The Military Post-Mugabe

Introduction

Prior to the coup in November 2017, the 37-year-long Mugabe era witnessed the increasing involvement of the Zimbabwean military in national politics, including within the state and the ruling ZANU-PF party. While the involvement of the military in politics is not a new phenomenon, as this can be traced back to the liberation struggle of the 1960s and 1970s (Alexander and McGregor, 2004; Chung, 2006; Mazarire, 2011; Mhanda, 2011), in the post-Mugabe era, military participation in politics has become more visible and pronounced. This article examines the military in the post-Mugabe era. Thus, since the November 2017 coup, the military has asserted its political power more forcefully, not simply as a power broker (during the coup itself) but as the power holder in the Mnangagwa government. In relation to the military and national politics, this article identifies and examines both continuities and changes with the shift from Mugabe’s past rule to Mnangagwa’s current rule.

In understanding fully the military in post-Mugabe Zimbabwe, it is necessary to analyse the current state of national politics and the way in which this reverberates both inside and outside the military. Additionally, this involves focusing on the ongoing relationship between the military and ZANU-PF. Mugabe’s successor, President Emmerson Mnangagwa, has a fluctuating and uneven relationship with the military’s deepening intrusion into national and ZANU-PF politics: shifting between consenting to it, being threatened by it, and resisting it. At least potentially, resisting this intrusion makes Mnangagwa vulnerable to the type of military machinations that occurred during the November 2017 coup, or simply to the threat of this. In the end, Mnangagwa and ZANU-PF tend to bend to the will of the military.

The military and politics

Military professionalism occurs when the military subordinates itself to civilian politics (Huntington, 1957). Under such circumstances, the military is apolitical, obedient, and trusted by national politicians (Kohn, 2009; Moskos et al., 2000; Sarkesian and Conor, 2006). However, military professionalism is a Western-centric concept. When it travels to other societies, the character and practices of the military shift to suit that particular context. In the case of Zimbabwe, the history of the liberation struggle dating back to the 1970s and even earlier challenged the idea of military professionalism, and this political history informs the ways in which the Zimbabwean military thinks and acts. The military becomes disposed to act in particular, deeply political, ways.

No set standard exists for assessing the character of civilian control of the military or for the ways in which the military functions ideally (Kohn, 1997). A Weberian concept of ‘patrimonialism’ (Pitcher et al., 2009) involves understanding the military as a system of rule where a political leader dispenses benefits in return for military loyalty. However, this notion constructs the military as a passive entity, with military generals only awaiting ‘dispensed’ benefits, without the capacity to think and act for themselves. With regard to the Middle East, Rubin (2001) argues that military generals became convinced that the national polity was too important to leave to civilians, whom they viewed as incompetent and corrupt.

There are at least three, seemingly different, ways in which the military becomes involved in politics. First, as moderators whereby the military supports the government behind the scenes. Second, as guardians, in which the military protects the government but can seize power when threatened. Third, as rulers, involving military generals with an ambition to rule (Perlmutter, 1969). In the Zimbabwean context, the military has transitioned from ‘moderators’ to ‘guardians’ and then to ‘rulers’ over time. In the past, during Mugabe’s time, a state of mutual accommodation existed between the military and civilian politicians, that is, the military offered protection to the ZANU-PF government in return for the protection of its own interests (Harb, 2003), involving a symbiotic relationship. For Mugabe, the best way to keep the military loyal was to accommodate its political and economic interests, though the latter was also dependent on the former. In the later years of the Mugabe regime, the political accommodation of the military seemed to be falling away, as evidenced by the public attacks by Mugabe and his wife on the military and General Chiwenga in particular (Zhangazha et al., 2017).

However, because of its capacity to use force, the military is in a strong position to claim political power when it sees fit. In a crisis-ridden context in particular, the military is one of the key political stakeholders that can facilitate political order. If the crisis tends to undercut the interests of the military (and specifically the generals’ interest), then it has every reason to act and thereby transition into the status as ‘rulers’, as we see unfolding in Mnangagwa’s Zimbabwe.

Military and politics under Mugabe

The military establishment in Zimbabwe emerged out of the liberation armies of the 1970s and the subsequent incorporation of ZANLA and ZIPRA guerrillas into a post-colonial standing army (Mhanda, 2011). In this regard, the protracted violent struggle of the guerrillas was crucial to the end of Rhodesian rule, thus leading to the ongoing centrality of the military – and its violent inclinations – to Zimbabwean politics post-1980 (Mazarire, 2011).

