DARKNESS INTO LIGHT

Hanns F Skoutajan

“It was a dark and stormy night” - well, in fact, it wasn’t. The surface of the

Straits of Dover were as calm as a mirror. It’s surface reflected the starry sky

above. On either side of the ship, not too far away, lighthouse beams swiveled,

winking at each other in what seemed a friendly manner.

Of course, I was aware of the stormy history of this body of water that connects

the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, two continents, one might say. Nor was it

just the weather but politics that had often disturbed this sea.

As I stood on the deck taking in this nocturnal splendour I recalled that a little

more than ten years ago this was a no-man’s land, or sea to be more exact. It

was indeed a dark and stormy time. Britain and Nazi occupied Europe had made

this area a “no sail zone.” U boats, like eels, slunk through the murky depth

looking for their prey. Only occasionally refugees and Canadian airmen prisoners

of war, had managed to escape across in darkness to freedom. Then one day the

Channel teemed with ships and landing craft supported overhead by flights of

bombers and fighters invaded the Nazi fortress and eventually subjugated it.

However, now it was September 1956 and all was still. I was returning to

Germany for the first time to study Christian Social Ethics at the University of

Muenster. I was to delve into the writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Karl Barth and

Helmuth Thielliche. I was, of course, also excited to meet my relatives, those

who had managed to survive the war and their subsequent deportation.

This scene from the deck of the good ship Seven Seas has played on my mind

as I watch, read and hear about the turbulence that is engulfing many parts of the

world , particularly the Middle East. It is the home of the three monotheistic

religions who have peace as their theme.

Thinking about those beacons of friendship from the opposite shores leaves me

wondering if and when peace will descend on those areas of conflict as it had in

Europe. It seems far from possible at times. What will it take to be accomplished?

I am a pacifist at heart but also very conscious that there are limitations to that

ideology. But I have grave doubts, and I emphasize the word “grave,” about the

efficacy of weapons to bring peace to our world. The recent examples of military

action in Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya have demonstrated the futility of war to

bring peace.

We are not alone in our craving for peace. There are people all over the world

and in every age and of every faith who are harkening to the leadership of people

like Albert Einstein, “Peace cannot be kept by force, it can only be achieved by

understanding,” and Martin Luther King “Peace is not merely a distant goal which

we seek but a means by which we arrive at the goal.” These and others refused

to give up on peaceful actions to bring about change often by their own sacrifice.

Don’t argue with me, listen to them.

In a few days time people in this country and abroad will gather at war memorials

to pay tribute to the many who had been robbed of their lives in the dreadful

conflicts of the last 100 years. Prayers will be said and hopefully we will also

petition for an end to all hostilities wherever.

Our world is beset by many problems: epidemics, climate change and its impact

on the environment, food and water scarcity, homelessness and much, much

more, all of them exacerbated by warfare. Nations seem only too ready to spend

vast sums on arms and bomb each other into some primal state leaving millions

starving in refugee camps.

Sorry, I have few answers, but I insist that answers must be found if humanity is

to survive on this planet, and if the resources of Earth are to be equitably shared.

We of the affluent West can’t seem very genuine to those who struggle to survive

on $2 a day while we indulge in ever more frivolous ways of spending our money.

Call me naive but I do not believe that wars will cease until the disparities among

the people of the world are alleviated. The front is not just “out there” in the

deserts and mountains far away. It is here among us. It is not enough to pray for

peace as a cessation of bloodshed, we must also pray for the end of poverty and

for the integrity of creation, else it will be “a dark stormy night” not just out there

but right here among us all.

Spirit Quest

22/09/2014

for more MYQUESTS : skoutajanh.blogspot.com

OH FOR A CUPPA!

Hanns F Skoutajan

My mother nursed me for a long time. Then almost overnight I migrated from the breast to the cup - the coffee cup that is. 

I have had a love/hate relationship with this beverage. There are times when I can scarcely tolerate the drink. But after a short abstinence I am back to it again.

I live in an area of Ottawa where there is a plethora of coffee outlets within easy walking distance and have been informed that there are more to come. Our main street is to undergo the construction of several new buildings  - condos, offices with stores on ground level. It seems that each of them will house a coffee outlet. Undoubtedly all of them will do well.

