Dropped Threads 2 (23 page)

New
               Voices

Flora MacDonald

Quite often people ask me, “Don’t you miss politics?” and I usually respond politely by saying, “Well, I find I’m still pretty busy.” But that’s a cop-out because I haven’t really answered the question. Once my political umbilical cord had been cut—in 1988 I lost my position as minister of communications and Member of Parliament when my seat was won by the Liberal candidate—I didn’t spend much time wondering if I would miss politics; I was too busy trying to cope with the humiliation of defeat, the pain of being dismissed. Rejection is not something human beings readily embrace. For a while I considered my defeat a personal insult. It meant I was no longer needed. No doubt it had something to do with personal ego, the idea that the attention I was used to getting would no longer be there—wounded vanity and all that.

But that mood didn’t last long. Several non-governmental groups, charitable organizations working with destitute and marginalized people in developing countries, suggested I become involved with them. I did, and I can truthfully say these past fourteen years of “life after politics” have provided some of the richest experiences of my life. If someone had made that forecast while I was still in the political circle, I would have laughed at it. I liked what I was doing, I revelled in the stimulation of a knife-edge existence and I didn’t think anything could be better.

What a surprise, then, to be caught up in events as challenging and inspiring as any I’ve encountered. Monitoring elections in newly independent Namibia, in wartorn Sri Lanka and, most movingly, in turbulent South Africa when Nelson Mandela became president—experiences like these helped me make the transition from active politics to a deeper appreciation of the struggles many countries must go through to achieve their independence.

But it’s the women I’ve met who have provided the most profound and lasting impressions: members of a women’s organization in drought-stricken western Zimbabwe who, while government officials were paralyzed by the magnitude of the disaster, went from village to village to co-ordinate the daily provision of a nutritious meal for 600,000 children; an elderly woman in Kosovo who, when her village was almost completely destroyed by Serb forces, remained openly defiant and determined to play a leadership role in rebuilding her community; a group of poverty-stricken, illiterate war widows in Afghanistan who worked tirelessly to scrape together sufficient funds to pay a teacher for two hours each day to help them and their children become literate.

I can best describe the impact such experiences have had on me by recounting the personal story of one of the amazing women I’ve encountered. When I see what she has managed to achieve in the face of horrendous difficulties, my admiration knows no bounds. Nor does my resolve to continue working with her and others like her. Her name is Biri Mema and she lives in Palin, in the remote Indian state of Arunachal Pradesh (AP).

AP is the most northeasterly state of India, wedged between Tibet and Burma and up against the border with China. It has been designated prohibited territory because of the potential threat of invasion from China—the last time that occurred was in 1962. Few outsiders manage to penetrate the jungle vastness of AP. A recent edition of the
Times of India
referred to it as “The Forgotten State.” But within its borders is one of the richest concentrations of biodiversity in the world. Various tribal groups reside in the deep and fertile valleys in the high mountains of the eastern Himalayas; to reach them we travelled along the Brahmaputra River in a small Zodiac for hundreds of miles, sleeping on the river-banks at night. As members of the small NGO, Future Generations, we work with and provide training for villagers in health, hygiene and environmental programs.

As has occurred in other countries of the developing world, health initiatives have proven the most effective entry point when trying to encourage greater community development and stability; AP needs both, torn as it is by tribal struggles and uncontrolled and irrational development practices.

For five years now, a number of local women in AP have been involved in amazing health care work. They have no specialized training as nurses or doctors; indeed, many of them are illiterate. All of them have the unending responsibilities that women around the world share—co-ordinating the many members of their families, organizing their household food and finances and working long hours in the fields. They carry out their many tasks without the benefit of running water and electricity. But regardless of these handicaps, they are cramming into their very full days the added responsibilities of being the village health care workers. They do so in an environment that is heavily male dominated and where women’s lives are highly restricted and tightly controlled. Biri Mema is one of these women, and through a translator she told us her story:

“I don’t know when I was married, but I must have been six or seven years old because I remember my baby teeth falling out when I was in the house of the in-laws. My husband was already old. Those days were nightmares for me—I don’t even want to recall them. I was prepared to do any amount of hard work by day, but the very thought of spending the night with my husband sent chills down my spine. Growing up, I was extremely shy and introverted. I couldn’t utter a single word in front of other people. My life was a monotonous routine of toiling in the fields during the days and carrying out the household chores in the mornings and evenings. I never went around my neighbourhood—I didn’t know the goings-on in my next-door neighbour’s house, let alone in the rest of the village. I was taught to take local beer with my husband. He was such a drunkard that he sometimes had difficulty reaching home at night and slept on the roadside. Before I was twenty, I had lost two children as babies and a third was stillborn.

“One day I saw some people having a meeting; most of them were women. Out of curiosity I went near to find out what the women were talking about—it was about keeping oneself healthy, taking care of the children and keeping fit during pregnancy. I stood there listening, and then they came and asked me to join the group and work for the village.