Soon after independence, during the Mugabe era, which lasted for 37 years, the military was deeply involved in national politics and political violence (Alexander, 1998; White, 2007). This was evident on a very dramatic basis during the Gukurahundi atrocities in the early 1980s, involving the deployment of the military in the Matabeleland and Midlands provinces and leading to the deaths of thousands of civilians (CCJP, 1997). Later, throughout the violent war-veteran-led land invasions in the year 2000 and beyond, the military was involved heavily in supporting the occupiers, including evicting white farmers from their lands and intimidating and attacking farm labourers (Alao, 2012; Chaumba et al., 2003).

With the rise of the Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) in 1999, the post-2000 period became characterized increasingly by the ‘militarization of the State’ (Rupiya, 2011), with various state departments and agencies led by either serving or former senior army officers. For instance, Major General Douglas Nyikayaramba headed the Zimbabwe Electoral Commission (ZEC), a supposedly independent electoral commission that manages the country’s elections. Militarization entailed rewarding the military for its steadfast loyalty and ongoing political support during Mugabe’s lengthy stay in power, while also ensuring that military power and interests penetrated and protected the state and its practices. Further examples of this include Operation Maguta (‘get enough food’) in the early 2000s, in which major facets of agricultural production in Zimbabwe came under military management, as well as the more recent (and similar) Command Agriculture programme in 2014. Further, in 2005, Operation Murambatsvina (Operation Restore Order), a militaristic-style operation, arose to demolish allegedly illegally constructed buildings (both accommodation and informal trading structures) in high-density suburbs in cities and towns.

In 2008, Mugabe lost the presidential election to the leader of the MDC, Morgan Tsvangirai, leading to a highly controversial run-off election with a heavy military presence in the electoral process (Sachikonye, 2011). In the 2008 presidential election run-off, Operation Makavhoterapapi (‘whom did you vote for’) attested to the increasing presence and significance of the military in national politics. During this operation, deployment of the army occurred in order to question and interrogate civilians (based on intimidation) on where they voted, and particularly whom they voted for, in the original election won by Tsvangirai, as a means of ensuring a Mugabe victory in the run-off.

The involvement of the Zimbabwean military in politics has importance in part because of the long-standing, internal differences and contestations within the ruling party (ZANU-PF). In the end, what held ZANU-PF together and guaranteed its political survival during the Mugabe era was the constant backing of the military. Despite the existence of ethnic differences, and/or mistrust within the rank and file in the military (which is a common phenomenon elsewhere), when faced with adversity, the military is taught and trained to work as a united team in a spirit of camaraderie (Maringira, 2017; Maringira et al., 2015). Unity within the military and its persistent backing of ZANU-PF became dramatically clear in 2002, two months before the presidential election of that year. The late General Vitalis Zvinavashe emphasized that ‘we would therefore not accept, let alone support or salute anyone with a different agenda [i.e. Tsvangirai] that threatens the very existence of our sovereignty, our country and our people’ (quoted in CNN, 2002). In 2011, Major General Douglas Nyikayaramba stated that the opposition party leader (Tsvangirai) was not simply a political threat to ZANU-PF’s hold over Zimbabwe; additionally, he was a major security threat to the Zimbabwean nation (Reuters, 2011).

In 2016, at the height of ZANU-PF factionalism (Masiya and Maringira, 2017), General Constantino Chiwenga argued that ‘we are stockholders of the country . . . some are stakeholders. Stakeholders will come and go, but stockholders have nowhere to go, so we stockholders, we come with it [Zimbabwe]’. A year later, in his statement just two days before the November 2017 coup, General Chiwenga again emphasized that: ‘It is pertinent to restate that the Zimbabwe Defence Forces remain the major stockholder in respect to the gains of the liberation struggle and when these are threatened, we are obliged to take corrective measures’ (Chidza, 2017). Overall, then, the support for Mugabe (or at least for ZANU-PF) by military generals was explicit and consistent.

Of course, the stance of the military generals did not rest solely on politics, as the intertwining of the military, ZANU-PF and the state offered a foundation for significant predatory accumulation by the generals. This occurred for instance during the military’s intervention in the Democratic Republic of Congo in the late 1990s, the allocation of farms under fast-track land reform (from 2000 onwards), and the accumulation of mineral-based wealth in the Marange diamond fields from 2006.