I grew up - the first ten year of my life - in a city in Czechoslovakia in those halcyon days before the war broke out. It was the custom of my mother to take me downtown to the market square to shop. This excursion usually concluded with a visit to the Kafe Falk .

Those familiar with the European culture will appreciate that cafes are very special places serving not only coffee, not in mugs but in cup and saucer, along with a variety of luscious pastries. Kafe Falk was no exception. Mother ordered Kafe mit Schlag, that is coffee with a large dollop of whipped cream on top. The waiter properly attired in a black suit also brought a platter of Viennese pastries from which I was allowed to select one, usually a cream puff or a Sacher Torte.

The Kafe Falk also offered a variety of picture magazines for us to peruse while we enjoyed this respite from our shopping. In the afternoon there was usually a string trio and piano performing beautiful music, making for a very relaxing and addictive atmosphere. Given those circumstances it is surprising that I did not become a fat kid but only a spoiled brat.

All this came to a sudden end when we were forced to flee the invading German army.

We found refuge in Scotland where they only drank tea with scones or biscuits that in no way measured up to what I had been accustomed.

After coming to Canada with the outbreak of war coffee became a rather scarce commodity and unaffordable for us poor settlers. Mother brewed a drink made with barley and chicory roots that bore some vague resemblance to coffee. It was cheap and hot but I acquired no taste for it. Only after the war and migrating east did we revert to drinking real coffee. However, cafes such as I recalled from “back home” were only found in the big city and even there were rather scarce. I missed them greatly.

At college I frequented the student coffee shop which had decent coffee but was also a place for good discussions and a venue for making dates.

I wrote this piece sitting in the bay window of one of my favourite coffee emporia. It too is a place for conversation and I have made many new friends in this pleasant environment.

Most of my drinking companions prefer organic coffee and like to support shops that offer “fair trade” products. Having visited Costa Rica on several occasions I became informed that the best coffee comes from beans grown in the shade. Those plantations are usually small and family run. However, much of the arable land is used for growing large crops of coffee, cash crops that are bought by large American corporations. It is a huge industry of great economic importance for that small and beautiful country.

My son spent two years in Ethiopia which is reputedly the birthplace of coffee. My spouse visited him and was honoured at several coffee ceremonies by local people which take a good deal of time. The beans were ground, roasted and brewed in her presence with flower petals strewn about.  The brew is very strong and rather overwhelming for her who is not a coffee drinker, pity! 

The coffee drinking public in this country has acquired some specialized tastes for drinks such as latte, cappuccino and  espresso etc. Plain java is no longer good enough. Have you ever noticed how much sugar people shovel into their “double double?” It becomes a coffee flavoured syrup.

As I sit and enjoy my cuppa I recall my early experiences with coffee drinking. For me to enjoy my coffee respite there are other factors of importance that impinge, not the least of which is ambiance. It is a total experience, olfactory, the aroma of brewing coffee, comfort of the the venue, the sounds and of course the company of friends. But there are also times when I long for a quiet place to drink where I can indulge my thoughts and memories and write them down. Thus another blog! 

So I lift my cup to you. Enjoy! Meet me here sometime. I’ll treat you if you don’t mind listening to my tales. 

Spirit Quest 18’10/2014       

H A R V E S T H O M E !

Hanns F Skoutajan

“We plough the fields and scatter,

the good seed o’er the land,

but what comes up we know not,

it’s never what we planned.”

This spoof on the well-known Thanksgiving hymn has more than a grain of truth in it.

Farming entails a gamble. It is hedged by many factors not the least of which is the

weather. A promising crop one day may turn from hope to despair by a night of frost,

rain or as recently in Calgary, a snow storm. A bumper crop also has its nemesis as the

price of the produce plummets at the elevator. Years ago farmers banded together to

form co-ops to market their produce and thus to some extent control the price. Thus the

Wheat Pool of Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta came into being. They also set up

a Wheat Board, now scuttled by a pro business, corporation-loving government.

