The huts, or “bowmas,” were made of cow dung and straw and sticks. There were newborn goats dragging their umbilical cords beneath their little bellies, naked children covered in flies, dogs with large beetle-type things attached to their armpits and feeding off of their very lives. I couldn’t move. I did not want to get out of the Land Rover. I wanted to put the movie on pause and call my mother.
They stood looking at us like we had fallen off the moon. I didn’t blame them. We looked uncomfortable with our own selves. We were. My friend Kerry is a big girl, and they were so taken with her. They had seen few white women, never mind big ones, and they were fascinated. The village chief asked the translator what she ate, and Kerry told him she ate everything. We all laughed. The chief laughed, the men laughed, the women and children laughed. It was the laugh that melted the ice. We started talking as fast as the translator could go. The camera crew was shooting film the whole time, but pictures do it no justice. They cannot show with a true heart these precious, beautiful people.
How could these starving poor people without a spoon or a bowl or a chair to sit on, laugh like that? These people whose skin hung from them like a sheet.
They had nothing, but somehow they seemed to me to have everything. It showed in their eyes. The peacefulness. The calm. The serenity. This was not what I thought I would find. Everything I knew I wanted, but didn’t know how to get, they had. They had more joy in their hearts than I had ever known in my life. They knew who they were. Why they were. Where they were.
They didn’t think of themselves as poor. They were hungry because nature had been cruel these few years, and they were thirsty and their children were dying. Everyone at some point in their life needs help. Everyone.
We began our filming, concentrating our profiles on the lives of two little girls. We would tell their stories as accurately as possible: Who they were and why they needed our help. How our helping them would benefit the entire village. How through child sponsorship we would somehow be saving ourselves. But I didn’t know that yet.
Eight-year-old Nariamu had never been to school or seen a doctor or bathed in clean water. She walked up to fifteen kilometres everyday to fetch wood, and did it with one horribly disfigured clubfoot.
We began with her. As you can imagine, she was very shy, not really understanding what we were trying to do. It was hard for me. I tried to be as comforting as possible, but ironically, it was she who comforted me, making me feel welcome and safe and fine. She always wanted to hold my hand. I felt so special and honoured. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s hard to find the words.
We followed Nariamu around for four days—while she gathered wood and fetched water. I’ve never seen a more disgusting pool of disease and sickness anywhere than the water hole where she dipped her old plastic detergent bottle. The water she collected for the family to cook with and to drink was green and thick with animal feces floating in it. I’d been drinking clear, clean, bottled water for days, and she was about to drink this slop. She was grateful to have any water at all. I was ashamed.
I can’t explain how sick I felt seeing her carry that water home on her head. I was so moved at her pride and how brave and accepting of her life she was. She knew nothing else. No heroine in a book or movie ever compared with her dignity and grace. After that visit to the water hole, I never again heard the camera crew complain about carrying their gear. In fact, I never heard anyone complain again about anything.
Their laughter and generosity dumbfounded us all. I remember Kerry telling me how much my life would change by going to Africa. She said I’d never be the same, and she was right. I think I’m a much better version of me now. I’m trying to understand the circle I’m in, and that I’m that little girl in Africa, and she is me.
On our last day, the entire village gathered, shined up like new pennies in their finest, to sing us a song. I felt a tear climb up through my stomach, through my lungs, past my heart and into my eyes. I cried like I was ten years old. I wailed. I soaked the earth with my gratitude. I felt the presence of God, the universe; I felt eternity behind me and eternity before me. I was emptied out right there on the dry plains where all humanity was born. It felt like I had returned home. The song they sang said how glad they were I had come, and they hoped I would return and bring news of the world. The song said they were alive and they were together and that nothing—not famine or hatred or the modern world or death—could keep them from living out their destiny. I understood something that has no name.
I cried until an old grandmother cupped her hands over my eyes, saying one word over and over. “Poli” has a lot of meanings. One is to slow down. Another meant they knew of my sorrow. That old grandmother cared about me—this visitor with strange hair and skin and talk, and I cared about her. I cared about all of them.
One world.
One white flag.
We were the same person for a split second.
I went to Africa to help, but these people helped me more than they will ever know. When I returned home to Canada, I fired my management of eleven years, ended a horrible relationship and moved to the country to be closer to my family. I changed everything. I started again and felt wonderful about doing so.
Through World Vision I was able to get Nariamu’s foot fixed in Nairobi. It’s now perfect in every way and will help her live a normal and active life. I was so happy to be able to do that. The last thing her father said to me was, “Will you help fix my daughter’s foot?” “Yes,” I replied, “I will. No matter what it takes, I will do that for her.”
I now know the meaning of what a promise is. I don’t think I ever did before. That promise is the bar for me now. To be a person whose word can be counted on. That, in itself changed my life and would have been enough. I am still counting the blessings, the lessons, the wisdom given me by the richest people I will ever know.
Someday, I will go back to meet the woman who taught me how to live without fear, the little girl named Nariamu.
Jann Arden
Calgary, Alberta
A Holy Night to Remember
Community is not built upon heroic actions, but rather upon the love shown in the little things of daily life.