Chiwenga and the military coup

The intricate details of the military coup of November 2017 are not central to this article. Certainly, many questions exist around what triggered the coup, as well as the logistics and character of the coup. For instance, Tendi (2020) argues that the immediate cause of the coup was Mugabe’s outright refusal to meet with the military generals in the days preceding the coup. Whatever the significance of this or other happenings at the time, in a live SABC television interview at his residence some months after the coup, Mugabe reflected openly, stating that: ‘I didn’t think Chiwenga [the coup leader] would do that. I thought if they [the military] had problems, they would call and we sit down, talk and resolve the problem. We also thought we had educated them enough and they wouldn’t do such things’ (Mugabe, quoted in Muleya and Malaba, 2018).

Ultimately, though, the coup was never about Mugabe; rather, it was about the survival of ZANU-PF’s ongoing rule and the continuation of the military’s exalted position via this rule. The military establishment conceptualized the attacks on the person of General Chiwenga by the first lady, Grace Mugabe, as an assault on the entire military institution in Zimbabwe. For example, on 12 February 2016, at a rally in Chiweshe, Grace Mugabe launched a brutal and scathing attack on Chiwenga and publicly accused him and the military of plotting to bomb the Mugabes’ dairy farm and kill the Mugabe children (Ncube, 2017). Her husband and the ruling party and state president (Robert Mugabe) failed to rein in his wife, at least publicly. Considering that Grace Mugabe aligned herself with the G40 (Generation 40 years) faction within ZANU-PF (and in effect fronted it), the military and the G40 faction were likely on a collision course. As well, in 2017 (before the coup), Mugabe sought to retire certain top army generals (Dzirutwe, 2019), and this did not sit well with the targeted senior officers and the military generals more broadly. The relationship between the military and politics, in particular for army generals, defines their interests in and beyond the barracks. Thus, the Mugabes’ attacks on the military and the military generals, in particular on General Chiwenga (Zhangazha et al., 2017), tended to threaten the military’s power base within national politics.

The Zimbabwean coup and the manner of its execution testifies that it was not a question of ZANU-PF civilian politicians accommodating the military in politics. Instead, the military allowed, if not invited, these civilian politicians to act as the face of national politics, and accommodated them in the process. In this context, the notion of ‘politics leading the gun’ is at best rhetorical, and at worst a fallacy, in contemporary Zimbabwean politics. George Charamba, the then Mugabe presidential spokesperson, clearly alludes to this the month before the coup:

Chine vene vacho chinhu ichi [this country is ‘owned’ by certain people] and you won’t be there when great questions of the day are settled mumatare avo [in their courts]! Too young, too small, simply a late arrivant, my good soulmate! (George Charamba, quoted in the Herald newspaper, as cited in Pindula News, 4 January 2017)

The notion of chine vene vacho refers to the politics of entitlement. It means that, in matters of the state, Zimbabwe must be ruled by those with a liberation struggle history, both within the military and ZANU-PF. Those without any military and political involvement in the liberation of Zimbabwe are not in mumatare (court) and are viewed as ‘too young, too small’ and a ‘late arrivant’. This incorporates not only the MDC and its leadership, but also certain elements within ZANU-PF itself.

From the perspective of liberation war stalwarts, those who ‘own’ the country (the stalwarts themselves) will not converse with the late ‘arrivant’ (notably, G40 leaders like Jonathan Moyo), especially when ‘great questions of the day are settled’. The ‘great question of the day’ would, at that time, entail who would succeed Mugabe, and how. Moyo was an important ZANU-PF minister, instrumental in Mugabe’s rule, especially in the past as the Minister of Information and Publicity. In the months leading up to the coup, there was no love lost between Moyo and Chiwenga, and they criticized each other publicly. In addition, at the time of Mugabe’s toppling, as a close ally of Grace Mugabe in G40, he and his fellow travellers wanted to exclude the military generals from succession politics within the ruling party (see also Helliker and Murisa, 2020).

Thus, chine vene vacho refers not only to the unquestioned liberation standing of military generals, but also to the ‘battlefield’ of succession and the possible threat of succession to the military’s involvement in national politics. In the end, mumatare was configured, coordinated and led by (and for) the military generals who determined Mugabe’s ultimate fate by overthrowing him via the coup. In the process, Jonathan Moyo and the G40 more broadly suffered a crushing blow, with some of its leadership now in exile.

