Why I shall Always Love Zanzibar by George Pereira

http://zanzibarsogas.blogspot.co.uk/
To me, Zanzibar was the ideal place to have been born and raised in. For one, it was a small little town; small enough to have been called a village, judging by its size. Its multi-cultural population added spice to an otherwise boring life. What made it very cozy was not only that the whitewashed buildings appeared to be hugging each other but that the people were unreservedly generous, tolerant of each other and warm. Above all, it was the lack of sophistication of the population that made it so welcoming and an ideal place on earth. Perhaps it was the best place on earth.

There were many distinct communities in Zanzibar, The Africans, who were by far the majority, lived primarily in an area called “Gambu” where they built their huts and lived peacefully within their own culture which had now become an amalgam of Arab and Swahili culture. This culture was understandably influenced by Islam and so it borrowed appreciably from Arab culture. The Muslim Arabs were the carriers of Islam wherever they went. Occasionally, the Africans held their “Ngomas” (dancing to the haunting sound of African drums.) The majority of Africans were Muslims and like most Muslims in Zanzibar, they were consciously polite and gentle people in spite of the general poverty that was endemic. In fact, the language itself reflected the politeness and gentleness of the people. “Swahili” in its dynamism, also assimilated many words from other languages but particularly from Arabic and Hindi words. The Africans, though in the majority, had few twentieth century skills during the early years of growing up on this island. This was probably due to their lack of formal schooling which had to be paid for. There was no free public education at that time. They usually took up jobs as “domestics” in households, or did menial tasks such as the ones offered to them by the municipality or the Public Works Department. Many were in construction and they were generally relegated jobs that involved heavy lifting. Some of the Africans lived on small pieces of land outside the town boundary and lived a subsistence life growing cassava and sweet potatoes, and raising chickens and goats. Others took up to fishing in the very generous Indian Ocean that hugged and embraced the shores of Zanzibar. Extra fish that were caught were sold at the busy local fish market and one was always assured that the assortment of fish on display would be fresh since they were taken from the pristine Ocean the night before. Refrigeration was unknown then and so the fish had to be sold as quickly as possible in order to maintain their freshness. I recall that one way to tell whether fish were fresh was to open up the gills. If it was a bright red it might be considered safe for eating. As in most developing countries the customer was expected to bargain since the initial asking price was usually very inflated. Bargaining had a cultural component to it. Good bargaining techniques came with years of practice and involved a whole lot of acting and body language that conveyed messages of dissatisfaction, disapproval, walking-away-from-the-deal, or final acceptance expressions. If a customer chose not to bargain he might be considered “foolish” or “retarded”. He might also be considered an ignorant foreigner.

Other Africans worked for wealthy Arab land owners in possession of vast clove and coconut plantations. During the year, the workers were occupied in weeding large tracks of land, and during the picking season, they were up the trees picking cloves or coconuts which were then dried and stored in large burlap sacks for export to places like Russia, India and other countries. The export of cloves and copra were the chief cash crops of Zanzibar. Many Africans also worked the Port area and helped in the task of loading and unloading ships. In those far off days, large goods were transported by “hamali carts”. These were long carts on four wheels, steered by one strong African while the others pushed vigorously at the cart from behind to keep it moving. There were no brakes on these carts so that accidents were liable to take place particularly if the crew operating the carts were irresponsible or in hurry to avoid late deliveries.

Another large group in Zanzibar were the Arabs. Arabs were generally from Yemen. The Sultan of Oman was appointed the Sultan of Zanzibar through a treaty with the British. Consequently, most of the land and houses were owned by Arabs. The Arabs were Muslims. Since Zanzibar society was fashioned around the manorial system as practiced in Europe in the Middle Ages, the Arabs could well be compared to the Lords of the Manor. The serfs were the Africans, and I am sure that there must have been a quiet resentment among the Africans since they were paid a subsistence wage for all the hard work that they performed. It was very rare to see an Arab in the retail business or working as civil servants. The skills and the enthusiasm or the patience for desk jobs were just not there. The Government of Zanzibar, however, was Arab dominated. Eventually this was to change after the Revolution in the sixties.

As you might expect, Indians from India was a sizeable group in Zanzibar. However, this was a very heterogeneous group. Some were Muslims and represented different sects in the Islamic world. Of these groups, the Bohoras, the Ithnasheries and the Ismailis were the largest groups. Most of the Indians were shop keepers and ran a variety of businesses from car sales to selling local and imported produce. For all practical purposes, Zanzibar town looked very much like little India. Most businesses were owned by Indians who generally lived within the confines of the town. This must have been a source of quiet resentment among the indigenes who always viewed the Indians as foreigners and were considered exploitive in their business practices.

The Goans, who refused to be called Indian at this time, were another distinct group. Having migrated from Goa where there was an entrenched Portuguese Colonial government, the Goans felt that they had an edge over their Indian counterparts in as far as they were Christians like their British masters and most of them were fluent in English made even more so by the efforts of the Sisters of the Precious Blood who ran St. Joseph’s Convent school. Catholics were forced to join this school failing which, their salvation was rumoured to be in jeopardy. Most Goans chose to err on the side of eternal salvation more out of the fear of eternal damnation rather than conviction. The Goans were favoured by the British and given priority in joining the civil service. This was in great part due to the innate honesty of the Goans; their ability to work hard and their loyalty to their British bosses. They were cut out to be excellent civil servants. A book written by a British civil servant entitled, “The Isle of Cloves” devoted an entire chapter to the contributions that Goans were making to their adopted country and revealed that without the Goans the British bosses would probably be in limbo with regard to their responsibilities. The author of “The Isle of Cloves” was promptly transferred out of Zanzibar for being on the side of truth. British Colonials referred to this kind of transfer as a promotion. British Colonialism was synonymous with the Russian Gulag.

