story. For centuries the continent remained in the grip of despotic powers, such as the church, the nobility and various absolute monarchs, all of them intent on preserving their hold over their subjects and not having their authority questioned. Here and there, however, and in ever-increasing numbers, people began to challenge the prevailing orthodoxies. For these free thinkers, government existed not to preserve privileges but to advance the equal rights and freedoms of the people.

Mchangama extols some of the early pioneers and intellectual heroes in this struggle for the freedom of conscience. He stresses, for example, the role played by the invention of the Gutenburg Press in spreading new ideas and of Martin Luther whose proclamations ushered in the Reformation even though, later on, he came to regret the forces he had unleashed.

Not surprisingly, Mchangama devotes a fair amount of space to that great document of liberalism, the US Constitution. On the flip side, he also shows how The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen that launched the French Revolution gave way, in turn to the Reign of Terror.

Mchangama concludes his book with an extended warning about the growing abuse of power and how our hard-won liberties are being eroded around the world, even in countries once seen as bulwarks of freedom, like the United States and Britain. He makes a strong point and one we ignore at our peril.

Yesterdays – Remembering When Rock Was Young

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I grew up in an era notable for its love of musical novelty. A new assertive youth culture had come to the fore and their desire to push back the boundaries and challenge middle class values was reflected in the sort of music they listened to. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who and other British invasion groups had gone back to the roots of American music, reinterpreted it, and fed it back to an eager audience. In the US, itself there was also regrouping and experimentation which led to an explosion of sounds – folk- rock, psychedelic rock, country rock, jazz-rock, progressive rock, Southern rock, hard rock and heavy metal.

Stuck in my remote corner of the former British Empire, I lapped it all up. In the stifling atmosphere of conservative Rhodesian boarding school life, it filled a void and opened up as a whole web of influences and reactions. It was my ticket into a more exciting world.

When I moved on to university I started to listen to even more kinds of things and one song led me to another. I loved nothing more than ducking into a record shop and spending hours browsing through album covers looking for new artists, as well as ones I was already a fan of.

The first album I ever bought…
…and the second
…and some others I bought.

Over the many years that have passed since then, rock music has continued to transform and evolve, not always for the better. Inevitably, it has been affected by changes in technology, media and demographics. More and more rock music has become a business. The old spirit of youthful rebellion has now mostly gone.

In American music folklore, it was, of course, the legendary Delta bluesman, Robert Johnson, who sold his soul at a crossroads to learn how to play the guitar. In his book, The Mansion on the Hill: Dylan, Young, Geffen and Springsteen and the Head-On Collision of Rock and Commerce, author Fred Goodman argues that a similar fate befell the entire rock n’ roll industry in the early seventies when the counter-culture movement allowed itself to be hijacked by the marketing men and bond dealers, losing, in the process, not only its old spirit of adventure but most of its more naïve illusions about itself as a force for social change.

As Goodman writes: “The underground scene started in earnest when rock assumed the mantle of meaning and intent from folk music, and it was founded on a search for authenticity and an explicit rejection of consumerism and mainstream values.” The man who played a pivotal role in this crossover of musical styles was a scrawny, young singer with a high nasal whine who passed by the name of Bob Dylan.

Dylan marked a turning point. Before him, most rock singers confined themselves to singing about such traditional adolescent concerns as “dancing or driving or teenage love lost and found”. Not only did Dylan bring a new thematic weight to his songs but he gave rock a sense of moral purpose and a direction it had never had before. The new music confounded all the old stereotypes with its sense of aesthetic urgency and pointed social comment.

Where Dylan led the way, others followed. In his book, Goodman focuses on a handful of the more influential of these – in particular Neil Young and, later, Bruce Springsteen – although there are a whole host of others one could easily add to the list.

In Goodman’s view, however, Springsteen marks a departure. Heralded as the keeper of the flame, “the Boss” – as he was nicknamed – was savvy enough to retain the air of rebelliousness that has always been such an ingrained part of rock’s appeal but he also benefited from having a very shrewd manager, in the intellectual Jon Landau, who knew just how to market him. “Colombia did not ‘make’ Dylan,’ Goodman writes. “His reputation owed everything to his artistic genius…Springsteen, the merits of his music notwithstanding, was quite a different story. By the ’70s the record companies had recognised the massive commercial rewards that the music had to offer, and they learned a great deal about how to sell it.”

