14
JOHANNESBURG — In the first, electric days after Robert Mugabe lost the opening round of Zimbabwe's presidential election, it seemed as though he might simply accept defeat and step down. His family and closest advisers were telling him that, after 28 years in office, it was time to go. He opened secret negotiations with the opposition Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) on a deal that would guarantee his party a share of power, provide him with a peaceful retirement and, crucially, make him immune to prosecution for crimes committed during his long and troubled tenure
The MDC was amenable, and a tentative optimism took hold of Zimbabwe. But then, six days after the March 29 vote, Mr. Mugabe emerged from a long meeting with his "politburo" in Harare, vowing to fight a run-off election and saying he'd soon be sworn in for a sixth straight term.
CALL IT THE CHARLES TAYLOR EFFECT
Over the next few weeks, the story of Mr. Mugabe's about-face gradually emerged: Stunned and embittered at his loss, he had been prepared to go, but those around him — in particular, the five generals known as "the securocrats" who oversee the armed forces, the prison service and the police — refused to let him.
Photogallery
Internet Links
- International Criminal Court
- Human Rights Watch
- Liu Institute for Global Issues
- Irish Centre for Human Rights, National University of Ireland, Galway
"The Old Man is staying," a senior member of his ZANU-PF party told The Globe and Mail, "because I'm not ending up in The Hague."
Once again, the long arm of international law had reached into the heart of an African conflict and extinguished the possibility of a quick and peaceful resolution. Zimbabwe provides the latest evidence that a concept heralded as a way to bring justice to ordinary Africans, but driven by a largely Western-based hunger for prosecution, can instead prolong their misery.
Mr. Mugabe might have been offered a deal, guaranteed by South African President Thabo Mbeki. But the men and women who had carried out his orders during a decade-long campaign of abuse against his perceived opponents (including executions, mass forced displacements and withholding food aid to the starving) had no faith that they would not end up being prosecuted.
And with good reason. I have satellite TV, the ZANU-PF boss said. I have seen Charles Taylor on trial. And it's not going to be me.
Mr. Taylor, one of the modern era's truly notorious figures, presided over a civil war in Liberia in which boy soldiers were deliberately addicted to drugs and sent (often tricked out in wild wigs and wedding dresses) to rape, pillage and murder, even members of their own families. From his seat in Monrovia, Mr. Taylor not only laid waste to Liberia, he visited his personal brand of devastation on much of West Africa, sending his forces into Sierra Leone, Guinea and the Ivory Coast in search of diamond and timber riches to salt away in his European bank accounts.
In 2003, painstaking efforts to broker peace in Liberia were under way when a special court set up by the United Nations to try war crimes in Sierra Leone indicted Mr. Taylor for crimes against humanity because of his role in that country's brutal civil war.
The peace process recovered, barely, and eventually Mr. Taylor accepted a deal, brokered by Mr. Mbeki and other African heavyweights: He got retirement in a villa by the sea in Nigeria, and Liberia got peace. The country voted in Africa's first female head of state, donor money poured in and, while people remained outrageously poor, it was a time of greater promise than any living Liberian could recall.
That was all well and good, except that Mr. Taylor's continuing freedom flew in the face of efforts to bring a new era of accountability to Africa, under the banner of "international justice."
Liberia's new President, Ellen Sirleaf-Johnson, pleaded with the world to leave Mr. Taylor alone, fearing his arrest would reignite the civil war. But she came under heavy pressure from the United States, as did the Nigerians who finally arrested Mr. Taylor in 2006 as he was trying to flee, and shipped him to Sierra Leone to stand trial.
With his appearance in Freetown — a moment so stunning, so unprecedented in Africa, that people stood six deep on rooftops to watch his vehicle roll by — the era of international justice really began. Before long, he was transferred to The Hague, purportedly for security reasons, although many saw it as an admission that the West was really behind the trial. Mr. Taylor, who stole billions from Liberia, claimed destitution, so hundreds of thousands of dollars were spent to provide him with a skilled defence. No more impunity, cried the human-rights activists: There will be justice for victims.
