Robert Strobel – My Life and Times

It’s sad when a nation of men in politics are taught by a woman what having a pair of balls is all about. For a fair while now I have been watching the Chilcot Inquiry as it’s become known in the UK with some interest. I am of little doubt that any real form of accusation of any credible form will arise from this enquiry, as it’d be an international scandal having the former PM and his government declared culpable for an illegal war. The country, our government of today, and the establishment that is Westminster would never allow for it.

Personally it is my belief that any such enquiry is fundamentally flawed in that it is merely a hearing based on hearsay and not on evidence, corroborating facts, nor key witnesses for or against the establishment, so how then is it possible to establish what is truth, what is fake, what is spin and what is just pure deceit? Ultimately we do not need an enquiry to answer a number of key questions that were presented to the nation at the time of going to war as critical factors that laid the foundation for war.

1. Weapons of mass destruction.

WMD was never discovered in Iraq despite a lengthy and exhaustive search by the Coalition forces. Factories that were meant to being secretly used in the preparation of WMD and others that were further used to cover up the existence of WMD proved to have either not been used for a substantial length of time leading up to the war, or had never even been associated with WMD. In fact if you read post script from the UN Weapons Inspectors, they clearly knew that these claims were out of order, vastly exaggerated and truth be told Hans Blix and the UN had made significant progress towards disarmament in Iraq, but inconsistent demands from a shaky US government jumped at a chance they saw claiming a breach in UN resolution 1441, failing to give Hans Blix the time he’d asked for to resolve issues with the disarmament program.

In their attempt to get the UN to pass a resolution for war the US failed to convince the UN due to a lack of evidence, and thus the need for a false dossier on WMD that never existed entered the frame. A significant leader to this dossier was the claim that within 45 min a strike could be levelled at any European target, and with a subject like Saddam Hussein who’d used WMD in the past, this type of risk could not be tolerated post 2001.

2. The 45 Min Claim

It has become clear through the urgency of the men in power at the time, to today fudge, cause confusion, create doubt about their claim of a clear and present danger of attack from Iraq that leads me to believe more than ever that the evidence used and the facts claimed at the time were misleading and vastly inaccurate.

Not one of the men giving evidence to the Chilcot enquiry has been able to clearly and without doubt explain why this phrase, terminology, mere existence of such a quote exists today. I for one clearly remember the hype in the run up to war. I recall Tony Blair standing before parliament and proclaiming that a strike could easily be undertaken against a European target in as little as 45 min. Now ask yourself this. As men and woman would you not believe that your leader, a man with privy to some of the most secret information in the world, a man who’s secret services are renouned around the world for uncovering spies, traps, terrorist plots, a service which infiltrated the Soviet Secret Service at a time it was thought impossible to do so, a service that has spooks working in gathering intelligence from wire taps, emails, human intelligence, paid agents, informants, analysts, and every other kind of source you can possibly think of? When your leader stood up and said, however it was worded that we could fall under attack within 45 min, by a mad man who’d used such weapons before, did you not believe that Saddam was a clear and present threat?

Now ask yourself this. If you’d been told that the UN Weapons Inspectors did not believe that there was any stockpile of WMD, and that Saddam Hussein clearly could not mount an attack via missile on a European target, but was actively trying to acquire WMD, did not like the west, did have tied to Al Qaeda, but did not pose a significant risk in that there was no clear evidence to support that he had nor supported any plans to attack the West or Europe, would you so readily have accepted that we were going to war?

Yes I fully agree that Saddam Hussein was a vile and horrific man, but then again I say the same of Robert Mugabe, and any other number of leaders in this world? Yes Saddam had a desire to once more arm himself with weapons of mass destruction, of that I have no doubt, but then again so is Iran, a country I fear far more than Iraq, not mentioning North Korea, another despot whom hates the West enough to press the button. I fully support that the man needed to be brought to justice for his crimes against mankind, but then if that is the case what are we doing about the Chinese government who’s record of slaughter of men, woman and children that get in their way, far strips Saddam Hussein’s crimes from any bad man list?

3. Were British lives lost in vain?

Our British Armed Forces are men and woman that serve our nation. They are dedicated men and woman that undertake difficult orders, and fulfil the job that they are presented by the government of the day. Our Prime Minister took us to war on a whim, and as a result he put our precious men and women in harm’s way based on a lie.

What is even more criminal is that our PM took our troops to war without allowing the Chiefs to prepare fully, under equipped, under financed, and unprepared in order to maintain the secrecy that he needed to ensure that his claim that he was asked on the eve of war to assist the US President George W Bush would stand up before the nation. Sadly this is part of the truth that now comes out through the Chilcot enquiry, as we learn that a bitter feud between Tony Blair, Gordon Brown and the Cabinet lead to a shortage of supplies, equipment and meant that our troops suffered as a result of their incompetence.

I’m sorry but if any business person was allowed to place 100,000 people in the line of fire without adequate provision, preparation and the necessary equipment to do the job, I would tend to believe that the verdict at any Coroner’s Inquest would be one of wrongful death caused by the negligence of the business person. In this way, I cannot fail to see how it is not the responsibility of the men and women who chose to send our troops into the same arena of risk, cannot fall at their feet.

I am loath to say that men and women died in vain, as they stood shoulder to shoulder and fought to protect each other, human beings under attack, and trying to do right in a world so badly confused by wrong, bad and hatred. No I do not believe that they died in vain, but I do believe that they were badly let down, used as pawns of little consequence, and their gallant and heroic bravery is discredited by our nation’s leaders lack of respect.

I always wondered why Tony Blair’s children never went to war, never sort to join the army, were safely tucked up in a flat in Bristol hidden from public view incase they became a target of people’s frustration. The reality is that the Blair’s are cowards. Afraid of the truth, afraid of the consequences of their actions, afraid of putting themselves in the firing line, and afraid of admitting they got it wrong. No fault of the children, but like father like son I guess.

Yes I honestly do believe that there is a case to answer for taking us to war. Someone somewhere should be brought to task for allowing us to go headlong into a 7 year conflict with no clear strategy, no forward planning, no concern for the risks we were taking by entering an arena of war unprepared, and more than anything allowing such a high price be paid for some misadventure of a man crazy for power. In many instances I am sorry to admit that I think the blame falls at our feet. Yes a group of over 1 million people marched in protest against the war, but once that failed we forgot about it, got on with our lives, and watched nonchalantly as the death toll rose. Had we united as a nation, rallied around our Service Chiefs, took to the streets more often, lead endless vigils in protest of the war, been more diligent in demanding proper proof, maybe fewer lives would have been lost in such a way.

Hindsight is a powerful thing, and as I look back in time, I feel sadness as part of me feels I let down those men and women who so bravely sacrificed their lives. We finally have a chance to set the record straight, and I just pray to god, that the bravery and courage that Clare Short displayed today in condemning Tony Blair and his cronies carries through, and those who will bring some sort of sense to this ungodly mess in our nation will have the courage and dignity to call for those who are responsible to accept the responsibility and stand in judgement for their remorselessness, incompetence and lack of leadership.

I received this message in the form of an email this afternoon, and as I read it, it brought a tear to my eye. Its a strong message, a powerful theme and a dynamic quandy of mankind.

What would you do?….you make the choice. Don’t look for a punch line, there isn’t one. Read it anyway. My question is: Would you have made the same choice?

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves children with learning disabilities, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question:

‘When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection.

Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do.

Where is the natural order of things in my son?’

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. ‘I believe that when a child like Shay, who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.’

Then he told the following story:

Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, ‘Do you think they’ll let me play?’ I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father I also understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, ‘We’re losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we’ll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.’

Shay struggled over to the team’s bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three.

In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay’s team scored again.

Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?

Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the

plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay’s life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact.

The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed.

The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay.

As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman.

Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.

Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman’s head, out of reach of all team mates.

Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, ‘Shay, run to first!

Run to first!’

Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base.

He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled, ‘Run to second, run to second!’

Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base.

B y the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball . the smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team.

He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher’s intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman’s head.

Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, ‘Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay’

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, ‘Run to third!

Shay, run to third!’

As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, ‘Shay, run home! Run home!’

Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team

‘That day’, said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, ‘the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world’.

Shay didn’t make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

AND NOW A LITTLE FOOT NOTE TO THIS STORY:

We all send thousands of jokes through the e-mail without a second thought, but when it comes to sending messages about life choices, people hesitate.

The crude, vulgar, and often obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion about decency is too often suppressed in our schools and workplaces.

We all have thousands of opportunities every single day to help realize the ‘natural order of things.’

So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice:

Do we pass along a little spark of love and humanity or do we pass up those opportunities and leave the world a little bit colder in the process?

A wise man once said every society is judged by how it treats it’s least fortunate amongst them.

You now have two choices:

1. Pass by and forget you’ve ever read this; or

2. Direct your friends to this page so they too may read and be touched.

May your day, be a Shay Day.

I have watched the latest press coverage of the Haitian earthquake with some irritation at the sheer lack of responsibility with which our modern press portray national emergencies. In writing this post I do not in any way want to take anything away from the pain and suffering of the Haitian people, nor the impact of what they have had to endure and go through since the disaster struck their homeland just a few short days ago. To them my condolences and respect I give gladly. I do however want to put a bit of perspective into our minds of this world that we live in and the irresponsibility of the international media in focusing our attention at things they feel or deem important enough to make the new, and corrupt our minds into forgetting what we cannot or no longer see.

My feeling of discontent at the direction of the British press core in Haiti had been felt from the start, when almost immediately they began to look for blame at the lack of support from the international community at reacting to this disaster. With all the good will in the world, there are logistical and monetary issues that face the entire world at this moment in time that would mean any response would have been met by this problem. I am struck at this time at the audacity of the British press in demanding that the USA do more and look to blame them for security issues on the ground that make distribution of AID a headache for everyone, not least the US.

What disturbs me the most is that while we appreciate that the US and Europe, and much of the world have been gripped in the worst economic disaster for the last twenty four months, that it is once more to the Western world, namely the US and Europe that the victims of this disaster look too for their salvation. Why I ask myself are the British media not asking why more has not been done by the Asian community, whom have we are told, completely avoided the economic crisis that has befallen most of the modern world. Surely in a time such as this it is into their pockets that they should be dipping, and surely in a time like this their military might could have been swung into action and flown in just as easily as US troops.

