***

KUALA LUMPUR: The recent conviction of former US President George W Bush and several members of his administration by the Kuala Lumpur War Crimes Tribunal, while largely ignored by foreign media, drew a variety of reactions from bloggers and blog readers.

Bush and seven others – Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Alberto Gonzales, David Addington, William Haynes, Jay Bybee and John Yoo — were found guilty by the Tribunal on May 11 after four days of testimony over their conduct during American intervention in Afghanistan and Iraq.

“At the end of the week-long hearing, the five-panel tribunal unanimously delivered guilty verdicts against Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and their key legal advisors who were all convicted as war criminals for torture and cruel, inhumane and degrading treatment,” wrote British journalist Yvonne Ridley, who had been covering the tribunal.

“The Kuala Lumpur War Crimes Commission is also asking that the names of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, Gonzales, Yoo, Bybee, Addington and Haynes be entered and included in the Commission’s Register of War Criminals for public record,” Ridley noted.

This is the second time Bush has been convicted by the KLWCT. Last November, the Tribunal found him and former British Prime Minister Tony Blair guilty of war crimes after a trial that Princeton University law professor Richard Falk said “offers a devastating critique of the persisting failures of international criminal law mechanisms of accountability to administer justice justly, that is, without the filters of impunity provided by existing hierarchies of hard power”.

Writing in his blog shortly after the conviction of Bush and Blair last November, former Prime Minister Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad echoed Falk’s assessment, saying the United Nations and the international community had failed to punish powerful world leaders who had committed terrible crimes.

“The world should not accept this failure,” Mahathir wrote. “Somehow some punishment should be meted to countries and leaders guilty of international crimes. Their deeds must be put before a court of law and the verdict pronounced.”

Guardian columnist Seumas Milne has also criticised the selectiveness International Criminal Court, writing on May 15 in an article about the misdeeds of Nato in Libya: “In the 10 years of its existence, the International criminal court has indicted 28 people from seven countries for war crimes and crimes against humanity. Every single one of them is African – even though ICC signatories include war-wracked states such as Colombia and Afghanistan.”

‘Long overdue’

The Kuala Lumpur War Crimes Tribunal’s most recent verdict drew mostly praise in blogs focused on American politics and foreign policy, along with criticism of the current US administration for not prosecuting Bush and his co-accused.

Mississippi-based Vjack wrote in the blog Red State Progressive: “I believe that the efforts of this tribunal highlight the need for the U.S. to prosecute Bush and his cronies for war crimes and shine a light on the inexcusable decision by the Obama administration to shield Bush from prosecution.”

Rmuse wrote in American liberal blog Politicususa that it is “shameful” that the United States has not prosecuted Bush and the others who were convicted in Kuala Lumpur.

“George Washington opined that any American who mistreated prisoners of war was guilty of bringing ‘shame, disgrace, and ruin to themselves and their country,’ and over 230 years later, evil men like Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld brought America’s standing in the world to a new low by authorising torture,” he wrote.

“It is a travesty they are not in an isolation cell in a federal penitentiary and that they are able to move about the country as free men,” he continued.

“The witnesses who were tortured are also free because they were found to be innocent, but they still bear the physical and psychological scars from being rounded up like dogs, water-boarded, hung, had their fingernails pulled out with pliers, and kept in isolation by American military personnel and private contractors,” he said.

A commenter in Foreign Policy Journal wrote: “Long overdue! It is unfortunate that our Commander in Chief didn’t have the courage to go after Bush and company. Especially after his speech that no one is above the law, and those who broke the law would be held accountable.”

British journalist and historian Andy Worthington decried the lack of coverage of the tribunal in the Western media but said “the pressure is building”.

“US citizens need to know about this ruling, and also to know that, although there is no direct mechanism whereby it can lead to putting Bush and co. in the dock, the legal basis for the ruling is sound. The only absence of legitimacy is in the US, where the disdain for international laws and treaties continues,” he wrote in the comments section of his blog,” he said.

“America certainly behaves as though no laws apply to it, but having said that, I doubt that Bush or any of his cronies will be in a hurry to visit Malaysia after this ruling,” he added.

Another blogger wrote in Elephant Journal: “While it’s (highly) doubtful the former President and his officials would be arrested on American soil, further trials like this one could make it difficult for them to travel abroad, where they could be arrested due to the principle of universal jurisdiction which applies to torture, war crimes, genocide, extrajudicial executions, and crimes against humanity.”

‘Kangaroo court’

There was also criticism of the Tribunal’s verdict, with Luke Hunt of The Diplomat saying “The KLWCT wouldn’t be described as a kangaroo court if it had any form of legitimacy. It does not.”

“Mahathir’s antics and the unconventional tactics of the KLWCT simply detract from tribunals where very serious issues are being dealt with, such as the genocides in Cambodia and Rwanda,” Hunt said. “Despite their flaws (and there are many) they hold a recognition backed by a U.N. mandate that legitimizes their investigations, prosecutions and findings among the public and victims they serve.”

“The Kuala Lumpur tribunal holds none of these characteristics,” he continued. “Mahathir is an old political stager and may have had his day in court, which should delight him. But to be clear in regards to Bush, Blair and the War on Terror, no one else has legitimately had theirs.”

A commenter at Loonwatch wrote: “What an embarrassment for poor Malaysia. One can only imagine the extent of the politics in that country that resulted in such a confused ‘trial’ (without any defense witnesses of course) verdict like this.”

“I hope the lumpen KualaLumpurians have deep bomb shelters,” wrote a commenter in Foreign Policy Journal. “Any more of this nonsense, and they’re going to need ‘em.”

American blogger Sneigwh acknowledged the Tribunal would probably have no practical effect but said it was significant nonetheless, if only symbolically.

“Maybe expecting a vigorous effort to deal with Bush/Cheney administration’s possible war crimes here in the US was always a quaint concept,” he wrote. “But for now justice has swerved, at least symbolically, to Malaysia.”

While I contemplate that (and inevitably get distracted by other things), here’s a story about young Duncan MacLeod and his little brother Hughie.