The drama and character of the coup as well as the fact that few civilian politicians (as stakeholders) disputed its legitimacy (in both ZANU-PF and MDC) indicates that the military has been and remains the key playmaker (or stockholder) in Zimbabwean politics. In an interview in South Africa in January 2020, Nelson Chamisa, the leader of the MDC Alliance after the death of Tsvangirai in early 2018, confirmed this by suggesting that the military must join any national dialogue. Chamisa never offers deep criticism of the military at any of his political rallies; rather, he speaks well of them and presents ordinary soldiers as mere victims of politics.

While many observers claim that civilians rallied behind the military and celebrated the coup, mainly because Zimbabweans were tired of the unending years of Mugabe’s rule, this of course does not explain the success of the coup. In large part, its success arose because of strategic and tactical political planning by the military. The military hierarchy managed to execute the coup despite the presence of seasoned ZANU-PF civilian politicians seemingly loyal to Mugabe. Indeed, the military was fully aware of Mugabe’s deteriorating support base within ZANU-PF itself and amongst ordinary Zimbabweans, and it merely tapped into this disillusionment. At the same time, it saw any G40 success in ZANU-PF’s succession politics as threatening its ongoing wealth extraction.

The military was able to sugarcoat and legitimize the coup quite successfully and, in recognizing the power in naming a coup, labelled it as Operation Restore Legacy. The Southern African Development Community and the African Union, and countries such as the United Kingdom, came to believe that the coup did not entail the overthrowing of a legitimate government (led by Mugabe), but rather a military intervention in politics aimed at restoring social and political order. Through its spokesperson, Major General SB Moyo, the military argued that it was only dealing with ‘criminals’ who surrounded Mugabe, notably Grace Mugabe and her allies in the G40 such as Saviour Kasukuwere, Ignatius Chombo, Jonathan Moyo, Walter Mzembi, Patrick Zhuwao and Mandi Chimene.

The military was repositioning itself strategically in order to ensure a more forceful (and intrusive) control over both ZANU-PF and the government in a post-Mugabe scenario. While Mnangagwa might be viewed as a collaborator in the coup planning, there is no clear evidence for this. What is known is that Mnangagwa (a liberation stalwart), who had gone into exile after his expulsion by Mugabe as vice-president of ZANU-PF, was invited back home by the military to serve as President of Zimbabwe. In terms of his own political history, Mnangagwa was involved in acts of sabotage in the early 1960s and underwent training for combat in Tanzania and Egypt during the formative stages of the war of liberation (Warner, 1981: 59). After a number of years of seemingly political inactivity in the 1970s in Zambia, he then served as Mugabe’s personal assistant during the last few years of the liberation war. In terms of sheer length of involvement in the nationalist struggle, Mnangagwa is more senior than Chiwenga, despite Chiwenga’s position in the guerrilla high command by the late 1970s. Though Mnangagwa likely viewed the current military leadership as his junior (Ankomah, 2017), he was more than willing to accept its invitation because of the increasing command by the military over national politics.

Subsequently, the appointment of coup leader and then commander of the Zimbabwe Defence Forces (General Chiwenga) as Vice President (and Minister of Defence) had strategic implications. While it may appear odd, and a tactical blunder, for General Chiwenga to retire from the top Service Chief post to become a mere vice president subordinate to now President Mnangagwa, there was a strategic rationale behind this move. It was a well-calculated political act consistent with what other retired senior army commanders like Solomon Mujuru, Josiah Tungamirai, Perence Shiri and Vitalis Zvinavashe did after leaving the barracks and becoming active politicians in ZANU-PF or government ministers. The transition from general to vice president allows Chiwenga to consolidate power within ZANU-PF and the state, with military interests uppermost in his mind.

Chiwenga has vast military experience, with more than 20 years as a top senior service chief, both as army commander and commander of the overall defence forces. Considering the time he spent at the apex of the military (as one organ of the state), shifting to full-time politics as vice president (with important oversight of state bureaucracies) made sense. Simultaneously, there is every reason to believe that the current military hierarchy pays allegiance to Chiwenga. Promotions of currently serving lieutenant colonels (battalion commanders) and brigadiers (brigade commanders) were under Chiwenga’s command. Undoubtedly, Chiwenga thought deeply about taking up his current post as vice president, as well as how the military brass would continue to respect and support him. Hence, Chiwenga’s present post has both military and civilian capital.

