Barry Bearak recently had a mercifully not too long stay in a Zimbabwean prison for committing journalism. He writes about it in today's online New York Times.
Prison movies had made me fear predation. But the inmates were instead a forlorn lot, a fair selection of Harare’s downtrodden, people who’d once had decent jobs and who’d now been reduced to scrounging and worse. Two of the more personable ones were car thieves. Only because their families were starving, they said. Two others, Donald and Lancelot, were accused of poaching after cutting the hindquarter off a deer that had been hit by a bus.
At meals, we were permitted to select only a few inmates to join us downstairs. A short, emaciated man in a red jersey had meekly asked to be included. “Stay close to me when they come for us,” I told him. But then I forgot.
“I was near you,” he later muttered disconsolately, “right near you.”
The full story is here (may need subscription; not sure)