No, farming is not for the faint of heart. Today more and more crop production is in the

hands of large companies who are able to amass huge tracts of land, pay the ever

rising insurance rates and finance expensive farm machinery. The so-called family farm

where all members of the family were involved in its operation is quickly disappearing.

Children doing chores is condemned as exploitative and cheap labour.

My own experience with agriculture was thankfully short although I do not regret one

moment of it. By the time I was 11 years of age I was able to milk cows, harness horses,

drive them and ride bareback. We couldn’t afford a saddle. I was even growing some

muscles from tasks such as cleaning the barn and picking stones from the fields.

My parents and I along with several hundred refugees from the German invasion of our

homeland were settled on very marginal land in north-western Saskatchewan,100 miles

north of North Battleford. Another group of similar size was sent to the Peace River area

near Dawson Creek in British Columbia. We were settled on abandoned homesteads

and soon discovered why they had been abandoned in the depression. However, this

was the condition of our admission to this land of refuge.

Our farms were small, 160 acres, a quarter section. Mixed farming is what they called

it. Father preferred “ mixed-up farming” to better describe our furtive efforts. We started

with two cows, a team of horses, two pigs in high hope of procreation and 25 chicken,

housed in a tumbledown barn. Every four farms were supplied with basic farm

implements, second hand of course and needy of repair always at crucial times.

I recall a real feeling of envy when years later I visited Upper Canada Village near

Morrisburg, Ontario and beheld what our predecessors of the 19th and early 20th

century had to work with.

We lasted barely 3 years. Our final harvest was a disaster. The crop yield was 11

bushels to the acre of wheat. Even more devastating was the presence of wild oats,

little black kernels among the “golden wheat.”

In the turmoil of thrashing, the noise of the tractor and the roar of the thrashing

machine , the coming and going of the wagons from the fields loaded with sheaves, I

saw a boy arrive on a bicycle. He looked around and then came to me and showed me

a letter and asked me whether I knew the man with the funny name. It was a telegram

for my father. After handing it over to him the lad mounted his bike and rode off 15 miles

to the village, the terminal of the rail line, and as far as we were concerned, the end of

civilization.

Father opened the telegram from his friend and former colleague in the field of

journalism who was visiting Toronto from Britain. He urged my father to drop everything

and come to the big city where he had contacts for employment in the growing war

industry.

My father didn’t need much persuasion. The handwriting was on the wall. A few days

later we saw him off on the 4 day rail journey to the capitol of Ontario. The train ticket

used up most of the profits from our harvest. Mother and I continued on the farm

liquidating the live stock and all other possessions. It was the end of our farming

experience. Four months later we joined him in Toronto.

However, there were some success stories. In 2007, while with a film crew visiting the

area of our misadventure, I encountered a farmer who had done quite well.

Our crew stood at the intersection of two roads contemplating a dilapidated shack that

had once upon a time housed one of our immigrant families. Presently a truck churned

its way through the Saskatchewan gumbo, it was spring, and came to a halt. The driver

turned out to be a man who had been part of our group back in 1939. He was my age

and I had known him well. His parents had done reasonably well and remained on the

land while many of our fellow would-be farmers had fled to the city. He bought and

rented land from the new refugees which was, of course, dirt cheap. With much hard

work and luck he made a go of it. He expanded his operation and then turned it over to

his son who was standing with me on this muddy intersection, who had in turn

bequeathed the farm to his two sons. Theirs is now one of the best farm operations in

the district. There are several other success stories.

It is harvest time across this vast land. By the time you read this story “the sheaves will

have been gathered in, hopefully before the winter’s storms begin.” Canadians and

indeed all the people of the world are dependent on the fruits of the land and of the sea.

At a recent church service that I attended the ministers and their lay assistants sought

to demonstrate the biblical reference to bread, “I am the bread of life.” ( John 6 : 35.)

While the service was progressing, the readings, the prayers and hymns, the minister

made bread, mixing the ingredients and preparing the yeast. Members of the

congregation took turns kneading the dough. It was then taken to the church kitchen

and placed in the oven. Next Sunday the bread was shared with all the congregation. It

was a very memorable teaching occasion. The Word became alive and nurturing.

