The Scent of Eucalyptus: A Missionary
Childhood in Ethiopia
by Daniel Coleman
Reviewed by Anne Borden
The eucalyptus tree, imported to Ethiopia in the late
nineteenth century as a firewood source, has since
naturalized, spreading so profusely in some regions
that its pungent scent infuses one's every breath. It
has become a problem species for farmers and
conservationists because it saps the soil of moisture
and nutrients. Yet it also provides relief from the
blazing heat, for the farmer or the conservationist
who seeks shelter beneath its fragrant canopy.
Foreign missionaries in Ethiopia, as Daniel Coleman
observes in this fine memoir, are like the eucalyptus,
naturalized transplants whose ambivalent relationship
with Ethiopians is in some respects tempered by the
comforts they've provided. The ferenjie (foreign
missionaries) played a key role in building hospitals
and schools under King Haile Selassie and in
re-establishing the infrastructure after Italy's brief
takeover in the 1940s. Throughout the horror of the
military coup in 1974 and the resulting famine, the
ferenji remained rooted in Ethiopia. The Scent of
Eucalyptus illustrates some of the reasons why.
Coleman, who now holds a Canada Research Chair in
English at McMaster University, grew up in Ethiopia in
the sixties and seventies, the child of Canadian
missionaries. Through an insightful and often
understated series of stories that evoke all of the
senses (the chapters are thematic, rather than
chronological), he describes his early struggles to
negotiate friendship, sexuality and his own
agnosticism within the strictures of the mission
school. In 'Ferenji Nature,' he describes his family's
domesticated owls, monkeys and dik-diks, as well as
King Selassi's own infamous menagerie, in the context
of their neighbors' very different relationship to
animals. In 'Sex and Salvation' he conveys the
awkward thrill of teen sex with levity and grace;
although the confession model ultimately failed the
young Coleman and his friends, none of them really
seemed the worse for it.
The ferenjis' priorities underwent a dramatic shift
when Mengistu Haile Mariam seized power, and Coleman's
family was thrust into a new role; using their
privilege to advocate for the civil rights of
Ethiopians, and combating a new dimension of poverty
under a corrupt regime. With white skin and North
American money, missionaries were generally granted
diplomatic immunity, while the Ethiopian Christians,
many of whom they had converted, were persecuted by
the Marxist-Leninist junta. The missionaries had to
strike a balance - Western pressure could be helpful
in the cause of political prisoners, yet too much
Western interest could lead authorities to conclude
that a prisoner was 'intimate with enemies of the revolution.' As they lost friends and neighbors to the
prison system, both their faith and loyalty to their
communities propelled them to petition the government
and to play dangerous tricks on the authorities to
deliver food to famine-stricken regions.
Coleman describes one such trick, gas siphoning, in 'Thick Skin,' which focuses on the relationships that
emerged between locals and missionaries in the fight
against famine. Through a convoluted exchange, the
missionaries spread the Word, wrapped in injera bread, and
a local teenager, Yared, managed to avoid military
service. 'I would help Yared change the oil or drain
the radiator in one of the [government] vehicles, and
then we would spend long afternoons sitting in line
for gas and getting the ration books stamped for the mission's cars. Then we would siphon off any extra
litres from the local vehicles so that they could be
used to get country-bound vehicles farther afield. I
learned a lot from Yared.'
When he moved to Canada as a young man, Coleman found
it nearly impossible to translate these experiences
into a language that his Canadian friends could
comprehend, and it is in this period that the
ambiguity of his national and cultural identity is
reflected most profoundly. Like many 'hyphenated-Canadians,' he often opted to omit his
transcultural experiences from his official history. 'When Canadians asked me where I was from, I often
opted for 'Wheatley, Ontario,' It was my dad's
hometown. 'The blandness of the short version
discouraged questions. It allowed me to fit in.'
Coleman's conflicted relationship to his past, and to
his family's faith, came to a head when he returned to
Ethiopia in 1993 and reunited with his childhood
friend, Negussi. Having served a horrific 6-year
prison term for refusing to renounce his faith,
Negussi had been suddenly released with a group of
fellow inmates, in the period after Mengistu was
exiled and Soviet aid to the junta had evaporated. To
the missionaries, Negussi was 'a hero of his faith';
he had continued to proclaim his faith in Christ to
his persecutors, and had in fact converted hundreds of
fellow inmates through an underground prison
fellowship. His example had even lead prison guards to
improve living conditions. When Coleman and his wife
arrived on the eve of Negussi's graduation from
seminary, they learned from his wife that he had
developed typhus. 'Negussi lay on a gurney in the
hallway awaiting tests. Antiseptic in the air and the
smell of urine from the cut-down kerosene tin that
served as a bedpan burned my nostrils' When I took
his hand, it was so swollen that he could not curl his
fingers to fit the curve of my palm.'
While Negussi 'remained convinced that God had
showered him with grace,' Coleman grappled with his
own interpretation of the unfolding events: 'God
breaks his word. He does not keep the virtuous man
from falling.' Disease is what most universally
assails Africa, and the missionaries are remembered
not just for wrapping the Word in injera, but for
providing the scientific and educational resources to
prevent and treat illness. In the age of AIDS, when
governments and even NGOs support policy that denies
or discourages condom use and drives homosexuality
underground, many contemporary Christian groups have
yet to respond to this crisis with the healing zeal of
their forebears. Coleman's moving memoir suggests that
the drive to heal the sick in body, not just spirit,
is the force that can keep the ferenji relevant on the
continent, with their roots firmly planted in a rich
and fertile ground.
Anne Borden lives in Toronto, where she works as a
writer and editor. |
|
