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On Family Memories and the Meaning of Gifts
This post was inspired by @susanquinn’s recent book review of John Blashford-Snell’s From Utmost East to Utmost West: My Life of Exploration and Adventure, and her mention of JBS’s meeting with Emperor Haile Selassie in 1966.
The account of the meeting takes place in the first chapter, and I’m reminded of it by a recent event in the UK, which really ticked me off. (More about that in a minute.) It’s quite clear from the story that JBS had the utmost respect for the Emperor and that the respect was reciprocated, as when JBS writes that, Selassie “turned to me with a smile and said quietly: “I hope you will return one day and explore my Great Abbai.”
Blashford-Snell writes:
I knew he was referring to the Blue Nile, but this was like asking an average hill walker to climb Everest. Trying diplomatically to avoid making a full commitment, I replied: “That would be quite a challenge, sir.”
The eyes of the nearest being to a living god I had ever met seemed to bore into mine. He said nothing more but simply nodded, put out his thin hand, and shook mine with a noticeably firm grip.
That (on page four) was when I decided I was going to love this book. You see, “my” British Empire functioned like that. It was a world of tremendous mutual respect, and a world where friendships between people such as my father–a senior Colonial administrator–and local leaders, chiefs, and commoners were routine, reciprocal, genuine, and sometimes even life-long.
A few days ago, on the British Antiques Roadshow program, an “expert in ethnic, tribal, and folk art,” evaluated an item belonging to the granddaughters of a former Governor of both British Somaliland and Nyasaland–a golden robe given, along with a personal letter, to their grandfather, by Haile Selassie. The family said their grandfather, Sir Harold Kittermaster, had developed a close friendship with the Emperor in the 1930s.
Having estimated the value of the robe at about £4,500, this “expert,” one Ronnie Archer-Morgan asked, “So, if there’s a call for these things to be repatriated, would you be happy to do that?”
Unsurprisingly, this threw the granddaughters (who I bet have always been tremendously proud of Grandpa’s story, and who I’m sure weren’t expecting any question of this sort) into a bit of a tizzy, and they said they “absolutely would” and that they’d now have to “have a think” about what to do with the robe.
What a bloody patronizing question. And what a racist assumption, that the robe and the letter were not given freely as a gift to a friend by the King of Kings, Elect of God, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, Emperor of Ethiopia and (as Blashford-Snell points out) an honorary Field Marshal in the British Army, but that they might be some sort of “loot,” either stolen from, or coerced from an inferior by a superior, and that they might rightfully belong back in their country of origin.
I must confess, as I read the story, I accelerated–very quickly–straight from “miffed” to “a bit cross,” entirely skipping over “peeved” and “irritated” as I went.
Hanging halfway up my stairs is a coffee tray, about 27″ in diameter and made of silvered brass, with an intricate hammered design and decorative edge. I doubt it’s worth terribly much. But it, too, has a story.
It was one of two gifts given to my dad by Alhaji Sir Ahmadu Bello, Sardauna of Sokoto and Premier of Northern Nigeria. The other was an elephant’s tusk, carved to show the Elephant’s Child stuck in the jaws of the crocodile. The two men exchanged other gifts over the years, and then there was the heavy silver ring he gave my mother–of whom Sardauna also thought very highly. He had one made for her, and one made for himself, and then he ordered the mold broken. In 1963, when one of Dad’s sworn enemies–who’d been trying to have the entire family killed (not a joke–we each had an armed guard who never left our side for about a year)–put about that Mum and Dad had been killed in a car crash (we were all in England at the time)–Sardauna wrote to my grandmother offering to adopt my sister and me, both of whom he’d given Hausa names when we were infants.
But that’s not the entire story of the tray and the tusk. The last part of it was Sardauna’s directive that Dad was to take them and keep them, and then–when Dad died–see that I got one and my sister got the other.
Now, I ask you, does that sound like some sort of conscripted behavior that this man–the holder of numerous and prestigious religious and civil titles, including Knight Commander of the British Empire–was pressured into by a Colonial oppressor?
I think not.
Things being what they are, and when the time came, my sister and I divvied up the spoils and she kept the ivory tusk in the UK, because I’d probably never have got it into the States, I took the tray, and we both ended up with a wonderful story and a treasured memory.