On Thanksgiving Sunday the chancel of churches will be adorned with corn stalks,

pumpkins, squash and other colourful fruit of the land. We will be reminded that our

food comes from the land and the sea, and requires farmers and fishermen involved in

often risky ventures to replenish our tables. 

Thus:

Come ye thankful people, come,

Sing the song of harvest home.

Spirit Quest 10/10/2014

BEFORE WE FLY AWAY

Hanns F Skoutajan

“Aging is not for sissies,” we have often been told by those who are well

into the process or have been keen observers of such times. Being familiar

with the aging process I can only agree.

“The days of your life are three score years and ten (70) or if by reason of

strength they are four score (80)” (Pslam 90) writes the wise old man in that

portion of the Old Testament known as the Wisdom Literature.

Opening the door of the medicine cabinet in our bathroom I recognize it for

what it is, a space for jars filled with ointment to make a tired skin less old,

of vials of prescription drugs and pills to cope with a variety of ailments, of

vitamins and minerals and other remedies to make these times of aging

more tolerable. Our calendar is dotted with appointments with specialists

and therapists.

That psalmist of long ago comments that these latter days are “only toil and

trouble,” obviously not for sissies, and then comforts us “that they are soon

gone and we fly away.” Aging is entering upon the final boarding process

of this journey of life. He goes on to advise us “to so number our days that

we may gain a heart of wisdom.”

As we accumulate mileage on the tires of our tired bodies we spend time

contemplating where we have arrived. Since birth we have been involved

in the process of “increasing in wisdom and stature” and hopefully, “in

favour with God and man.” (Luke 2: 52)

On special occasions such as birthdays we are made acutely aware of

what we have become. We are not always content and wish that we had

done more, travelled more extensively, been more diligent in aquiring other

languages, many friends we know have done so, learning to play the piano,

guitar or other musical instrument.I admire those who did. I regret that I

have not written and spoken out more forcefully and wisely on matters of

justice, peace and the health of this planet.

My partner and I have but one grandchild, and are very much aware how

important it is for us to know that our DNA has not been frustrated but will

be passed on to others. It is thrilling to discover in the evidence of her

appearance, manners and attitudes, that there is something of ourselves

alive in her. Both my spouse and I are only children and sometimes wish

that we had had siblings with whom to share the joys and sorrows of living.

We are not alone in this aging process. The world too is changing from the

picture of that beautiful blue ball with white swirls that those first astronauts

beheld not that long ago. Now we see a graying planet, less distinct giving

evidence of the use and abuse of this terrestrial home. Scientists are

involved in the possibility of making a foothold on some other, yet unvisited

planet (we think), to start a new colony, to escape from a ravaged planet

where resources are running low. We have recently been informed that

since that first space journey the number of wild animals on Earth has

halved in the past 40 years according to a new report from the World

Wildlife Fund (WWF) and the Zoological Society of London (ZSL).

On the surface of the world there is much discord among the residents, an

interminable conflict in the Middle East, international discord as in western

Europe ( Russia and the Ukraine), in the streets of Hong Kong , while ebola

ravages the people of western Africa.

In our more fortunate countries, Europe, North America and Australia the

rich make strides to become ever richer using up resources that ought to

be shared with all of human kind. Many others seem stagnated in their

search for a better life. Extraction rather than conservation is the dominant

activity propagated by the powerful corporation of our the world.

Eckhart Tolle, a spiritual teacher who is not aligned with any particular

religion or tradition, conveys a simple yet profound message. In his

lectures and books, particularly in A New Earth: Awakening to Life’s

Purpose he focuses on Being rather than Becoming, enjoying the Power of

the Now. When thinking about gaining a heart of wisdom I can think of no

better primer to help us conquer the ego individually and globally. He gently

and in very practical terns leads us to a new consciousness to experience

who we truly are without regrets.

Not long ago we gathered in our daughter’s beautiful garden with many

friends and family to celebrate the four score milestone of my spouse. We

did a lot of reminiscing. We had travelled many miles together and

experienced events with many of them “ in sickness and in health.” Now we

rejoiced in this time of an arrival.

Hopefully there will be more years ahead to do things that need to be done,

blogs to be written, friendships to be enjoyed, our Being to be cherished

until we too “shall fly away.”

