A prison officer, waiting for transport at the bus stop outside Harare Remand Prison, was trying to negotiate a free ride. His request was met with mockery from the kombi conductor, who jeered at him for not using the prison truck. This was not an isolated incident.
The officer, who preferred to remain anonymous to protect his job, revealed that this kind of ridicule had become a daily occurrence, a direct consequence of dealing with opposition Citizens Coalition for Change (CCC) activists and human rights defenders recently arrested for allegedly plotting protests during the Sadc summit, Newsday has reported.
“Dealing with opposition prisoners is like walking on eggshells. Every move is scrutinised, every decision questioned. We are not just prison officers; we are caught in the middle of a political game,” he confided.
The officer’s story paints a complex picture of life inside Harare Remand Prison. Within its walls are not just prisoners, but the country’s political tensions, the struggles of officers, and the enduring desire for freedom and justice.
He described constant clashes with political prisoners over alleged violations of their rights.
“They know the law inside out. Ordinary prisoners understand the drill and prison lingo — they kneel when speaking to us, they call us khule (male officer) or mbuya (female officer) out of respect and to follow the rules,” the officer said.
“But opposition activists are different. They question everything, refuse to kneel, citing their rights. They are not afraid to use their legal knowledge.”
He added, “Some of these rules are not even supported by law; they are just tradition. But we are told to maintain discipline. How do you discipline someone who knows their rights better than you do? That’s where the clashes happen — prison officers versus political prisoners. It’s a battle of wills, and I’m stuck in the middle.”
During visiting hours, mini rallies could break out at any moment. The political activists would chant slogans, sing protest songs.
“They do not stop being activists just because they are behind bars,” he said.
“We have to be on high alert, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. That is why we were directed to ban group visits. And some politicians (names supplied) are not even allowed to enter the Remand Prison gate. They have been blacklisted. They have to see their fellow activists through the fence, during visiting hours. It is like they are trying to keep the spirit of resistance alive, even from behind bars. It is a delicate situation. We are walking a tightrope, trying to keep the peace while also upholding the law.”
The officer’s tone turned bitter as he recounted the activists’ taunts, who often ridiculed the prison officers’ tattered uniforms and meagre meals.
“They say we are oppressing them, keeping them from fighting for a better life for all Zimbabweans,” he said, shaking his head.
“They mock us for being too poor to afford decent food. But we are just doing our jobs, trying to make a living like everyone else.”
His words revealed deep-seated frustration, a weariness born of constant belittling and disrespect from those they are assigned to guard.
A later visit to the officer’s home revealed a man worn down by his daily work. His voice conveyed a sense of powerlessness as he described the rigid hierarchy that dictates his interactions with political prisoners. Every decision, no matter how routine, was subject to secretive approval from higher-ups, with “the powers-that-be” controlling even the smallest details.
The habitual criminal and two accomplices were jailed 52 years each in February following their conviction on 13 counts of armed robbery. There, his professional judgment was trusted. But with political prisoners, he felt reduced to a mere functionary.
This stifling atmosphere bred uncertainty and fear, where even the most well-intentioned actions carried the risk of repercussions.