***

One of Duncan MacLeod’s favourite activities while he was spending the summer at his uncle Dan’s place on River Denys Mountain was his daily teasing of a big black bull that lived on a nearby farm. Duncan and Hughie would walk up to the fence that kept the bull in and make all sorts of noise, with grand gestures just in case the creature didn’t notice their voices (though it always did). The bull may not have understood the insults the boys were throwing at it, but it would be furious within moments, bowing its head and snorting before tearing up the ground and charging towards the fence. It would do this every time, sending the boys leaping from the fence and scurrying away. Duncan and Hughie would get around the corner and tumble into a laughing heap. After catching their breath, they would go back and do it again.

One day the boys were on their way to the farm where the bull lived when they were stopped in their tracks by a fearsome sight. On the road, walking right towards them, was the black bull. As usual, the boys waved their arms, screamed, turned and ran. But this time there was no laughter. Duncan and Hughie MacLeod were running for their lives.

Duncan knew they’d never outrun the bull. He’d seen how fast it could make it to the fence. He didn’t know which one of them would be gored and trampled first, but he knew it would happen in mere seconds. He knew they were both doomed.

The trees. If Duncan could get to the trees, maybe he could climb high enough that the bull couldn’t get him. He veered to the left and leaped at a thick branch that was just low enough for him to reach. He was running so hard he couldn’t yell for Hughie to do the same. He only hoped his brother would be alert enough to follow him. Hughie always followed him.

Hughie followed Duncan, almost pulling him down as he scrambled up into the tree. The boys climbed as fast as they could, stopping only when they were almost to the top. When they looked down, they saw…nothing. For some reason, the bull wasn’t anywhere in sight. The boys looked at each other, still too out of breath to speak, their chests heaving, their eyes wide. Then it appeared.

Through the leaves, Duncan saw the black mass of the bull moving slowly down the road towards the tree. It disappeared from view but then he saw it again, for just a moment. It appeared and reappeared between the leaves maybe once or twice a minute. It was waiting for them.

Hughie started to cry. “What are we gonna do, Dunc? It’s gonna get us!”

“Oh go on,” Duncan said. “We’ll just wait here a little while and it’ll go away. It can’t climb up here. Just wait a few minutes.”

A few minutes turned into a few hours. The bull was still there. Hughie was still crying.

“Dunc, I’m tired!”

Duncan was tired too. Why was the bull still there? Duncan began to think he had completely underestimated the massive animal. This creature, which had before seemed capable of nothing but blind rage, was now playing with them, waiting them out. It was carrying out its revenge. It was pure evil. It was–

“Oh my god!” Duncan yelled. The creature had finally stopped in the space between the leaves and remained there long enough for him to get a good look at it. “It’s…”

It was a cow.

“Answer it,” I yelled back, “it’s probably Mommy!” Leen was on her way to a conference somewhere in Shah Alam and, fully expecting to hit heavy traffic and probably get lost, promised to call me with updates.

“It IS Mommy!” Al yelled (there’s a lot of yelling in our family). So he answered the phone. By this time he was standing at the open bathroom door.

“Yes,” he said. “Uh-huh. Mmm-hmmm. Yes. Yes. Uh-huh. Okay. Okay, I love you too Mommy. Okay, bye.”

“So what did she say?” I asked, assuming she’d just given him an important message for me.

“She said ‘Blah blah blah’,” said Al.

“What? Come on buddy, really, what did she say?”

Al bit his lower lip, squinted his eyes, searched his memory.

“Uh….she said ‘Blah blah blah’.”

Tell me, how did my five-year-old suddenly become a teenager?

I put this on Facebook yesterday and some friends wanted to share it; since my privacy settings are set quite high, I don’t know how widely the note could be shared, so I’m putting it here.

***

So there I was one cool, crisp night, on the side of one of the busiest streets in Guangzhou, China, wrestling with a vagrant. He had a strong grip, as did an accomplice who jumped in to keep me from getting away. A fellow Canadian who just happened to be passing by with his Chinese wife entered the fray, to even the odds. My Malaysian wife Leen, who had been left alone (a white man apparently represented a bigger payoff than a brown-skinned woman), dove in along with the Canadian man’s wife, finally tipping the odds in my favour. In a tangle of arms and legs, I somehow managed to break free.

“Run, Baby!” yelled Leen. “Run!”

I sprinted along the sidewalk, zigging and zagging through the ever-present crowd, who seemed completely oblivious to the sight of a foreigner on the run. I was moving fast, but so was my pursuer. I could hear him behind me, his footsteps, his breathing, his voice. He was screaming at me, a shrill cry that shot across the distance between us and clawed at me. I veered right and headed for the safety of the Garden Hotel.

When I reached the brightly-lit front entrance I turned around and there he was, stopped dead in his tracks. He knew the hotel was forbidden territory, a place where people with money are greeted with smiles, and people like him are chased away by security guards. He screamed again, really crying this time, then turned and walked back into the night that had spit him out at me.

Wow, I thought. For a five-year-old, he sure has a hell of a grip.

Yeah, so he was about five. Maybe six, I don’t know. But damn it, he was strong.

It all began when Leen and I took the number 862B bus into the city so we could take some money out of the ATM at the Garden Hotel, one of the few ATMs in Guangzhou that liked Malaysian bank cards. We got off the bus and were strolling over a pedestrian bridge that crossed Guangzhou Dadao Bei when suddenly I noticed a small child walking along with us. He gently held onto my leg, saying something in Chinese but obviously asking for money.

Now I should point out here that I’m a big softie. Some might say I’m a sucker but no, I’m not one of those, because I know the games people play and I don’t hand out money to every Tom, Dick, Harry or Wong who asks for it. But I am most definitely a softie. And that cost me that night, not money (well, not much) but a little chunk of my evening.

Before we could go down the other side of the bridge, the kid wrapped himself around my right leg and tried to keep me there. I tried to shake him off but he was stuck like he belonged there. That’s when I met that Canadian guy. Turns out they had gotten him before too. I say they because suddenly there were three kids. I made the mistake of suggesting Leen give one of them some change, and that just spurred the other two on. The one on my right leg wasn’t going anywhere, and the cuteness of it all was wearing off really fast.