Wherever the Goans have gone, it would seem that before long, they would get themselves institutionalized. This sounds very innocuous. What I mean is that Goans have always felt the need to band together and form an association. Legend has it that a Goan Association (call it a Club if you must) was a necessary component of Goan life because it gave them an opportunity to meet, expand their friendships, tear down reputations and preserve their “Goanness” whatever that might be. To some it meant the preservation of Konkoni while to others it probably meant the exchange of Goan recipes that were bound to bring disparate groups of Goans together. Finally, it was hoped that through social interaction, children could ultimately find their mates locally rather than having to travel all the way to Goa in search of one. It was never articulated in public, but mixed marriages were not looked upon kindly. These clubs also provided, on a regular basis, social events such as dances, bingos (usually referred to as “housey-housey”) and sports such as billiards, and table tennis. The bar was the watering hole for the young teenagers who felt that a beer or two (and sometimes a lot more) never killed anyone and so the bar became the focal point of many young sports participants and enthusiasts who met after a game of hockey or soccer to share their collective experiences. Some these young adults played “flush” (a variant of poker) at very low stakes.

When the Goans got to Zanzibar at the turn of the 18th Century in search of better opportunities, the need for a Goan Club became very urgent. At that time, the various groups ethnic, religious or cultural banded together because they felt that they had much to preserve from the Mother country and there was always safety in numbers. In essence, it became a multicultural society very much like Canada is today. The British (the Colonial Masters) did not seem to mind this just as long as these groups did not pose a danger to their stake in the colony.

Initially, the band that played at the Goan Club was made up of old veterans from the mother country. One played the drums, another played the violin, yet another played the piano and then there was a sax player. In the context of the times when the Waltz, Quick Step, Slow
Foxtrot, Tango, Samba and the Viennese Waltz was king, this band churned out all the appropriate sounds and tempo for couples to show off the latest steps. Then came Artie Shaw and his band of renown and conventional sounds were challenged. One fine day a Goan artist from Daressalaam (who played Artie Shaw’s famous tunes on his clarinet) introduced the Zanzibaris to those melodious sounds, and music forever began to change. Dancing steps became more vigorous with the entry of Elvis Presley on the music scene much to the discontent of the older folk who viewed jive and jitterbug as crude and a curse visited upon their children. It was only after President Kennedy led the way, that these dance expressions found some respectability and subsequent acceptability.

But dances were not the only activities that were planned by the Goans. There was an active field hockey team (A and B teams) representing the Goans and also an active cricket team. All these teams participated in a variety of leagues which were open to serious competition by the other Club enthusiasts.

When Christmas rolled along, we would have Santa dress in his usual red garb and come and meet the excited children at the Club in a hand pulled rickshaw. When the children had their fun and received their toys, there was a Christmas dance held late in the evening for adults. The bar was well attended and there were quite a few inebriated individuals who in spite of their unsteadiness late into the night still got home safely because most people walked home. Perhaps only a handful of members owned cars. Many participants at these dances promptly left for home at mid-night since it was almost cultural that fights ensued shortly thereafter due to the drunkenness of some individuals.

In the early sixties Sports visits were encouraged between the Daressalaam Goan Institute and the Zanzibar Goan Institute. These were times when there was much excitement in Zanzibar and Daressalaam. It was also a special occasion for all the young boys and girls to meet and develop relationships which parents hoped would eventually end in matrimony. Zanzibar was known by the rest of East Africa (Kenya, Tanganyika, and Uganda) as the one place where teams could look forward to being given a great welcome and a wonderful time. It was also known for its pretty girls.

Most Goan parents in Zanzibar (and I expect elsewhere) were deeply entrenched in the belief in caste. This surfaced particularly when a marriage prospect was to be considered. Somehow, some parents believed that if you married “down” you were marrying someone with some genetic or intellectual disability. Caste also played a pivotal role when it came to membership in the Goan Club. The victims generally denied membership were the Goan cooks, shoe-makers and tailors. As a result the cooks, tailors and shoe makers formed their own association. This form of discrimination will forever be a black mark on the Goan community who, by their very silence, were a party to this degrading and unchristian practice.

They say that it takes a village to raise a child. This is very true of growing up in Zanzibar. Parents kept a religious eye on all the children and this must have assured their safety while they grew up. The great thing about growing up in Zanzibar is that you could go to a friend’s house at any time of the day without phoning ahead, that is, if you had a phone. You were always welcomed and you were assured that you would be treated with generosity and love by the parents. There was also a great deal of sharing. I recall that our Parsee friends Saros and Goderich Engineer had parents (Parsees) who would order Laurel and Hardy Comics from the UK. Saros and Goderich were considered by their friends to be very fortunate to have wealthy parents who could afford all kinds of toys particularly during the war years. However, Saros and Goderich were very generous and shared whatever they had very willingly. I remember being a regular visitor to their house and enjoyed the “Beano” and “Dandy” comics that appeared at regular intervals. “Captain Marvel” and “Captain Marvel Jr” comics were in short supply but somehow Saros and Goderich always had them.

