A Home with Endless Space

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By Althea Romeo-Mark

Home for me is a flower the petals of which have been scattered down many paths. A descendant of immigrants, I believe that a nomadic spirit resides in me. I am a perpetual "outsider." I was born in 1948, in English Harbour, Antigua. This island was once part of the British Empire known as the British West Indies. When I was eight, my family moved to St. Thomas, U.S. Virgin Islands, where I grew up. As a teenager, I wished to escape St. Thomas because of its smallness. My desire to travel and further my education took me to the United States. My bond, my feeling at home with African students, led me to travel to Liberia, West Africa, the cultural and ancestral home to which part of me belongs. Because of the Liberian Civil War, I moved again to England, a temporary home, and finally to Switzerland, where I was psychologically drowning in the German language and Swiss dialect. I sought refuge in the English language and it became my temporary home until I was rescued by new friends, fellow expatriates.

I come from a line of immigrants for whom the meaning of home may have been just as ambiguous as it is to me. My father, born in the Dominican Republic, grew up on the Island of Antigua, his mother’s birthplace. His grandfather was an English sailor and his grandmother, Antiguan. My mother, born in St. Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands, grew up on the Islands of St. Kitts and Nevis. Her mother was born in Nevis to parents of English and Nevisian ancestry. Her father was an Antiguan whose grandfather hailed from Johannesburg,South Africa.

It struck me one day that I had left Antigua, my birth home, when a schoolmate in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, ridiculed my pronunciation. "Is not kyat. Is cat." I realized then that I was an "alien." This was what we were labelled. Coming from the island of Antigua, we were also called "Garrots."* I was ashamed that I came from a different place. It was something I wanted to forget, to hide. I didn’t want to be one of "those people", so I learned to say "cat" very quickly in order to fit in.

My childhood memories of English Harbour, Antigua are vague and fading with age but are golden. I have memories of living in a village where my father was a farmer, a cotton grower, a fisherman and a union leader. I remember the cotton fields, where my skin crawled at the sight of weevils and worms. I remember women "beating" and cleaning cotton on our front porch. The cotton was taken to St. John, the capital and shipped to England. In this village my mother, known as "teacher Daisy," started a school because there was none.

During that time, there were no refrigerators. Kitchens were outside. Meat was smoked or salted and hung from rafters to be preserved. People cooked on coal pots and borrowed hot coals when they had none. Because of unemployment, villagers smuggled cigarettes and alcohol from ships on the high sea. As a result, many young men became alcoholics.

English Harbour was a village famous for its dockyard where British navy ships berthed.The Queen of England and her family visited occasionally, staying at Clarence House, their vacation home. When she visited, villagers had to clean and pave the roads, white-wash fences and paint their houses. They waited for Queen Elizabeth II and proudly waved their Union Jacks. For the villagers, it was an honor. When the fairy tale moment ended, they returned to the land and the sea where they struggled to earn a living.

During the 1950’s, severe drought dried up the land and took away the livelihood of most villagers. People left in droves to seek new homes in America and England, my family among them. These are the memories of Antigua when I was a British subject.

I was in my early twenties before I visited Antigua again--once with a dance troop to take part in carnival and experience "J’ouvert morning," the opening of carnival at the break of dawn. It was a joyous experience taking part in the masquerade. The second visit was made with my younger sister.