“Just keep walking,” the Canadian guy told me. Oh sure, I thought. I’ll just walk down these steps with a kid stuck to my leg. It did sound absurd, but in the end that’s what I did. I limped down the stairs like I was wearing a full-leg cast, all the while yelling, “Get off me, you little…!” And when I got to the bottom one of the other two kids wrapped himself around my left leg, at the request of the first kid, who wasn’t about to let me get away without a fight. Leen, the Canadian guy and his wife all did their best to pry the pint-sized muggers away from me. A tall, dapper-looking western man walked past, shaking his head. “You poor sod,” he clucked in a British accent.

This ‘poor sod’ got away. But that kid almost had me. In a way, he did have me. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and the many others I had seen just like him. I would see many more like him as well. Yes, that kid got me all right.

China is not what many people think it is, especially in the cities, and especially in the city of Guangzhou. The economic center of Guangdong, the wealthiest and most populous province in China, Guangzhou is — in some ways, anyway — no more communist than any city in America. There seems to be no limit to how rich — or poor — people can get. Tens of millions of people from all over China have added themselves to the local population in search of prosperity. A few do very well; some manage to get by. But many of them, local and outsider alike, get chewed up and swallowed down by the concrete beast that is Guangzhou.

Like anywhere else, people in Guangzhou do whatever they can to make ends meet. But when there’s very, very little in the way of a social safety net, ‘whatever they can’ could be pretty much anything. I often found myself impressed by the ability of the Chinese to find solutions to whatever problems they faced. I also often found myself frustrated by the short-sightedness of many of their solutions, but I understood: survival is a day-by-day thing. In China, you do whatever work you can find. If you can’t find work, you work anyway. And if your hard work doesn’t bring in enough money, instead of complaining you just do more work.

Doing more work means putting a bundle the size of a small house on the back of your motorcycle and carting it across town. It means taking a job hauling bricks at a dangerous construction site, whether you’re a young man or an old one — or a young woman or an old one. And, if all else fails, it means begging on the streets. If even that doesn’t feed you…well, there’s no telling what you might be driven to do, right?

So I actually felt a little guilty. I probably should have just given the kid one more yuan and continued on my way. It wouldn’t have hurt me, but it would really help a poor person. Unfortunately, many people in China, Malaysia, and many other countries would disagree. “Don’t give them any money,” they might say. “They’re lazy.” “They’re con artists.” But the fact is, while some of them are, many of them aren’t. Sometimes it’s easy to spot the scammers, but most of the time it’s not. It rankles me when people can look at a toothless, filthy old hag begging for scraps and say she’s a lazy cheat. People with that kind of attitude are in complete denial of the fact that there are poor, homeless people in the world. That old hag might be lucky to pull in enough money to buy a small meal by the end of the day. I’d rather give her the benefit of the doubt.

That kid? I suppose he was both a scammer and someone to be pitied. Some scammers — the real scammers — employ whole teams of dirty-faced but cute kids to look as pathetic as possible and rake in some easy cash. It’s not fair to the kids, who probably don’t see much of that money, if any.

We did manage to salvage that evening, thanks to the nice dinner we had with the Canadian man and his Chinese wife — and the fact that we didn’t have to go back over the pedestrian bridge to catch the 862B back home. Good thing, too, because if I had seen that kid again I would have shown him a thing or two. Seriously. Really, I would have hurt his feelings or something. Or maybe I would have given him money. But only a little, really. So there.

When Leen’s birthday rolled around a few months later, and it just happened to be on a weekend, we thought the perfect way to celebrate would be to venture into the city for a day of shopping, eating and merry-making. If the city you’re in is Guangzhou — and you don’t have a crippling phobia of large crowds — the place to go for all those things is Beijing Road.

Beijing Road is a pedestrian-only street, unless you count the cops who ride up and down in their police golf carts. Speaking of counting, this time I counted the number of times I was approached by people selling various fake and/or stolen goods: eleven. It’s funny because I could see them coming a mile away. They’re like heat-seeking missiles, and the heat is generated by the wads of money they think every white man has in his wallet. If I caught them quickly enough I could simply wave them off and say “Bu yao” (don’t want) before they opened their mouths. But sometimes they managed to start the sales pitch, which is usually something like, “Watchy, watchy?”

Sometimes they’re not selling watches. Sometimes they’re selling everything. Sometimes if you say you’re not interested in a watch they’ll say, “Armani suit?” Then they’ll say, “Laptop computer?” And then they’ll say (while tracing an hourglass shape with their hands), “Pretty girl?” And if you don’t want the pretty girl they’ll make one last pitch: “Watchy, watchy?” I got the sales pitch eleven times from one end of Beijing Road to the other–not far–and I told Leen that the twelfth was going to earn a reply of “Fucky offy,” or “Kissy my assy.” We both thought that would be pretty funny, but we reached the end of the street and had to cap that day’s number at eleven. No witty comebacks this time.

After I treated the birthday girl and myself to some ridiculously expensive ice-cream, we walked towards the riverfront. There we bought the last few tickets for the 7:10PM cruise and hung around for a bit to wait for it since we still had plenty of time. A cute little boy came up and offered to sell me a couple of red roses, and when I declined he pushed them into my hand and said, “Free!”

Well, I thought, if they’re free, I’ll take them. Then I felt a little guilty and thought, Hey, this kid needs the money, I should give him a buck or two. Then I slapped myself and thought, Hey! That’s his game! The kid wants me to feel sorry for him and just give him the money anyway, like those kids who jump out and clean your windshield when you’re at a red light and then ask for you to give them money for it! I don’t want to give him any money at all, the cunning little… And then I smiled as I thought, Hey, this cute little kid is pretty clever then, eh? And a good businessman, too. I won’t give him money because I feel guilty, I’ll give him money because I think he’s damn smart. And because I promised Leen I’d get her flowers for her birthday and this really makes it easier for me. Way to go, kid. So I gave him three yuan and sent him on his way. At least this kid didn’t latch onto my leg.

