The Commonwealth: Opening & Closing the Door

Harold Wilson returned to Britain last week full of hope for a settlement of the Rhodesian crisis. He had had four days of “serious talks” with an almost endless parade of 126 leading Rhodesians, and, as he told Parliament, “no one, British or Rhodesian, has been able to hear the views of so many leaders of opinion, African or European, for very many years.” Out of them had come an agreement for a joint Royal Commission that had, for the time being at least, headed off Rhodesian Prime Minister Ian Smith’s threats to issue an immediate unilateral declaration of independence. “I am satisfied,” Wilson declared, “that we have created a position where disaster can be averted.”

Nervous Rub. The entire House of Commons cheered Wilson’s news, and Tory Opposition Leader Ted Heath even rose to welcome him “warmly” after his “long and arduous mission.” But the euphoria did not last long. Two days later, the British Prime Minister was back in Commons, grey, grim, and rubbing his cheek nervously with the signet ring on his left hand, to report that “it is now clear that there is no prospect of agreement.”

The problem lay in the Royal Commission. Smith insisted its only job was to determine whether or not the Rhodesian people wanted independence on the basis of their present constitution, which effectively blocks the way to majority rule by the colony’s 4,000,000 b’acks. Wilson told Parliament, however, that the British wanted to empower the commission to draw up what would amount to a new constitution and then present it for the approval of both the blacks and Rhodesia’s minority of 220,000 whites. Moreover, said Wilson, Britain would expect to have a veto over the Royal Commission’s work. Even then, Wilson added, “the British government cannot guarantee that it will accept the report.”

Ominous Gesture. To Smith this seemed a far cry from the deal he had discussed with Wilson in Salisbury. Abruptly, he slapped government controls on all imports, supposedly to halt a buying panic that was rapidly depleting Rhodesia’s hard-currency reserves, but perhaps to suggest that big events—such as a unilateral declaration of independence—lay ahead. Then, after a furious 24 hours in which he presided over a caucus of his Rhodesian Front Party and held three long Cabinet meetings, came an even more ominous gesture: the declaration of a nationwide state of emergency.

The declaration gave Smith and his men the massive powers of a police-state regime. Newspapers and magazines could be censored or even closed by simple decree, private travel and public gatherings could be banned, and such institutions as bars and beer halls closed down. Even worse, according to the 24-page official document outlining the government’s emergency powers, “any police officer may, without warrant, arrest and detain any person of whom he has reason to believe there are grounds which would justify his detention.”

Grim Note. There seemed little reason for such a drastic measure. The Rhodesians spoke of “subversive activities,” but could point to only four incidents of “subversion” in the past month. Things had been so quiet, in fact, that Rhodesian police reservists called up last month on rumors of possible unrest had been sent home only a few days before the declaration of emergency.

Why, then, had it been declared? Was it preparation for U.D.I.? Was it, as some hoped, a gambit by Smith to prevent the extremists of his own party from forcing him over the brink? Was it Smith’s way of whipping up public fervor for U.D.I, that Wilson’s visit had dampened? Or was it simply a daring display of brinkmanship designed to wring more concessions out of the British? In London, Harold Wilson called his Cabinet into session to consider the latest turn in events. There was still a thread of hope, he and his ministers decided, but before they broke up for the weekend, Wilson alerted them all to be ready to return to Downing Street at a moment’s notice, ordered stand-by transportation for each minister—and even prepared the machinery to call Parliament into its first Sunday session since Britain declared war on Germany. As it turned out, the session was not necessary, but the week ended on a grim note indeed. From Salisbury came a message from Smith in reply to Wilson’s latest terms on the Royal Commission. They were, said Smith, “tantamount to rejection of the proposals agreed with you in Salisbury. It would seem that you have finally closed the door.”