I daresay something similar in terms of friendship was at play between Emperor Haile Selassie and Sir Harold Kittermaster, something which prompted the gift of the robe, and the letter. Perhaps there was a gift given in return; we’ll never know. But it’s entirely possible that the Lion of Judah had some fond memories of his British friends just as Sardauna did of his. [That last, I know for a fact. We received a Christmas card from him (he was the fourth or fifth most influential Muslim in the country and belonged to the family which inherits the Sokoto Caliphate) in 1965, written in his signature green fountain-pen ink, and wishing us all a happy Christmas and New Year. By this time, we were in the States, and Nigeria had been independent a little over five years. Less than a month later, Sardauna was dead.**]
Let me be very clear, lest anyone mistake this post for an unqualified encomium to all things related to the British Empire from start to finish–it’s not. We can find plenty of low points to abhor, and plenty of high points to admire, and we may even find some things we agree should be repatriated because of the circumstances under which they were removed from their country of origin; however, I’m not going through an exhaustive list of either, any, or all in the comments. This post isn’t about the Koh-i-noor Diamond or the Benin Bronzes or the Elgin Marbles. This post is about small gifts exchanged between friends. And this post is about those friendships, formed between men from all corners of the earth, with little in common except their common humanity and manhood, their recognition of it in each other, and the ways in which those friendships and those gifts changed lives, even down through generations.
And, of course, this post is about the narrow-minded, shallow people who can’t set their racist biases aside for a moment, let alone for long enough to acknowledge that such things might be possible, and who diminish both themselves and the people they think they speak for and “help,” when they say the things they say.
Thank goodness for Cambridge professor David Abulafia, who has said such discussion is senseless, and that:
even for those who believe in returning objects, this simply doesn’t qualify because it was an open gift. It shows how people get caught up in a fashionable idea and they don’t actually think through the fundamental principles…Some of these completely unhistorical demands for restitution are extraordinary, it felt like it was the answer they were expected to give.
Speaking strictly for myself, and mindful of what I’ve read in the Telegraph and the Daily Mail about Antique Roadshow’s fast-pedaling of concerns of “reputational risk” when discussing the British Empire,” “public scrutiny,” and worries over “sensitive areas such as colonial history,” I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that we may have seen the last item of such provenance to be shown on this program.
That’s a pity. Because the country will get a little smaller, colder, more insular, more ignorant, and more unhappy as a result.
**Alhaji Sir Ahmadu Bello, Sardauna of Sokoto and Premier of Northern Nigeria, was assassinated in a coup on the night of January 15, 1966, along with Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa, Nigeria’s first–and so far only–elected Prime Minister.
These Were My Father’s Muslims
Published in General
Beautiful, She.
Sir Ahmandu once again makes an appearance. I’m glad you have something to remember him by.
I guess the United States isn’t the only country whose history has been bent and twisted by the thoughtless Woke.
Ethipio was never colonized as I recall. Though Britain did exert immense influence.
Ethiopia wasn’t colonized; however, it was taken over and then messily and brutally occupied by Mussolini (who had deposed Haile Selassie, who’d gone into exile in the UK) for the latter half of the 1930s. In the aftermath of the Italian conquest of neighboring British Somaliland, British and Ethiopians troops kicked the Italians out of Ethiopia, and Selassie returned. Sir Harold Kittermaster was the governor of British Somaliland in the late 20s and early 30s. I presume that’s when he and Selassie met.
It’s so disturbing to watch how people try to desecrate our keepsakes and memories. I hope those granddaughters recovered from the “attack” on their special gifts. And I love the gifts that you and your sister were able to keep. So lovely in so many ways!
If someone gives you a gift of something they own legally and they give it to freely and openly, if you accept it, the gift is is yours, your property, inalienably. It is a statement to the world of the giver’s esteem for you. Doesn’t matter how valuable it is. For a third party to demand its return is craven behavior by that third party. It is to imply the giver was without agency. It is to imply the third party has agency over the recipient and the giver.
There is only one proper reply to that kind of demand. It is not Ricochet CoC compliant.
Yes. It hurts my heart that these two ladies–who proudly took these two items for evaluation and to share their interesting family story–were ambushed by this ignorant and insensitive twerp who couldn’t stop pushing his agenda long enough to see what was in front of his eyes. I’ve grown used to seeing my country, my dad’s life’s work, and my own background insulted, denigrated, and ridiculed over the years, and you do become inured to it after a while. But it’s a shock at the beginning. And it hurts, when you know that perhaps, sometimes, there’s a “rest of the story” that it seems almost no-one is interested in hearing.
I’m encouraged by a few British and American academics who are trying to redress the balance, and most recently by the book Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning, by Oxford Professor, theologian, and ethicist Nigel Biggar. But it’s an uphill struggle.