These days it seems highly unlikely that anyone musician or band will ever again have the enormous influence of a Dylan or the Beatles or become so universally known as to be able to unite a generation. There are several reasons for this. The proliferation of dedicated TV channels and radio stations, as well as modern marketing techniques, has ensured that music is now divided into a whole series of sub-genres each with a specific audience that is ferociously targeted.

The internet has further changed the nature of celebrity. Like everything else, music has become fragmented in our social media-saturated society with a whole galaxy of stars vying for our attention. With music having become so niched, it is thus possible for a musician to have millions of followers on, say, the video-sharing YouTube but remain completely unknown to a large section of the population. With algorithms confining, defining and determining our tastes and “suggesting” what we should be listening to, there is even less chance of you hearing something you didn’t expect to hear or to cross over from one musical boundary into another.

The nature of fame has become more fleeting, illusory and superficial. Joni Mitchell, one of the ground-breaking singer-songwriters Goodman writes approvingly about in his book, expressed this well when she recently said: “I heard someone from the music business saying they are no longer looking for talent, they want people with a certain look and willingness to cooperate. I thought that’s interesting because I believe a total unwillingness to cooperate is what is necessary to be an artist – not for perverse reasons but to protect your vision. The considerations of a corporation, especially now, have nothing to do with art or music. That’s why I spend my time now painting.”

With the Covid-19 pandemic shutting down music venues and stadiums, the reliance on social media as a way of accessing and listening to music has grown even more pronounced. It has been estimated that lockdown has boosted streaming by 22% as more and more people resort to passive listening at home. Rather than bringing people together, as it once did, music now keeps them apart. As Duncan McLean sadly notes, in his otherwise highly entertaining, book, Lone Star Swing: “Music doesn’t change people’s lives today…it confirms the life you’ve already chosen, or had chosen for you.”

REFERENCES:

The Mansion on the Hill: Dylan, Young, Geffen, Springsteen and the Head-on Collision of Rock and Commerce by Fred Goodman (published by Jonathan Cape, London).

Lone Star Swing by Duncan McLean (published by Jonathan Cape, London)

Soldiering On…

/ stidyatkusane / 21 Comments

For most of my life, I have lived with uncertainty although I have not always been consciously aware of it.

Indeed, as a child, growing up in a remote part of Rhodesia’s the Eastern Highlands my world seemed as secure as the mountains that surrounded our farm. With a sweat-stained hat on my head, veld skoens on my feet and wearing the regulation khaki shirts and shorts that had got too worn from continual use to take back to school, I would set out in the early morning, a gun cradled in the crook of my arm. In front of me, the farm dogs would range freely back and forth, panting happily. They were not trained to hunt but were still good at flushing out the birds, sending them clattering into the skies, a trail of feathers and bitching noise drifting behind them.

Returning home with Bonzo the Pointer.
Feeding the cattle on our Nyanga farm. Mt Muozi in background.

Often I forgot that I had come to shoot, striding cheerfully across the bush through waist-high grass and leaping over rocks and feeling my life ahead of me while all the worlds ‘birds seemed to be calling. Sometimes I would disturb a duiker or startle a small herd of kudu or see a klipspringer peering down at me from some tall pillar of rock but I felt too exulted by their presence to want to put an end to their lives.

I always found the bush a good place to go to when I was upset or needed to sort out my feelings about the world.

Our local radio station and the occasional newspaper we bought did, of course, give us some inkling of the ferment and tensions created by new ideas and awakened hopes but, at that stage, these “troubles” seemed to be confined mainly to the cities and urban areas. Walking on my own across the farm I never felt a moment’s uneasiness.

The fact that I would shortly be witness to the last days of White Rhodesia did not occur to me. Nor did I realise how beleaguered the farming community would soon become, with farmhouses turned into mini-fortresses, equipped with Agric-alerts and surrounded by security fences, while their owners rode around heavily armed over dirt roads that frequently had land-mines buried in them.

