An African Moment

My husband John and I were standing dispiritedly on a streetcar platform on Spadina in downtown Toronto. We had just returned from a succession of African postings – first to Ghana, then Ethiopia, and finally Zimbabwe – and the light overcoats we were wearing, so fashionable when we’d put them into storage 11 years earlier, were now hopelessly dated, their waterproofing and insulation long gone.

We were bone-cold.

It was one of those dim, late-November evenings, the kind that strum the mind, evoking memories of burning leaves and dank soil, and the baleful onset of a Canadian winter. Children were safely indoors, tucked up behind the comfort of curtains, waiting for their suppers. Shops were beginning to close. And the homeward-bound were pulling on their woolly toques and padded gloves, and rushing to catch their buses and subways.

John was shuffling the large shopping bags I’d weighed him down with, trying to rebalance the load.

“Remind me again,” he said, “what were our reasons for moving back to Canada and not to the French Riviera?”

He sounded a little exasperated. Carrying two new winter coats can do that to you, especially if you’re also lugging two pairs of boots and seven sets of long underwear, both uppers and lowers.

“I think it had something to do with money. Like not having enough of it,” I said, my bone marrow starting to congeal.  Where, I wondered, was Africa’s lambent sunshine when I needed it? And where was that darned streetcar?

“Did we fully explore possibilities in Greece?” I asked, returning to the subject of temperate climates, “Or Cyprus? Egypt? Algeria? What’s a little upheaval when you’re not shivering …”

But we both knew the truth: It was family and friends that had lured us back. And the promise of a good life in a great country. Thirty-six years in the Foreign Service had ratcheted up our pride and, dare I say it, our patriotism.

The platform was starting to congest. People from everywhere on Earth: Canada’s legendary cultural mosaic made flesh. All of them jammed in with us on that long chilly concrete islet, looking into the distance for their transport home.

Just as my eyeballs were beginning to gather rime from the misty night air, I spotted a dazzling and familiar streak of kente – Ghana’s iconic woven cloth. A man nearby was wearing it tightly corkscrewed around his neck. He had on a bobble hat, its ear flaps pulled fiercely down, and a pair of red knitted gloves, adorned with white maple leafs. His jacket – the kind I imagine a lineman would want if he planned to work on hydro poles in the high Arctic – was zipped up tightly. He was taking no chances with the weather.

To us, so recently back from Africa, he appeared to be Ghanaian. He was older, quite tall, with a kindly face and a stature that was effortlessly erect.  Nearby in the crowd stood a young girl – possibly Ethiopian, I thought.

 

I saw him glance down at her, then heard him click his tongue loudly and disapprovingly.

“Your coat is not heavy enough,” he declared, pointing unabashedly. In most parts of Africa, elders offer advice without prompting, and younger people accept it.

But the girl stared back at him, lips defiantly pursed.

He was right in his assessment: She had on a distressingly thin pink jacket, more suited to late spring than late autumn; her spindly legs, jutting out from beneath a summer dress, were bare; and she wore flip-flops with rubber daisies on the toe-straps.

What was her mother thinking, I wondered, letting her out dressed like that?

The answer was immediately and trenchantly clear: Standing directly behind the girl was a tall, beautiful woman, her hair plaited with beads in traditional northern Ethiopian – Tigrayan – fashion, tight against her head in front, full and fluffy in back. She was clad in Ethiopian national attire: a short-sleeved white dress made of gauze-like cotton, embroidered with coloured crosses along the neckline and the edge of the skirt. Every finely woven thread of it was hopelessly inadequate against the cold. Even the natela she had elegantly arrayed over her slender shoulders offered little in the way of protection.

“You need a much heavier coat in Canada,” the man with the kente scarf repeated more forcefully this time, turning slightly to include the woman in his admonition.

The young girl glared at him, still silent.

This was a standoff of deep cultural proportions.

Suddenly and without warning, she blurted, “Where are you from?”

“What?”

The man seemed taken aback with her directness and curiosity.

“What do you mean?” he snapped, frowning.

“Well, are you African?” she asked.

He looked down at her, utterly speechless.

“I said, are you African?” she reiterated, somewhat boldly.

I watched his face turn from disapproving to disbelief, and from disbelief to frank offence.

It was a tense moment.Then he pulled up his shoulders, and waving his maple-leaf-gloved hands in the air, declared with gravitas and visible pride: “I am Canadian!”