Ok, fair enough, distance might prose its own practical issues to this argument, however I am sorry but I am sick and tired of hearing people blame the US and the West for its lack of support and delay at getting help in. Since as far back as the great earthquake that levelled the centre of Mexico City, I have heard disaster appeal after disaster appeal go out to the giving and generous people of Great Britain, and every time they have risen up and met the call. Billions of pounds of money has been risen over time for all manner of disaster appeals. In the same way I have never seen America fail to step up to the plate and deliver, even when it cannot really afford to itself, it has never let the greater world down.

Whenever it is a disaster around the world, it is always the same people and countries that time after time reach out and touch the lives of those who have been dealt a devastating blow. Be it the earth quakes in Pakistan, China, India, Indonesia, Iran and many others around the world, or the Boxing day Tsunami, or the famines of Africa, Hurricanes of the Gulf of Mexico, to almost any kind of human suffering, the press make a good job of showing us the vivid impacts of these disasters, emoting us into action, and demanding reaction and support from the same corner every single time. Never before have I heard the press condemn the Chinese or the Russians for the lack of support or assistance.

I have to ask myself as the seats of power swing in other directions as things change in our world today, if things shouldn’t be slightly different. I cannot help but feel that if AID workers had been rushed into the field in Haiti and violence had broken out resulting in the deaths of AID workers, that the press would have been the first to ask why security had not been organised, and press long and hard for heads to roll to satisfy their ill placed passion with pointing a figure and finding blame.

The main reason that I write this evening is that in my own opinion, I feel that the press themselves are the root cause of much of the blame for inciting and creating a news that they feel is sensational and worthy of hitting our screens. I firmly believe that the press go out specifically looking for stories that they are able to twist and manipulate into witch hunts of blame and fault and hatred. Imagine a reporter stood before you, well clothed, well educated, healthy and well fed, at a time when you have lost family and loved ones, at a time when hunger is a pressing issue on your mind as your stomach gnaws within you. Imagine if you can a man who seems to be in charge at a time you feel the world around you is falling at your feet, presenting you with a question like, “Do you feel that the USA should do more to help you?” What do you really think your answer would be?

This evening as I sat watching the ITV evening news, the straw on the camel’s back finally broke for me. I sat and watched as the news teams jumped on a story of the thousands of children caught up in the confusion of Haiti, rushing to sensationalise how it was children now who were starving and suffering the worst as AID failed to reach Haiti. I was angered and sickened at this gross display of pure irresponsibility on the part of the reporters. I was saddened to think that for one moment in time, the suffering of every child anywhere else in the world meant nothing as these reporters could manipulate and emote its watchers to the plight of the children of Haiti.

It is not that I do not feel for those children, but I was sickened to my stomach as I thought to myself, that in a day, week or month, when they have totally thrashed and exhausted everything that they can out of the Haitian disaster that those children that today were so credible as a news story will be forgotten about, and left to fend for themselves just as much then as they are now, while the spot light falls on them in the aftermath of this disaster. Yes I was angered at the way that our so called perfect press would stoop so low as to use children’s suffering to make its news worthy for our screens tonight, when in a year or two’s time, when the AID given now dries up and the world is focused on the next big news story, those very children that the press were so willing to sensationalise tonight will be forgotten about and left to a life of misery and pain.

Could it be so true in this day and age that our press could be so corrupt and work with such scant regard for human life and suffering? Please, wake up. This is 2010. Think if you will of the orphans of Eastern Europe where children have systematically been abused, abandoned and brought up in some of the most extreme conditions imaginable. Children who were gagged to stop them from crying, children who were left without clothing for months. Children who were starved and abandoned because they had birth defects, or were slow or stupid as the institutions of the Soviet state believed. Orphanages in the Ukraine where if you had enough money you could go and buy time with any child you liked. In their time, they were an adequate news story to shock and sensationalise the news we were watching, but today, the British press couldn’t give a damn about the conditions which according to any number of agencies that are working with organisations based in Eastern Europe are just as bad if not worse in some places.

Then there are those who’ve been orphaned by war. Huge blocks of children brought up by the state in places in Europe where the press dare not tread for fear of being beaten like the thugs they are. Chechnya and the Balkans, Rwanda and Brunei, Congo and Uganda. In these places millions of children have been completely left to their own devices. In many of the African conflicts children fell into war lords clutches and we fashioned into armies of little value, put on the front line to be slaughtered till the enemy ran out of ammunition and the elite forces of the war lord could then sweep in an annihilate their enemy. Are we as a society so dull as to imagine that the moment that the press stopped telling us these stories that the problems went away? Visit Africa today. Take a walk around in Darfur right now and look at how many of the rebel soldiers carrying AK47’s are kids of 13 and 14 years of age, high on marijuana to keep them controllable, and ever ready to die for their precious leader who cares not for anything but his position in power and maintaining it behind his army of children for as long as he can.

Could we believe that those children that were shown to us just last year as the Burmese cyclone wiped out half a nation as unprecedented flooding brought the country to its knees? I recall then how loudly the press shouted about the lack of AID given, despite the military junta’s refusal to allow the AID in. But in the press’s eyes, it was far more sensational to blame the international world for the failure, and show the suffering of the people, children, men and woman alike, while they painted a vivid picture about how inept the leaders of the world were at putting pressure on the government of Burma to allow the AID in. Do any of us pretend now that since our esteemed press core choose no longer to tell us of their suffering that the people of Burma have it any easier? The truth is that the military Junta kept the aid that was allowed into the country for itself, and the people continue to suffer as they struggle to rebuild a life shattered in the waters of that cyclone. But that wouldn’t be a very exciting story, and report it as they might, it would not change the status quo, nor make any difference to the people on the ground, so they are left to suffer, as sensationalising that story and emoting us would be futile and worthless, and so the story is now not news worthy.

For far too long the media have reported with scant regard to the effect of such sensationalism in the press. Let us take for example a few years ago right here in Wales. An area close to where I live became known as Lynch Rope Central or Suicide Alley, as a growing number of teenagers fought to get their name on the headline news through acts of suicide. For a bunch of teenagers it became cool and hip to get your name and story on the news, and have everyone talking about how wonderful you were and for a moment in time your name was a celebrity as the media pounced on the news of “WOW, yet ANOTHER suicide victim in Bridgend and the number of teenage suicides goes up in the town! Police are baffled as they fail to find any link!”
The link was you, you idiots! The very press who didn’t even consider for one moment that your actions were the root cause and reason for such an sudden growth in teenage deaths. Right up to the end the press fought a vicious and costly campaign to maintain that they were whiter than white and had a right to report the news. It eventually took a direct order and “agreement” from the press to stop reporting on teenage suicides in the town, before the war was won, and what happened? The moment that kids realised that their stupidity wasn’t going to get them on the national news, none of their mates were going to get interviewed, no one would talk about how wonderful they were, it stopped. And so it was that the mighty body of the press right here in deepest darkest Wales were taught a lesson. That their lack of foresight and sensationalism of one simple act of stupidity on behalf of one teenager who now lies in a box, six feet under, and whose name is probably forgotten by the very reporter that sensationalised his death, started a trend that took over twenty lives before it was forcibly stopped. This is the wreckless disregard for their reporting standards that I talk about when I say that the press don’t care. Today’s suffering doesn’t simply disappear because you stop talking about it, and reporting in this way is callous and wrong.

I am Zimbabwean, and a passionate one as anyone who knows me would agree, and so as I watched the television last night, and saw them walking among the orphans of Haiti, I was angered. Perhaps in reality my anger towards the failure of the press core has a lot to do with the situation in Zimbabwe. You see, Zimbabwe has to daily deal with over 2.1 million orphans, who have little in the way of assistance to survive. Those agencies on the ground in Zimbabwe are given little in assistance by the world to feed, cloth, educate, provide health and safety to these children. Many live on the streets, fending for themselves. Many are cared for by people who have other uses and ideas in mind for them. Many are abused and mistreated. Most of them have little future if any. Today 1 million Haitian children need our help. So does that mean that 2.1 million Zimbabwean children today are no good to care about? Does that mean that those trying desperately to make a difference for these kids in Zimbabwe, don ‘t need anything today, because your attention is now focused somewhere else where you can sensationalise your story and make the world watch your news coverage? No the reality is that you’ll make your millions out of covering this disaster and forget about the plight of those children just as quickly as you forgot about those in Zimbabwe. You see Mr. Reporter, power lies in your hands. Responsible reporting would be to continually apply pressure, to constantly remind the world and keep those vulnerable and in precious need of help daily in the front line of your reporting. Not just when you need numbers to watch your program or buy your rag.

And it is for this reason that I am sickened when I hear our reporters on a front line trying to make out that nowhere else in the world are their people suffering, because now their story is no longer applicable or exciting to you as a reporter. Such irresponsibility would be subjected to a government being removed from power, or department heads being changed were it a different organisation, and they acted in such a manner. News is news, but exploiting those who befall the news, and making their suffering and hardship the centre of attention of your news for the simple demand of ratings or sales is both disgusting and scandalous. It is high time that reporting became more about the story and less about the visual impact and sensationalism of preying on those unable to protect themselves. I hope in time that our generation become more in tune with people’s feelings and less interested in such diabolical reporting.

This is a work of Fiction. Although inspired in part by a true incident, the following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event.

On Monday morning the lorries began to arrive. Army style vehicles with canvas covers on them. A selection unit made its way through the crowd in the camp splitting the people into what seemed to be anyone over the age of 16 and under the age of 30 to one side. The rest were then led to vehicles and throughout the next two days shipped off to where ever it was that the government was taking us all. The reality it turned out was that those that were shipped off in army vehicles were split into various loads dependant on which area they came from. The trucks would then drive a set distance from the city, veer off the road and the occupants where then disembarked, subjected to a merciless beating and told to go back to their rural lands and never return to the city or the same punishment would befall them.

For those of us chosen to stay, we were split down into work groups. Our task was to leave the camp each day and follow in the wake of the bulldozers and pile the rubbish lain waist by these monsters into various piles. Tin and metals in one place, wood in another, and clothing, and various other household belongings in another. I wondered many times as you saw the hordes of things that came out of the rubble left behind the diggers what would happen to the goods being sifted through. I guess in some ways it must have been somewhat like those who’d been chosen by the Germans in World War two, whose job it was to go through all the stuff left by the Jews and remove that which was useful to the state and discard that which was waist.

