My Coming to Canada-Choice or Expedience?

By Roop Misir 

 In my heart of hearts, I’d like to think that I vowed always to be Guyanese. But since by culture and no accident of history I’m Indian, I am now living in Canada. Here though I may be a citizen equal in Law to every other citizen, I have since resigned myself to being referred to as Indo-Guyanese Canadian.

 Dis a na wan Brer Anancy Story! [This is no cock n' bull story.]

During our study of British Empire history and geography in colonial British Guiana, no other country fired my imagination so much as far away Canada. The defeat of French General Louis Mountcalm in a decisive battle in the French and North American Indian wars by General James Wolfe in 1759 heralded British supremacy in Canada. Like the much later (Indian Mutiny/ War of Independence) in 1857, we were conditioned to believing that colonial Britain was chosen by some higher force to civilise non-white savages. Thus we had little choice but to take pride in our empire over which [in the minds of loyalists, at least] the sun would never set. But the independence of India was to prove that even though the sun is fixed in the firmament, what goes around does come around….eventually.

 We were subjects to the Crown though still not strictly British citizens. Yet we could travel to certain sister counties like Canada. without the need for travel visas. The expansive Canadian prairies, literally as a major breadbasket of wheat for a hungry world, and major port cities Halifax on the east coast, and Vancouver on the west coast, conjured in me vast opportunies for the future. If there was any place I’d like to visit, certainly it had to be

Many British Guianese had shown the way by going abroad. During WW II many went overseas to defend the Empire. A few returned, but many decided to settle and stay in foreign lands. Those who returned on rare visits would paint pictures of what wonderful places there were beyond the shores of our tiny country. Stories like these stood in striking contrast to those Guianese who went to study at overseas institutions of higher learning. Having concentrated on their studies and graduated as accountants. doctors, engineers and lawyers, the vast majority of them were only too happy to return home where they could be placed in plum positions upon their arrival. Many would get married, and live happily while serving the country with dedication and at times distinction ever afterwards.

As I was fast tracking my studies in High school, the now infamous politically-inspired riots of the early 1960’s were in full swing. Undoubtedly, these left on my impressionable mind memories so indelible that perhaps one explanation for their ever-reminding presence is that some events became imprinted into my gene pool of permanent recall. One such incident sometimes referred to as the “Wismar Disturbance”, or the “Wismar Massacre”—a period in May 24-26, 1964. During this ordeal, Indian people were murdered, Indian women raped, Indian-owned properties burned, and hundreds of Indians forced to flee from their homes.

 Why were fellow Guianese victimized and demonized? No doubt, among Guianese one’s ethnicity defined and highlighted one’s differences!

  So what does this say about the British and the demanded loyalty expected of her Guianese subjects? Was our connection with the Crown and Mother Britain fading? Despite being taxpayers and free men and women of the British Empire, are we now being abandoned? I guess that as the colony was “maturing”, Guianese were expected to solve their domestic problems—regardless of the consequences!

  Shortly thereafter, Guianese were to learn that our country would be granted political independence two years thence.

  And what would be that date? You may guess it by now. May 26 1966.

  Who set that date? Why was that date chosen? Your guess may be as good as mine!

  Forty years later at the May 2006 “Guyana Festival” in Toronto, talking about Wismar is still a taboo topic. Why? National political leadership groups have thus far remained mum on the topic. Was it because its severity was overblown in the first place, as some might have suggested? No doubt, future generations of Guyana’s sons and daughters may not know, or be able to speak and come to terms with this Wismar incident. Presumably, part of the political silence of collusion designed to promote national harmony and integration—aiming for the utopian ideal of One Country, One Nation, One Destiny?

  Can we see any parallelism of the Guyana Wismar Massacre with the consequences of pre-European occupation and ethnic cleansing in India? Not on the same scale in British Guiana, perhaps! But still not very pleasant!

  The hearts of reason clearly clashes with the mind of acceptance!

  As I watched helplessly, Indians were increasingly kicked around. Many taking it on the right cheek would at times be forced to turn the other cheek. An eye was not for another eye. Mahatma Gandhiji once said that this tit for tat thing would make the world truly blind. And wasn’t it Lord Jesus Who saw it coming, didn’t He, when He spoke these prophetic words:

  “Verily, I say to you, Do not resist one who is evil. But if any one strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.”

  A consolation for the helpless many? But certainly this ahimsa and UN-cheeky snuff’s not for me!

  With almost every economic entity, except the corner cake shop or rum shop, now the property of the Cooperative Republic of Guyana, jobs were plentiful yet scarce for most of us. And job-seeking Guyanese had to have party cards to be considered for placements. Plus, monthly monetary contributions to the Party were a must. And towing the party line were required to keep one’s job.

  With no hope in sight for the restoration of sanity in our country, many Guyanese were forced to stake their future and fortune overseas, mainly Canada, the USA, and the UK. Later, as things got really desperate, others were forced to go to any country that would take them, including impoverished Haiti and parts of Mother Africa. Our country and its people were in a state not unlike present-day Zimbabwe. Here with another African strongman for life Robert Mugabe reigning supreme, he blames former colonialists for his errors of governance and sheer incompetence. Another third rate political misfit with a trait for ignorance and arrogance, if not downright stupidity?