Now I’d like to be able to say that at that very moment a marching band appeared out of the darkness and struck up the national anthem. And that the entire platform erupted into song: our home and native land … true patriot love … with glowing hearts … we stand on guard.

But that, of course, didn’t happen.

What did happen though was that for John and me, Canada just got a whole lot warmer.

Alena Schram lives in Amherst Island, Ont.

AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
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Mandela, South Africa, and Canada

As Nelson Mandela’s long and noble life ebbs inexorably to a close, everyone that ever spied him from a distance or watched him on TV — or, in solidarity with him, gave up Paarl wines, Granny Smith apples, Outspan oranges, Marlboro cigarettes — feels a special relationship with this iconic South African. His effect on people the world over has been unusually personal, intimate even.

Predictably these days, it’s hard to find any white South Africans that were in favour of apartheid — the iniquitous codified system based on race that predetermined the future of every child born there.

 

Indeed, many now imply they were “in the struggle”, “banned”, “nearly banned” or “restricted”, while others insist they emigrated, not for economic reasons, but because they were involved in anti-apartheid activities, and threatened with reprisals by the fearsome South African security services.
 

If you believe that, you probably also believe there were never any Communists in the Soviet Union or Nazis in Hitler’s Germany.

Those of us in Pretoria in the late 1980s, posted to the Canadian Embassy — as it then was — knew well the shamefully small band of white saints and heroes that, with no guarantee of an equitable resolution to the intractable problems facing that nation, and at great danger to themselves, stood up to the authorities and did what was right, alongside their black compatriots.

Successful professionals all, they had nothing to gain from their moral and vocal engagement, and everything to lose.

Some, like young Keith Coleman, were sent to prison — into solitary confinement — as punishment for their activism.

Well-known jurist Albie Sachs, working against the apartheid regime from nearby Mozambique, had his arm blown off by a parcel bomb.

However, many more benefitted happily from a system where the odds were stacked in their favour from birth.

It wasn’t that they were particularly in favour of apartheid, but their silent compliance helped to maintain it.

They weren’t especially racist either; they simply edited blacks from sight.

An elegant, educated industrialist, seated beside me at an all-white luncheon in Johannesburg the year before Mandela’s release, boasted of the efficiency of his large production company.

“And it’s all run by just seven people,” he announced proudly.

“Seven!?” I asked, amazed.

“Oh, and 300 blacks,” he added, absent-mindedly.

What most Canadians are unaware of is the pivotal role that Canada — along with Sweden, Australia, and The Netherlands — played in the battle to dismantle South Africa’s system of legalized racism.

Our embassy in Pretoria took a lead in the South African struggle for a just, multi-racial society — the ‘rainbow nation’ that Mandela envisaged throughout his 27 years on Robben Island.

And our efforts were unstintingly supported by ordinary Canadians who understood the issue and the righteousness of the stand we were taking together.

In those dark days before Mandela’s release, Canadian diplomats joined black and white South Africans at blacks-only bus stops and outside black hospital wards, to press for their desegregation.

Some officers, while observing protests, were tear-gassed, while others — or their spouses — were water cannoned, rounded up, and thrown into police vehicles.

Meanwhile, the embassy’s $1.2 million Dialogue Fund, established by Brian Mulroney’s government, supported human rights groups and anti-apartheid initiatives.

Our brief: to represent the voiceless; to be a persistent, unrelenting presence, watching, listening, bearing witness.

And to press for change.

In 1990, soon after he emerged from prison, Nelson Mandela publicly credited Canadians for the critical part they played in that change. But as everyone knows, it was the towering Mandela himself, whose leadership made the seemingly impossible, possible. Who inspired South Africans to make this modern-day miracle work.

His death is sure to unleash a flood of first-person stories: What Madiba Confided In Me; How I Advised Mandela on South Africa; My Moment with Nelson.

But his eloquent handwritten letter to my husband John and me, as we prepared to leave South Africa, was in fact a first-person story about all Canadians that shared his vision:

“Dear John and Alena, During your stay in South Africa, we have come to know and respect you as people who care about South Africa, about our trials and tribulations, our setbacks and victories. Through your warmth and understanding and positive contributions you have won many friends not only for yourself, but also for Canada.

You have touched our hearts and will be sorely missed.”

Mandela’s legacy will, in some measure, be Canada’s. We have every right to be proud.