We scavenged a survival by eating scraps and bits and pieces of food we found as we worked, and we were lucky if at night when we returned to the camp that there was water to drink or blankets to sleep under. It wasn’t an easy survival, I was suffering difficulty with my wound, and would soon need medical attention. Others around me were in far worse conditions. On the third day we were finally allowed some attention by some international aid agency. I had my wound cleaned and dressed. I was told it’d needed stitched but as it was too late now I’d need to keep it clean and leave it to heal but it would scar badly. Small price to pay for my existence it seemed.

It took several days to work through the market. The task became quite normal after a while. Each day we sorted through what was left by the diggers and returned to our camp the following night. A group of about two or three thousand workers were there. Each night we returned to camp we’d always be asking each other if so and so had been heard from or news of so and so. At times information would come to light or we’d discover something in the ruins that told us what had happened to so and so. No news however seemed to come through about those that we really wanted to hear about. Nothing of Gilbert or Enoch. Nothing of mother or father. So life panned out, but little did we know the worst was yet to come.

On the Thursday when we the trucks arrived to carry us to our destination, there was a heavier guard than normal. We were piled into trucks, and left in a different direction to the few trucks that split off to go to the market. Faith was among those who’d been sent to market duty, and as it panned out I am eternally grateful that it worked out that way on this day. We wound through traffic, making our own convoy direct towards the shanty town and it suddenly became obvious that today we were to begin cleaning up our own town.

As I alighted from my truck and got my first glimpse of the sprawling mess before me, an image of the apocalypse and how I’d always imagined it played out before my eyes. Everywhere as far as you could see, shacks and dwellings had been levelled. Brick, tin, concrete, breeze block, cardboard, you name it. Everything had been pulled to the ground. The smell was intolerable. The smell of rotting food and flesh was all around as uncooked meat and fruit and vegetables had been left to ferment and rot. Smoke caught at the back of your throat as fires burned at various points in the rubble, belching thick black clouds where rubber and electrical cables burnt.

To our left was a huge mound of dirt and the troops were hustling the workers in that general direction. A general march forward began and we quickly made ground on the pile of earth that grew in size considerably as we got nearer. A putrid smell got stronger as we approached and suddenly a cry of dismay and anger went up from the front of the crowd, one which echoed again and again as the next set of people were able to see what those before them had seen. I began to build in trepidation as I neared the corner of the mound and steeled myself to what lay beyond. What could be that bad after all, considering what we’d all been through. As I came around the corner I realised what it was that had caused such an up cry among the people before us. Piled around that corner was a pile of corpses three to four deep in some places. To my horror I realised that this is where I’d been when I’d come too, having been assumed dead at my home. The full scale of the horror became clear in the day light as dozens of bodies lay piled one on top the other.

The area was suddenly infested with members of the Youth Brigade, vicious little cretins who are well known for their zealous and unshakable support for the ruling party. Armed with shamboks they shouted at us to gather up the hessian bales we could see at the edge of the pit that had been excavated next to the mound of bodies. We were instructed to line the pit with the sacking material, and to then wrap the bodies in the sacking and place them in the pit. This was done with great difficulty to those working with the bodies. One week into decomposition, the smell was unbearable, and many of us were uncontrollably ill, physically unable to continue from the bodies reaction to retch at the putrid smell, let alone the site of what you had to look at. Most of us had wrapped out hands in sacking material in an attempt to avoid touching the rotting flesh, and then it happened. With my T shirt high over my nose vainly trying to block out the smell, I pulled at a man’s leg and froze as a face became visible in the mix of flesh at my feet. It was unmistakeable. I felt the cry rise within my bowels as I fell to my feet and screamed.
“Mother!”
Everything stopped. People were clearly shaken and no one knew what on earth to do as I broke down into a fit of screams. A vicious eighteen year old sprung into action and let rip with his shambok, biting into the skin of my back as he tried to whip me into action while screaming at me to get to my feet and work, but I felt nor heard nothing.
The grief of seeing my mother lying in a mound of bodies, a mound in which I too had lain could not compare to the lashes that were landing on my shoulders. Two men immediately jumped on the boy and admonished him for his actions.
“That is his mother for god’s sake!” one man cried.
“You may have no respect,” the other shouted, “But at least have a heart!”
Others moved in agreement standing as a blockade between me and the circling members of the Youth Brigade. It was clear that they were unsure of what to do from a lack of experience and not at all sure of what to do about suddenly being challenged.

Suddenly a gun shot rang out stunning everyone into silence. The Youth Brigade turned to see an Inspector from the ZRP standing there with his pistol in his hands, now clearly in charge of the situation. He nodded to two muscular brutes beside him and they instantly grabbed me and pulled me kicking and screaming away from the pit. They took me to a truck and cast me in the back standing guard at the rear flap. I sat on a bench in the truck and cried. I didn’t care who saw or what they thought, the world around me ceased to exist. With my head in my hands I wailed the pains of my world away through the tears that fell to the floor of the van. In time as the tears ceased to flow and I became aware of my surroundings I felt the presence of a person sitting opposite me. I looked up to see the Inspector from the pit studying my face. I dragged an arm across my nose and rudely retorted “What the fuck are you looking at? Enjoying watching the pain you pigs have caused?” I raged. I began to lean forward reaching out for the man before me. I felt a sharp pain in my ribs and the wind was expelled from my lungs in quick succession, leaving me flapping backward onto the bench I’d just begun to spring up from. I realised that without any effort at all, the inspector had from his seated position kicked me smartly in the ribs using the front pointed edge of his shoe to effectively wind me.

I struggled for breath and then hurled an abuse at the man sat opposite me. The whole time the Inspector remained calm and sat watching me.
“What do you want?” I spat at the man.
He took his time and then reached into his pocket and produced a quarter jack of Brandy. He offered me the bottle. Perplexed I reached out and took the bottle, slowly removing the cap. I could instantly smell the liquor vapours rise to my nose. I looked across at the man opposite me unsure what to do. Had he poisoned the brandy to get rid of me now that I’d identified one of the dead? Was I next to go? “What did I care if he was trying to kill me?” I asked myself.
The man seemed to read my mind as he leaned forward took the bottle and took a swig before handing it back to me. I was too weak to wonder any more about this man, his purpose or what he wanted. I raised the bottle and slowly took a long sip.
I hung my head and the tears quietly flowed down my cheeks once more.
“I feel your pain young man!”
I looked up, wondering if it was the man in front of me who had spoken.
“Yes,” he nodded slowly, “I feel your pain!”
I shook my head incredulously. How could an officer of the Zimbabwean Republic Police force dare to sit there before me and tell me that he felt my pain. I smirked, look at him with hatred in my eyes and took another sip from the bottle.
“What is your name young man?” he asked.
“Ruben Moyo,” I said quietly.
“Well Ruben, my name is Stanley Mpfumo.” The man told me.
“Yes, you can look at me with hatred Ruben. You can look at me as a ZRP officer. You can look at me as an officer of this government, and all these would be true!”
I shrugged my shoulders. He nodded.
“I still feel your pain Ruben. You see for you this is your Murambatsvina!”
I looked up at him puzzled where this man was going. My eyes met his eyes and suddenly I could feel his pain.
“Yes my boy,” he said reaching over and touching my shoulder, “you my son will always carry your Murambatsvina, just as I have had to learn to carry my Gukurahundi!”
Suddenly I understood. This nation of ours had met out swift and decisive bloodshed on more than one occasion. It’s a well know and documented fact that the government of Robert Gabriel Mugabe would slaughter and wipe out anyone that stood in their way, posed a threat or mounted a credible challenge to his occupation in power. Yes, this man understood my pain, for he’d been through pain of his own, probably in similar circumstances, possibly at the hands of men not so dissimilar to those who’d run amok in my home town.

I was returned to camp that night, and quickly thereafter reunited with Faith. Members of the pit gang I’d been tasked with that day came to me that night and assured me that they’d tried their best to lay my mother to rest with the most amount of respect possible. To each of them I was grateful as we’d been warned not to speak of this day at the end of a whip, and merely mentioning the burial of my mother would have risked a beating beyond thought for each of them. On the Friday morning a ZRP Santana arrived at the main gate and officers were ordered to collect me and Faith and escort us to Central Police station in Harare city centre. On our arrival we were placed in a room and left for several hours. Not really sure what was going on I was fearful that details of my incident had leaked out and we’d been brought here to arrange for our disposal, but I was way off the mark. At around eleven am, the door opened at a somewhat dishevelled Gilbert and Enoch were ushered into the room by two officers I’d never seen before. The relief was so real I could taste it. My younger brother was alive stood before me, and I sprang forward to gather him in my arms, almost as fast as Faith rose to greet Enoch. Our reunion was cut short as a group of officers arrived and escorted us out of the office and down to an awaiting police Santana. We were driven from Harare to Ruwa where we were dropped off by the Santana outside a shopping centre. Unsure what was happening we huddled around each other and took in our surroundings. About five or ten minutes after the Santana had disappeared we were approached by an old man who told us we should visit the bar around the corner. Afraid we were walking into a trap, I told the other three to remain in sight of all the people at the shops and went around the corner to the bar. As I entered I saw Stanley in plain clothes, with a scud on a table in front of him. He nodded quietly over at me, and pointed at the chair.

I sat with the police inspector and we talked of our lives. He told me he had no family left and had decided it was his last wish to help someone from a bad situation as he’d recently been told he had an aggressive form of cancer and would last a few more months. Though he did not feel unwell he knew it would be quick as he had nothing left to live for. I told him my responsibility was now to my brother as we’d lost our parents now. Though my father was already dying before it’d come to this incident, it was still very hard to accept, and what had happened to my mother still tormented my mind, especially as I still had so many unanswered questions about that night.
“That is how it’ll always be son,” Stanley said. “Sometimes we just are not meant to know the answers for they will hurt us even more.”
“Maybe so,” I said.
“Not knowing hurts just as much though!”
Stanley nodded. I nodded. We drank.

