The Rhodesia Letters

A week or so ago I extracted from one of the small drawers in my father's Arab chest the bundle of letters which we wrote to my mother and father during the three years we spent in what was then Ian Smith's independent Rhodesia, and set about reading them. It was an eerie experience for it was as if I was talking to myself from all those years ago, a very definite voice which used strong words like 'shall' and which didn't hesitate to express very decided opinions on everything from the way the school was run to British and Rhodesian politics through to the life and loves of my younger brother.

The letters were, as far as possible, weekly, in the tradition of those I had written from both prep and public school, and full of detail; and watching the story unfold, knowing some of the things that were going to happen, was, at times, very distressing.

This is the first letter, written soon after we arrived in the country in early September 1967, while the last. was written on the thirteenth of August, 1970, as we were packing up to fly back to England a few days later, when I describe myself as very upset. I was: as we drove up the drive from the school for the last time I remember leaning over the steering wheel and crying, for we had intended to settle in the country and our leaving, even though it was for very good reasons, was a defeat.

This letter is one of many which I typed, which made them rather easier to read. Mrs MW often wrote in the letters, sometimes, when I was very busy at the school, writing all the letter herself, giving my parents another perspective on our life there. In many ways it was very affluent: we had a big bungalow in a beautiful garden, with a young man to help maintain it and to work around the house, and we were soon able to buy all the things we needed for a 'modern' life - even though some things were difficult to get hold of because of UN sanctions. In return, both of us worked hard, often doing long hours in the school. But we loved it, and look back on those years as some of the happiest of our lives.

As I have said before, I now bless my mother for keeping the letters, along with those from my school days and from other far-flung adventures like the North Africa trip and our two years in Jamaica. Mrs MW wrote similar long letters to her parents but, sadly, they weren't kept.

Each time I open one of these letters I think of my parents opening it over fifty years ago. I am fairly certain that my father always allowed my mother to do this, and he would read them after her. He also, as evidenced by the occasional mutilation, had a habit of cutting out the stamps for his British & Commonwealth collection. It's a small price to pay for this wonderful legacy.