The reality of what lay in store would, however, hit home when I received my call-up papers.

My drafting into the Rhodesian Territorial Army on the 3rd January 1972, came at an auspicious moment in the country’s history.

A fortnight earlier, ZANLA forces had launched what would become known as the second chimurenga war (the first being the 1896 Shona uprising against white colonial rule) with an attack on Marc de Borchgrave’s d’Altena farm in the Centenary district during the course of which his nine-year-old daughter, Jane, received a slight wound in the foot.

Although there had been several military incursions in the 1960s from neighbouring Zambia these had been easily dealt with by the Rhodesian Security Forces leading most whites to believe that the country’s small defence force could defeat any conventional invasion or guerilla infiltration.

While hardly a resounding military success in itself, the attack on de Borchgrave’s farm signalled a new phase in the war of liberation, one that saw both a change in direction and a gradual intensification of the conflict. The liberation army had obviously learnt from their previous mistakes. Avoiding direct confrontation with the enemy they now employed classic hit-and-run tactics, attacking white farms, mining dirt roads and going all out to undermine the government’s authority and hold over the tribes’ people.

The growing fears about the country’s security led, in turn, to an increasing militarization of civilian life.

It was my bad luck, too, to be called up for the army (Intake 129) just as the government decided to increase the initial period of service from nine months to one year in response to the growing threat. For me, that extra three months was destined to seem like an eternity.

Waking up in the bush. National Service 1973.

This was only the beginning. Between 1974 and 1975, the years after I completed my National Service, worked for the District Commissioner’s Office in Wedza and then went to England for a year’s holiday, attacks on whites other than farmers still remained relatively rare. This all changed, however, with the overthrow of the government of Portugal by a junta of disillusioned officers which led, in turn, to a rapid transfer of power in Mozambique, where independence was recognised in 1975. This had the immediate effect of opening up the entire Eastern border of Rhodesia to guerilla infiltration.

Most of this area was mountainous and wild making it extremely difficult to monitor and patrol. As someone who had grown up in the area, I knew only too well, just how difficult it would be to police or stop any groups of heavily-armed soldiers from slipping undetected into the country. Because of its extreme isolation and close proximity to the border, my family made the decision to get my mother off our cattle ranch in Inyanga North, which she was then running all on her own. Although my mother was understandably reluctant to leave, it turned out to be a wise precaution because our only two neighbours were subsequently killed.

Mountainous terrain. Nyanga, Eastern Highlands.

Over the following months and years, thousands of insurgents would come pouring over the border in an escalating conflict that saw minds and bodies shattered, and many left dead. I was to discover just how much the situation had changed when I returned home from an extended holiday to England and found myself back in uniform within days of stepping off the plane.

For the purposes of this particular call-up, we were deployed to the Sipolilo (now Guruve) district, a fairly remote farming area that stretched up to the edge of the Zambezi escarpment and which was known to have been heavily infiltrated by ZANLA guerrillas. Arriving at our base camp – an old farmhouse that had been recently abandoned by its occupants after they had been subjected to several attacks – our major wasted little time in sending us into action. At 10 o’clock that night we clambered aboard the waiting convoy of trucks and headed off, under the cover of darkness, into the white commercial farmland. To keep the element of surprise on our side we were dropped off at another deserted farm homestead and then proceeded to march, in single file and as silently as we could, along an old footpath that led us deep into the adjacent Tribal Trust Land.

The track wound up through great blocks of granite fringed with trees and across the dusty stubble of ancient mielie fields. As I walked I tried to empty my mind of everything except what I could see and hear around me. I had no desire to be caught with my defences down. Despite growing fatigue, I was aware of the adrenaline coursing through my body.

Every now and again a breeze would spring up and I would smell the smoke drifting across the veld from countless wood fires. There was something both eerie and beautiful about the night. The moon was vanishing behind the distant hills but everywhere the dogs were barking. High up on a ridge ahead of us we could make out the dim shapes of a group of conical-shaped huts. As we got closer the phantom dogs, picking up our scent, grew more hysterical, breaking into a series of short, angry yelps.