It turned out that in the scramble to try to catch the three as they had escaped from our shanty home, the burley officers stomping through a house they were both unfamiliar with, and that had not really been so well built, had collapsed the house. No one had thought to search the house till a clear up crew had discovered my father’s body in the bed. He’d died where part of the house had collapsed in on him. In my mind I was able to accept that he died a painless death, never even knowing what happened around him, and happy that he’d said good night, and I love you to my mother as he had every night since he’d gotten sick. I will never really know what happened with my mother that night, but I will go to my grave with the idea that she was out doing something good for her family when she too fell prey to the thugs that beat me. Stanley gave me enough money to get the four of us home to Mutare, where I eventually managed to get a job through a friend of his, and settled down to put my brother through school. I have a small home in Chikanga a suburb of Mutare which I share with my brother and Enoch and Faith and baby Chipo. Life for us goes on, and the horror of that day dwells only in the darkest shadows of my dreams. This is the reality of a life under dictatorship. These are the possibilities in a country able to do as it pleases without rule of law and without the consequence of the actions of its leaders. This is my story. I am Ruben Moyo, and this was my Murambatsvina.

This is a work of Fiction. Although inspired in part by a true incident, the following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event.

Huge crowds of people milled around in the area that had been cordoned off. It was impossible to tell who was who as the throngs of people milled around in disorder and chaos, most traumatised and bull whipped into submission. The raid had come out of the blue. Most if not all of the people in the suburb had awoken in much the same way as us to find the Black Boots already lining the streets. Armed to the teeth on a mission of death, these men were ruthless beyond measure and had dealt a swift and decisive blow to the so called shanty town. Everyone had been rounded up. Those that had resisted had met a fate worse than hell, many succumbing to their wounds or simply having been killed for daring to show any hesitation or resistance to what they were being ordered to do.

Women were crying, children wailing, men sitting with looks of shock and helplessness on their faces. People were asking for people. Men asking about their wives, women seeking news of their daughters, couples wanting to know where their son was. No one had any idea what we were meant to be doing, how long we’d be kept here, when food and water was coming. It was a holding area, and we were surrounded by police and military soldiers armed with truncheons and guns. What could we do but sit and wait to be told exactly what was going on.

In the distance we could hear the bulldozers grinding to work. Metal crashing and screeching as it was pulled and bent and twisted under the weight of the powerful engines, falling before the ploughs on the mighty machines. We knew that they were smashing down the market, it was clear that they fully intended to raze it to the ground. I’d been sitting in the holding area for well over four hours now. I wondered so many things in that passage of time, that my mind ached almost as much as the side of my face. Just like everyone else in the holding area, I knew little of my family. It was very few family units that’d managed to stay together during the scramble it appeared. I had managed to gather somewhat of an understanding of what had transpired while I’d been mistaken for dead and left on a pile of bodies.

The police had moved into the camp through the course of the early morning. Their aim it appeared was to scoop everyone from their dwellings and to move them in one pincer movement into the holding area, a large fenced off area opposite the cemetery. During this activity most people had been woken without warning and given no time to prepare or take any form of belongings. Consequently many of the people were inadequately dressed, and some still clung to blankets, quietly trying to stay out of the way and cling to the only familiarity that they did have.

From what some of the people had been told or what had been thrown at them in a manner of insult was that this was our marching orders. This was our eviction notice. We were being thrown out of the city. It seemed impossible that this could be happening to us. We’d come to Harare the city that smiled all day long, in search of good life and fortune that it was impossible to have in the rural areas. We’d seen our nation prosper since independence and we all wanted a part of the cake to enjoy. So we like so many others had elected to leave our rural lands in the Honde Valley and make our way to Harare. On our arrival things had turned out to be a lot different to what we’d heard. Life was tough. We’d made do with what we had as a family, and in time father had gotten a stall at the market fixing and repairing bycycles and we’d finally been able to afford to send one of our family to school, where the real hope for our future lay.

I could only wonder with a sick feeling in my stomach about Gilberts fate now. The son that had once held so much promise for our family. All I could remember was hearing him shout out as I’d been attacked at the door. If the rumours about the punishment met out on anyone that put up resistance was true I feared for Gilbert. I wished I’d never woken them now. I looked back and longed to go back nine hours and instead of raising the alarm to the whole house have just checked the dangers on my own. But looking back at wishing to do things differently is far too easy, and it was the here and now that I had to deal with.

I sat on the dusty field drawing in the sand with a piece of straw. I wondered what had become of my father. He’d been drugged asleep with pain killers. Since being diagnosed with HIV the year before he’d rapidly gone downhill, and was now apparently suffering from the full effects of AIDS. Through running the market stall I was able to get him black market drugs that helped but the hospital had said that he would eventually die. To be honest I think he’d made up his mind to die. At night to help him sleep mother gave him a tea brewed with leaves she got from the traditional healer and these helped him sleep through the night, otherwise he just lay on his bed in pain. It was clear that in this condition he’d never have been able to be moved, unless carried, and if Gilbert had been attacked as well, I wondered if a ZRP Officer would have bothered himself to do such a thing or rather have chosen to despatch of the elderly man when he had failed to respond to his bellowing. My eyes filled with tears and I feared the fate of my family.

And then there was my mother. What the hell had possessed her to leave our home in the night in such the way as she had? I had run through things over and over in my mind. I recalled having listened to her and father talking before I’d dosed off in one of my drifts in and out of sleep. As hard as I racked my mind I could think of no reason at all for her to have left the house. There was no way in hell that she could have known about the raid and even if she had there was no way she’d have left us to succumb at the hands of these thugs. Again there was no way that she’d left the house for any logical reason like tending to the food, or preparing for anything special. I could simply just not fathom any reason for her to leave the house. It was unthinkable to consider that she’d leave to be involved in crime, mother was just not that kind of woman. I could not consider her leaving to go to another man, yet in the back of my mind I could only chose this option as any close to realistic. There was just nothing else I could fathom. No explanation could I come up with. In the mist of all my pain, doubt began to grip me and even though I had no proof, I began to resent my mother for having an affair while my father lay drugged and asleep.

My tears flowed more. I hated my life. Suddenly nothing was important. In my mind’s eye I could see my family all dead. My brother dead for having resisted and trying to stand up for me. My father dead for simply being unable to rise up from his slumber. My mother dead to me for her callous behaviour of daring to have an affair at such a time in our lives. What was there to live for? These pigs that had stormed into our lives had stolen and taken everything precious from me. The stream flowed down my face and I suddenly in my rage screamed out, my anger exploding from my lips in a mighty cry of frustration. Many of those around me leapt up or screamed, alarmed at my outburst. Children close to me began to cry as my anguish upset them further. A gap suddenly formed around me, people shrinking from the mad man who was clearly having some sort of break down in their midst.

“Ruben!”
I was stunned into silence. Everything seemed to stand still in the moment. I knew that voice.
I struggled to my feet, trying desperately to scan the crowd with my one eye. I knew she was there, it just had to be her, she’d called my name.
“Ruben!” There is was again. I became aware of a scramble through the mill of people to my side and turned to see her pushing her way towards me, tears streaming down her face, a cry of desperation screaming from her lips. “Ruben, it’s you!”
She fell into my arms, and I pulled her towards me, aware of mighty shudders as she sobbed into my shoulder. I’d never before felt so relieved and thankful to see someone I knew. I’d never before realised how the recognition of someone in such circumstances can make you both leap for joy and at the same time lose all sight of reality as so many emotions wash over you. In that split second as I held onto her, I felt weak. Tired. I sank to my knees, still holding onto her, waiting till she found the strength to talk.

She eventually pulled away from me, her hands on my arms.
“Oh Ruben it is so good to see you.”
“Faith, I am happy to see you too,” I said quietly. My eyes were full of questions, my mind wanting to launch an interrogation, my patience stretched to its limit.
Faith lent into me again, her body convulsing in sobs as she once more broke down and cried the hurt away.

It hadn’t taken much to figure that she was alone, and my mind began to wonder at the fate of Enoch. Had every male close to me been taken by these evil men? Had so many lives been extinguished in such a quick flash as night had gloomily turned to day? After what was ultimately the longest period of time I’ve ever had to bite my tongue from speaking, Faith pulled away from my embrace and dried her face on her skirt. I looked at her, my lips burning with desire to launch a million probing questions. I guess she saw it in my face, as she hung her head and quietly said, “They took them both from the camp a few hours ago.”
My heart leapt even though I failed to compute the information she’d just told me.
“How long ago, which camp, where did they take them?”
“Who took them?”
I caught myself. I was shooting off questions faster than she could comprehend, and she just shook her head. I was frustrated and felt it rising in me. I could quite easily have shaken Faith silly in that instant.
She looked up at me, the tears had started to stream down her face once more.
“They took them from this camp a few hours ago.”
Alive. They were alive. I didn’t quite know who I was celebrating being alive, although I could guess at it, but a massive wave of relief bled over me as I sat back and remembered once more how to breath.
I looked skyward and breathed a long sigh. It was not a perfect world, but up to a few hours ago, members of my family were alive. I had a reason to live again. I looked at Faith once more who was quietly sobbing and leant forward and hugged her again.
“What do you remember sister?” I asked quietly.
For a long while Faith went quiet, sniffling now and then, as she seemed to decide what it was that she would remember and that which she’d chose not to recall.
“We heard them fighting with you and Gilbert tried to get involved, but Enoch pulled him into our room and pushed both of us through the cardboard hole that you never fixed properly.”

I was grateful to Enoch for having the sense of mind to overpower Gilbert and get him out of the house. I was also grateful that I’d never gotten round to completely fixing the hole in the wall where a piece of tin sheeting had been stolen from the house the week before. So the three of them had somehow survived up till a few hours ago.
“Why were they taken from here, Faith,” I asked.
“I am not sure Ruben,” she sighed quietly. “I have been told that the police are making us clean up the rubble where they have torn down the homes.”
“They are tearing down the homes?”
I leaned away from her, studying her face, uncertain that she knew what she was saying.
“The homes, the market, anything that is not wanted!” she responded.
“Why the homes,” I asked almost to myself as much as to Faith.
“They want us out Ruben. Gone!”

The words echoed in my head. Gone? Why us though? Yes crime was high in the shanty town, but crime was just as bad in the townships and suburbs of Harare. It was not our fault that the government had run out of money in completing the housing projects it’d promised to undertake five years before. We’d just built on the land we’d been allocated. It was temporary, but it was a home, shelter, dwelling. Over 12,000 of us lived like this in our section alone. Gone to where? Where were we supposed to go and how were we to get there? So many questions to ask, nowhere to go to get the answers. For the longest of time, we Zimbabweans that lived in the home made houses had always understood that for us we deserved no answers. When we asked why the government had failed us, we never received an answer. When we asked where the promised schools, hospitals, and homes were we were told to be thankful for what we’d been given and shut up. No for us existence was carved out of survival, and we struggled to make ends meet. Yes there was evil people among us, and yes some of us had even voted for change, but on the whole most of us didn’t matter and weren’t even counted when it came to things that mattered.