Jean Vanier, founder of L’Arche
As northern Canadians we share many memories of cold winters. At Christmas time, I often reflect upon one particular evening of a prairie winter in the early 1960s. Though the frost was cruel, the reminiscence is warm.
We were students at college in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, most of us living away from home for the first time. Hanging a few strips of tinsel in our rooms didn’t relieve the feeling of homesickness that had overtaken our dorm. What could we do to bring on the Christmas spirit, stave off our longing for home and maybe brighten someone else’s life? One of my friends suggested going carolling. That was it! Every student at our small college was rousted out for the occasion. No auditions. No voice lessons. No excuses. Warmth of spirit was the only requirement. And our enthusiasm served as an electric soul-warmer for those who seemed lacking in spirit.
We divided into groups so our music would resound over most of our college town. The group I joined had nothing resembling four-part harmony, but we could collectively make a joyful noise. Bounding boisterously and carrying a tune in our hearts, we made our first call. “Deck the Halls,” we tra-la-la-ed.
Soon we discovered that carolling brings a variety of responses. When you carol for people you know, you can be sure of open doors and open hearts; when you carol for strangers, you can’t be sure what kind of reception you will get. Some folks remained in the safety and cosiness of their homes, watching and listening passively through their living room windows. Others cautiously propped the door open enough to hear us, but not enough to let in the cold—or their unknown guests. Some flung their doors wide open and sang along; others watched in silent reverie.
One of the stops on our journey was a three-story apartment building. With no intercoms or security cameras
to deter us in those days, we walked right in. Starting our performance in the basement, we sang mostly to closed doors. After a couple of songs we headed for the main floor. Two doors swung open. One doorway framed a young couple, obviously expecting a child. In another doorway, two preschoolers clung to their parent’s legs. What were they feeling: Surprise? Wonder? Curiosity? Their faces seemed to ask, Who are these strange, bundled-up people? And why are they doing this?
We sang “Away in a Manger” for the young ones. We continued with “O Little Town of Bethlehem” for our seemingly appreciative gathering. Mounting the stairs to the third floor, we burst into “It Came upon the Midnight Clear,” a song that suited the night.
One door on the top floor creaked open. A stately gentleman, gray-haired and thin, held onto his doorknob. He became our audience of one. As we murmured about what to sing next, the elderly fellow asked, “Would you come into our apartment and sing for my wife? She’s bedridden. I know she’d love to hear you. My wife used to be an opera singer,” he added proudly, “and she’s always loved music.”
All eight of us stepped timidly into the couple’s tiny, crowded bachelor suite. Books, records, china, antique furniture and mementoes whispered stories to us. I reminded myself not to stare for fear of invading their privacy. This was their home, their sanctuary and a hallowed place where the old-timer watched over his fragile partner. Her silver, bed-mussed head made only a small dint in her pillow.
Without a word, he adjusted his wife’s headrest so she could see and hear us better. Then he gave a nod. Our voices rose and warbled through “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.” Had our voices been given extra grace and beauty for this occasion? Perhaps they had—we sang rather well for such a motley, impromptu crew.
A smile flickered on the woman’s gaunt, wrinkled, yet beautiful, face. Her eyes sparkled softly. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her husband requested “Joy to the World” and “Silent Night,” two of her favourites. As we finished our performance, her eyes closed. Now the man shed his own tears. Quietly, we turned to leave, closing the door softly on the housebound couple.
The winter moon and stars shone down upon us. It had become a silent night, a holy night, for we had been in the presence of love that was gentle and mild. All was calm; all was bright as we headed back to our residence. We had found, and maybe even given, the Christmas spirit.
Sharon Espeseth
Barrhead, Alberta
The Hero of Halifax Harbour
A hundred times a day I remind myself that my inner and outer lives are based on the labours of other people, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving.
Albert Einstein
There was a thin coat of snow on the slopes of Halifax Harbour on December 6, 1917. Vincent Cole was a warmhearted family man who arrived at his office in Richmond Station that day in the booming wartime port. He placed his lunch pail on a shelf and began his day as a railway dispatcher.
The Great War had brought prosperity to Halifax. The quaint maritime harbour bustled with convoys of men and materials bound for Europe. On this particular morning, a French munitions ship called the Mont Blanc was moving slowly out into the narrows of Halifax Harbour, on the Dartmouth side, at a lazy four knots. Her captain was taking his ship to join a flotilla of supply vessels bound for war-torn Europe.
Captain Le Medec was taking no chances. Four days earlier, his ship had been loaded to the hilt with 2,000 tonnes of picric acid, 180 tonnes of TNT, live rounds, gun cotton, and 32 tonnes of benzol. The Mont Blanc was now literally a floating bomb, but because it was wartime, she was not flying the mandatory explosives flag to warn others.
Coming in the other direction, destined for New York, was the Imo, a neutral Norwegian vessel running relief missions to Belgium. It should have been on the Halifax side, but for some reason, the Imo was running right down the Mont Blanc’s channel.