Drawing alongside the hut line, a dark figure suddenly emerged from the central brick building, paused, looked carefully about and then stepped quietly and purposefully towards where we had all ground to a stop. To our collective astonishment, he then proceeded to call out the archaic challenge: “Halt! Who goes there?”

In a different, more chivalrous, age this might have been an appropriate response. In this war, it was signing your own death warrant. Not needing any further prompting we all dived for cover. There was a moment’s silence and then all hell broke loose as the fire of thirty rifles was bought to bear on the sentry who had called our bluff.

As the mass of lead buzzed towards them, a group of dimly lit figures came spilling out of the huts and darted for cover from whence they began to return fire at us. Lying low on the ground I fired off several volleys of my own even though I had nothing clear to aim at.

And then there was silence once more. I gripped my rifle and lifted my head carefully above the grassy verge, on the side of the path, behind which I had tried to conceal myself. I could see no sign of movement. At the platoon commander’s say so we rose and moved forward cautiously, in extended line, through the settlement but it soon became obvious that the enemy had fled. We decided to clear out of the area as quickly as we could and find a good defensive position in case they returned with retribution on their mind.

Floundering around in the impenetrable darkness our stick somehow managed to get detached from the remainder of the group. Realising it would be dangerous to keep moving blindly around we opted to stay put and hide as best we could in the surrounding bush.

Lying half concealed in a grove of trees, my ears tuned to any sounds that might indicate what was out there waiting for us, the cold reality of my situation began to sink in. It was a strange sensation – as if time had suddenly stopped and the past had become as irrelevant as the future. I found it hard to believe that only a week before I had been sitting in the dim-lit, cosy Red Barn pub near South Godstone sipping pints of English bitter, reflecting on how good life was while listening to rock music.

Hoping to provoke a reaction, the guerillas fired off a few mortars in our general direction. After what seemed like an eternity – actually only a few seconds – I heard the flat blap! blap! of their explosions as they landed harmlessly, some distance from where I lay huddled in a ball. Shortly afterwards a machine began to traverse but again it seemed they had no real idea where we were. Not wanting to give away our position, for fear of attracting a more accurate barrage, we refrained from returning fire.

This was to be but the first of several contacts we had over the next six weeks of intense patrolling through this remote, chequerboard landscape of hills and fields and villages. What I saw was enough to convince me that the war had become a whole different ball game from what I had previously experienced and that the insurgents had established a big foothold in the country. I also realised that this was but a warm-up for what lay ahead as we desperately tried to hold the front line. This war was not going to be over any time soon and I knew many similar call-ups and a lot of intense fighting lay ahead…

And so it proved to be.

About to head off on another call-up…
On call-up at Hoya, Zambesi Valley. I think this was the only time I ever wore a helmet.

On the 21st December 1979, the seventh anniversary of the attack on Altena Farm, the end finally came into sight with the signing of the Lancaster House Agreement by all parties. In terms of the agreed-to cease-fire, the Rhodesia security forces were to be confined to their bases while the Patriotic Front was supposed to bring all their forces into the proposed sixteen Assembly Points which would be administered by the British Monitoring Force.

Edgy and distrustful, the guerilla forces, initially at least, showed little inclination to enter their designated AP’s fearing, no doubt, that if they did they would be providing a perfect target for the Rhodesian Air force. For a while it looked like the whole operation might be doomed to failure. Despite the supposed ceasefire attacks on civilian targets also continued.

It was also becoming increasingly obvious that many of those entering the APs were not genuine guerrillas but ‘mujibhas’ (collaborators) and that their more experienced troops had been instructed to remain at large in the countryside

At this crucial point, the British Monitoring Force who had been tasked with ensuring an orderly and peaceful transfer of power suddenly got cold feet and decided to pull their troops out of the Assembly Points. As members of the Rhodesian Territorial Army, we were ordered to step into the breach. In a sense, we were being called upon to supervise our own defeat.

And so, in a final ironic twist, I found myself back at Mary Mount Mission (Assembly Point Charlie) in the extreme North-East corner of Rhodesia, the very place where I had had my first real encounter with the enemy back in 1973– although we had barely got there when we were given orders to redeploy to Assembly Point Alpha at Hoya in the Zambezi Valley.