The day dragged into night, and we remained surrounded by troops, holed up without food, water, sanitation or shelter. Huddled together we slept under the stars. I lay on my back looking up through my one good eye looking at the stars that I’d gazed up at the night before. It seemed a world away from me now. A life time between that last look upwards and this. I’d accepted that Faith knew nothing of what had happened to my father once the three of them had escaped from the house. I know that Enoch would quickly have realised that it was not just a random attack that was underway when he’d heard the shouts of “Mapurisa” erupt from the gang outside the door. He’d have had the savvy to grab Gilbert and make fast their escape. At some point they’d run into a group of officers and been bundled along to the holding camp. I could not bring myself to ask Faith if she knew anything about my mother, and while she never offered any information I preferred to leave that one till I could find out for myself exactly what had happened to make mother leave the house that night.

We were held in that camp for the whole weekend. The stench of humanity hung in the air as pockets of the camp became designated human waste areas. There was no form of sanitation in the camp, so excrement was openly exposed to the elements. No food at all entered the camp during that weekend. Children everywhere were crying if they weren’t sleeping from hunger pains. Mothers with child did what they could to breast feed their children, but even mothers began to dry of milk as provisions failed to reach them to replenish what the child had taken. Water browsers had been parked off at the four corners of the camp, but someone had failed to make provision to have them filled, and so 12,000 families suffered the effects of Operation Murambatsvina as it swung into full force. Faith had done what she could to clean my wound and had used part of her skirt to create a makeshift bandage. Throughout the weekend we heard nothing more of Enoch or Gilbert. Unease began to grow in the camp and by Sunday afternoon there was a tension hanging over the camp, as it began to become clear that people were suffering and anger at the guards surrounding the camp began to grow. Towards Sunday evening a sizeable number of armed troops arrived to reinforced the guard, a clear show that no nonsense would be tolerated from those trapped in the camp no matter how bad it got in here.

For most of us we just buckled down and accepted our lot. At some point something would be done to show what the government intended to do with us, and we’d then know what would become of us. But for now it was just sensible to shut up and quietly suffer the intolerance.

This is a work of Fiction. Although inspired in part by a true incident, the following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event.

CHAPTER ONE

The morning started for me far earlier than I’d ever planned to rise that day. The rumble and roar of heavy machinery had disturbed most of the night as diggers, bulldozers, and road clearing equipment was massed at the edge of our suburb. To us it seemed that just another government project was being prepared and we’d have to put up with the disturbances of loud machinery as industry ploughed its way forward through our land. Little were we aware of the true operation for which these hoards of mechanical beasts were being amassed.

I’d tossed and turned in the dying heat of the day trying to get comfortable on my mattress. Gilbert my younger brother was lying next to me quietly lost in the throes of slumber, exhausted after his daily commute to and from school. I could hear our parents talking quietly in the next room as I faded in and out of sleep, never fully dozing off. I could smell the paraffin stoves of those around us as the familiar buzz of subdued activity led to families eating before settling down for the night.

In my mind I wondered what would really be happening in the morning. I knew I had to be at the stall early as I had two bikes being delivered to me for a client who was paying good money for a specific order. It’d taken longer than I’d expected to find someone who could locate and acquire the exact model I was seeking, and now that everything was in place and under way, I had that nervous unease in the bowl of my stomach that I always got when I was involved in clandestine dealings of this sort. I’d long ago learnt that survival was about learning what laws could be broken, when they should be broken and how to avoid attention when such dealings were taking place. However no matter how many times I’d done it, I’d never accepted that I’d resort to dishonesty for survival, nor did I enjoy the fact that someone suffered as a result of my actions, but survival was the name of the game, and I’d accepted that needs dictated what was acceptable and what was necessary when it came down to the crunch. And so it was that on occasion, I was willing, when the situation was right, and the needs dictated that such actions were appropriate that I’d deal in stolen goods.

With the knowledge of tomorrow’s deal pressing on my mind, and the fact that dad wasn’t well, my mind failed to quiet that night. As a result I’d tossed and turned and in my restlessness began to feel apprehension that something was just not right. I sat up, sweat dripping from my skin and sat quietly in the gloom thinking. I was mulling over in my mind what it was that was making me feel so disturbed. What was it that had bothered me so?

I reached over and checked the time on my digital watch, pressing the button to illuminate the figures. It was two thirty am, far too early to be awake and far too early to be letting the nerves of today’s exchange at the market to get to me. I began to slowly sink back to the mattress when it dawned on me what was wrong. I sat up right immediately, my body alert and on edge. I knew now that something was really very very wrong, and had I not been so on edge about other things, I’d most certainly have missed that warning sign, the one that always alerted the camp to trouble. Silence. That’s what was wrong. It was just far too quiet for that time of the morning, no matter that it was almost three am on a Friday morning, a school night, no matter that everyone is normally quite simply dead to humanity as they snore the night away at that time of night. No, not even the dogs were making noise, the plant machinery was quiet, no sounds of drunken men singing on their way homeward, nothing.

I quietly stood, feeling my way to the board covering the doorway, and lifted it carefully to my side. I stepped out into the makeshift passageway that led between the three rooms of my home. Since dad had fallen ill we’d never quite gotten round to fitting a roof over this part of the house, and so it was in a way like a walled garden, except the wall was corrugated iron sheets, and the ground under my feet was bear earth, but this was my home and I’d learnt to feel safe in these walls. As I stood in the night air, I shivered, realising that I’d not put on a T shirt. I looked upward towards the night sky and could see the stars twinkling above me. I could smell the mixture of burning paraffin and wood smoke of the many fires and stoves that either warmed the huts or had been left to burn out. It was defiantly too quiet.

I turned to make my way into our room where I intended to retrieve my T shirt, when I heard the unmistakable sounds of people moving stealthily through the avenue. I froze, a given that even though I was inside the walls of my own home, I knew that there was something strange going on outside those flimsy walls and it made me feel threatened. I suddenly became filled with a fear that something very bad was about to happen, and I stepped into my room quickly, leaning down to my brother, covering his mouth as I shook him awake. He let out a curse muffled by my hand and sat up rubbing his eyes. I placed my mouth next to his ear and whispered the words I hated to use, “Brother, passop! There’s trouble around!”

Gilbert’s eyes snapped to mine, a look of panic rising up within him. His hand frantically searched the ground next to him for his clothes as he pulled away from my mouth and nodded that he understood my warning. I turned and located my shirt, pulling it on as I slipped my feet into my tackies. I stood and threaded my belt as Gilbert pulled on his tracksuit pants, the quiet of the room split as he zippered up the front of the garment, my heart leaping at the sound which in that moment might as well have been a tank driving through the room. I spun around and hissed at him to be cautious in his movements.

I leant over and whispered into Gilberts ears that I would wake mom and dad, and that he should wake and warn Enoch and Faith in the third room of our house. Lifelong friends of ours, they’d shared our home since arriving in Mbare from Mutare the year before. Enoch was a grass weaver and Faith, his wife was pregnant with their first child. They were so excited to be about to start their own family, even if times were hard for us. As a unit we did very well for ourselves considering. I had taken over dad’s bicycle stall at Siya-So market, and mom sold vegetables on the road by the stadium when she could. Enoch used the same spot to sell woven baskets and various other items, and between us all we managed to pay Gilberts school fees and pay for dad’s medication. He was too far gone now to walk around much and had taken to spending most of the day in the house. When mother was not out at the stall selling, she was home tending to dad and this was our life.

However, I knew in my bones as I crept in to my parents room that night that for some reason I was unaware of, things were about to change. I knelt next to their bed and put my hand to where I expected to find my mother, only to discover that the bed was empty. Panic gripped me as I reached further across the bed in haste to find her. My hand touched my father, I heard him stir as I bumped against him, knowing that he’d not wake as the tablets mother would have given him earlier would help him sleep through the night, through the pain, through the suffering. But still my wild search of the bed had not discovered my mother, and I really began to take fright. I pulled back from the mattress in haste, my mind spinning as I wondered where she might be. It struck me that she may be at the latrine at the rear of the house, but I was aware that I’d not heard her moving about the house since I’d woken a while before. I sat there in the darkness, my mind whirling as my haunches began to burn with pins and needles as the blood circulation was cut off by my awkward position. My fear was no longer at the mystery that lay outside the walls of my home, but more in the mystery of my mother’s whereabouts.

I scrambled to my feet, almost stumbling for a moment as I realised that feeling had been restricted to my limbs and the intense sensation of thousands of pin pricks stung at my feet as the circulation rushed back into my muscles. I took that moment to go through in my mind where mom might be. It began to dawn on me that she must have left the house earlier, and if that was the case heaven only knew where she could be now. I stepped out of the room to be confronted by Enoch and Gilbert standing quietly in the hallway. I moved over to them and we huddled our heads together. I very hushed tones I told Gilbert to sit with dad and instructed Enoch to get Faith ready to run out the rear of the house if anything untoward should happen.

“Gilbert, mother has gone out and I have to find her. No matter what happens brother, do not leave father on his own!”
I looked deep into Gilberts eyes, making sure that my point sunk home. I did not want father on his own in his state of drug induced slumber.
Gilbert nodded that he understood. “I will not leave him, no matter what Ruben.”
“Ruben,” Enoch mumbled, “where do we go? Where do we meet?”
“Enoch my brother, Faith and your unborn child are far too important. If things go wrong run my brother and do not stop until you know that they are safe.”
“But where will we meet Ruben?” Enoch seems distraught at the hint that we may be torn apart.
To be honest I was as distraught as he, but didn’t want him to see it in my eyes, so I looked at the ground.
“When the time is right Enoch, meet me at the market.”
I looked up and at Enoch. Tears were running down his cheek but he nodded his understanding. I think each of us deep down knew the reality of a new dawn was upon us.