St. Thomas, United States Virgin Islands soon became my new home. These Islands, unlike Antigua, are known for their tourist industry while Antigua had had an agricultural industry. Today, it has a tourist industry.The Virgin Islands, which include the U.S. and the British Virgin Islands, were discovered by Christopher Columbus in 1492, and named after St. Ursula and her Virgins. They have flown Spanish, English, Dutch, French, Maltese (Knights of Malta) and Danish flags. The Danes, who settled on St. Thomas in the late 1600’s, sold St. Thomas, St. John, St. Croix and the adjoining islands to the USA in 1917. The Virgin Islands are known for their old sugar plantations and St. Thomas is home to Bluebeard’s and Blackbeard’s castles and Drake’s Seat. Bluebeard and Blackbeard were famous British pirates. Sir Francis Drake, a British adventurer, is said to have sat on the rock, from which a seat has been hewn. From there he had viewed neighboring islands and watched for enemy ships. Our famous red-painted Fort, built in the 1600’s and supplied with many cannons, is now a museum. It served as a prison for many years. Our narrow streets still carry Danish names, Kronprindens Gade, for example. Our capital, Charlotte Amalie, is named after a Danish queen.

On this island, I finished high school, attended university, earned a B.A in education and English. Stories about Anansi, the spider/trickster, Brer Rabbit and Jumbi tales, true or imaginary, told by my father, were imprinted on my mind. They inspired me to take up writing as a hobby. It is on this island that I learned to be an island woman, to be a West Indian. Seeds of culture were sown and the magic of the islands’ beauty had begun to mesmerize me. When I speak, people say, "She is a Caribbean woman."

What might separate Caribbean Islanders is our location. The islands are divided into Windward and Leeward or Greater or Lesser Antilles. These different locations affect our weather slightly. Some islands have more forest and are rainy, others are dry; some are mountainous and others are flat. We are also separated by our colonial histories, by language, Creole or patois and our unique accents. We prepare our food differently but we share many things in common: calypsos, steel bands, reggae, carnival, clear blue seas, the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore, fine white sand, coconut trees, beautiful sunsets, sunrises, clear blue skies and warm weather, dockyards filled with boats and tourists, our slow relaxed gait, the sweet smell and taste of mangoes, papayas, sugar-apples, and sour-saps and fungi and salt fish, rice and peas, souse* and callaloo soup*, the mystery of the obeah man* and the voodoo* priest. These are the things that snare our souls at birth and anchor our hearts and minds to the islands.

In our youth, we called St. Thomas, "the rock" and detested the society that dictated our daily rhythm and smothered us with its protection. Our whereabouts were monitored by all-omnipresent neighbors. Neighborhood watch had a different meaning then. We could not wait to escape its smallness. St. Thomas is thirteen miles long and three miles wide. But the culture, the magic, island rhythm and smallness are the very things that draw us back and make this island our very special home. Returning in mind and body, we clamour for the islands’ magic, dance to its pulse and savor the lilting voices of our sun-burnt neighbors that earlier curtailed us. We savor the voices of the wind and sea. They are stored indelibly in our memories.

Escaping to the USA, first to the University of Connecticut where I was an exchange student, then to Ohio State University, where I studied for my M.A. in modern American Literature, homesickness struck. Most students had never heard of the Virgin Islands and had no idea where they were. And when I spoke, people assumed that I was Jamaican. It seemed to be the only island in the Caribbean that they knew besides Cuba and Puerto Rico. I missed the sea, sun, brown faces of my island people. In art class, I drew my hilly island and its seashore laden with coconut trees repeatedly. The art teacher soon lost hope in my artistic ability.

The biting cold weather was my greatest enemy. Blizzards drove me to near madness. My face red and frozen, my nose running, I was often tempted to crawl under the nearest car to escape from the cold. Black people were rare sightings. Seeing another black person was an exciting event. However my interactions with Black American students left me with the impression that many of them were paranoid. Growing up on an island where the majority of the people were black and governed themselves, I was unable to cope with some Black Americans’ constant whine about the white man. They blamed the white man for all their problems. I do realize they had been enslaved and denied jobs, and were confined to live in areas against their will. But Caribbean people were also once enslaved and have moved beyond that, have left the past behind and are forward looking. I must confess here that some Caribbean people, who live in the USA for a long time, do take on the mind set of Black Americans.