The Goan Institute surely fulfilled its purpose at least in Zanzibar. To me it became the meeting place of all my friends. We could have healthy fun and grow into mature adults. Above all, the Club provided parents with security that their children were safe, and this took the potential for worry out of parenting.

There were other groups such as the Parsees, Comorians, Chinese and Iranians. All these groups were integrated into Zanzibar society and played an important role in the development of Zanzibar.

The final group were the British Colonials. They were the privileged ones. They had their own exclusive English Club and Golf Club. They generally went about their business without attracting much attention from the public. From time to time, bits of gossip trickled to the community about the misconduct of the Britishers at their Club particularly after they had much to drink. They made excellent rulers but their private lives were generally a shambles. The British did not mix with the “locals” on a social level. Those who made any attempts to do so were ostracised by their own and were often forced to leave the island or were transferred to another less hospitable colony as a penalty.

Our teenage years in Zanzibar were also quite interesting. In spite of all the teenage urges that occupy ones universe of desires at that age, we were still able to exercise a great deal of restraint particularly with the opposite sex. It would be pointless to compare our teenage years with how we see teenagers in North America conduct themselves and the freedoms that they are allowed. Ours was one which was based on sometimes imposed respect for the girls we knew. Sexual contact was taboo. Girls getting pregnant outside marriage were considered “wayward” and they were ostracised by the Goan community. Somehow, even the family of the pregnant girl got ostracised with the shame of it all. As a result, girls were very careful about their virginity, and boys were too scared to be saddled with an unwanted pregnancy particularly because it meant a shot gun marriage if pregnancy did occur. Furthermore, most young boys and girls were looking forward to furthering their education, a theme that was drummed in by the parents since kindergarten. An unwanted pregnancy would bring a swift end to their ambitions. Fear of venereal diseases also had a very moderating influence on sexual conduct. A.I.D.S. was not known then, but there were other sexually transmitted diseases that were considered as life threatening as H.I.V. (A.I.D.S.)

Growing up in Zanzibar was constantly monitored by parents and friends alike. Neighbours were not reluctant to correct you if they found you doing the wrong thing. Neighbours were respected and so were friends of the family. There was always an awareness that if we did not listen to our elders, we would have to reckon with our parents and this meant serious corporal punishment befitting the offence. There was a deep seated belief in the adage “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Children were to be seen and not heard particularly in the presence of their parents and elders. I really do not believe that it was a good life skill. But I am sure that this made the lives of our parents a lot more bearable than it is for parents today.

St. Joseph’s Convent School in Zanzibar has got to be the pulse of our lives as we grew up We were given the discipline that would stand us in good stead, not only in school, but also in later life. My experiences in this School are what movies are made of and on reflection often leave a smile on my face.

Many parents who were forced to leave Zanzibar because of the convulsions of the political system would give their right arm to have brought up their children in Zanzibar. Their children would have had a full childhood free from the stresses of life as it is known in the West today. In the West children are forced to become latch-key kids because economics in the West demands two wages to make ends meet. Children are often denied their childhood that they rightfully deserve and this will forever influence their attitudes and relationship in the future.

Many Zanzibaris tell me that the Zanzibar of the twenty-first century has changed dramatically. The old values have been laid to rest in preference for the values of the West. While this was inevitable, I know I shall always cherish the Zanzibar that I once knew and still love unreservedly.

A Story to be Told: John Baptiste da Silva - 1937-2013

By A. Tapper & F. McKenna - from EA Circle

The wind was blowing and the movie screen was shaking on a hotel rooftop high above the remains of Stone Town, ancient capital of the Zanzibar archipelago. Yet John da Silva, then 75, was undeterred. He wanted to tell his story. Many followers and friends will remember how the frail man with spectacles made up his way on the steep staircase of Emerson Spice hotel to give entertaining power point lectures about the elaborate and often painful history of Zanzibar, every fortnight or so. The audience of eager listeners was growing every week - tourists, expatriates and locals alike.

John da Silva passed away on March 20, 2013 at the age of 76, with his family by his side, leaving many wondering: Who, now, will pick up where the renowned historian left and continue to tell the story?

Da Silva, who died of heart complications, some related to diabetes, had been ill for some time and leaves behind his devoted daughters Donna, Valerie and Cecilia, his adored nieces Bernadine, Presilda, Lucas, Lorna, Francesca, Lorraine, Ulrica, Roselee and Ramona, and three brothers Santana, Abel and Cajetan. His wife Carmen, who he had met and married in Zanzibar, died in 1993 and his late brother Rudolph had passed away recently.

Not least, he leaves an island, which is in mourning today for a man universally loved, admired and cherished for his gentle, generous and gregarious soul, his sharp wit, intellectual brilliance and tenacious dedication to the integrity of Zanzibar and its people. All its people. Those from every community he so lovingly sought to be preserved in their intertwined intricacies of their diverse histories.

The historian, artist and family father was Zanzibar's living memory. And he had indeed a story to tell. Of artistically carved doors of Indian, Persian and Arab origin, of Sultans' times and merchandise, of Zanzibar's development over the centuries under the gentle trade winds of the monsoon. Audiences were spellbound when he talked about "The doors of Zanzibar", "The history of Cosmopolitan Commerce" or "The history of Zanzibar thorough old photos" as some of his lectures were titled. In his later years, when the end of the Cold War in Africa and the world finally enabled him to speak more freely, Da Silva was using his private archives of photos, drawings, street maps, shop signs and files to bring to life chapters of the rich history of Zanzibar, the spice islands off the coast of Tanzania. He presented facts and photos, which might have otherwise been lost forever.

