Never Lose Your Roots
Root: The part of a plant that attaches it to the ground or to a support, typically underground, conveying water and nourishment to the rest of the plant via numerous branches and fibers. Never lose touch with your roots. Your roots support, shape and mold you. Self-awareness and understanding is fostered through first understanding where you come from. The best way to understand and learn is through storytelling. Here is the story of my Father’s family, one that continues to astonish me, one that I could not imagine living and one that makes me feel incredibly fortunate, everyday.
As a child, I often heard that my Father and my Grandparents had fled Nigeria as refugees during the Biafran War, but I did not know or understand what that meant. Over the years, I gradually came to learn more. Last Friday, after cooking dinner for my Grandfather, whom I call Appa, we began chatting about a print on the wall of my kitchen. A floral scene, commissioned by London Underground; Tube art. My Grandfather, Perumpral Mathew Mathew and I, Perumpral Kieran Brian Mathew chatted about the painting and the story it told.
Appa began to speak about the first time he, my Grandmother and my Father were in London, shortly after they had escaped Nigeria as refugees. Before we tell that story, let’s go back to the roots and understand how they ended up there.
My Grandfather’s family owned a small farm in Vadaserikara, a village in Pathanamthitta district, in the state of Kerala, India. They farmed rubber, rice and lived simply. I visited the farm in 2003, it was wonderful. Rural India is quiet and the people are friendly, despite the language barrier. In Vadaserikara, the majority of townsfolk speak Malayalam, my Grandfather’s mother tongue. There was no running water or electricity at the farm, we had to check under our sheets every night for scorpions. The washroom was outside of the house, I was not allowed to go alone as my family feared there may be snakes inside, so my Father went first, with a bamboo stick in hand each time. It was a different way of life, but it was serene, unpretentious and absolutely fascinating.
My Grandfather deviated away from the village, becoming a teacher in Darjeeling, in the foothills of the Himalayas. In 1953, Appa began teaching at a college in the town where he met my Grandmother, Rachel Mathew, Amma. The two taught at the college for 8 years, they married in 1957 and had my Father, Himal Mathew in 1959. If you are wondering why his name is Himal, yes, it is because he was born in the foothills of the Himalayas.
In 1961, Appa received an appointment as an education officer in Nigeria, that is where the journey began. Appa, Amma and my Father arrived in Nigeria in the early months of 1962. My Grandparents taught in the towns of Afikpo, Enugu and Onitsha in Nigeria, the closest major city was Port Harcourt. They enjoyed their time in the Country immensely, learning a new culture and way of life, far different than Appa’s upbringing in Vadaserikara. Unfortunately, their time in Nigeria was brought to an extremely abrupt halt in October of 1967. The Fall of 1967 brought the rise of civil war in Nigeria, a conflict better known as the Biafran War. My Grandparents were quickly caught in the middle of a warzone, with bombshells coming close to their home, they were forced to leave with nothing but the clothes on their back.
Along with 49 others, my Grandparents and my Father boarded a cargo plane owned by a Portuguese mercenary, bound for Angola. Angola was not the ideal destination; it was the way out. Upon arriving in Angola, they stayed in a hotel for a week.
After a brief stay in Angola, Appa, Amma and my Father were given another ride on the back of a cargo plane to London, England. They resided in a Bed and Breakfast in London where they began to look for visa’s. They searched for a country that could provide long-term stability and teaching jobs for both Amma and Appa. They found Richmond, Quebec. A town with a population of under 2,500 at the time. They moved to the town to commence a new chapter in their lives, away from family and friends in India, this would not be an easy move.
Unfortunately, in small town Quebec, racism was an issue as most people had not met Indian immigrants before. Appa would too often wake to see that his car tires were slashed the night before. Luckily, my Grandparents and my Father had seen the worst of things in Nigeria, building up more strength and courage during that time, than I will ever have. The story serves to ground me and makes me feel hugely fortunate every day. If this story were a baseball game, my Grandparents and my Father would have started outside of the ballpark, while I am starting on third base, I must make the most of this opportunity. Since my Grandmother, Amma passed, Appa moved in with my family in Port Hope, Ontario. I thoroughly enjoyed my time sharing a house with him, constantly learning and gaining wisdom from a seasoned, life veteran. I am grateful to be able to spend time with him whenever I travel home. I will continue to chat with him and learn about my roots, finding out the history that molded me. I encourage you now, to do the same.