Alena Schram and her husband John served in the Canadian Embassy, Pretoria from 1988 to 1992. John was Minister-Counsellor and Alena administered the Dialogue Fund.

© Copyright (c) The Ottawa Citizen

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM 
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A Loo With a View

We were heading to a project opening near Debre Zeit, about an hour’s drive from Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia. John, then the Canadian ambassador, was going to examine the spanking new water pump Canada had donated, meet the local dignitaries, and demonstrate that Canadians were, in fact, their brothers’ keepers. I was going as loyal consort. And because it was an official trip, we had a driver and a four-wheel drive vehicle to get us over the almost non-existent roads.

It was Sunday and I had had two cups of coffee after church that morning at the Meet & Greet. This was a mistake, and I knew it ten minutes out of town, because the Ethiopian countryside, unlike some more highly developed countries, offers nothing in the way of public amenities. There are no service stations with locked bathrooms, no McDonald’s to sneak into, no roadside cafes, no port-a-poos. And worst of all, on this particular stretch of road, and in the middle of the dry season, no foliage. Not a tree, not a bush, not a shrub, no cactus or even long grass.

But I am accustomed to managing. Indeed, over the years I have lost a good deal of my middle-class bashfulness and am willing to make do under almost any circumstances. Generally on road trips I carry along a large golf umbrella that I take with me when I leave the car and head for a bush. It’s useful for mashing down twigs and spearing the occasional unsightly bits of …. well …. debris. Furthermore, trial and many errors have proven that with some dexterous manoeuvring and a bit of practice, I can artfully twirl this tool in almost any direction to get some privacy. Umbrellas have worked for me on many occasions: in the north of Ghana when, out of nowhere, two trucks loaded with standing, staring workmen suddenly bore down on me; and once, in Nigeria, when a camel train from north Africa suddenly hove into view.

But on this particular afternoon, on the road to Debre Zeit, there was nothing even remotely camouflaging to hide the bits the umbrella wouldn’t cover. I was in trouble. Desperate. Eventually, as I knew we would, we hit one pothole too many and I could stand it no longer.

“STOP!” I shrieked.

Now John’s official driver, Abraha, always knew what this cry meant: that within the next half minute he was to find me a congenial spot, in the shade, near a running stream, where no puff adders or cobras were likely to be lurking. But this was not Abraha, this was Gedamu the office driver, and he did as asked. He simply pulled over and stopped.

Grabbing my umbrella I scrambled frantically out of the car, prepared to make my Ethiopian debut if I had to. But to my utter amazement, there right in front of me were four gigantic and quite uncharacteristic boulders. Delighted, I tore off into a gap between the rocks and there found myself in a magnificent meadow. No tall foliage to protect me, but no livestock and best of all, no people either. Quickly, and out of habit, I snapped my umbrella into place, and made myself comfortable.

Not thirty seconds into my performance I was aware of a somewhat familiar but distant rumble. The sound quickly increased and from my vulnerable vantage point I could suddenly see the train from the small neighbouring country, Djibouti, moving quickly over my horizon. Faster and faster it came, with people and animals pouring out of the windows. I was in no position to move. My red and white striped umbrella was like a flashing beacon, and with the ambassadorial flag waving from the front of our parked car we were virtually advertising ownership of the bare bottom.

Feeling utterly disgraced, I eventually slunk back to the vehicle. The driver, who must surely have known I was heading onto the railway right-of-way and that the Addis-bound Djibouti train would be passing through momentarily, tried hard to stifle any visible emotion. John didn’t dare look even mildly amused, not while I had my umbrella up.

The following day, at lunch with European Union colleagues, I told them my shocking story. By evening, everyone in the diplomatic corps had heard it, along with various embellishments (“…. and the train actually slowed down when they saw her!”, “…. Imagine -- she was in trousers and not a skirt!”, “John tried to drag her back!” “…. Apparently she could hear the laughing for miles!”).

Three days later at a large reception with most of the diplomatic corps in attendance, Father Donald, the young American Catholic priest attached to the Vatican embassy, approached me looking distressed.

“Can I have a private word with you, Alena?” he asked.

“Sure, Donald,” I immediately replied, thinking he needed advice with a moral dilemma, “is something worrying you?”

“Well,” he drawled, lips trembling in a barely suppressed giggle, “I was on the train from Djibouti last Sunday.” Pause. “And I think I may have seen you.”

© Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com
alenaschram@gmail.com

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);  
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM.
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.