As the main historian of Zanzibar he had witnessed it all: Born in Portuguese Goa on the 24th January, 1937, as the son of Goan immigrants, his family moved to Zanzibar in 1947. His father, a renowned tailor, had been the dressmaker of the island's ninth sultan, Seyyid Sir Khalifa II bin Harub Al-Said. The Omanis had ruled Zanzibar for two centuries before it became independent. As history has it, John's father also designed and stitched a dress for Princess Margret from England during her state visit to Zanzibar in 1954. Often, little John was to make the deliveries of the royal gowns to his father's clients.

In 1964, when Zanzibar became part of Tanzania after a bloody revolution where many were killed and fled the country, da Silva stayed on initially working for the local registrar. In 1958 he started work in accounting, but his interest in art soon led him to work on the restoration of of the paintings and murals in the Catholic Cathedral of St Joseph. Built by the French about 1898, the Cathedral's Romanesque style is a replica of the basilica of Notre Dame de La Garde Marseilles.

Although Da Silva's early paintings featured Zanzibar portraits, the work on the Cathedral stimulated his interest in the architecture of Stone Town. Concerned that there was no documentation of these diverse architectural styles influenced by cultures of the Omani Arabs, Indians, Persians and European colonials, he soon focused his art on the buildings of Stone Town.

Da Silva captured these facades in pen and ink and watercolour as well as with his camera. He leaves a collection of over 300 photos, and in many instances, the only known record of the carved wooden doors, windows, iron lattice work decorating the balconies, alleys, streets, historical and architectural important buildings of Stone Town.

Over the years he saw the decay of the main island's historic city centre, a unique collection of 2000 or so elaborate palaces, temples, merchant houses built entirely from coral stone, most of them stemming from the height of Zanzibar's development in the mid-19th century.

"In 1880, this was one of the richest trade towns in the world after New York, Paris and London; we had a garage for Rolls Royce cars here but only a one-mile-stretch of road", da Silva used to amuse his listeners in his typical dry humour.

Following the revolution in Zanzibar it was not allowed to photograph Stone Town - yet, although it endangered his freedom, da Silva did. As an historian he felt a personal obligation to document the fate of the islands, which had seen 11 dynasties of Omani rulers in three centuries, before it became a British protectorate in 1890, and where last Sultan, Barghash, had built "The House of Wonders", Africa's first property with electricity and an elevator south of the Sahara.

John da Silva was intimately connected to the history of the island. Not only in talking but also in doing. He personally re-painted some of the frescoes of St. Joseph Cathedral, the centre of Catholic faith on the predominantly Muslim island, and he took part, although not voluntarily, in the building of the so-called German Flats, a present of residential buildings by former East German Democratic Republic to Zanzibar.

His walking tours became legendary amongst visitors to the island, often undertaken in his later life with the help of a walking stick in searing tropical heat during periods of ill health. Walking with Da Silva, Stone Town became a living museum. He pointed out the details that distinguished the Arab (Swahili) doors from the Indian (Zanzibar has the largest number of carved doors in East Africa): the simplicity of the Arab mosques as compared to the ornate Indian mosques and four Hindu temples: Gothic, Italian and English window styles all in the same building; history learned from change of ownership of buildings as new rulers came to power.

In 1991 the united Republic of Tanzania approved a proposal by Da Silva to dedicate a series of postage stamps to the rich architectural heritage of Stone Town. A unique collection of four stamps was issued featuring his pen and watercolour drawings of the National Museum, The High Court building, the Balnarna Mosque and a Balcony.

Not last with da Silva's documentation and scholarly assistance Stone Town was declared a UNESCO world heritage site in 2000. Experts fear, however, that 80 per cent of the building stock is already beyond repair. The House of Wonders was turned into a Museum in 2002, and is currently under repair after parts of the backside of the historic monument collapsed late last year. John da Silva was furious about this, as he always was when neglect overran conservation.

He was an ardent defender of historical sites appreciating their immeasurable value against all odds. A conservationist of high moral standard, he always pleaded in favour of protecting the cultural sites of Zanzibar in all their variety - but also stressed that he did not want Stone Town to become a museum nor a collection of boutique hotels. Meaningful restoration to him meant authentic, multi-purpose reuse of old structures. The preservation and restoration had to be done without creating a sterile, new environment affordable only to the wealthy and the tourists.

John da Silva loved the island, which was his home and the island loved him. He was one of Zanzibar's true and rare cosmopolitans. He has lived to tell his story.

Da Silva's funeral mass took place Thursday 21st March at St Joseph's Cathedral, Stone Town  and was followed by his interment at Mwanakwerekwe Cemetery.

Princess Salme of Zanzibar

Early one day in 1866 a young woman dressed in the black bui-bui robes of a Muslim stepped onto the Zanzibar town beach near Shangani Point. (Shangani means 'the place of beads'). She had the posture of a royal person, purposeful and erect for she was a Princess of Zanzibar. However she was also the daughter of a slave. Her name was Princess Salme bint Said and her father was the greatest Sultan of Zanzibar and Oman, Sultan Said al Busaid and her mother, Jilfidan, a Circassian concubine of the harem. Her half-brother was the current Zanzibar Sultan, Majid bin Said and the next sultan, Sultan Barghash bin Said another brother. 