“I found myself changing slowly—I started talking to the other women in the group, even though my husband felt all my time should be spent either working in the fields or in the house. One day there was talk of a training program being organized in the state capital, Itanagar. I was selected to attend. But when I came back to Palin, my husband was very angry with me. He chopped a pig in two, shrieking that he intended to do that to me. Full of fear, I told my husband the things I had learned in Itanagar and how the knowledge could be useful for us.

“A year later, I was selected to go to Jamkhed on the other side of India for further training. I was illiterate, so I refused. Even then, my friends forced me to attend. That training session was an eye-opener for me. The other women trainees were known as the Village Welfare Workers; most of them were also illiterate, but they were doing excellent jobs. Some of them had even learned to read and write when they were adults.

“On my return I was chosen as the team co-ordinator for my area. In order to serve my village more effectively, I started attending adult education classes, and I’m now able to read and write.

“That led to my being named field associate for the site, a paying job. I can now help others with their reports, then I prepare records and reports for the whole region every month. I started working for my community with renewed vigour. After I met with some of the local teachers, they agreed to give an hour or two several nights a week to instruct other illiterate women how to read and write. And I’ve even been successful in persuading my husband to give up drinking. He now helps me with my work, and he has become the head
gaon bura
(leader) of our village. He is proud of me and I am proud of him.”

I can’t tell you what a great joy it is for me to visit the nearby villages with Biri Mema. The woman who five years ago was too shy, too fearful, to venture anywhere but to work in the fields and take care of her own small house is now welcomed by people throughout the entire area as someone who can help them in community development. She speaks at meetings in a calm and measured way, encouraging women to be more active and to take on more responsibilities. She points to her own struggles and what she has accomplished:

“Today I am getting a decent salary for my job; my work has given me a status in the community. More important, I have discovered the joy of the company of others and the satisfaction of helping the people in the villages.”

The work of women like these does not see them reporting to some medical accreditation agency; except for the field associates like Biri, they are not on salary from some governmental or non-governmental organization; they are selected by their neighbours because they have already demonstrated leadership qualities in their villages. Once selected, they are sent off for a short period of training, which is upgraded annually, with another two-week training period. They first learn how to carry out surveys in their villages to gather information and data about the basic state of health. They are taught the importance of keeping accurate records. Then they are instructed in the treatment of such illnesses as diarrhea, the number-one killer in their villages, and in the diagnosis and treatment of childhood pneumonia, the number-two killer. They also learn how to give immunization injections and how to treat the many traumas that are part of village life. And finally, they are trained to provide advice for better nutrition during pregnancy and how to assist with childbirth.

In the villages of Arunachal Pradesh, you cannot take your child to a doctor; there is no special clinic building to shelter the worried parent; there are no white-coated workers. When a child gets sick, treatment has to be performed at home. If treatment is not performed quickly and effectively, the illnesses become life-threatening. Children die. They die by the dozens.

In Arunachal it is frequently the case that a woman will have twelve pregnancies during her life. Of these, data show that maybe two will be stillborn, four will die of diarrhea, two of pneumonia and one of other causes; typically, three may survive. This type of health condition brings stress to women’s lives. It brings alienation into families. Is it any wonder that many children are not given a name until they reach their first birthdays? Why get too close to a child who might die?

In the most recent data collected in the three sites where Future Generations Arunachal carries out its health care projects, infant mortality cases in 1997 totalled slightly more than two hundred. Last year, thanks to the training and the efforts of Biri Mema and her colleagues—the volunteer Village Welfare Workers—the number of fatalities was reduced to twenty.

Such is the kind of work being carried out in Arunachal Pradesh and in many developing countries as a result of partnerships between dedicated non-governmental organizations and committed local people. Unfortunately our main media outlets seldom cover such worthwhile stories.

So what have Biri Mema and the women of Arunachal Pradesh meant to me? I think back to the hurdles and obstacles that confronted me when I first contemplated getting into the political arena. I had proven I could run campaigns for others, but to be the person out front, the one who was the focus of attention, was something I had to steel myself to do. It didn’t come easily—what if I made a mess of it and let my supporters down? And how was I to disprove the never spoken but ever-present, insidious questions: Can a woman really do this? Will she have the staying power, the fortitude, the guts to make tough political decisions? These issues of confidence and gender are among the obstacles that continue to impede women’s efforts. The barriers I faced in politics thirty years ago still exist for many women in Canada today. I often griped about these man-made obstacles—I still do. But when I consider what Biri Mema and others like her have managed to accomplish, given the difficulties they face on a daily basis, I know that my road was easy by comparison. Biri has shown me that once the qualities of indomitable courage and determination are given free rein, there is nothing women cannot tackle. She and her colleagues are transforming their small corner of the world—such things as greater equality, recognition of the role of women, better health care and greater protection of the environment are slowly becoming the norm.