Close to the Mozambique border, it was an area of intense heat and thick bush. The ZANLA forces already at the Assembly Point had taken good advantage of this, spreading themselves out, no doubt with an eye for both attack and defence, over a wide area. A few of their commanders did set up camp near us but the rest of their troops remained hidden well out of sight. Knowing they were out there somewhere, probably very suspicious and trigger-happy and with their weapons pointed towards us, was not a comforting feeling. To say we were both outnumbered and outgunned would be an understatement – there were over 1 600 ZANLA guerillas and only 26 of us, living under tents supplied by the US Army.

Assembly Point Alpha. Our entire force…
…versus theirs. We were outnumbered and outgunned.

Although on the surface, we were able to establish a sort of peace between us there was no escaping a deeper atmosphere of distrust and hostility. This was hardly surprising considering how long we had fought as bitter enemies. This would lead to several scary incidents – including one when I had an AK47 barrel shoved up against my head by a drug and alcohol-crazed guerilla who threatened to blow my brains out as another soldier and I were escorting him and a group of his unruly comrades down the infamous Alpha Trail. Fortunately, he toppled over backwards and passed out before he could carry out his threat

Meeting of opposing armies, Assembly Point Alpha
Comrade “Chippie”, officer in charge of discipline, rallies his troops. In conversation, it emerged he and I had been involved in a shoot-out earlier on in the war.

I can’t say I was sorry when it all came to an end with Robert Mugabe’s victory in the election or that, in spite of winning so many little battles, I had wound up on the losing side. Most soldiers like clarity and in the end it had become increasingly difficult to work out just what we were fighting for or hoping to achieve. I had long ago realised that we just did not have the resources or manpower to contain the conflict. Certainly, the situation on the ground wasn’t improving, in fact, it was getting worse. Nor was it possible for me to convince myself that we held the moral high ground.

I was just glad it was all over and that I had got out of it alive and in one piece. I did not have a coherent plan of what I was going to do with my future. Mostly this was because I had been so deep in the war I had closed my eyes to everything else.

All I knew was that, in the interim, I wanted to go somewhere quiet, a place where the eyes of the world might overlook me. More than anything I wanted a little peace. Bowmont – the small farm near Kadoma where my parents had recently retired to – seemed the ideal fit. For the next four years, I holed up there although my stay would be steeped in sadness because my father would finally succumb to the form of bone cancer that had ravaged his body.

Bowmont farm, Kadoma.

Much as I loved Bowmont I came to realise it was time to close this chapter of my life. And so I joined the general exodus to South Africa, knowing full well that country was also in political turmoil and that I faced an equally uncertain future down there (if I had any sense I would have left the continent but Africa has this way of gnawing itself into your soul). Driving. on my own, down that familiar road through an empty landscape where only a few years before I would have run the risk of being ambushed I found my mind drifting back to the war.

From the very outset, I had had my doubts as to the justness of our cause. Although I could never be sure whether my decision to ignore these niggling feelings was just another form of moral cowardice I had done what was expected of me.

I had stayed on through basic training, I had sweated it out in the “sharp-end”, I had resisted the temptation to stay put in England when I went over on holiday, I had remained (sort of) cool under fire. I had lost a few friends and found a few more. I had discovered how much I could take and still carry on.

I had both endured and survived.

.

Book Review

/ stidyatkusane / 4 Comments

published by Lizard’s Leap Press

The history of war art has an ancient pedigree dating back to before early Egyptian times while the importance of this art form has long been recognised, not least by governments who have sought to utilise artists’ skills specifically for the furtherance of the war effort.

In Britain, for example, an official war art scheme was set up during the 1914-18 war which continued right up to the Falklands war, a unique experiment in Government patronage that has produced an unrivalled national collection of paintings, drawings and pieces of sculpture. Although theoretically employed by their governments as propagandists, many of these official war artists would go way beyond their original brief, producing work of genuine artistic merit.