Yes, exactly. And I’d probably have offered it, had I been in the position occupied by these delightful, polite, ladies, and had the opportunity presented itself.
Thank you. He was a delightful, and a very kind, man. And like most Nigerians of my acquaintance, he cared deeply for family and children. My Nigerian name–given by Sardauna–is Hawa Newman. “Hawa” is the Arabic equivalent of “Eve” and “Newman” is the village where Dad was stationed when I was born.
One of the outcomes of our leaving Nigeria and ending up in Pittsburgh was that my family became the home away from home for dozens of Nigerians who came to Pitt to attend the MA program at GSPIA (Pitt’s Graduate School of Public and International Administration), and most of whom seemed–by some strange quirk–to have brought with them Dad’s phone number and contact information. As might be expected, after he retired and went back to the UK, most of that sort of thing went away.
But, quite a few years ago, I was walking down the street in one of the university areas, and I came across a group of men walking the other way and speaking what I immediately recognized as Hausa (the language I spoke before I spoke English). I stopped them, responded in kind, and asked them how they were. Suddenly, it was “Old Home Week,” and this small group of folks became fast friends, visiting the farm many times during their stay here. They were too young to have known Dad personally, but when I told them I was the daughter of Gagara Yasin, that was that.
I do have to be careful in such matters, though. As I said in the OP, Dad had many enemies. And while I’m pretty sure that there are areas of Nigeria (mostly in the Muslim North) where I could go, announce myself, and be completely safe, there are others where my family connections would result in an immediately slit throat.
So you can take over a country but if you leave quickly it isn’t colonization. Interesting. Thanks for the qualification.
Was France or Poland colonized in WWII? Certainly the Germans had plans to colonize Poland, but they never had time to carry them out. Or was Manchuria colonized by Japan during the period it was Manchukuo? I would argue Taiwan and Korea were colonized by Japan during the period they occupied those two countries, but of Manchuria the best I could say was Japan intended to colonize it, but didn’t have time.
Hm. I think I agreed with your observation, several comments ago, that–technically–Ethiopia wasn’t a “colony” of any particular European power. Ethiopia/Abyssinia was, however, under the heel of Mussolini’s Italy for a few years in the late 1930s as a result of the “Second Italo-Ethiopian War.”
Italy didn’t “leave quickly,” or even on its own recognizance (as one might say the British did in several of their own former colonies). Italy was–pretty brutally–kicked out of its occupation of Ethiopia by the Brits and the Ethiopians themselves.
Not sure what your point is. You’re welcome to clarify.
The visitors reaction might have been akin to finding out that one’s company first sergeant was Dan Daly. A private in that position during World War I supposedly said “You mean he’s real? I thought the Corps made him up, like Paul Bunyan.”
Good post and interesting history.
Personally, I think that it’s a mistake to be ashamed of colonialism, and I think that it’s a mistake to yield to any demand, ever, that something be “repatriated.” This sets us down the road of supposedly trying to right all historical wrongs, which is impossible anyway, and which is implemented quite selectively in practice.
I think that it’s a mistake to be ashamed of conquest and colonialism. These have occurred since time immemorial, and there was no moral angst about it. It used to be, and I think still should be, a point of pride for the people of the great Imperial states like Britain and France, that they were capable of conquering such empires.
The moral angst arose during WWII, I think. It was prompted by hypocritical anti-German and anti-Japanese propaganda, demonizing these countries for doing exactly the same things that Britain, and France, and the US, and Russia, had done before, quite recently. In the case of Russia, they were still doing it during WWII.
This was true of the US, too, though to a lesser extent. We obtained some colonial possessions (bases) from the British, and took others in the Pacific.
I thought the book was good.
The woke racists don’t see the individual as David Mamet has observed. They see an abused group giving something to a privileged group and since Foucalt it has been common to see everything to power.
The humane and decent response to this story is admiration for the friendship and respect shared between two very different people from almost opposite backgrounds. It’s a shame that we now live in a culture that does not recognize the individual.
Perhaps you are looking in the wrong direction, She. The man who claimed to be,
is the party that should be ashamed to inherit the plunder and riches of his nation instead of returning it to them and establishing a proper government.
The only moral act a monarch can do is to abdicate, while surrendering any riches to the cause of establishing a more just form of government.
Keep your gift, it’s certainly a nice memento, and you have every right to keep it. But let’s not pretend that someone pretending to have a divine right to rule is not cracked in the head or worse.
Bingo. Thanks.