Therefore, African students became my friends. Although we came from different sides of the world, I felt at home with them. We shared a common spirit, a cultural bond and were not fettered by the past. We shared common foods, for example, cassava, plantain, yams and Anansi stories. I became a member of the African Students Association at Kent State University and my friendship with students from Liberia inspired me to travel there in 1976.

In Liberia, I took up a post teaching American Literature at the University of Liberia and stayed there for fourteen years. I felt at home. Liberia reminded me of what the Caribbean had been like twenty years earlier. It brought back memories of my childhood in Antigua. It was the Caribbean my parents and grandparents knew. Had I time-travelled? I loved the adventure that was Liberia. It was an old and yet a new world. The stories my father told about his personal encounter with the dead took on new meaning. In Liberia, there were river spirits (Ngigi), people who changed into leopards at night, people who sent lightning to kill their enemies, and there were witches and healers. The healers often competed with modern medical practitioners. There were birth and death rituals. The country devil* came to town to attend festivals. "Heart men," whom I first heard about from my father, became real. They were men who cut victims’ hearts out and used them in rituals in order to gain riches or high political positions. They drove around late at night in cars with tinted windows searching for victims.

When electricity was rationed, I learned to cook on coal pots like my grandparents did.When there was no running water, I learned to draw water from a well. When there was power failure and the washing machine incapacitated, a washboard was available for use. So was a "cast iron goose"* for ironing.

I was fascinated by the harmattan, the dry winds that left us in a dusty haze from December to February. During the dry season we completely covered our heads and mouths when driving on dirt roads in the hinterland. The cars that sped ahead kicked up dust clouds that choked and blinded us. During the rainy season, we created new paths through the bush when floods had washed away the roads. Pythons as well as mosquitoes bred in the swamps. One had swallowed a relative’s dog. Another regularly raided our chicken house in search of food until it was caught and killed. Mosquitoes struck at will bearing the dreaded malaria which made me chronically ill. My bottom was black and blue from malaria injections which I needed almost monthly. I hated the bitter after taste of malaria tablets. My weight was the lowest it had ever been in my entire life. I weight 58 kilos and looked anorexic.

Discovering new customs enabled me to understand the ways of my West African ancestors who had been brought to the Caribbean to work as slaves on sugar plantations. In Liberia I learned about fascinating marriage customs and ritual, polygamy, the function of tribal chiefs and their role in traditional society. The people were uncomplicated, friendly, giving, and generous.

I met my husband, Emmanuel, in Liberia in 1976. Born in Grenada, West Indies, he moved to Liberia when he was seventeen. His uncle, influenced by the Marcus Garvey* movement, had immigrated to Liberia from the USA in the 1920s and had established himself there in the rubber business. Doing well financially, he had sent for several nephews in the 1950s, my husband being one of them. He and two cousins were sent to Europe to study medicine. One studied medicine in Ireland. My husband and another cousin studied in Switzerland. My husband studied paediatrics in Basel; his cousin studied pathology in Geneva. A Liberian classmate from Kent State University introduced me to Emmanuel shortly after his return to Liberia from Switzerland. One year later, we married and Liberia became my home. I gave birth to three children born in 1978, 1981 and 1984. A mother, doctor’s wife and educator, I lived a happy, comfortable life. In Liberia, I became an adult and learned about the fascinating history which tied Liberia to the Caribbean and the USA. I learned about Liberian tribal customs from my students; learned that as a single university lecturer that It was necessary to have a house boy to do my cooking, washing and cleaning; started a writers group, took on a house girl because one must help those less fortunate than you and as a wife and mother and doctor’s wife, fell into the lifestyle of the African middle class; gained a nurse, two house boys, a gardener and a watchman; attended balls organized by the Liberian Medical Association; put on fashion shows and organized dinners in the name of the doctor’s wives and settled into high society and enjoyed its benefits. I considered becoming a Liberian citizen but three years of a quiet life was soon shattered by the military coup in 1980. During the coup twelve government officials were taken to the beach and executed by firing squads without facing a trial. This shocked everyone and changed Liberia forever.

