Zimbabwe Case

Zimbabwe

Late one evening when the sun was as yellow as the desert sand began to set, as I sat crouching around the fire with a bowl of Mealie with the Zimbabwe tribe zucka. I had recently arrived four hours previously on a small rickety black jet that barely kept its self afloat hovering above the forest landscape, with anticipation and excitement in my heart to greet the people of Zimbabwe. My task was daring yet truly intriguing I had been sent to observe the life of child soldiers.

It had been 100 years now since the long running civil war of Africa had begun, chaos filled the land with thousands of children captured and tortured everyday. Many reporters and journalist had been shot and tortured delving into the isolated areas of Africa in search of a good story.

I remember so vividly the first uneasy steps I had taken off the plane as i gazed upon the towering mountains of the Eastern Highlands and the warmth my soul felt as my camera imprinted the thick forest onto a fresh roll of film. Minutes later I was greeted by Raja Vandy a former child solider of the Lord Resistant Army, despite the large deep wounds that clung so deeply to his body that presented themselves as a constant memory of his past, a broad cheeky smile spread itself like a rainbow, illuminating across his face.

Despite rajas flat nose only just reaching the bottom of his chin, he stood defiant and proud, something I learnt each member of the tribe had come to respect and imitate. Shortly after meeting Raja I was greeted by the Zucka people with a celebration of exotic dancing. The people of the tribe young and old joined hands their slender chocolate bodies smiling and laughing, as they each moved with a rhythm you can only be born with. A joy illuminated across their faces even though they had nothing, my mind was besotted, death is apart of everyday for these tribes, tomorrow they could lose their mother, father or daughter. But yet everyday they choose to dance and sing for joy, for the little that they had. Death did not control the lives and actions of these people, they were stronger then death.

Raja looked a bit spooked by the camera swinging from my neck and tensed the grip on his spear when I pointed the long 50mm F1.2 lens at him. Maybe he thought it was a weapon. To these African people the metal would resemble a gun, an instrument used to take away someone's life in a split second. Raja had been born into poverty and abandoned by his mother and father from the age of three and as he continued to tell me a child solider is all many of these young African children believed they could become.

"Belonging to the youth league gave me the novel delight of actually feeling wanted by somebody. At last I was made to feel I was good for something. The youth league leaders accepted me for what I was. Nobody attacked or mocked me because I was poor, black and illiterate. Indeed, we were told we had rights and that it was time we seized them.

We fledging Youth League Members were instructed in

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