Spirit Quest 07/10/2014

IT’S GREED, INDEED!

Hanns F Skoutajan

“There is strength in numbers.” That was the message that the Sunday

School teacher illustrated to the children at a recent service.

About a dozen or more youngsters gathered around her on the chancel

steps in the presence of the congregation. I often feel that the parents and

other worshippers, let alone the children, learn more from this “teaching

moment” than they do from the sermon to follow.

On this occasion the teacher reached into a bag and brought out a pencil.

She handed the pencil to one of the younger children and asked her to

break it. The child looked a bit startled, she was usually admonished not to

do this destructive deed. Nevertheless, with all her strength she bent and

broke it into two pieces. Once more the teacher reached into her bag and

this time brought out a bundle of six pencils held together by an elastic. The

teacher now gave the pencils to an older, bigger, stronger child. He applied

his power to the task but try as he might he could not break the collected

pencils. The combined pencils successfully resisted him.

It was, of course, a simple illustration that there is strength in numbers -

simple but not simplistic. It is a lesson that will be well remembered by all.

The news that day had to do with the massive protest marches that were

taking place in New York, Toronto, Vancouver and many other places

throughout the world. Their message was loud and clear calling on

governments and industry to curb the activities that cause global warming.

The huge rally in Manhattan came auspiciously a day before the UN

Climate Summit, a gathering that our own prime minister decided not to

attend. Instead he sent Leona Aglukkaq, minister for the environment in the

Harper cabinet who spoke to a sparse audience at the UN and never

mentioned the word “oil.”

There was a time when Canadians could point accusingly at other

countries for their infractions of human rights, the production of weapons of

mass destruction and invasion of sovereign territory of neighouring states

as well as environmental pollution. Evil was always remote from our

borders. Today the citizens of this Peaceable Kingdom no longer have that

luxury inasmuch as we have become the producers of significant amounts

of greenhouse gases. We, courtesy of Fort MacMurray, are now in the big

league of polluters. Not only the mining but the transporting of the bitumen,

is a risky business. At the end of the line this fossil fuel is sold to be burned

to produce energy and thus add further to the smog that hangs over such

countries as China and India. The once beautiful Gaia that the first

astronauts beheld from outer space has become besmirched with pollution.

Numerous pipelines are on the planning boards to be built to transport

Alberta’s bitumen south via the Keystone XL conduit, awaiting Obama’s

approval, or west over the mountains by way of the Northern Gateway to

Kitimat from whence it is to be shipped by supertankers through the

precarious passages to the Pacific ocean. The construction of this pipeline

has been vigorously opposed by First Nation People who feel that their

native lands are being violated. Oil spills would have devastating affects on

the pristine wilderness.

I have recently been reading This Changes Everything in which Naomi

Klein Illustrates and makes the case against the corporate invasion of the

world’s ecology. She documents the assault being made on this globe, and

it is, indeed, global in extent. Bill McKibben whom she quotes frequently,

who is one of the most outspoke leaders against global ecological

degradation, made the point that the petroleum industry has enormous

financial resources but the people have the numbers as has been shown in

recent demonstrations.

Our prime minister prides himself on the free trade deals that he has been

able to sign, with Europe and the Orient. This, he maintains, will bring

significant investments to Canada which will translate into jobs and wealth

that will make Canada a truly extractive giant.

Free trade agreements beginning with NAFTA and the MAI have included

what is known as Chapter 11, a provision that allows corporations to sue

foreign governments that dare to pass legislation to protect their

environment to the detriment of the investors. It is a totally undemocratic

arrangement inasmuch as it rudely overruns the wishes of citizens in favour

of the multinational corporations. The judicial process is carried out in

courts over which the country affected has no control.

We may recall the Doomsday Clock, a count down to a possible politically

related global catastrophe, such as a nuclear war that would bring

civilization to an end. However, today, there is a different doomsday threat

as the amount of CO2 emissions climbs ever higher moving the world ever

closer to a point of no return at which global warming takes on a life of its

own and human technology no longer has the power to reverse it. Already

we are witnessing changing weather patterns, to wit: storms, drought,

flooding and other unusual climate experienced also in our own country.