We were hanging around, waiting for our turn on the river cruise, when the kid reappeared and approached Leen. I had already given her the flower, but there he was again, trying to sell more. I thought I would have to argue with him — not easy when you don’t speak much of the local language — but suddenly a cop strode up and smacked the kid on the back of the head. You poor sod, I thought. The little flower-seller scampered off, but soon another kid–a little girl, much smaller and much cuter than the first kid–was pushing more roses at Leen. I should have seen what was coming next.

Before we knew it the kid was wrapped around Leen’s leg and held on like her life depended on it. Our Chinese friend Ice and several passers-by had to work quite hard to pull the kid away from Leen. The little girl started crying as they tried to pry her little arms and legs away, and she only let go after Ice yelled something in a scary, enough-with-the-messing-around voice. It’s sad, really, because these kids are really just pawns being used by adult ringleaders who do none of the work but take all of the money. Before we joined the queue to get on the ship I saw a lady about my age discreetly hand out roses to some of the kids and then skulk off into the shadows to watch her tiny minions wreak havoc on unsuspecting tourists.

Again I found myself feeling sorry for the kid. Another ‘poor sod’. Maybe her life really did depend on whether she could bring in enough money. I don’t know. But I know China is not a classless communist utopia. China is a place where money rules, just like anywhere else, perhaps even more so. China is a place where you’d better have money if you have a serious accident, or else you’ll be stuck in a big room with a bunch of other non-paying patients, put on a drip, and checked on every few hours until you pay up, recover, or die, whichever comes first. I’ve seen the third option come first, after a student at the college where we were teaching English hit his head in a classroom and was rushed to the nearest hospital. His family didn’t have money because they had spent everything on his education. By the time the college’s staff and students managed to pool together enough money for lifesaving surgery, it was too late — the kid had gone without the surgery for too long. His parents lost their only child, their only hope for a brighter future.

There are several different ways you can react when you catch a glimpse of the scab-covered underbelly of a bustling city and the country in which it sits. Perhaps the most interesting thing about China, and its wealthiest, most populous city, is that you don’t have to react in just one way. You don’t just see the underbelly, you see the whole dragon — in all its magnificent beauty and at the same time its fearsome ugliness. China leaves you with competing, contradictory visions. You can have every possible reaction to China.

A lot of visions, good and bad, come to me when I remember Guangzhou. Among them are visions of parents whose children are the most precious things in their lives. And then there are visions of children whose lives are precious to no one. There are visions of people who do whatever it takes to survive in a place where they can climb real high or sink real low. There are visions of people who have done both.

And still there are visions of that little boy who stuck to me like glue and then chased me all the way to the Garden Hotel. I’ll always remember the conflicting reactions that were stirred in me — the urge to swat the kid away competing with the urge to help him. Annoyance and pity — I’ll always remember feeling both of those as I stood breathless near the lobby of the Garden Hotel, just a few steps away from a completely different world. And I’ll always wonder how that kid is doing now. If I go back to Guangzhou, maybe I’ll see him clinging to some foreigner’s leg. “You poor sod,” I’ll say as I walk by. “You poor sod.”

I’ve thought about stuff like this for as long as I’ve been interested in genealogy, over 20 years now. But what prompted me to write about it now was the story of one particular branch of my family tree: the MacKenzies.

Neil MacKenzie, my great-great-great-great-grandfather, was born in Scotland around the year 1764. He and his wife and three children left Scotland in the early years of the 19th century, most likely because of the Highland Clearances, and settled in Pictou, Nova Scotia. While living there, Neil became a follower of a fiery preacher from Assynt (I believe Neil MacKenzie may have also been from there) named Norman McLeod, who was no stranger to controversy in Scotland and would court it eagerly in Nova Scotia as well:

But a person who at this time made more disturbance and excitement was Norman McLeod, who arrived in Pictou about the year 1818. He was not only not connected with any religious body, but denounced them all, even going so far as to say there was not a minister of Christ in the whole establishment. Those who have heard him at this time, describe his preaching as consisting of torrents of abuse against all religious bodies, and even against individuals, the like of which they had never heard, and which were perfectly indescribable. He had never been licensed or ordained, but regarded himself as under higher influences than the ministers of any church. “I am so full of the Holy Ghost, that my coat will not button on me,” he said once in a sermon, as he made the attempt to bring the two sides together in front.

In 1820, McLeod received an invitation to move to Ohio; his loyal followers, who later became known as Normanites, built a ship (which McLeod’s critics in Pictou dubbed ‘the Ark’) and left with him. The plan was to sail down along the Atlantic coastline and then up the Mississippi to Ohio. I’ve read two versions of what happened next. One says that the Ark, on its maiden voyage and stuffed full of Normanites, ran into a storm and got blown off course, then found a safe harbour which turned out to be St. Ann’s on Cape Breton Island. The other version, which is more plausible, says that when the Ark had been completed, some of the men took her on sea trials and stopped near St. Ann’s to do some fishing, then went back for their families later. Either way, that part of Cape Breton reminded them of Scotland, and they decided to stay. Neil MacKenzie, his wife, and their three adult children were among those first settlers. They settled just north of St. Ann’s in what is now called North River Bridge.

Life in St. Ann’s was fine at first. The community flourished, with McLeod as their minister, schoolteacher (most classes were taught in Gaelic), and magistrate — essentially their leader in every way. Despite their initial success at building a thriving community, though, the pioneers’ life eventually became almost unbearable. The winters grew harsher, sea-ice clogged the harbour, and a potato blight brought the community to the brink of starvation. Then McLeod got a letter that changed everything:

It was when the famine was at its worst that Norman received a letter from his son Donald who had run away with a family ship and cargo seven years previously and been unheard of since. He had ended up in Australia as the editor of a paper and wrote his father urging him to move to this land of promise and wondrous climes. This chance letter awakened the pilgrimage spirit in Norman once again, but his age was a barrier – nearing 70, and his wife Mary over 60 was in poor health. However, after prayer and reflection, the spirit prevailed and he wrote: “Tho’ the distance is long indeed, the direct course is over the mildest ocean in the world.”