Following Princess Salme were two servant women. Ostensibly she was there to take part in a religious ceremony, a formal washing in the sea. In fact she was there to elope, to save her life, for she was an unmarried woman and pregnant. Furthermore, she had formed a relationship with an infidel, a German Christian. The step she was taking might save her life but would change it for ever. So dangerous was her plan that she had not even told her trusted servants what she was about to do.

A rowing boat from a British warship approached the shore. Two men leapt out into the shallow tropical water. Salme’s servants screamed in terror at the strange white men and tried to pull their mistress away but she escaped their clutches, ran to the boat and was carried aboard. She did not wail and scream as they did.

Princess Salme carried with her a small bag containing all her jewels and gold. She must have realised that it was unlikely that she would ever return and in that bag she secreted a small container of sand – the pure white tropical sand of Zanzibar. It would be found in her possessions when she died 58 years later. 

Alastair Hazell described the story in his book, 'The Last Slave Market' as follows,

"The first day of the Muslim year was known in Zanzibar as Nauruzi or Siku ya Mwaka, and on that night it was customary for the women to bathe in the sea and pray for good health in the coming year. In 1866, Nauruzi fell on 24 August, and that was the night planned for Seyyida Salme to leave Zanzibar....After dark, she and two of her slaves went down to the beach, and no one paid much attention as they walked into the shallow water. During the festival there was much fooling around, laughter and high spirits, so when one of the slave girls was heard running from the beach shrieking loudly, no one took any notice. But the next day the Highflyer (British Navy) left her anchorage, sailing during the night without the usual notification, and Seyyida Salme had not returned to her house."

A Balanced Development by Bhadra Vadgama

Who am I? Awareness of my multifaceted identity came to me at the age of 17.

I was born in a Krishna devoted Hindu family on the Island of Zanzibar, situated on the eastern coast of Africa. Zanzibar & Pemba Islands were under the rule of an Omani Sultan, but under British protection with the presence of a British Resident on the Island. Zanzibar is now a part of Tanzania.

Thus, I grew up with Muslim, African, Hindu and British cultures. As children we enjoyed the four days funfair held at the end of the Ramadhan to celebrate Eid. Children and parents from all faiths mingled together, buying new toys. watching puppet shows in Swahili, going on a ferris wheel and a merry-go-round pushed by African men and eating Indian style Zanzibar mix and roasted mohogo. Zanzibar being a small town, during the Muharram period, we would hear the laments by Shia Muslims on public PA system. We went to watch the Muharram processions and Ismaili celebrations. We heard the call from mosques three times a day.

As Hindus, we celebrated the festival of Diwali and the New Year in great style; we got up before dawn to have a dip in the ocean during the Hindu holy month of Adhik Maas [Purshottam Maas] and did the ritual puja on the beach. Despite our annual exams being close by, we celebrated all nine days of Navaratri by dancing late into the evening. We participated in dance and drama for India’s Independence & the Republic Day celebrations. We fasted for Janmashtami & Ramanavami and went to temples to worship Shitlamata [the deity who protected children from infectious diseases] too. On Christmas day we went to picnics on a beach away from the town, had a swim in the ocean, enjoyed Indian savouries and sweets and played Antakshari of Bollywood songs, without the slightest thought of Jesus in our mind. We waited outside the English Club on New Year’s Eve to watch the glamorously dressed English ladies in their evening gowns. As part of the Queen’s birthday celebrations I lined up with other Girl Guides in the presence of many dignitaries when the monarch was greeted with 21 guns salute.

When I wore shalwaar-kameez, my staunch Hindu grandma would say to me ‘Hey young girl, if I touched you in the street and didn’t realise it was you, I would go home and have a bath.’ My mother too had the same traditional values and yet my dad was a Theosophist, with the motto ‘There is no religion higher than truth’. Thus he believed in the equality of all religions. My mum went along with him against my grandma’s nagging, ‘I am not happy with your husband’s involvement with this ‘theo sukhi’ [be happy] group!’ That’s how she used to refer to Theosophy.

In our home, my mum worshiped the child idol of Krishna, the practice I accepted gracefully but like my cousins, I didn’t partake in religious singsong held by my mum in the house. In mum’s ‘Mandali’ [religious singing group] they will be singing ‘Jay Jay Maharani Jamuna’ in praise of the Holy River Jamuna, while we sang in our Young Students Group, Vidyarthini Mandal, ‘Oh the builder of this world, why have you made such a world where people offer you a feast knowing well that you wouldn’t be eating it, while outside the temple there linger starving beggars?’ My mum would rebuke me, ‘How can you reprimand God? You should be singing his praises.’ We used to call our temples ‘Bhaktanun’ and visited it every evening after a walk on the beach and listened to the ‘kirtans’ sung by male devotees before we got home for the evening meal.

Most Hindus discriminated against Muslim African who was not allowed to enter our kitchens and so we would have a Hindu servant to do the job. After some time, a change took place and my mum allowed the African servant to wash the dishes but she poured water over them and left them to dry in the sun before putting them away. We were segregated as untouchables in the home for the first three days during our menstrual periods but we didn’t remain housebound and took part in all outdoor activities. It was easy to fit all this in the system of tolerant Hindu traditions.