Other developments highlight this. The brief post-coup stint of Major General Engelbert Rugeje (now retired Lt General) as the political commissar in ZANU-PF is in line with the overall tendency. The appointment of Major General SB Moyo as Minister of Foreign Affairs likewise demonstrates this, as does the strategic appointment of Air Marshal Perence Shiri as Minister of Agriculture. Their appointments contribute to a military consolidation of political power in ZANU-PF and government, and counter any remaining resistance from civilian politicians within the party. This entails a military strategy around national politics alongside civilian politics while ‘in uniform’. Because of this, the military can more easily negotiate and debate in a civilian way and, perhaps more importantly, enact legitimate force when so required.

2018 elections and subsequent events

The post-coup election in late July 2018 pitted Mnangagwa against Nelson Chamisa. It was the first election since 2000 in which neither Morgan Tsvangirai, the founding president of the MDC, nor Mugabe, participated. The military ‘sanitized’ this election by not being publicly and directly involved. It scaled down dramatically any threats against wayward members of the ruling party and leaders of the opposition, in contrast to what took place during the Mugabe era. By standing aside, this permitted the military generals to become involved ‘legitimately’ in the outcome of the electoral contestation in case any threat to the nation (i.e. the military’s interests) materialized.

However, during the 2018 election campaigns, the military never retreated as such to the barracks. Retreat was simply not an option, given the high political stakes involved. Though the MDC was able to run its political campaign with only minor disturbances, widespread surveillance by the military characterized the election period, based on regular briefings by military intelligence. The military was not about to allow the 2018 election results to undercut the rationale and success of the coup of only a year earlier. The readiness of the military to act, if need be operationally, was demonstrated vividly on the day after the elections (1 August) in the context of protests on the streets of Harare.

In the commission of enquiry into this post-election violence, the military accepted the invitation by the Motlanthe Commission to testify before it. For the military, the Motlanthe Commission was a space in which it sought to legitimize itself by washing its hands clean of the post-election violence. The Commission found that the military was responsible for the deaths of six people in the streets and that it had used ‘disproportionate and unjustified’ force, including by way of live bullets in responding to the post-election protests (Motlanthe Commission, 2018: 47). The military simply denied having killed any civilians, as evidenced in the testimony of Major General Sanyatwe. The Commander of the Defence Forces, General Phillip Sibanda, also testified to the commission that the deployment of soldiers took place on the advice of the then Minister of Defence and War Veterans (Chiwenga) and this was authorized by President Mnangagwa as per the constitution of Zimbabwe (Motlanthe Commission, 2018: 26). Hence, in claiming its subordination to a civilian government, the military was acting simply and straightforwardly at the behest of this government.

Six months later, in January 2019, protests erupted in Harare city, and ZANU-PF felt threatened by these civilian protests. The protests concerned, among other daily challenges, mass unemployment and the high rate of inflation leading to significant increases in prices of goods and services. In response, the military deployed again and brutally assaulted civilians, leading to the loss of lives. The military’s deployment happened particularly at night and in high-density areas. Aware that civilians would likely take short videos of military actions and circulate them on social media, the government (backed by the military) switched off the internet. However, private and social media reports appeared, recording abuse and assaults of civilians and the invasion of homes by the military. This was not a new practice, but a continuity from the Mugabe era. In response, and in trying once again to retain a public façade of political and military separation of powers, the military denied deploying soldiers on the streets. Rather, it declared that civilians had stolen military uniforms, went amok on the streets and thereby tarnished the clean image of the military. The military maintained that a ‘third force’ was trying to place them in disrepute.

Soon afterwards, in February 2019, Mnangagwa retired four major generals. They include Major General Anselem Sanyatwe, Presidential Guard Commander during the toppling of Mugabe, Major General Douglas Nyikayaramba, a senior officer known to denigrate publicly the opposition MDC, Army Chief of Staff Major General Martin Chedondo, and Vice Marshal Shebba Shumbayawonda. All were re-assigned and took up diplomatic posts. Retiring senior military officers and assigning them to a civilian diplomatic post (as ambassadors) is, without doubt, a demotion within the national power structure. Though these generals aided and defended Mnangagwa’s rise to (and stay in) power, their retirement was a risky tactical act of purging the army by Mnangagwa in seeking somehow to assert his power vis-à-vis the military. By that stage, Chiwenga also was no longer Minister of Defence. Chiwenga’s thoughts about these developments remain unclear, and the fact that he has remained tight-lipped on them might seem surprising.