An obvious example of this is the artist Paul Nash who joined the Artist’s Rifles in the First World War. Initially motivated by a straightforward patriotism, his belief in the rightness of war would, in time, begin to crumble as he was exposed to the horrors of trench warfare. His subsequent paintings of ravaged landscapes with trees shattered by shellfire bear comparison with the best of the war poems in their depiction of the nightmarish conditions in which the soldiers were forced to fight.

(Needless to say, Nash’s employers were less than enthusiastic about his work.)

Not all war artists are, of course, engaged in this capacity. Many self-employed ones take up the practice for more personal reasons – an interest in war from an emotional, social and psychological point of view or simply to produce a pictorial record that can be studied and interpreted by posterity, a mirror of the times.

The well-known Southern African war artist, Peter Badcock slots comfortably into this latter role. Having grown up in the region he fell into the business of war art almost by chance when he found himself serving in the Rhodesian security forces and decided to put his skill as an illustrator, working in an animation studio, to good use by producing a book about the conflict. The gamble paid off. Published in 1978, Shadows of War was an immediate success. Encouraged by its reception he would go on to bring out two more bestsellers covering the conflicts in white-ruled Southern Africa– Faces of War (Rhodesia – now Zimbabwe)and Images of War (South West Africa – now Namibia).

His latest book, A War Artist’s Diary, is essentially a distillation of these three books but also includes a realistic appraisal of the two wars – as well as his involvement in them – written from the vantage point of hindsight. Beautifully produced, and including 100 of Badcock’s best drawings, as well as a selection of his evocative poems, it provides a vivid, almost documentary-style, account of life in a war zone.

In his art, Badcock aims for a scrupulous integrity, although it is obvious that his association with the army necessarily influenced the subject matter available to him. As he writes in his introduction, the drawings are “not intended to eulogise or defend either side in the tumultuous history of these events but to capture the human dimension of men and women at war”.

Badcock deserves full credit for achieving just this. His drawings have an almost photographic accuracy of representation. They record not only the conflicts themselves but the life going on around the fighting, a sort of behind-the-scenes view of people going about their ordinary work in extraordinary circumstances.

Published by Simon & Schuster

Over 150 000 years ago mankind diverged from the cradle of the African plains and began spreading over the globe. This trend has continued until the present day and has been followed by “convergence” as disparate communities re-established contact with each other. What this ought to tell us is that migration is not an aberration or something you only undertake under duress. It is an essential component of the human condition, a natural urge, part of our make-up. It is, as it has always has been, about the pull of opportunity.

Despite this, there has been, especially in recent years, a great deal of nativist, anti-immigrant sentiment, much of it stirred up by populists of the Donald Trump ilk who insist on referring to it as “foreign invasion”. In this fascinating and thought-provoking book, author Felix Marquardt takes issue with such views arguing that, in many cases, it is in our best interests to welcome newcomers and share our spaces. As he points out, a new generation of migrants, well-educated, tuned in through their smartphones to global events, entrepreneurial and full of ideas have come into being and we would be foolish to turn them away.

Also, contrary to popular belief, most of these immigrants don’t sink into poverty or live in dingy apartments in high crime neighbourhoods. Rather, they have contributed to and flourished in their new countries because of their work ethic and determination to carve out a new life. Others have taken hazardous or poorly paid jobs shunned by the native-born and helped grow the economy that way.

Nor are all migrations necessarily about poor people heading to richer countries. The author cites many examples of the reverse – where young people, stifled or not seeing a future for themselves in the country of their birth, have moved to places like Africa where they are still trying to develop and modernise their economies and it easier to build something up from scratch. Technological advances have also led to increased mobility. These days you can, with a computer, do your work anywhere. For the author, these acts of migration can be transformative, it can teach you to open your eyes and ears to other people and grow from the experience.

Writing, in part, from his own experiences as a person of mixed heritage who has called many different countries ‘home’, the author has made an important contribution to the whole migration debate. Going beyond the usual headline cliches about helpless refugees, he finds a far more complex and, in the end, positive story. Amid the thought-provoking broad-brush picture, Marquardt also wields a vivid miniaturist’s pen as he describes the people involved in these modern- day migrations – those he calls the New Nomads.