There’s no doubt that the defeat I suffered in my last political campaign was traumatic. My glory days were over. I fancied myself relegated to some historical dustbin. And I wasn’t prepared for it. But the old adage still applies: when one door closes, another opens. These past years have richly rewarded me; to be sure, I’ve had adventure and fun, but also I’ve had the satisfaction of helping out in a very direct way. What more can one ask for? I’ve been fortunate to meet people like Biri Mema and am determined to do whatever I can to help her and her Village Welfare Workers. Telling you her story is one such way.

Life with an
                                Overeager Conscience

Sandra Beardsall

It was probably predictable that a person with a relentless sense of social responsibility should find herself, at age thirty-one, walking down the dusty road that leads to the village of Vaikalpalayam. The people of this hamlet are Dalits, or “Untouchables,” India’s social and economic outcasts. When an opportunity arose to attend a work-study camp exploring issues of human rights and religion and helping to build a community centre in this village, how could my do-gooder heart resist? Despite the aura of the exotic that filled my every step in the hot red sand, perhaps I should have guessed that this village and I would someday meet. What I could not have imagined was the way that this small encounter would weave itself into my world-view.

“Well, I never saw a child with such a conscience!” Aunt Violet exclaimed to my parents, when I was about three. No one remembers what I had done to evoke my great-aunt’s comment, but her authority, as one who had cared for many children, was deemed impeccable. Apparently, then, my passion for the right and the good was kindled early and needed only a bit of fanning to begin to blaze. My middle-class family was respectful and caring. We attended the United Church and helped others; the idea of writing up the Ten Commandments on two tablet-shaped sheets of paper and taping them to my bedroom bookcase, however, was entirely my own. I doubt I knew at age eight what a “graven image” was, let alone “adultery.” But the French provincial gold trim on the two bookcase doors looked irresistibly like Moses’ stone tablets, as rendered in my red leatherette illustrated Bible. It seemed as right and natural to ponder these ancient, obscure injunctions on my bookcase as to gaze at the graceful ballerinas twirling on my pink bedroom wallpaper.

I learned that a keen conscience never goes on vacation. In 1970, when I was ten, we took a one-week family trip to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I not only noticed that all the hotel guests were white and all the maids were black, I obsessed about it. I watched these women in their green cotton uniforms line up to board the city bus that would take them away from the beach to … well, I had no idea, but I was sure it was not to comfort and luxury. Their weary eyes worried my soul. I decided, as grandly as a ten-year-old could, that the racial construction of the American South needed immediate and serious attention. As a start, I left little notes for the maids who cleaned our room each day: “You are very nice.” “White people and black people are equal.” The maids did not reply.

Undaunted, and assisted by the “Stories of Famous People” volume of my family’s
Children’s Encyclopedia
set, I took as my hero Harriet Tubman, the amazing Underground Railroad organizer. That year in Grade 5, I made her the subject of my speech for the annual school public-speaking contest. No one got as fired up about Harriet as I had hoped, but I felt some satisfaction in getting the word out. The American South may or may not have felt the benefit of my zeal.

It was in these elementary-school speaking contests that I realized the first thing I had not been told. When I gave speeches on freedom fighters and racial prejudice, I got a lukewarm response. When, in Grade 8, I spoke on the joys and trials of living with siblings, I won all the way to the county level, where I took second prize. I also took the point: people prefer whimsy to moral rant. I had no idea that my noble ideals of truth and justice, which were linked for me to a sweeping love of humanity, would in fact alienate me from many people. I began to realize that I would never be entirely at home in the world as long as my care for it involved my inexorable conscience.

There was no turning back, though. Others aided and abetted. When I was a young teen, someone at church suggested that I should consider becoming an ordained minister. I resisted as long as I could—it was hard enough being an uncool teenager without this further embarrassment. I was not a pious believer, and I did not know how to deal with the Bible’s contradictions. A few religious studies courses later, both piety and the Bible were duly deconstructed, and I was hooked. The more I studied, the more I got involved in the life of the United Church and the wider social struggle, the more I learned to analyze critically my beloved world—all for its own good, of course. I became more truly what I had always been,
a woman who loves the world too much
—with nary a self-help book to guide me.

So began my real life of alienation. While I was still studying theology, two former school classmates, young men who had, as far as I could tell, never taken any interest in me whatsoever, took me aside at a class reunion, sat me down and tried to talk me out of my vocational choice.

“You have real talents,” they insisted. “We still remember the siblings speech. Don’t throw your life away like this!” The pleading in their voices told me they were sure I was about to follow a charismatic leader into a distant forest and drink poisoned Kool-Aid.