However, the main issue is not the ‘here and now’ response of Chiwenga, as he demonstrated significant patience in the past before acting decisively. Chiwenga is not only patient; he is ruthlessly decisive and efficient when he acts. After all, the training of military officers involves the development of personal and professional endurance as well as the capacity to strike when the need arises. These resignations, and other moves by Mnangagwa to trim the power of the military, do not undercut the fact that Chiwenga enhanced and consolidated the military’s hold on political power via the coup. Mnangagwa’s moves are taking place within the boundaries of this tightening hold, which are not negotiable from Chiwenga’s perspective.

Dialoguing with the military

The legitimacy of the post-2017 political settlement, with Mnangagwa as President, continues to be subject to scrutiny. Crucial debates continue about the military’s strident involvement in Zimbabwean politics (including in relation to the coup), with opposition political parties, in particular Chamisa’s MDC, taking the position that the military must be apolitical, at least ultimately. This raises questions as well about the military’s participation in any forthcoming national dialogue.

In this context, in August 2019 when speaking at a Zimbabwe Council of Churches political dialogue, Jealousy Mawarire (spokesperson for Mugabe after his ouster from power) urged the military to be directly involved in processes of national dialogue. In his call for dialoguing with the military, Mawarire declared the following: ‘I believe that what we need now is an inclusive dialogue process that includes the army because the problem in this country is the army. The army is the one that moved in and took over ZANU-PF’ (quoted in Munhede, 2019). This is in line with Mugabe’s own thoughts after the coup. With reference to his toppling from power, Mugabe vociferously emphasized that ‘some people have refused to call it a coup d’état’ (The Guardian, 15 March 2018). Mugabe further stated that: ‘It was a coup d’état. It was truly a military takeover. I don’t know what you would want to call it’. He then added, ‘those who created this situation have a responsibility to address and correct it’ (quoted in Muleya and Malaba, 2018). Despite any bitterness this might betray, it is certainly the case that any resolution to the challenges characterizing the current political dispensation in Zimbabwe requires the military, as the latter is central to negotiations around a possible political transition.

Without the army and the military more broadly, ZANU-PF would most likely not have survived in national power from 1980 until now. Under Mnangagwa’s presidency, the foundation of ZANU-PF’s rulership is the military, and increasingly so. Any call for the military generals to come to the table of political dialogue, whether those officially retired or those dressed in military fatigue, reveals the power of the military. Even if active military generals remained outside of the dialogue space, those dressed in suits still express military minds, dispositions and interests – once in the military, always in the military. Chiwenga is the very epitome of this as a general trend, with one foot remaining lodged in the military.

Hence, in January 2020, it was not surprising to hear even Nelson Chamisa (leader of the MDC Alliance) publicly call for the military to be part of a national dialogue between all political parties. Reportedly, he said: ‘The MDC national standing committee asked me that if we are to have a genuine dialogue, we must include the military. Because they might have their own grievances which should be dealt with’ (quoted in Bulawayo 24 News, 22 January 2020). The reference to a ‘genuine’ dialogue is telling. A dialogue amongst only civilian politicians would be irrelevant, as the key ‘stockholder’ (to use Chiwenga’s words) would be missing from the table. While this is an interesting political turn and a belated political realization by the MDC Alliance, it requires comment.

The response by the Zimbabwe government’s presidential spokesperson, George Charamba, was to highlight the ambiguities in Chamisa’s stance:

He [Chamisa] now seeks to involve the military into the dialogue process without realizing that he is running foul to the Constitution. At one level, you can’t be saying security forces must be apolitical, but at the same time making them stakeholders to a political dialogue. (quoted in Mugabe, 2020)

For many years, the MDC argued that the military must not be part of national politics. However, the MDC Alliance now finds itself torn between the in-principle constitutional requirement that the military remain apolitical at all times, and the pragmatic and strategic recognition that a national dialogue without military involvement would be fraught from the start. What is unconstitutional is politically correct in practice – according to the rules set down by the military, as the stockholder.