He urged his followers to join him. Donald’s letter passed from hand to hand, families debated long and hard and worried. It was not only about their family – they were taking part in the breakup of the unity of the community – their home for thirty years. There is little question that, if their leader had not been determined to move, the stubborn Gaels of St. Ann’s would have stayed and somehow survived. But, Norman was the shepherd and they were the flock and the decision was made that would eventually lead to the virtual depopulation of a substantial part of Cape Breton.

McLeod’s followers built a ship (which he had to sell his farm to complete) and 140 of them sailed with him to Australia, followed several months later by 136 more on a second ship. Unfortunately, Australia turned out to be a less-than-suitable home for McLeod and his flock, not least because that side of the country was experiencing a gold rush and all the debauchery that went along with it. So McLeod sent a letter to the Governor of New Zealand, got an invitation to settle there, and the Normanites set sail again. They settled in Waipu, north of Auckland, and were later joined by hundreds more who sailed from Nova Scotia to New Zealand on four ships. This would be the last great migration for the Normanites, who settled permanently in Waipu, and for their leader, who died there in 1866. Though the people there no longer follow McLeod’s strict ways, and Gaelic is no longer the language of daily discourse (in fact, I’m not sure there are any Gaels left there at all), Waipu still celebrates its Highland heritage; there’s even a museum dedicated to McLeod and the Scottish settlers who followed him.

As for St. Ann’s, while Gaelic is no longer the language of daily discourse there, either, it was just that for many years after McLeod and his followers left. In 1938, another Presbyterian minister, the Reverend A.W.R. MacKenzie (no relation to my MacKenzies, as far as I know), opened a Gaelic school in a log cabin on McLeod’s old farm. That school, the Gaelic College, is still there and remains “devoted to the study and preservation of the Gaelic language, arts and culture.”

But what about my MacKenzies? At the time of the Normanites’ migration, my ancestor Neil MacKenzie had probably already passed away. His son Angus (my great-great-great-grandfather), who had been born in Scotland, would have been around 50 years old. He and his wife Janet (who was a MacLeod, probably a daughter of one of several MacLeods who had followed Norman McLeod to Cape Breton) had several children, including my great-great-grandfather, Hector MacKenzie, who was around 20 years old and not yet married. Angus, Janet, and most (if not all) of their children stayed behind when the Normanites left.

There were MacKenzies (and MacLeods) among the Waipu settlers, so it’s possible close relatives of my ancestors joined McLeod. So why did Angus and Janet and their children stay when so many of their neighbours and relatives were leaving for greener pastures? Why didn’t they follow the man who was their leader in pretty much all respects? It’s impossible to know for sure, because the further back you go in your family tree, the more you have to rely on official records as opposed to family stories. But if I were to guess, I’d say the MacKenzies’ reason for staying behind was that they thought the Reverend Norman McLeod was too extreme in his ways:

Ruling in an autocratic fashion, McLeod led and exhorted his followers towards moral perfection. As the minister he could scold a person from the pulpit on Sunday for drunkenness; as a magistrate he could fine him on Monday. He even criticized his wife’s bonnet during a Sunday sermon and quickly castigated anyone he suspected of moral laxity. On one occasion in his judicial capacity he ordered the tip of a boy’s ear removed in punishment for a suspected crime. Some of his congregation eventually withdrew because of his autocratic manner. Not even the Presbyterian clergy in other parts of Cape Breton were spared from his censure and criticism. His preaching was described as “torrents of abuse against all religious bodies and individuals”[.]

Their decision could very well have been based on simple logistics, or maybe they just chickened out, or maybe not everyone thought Cape Breton was hopeless. There are a few possibilities, but I like to think the MacKenzies’ decision to stay in Cape Breton was based at least partly on a rejection of religious extremism. Whatever their reasons, they stayed in North River/St. Ann’s, and Angus died there in 1872. Hector, meanwhile, married Isabella MacRae in 1868 and they had several children, including two sets of twins. During the 1880s they moved to Sydney (Nova Scotia, not Australia), where Hector worked as a carpenter. Their son Hec (my great-great uncle) was a member of the original Sydney Millionaires hockey team, which almost won the Stanley Cup in 1913. Their daughter Christina was my great-grandmother. She married Robert Davison, an electrician who worked at the steel plant, and they had several children, at least four of whom died very young. Among those who made it to adulthood was Muriel, my grandmother, who married Frank MacVay in 1934. There’s more, leading all the way down to me and my kids; none of it would have happened if the MacKenzies had decided to leave Cape Breton. I’m glad they stayed.

My cousin — I call her that anyway, but for the sake of brevity let’s call her J — was born in 1952 in Saint John, NB and left at an orphanage, where she was adopted when she was eight days old. All she knows about her pre-adoption life is her full name, which appears on some papers from the Protestant Orphans Home in Saint John, and also some court documents and papers from a law firm. Her last name appears on those documents as MacVay. She’s been known by a different surname her entire life; in fact she was given new ‘Christian’ names as well. She wasn’t really told anything about her parents, except that her mother was a Protestant and her father was an Irish Catholic, which was supposedly why they never married and ended up giving up their child. If that story is true, she’s either related to my MacVays or (if the spelling on that document was slightly off) to another Protestant family in New Brunswick that spells the name slightly differently. There are some more remote possibilities as well.

But this is not a genealogy post. Yes, it’s about someone looking for information on their ancestors. But it’s really about rights, and about the difficulties J has faced in trying to get access to information about her origins. Everyone who might have information she’s looking for — namely the law firm that handled the adoption and the New Brunswick government — has been giving her the runaround. The law firm could be telling the truth about no longer having the records (J doesn’t think so), but the provincial government’s reasons for keeping information from her are, in my opinion, less acceptable.

New Brunswick is, according to Origins Canada, a ‘closed records province’, so adoptees face a lot of difficulties when it comes to finding out information about their parents. After going to the provincial government to find out who her parents are/were, J was put on a waiting list and was told that when her turn comes up, the government will try to find her mother. The process, she’s been told, could take up to two years. Her mother, if she’s even found, will be given time to decide whether or not she wants to have any contact with J. If she decides she doesn’t want any contact, the government starts searching all over again, this time for J’s father — if, that is, his name even appeared on the birth certificate or whatever documents the government uses to search for relatives. If J’s father can’t be found, or if he refuses contact, the focus of the search is switched to other relatives, who may or may not even be known to the government depending on which documents are consulted.