Liberia had been ruled by former slaves who had returned with the help of the American Colonization Society in the1800s. It had a special history. Besides Ethiopia, it was the only African country that had not been colonized by Europeans. Former slaves chose to return to Liberia and Sierra Leone. Black Americans and West Indians had returned voluntarily to Liberia in the late 1800s 1920s and 1950s. Caribbean settlers included British Guyanese, Barbadians, Jamaicans, Haitians who had fled from Papa Doc’s dictatorial rule and people from smaller Caribbean islands (St. Kitts, Nevis). A famous Virgin Islands’ immigrant was historian and promoter of Pan-Africanism*, Edward Wilmot Blyden.* He lived in Liberia and died in Sierra Leone and I had the pleasure meeting some of his relatives.

Although I was born in Antigua, Liberia was more of a home to me than Antigua ever was. I had lived there longer than in my birth home. Liberia connected the past of my African ancestors to my present. It connected a Virgin Islands past (in Wilmot Blyden) to a Liberian past. These pasts created a fascinating history which I share.

Liberia began to change with the first military coup staged by disgruntled indigenous soldiers. It was the culmination of a century of resentment by indigenous Liberians who had become second class citizens in their own land. Soon tribalism raised its ugly head. Without the "Americo-Liberians" (descendant of former slaves), their common enemy, tribal groups started to clash and this led to a series of attempted coups. I loved the Liberian culture and its people but hated the brutal politics of the military.

After surviving another attempted coup in 1985, we set our minds on leaving. During the attempted coup, my husband was accused by renegade soldiers of spying for the government in power and was taken away. I remember crawling into bed with my children, feeling numb, too shocked and too powerless to cry. Fortunately, satisfied with the money he had given them, money we had saved for our children’s school fees and contented that they had humiliated him enough, he was allowed to return home several hours later. We learned afterwards how lucky he was when we learned about people who had been taken to the bush and shot. When the coup failed, my husband decided to give Liberia another chance.He had invested a lot in that country—a private clinic, home and land. He was a Liberian citizen.

The political violence did not abate. And in 1989 when a civil war (The Krahn Tribe and its supporters against the Mano, Americo Liberians, and anyone who opposed President Doe) broke out, we decided it had become too dangerous and fled. My husband was tall and looked like a Mandingo and my children and I, light-skinned, looked "Americo-Liberian and this had put us in danger. Colleagues and students at the University where I taught were being murdered because they belonged to a particular tribe or because they were "Americo-Liberian." With the rebel army approaching Monrovia, the capital, I fled with my children, carrying one suitcase each to the airport where we took one of the last civilian planes flying out of the country. Sadly I left the country where I had spent my young adulthood (1976-1989) and where life-long friendships were formed. We flew to England. My husband joined us one month later, airlifted by a German military plane, from Liberia to Sierra Leone. From there, he flew to Brussels then to London. It was the beginning of our stay in Europe.

England was a temporary home where my family and I lived out a period of transition. I did not live there long enough to become attached to it. My husband and I had left everything we owned, arriving there with only our three children and our education. Bunking in one room at my sister-in-law’s flat, we soon learned that we had to declare ourselves refugees in order to settle and get financial assistance. We were placed in a bed and breakfast along with Somali refugees and given a small stipend to live on. In the B &B, we shared two rooms and were given one meal a day—breakfast. It was a miserable time in our lives.

We tried to get settled, looked for employment and shopped in second-hand shops because we had little money. We were ashamed of where we lived and hated the stigma of being refugees. But we were grateful to be alive after reading about the atrocities and the brutal war raging in Liberia. It was my husband’s intention to remain in England until the civil war had simmered down and then return to Liberia. But that did not happen. The war raged on for fourteen years. I found temporary work as a shop assistant in a jewellery store until I was employed as a substitute teacher for secondary schools. Our children settled into school, the younger ones in primary school, the older, in an Anglican secondary school.

