Jutta Hoffmann

• Name: Jutta Hoffmann
• Date of Birth: March 03, 1941
• Place of Birth: Not available

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• 
  asavimbi

• 
  asavimbi

  I scramble out of the car at the gate just as we are leaving on a field trip. "Back in a minute!" Then the clear blue morning sky thunders into the earth. A shell, a few feet from the gate, where the car would have been if I hadn?t gone back. In the well-stocked bunker we hear the fireworks. Congratulations on being alive! That was close! Scraps of information fly in with every gust of fresh shelling. The radio gives no information. Just people coming in. The rebels have taken Villa Nova, a few miles from here. They?ve occupied Caala, barely half an hour away. Two more killed. A truck blown up. The rebels are on their way into Huambo. Remember what it was like in ?92? The 55-day war? So many died when the rebels took over. Another beer? There you go. Was no better in ?94, was it, when the government took it back? This year?s violence is nothing compared to that. Pass me the Camembert, will you. Do you think they?re coming? Sure, they?ll probably take over, but they can?t keep it. The Roquefort is excellent. Try it with the hard bread. We?ve seen what they do. They are better off in the rural areas. It?s just a game of strength between Savimbi and President Dos Santos. Muscle-flexing, that?s all. There?s a mother crying outside, someone?s died. You know, the house across the street. A boy, got hit by the shell. Just sitting on the wall of his own garden. A small silence, filled only by the music from the CD in the laptop. This is the end? Change the music, can?t you? Why, don?t you like the Doors? I want a coffee. Hey chief, why don?t you put in a coffee machine here?
  
  The locals don?t talk. They sit hanging their heads, clutching their fingers, ears straining for the radio news in Portuguese over the English music. They have children out there. Wives, husbands, parents, friends. Out there in the streets, in the houses that buckle under shelling. Unlike us, foreigners with a humanitarian or journalistic agenda and no local ties, they can?t take the next flight out to safety. This is their home. This city of majestic flame trees and banana palms, lit up by red oleanders and orange hibiscus, dotted by pink and white temple trees. This city that once was rich, once the pride of Angola. Under the oppressive Portuguese rulers, this was Nova Lisboa, New Lisbon. Now, in an independent country, a broken-down dump of internal refugees and tired locals with no escape route. Stuck in the dilapidating houses that have seen too much violence, in a land-locked, war-locked city with no land routes, with no money to fly out, no place to go except refugee camps on the coast teeming with desperate dislocados clinging on to life by a thread. Trapped in a city of no hope in a country tired of war but too divided to see it stop. Growing old in the labyrinth of death. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
  
  The mother?s still crying on the road. Died some, pro patria, non dulce, non et decor... He wasn?t sitting on the wall, he was on his bicycle, going out. Any ne

  posted 977 days ago

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