For us our nation had been teetering on the brink of destruction for far too long. Inflation was out of control, unemployment was at the highest known in any nation third or even fourth world, crime was the name of the game, survival was a gamble every day. Most people my age were on deaths doorstep, it was unusual to find many older men anymore. Our government ransacked us daily, the police lived in a military state where they did as they pleased. Food was scarce, education was difficult to come by, health and medicine was only really available on the black market, and money was cheaper than toilet paper. Yes for us we knew that we were living in a time bomb, and with the recent challenge in the parliamentary elections having given our government a shock as the mass turn out at the polls led to a knockout blow being delivered to our esteemed leader. Despite that the election results were disputed and despite the fact the whole world knew that Robert Mugabe had been effectively knocked out of power, we at home knew that things were not so simple.

As we each turned to go undertake our individual responsibilities we each knew that for us tonight, the world as we knew it was about to change, and not change in a good way. Fate had caught up with us, and the anger of an institution backed into a corner was about to be unleashed on the people it deemed to be the cause of its body blow. I put my hand out onto my brothers shoulder for a moment and stood there feeling him as I steadied myself against the wave of nerves that washed over me.
“Be strong Gilbert!” I said and turned to the door.
In my haste to leave the house for fear that my brother would see me faltering, I had failed to notice the noises of boots outside the tin wall. In my rush to speed off and discover my mother’s whereabouts I failed to realise I was walking head first into pure danger. My instincts that had warned me earlier had fled me, and I was operating on pure adrenaline in that moment as I pulled open the outside door, scrapping it across the earth underneath it, my head stooping under the plastic hanging from the semblance of a roof above my father’s room across the top of the door. As my head exited the threshold of my home, my foot about to land on the ground outside of my door I heard the whoosh of movement in as much as I felt the movement speeding towards the side of my head, as in a split second I realised I was under attack.

I felt the blow as soon as I realised it was coming, my head was thrown hard in a whiplash reaction from the force of the blow. My head in that moment felt like it’d become twice its size as the pressure on my eyes seemed to grow stupidly beyond what I could take. I was instantly aware of a sharp, piercing ring sounding off incessantly in my ears, and my body spiralling outwards from the door as I fell helplessly to the floor. I landed in a heap, my breath being forcefully expelled from my lungs as I felt the kick of a boot impact with my falling body. A grunt more than a moan escaped my lips as the boot made contact with my stomach, my head once again feeling a blow as it impacted with the dust and dirt on the ground below me. In a far distant place I could hear my brother cry out in protest, and the shouts of several people as mayhem broke out around me, myself unable to do much to help either them or myself as I slowly plunged into a cloud of blackness. As I was fading I became aware of a boot stepping right on my head, grinding my lips into the dust. Then darkness. Darkness and this incessant damn ringing.

I guess when you pass out you lose all senses entirely. I know that while the blackness enveloped me, I felt no pain, heard no pain, nor was aware of anything going on around me. I therefore could not have known whether I was alive or dead, but as you begin to come too, your mind begins to try to piece things together, and I recall that first conclusive, complete thought being, “Am I alive or dead?”

Sitting thinking about it now, it seems a strange thing to think, but I guess your body is trying to work out the sudden over load of information it suddenly becomes aware too. I remember recalling the smell of rubber burning, a pungent smell. But at that time I was still far off in unconsciousness. Then came the senses of pain. My head throbbed, my neck hurt, my ribs hurt, my lips were thick. I knew at some point that I was parched and desperate for a drink. As I came around, lots of things flooded through my mind. I knew I was in a busy place, for lots of noise was transpiring around me. I knew something heavy lay across my feet. I moved my hand and gingerly felt the side of my head. It was swollen and hot with pain. My eye effectively swollen shut thus why I couldn’t seem to see. I suddenly wondered why my other eye was not working, and raised my other arm to check. There was no immediate pain, and I gently probed around my eye. I discovered that a thick substance was caked over my eye sealing it shut. I tried to rub my hand across that side of my face to clear the offending obstruction, but realised that it’d dried into place and needed to be more slowly picked at to remove it. I lay picking and peeling away the cover from my eye for what seemed an age, until eventually I began to be able to open my eye a crack. I put my hand down for a break as pain wretched through my body. I heard voices muttering not so far away, and felt an impact thud through whatever it was covering my feet. I realised that I couldn’t really feel my feet, in much the same way as I’d lost feeling in them the night before or whenever it was that I’d been squatting in my father’s room.

Then it all hit me, and I had to find my family. I struggled to sit up, my hand anxiously picking and scratching away the remainder of the cover over my eye. I could see, and firstly realised that it was dried blood that’d trapped my eye lids from opening. I felt revolted and sick to my core, but this was nothing beyond what I was about to discover. My feet suddenly shouted out to me reminding me I needed to move, and I looked down to see what exactly it was that was trapping me. I focused and looked, not really sure I was seeing what my brain told me I was seeing. I turned to my left in an instant, my stomach retching, heaving over and over again, as I drew from every reserve of strength that I could to pull myself free from the body that lay over my feet. In my efforts to scramble free, I became aware that it was not only one body that just so happened to have fallen across me feet, but a pile of bodies that I lay on top of and that had lain partly on top of me. In my disgust and efforts to get away from the sight I’d beheld of half a man’s face staring at me from a body trapping my legs in this throng of bodies the officers who’d been piling the bodies became aware of my writhing.

“We’ve got a live one,” one officer said.
“Hey you, stop playing with the dead and come here,” said another.
I struggled towards their voices, trying not to look at the bodies below me, but having to as I stumbled and pitched here and there over the mass. I eventually reached firm ground after what seemed an eternity and stood trembling, bent over as my stomach heaved to get rid of what was there no more, yet my body could not stop retching. Tears flowed freely from my eyes as I realised that I’d awoken into my worst nightmare. Retribution was being met out on us, for things that many if not most of us were not even guilty of.

I was grabbed by one of the officers who pulled me up and looked at my battered and bruised face.
“So you’re not dead are you scum? That is a pity!”
He pushed me over towards his partner who had been slowly making his way towards us. He caught me just as I was about to fall, and pulled me to my feet again.
“Another shit who escaped the death penalty Moyo!”
“Seems he is unlucky,” grunted the officer who’d been referred to as Moyo.
Irony struck me in the gut. Here was man who shared the same name as me, yet was hidden by a uniform, and behind which he perpetrated crimes that in any normal country would be punishable by law even to a man dressed in such a uniform.
“What’s your name?” the grisly faced monster of a man holding me asked.
“Ruben Moyo!” I managed through my thick lips.
“Haha!” The man loudly laughed at the irony that a moment before had kicked me in the stomach.
“He’s one of yours Moyo!” he laughed pushing me off my feet to where I fell at the feet of the officer called Moyo.
I felt a boot smash into the rear of my head as I lay there at his feet. My mouth filled with a metallic, warmness as blood began to flow freshly from the wound I’d inflicted on myself, biting down on my tongue as the kick had met my head.
“I do not associate with MDC Scum you shit head!” Moyo growled at his companion.
They moved towards a ZRP Santana that had pulled up, three officers alighting and pulling two more bodies for the pile from the jeep.
I pulled myself to a sitting position and hung my head between my legs. What had I done to deserve this? Why had I been brought to a shanty town called Mbare and raised here? Why had my nation fallen into such disarray? Why were these people so hell bent on making our lives such a misery? What had gone wrong?

Well I’ve been dragged kicking and screaming into the new decade, the second tenth or first fifth of the second millennium, or is it really the third millennium? I mean if you think about it in practical sense, 0 to 999 was millennium one, 1000 to 1999 was millennium two and so surely 2000 onwards is millennium three? Argh its far too early in the year, day and time cycle to be asking such difficult questions. What alarmed me more than anything in that little rant was the amount of times I misspelt millennium trying to figure out what its correct spelling should be.

So what is the attraction of 2010, Or more over what is the hesitation that I feel entering into a whole new decade of the 21st century? To be totally honest I am really not sure. I think it is merely a culmination of things that leave uncertainty in the back of my mind that leave me wondering if 2010 is going to be the year that we are all hoping it should be.

The state of the economy is probably the most pressing issue that we all face as a nation. I think that there are those among us that couldn’t really give a damn about whether the system bucks all the trends and the recovery collapses under our feet. They are well off enough and secure enough to weather any kind of financial crisis, but I know by the number of people that I speak to that believe that this is an international plot to usher in a single monetary system worldwide. Rather alarmingly last year during many of the G8, G20, G111 and G whatever else they could think of we heard the likes of the Brazilian Prime Minister calling for a single currency. Yes it would be something that in the long term has to happen, but for me, that moment in time is the real mark of the end of time as we know it.

I am left puzzled, sitting in the worst winter weather in 30 years for the UK, wondering how on earth we can be talking about global warming. True there is talk that globally the extremes of weather are impacted by the degree of impact that man is having on our planet, and I’d tend to agree with that to a certain degree, but I have a sneaky suspicion that mother nature knows a whole lot more about the earth’s climatic temperament that any scientist or world leader professes to know. I also tend to think that there are scaremongers among our esteemed elected politicians that would seize on any opportunity to worry the world into submission. No I am no scientist, but I for one am not bought off by the sudden rush to say that the world is suffering irreparable damage as a result of our carbon foot print on this world. It cannot be one person, one country, one continent that will make any difference whatsoever to the state of the carbon footprint if all the others carry on spilling out toxic fumes.

But I would pause for a moment to point out that once upon a time our planet was apparently a fiery ball of poisonous gasses, some far more toxic and destructive than any we see produced by man today. Over a period of millennia, yes admittedly a very long time, this came to change, the climate settled down and the world repaired itself into the wonderful oyster that we know and treasure today. So I would challenge anyone that suggests that nature is incapable of dealing with what is thrown at it, and our world is on a one way collision course with destruction. Nay, I think we need to be a lot more honest and look not at what man produces through manufacturing, but more over what man produces through reproduction.

I am more inclined to believe that we are heading for a famine of global significance, not because nature is going to strike us out with a curved ball, but because the population of mankind is spiralling out of control. Our world is a finite resource, and we can only plant and plough so much of the land. Of that crop only so much will eventually be used for food product, and only so much of that remains fresh and good to eat for so long. With man’s concentration on producing fuel crops today, I have to wonder how on earth the third world and countries that rely on purchasing surplus food stock that will no longer be available as we press more and more fuel from seed, are to survive. It is my honest belief the it is in mankind itself and the rate at which we multiply that our doomsday and head-on collision with nature exists.