Once ordained, I became, for some, a member of the “moral police,” those unpleasant people who take offence at raunchy jokes and censure alcohol consumption. Not that I do either, but the assumption that clergy exist to make people feel guilty is entrenched in a culture that has long abandoned any actual fear of organized religion. How many times have I suffered through the phrase “I know I shouldn’t swear in front of a minister, but …?” What I would like to say, but don’t, is that I don’t mind the swearing, but would they please apologize for driving those gas-guzzling, air-polluting sport-utility vehicles?

For others, my affiliation with a progressive religious group means that I represent a lot of bleeding-heart causes like feminism, gay/lesbian ordination and women’s reproductive choice. Nearly everything I stand for could be off-putting to a good number of people, especially other Christians. I could not possibly have Jesus Christ as my personal saviour and call God “Mother,” could I? Like many of my United Church minister colleagues, I became wary of telling airline seatmates and other strangers in close quarters my true profession. Like other leftists, I learned not to announce my political preferences unless I wanted a battle. It is harder, though, to hide the fact that one has ordered the vegetarian meal.

Something else happened as I entered theological school. I learned that I was not alone, that in fact many of us are carried through life by overeager consciences. I met people even more zealous than I, people who viewed my lifestyle and commitments as practically wanton. I discovered groups whose members crusade for their causes with a boldness that I could never match. Animal lovers, tree huggers, pacifist communists, anti-poverty activists—they had shaped what for me had been half formed, private anxieties into organizations that could issue tax receipts!

Of course, the problem with finding fellow travellers of this sort is that we tend to complicate one another’s lives and together alienate ourselves even further from everyone else. Every cause embraced adds to the list of products to boycott, meetings to attend and things to fret over. We exhaust one another with conscientious possibilities, even as we revel in our common quest. There is also the challenge from outside, from the Powers That Be who would delight to see us split with each other over some matter of principle. Still, what a gift to find myself a part of a long and vital legacy, to learn that I did not invent, but only inherited this overwhelming sense of moral duty. A second-century document describing the Christian ethical life told followers of this new religion to live as “resident aliens” in the Roman Empire. And so some of us do.

It did not take India long to remind me of my small place in the order of resident aliens. I already knew that this subcontinent features whole religions shaped around views of life’s sanctity that would put my non-killing ways to shame. India defeated an empire with non-violent resistance. I already knew that I had much more to learn than to teach here. My first glimpse of this ancient land, awash in humanity—people walking, riding, pedalling, peeing, praying, begging, meditating—confirmed that this place was far too complex for any analysis I might attempt in several years, let alone two weeks. Even in the midst of the deepest poverty I had ever seen, even as the West rained terror just over the northwestern horizon in the opening volleys of the Gulf War, India invited my well-worked conscience to take a holiday. And then it gently taught me its special lesson.

The residents of Vaikalpalayam speak Tamil. On our first visit, an interpreter facilitated the introductions. The women of the village had a question that the interpreter hesitated to translate. Why, they wanted to know, do you women wear such ugly clothes? Sure enough, our sensible beige pants and drab T-shirts paled in the face of the Indian women’s saris, threadbare but bold in blue, purple and green prints. Tiny girls, already seasoned labourers, wore delicate pink flowers in their hair as they headed to work in the fields. One of the women produced a small red dot, a
bindi
, and pulling me close, fixed it on my forehead. Yes, the women agreed, that was a start.

The next day, I visited the village on my own. We used sign language and my few feeble words of Tamil to converse. I learned that one of the women was named Shandra, which means “moon,” and sounded much like my name, Sandra. This similarity gave us a special affinity. A young girl shook off her plastic bangles and handed them to Shandra, who then slid them over my fingers and onto my wrist. Indeed, the women nodded, that is much better.

On my last day to visit the village, I walked there slowly, not quite ready to say goodbye, or even
poitavarum
—“I go, and come again.” I stopped to pick up a red hibiscus blossom that was lying in the dust and tried to put it in my hair.

“Hello!” called a voice. I turned and saw a man standing at the gate of his small middle-class home. “Would you like some roses?” he asked. I followed him into his garden, where his wife cut red and pink roses from lush bushes. Then they sat me on a kitchen chair, and the woman expertly attached the roses to my hair.

This latest improvement evoked vigorous nods of approval from the women of the village.
Bindis
, bangles and flowers—finally I was beginning to brighten up. As we bade farewell, Shandra pointed to the sky. She was giving me a token, the moon. It would shine, silver and calm, as a reminder of our brief friendship. Its thin rays would form a fragile link between one of the wealthiest people in the world and one of the poorest. And it would be an emblem of another thing I had not been told, or perhaps the thing I had until then simply failed to hear. With conscience, with solidarity, there is also kindness and beauty; there
must
be kindness and beauty. I tucked that thread into my hair, alongside the roses, and waved goodbye to the wise women of Vaikalpalayam.