When it came to education, leave aside the Convent or the Aga Khan schools, we weren’t even allowed to be friends with the so called ‘liberated’ girls who attended the Arya Samaj Girls School. They wore shorts and did exercises like boys!! Arya Samajists didn’t believe in idol worship and we dotted on our child Krishna’s idol! In our favour, for some reason, the Arya Samaj Girls School closed down and all the girls joined our Hindu Girls School, which was free for all. At that age, the philosophy of Hinduism and its various sects had no meaning for us. There were also a few Ithanashari [Shia Muslim] girls from progressive families who studied in our school, but they had to pay minimal fees.

Since we paid no fees, our school was maintained through donations from philanthropic businessmen. Without any barrier of caste, all Hindu girls studied here. There were some who came from wealthy traditional families, some from more liberal families, and some with little or no money, some with no sense of hygiene, with lice crawling over their oily hair or some who looked like they never had a bath for days. I even remember obscene writings about sex and sexuality written in our toilets which we read without understanding their meanings.

Kutchi was my home language but throughout the primary education taught through Gujarati medium, we mastered Gujarati fairly well. We started learning English as a second language from Standard Six or so. Everything progressed in a typically Indian tradition. We had some progressive Parsi lady teachers and headmistresses during my years at school, but a male headteacher was appointed much later in the 50s. While I was at school, we had a Goan Head for the first time, maybe it was my dad’s influence as the Chair of the Board of Governors of the School! Since her arrival, the standard of English in the school improved.

To get admission into Government Girls Secondary School, we had to take an entrance exam which consisted of tests in English and Maths. All primary school girls from the Islands of Zanzibar & Pemba sat for this exam. Many girls learnt by heart essays written in English on some common topics. If lucky, they got one of these and so did well for themselves. From the Asian communities we had the Bohora, Hindu and the Aga Khan primary school girls to compete with. Majority of entries were given to the Arab and African girls and one-third to the Asians. So depending on one’s ability to do well in the exam, helped by luck, one got admitted to this secondary school. In 1953 there were only 4 girls from Hindu school who got through the Entrance Exam, two of them happened to be my sister and me. Many clever students failed to get admission and ended up going to the Convent School or discontinuing their education. Later girls were admitted to the Aga Khan Boys Secondary School, and much later Hindus opened a mixed gender secondary school.

The switch from Gujarati to English as the medium of instruction in my secondary school was quite challenging. Most of the teachers were from Britain. So to understand their accent was also difficult. But we managed. It was the first time we sat next to African and Arab girls and became close friends with Muslim Gujarati girls.

Such was my Hindu Indian childhood. We had a library of excellent books in Gujarati at home, so at the age of 13, I had read G. M Tripathi’s classic novel ‘Saraswatichandra’, whereas the first English novel I ever read was ‘Anne of Green Gables’ when I was in Year 11. I wasn’t even aware of the existence of the British Council Library until much later in my school days.

The history we learnt at school was that of the British Empire and so the fight by Indian sepoys for their rights in 1857 was accepted as a Mutiny by Indian students, as described by the British history teacher. We learnt to rejoice in the victory of the British in the Battle of Plessey. I had very little awareness of the fight for India’s Independence. I had memories of joining in the early morning processions going round the narrow streets of the town, singing Indian patriotic songs asking Britain to quit India. I remember attending a big Yagna arranged when Mahatma Gandhi died and having been part of masses of people who had gathered at the docks to have a glimpse of his ashes. I had been to India for the first time in 1946 in the midst of Hindu- Muslim riots, but I had very little understanding of why this was happening. There was not a trace of the local history of Zanzibar in our syllabus which was set by Cambridge University Examination Board in UK. When that was the case, learning about the Asian contribution to the growth of East Africa was out of the question.

I loved Indian music and knew many Bollywood songs, but my first English song was learnt when I joined the Girl Guides. Household chores done in the English style were also learnt when trying to get a few proficiency badges. In our domestic science classes at school, I learnt how to sweep the floor with a broom; at home we used a typical Indian sweep [fagiyo] made from grass or coconut leaf stalks. I learnt to iron a shirt and wash woollies though I didn’t even own one. Fortunately, all this was of immense help to me when I made Britain my home.

In 1957 there was a World Centenary Camp for Girl Guides at Windsor in UK. After going through many competitions, I was chosen to represent Zanzibar together with an Arab Guide. We were asked to take our national costumes with us and learn a song in our language to entertain other Guides at the Camp. Do you think either of us even thought of wearing a Swahili outfit? The Arab Guide wore her Omani Arab outfit and being a Kutchi I wore mirror-embroidered Chania-choli & Odhani. And to be honest at that time I did not know a single Swahili song.

I was there as an Indian – totally. But, there were 30 to 35 Guides from India and no one included me in their group. They were invited to perform their songs and dances for the whole camp; but no one asked me to sing my Gujarati song! That was the first time, I realised I was not Indian, but a Zanzibari. However, that too turned out to be an illusion. I was chosen to shake hands with the Queen. I had even done the rehearsal, when one of the British Guiders came and very apologetically told me that they had a telegram from Zanzibar that the Arab Guide, and not I, was to be presented to the Queen. So it was the first time that I became aware of the fact, that neither was I an Indian, nor a Zanzibari, but a second class citizen of an Arab Sultanate. This was my first experience of being the one with the wrong skin colour! And though a holder of British passport with the status of British Subject, I had never felt British. But I did know in great detail the history of the Union Flag and where the white crosses on it were narrow and where wider.