Personally I look at the situation in Pakistan and Afghanistan as a far more serious and unstable situation than anyone leads us to believe. For so many years we have watched the middle east, and the Israeli and Palestinian situation with so much concern that it would lead to a melting pot of Armageddon, that we have failed to notice and pay attention to other areas of key and critical concern that have come unstuck right under our noses. There is so much conflict and unease within the region as India, Pakistan and Afghanistan frequently rattle their sabres. The problem for us is that two of these nations have nuclear weapons, and I wouldn’t hesitate to believe that either would happily press the button if the situation deteriorated any further. Now with Al Qaeda in the mix, one has to wonder how long it will be before someone totally looses the plot and starts something I don’t think the world will stand back from. I mean we are already committing huge resources to the region to try keep a feeble and untenable peace. At last the world has woken up to the risk that was growing on our doorstep right up till we suddenly realised how dangerous this region has become.

2010 is the year of Africa’s entry into the halls of history as it hosts the very first African World Cup in football. Such a prestigious event has never before been contemplated in such a war torn and unstable continent, but it seems at last, one of the continents favourite competitions is coming to a city near you. Is it any wonder then that the organisers and the officials responsible for the event are sitting on their fingers with worry about the impact of a world of sporting fans descending on a country often regarded as the most violent place on the planet? The attack on the Togo team in Angola just reiterated the dangers of the African continent, and cut deep into the nervous system of the FIFA governing body as the kick off date looms near. True enough, terrorism knocks on ever door regardless of where or when an event is being held. I remember there was a time when the Sydney Olympic Games were considered to be under a real and credible threat from some act of terrorism. I do however worry not about the danger imposed from a terrorist atrocity, as I believe that the African nations have some of the finest intelligence operations in the world, nor do I worry about the fans being given the short end of the straw and falling prey to villains on the street. I worry about the millions of people that are going to be forcibly removed from areas of public interest and herded into places of vulnerability and hostility. We are all familiar with Xenocide and the crimes against humanity of the South African people. That I feel is far more worrying and dastardly than any effects felt by fans or the public enjoying the hype of the world cup.

With a general election looming on the horizon in the UK, I am left as so very many of the British public at a complete loss of who really to vote for. No one party has come out fighting, no one leader has risen to the challenge and come out with rhetoric that is exciting and motivating. I really fail to understand British politics. It is like a lame man’s game. The quieter and more boring you are the more certain you are of getting into a position of power. I have lived in countries where men fight and die for a chance to campaign in a general election. I’ve visited countries where during a national election the whole country becomes infected by politics. I’ve watched a nation get caught up in the excitement and passion of a leader who was inspiring, clean cut, clever and steadfast in his desire to become leader. And then I come to my chosen nation of residence and wonder what the hell to do when I am called to make a vote come polling day. I wonder sometimes if I shouldn’t run as a complete outsider and shake up the status quo of Westminster. Someone needs to do it. David Cameron’s latest posters came out with the slogan on it, “We can’t carry on like this!” Too bloody right. Someone stick a fire cracker up his backside and hopefully we’ll actually get a leader with some fire in his belly.

Yes, I guess while other people have looked on 2010 as a year of new hope and opportunity, I have had a somewhat clouded entry into the year thus far. It is with some feeling of trepidation and caution that I carry on into the year, and I’ll most certainly be going with my eyes open and my ears close to the ground, as I have a feeling in my bones, that 2010 is not what we are all hoping it will be. May I well be wrong, and it would give me no more pleasure to sit down in December in hindsight and look back and say, “What on earth was I on about,” but at the same time, better prepared than blissfully ignorant in my opinion. Happy New year to you all and I hope that many blessings follow us all.

So it is that the Formula One racing season looms on the horizon for 2010 and some of the most interesting and telling developments have come out of a winter of radical and dynamic changes unseen in the Formula One world for many years. I would certainly be a pretty boring fan if I said that I did not think that this season will see a rebirth of some of the fire and ice that spices up the world of Formula One racing and makes it so thrilling to watch.

For many people the idea of watching a car loop round a circuit for lap after lap could only spell boredom and complete loss of interest, but for anyone that has ever driven a powerful sports car at incredible speed, there is a bug and a bite that grips you and never fully leaves you. You just have to look at the Formula One paddock to see the truth of this in the likes of Eddie Jordan who for many years was a team principle and now is firmly rooted in our hearts as a Racing Pundit. The likes of Michael Schumacher returning to the sport after a three year hiatus and the many others that return and pop up time and time again, returning to a sport that becomes a passion.

As a young boy I guess I was overwhelmed by the unique shape, the unthinkable speeds, the sheer amounts of money involved in the sport, and the pride of winning the championship not only for the driver but for the constructor. The vibrant colours, the excitement of that first corner, the expense and catastrophe of an accident, the chances that men take pushing their vehicles and themselves to the limits for hours on the track. There are times, as in the last two seasons where it has come down to the result of a certain race that will determine the outcome of a whole season of racing that keeps you firmly in place in front of the screen of your television as the drama unfolds and like any sports fan your heart is in your mouth as the battle unfolds before you. The elation of victory lifting you off your seat as that final push carries your favourite driver over the line to victory and glory.

For any Formula One fan, this is the passion and thrill that brings us back every year to watch another season unfold with its admittedly sometimes mundane familiarity as the teams battle it out to take glory at the end of the season. In today’s Formula One world, the competitiveness of the team and driver lies in the value of the car they find themselves in. This is certainly evident in the lack of performance from both McLaren and Ferrari last year. It was amazing to watch cars that had once dominated the sport slip into almost oblivion as two complete new cars to the race stormed away with the pack.

I truly do believe that Ross Brawn is a genius of Formula One. It is his uncanny understanding of the sport, the way he is able to inspire and drive his team in pursuit of perfection, his ability to read a driver and gain the maximum advantage from a race that makes him a formidable force behind any team. I don’t care if you gave him a wooden go-cart and a team of self stackers from Tesco to operate his garages, the man would still pull off a miracle on the starting grid come race one. Ok maybe that is farfetched, but it his accomplishments of the 2009 season that sets him aside as one of the greatest men in Formula One for me.

It is only natural then that it would be Ross who would be the man to bring Michael out of retirement, and I have to be honest, I am surprised to find that it is Nico Rosberg that’ll sit next to him in 2010. I a way I was hoping that it’d be Jenson Button, as I honestly believe that it would have given the whole field a level playing pitch, as I think it’ll be far too easy for the Brawn team to now play favourites with Nico in much the same way as we became used to seeing with Michael in his days at Ferrari when frequently the likes of Rubens Barrichello would fall foul of team orders to let Michael through.

With both Button and Hamilton now driving for McLaren, it seems that the team are very determined to put a British stamp on the team in 2010. With both world champions in the same team I am very interested to see how the team dynamic plays out over the season. Two very different drivers, and two very different people, I think that it’ll play out a very interesting season as we watch these two settle into 2010. I can only pray that McLaren get it right this year and pull their finger out and get the car working, for if they don’t Brawn Mercedes will give them a firm and not so pleasant kick up the bum.

Red Bull I do believe will continue to excite us in 2010. A team with a dedicated focus on winning and a drive to accomplish a lot, Red Bull have proved to be the one to watch in the last few seasons, building from success to success and are now really in the hunting for a title in the season looming ahead. I think Christian Horner has been sensible and very mature in sticking by his drivers and stands a very real chance on building on his success in 2010 if, and I say if tentatively, he can overcome his engine reliability issues this season. As yet I have not heard of any change of engine for the Red Bull team, so let’s hope that the engine they unveil for their 2010 car can lose some of that unreliability that dragged possibly the fastest car on the track in 2009 down. I am also really keen to see what Sebastian Vettel will pull out of the bag when put up against the one and only Michael Schumacher. I have a sneaky suspicion that the young wonder boy will show the maestro a thing or three.

Ferrari storms on a usual, the reliable and ever present thorn in everyone’s side. Despite their lack of performance in 2009, Ferrari is always a team to watch out for. As a dominant player for so long, it is only natural that as their dominance came to an end they would need to go back to the drawing board and design a new team, something that the Ferrari paddock has always been great at doing throughout the years of Formula One. I have no doubt that in time to come they will once more surface as a dominant player in the game. With Alonso and Massa in their cars, they certainly have experience behind the wheel, it just remains to see if they will deliver mechanically in 2010.

Williams field a complete new car with a complete new engine this year. They have ditched the unreliable BMW and instead are entering a car powered by a Cosworth V8 going into 2010. Sir Frank Williams has been around long enough to know that he needed to do something about his engine, and it seems sad to see the BMW bow out of Formula Once more as Williams takes up a new drive under Ford power. The exciting news from the Williams stables this year is the fact that Nico Hulkenberg is recruited as their number two driver alongside Rubens. The winner of last season’s GP2 feeder circuit is an exciting and fresh talent to emerge in the racing world over the last few years and I think the 22 year old will be one to watch as his wings unfold and take to the F1 world.

Renault does not seem to have quite shaken off the gloomy cloud that has hung over the team since its shenanigans midway through last season. Little seems to be coming out of the team news room in terms of its 2010 season, what their plans are for the new year ahead and who they will have driving for them. For now I am given to believe that Robert Kubica is on their books, but have no clue who will be joining him in the team if anyone at this time. It seems testing is underway with three potential young guns but no official word has confirmed if any one of them will defiantly have a ride with Renault in the 2010 season. What I can say is that from what I have seen of the 2010 Renault R29 F1 car, I have to say it looks impressive. Bright and colourful is always a winning trend in my opinion.

Force India certainly stamped their place in Formula One last year as they took podium places that is very unusual for a new entry into the world of Formula One. Once more this showed the reliability issues that so many of the other teams face in 2009, but also showed that a new team with dedication and determination can make it to the top in the tough world of F1 racing. I think that this has certainly opened up the field in terms of who is who in the jungle and leaves opportunities that five or six years ago did not exist for a new team trying to break into the heavily dominated world of F1. Sutil and Liuzzi will continue to build on credible performances in 2009 and hopefully 2010 Force India and the Mercedes-Benz engine continue to hassle the boys at the top reminding them that they are not the demy gods they like to think they are.