J accepts the possibility that her mother and/or other relatives might refuse to have any contact with her. The real problem is that even if J’s parents are found, not only could they refuse contact, they could also refuse to have any identifying information released to J. The government would still provide “non-identifying information”, but this would probably not be as useful as the following description might make it seem:

It is information taken from the files kept at the time of the adoption, not current information. It is not intended to reveal the identity of another person.
For an adoptee or adoptive parent, non-identifying information on the birth family may include: the physical descriptions of the birth parents, their age and educational level, their religion, racial origin, interests, relationship, medical histories, circumstances at the time of the adoption and any other information considered non-identifying.

So why would that not be very useful to J? Well, its sole source would be “the files kept at the time of the adoption”; it seems unlikely to me that all of the information mentioned above would have been recorded and/or kept on file at the time of J’s adoption in 1952. Even if it was, it would most likely be very basic information that wouldn’t add very much to what she already knows. That last argument is debatable, but really, even if the ‘non-identifying information’ would tell J a few things she didn’t quite know, would it be enough? I don’t think it would. It wouldn’t be enough for me, I can tell you that. And I know it wouldn’t be enough for J. For one thing, there are aspects of her medical history she would like to know more about, things which probably wouldn’t appear on files created in 1952.

The province does have something called the Post Adoption Disclosure Register, which is supposed to enable adult adoptees and their biological parents to find one another, but the catch is that J’s parents would have to have added their names to the registry as well in order for any real information to be obtained. Even if both names are on the register, there won’t be any notifications one way or the other until J’s turn on the waiting list comes up. The register does seem like a good idea, as it would save the government from having to search for people, but it seems to me its usefulness is quite limited.

So the bottom line is that if J’s relatives don’t want J to know who they are, she won’t know who they are. To make matters worse, it may only come to that after years of waiting. Adoptees from Nova Scotia face similar hurdles. Ontario opened up their adoption records a few years ago, but in 2007 there were several challenges to the Adoption Information Disclosure Act that led to the addition of a disclosure veto, putting many adoptees (and parents) in a similar situation to that faced by J. (I should add that most of the challenges that led to the disclosure veto were by adoptees, with only one challenge by a biological parent.)

I think it’s understandable that J’s family could opt out of having contact with her, but I don’t think they should have the right to keep her from even knowing who they are. I’m all for respecting people’s privacy — in fact I think adoptees should be able to veto any disclosure of their identities and whereabouts to their biological parents — but I firmly believe that a child’s right to know who their parents are/were trumps their parents’ right to privacy, and that governments should act accordingly. I believe this applies to any case in which a child (grown up or otherwise) wants to know who their parents are/were, even if the father was a sperm donor, and/or even if legal documents exist that are meant to keep the identity of one or both of the parents from their child(ren). I believe no legal contract (made before one was born or when one was a child) should be allowed to supersede that right. I think it would be terrible if J’s quest to find out about her origins were to end in disappointment because just because the New Brunswick government thinks a parent’s right to privacy trumps a child’s right to know.

What do you think?

Wait, you might say, don’t they? I mean, the great uncle who was dead 30 years ago will still be dead five years from now. Quite true. There are parts of my family tree I’d love to look into but will probably only do so several years from now, mostly because I have neither the time nor the money to do so right now. There’s no rush. The history will still be there, waiting for me.

Sometimes, though, it doesn’t work that way.

Several weeks ago, my grandfather, who was trying to recover from pneumonia, fell in his bathroom and broke his hip. The next week or so after that was a rollercoaster of emotions for the entire family. At one point, it seemed the end was very near. My mother and most of her siblings took turns sitting with him in the hospital, hoping against hope that Papa would somehow pull through, but thinking that he probably wouldn’t.

To make a long story short: He pulled through. The doctors don’t know how long he’ll still be around — it could be just a few months — but he’s still around. He’s back at home. He’s still the toughest man I know. He’s still the Highlander.

That whole episode really drove home the fact at some point, people will be gone. It’s not like I didn’t know it already, but Papa’s latest brush with mortality really got me thinking I should make sure I talk to my elderly relatives while they’re still around. When they’re gone, it’s too late. Your aunts, uncles, great aunts, great uncles, grandparents…they’ve all got stories to tell. They can send you to another time, a time when you weren’t alive. They can tell you about their lives, and about the lives of people who were part of a grand story called The Making of You. They’re important. And they won’t be here forever.

I thought of Papa’s brother Jack. After the deaths of Hughie, Hector, Ronald, Robert, and the other MacLeods of MacLeod Settlement in Glencoe, Jack came into possession of the property, at least that’s what Papa told me. Jack spent time up there when those guys were still alive. He’d have stories. He’d probably be able to shed some light on a few foggy spots in my information about the MacLeods. At the very least, he’d be able to tell me his story. His stories.

The last time I saw Jack was when I was a kid. I might not even know him if he passed right in front of me, but that’s probably not true because you can’t mistake the MacLeods. I do vaguely remember one of his daughters once babysat me and my brother for about a week but never did so again, probably because of the time I found a rusty pair of garden shears in a brook and when Troy said ‘Throw them over’ I did just that and the damn things stuck right into his leg, and our cousin — I think it was Sheila — had to take him to the hospital. God, we drove her crazy. Good times. Anyway, it had been a while since I last had any contact with Jack, but I knew he still lived in Sydney, on Townsend Street. So I looked up his number online. I reached for my phone, then thought, No, I’ll call him tomorrow.

The next day I did the same thing. Every time I went to call Jack, I thought I’d just be bothering him. I figured I’d just call the next day, when I had a better idea what I would say to him, what I would ask him. The episode with Papa had driven home the point that you can’t let things go too long. But hey, Jack is Papa’s youngest brother. My great-grandmother was pregnant with Jack when my great-grandfather was killed. Papa’s going on 83 but Jack’s just turned 74. He’ll be around at least a little while longer.

