Yesterday, we sat outside Harare Central Police Station with Edwina and Newton Spicer. After searching for 40 hours since his arrest with four others, they were finally presented with their son, Tawanda Tom. All five had been tortured. Tawanda had been singled out, severely beaten, given 30-40 electric shocks, his body bruised, his tongue in tatters. And they were being kept in custody for the weekend. He was allowed a lawyer. "Sorry - no doctor, no doctor, no doctor, no doctor, no doctor." (New regulation - prisoners can only be seen by prison doctors.) And Tom is the lucky one, the others had no one there to push for them.

Two parents dealing with this horror sitting on the lawn of Harare Central. Gathering their energy trying not to be overwhelmed, connecting with a support system somewhere out there in the world. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, FOR CELL PHONES. Armed police in riot gear walk in and out, a sparrow builds a nest in the palm tree overhead. A small baby boy screams with anger at having his nappy changed and the mother jokes with me about the volume of his protest. Over the road street kids search through the rubbish looking for plastic to resell. Next door a colourful market of second hand cloths stands without customers. As I write - 5.30pm Sunday - they have lost him again, haven't seen him all day, have been told he has been moved again. I am struck again and again by this thought: If there were 20 people standing on the steps of the police station in silent protest at the torture that is happening within, if there were 40, or 100, or what if there were more? Just to let the perpetrators of such outrage know they are being seen.

It would not then, be so easy, to say to parents and a lawyer: "Good morning Mr and Mrs Spicer this is your tortured 18 year old son."
"No he may not see a doctor."
"I'm sorry he has disappeared again."
"You will have to leave."