Toro Rosso again fields a strong challenge and I guess that here, as with so many of the other teams they can give everyone something to think about in 2010. Another Red Bull sponsored car, it seems that their reputation can only improve going into 2010. Buemi and Alguersuari are still fresh faces to the F1 circuit and after many incidents through the 2009 year, the team seem to have stuck to their guns and stayed with the two for the 2010 season. Is that such a wise idea one has to ponder? Well I guess as a fresh and new racing team, they open the way for new and inexperienced drivers that perhaps don’t cost as much financially to get to grips with F1, while allowing the team to perform in a potential race winning car. Maybe there is merit in their formula, but after a season as expensive in terms of race damage as 2009 must have been for the team, you must wonder about the team strategy.

Sauber are as quiet as ever in their preparation for 2010. To be entirely honest with you Sauber is a team that very often I forget about in terms of F1. They never really make much of a fuss, never get involved in any of the noise at F1 meetings, quietly arrive, race and disappear into the mists of a Swiss valley somewhere again. It seems Sauber are having a complete restructure going into 2010. Having bought out from its founder to remain in the 2010 season the team, the car will field with a Ferrari engine being the last car to drop the BMW that it hope would give it so much promise in the 2009 season. Kobayashi is confirmed as its prime driver for 2010 but no news as yet as to his partner although rumours are rife that de la Rosa or Fisichella are both being considered for the position. Time will tell I guess.

And so we come to the four new comers to the Formula One track for 2010. It is exciting to be able to say that Lotus F1 finally return to the track and I hope that unlike Jaguar when it returned to the field in the 1990’s that Lotus will have more success and the staying power to make it work. There is certainly enough money behind the team, but I worry that if success is not enjoyed within the first few seasons at Lotus that it’ll head South as so many of the new comers do in this sport. Again powered by a Cosworth engine, the team have elected to put experience behind the wheel of their cars, and this will certainly give them a cutting edge in performance into the season. Jarno Trulli and Heikki Kovalainen make an interesting pairing again, and I think will make for an interesting season just watching their relationship pan out much like Lewis and Button. With Mike Gascoyne at the helm of the technical team, Lotus F1 certainly has the expertise in-house to produce a very interesting team for the track, but turning the technical prowess of Gascoyne into racing results will remain to be seen as the season unfolds.

It seems being the name behind Brawn racing for the 2009 season has given Sir Richard Branson the F1 bug too. Having been behind the winning team as the sponsor has lead Sir Richard to decide that racing is a little too exciting and now he wants to get in with the new guns in British Motor Sport, Manor Racing. The team called Virgin Racing is fielding the seasoned experience of Timo Glock alongside the Brazilian novice Lucas di Grassi. Both come to the team with underlying sponsorship and so it seems that Sir Richard and the team behind Mannor Racing, John Booth and Alex Tai are certainly aiming high. With a Cosworth tucked away under the hood, it should be a fighting team for the start of the season and it remains to be seen if Sir Richards uncanny ability to be associated with winning formulas carries through to the Manor Racing team in 2010.

In yet another return to the F1 grid, former driver Adrian Campos is making his return debut to F1 in 2010 as a team owner alongside Daniele Audetto. Campos Meta. With design expertise coming in from the respected Italian car designer Dallara using the new Cosworth engine, and the signing of one of F1’s most exciting new comers Bruno Senna, the infamous Ayrton Senna’s nephew, big things are expected for this all new Spanish team in 2010. No news yet on their number two driver, but things are looking strong in the Campos corner.

Last but certainly not least, the American US F1 team have yet to tell us very much about themselves. I guess that they want to remain an unknown till the very last minute. We know they plan to use a Cosworth, being American there is no great surprise there. We know they have Peter Windsor a former Williams and Ferrari boss on their books, but not really much else is known as yet. We know that Chad Hurley is tied up with the venture so it can be expected that You Tube will feature heavily as a sponsor for the team, and Ken Anderson takes his place as Team Principal. Rossi and Hildebrand were linked to the team in test sessions in Spain, but still nothing official about the rides for the 2010 season. There is speculation that it’d be an all American team with drivers pulled from some of the American Racing circuits, but that is mere speculation at this stage, and one has to wonder if that would be such a good idea considering the vast difference between the international racing conditions experienced through the worldwide competition of Formula One, and the multi skilled nature of the track in that far more demand is put on a driver in a F1 race say as opposed to an indie car race, though I am sure there would be some who would dispute that fact.

And so as I’ve run through the teams for 2010, I cannot help but salivate at the wonder that awaits us for the season ahead. As that first race looms in Bahrain in March this year I am sure that a thrilling and adventurous year awaits us in Formula One 2010. 19 races await us as Canada returns to the schedule and the Korean Grand Prix enters into the mix. All eyes in the Formula one fan’s world will closely be focused on the F1 news in the coming months that is certainly sure. So tell me, who’s your money on for the 2010 championship?

For many years now I have watched quietly as various islamic groups have raged a war against the UK in one way or another. I’ve often wondered about the complex and confusing battle and at times been lucky enough to speak to people who on the whole have been level headed, diligent and hard working individuals like you and me.

For the most part, I believe that the Muslim community are peaceful people, however I do think that they are part of an intolerant religion that has no room for accepting our fellow man come whatever religion he or she may follow. It is impossible for an islamist to accept that a Christian can be just as passionate and believe just as whole heartedly that their chosen religion is right.

It is therefore with some amazement that I have watched the latest debarkle unfold as the UK government use powers listed in the Anti Terror laws of this land to ban and outlaw the islamic group Islam4UK. The whole nation was horrified and ashamed when a group of thugs brandishing themselves as the voice of islam took to the streets in Luton and protested the return of British Soldiers from Iraq in early 2009.

Let us be honest, a large majority of the British public never wanted the Iraq war. A large number stood shoulder to shoulder with Arabs and islamists of every kind when over 2 million people took to the streets of London to protest the war, but despite the outcry of a nation, the government of the day took our nation to war. It is not the fault of the service men and woman who are tasked to do a job no one really wanted to do, but did so all the same.

So when having served their nations call to arms and having lost many of their number in doing so, why should our troops be subjected to such pure hatred and intolerance on their return home? It is disgraceful that in a day and age when men and woman who have served on the front line in harm’s way to assist a nation that may or may not have needed their help, that they should have to return home and hide in fear of reprisals from radicals that our nation allows to remain within our midst.

I would certainly agree that there is a moral argument as to whether the troops should have been there in the first place, however it is not for the troops themselves to question their orders. Army’s the world over have to carry out questionable duties, and history has shown that at times not everyone is going to agree with the decisions of the government of the day. Despite the wrongs or rights of the matter, the forces tasked to the front line have a right to be proud of their achievements and to grieve their fallen.

It is also agreeable that in war casualties will be taken on all sides, and that those whose homes fall in harm’s way will also take casualties. These casualties of war are no less profound or meaningless than those soldiers who have lost their lives in the theatre of war, and they also have a right to mourn their loss. This we fully understand and respect. In time history has also shown that humanity comes to accept that the wrongs of an era can only be put right through reconciliation. Take the losses of World War One and the holocaust of World War Two. If you’d told men and woman of that time that in 2000 men and woman of German, French, British, American, and Jewish decent, let alone the many other nationalities I fail to mention would all be stood side by side on the memorial grounds of the battles of these wars, promising to never forget, nor ever return to such a time or place, who would have believed you?

But never before in history has a sect or nationality taken residence in a country and protested against its armed forces in such a way as we see on our streets today. Such audacity and thoughtless disregard for simple respect for those who laid down their lives for a greater good is intolerable. Such hatred and lack of morality is pathetic and shameful. This type of idoicratic behaviour beggars belief at a time when we are meant to have evolved into a highly sophisticated and tolerant society. More distressing than anything else is the lack of an outcry from those within the Muslim and islamic creed that should stand up and denounce such appalling behaviour.

It amazes me that Anjem Choudary has the gall to even begin to plan such a protest as his latest gem. How dare he assume he or any person of islamic standing has the right to protest or parade in the town of Wootten Bassett. This town has become synonymous with our national sacrifice on behalf of an ungrateful people, who left to their own devices would probably have nuked themselves into oblivion along with anyone else they could successfully aim a missile at.

Nay Mr Choudary, you are sadly mistaken if you assume that while you live in a tolerant society that pays your bills, accepts your right to freedom of speech, allows and assists you to build your houses of worship, accepts that you will own most of the corner shops in the nation, and lives quietly side by side with you, that we will accept your mockery of our fallen. We are mighty proud of our troops and let any man try to put their great sacrifice to shame at his own risk.

You live in a land that welcomes you and accepts you, totally unlike you would to us. Imagine I a Christian man asked for an Islamic state to build me a Christian church in which to worship while visiting your land. Imagine I were to take up my lifestyle in the West Bank, or Syria, or Iran. What right would I have to preach Christianity from any street corner? What right would I have to sell bibles from a store in the city centre? Where would I go to find a school built and catering specifically for Christian children, or a library filled with Christian texts? No where I tell you. And nor would my desire to build or open any such facility, church, or place of worship be tolerated, allowed or accepted.

If we as the forces of Britain who successfully rid Iraq of Sadam Hussein, brought democracy and freedom to a nation that had lived under dictatorship for many years and helped elect a free and fair government decided we’d won the war and were going to parade our forces on show as the mighty and powerful overcommers and went marching through the streets of Mecca, how would you as a muslim feel?

But again nay Mr Choudary, as a people we are neither so totally wrapped up in our own importance, nor are we so insensitive as to realise that there are people who are totally and completely innocent who would be incensed by such actions. I guess that this is where a civilised society and a thug hiding in the shadows of a society draw the line of difference. You cannot call yourself a companionate man, who shows understanding and tolerance. You cannot call yourself educated and a leader of men. Nay Mr Choudary, you do not inspire or interest me.

It is this lack of respect and inappropriate action that leads to so many divisions in this land. The majority of the Asian nationalities living in the UK are good people. Yes, we accept that within every society there are bad and rotten apples. The difference it seems between most is the way that Western society names and shames its rotten eggs. We do not put up with such evil in our midst, and any such evil is cut of an ostracised from the community in a sharp fashion. I guess the lack of an outcry from within the muslim community as a whole is a large part of why we feel that the islamic religion discredits itself from within.

Overall, I have tended to try to always view this topic from both sides of the fence and have never really wanted to draw sides on the basis of a lack of understanding of a great many factors. But I think there is a right and wrong for everyone, and any society can push the limits as I believe that Mr Choudary and his group of islamist radicals have on this occasion. Ban them Mr Secretary. Ban them all. Let no such group or organisation ever be allowed in this nation.