Well, no.

It is with heavy hearts that we, the family, announce the sudden passing of Jack MacLeod on Sunday, July 24, 2011, at the Cape Breton Regional Hospital, Sydney.
Born in Sydney, he was the son of the late John and Susan (Powell) MacLeod.
Jack was in the military for 33 years, including a tour in Germany, until his retirement in 1988. He held many roles, but was particularly proud of being a paratrooper and a tank corps member as a radio operator.
Jack was also a member of the Royal Canadian Legion branch 12.
Jack was a gifted athlete. He particularly loved baseball and hockey, which he played competitively as well as coached. In his retirement, Jack enjoyed woodworking and painting.
He had the ability to strike up a conversation with anyone and immediately understand what was important to them. He will always be remembered for this gift.
He is survived by his loving wife, Rose (Twerd) MacLeod; his children, Ronald Joseph (Bev) MacLeod, Regina, Sask., Carol Ann (Joe) Lewis, Sydney, N.S., Sheila Marie DiPenta (Guy Choquette), Swift Current, Sask., and Stanley Charles MacLeod (Melissa Harper), Mesa, Ariz.; and seven grandchildren.
He is also survived by three sisters, Mary (Frank) O’Brien, Florence (late Fern) MacLeod, Frances (Jack) O’Brien, all of Sydney, N.S.; two brothers, Duncan (Mary Theresa) MacLeod, Sydney, N.S., and Ronald MacLeod, Toronto, Ont.; several nieces and nephews, as well as many special close friends.
Besides his parents, Jack was predeceased by his daughter, Stephanie in infancy, sisters, Pauline Morrison and Jessie MacEachern and brothers, John, Hughie, Fraser, James ‘Jim’ and Donald.
Cremation has taken place. There will be no visitation by request.
A memorial service will be held at 11 a.m., Thursday, July 28, 2011, at the S.W. Chant & Son Funeral Home, 564 Alexandra St., Sydney, with Pastor Sheldon Chant officiating.
Interment to take place in Resurrection Cemetery, Sydney Forks. In lieu of flowers, donations will gratefully be accepted on behalf of the charity of your choice.
Online condolences may be sent to our web page at www.chantfuneralhome.com.

Mom Skyped me the other night to tell me about Jack’s passing. It seems he was with his wife Rose at Dominion Beach when he just dropped. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground. A lifeguard did CPR and Jack was rushed to the hospital, where he had a second heart attack and died.

I think I’ll always regret not making that call. There are a few other calls I can still make. Better not put them off too long. Some of our family history is just history, but there’s also living history. Don’t wait, go and find it. And treasure it.

In spite of the warnings about the evils of television, I let my kids watch it. I’ve tried to compromise, though, by mostly letting them watch Playhouse Disney, which only recently changed its name to Disney Junior. I figure if they’re going to end up with severe ADD because they spent their formative years watching TV, they might as well watch programs that will teach them about good manners, patience, compromise, teamwork, and some ABCs and 123s. And hey, I think ADD runs in my family, so if they’re probably going to get it anyway, might as well learn a few things along the way, right?

The other channels have always been somewhat dodgy, at least as far as small children are concerned. The Disney Channel and the Cartoon Network are obviously for slightly older kids, and by older I don’t necessarily mean teens, just kids who are older than Al. Then there’s Astro Ceria. If that were the only kids’ channel on Astro, I’d be firmly on the side of the ‘TV will turn your children into zombies’ people. It’s bad enough they have Ultraman on there, but it gets worse. One day Al was watching Hagemaru when a punk rock band appeared on the screen, not a big deal except for the fact that their drum kit bore the words ‘F*CK YOU’ (only they didn’t censor it like I just did). Okay, so Al couldn’t read at the time anyway. But still, come on.

Anyway, Al used to watch channel 613 all the time — that’s the good one — but after his last visit to his older cousin Afiq’s place in Muar, now all he wants to watch is channel 616 — that’s Cartoon Network — and occasionally the other channels. He won’t watch Disney Junior at all, because it’s just not cool anymore.

It could be a coincidence, but lately he’s been having mild nightmares. Not the wake-up-screaming kind but nightmares nonetheless. Leen figured the nightmares were a good reason for Al to stop watching channel 616.

Leen: You know why you have those nightmares?

Al: Why?

Leen: Because you like to watch 616. It has scary stuff. You should watch Disney Junior. Mickey Mouse isn’t scary at all, right?

Al: Hey, Mickey Mouse is scary too!

Leen: What? Mickey Mouse isn’t scary, silly!

Al: Yes he is!

Leen: How is Mickey Mouse scary?

Al: He stands up like a man. And he can talk. Mice can’t talk!

Neither of us could come up with a suitable comeback to that. In fact we’re both pretty sure we failed to deter him from watching the other channels, though of course we could still just forbid him from watching them. The upside is that yesterday I caught him watching Disney Junior. And just this morning, he heard the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme while having his morning bath and grabbed for his towel because he didn’t want to miss anything. Maybe being ‘scary’ enhances Mickey’s cool factor.

So, since we know TV is bad for small children, we don’t let little Aaron watch it at all, right? Well, he watches Baby TV all the time. Nothing scary there, though I have to say I find Vegimals a little weird. He’s into Mickey Mouse Clubhouse now too. Once he can talk — if all this exposure to TV doesn’t render him mute or unable to focus long enough to have a conversation, that is, because come on, there have been studies — we’ll find out if Mickey freaks him out a little.

No, I don’t have Permanent Resident status yet. I wish. I haven’t even applied yet. I don’t even have the new five-year visa foreign spouses can now get, but that’s because Canada didn’t (but now does, I think) allow its citizens to have passports that were valid for more than five years; since my five-year passport expires next year, the Immigration Department wouldn’t give me the five-year visa. I’m hoping to get that visa next year (after renewing my passport, of course). I’ll be applying for PR soon after, if not at the same time.