So who was I?

In 1957, I was a young girl on the threshold of adulthood, created as a result of multicultural balanced upbringing, geographically on the land of Africa, brought up with totally Indian Gujarati Hindu traditions and values, and with educational qualification based on a syllabus, that was set by a British Examination Board.

Of course with years and a wider range of influences on my life, my identity never remained static and despite the changes I faced in life, now I feel like a well grounded British Asian resident of London.

A Childhood in Zanzibar in the 1940s

From Maggie Thomas in Canada

My father, Arthur James’s next transfer was when I was two years old (I was born in Karachi in 1934) and it was to Zanzibar of the coast of East Africa and a British trust territory. ZANZIBAR This was perhaps the happiest home of my childhood because my parents and I lived there together for nearly 6 years.

It was an idyllic existence for expatriates; an island paradise with breathtakingly beautiful beaches, tall swaying palm trees, pure drinking water, an active social life of tennis, golf, swimming, cricket, sparkling dinner and garden parties and weekends on the beach. The men worked hard and the women played bridge. Gertrude soon earned a reputation as the second best bridge player on the island...the best being the representative of the Queen known as the "Resident" Sir John Hawthorn Hall, formerly Governor of Aden.

My memories of my mother, Gertrude, thankfully known as Gemmy, at this time are that whenever I wanted to chat I was told to ‘shush!’ because of the increasingly worrying BBC news on the radio or because a tense hand of bridge was being played in our living room. I enjoyed the dregs of the four gin and tonics on a few occasions and slept extraordinarily well on those afternoons until I was caught in the act.

My life was supervised by my mother but my constant companions were my ayah or nanny and the mzee or head steward. My ayah spoke no English so I very quickly became fluent in Kiswahili and when I was a little older started to teach my father this language which is the lingua franca of East Africa. My day started with a glass of orange juice, a walk to the Victoria Gardens which were our morning play ground, home for breakfast and then play time with other children either at their or my home and after lunch a two hour rest. In the late afternoon we walked to Mnazi Moja (one Palm Tree) recreation ground and golf course adjacent to the sea shore and played there. Breakfast was the only meal I shared with my parents.

I recall when Mzee was ill and hospitalised and I was missing him terribly I ordered the Bank rickshaw and it took my ayah and myself to the African hospital where room was made for me to sit on his bed amongst his many friends and relations. I remember being made welcome and feeling very happy and comfortable with my friend. My poor ayah took the undeserved blame for this escapade when it was discovered that she had 'allowed' me to order that rickshaw!

Zanzibar was ruled at that time by an Arab sultan, Sir Khalifa Il Bin Harub Sayidd descendant of the Sultans of Oman, in cooperation with the British. It was a British Trust Territory. Zanzibar is the island of cloves and I remember watching Arabs rioting when the government decided they could not dry their cloves on the beaches. I watched from an upstairs window of the bank as they rushed down the narrow street shouting and waving sticks. I was fascinated and frightened...I was about five years old and the picture remains vivid.

The European children in Zanzibar at that time had one claim to fame. When war broke out and there were sinkings of British ships in the Atlantic and Indian Ocean's defences were built against a possible German naval invasion. These were in the form of sandbagged trenches all along the coast of the island. They were erected along the beach just beyond the fields of Mnazi Moja and made perfect forts and castles for us during our afternoon playtime. Shortly after they were erected a strongly worded letter of complaint was sent to the parents by the Resident. He complained that a significant portion of the coastal defences of Zanzibar island had been had been breached and demolished by their children. This vandalism must cease forthwith. Needless to say this letter was the cause of much hilarity as parents considered the obvious fragility of island security which had been so easily destroyed by their children.

We left Zanzibar when my father was transferred back to India in June 1940....Italy was just about to enter the war. We sailed into Mombasa, Kenya and my parents stayed on board (my mother suffering from malaria) while I was taken ashore by a friend. We spent the day with the wife of a previous Zanzibar Bank Manager, Flora MacLeod, of whom I was very fond. As we drove around the city with me sitting quietly in the back of the car, the two women discussed the dangers to Kenya which shared a border with what was then Italian Somaliland...now Somalia. Would the Italians invade? Traffic policemen had been issued with gleaming white gloves which could be seen in a blackout.

The Arab Chests of the Peoples of the Monsoon

The image shows the chest in the entrance hall of the hotel: Africa House in Stonetown, Zanzibar This was the old 'English Club'.

They are known as ‘Arab’ Chests but that is only part of the story. There is no collective name for the communities of the Indian Ocean that created these amazing chests: chests to store peoples’ most precious possessions. I like to think of them as peoples of the monsoon - a community of coastal civilisations that relied on the powerful winds of the Indian Ocean. From China, through Asia, western India, to the Arabian Gulf and down to the East African coast the winds allowed trade to take place and these chests are their testament.

Our family owns an Arab chest. It was purchased over 60 years ago in Zanzibar. Nowadays Arab chests are collectors items, found in the museums of the African coast and old houses of the Arabian Peninsula, particularly of Oman. The diverse origins of the solid wooden, brass-studded and plated chests that are called ‘Arab’ chests are deep in history. Research by a collector, Sheila Unwin, has revealed some of these cultural roots. The chests were trade items that came from the West Indian coast, from Surat down past Bombay. Local craftsmen made the chests from teak, rosewood and shisham. They were exported to Arabia and some were transported onwards down the coast to Africa. The chests were often the prized possessions of the dhow captains, the nakhodas.