  For me though, life was reasonably alright. Having completed studies in Science and Teaching at the University of Guyana, the only way for me was up. And yet somehow, I felt uncomfortable that some day I might be required to fall in line with party policies if only to achieve my career objectives as High School teacher, and not be harrassed by the local politburo informants.

  Then a party hack confided with me:

  “Comrade, times are changing. You "coolie people" are behaving as if you are still INDIANS, not GUYANESE.”

  “So how could I be a Guyanese, a patriotic one too?” I inquired.

  "For starters, join the Party. Someone as bright and smart as you should command a much higher status—in your profession, in the party, in the community, and in the country.”

  To me this sounded like a religious zealot admonishing me that world peace can by achieved only through mass conversion to supposedly the only religion that seeks true peace! Eliminating the problem rather than addressing it in a rational way seemed to be the Party’s stated unofficial policy. So I told him that while I could understand his line of reasoning, I’d have to get back to him shortly.

  But for how long more could I take it?

  Shortly afterwards, I left the shores of my beloved country. Having been convinced that I would live to serve our country, I proceeded to Universities in western Canada where I studied agricultural sciences, majoring in Animal Science. A growing population needs food, much of which is imported, but which can be produced locally, I thought.

  My father, himself a rice farmer was not too thrilled at the prospects of me studying agriculture—the same type of work for which our ancestors were shipped like beasts of burden from our ancestral home India to Guyana, the Caribbean and other parts of the Empire following the abolition of African slavery.

  Indeed, he said: “Babu, why not study Medicine? If not Law, why not Accounting, or Engineering?

  Eventually, I was able to convince him that my choice was not unreasonable in view of my stated determination to be part of Guyana’s nation building team if and when conditions improved. Hopefully by then, a new and more representative government would be in charge of the affairs of the nation.

  And so after studies at the University of Manitoba, and thereafter at the University of Alberta, and some work experience, I felt qualified to return and make my contribution in the land of my birth.

  Just about this time, we heard stories of hardships unimaginable. Of Guyanese from every walk of life leaving in droves. And of how professional people and rich farmers would drive up to Timehri International Airport, park their Morris Oxford and Vauxhall Velox cars, board the plane and head off to distant lands. Leaving all their worldly possessions including mansions, lands, cattle, tractors and combines, and not even looking back!

  As one friend having established himself in Winnipeg reminded me later:

  “Babu, once there’s life there’s hope. As long as I live in peace, I can always start over fresh and rebuild.”

  So after graduation and working for a year when I asked my wife if she wanted me to go and work in Guyana, she exclaimed:

  “You maad, nah man?’ (Are you mad, man?).

  Then later: “If you really want to go, you can go and give it a try. Myself and the children will wait and see how if you like it. Then we will let you know what we’ll do.”

  That was over 25 years ago.

  Later with the restoration of democracy following free and fair elections in 1992, Guyanese from every walk of life were ecstatic, if not euphoric. Many who could were heading back home. I myself did make the trip after an absence of over twenty one years. But sad to say: Did I feel so truly welcome in what is supposed to be my home and native land?

  “Ah weh you bin deh all dem year wen abbee poor peeple dese bin a punish?” (Where were you all these years when our people were punishing?), some of my very own friends would ask me?

  “Now dat tings OK yu wan fu come to hang yu mout weh de soup a leak. Da de prablem bout yu foreigner!”(Now that things are OK, you want to come and hang your mouth where the soup is flowing. That’s the problem with you foreigners!)

  Deeply hurt, I soon realised that I might have been too long away from my matri bhoomi (mother country).

  Perhaps, I may have to adopt Canada, and consciously adapt myself to life in my new country, I thought.

  Did I have much of a choice then? Canada and other recipient countries need skilled immigrant to fuel their economic engines of growth. Was this why these countries didn’t raise any objection while Guyanese were fleeing with their lives and scant possessions by the scores of thousands for their shores?

  With my parents and most of my siblings and relatives safely out of Guyana, are we now the new crop of Guyanese exiles who’d love to return, but somehow feel unwelcome in the country of our birth by the very people who've grown up with?

  True, reality can strike hard, especially when it does sink in.

  In my heart of hearts, I’d like to think that I vowed always to be Guyanese. But since by culture and no accident of history I’m Indian, I am now living in Canada. Here though I may be a citizen equal in Law to every other citizen, I have since resigned myself to being referred to as Indo-Guyanese Canadian.

  So here we are, and coming full circle. Born and raised in one colony now living in another former one, far removed in time and geography. One now fighting for its survival as it haemorrhages through backtracking, politicking and intriguing; the other, the envy of the world in terms of economic prosperity and the quality of life. Both sharing aspects of the same colonial history.

  Perhaps what is consoling is that I can still intermingle amongst so many of my Guyanese compatriots that I feel as if my proverbial navel string (umbilical cord) is somehow now transplanted into my adopted country. A land where citizens of long standing welcome me and address me by my first name. In contrast to my own people in my very own Guyana who call me funny names, citizens of my new country are not ashamed to welcome me as a friend and greet me as a fellow Canadian!