I’m more confident of getting PR within the next two or three years. This is because there have been palpable changes in the way the Immigration Department treats foreign spouses in the last year or two. The five-year visa is evidence of that, as is the courtesy I was treated with on my last few visits to the Immigration Department in Shah Alam. On my last visit, officers actually volunteered helpful information. After the icy glares and seemingly deliberate obfuscation I’d experienced on previous visits, the smiles and helpfulness I was greeted with this time really floored me.

Another reason I’m confident my quest for PR will have a happy ending within the next few years (as opposed to the next few decades, or even never) is that I recently had an opportunity to take part in a discussion about the plight of foreign spouses with several stakeholders, including people very high up in the decision-making process. I was already feeling good about the government’s new and improved treatment of foreign spouses, but since that meeting I’m even more confident that our concerns are being taken seriously.

The meeting took place Tuesday, July 5th, at the office of the Deputy Minister of Home Affairs, YB Dato’ Lee Chee Leong, in Putrajaya. I was there courtesy of Bina Ramanand, Coordinator of the Foreign Spouses Support Group. There were other foreign spouses present as well, like Asha Lim of the FSSG, and another lady who was representing an association of Taiwanese foreign spouses. We were there to hand over a memorandum to the Deputy Minister. Also present was Dato’ Yu Chok Tow, National Chairman of Wanita MCA, and Lee Shook Fong, also from Wanita MCA. Shook Fong was instrumental in making the meeting a reality and has been keeping tabs on the progress of the memorandum since it was first drafted in 2009.

Besides representatives of Wanita MCA, present on the government side were the Deputy Minister, a couple of Members of Parliament, two senior officers from the Immigration Department, and a senior officer from the National Registration Department.

The meeting mostly consisted of a presentation by Bina, and comments by the various government officials present on the points she raised. She asked a lot of tough questions and caught the Deputy Minister off guard a couple of times. He seemed completely unaware, for example, of the requirement that foreign wives get permission from their Malaysian husbands if they want to work. Another shocker was the requirement that Malaysian women married to foreigners pay RM38 a day if their husbands are incarcerated in Malaysia. There were several other issues raised, mostly related to the plight of foreign wives but also foreign husbands and children with at least one foreign-born parent; the Deputy Minister promised to look into all of them.

At one point, the Deputy Minister asked why women’s groups would be concerned with problems faced by foreign husbands. I told him that when I’ve faced immigration difficulties over the years, I’ve regarded them first and foremost not as discrimination against me, but as discrimination against my wife. It’s something I’ve been saying for a while now: discrimination against foreign men is really discrimination against Malaysian women. So yes, it is a women’s issue.

That doesn’t mean I totally agree with the FSSG’s obvious focus on the female half of Malaysian-foreigner couples. I do think Bina often puts the plight of husbands (foreign or otherwise) in the back seat, with issues faced by foreign husbands usually mentioned as an aside, when foreign husbands have faced some major obstacles that foreign wives have not. This was my biggest criticism of the FSSG right from the start, but now that I know Bina a little better I know she’s tried to get men involved and has had little success. She told me she tried to get some foreign husbands involved, but they just sent their Malaysian wives to the meetings. Ditto Malaysian men married to foreign women.

Criticism aside, I can’t understate Bina’s contribution to our cause. So far I’ve contributed little more than blog posts, whereas Bina has been relentless in her pursuit of ways to get our concerns heard by people who make the big decisions, whether it’s through mainstream media or through government-linked groups such as Wanita MCA or non-governmental groups like the Migration Working Group (of which Bina and I, as part of FSSG, are members). My blog posts on immigration-related issues have, I hope, raised awareness of those issues, but the fact that we were able to sit down with so many high-ranking officials and talk to them about our concerns was due solely to the perseverance of Bina and Asha.

As I mentioned, the outcome of the meeting was positive. Many of the concerns raised by Bina in her presentation were issues that the government has already dealt with or is currently looking into. The remaining issues, we were told, will be addressed. Among the positive developments were the following:

All applications for PR made before 2009 have been cleared. Okay, I knew this almost two years ago, but it’s still pretty good. This doesn’t mean the applications all been approved, nor does it mean everyone whose application has been approved already has PR. But at least the applications have been cleared.

New applications for PR will be processed within a year. I’ve heard horror stories about people waiting years just to find out the status of their applications, so this is good news.

Foreign husbands are eligible for PR after five years, regardless of what type of pass they held during those five years. This is good news for people like me, who have had several different passes, more than one of which was considered the first one. Even if a foreign husband spent a few of those years on a professional employment pass, or even a student pass, he’d be eligible for PR after five years.

Leaving the country doesn’t necessarily mean having to start the five-year wait all over again. Foreign spouses have sometimes been told that their wait for PR began when they returned from trips overseas, even if they were only out of the country for a short time. Now it’s been clarified that leaving the country doesn’t mean starting over.

Foreign spouses can get five-year visas. This is something I already knew, but it’s good to know it’s going to continue. The first five-year visa introduced by the government was scrapped not long after, if I recall correctly, and was too restrictive anyway as it depended on the foreign spouse having a five-year employment contract. This time, it seems they’re serious about keeping it going, which is great news for me. Even if it takes a year or two for my PR to go through, if I’ve got a five-year visa, the wait won’t seem so bad.

The five-year visa isn’t a perfect substitute for PR; there are still a lot of disadvantages faced by foreign spouses without PR, such as higher medical and education fees, difficulties securing loans and credit cards or even opening a bank account or getting a phone line. But as I mentioned, we’ve been assured that these are all being looked into. Meanwhile, the FSSG isn’t going to just sit and wait. While I sit here and write blog posts, Bina is already planning to meet officials from the Health and Education ministries. I’ll try to be involved with those meetings as well, and to keep speaking up for foreign spouses in general, foreign husbands in particular, and the Malaysians who chose to marry us.

And, of course, I’ll blog about it.

I was a bit nervous about reading my work aloud in front of a small crowd. I’ve spoken before more than a thousand people without any major anxiety, but these readings always make me nervous, even with only two dozen people in the audience.

Today there’s an article about the event in The Selangor Times.

Thanks to Sharon for the link to the article…and also for inviting me to read that day. I had a great time and made some new friends.