Unfortunately there are still those who remain unconvinced by the

testimony of scientists, who prefer not to believe that which stands in the

way of their ability to make more profits, simply put, their greed.

Yet, as is evident, all over the world more and more people are deeply

concerned where this “economic development” is leading us. It is

undoubtedly the most important issue facing the people of the world. Ban

Ki-moon, the Secretary General of the United Nations, has stated that,

“Climate change is the defining issue of our time. It is not a distant threat. It

is coming and approaching much, much faster than we may think.” As I

looked at the assembled children at church I could not help but wonder

about their future.

It has been stated that there is No Second Chance. Once having destroyed

Nature it is difficult if not impossible to rebuild. Nature can do without us but

we cannot do without it. Nature is not our enemy, although we often treat it

as an entity to be subdued. Rather, we need to treat it as a friend.

Remember the Children’s Moment at my church - individually we can be

broken but together we are strong to resist the forces of greed. The

catchword of our time is: UNITE!

Spirit Quest 28/09/2014

PS: This just in and Three Cheers!

BERLIN, Sept 25 (Reuters) - Germany will not sign a trade pact

between Canada and the European Union unless an investment

protection clause allowing companies to take cross-border legal action

against governments is scrapped, Germany's economy minister said

on Thursday.

FROM THE DIAPHRAGM

Hanns F Skoutajan

“You have a stentorian voice!” she accused or honoured me. I’m not sure which.

I had some sense of what that meant - a voice that is impossible to ignore. I had

been involved, as is often the case, in a debate that passes for conversation on

the patio of our favourite coffee shop in Ottawa. Conversation is not enhanced by

the passing traffic, especially not by the trucks and occasional fire engine that

can bring communication to a halt. Even my stentorian voice is overwhelmed by

that.

I was curious about the origin of the term, stentorian, and so turned to Google

and Wikipedia for an answer. The designation, I discovered, originated from the

name Stentor, an Athenian soldier in the Trojan Wars. He was well known for his

powerful voice which was a real asset on the battlefields of the time as it would

be on the parade squares of today. Unfortunately Stentor died of overexertion in

a shouting contest. His name, however, persisted in modern parlance.

While chaplain at Dalhousie University in Halifax in the latter fifties I was invited

to be the interim minister at St. Matthew’s United Church in downtown Halifax for

almost a whole year. It consisted of preaching Sunday morning and evening. St.

Matthews is a large and beautiful church with a tall spire that defines the corner

of Spring Garden Road and Barrington Street. Inside it is unique for the little

doors at the end of each pew. The seating capacity was close to 1000 and well

attended in the morning and evening. The sermon was preached from a

magnificent pulpit high on the front wall of the sanctuary. From that perch most

ministers with a normal voice should manage to be heard. The worship was

enhanced by a great four manual Casavant pipe organ and a well trained choir.

The organist took me in hand to teach me how to project my natural stentorian

voice to best affect. Complaints dramatically subsided. I hope that what I had to

say was also worth hearing. I do have some old reel to reel tape recordings of

those occasions. My successor who was less well accoustically endowed

begged the board to procure a public address system.

Two years ago I was honoured with an invitation to preach at the 265th

anniversary of the congregation. The building itself dates from the latter 19th

century, one of the oldest in the city that managed to survive the great explosion

of 1917 that ravaged a good deal of the city below Citadel Hill.

Much has changed. The congregation is considerably smaller as is the fate of

many old downtown churches. However, the interior has been beautifully

preserved and the little pew doors remain intact. The high pulpit is no longer in

use. Worship is now conducted from a raised platform and, of course, enhanced

with an excellent PA system. It is from there that I delivered my sermon.

During the closing hymn Betsy Hogan, the minister, whispered to me an invitation

that I could not refuse and had secretly hoped to hear. Would I speak the

benediction from the old pulpit? And so it was that during the singing of the last

verse of the hymn I mounted the long stairs to what had seemed close to

heaven. When the hymn was completed I raised my “stentorian” voice to speak

the words of the benediction without a PA system:

Go into the world with a daring and a tender love,

The world is waiting for you

Go in peace and may all that you do be done because of love,

And the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you always.