When the two ships sighted each other, a volley of whistle blasts followed in an agonised attempt to persuade one or the other to move. At the last moment, the pilot of the Mont Blanc cried out an order to his helmsman to cut hard left. But it was too late. Seconds later the Imo sliced almost noiselessly through the starboard side of the Mont Blanc’s hull, sending out a shower of sparks. By the time the two ships pulled apart, the Mont Blanc was in flames.
Well aware of the devastating explosion soon to follow, the captain and crew of the Mont Blanc wasted no time in taking to their lifeboats. They abandoned their burning ship, which drifted toward one of the Halifax piers.
As black smoke and flames rose from the Mont Blanc, crowds of people began gathering on the pier to watch the excitement, rushing to find the best vantage points. On every ship nearby, sailors and stevedores forgot their work and watched, unaware of the impending disaster. As soon as they were alerted of the crash, the Halifax fire department dispatched its new engine and two boat parties to fight what they thought was a simple fire.
Directly above Pier 9 lay Richmond Station and the freight yards of the Canadian Government Railway— where Vincent Coleman worked. Vincent and chief clerk William Lovett were sitting in the dispatch centre discussing the fire when suddenly a desperate looking sailor burst in yelling, “Commander says the burning ship is loaded with explosives! Get out quick!”
For a second, neither man moved. Then William leapt for the telephone and called the railway office on Cornwallis Street to warn others of the deadly explosion they now realized was imminent.
With that handled, William and Vincent made for the door in desperation. They had left the office and were fairly leaping across the tracks when Vincent suddenly stopped, a horror-stricken look on his face. He had suddenly remembered that just moments from now, several passenger trains carrying hundreds of people were scheduled to arrive and stop right in the centre of the danger zone. With all of those lives at stake, and an overwhelming feeling of responsibility, Vincent fell behind.
In amazement, William stopped and yelled back at him: “What do you think you’re doing? We only have a minute or two left! You’re a married man with a family to think of!” But by now Vincent could only think about the passenger trains filled with hundreds of innocent people, speeding toward the threatened harbour. His one and only purpose was to stop them.
As the others ran on, Vincent returned to his office and solemnly tapped out one last message: “Munitions ship on fire. Making for Pier 6. Good-bye.” For a brief moment his thoughts turned to his loving wife and children.
At 9:05 A.M., a giant explosion shook Halifax and a pillar of white smoke rose eight kilometres into the sky. A tidal wave swept the shore and windows were broken miles away. The Mont Blanc was blown apart, and the Imo ran aground. The force of the blast was strong enough to hurl a clock out of a tower at Truro, 100 kilometres away. The shock was even felt in Sydney, on Cape Breton Island, more than 270 kilometres away.
Close to two thousand people perished in the inferno that day, including Vincent Coleman. But Vincent’s final desperate message had been heard, and the trains managed to grind to a stop just in time to save the lives of the hundreds of people onboard.
Today, the half-ton shank of the Mont Blanc’s anchor still lies where it landed, three kilometres from the explosion. A clock on the Halifax City Hall will rest forever at 9:05 A.M. The North Halifax Memorial Library stands as a monument to the events of December 6, 1917, and the incredibly selfless act of Vincent Coleman—and other heroes like him.
Darlene Montgomery
Toronto, Ontario
The Canadian Shepherds of Korenica
The service we render to others is really the rent we pay for our room on this earth.
Sir Wilfred Grenfell
In 1993, Corporal Mike Floyd and Constable Roger Morrow of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) volunteered to serve on a peacekeeping mission as police officers for the United Nations Civilian Police (UNCIVPOL) in the former Yugoslavia. They were posted in K
orenica, a small village in Croatia held by the Serbs. Mike is a gregarious fellow with a big heart and liquid eyes that convey compassion and respect for every living thing that crossed his path. His partner, Roger Morrow, who had previously been stationed in Red Deer, Alberta, was proud of the uniform he wore and took his role as a peacekeeper very seriously.
With their pockets always filled with candies for the children they met during their long and perilous patrols, these Canadian peacekeepers became well-known and respected by both sides in that sad war.
On the outskirts of Korenica, nestled in the forested hills, was a small hamlet where an elderly Croatian farmer lived with his wife and sister-in-law. The old man had spent his whole life tending his farm and caring for his sheep. One quiet morning, the farmer and his family were visited by Serb rebels who forced him to watch as they violated and then killed his wife and sister-in-law. That morning the old man lost not only his family but also what was left of his faith in God and human nature.
When the rebels took the old man out to the fields to finish him off, he somehow managed to escape, hiding in the woods until he ran into a patrol of Czech peacekeepers. The local police were called in to investigate but, as is often the case in war, very little energy was put into attempting to bring the criminals to justice.
When our two Canadian Mounties heard of the incident, they drove out to the farm and met with the old man. Mike and Roger listened with compassion as the elderly farmer recounted the senseless loss of his soul mate and her sister. Worried that the thugs would be back to finish the job, Corporal Floyd and Constable Morrow tried to convince him to flee to safety on the other side of the border, where he had relatives. With his voice cracking in sorrow and desperation, the widower explained that not only did he not have the money and connections to make it across the border safely, but that he could not, even with his life in danger, abandon his sheep. They counted on him and under no circumstances could he leave them to fend for themselves.