My husband’s family was a comfort. His sisters and brother and extended family, who had settled in England in the 1950s, introduced us to the large West Indian community.

However, my husband could not find employment as a medical doctor. Switzerland was not a member of the EU and he had a Swiss medical degree which was not accepted. He remained unemployed for almost a year and was told he would have to enrol in medical school to do courses. My husband, already approaching 50, was unwilling to do so. And contacting old schoolmates, and a professor from his student days at the University of Basel in Switzerland, he was able to get employment at the Children’s hospital in Basel. We followed him to Switzerland six months later.

Life in Basel, Switzerland was very difficult at first. I clearly remember the comment made by the immigration officer when I arrived with my children and many suitcases in tow. "Everybody’s coming to Switzerland." I felt deeply hurt having not long ago declared myself a refugee. At that time Switzerland was faced with a large influx of Tamil and Eastern European refugees.

For the first time, I lived in a country in which I did not speak or understand the language. Although Liberia had thirteen dialects, the official language was English. In Basel,German was spoken. Language became a huge barrier. I could not communicate with anyone. I had gone from being an assistant professor at the University of Liberia, a sales-person and substitute teacher in England, to being a housewife. I was isolated, depressed, and wanted to return to the Virgin Islands. I was tired of having to start over and make new friends. The English language became my home. I watched BBC and CNN until my eyes hurt with redness. The voices were comforting. I bought English newspapers; read anything in English that I could find. My family and everything English became the focus of my life. I lived for English T.V. programs. I discovered channels where I could change the language from French or German to English. My writing, which had always been an outlet for dark emotions, had stopped, dried up completely. My husband enrolled me in German classes. I struggled with German because I had no one to practice it with. The Swiss spoke a German dialect and not "high" German. The children were settling in faster than I was.

After one year I applied for a job as an English teacher and got a position. Then I found out that the teaching methodology was quite different from what I was used to and my German was inadequate. I then enrolled in a course for teaching English as a foreign language. While participating in this course, I found myself again. I learned from other foreign English teachers that feelings of depression and isolation are normal for people who have been thrown unprepared into a foreign environment.

It has taken me ten years with the help of new friends to begin to feel that I belonged. Joining a group of international writers who write in English was one of the keys and my fellow English teachers have become my fast friends. These people are my rock. The German language has become less challenging and Swiss German is finally understandable. My children have spent their formative years here, arriving in 1991, at the age of seven, ten and twelve. It is now 2007. Switzerland is the country they grew up in and might call home as I did St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. I have accepted that they might find a partner here and marry, giving me Swiss grandchildren.

Approaching the age of sixty, I no longer wish to move again, to start over somewhere else. Not even in the Caribbean. For practical reasons, we have to invest in a pension scheme. Social security and pensions did not exist in Liberia. We have to think of our health and Switzerland has some of the best health facilities in the world. It is a peaceful, picturesque country. There are no hurricanes or tornadoes. It is a place where I can live and not be fearful. The Swiss are conservative, a fiercely independent people. Over 700 years of independence attest to that. This, I believe, is an important element of conservatism. They wish to protect what is special about their history and their people. I am a reserved, a conservative person, too. I understand their reticence. I admit that it is a difficult barrier to overcome. The key, I am told, is speaking the dialect. If you speak the dialect, you will be accepted into the fold. So I am still an outsider and it seems that I am destined to remain so, but I am happy because I have friends. That is the key to my feeling at home.

We have accepted Switzerland as our new home and have become Swiss citizens. I have accepted that my husband and I will most likely grow old here. My heart is big enough to accept that I have many homes. What remains unsettled is where I would like to be buried.I know it has to be near family somewhere.

There is still some uncertainty as to whether my journey has come to an end. My daughters have attended university and now found employment in the United States. I do not know where destiny will take them. If they find partners, marry, start a family and need my help, I will make the sacrifice and move once again to assist them.