As I looked over the congregation, now much smaller than I remembered it back

in 1958, memories flooded my mind. I recalled some of the congregants of the

time, a few were still present on this occasion, still occupying the same pew. In

my heart I gave thanks to Clifford Gates who had helped me to use my vocal gift

to best advantage, then and through the rest of my PA assisted ministry.

In my education for the ministry, preaching was an important subject. We were

also trained to use our voice. “From your diaphragm now, men (and we were all

men).” This was later replaced by microphone technique, if at all. The stentorian

gift is no longer a necessity as it was then most definitely.

Silence is precious but when there is something to be communicated it is best

that it be clearly understood and heard.

Spirit Quest 21/09/2014

                          GIVE THEM THIS DAY THEIR DAILY SOUP

                                                   Hanns F Skoutajan

There was a time in my life when I was nourished at a soup kitchen. Thankfully it was a long time ago and far, far away from here.

My parents and I and a lot of other refugees had flooded into the city of Prague, so much so that the Czech authorities were sending them back by trainloads into the arms of the SS. All were German antifascists on the run from Hitler’s forces and the minions that were supporting his takeover of the Sudetenland in the fall of 1938. The Nazis were intent on picking up the leadership and shipping them off to concentration camps such as Dachau. My father’s name was prominent on their list, I was later to discover.

We had very little money or possessions, only what we could carry when we arrived in the capital city. What money we did have we tried to save for even harder times ahead. We did not know what was to come. The future did not look promising.

Our accommodation was in an attic which had been supplied with straw mattresses on the floor, there was not a stick of furniture about. One toilet supplied the needs of all of us. Most of our neighbours were Jewish who had been able to read the writing on the wall. Their hope was to reach Britain, the US or perhaps Palestine. Our worst suspicions came to reality a few months later when the German forces occupied the rest of our country. We had reached a safe haven by that time.

Every day a large crowd gathered at the Labour Hall to line up at the counter where we were dished out a (thankfully) thick, rich soup and a hunk of heavy rye bread. and a piece of hard chocolate. It was better than what was served in Canada during the depression. We were grateful for these mercies.

What sustained our morale was the sense that we had one thing in common, that we were not alone. We were political refugees with a common enemy. This fear also united us.

I still recall the slogan on the wall of the hall - “Work and Democracy.” That’s  quite different from the words over the entrance to the concentration camp that awaited many : Arbeit Macht Frei:  (work will make you free). This was of course a lie for in those camps all were slave labour, and freedom would only come with death or if you were lucky to survive until the arrival of the allies armies.

Our family was among the fortunates inasmuch as my father was one of the most endangered and thus soon spirited out of the country to Britain. Mother and I followed three weeks later. In the meantime we continued to be guests at the soup kitchen and attic.

As I pass by the Shepherds Of Good Hope at the corner of Murray and King Edward streets in Ottawa, I observe the crowd, fortunate in their misfortune to receive food and accommodation. I have never been inside but can only imagine it to be pretty crowded and quite basic. 

The clientelle is quite different from what we were back at the Labour Hall in Prague in the fall of 1938  There is only one thing we have in common: we are all victims. There are those who blame the victims for their victimhood, but many of them have histories of mental illness, drug abuse, first hand or second hand as in fetal alcohol syndrome, as well as a plethora of other causes. 

We were victims of ideology. We believed in freedom and social justice, peace and security.  We all suffered homelessness and fear.

I admire those who care for them as well as those who cared for us either through donations or with feet on the ground. It is not an easy task.

Today there are victims on every continent, especially in Africa and the Middle East but also some on this blessed continent. They are the poor, the displaced, the sick, children and the aged.

Those bowls of soup at Prague’s Labour Hall remind me how narrow is the trail from misfortune and how broad the stream of those en route. Much has changed from those days when my parents and I stood in line dependent on the compassion and generosity of our providers. Unfortunately much has remained the same. Fortunately there are many agencies and individuals dedicated to helping them whether at home or abroad. The need is dire. Support them generously! 

SQ 14/09/2014

More writing may be found at MYQUEST