The Portuguese had brought their own sea chests with them when they sailed into the Indian Ocean in the 16Century. These invaders devastated the region, wiping out cities, overpowering local rulers and building their sea-facing forts from Kilwa in Africa, Muscat in Oman to Goa in India. Their chests were on fretted stands and local craftsmen admired and adopted this design into their chest making. There is a golden16^th Century Chinese screen painting depicting Portuguese traders arriving in China. The high backed caravel is filled with people offloading boxes of trading goods. Two sumptuously dressed Chinese officials are seated on the shore observing the activity. Clearly drawn at their feet is an ‘Arab’ chest.

The Dutch were the next conquerors and brought their camphorwood sea chests to India. From them the ‘Arab’ chest inherited the brass knobs and backplates. The Chinese gave the chest makers the idea of the ingenious three-ring-padlocks and the internal cash boxes or till boxes were probably copied English chests.

When the simple chests reached Oman brass decoration could be added according to the wishes of the owner. In the simple Arab houses of the Gulf, there was no furniture. Persian carpets decorated the floors and embossed niches held items of decorative value. Valuable possessions were kept in the prized chests and a bride would leave home with her valuables, her dowry, in a new chest – often painted red to symbolise fertility.

In the 19 century Zanzibar grew rich on the monsoonal trade. The winds also brought invaders to her shores. It was a safe port with rich fishing grounds, fertile soils and it facilitated the trade from the east and from the rich African interior. Zanzibar had many chests for sale in the old days. They arrived with the NE Monsoon that blows from October to March. It was where our family bought the chest that graced our home.

It came from a tiny Stonetown shop or dukka along Portuguese Alley, now called Gizenga Street. Recently I opened the chest’s lid to see if it had a secret drawer under the small till box. It did. Inside was a piece of paper, yellowed and insect eaten. The writing was in Arabic, beautifully scripted. A friend did the translation and explained that it was a prayer, a dua, a promise to Allah. I returned it in the drawer where the previous owner had put it for safekeeping. With the chest, it had travelled a long way.

The Arab Doors of Stone Town

The doors of Stone Town, Zanzibar, add much to the character of the town and with the buildings make up the architecture that earned it a World Heritage listing. The coralline thick walled houses of the ancient city are simple and imposing but their most distinctive feature is their doors. The door was the visual statement of the occupant’s status in society. The home was a protected place, its privacy of vital importance in a Muslim society.

No two doors are the same. Look carefully and take in the various elements. The outermost frame usually shows a slim chain. The chain was meant to capture evil spirits that tried to enter the home. There is an inner frame, a lintel, frieze, centre post and shutters. The range of styles, of carving, makes each one a delight. There is much symbolism in the images. See if you can find the sea waves, fish or pineapple emblems that are at the bottom of the frame. The rows of dates in the centre post hark back to wishes for plenty. There are Indian influences, the winding lotus; the tree of life motif. Some doors have a central Koranic inscriptions in the lintel, one of which says, ‘Enter peacefully, believers’.

One of the pleasures of Stone Town is to wander the narrow streets and back alleys. You can find imposing doors in the old palaces but many gems are to be found in the hidden corners of the city. I bought a copy of the book, ‘Doors of Zanzibar’ by Rau and Mwalim and with the help of the enclosed map located some of the doors Rau photographed from Malindi to Shangani. Unfortunately, many doors have deteriorated in the eighteen years since these images were taken.

Around 500 doors remain. There are over 1700 houses in Stone Town, approximately 1300 are deemed to be of architectural significance. Over 100 have already collapsed. In my meanderings through the twisting streets I would suddenly find a sun filled space piled with stones where paw-paw trees climbed into the light. ‘We are losing what we had’. Charles Hiza of the Aga Khan’s Cultural program told me. The Aga Khan Cultural Services have a Historical Cities Support Program which has restored various significant sites and houses. It is race against time.

A house owner remarked that only 13% of the houses are in a good state of repair. Round many doors, blocks of the coralline stone are collapsing. Another local told me that it is better to let a house collapse as then you can build a cement block house without restriction on the site. He was frustrated with the law that requires permission from the Stone Town Conservation and Development Authority for any building work to be done. I was told that 300 buildings have been sold to the private sector on condition that they are repaired. Some houses are being preserved as boutique hotels.

The doors are showing their age, the effects of weather and neglect. Created during the heyday of construction in Stone Town most doors are around 150 years old. Although many are built of teak and built to last they do need care in the monsoonal climate. Dampness leads to rotting of the wood and termites can take hold. Some doors have lost their architraves, many doors have lost the brass studs and dark scars show their absence. Removed studs can be found for sale in the curio shops for a few dollars each.

Stone Town is a living, vibrant city. The doors are not museum pieces but used and enjoyed by residents and admired by tourists. However the new wave of tourism has resulted in the loss of many doors from the island. I have seen whole doors complete with heavy lintels and frames stacked for sale outside a Johannesburg curio shop.

There are many reports and plans for the conservation of Stone Town but from outward appearances it seems to be a losing battle. Each door removed, each house that collapses is a loss of its precious history, a loss for our future generations.