In Zimbabwean politics, no negotiations would succeed without the army’s involvement or at least ‘political blessing’. In this respect, Chamisa may have the argument back to front. The MDC might find itself invited to the table long after a guarantee of the military’s decisive participation in dialogue. Considering the military’s historical dislike for the MDC as sell-outs and traitors to the cause of liberation, the party may find itself on the back foot as well. In fact, the military’s self-propounded stockholder position would likely configure the trajectory and tone of the agenda at any national dialogue, while it also watches over proceedings from a distance.

Chiwenga and the future of the military

Whether Mnangagwa serves out his term and, if so, seeks to renew it in the next national elections is uncertain. As it stands, politics in Zimbabwe remains deeply polarized and politically deadlocked. The MDC Alliance continues to contest the election results of 2018 and the legitimacy of Mnangagwa, claiming a rigging of the election results as a form of coup. Mnangagwa’s Political Actors Dialogue (POLAD), dating from May 2019, has incorporated – if not co-opted – minor oppositional parties into a ruling party-led ‘coalition’, but the MDC Alliance refuses to participate.

Meantime, it would be foolhardy to underestimate the capacity of Chiwenga to navigate his way through both civilian and military politics. Certainly, the manner in which he organized and led the 2017 coup, which was ‘bloodless’ and efficiently executed (BBC, 2017), reveals his crafty and strategic approach in commanding the entire military establishment to resolve a civilian political problem. After being a member of ZANLA’s High Command at the end of the war of liberation, Chiwenga rose swiftly up the military hierarchy after independence and undertook significant political work out of the public eye, as an army general. In field interviews I conducted in 2012, former Zimbabwean soldiers spoke about the way in which, under Chiwenga’s watch, soldiers were subject to ‘political re-education’. In this regard, in 2003, the then Military Intelligence Director General (Brigadier General Morgan Mzilikazi), who is now seconded to the Zimbabwean embassy in China, and the then Military Police Director General (Brigadier General Fidelis Mhonda, now recently appointed Presidential Guard Commander), moved from one battalion and brigade to another, in undertaking this political work. In June 2007, General Chiwenga drove his Land Cruiser from brigade to brigade, holding parades and addressing soldiers personally about the state of politics in the barracks and in Zimbabwe broadly.

The long-established relationships that Chiwenga built during his military tenure should not be underestimated. He maintains strong relationships with currently serving army generals, which contributes to solidifying the military’s presence in the state. This also ensures that the military generals and other top officers continue to access the proceeds of predatory accumulation via natural resources such as land and minerals. However, rank-and-file soldiers constitute the bulk of the military and they live in large part impoverished in the barracks (like ordinary civilians outside barracks), and their way of life remains crucial to the enhanced power of the military over the state.

Zimbabwe’s soldiers in military barracks have long experienced hunger (Maringira, 2017, 2019) because of sub-standard wages. With the fall of Mugabe, junior soldiers expected a change for the better. During the immediate days after the coup in November 2017, soldiers were dancing in the streets of Harare with civilians. They anticipated better living conditions in and outside the barracks (including for their families) as well as updated equipment and armaments for conducting their military duties.

Yet, under Mnangagwa, the situation has deteriorated. During a recent conversation I had with a serving soldier, he angrily declared:

We thought we would live better under Mnangagwa; we are now living poor. We are poor people in the barracks. We used to eat some sausages, but now they are nowhere to be found. Even our commanders, they are complaining; they do not have answers for us. You cannot ask commanders because that will be an insubordination of command. However, you can see their faces; they are weary. (Interview with an infantry soldier, December 2019)

This extract reveals how hunger has not only affected junior soldiers, but middle-level commanders as well. In representing junior soldiers more broadly, this infantry soldier spoke about memories of times past (seemingly before Mnangagwa) when he would eat sausages, yet they are no longer available. This is a metaphorical and figurative representation of the present, of an army once caring for its soldiers. All is not well within the barracks, though soldiers’ morale is critical to the effective functioning and loyalty of any military (Ulio, 1941).

