Dropped Threads 2: More of What We Aren't Told

by Carol Shields

Late on a September evening, we arrived at Ibiza’s then primitive, open airport. Everyone, except Andrew and me, was whisked away by family or friends. Suddenly, the two of us were alone in the dark oleander-scented air. As his little hand slowly began to squeeze tighter in mine, panic, then remorse, gripped me. I must be completely irresponsible to embark on this selfish adventure. The lone remaining taxi driver took us to his cousin’s pension in Santa Eulalia del Río. (I fancied that village for its pretty name.) Two weeks later, a small tiled flat in Es Caná, high on a cliff overlooking an inviting white sand beach, became our home.

  It wasn’t long before I stopped winding my clock and lived by the Mediterranean sun’s predictability. Every day became an adventure—playing on the beaches, exploring the ancient countryside, indulging in aromatic markets, making art all day or socializing with new friends at the outdoor cafés. Often there would be four or five languages spoken at one table—a European cross-section. My limitations were frustrating. Not so for Andrew. He quickly found little friends speaking Ibithenco, Spanish, French, German or English, who all blended their words together, creating a new, efficient play-world language.

  Perhaps some might question my taking a small child on this unknown year. At first I did, too, until I saw him flourishing. His name became Andres, el rubio (the blond one). Hands ruffled his white locks. Families appeared and included us in their everyday Ibithenco lives. He absorbed the new experiences with wide-eyed exuberance—seeming to understand that the world is a thrilling and diversified place. I learned much through my child’s eyes.

  New senses awakened. My practical schoolmarm clothes were shed for leather, lace, beads, tie-dyes and shawls—it was flower-child time, after all. A nearby gypsy camp filled the night air with poignant flamenco rhythms. A neighbouring farmhouse, clearly seen from our third floor, had its annual hog slaughter, attended by a lively extended family who had jointly fed the beast all year. The squealing, celebrating and sausage-making carried on for days.

  My taste buds continuously met new flavours and textures. Fresh-caught octopus, squid and finger-size turquoise and orange fish that sizzled in local olive oil; brilliant saffron yellow paella; huge country lemons and oranges, then green and black figs—yes, pluck them off any tree, any time; the ubiquitous potato frittatas; the local olives and almonds; and the all-pervasive scent of wild rosemary.

  But it was the colour, the stunning colour, that shifted my visual perceptions from familiar muted Pacific Coast hues—slate blues, grey-greens, grey-browns in soft light—to the explosion of glowing vibrancy that made my eyes dance: cobalt skies, copper red soil, turquoise seas, valleys of shimmering pink-white almond blossoms and always the singing vermilion of wild geranium bushes against the blinding white farmhouses. I would never be afraid of red again.

  After living by my wits for a year, I knew I could choose a freer life for the future. Living on that small island—with only a short trip back to Toronto for a successful art exhibition—and some weeks travelling with a Eurail Pass left me with a lifelong taste for exploring the world. But more important, I also recognized the need to reconnect with the Canadian me. Time to go home.

  Three years later, I had finally left teaching to work full-time in a downtown studio loft, taking on progressively larger architectural commissions for textile wall hangings, occasionally employing up to six assistants at a time. My own exhibition work has travelled internationally, with titles like Sailing, Flying and Parachuting—all directly connected with the concept of travel and metaphorical escape.

  Like others who choose a life in art, I have the privileges of no boss, no set hours and freedom to express myself, constantly pursuing the quest to solve the next self-imposed problem, both visual and financial. Conversely, there is no dental plan, no pension, no day of retirement for most of us in the arts.

  As well, women artists of my generation, and before, if married and with children, invariably put domestic chores ahead of the “stolen” time to create, whereas our male colleagues usually have wives or partners to run the household. I have always admired Emily Carr’s resolve to remain a “spinster.” Her genius might never have been revealed had she accepted a standard domestic life. Bravely she chose singular, personal hardship and, likely, profound loneliness in order for her artist soul to soar.

  Eventually I did marry again, understanding what choice means. With my husband’s youngest daughter and my son, we became an instant blended family. They and their friends quickly commandeered the white-rabbit fur coat for dressing up. Now, still in the costume trunk, it sleeps, between generations, awaiting discovery by our grandchildren.

  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 fert
ile 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.