In the last few years under Mugabe, soldiers were seemingly reasonably well cared for (Maringira, 2019). Even further back in time, in the immediate post-2000 period during which there were major economic challenges, ordinary soldiers reflect upon this in a positive manner, at least compared to the few years under Mnangagwa. While this might entail romanticizing the past, it is noticeable that the shift from Mugabe to Mnangagwa becomes a marker or signifier for a decline in the lives of junior soldiers. Soldiers depict Mnangagwa as living large, evidenced by his hiring of a super jet from the Middle East, including for short trips such as flying between Harare and Bulawayo.

Shops exist in the barracks and they are as old as the barracks themselves. In past years, soldiers made monthly cash contributions which sustained the garrison shops at times. Most recently, in a company averaging about 105 soldiers, they would each contribute around US$5 (called company funds). They now no longer make these contributions and, presently, garrison shops are just mere physical structures, with minimal groceries and clothing stocked. In response to this problem, the Minister of Finance (Mthuli Ncube) recently suggested a deduction of 2.5% from every civil servant’s salary to resuscitate garrison shops for soldiers in the army barracks (Bwanya, 2020). The Minister of Finance’s plan would involve garrison shops selling groceries to soldiers at subsidized prices. Clearly, the goal is to try – by whatever means – to pacify possibly restless soldiers in the barracks. This is a form of political appeasement of rank-and-file soldiers, with their wellbeing prioritized seemingly over ordinary citizens and at the expense of civil servants.

What is perhaps less known about the garrison shops is their style of management. Ordinarily, the commanding officer in each battalion, or brigade commander at brigade level, manages them. However, even if and when groceries are in abundance in these shops, the question of who primarily benefits is open to dispute. In this respect, the experience of ordinary soldiers in the barracks is painful, in part because they are subject to abuse by profit-maximizing commanders. In a recent conversation I conducted with one soldier, he highlighted:

These garrison shops are commanders’ shops; they dictate what time to open and close them. The profit is for commanders. If food items like bread are running out of the shelves, they are reserved for the commander. If we want to buy, we queue according to rank, and we are served according to our ranks.

Soldiers interpret the ranking within the garrison shops as meaning that the shops are for commanders primarily, as they provide opportunities for commanders to extract profit, at times at the expense of junior soldiers.

Beyond this, soldiers and their families do not survive on groceries alone, as they need housing, clothing and, above all else, school fees for their children. In creative ways, impoverished soldiers feel compelled to identify ways of feeding themselves and their families by, for instance, illicit gold mining. In a conversation I had with a number of junior soldiers in early 2020, one of them emphasized that: ‘I cannot just expect to be fed, when there is nothing. I find my own ways. I go and do Korokoza mining [artisanal illegal mining]. The little I get helps my family to survive’ (interview with an infantry soldier, January 2020). Currently, ordinary soldiers live like paupers in the Zimbabwean context. Their expectations of meaningful support by the Mnangagwa government dwindle by the day. The fact that poverty and hunger existed in the military forces under Mugabe does not take away from the marked tendency of disillusionment amongst soldiers under Mnangagwa, who held out so much promise to soldiers – who, themselves, received public praise only three years ago with the toppling of Mugabe.

In the end, even if implemented, the Minister of Finance’s plan appears as a minimalist initiative, and it will not go far in terms of enhancing the lives and livelihoods of ordinary soldiers. Nevertheless, it arises from Mnangagwa’s fear that, if the foot soldiers continue to live with empty bellies, it is likely to trigger unrest in the military barracks. Though this might come across as a direct challenge to past and present military commanders, it might turn out as the opposite. It could provide, at least potentially, a platform and window of opportunity for Chiwenga to act again decisively when it comes to intruding in national politics in defence of the military establishment.

Conclusion

This article has examined the military in the post-Mugabe era, in which the military has become more visible by asserting its hold on political power. The Zimbabwean military, whose commanders emerged from the liberation struggle, have become the power holders in Zimbabwean politics under Mnangagwa. In this regard, the military now simply accommodates civilian politicians in politics, and will do so in the future if national dialogue around a political transition takes place. While politics and the military became intertwined deeply, and increasingly so, under the rule of Mugabe, the coup acts as a signifier of a significant shift in the military’s involvement in politics, not simply during the coup but subsequent to it. Chiwenga’s own characterization of the military as stockholders is not mere rhetoric meant to emphasize the potential power and capacities of the military. Rather, the notion of stockholder highlights the military’s existing power and is an apt way of defining the political settlement (or national power structure) in post-2017 Zimbabwe.