Africville: The lesson still unlearned
No one asked them. Again.
The real lesson of the original Africville relocation—which should be seared into our collective consciousness after 50 years of hard-learned lesson-living—is that outsiders, even well intentioned ones, cannot make decisions for a community without at least asking the people of that community what they really want.
Back in the 1960s, many well-intentioned outsiders (and some, it must be said, not so well intentioned) believed Africville, a poor black community on the edge of Bedford Basin, was a blight and an eyesore, a health risk to its 400 inhabitants.
They unilaterally determined the families who lived there would be better off in massive new concrete-and-asphalt public housing complexes.
So they grabbed their land for far less than its prime waterfront location should have commanded; eliminated Africville’s traditional communal subsistence economy; moved residents in city trucks and dumped them in places that were not their own—and expected a thank you for a job well done.
They didn’t get it.
Africville’s residents never asked to be relocated. They liked their community precisely because it was filled with family, friends, neighbours and “other mothers.” They did want long-denied city services like sewer, water and fire protection, of course, but the city could have provided them for less than it cost to relocate the community.
No one had asked the residents what they wanted.
Which is why “No More Africvilles” is still the looped refrain in Nova Scotia’s remaining black communities whenever well-intentioned outsiders try to make decisions for them.
Now, another even more well-intentioned group, the Africville Heritage Trust, has decided it knew best who to hire to run the new non-profit group’s Africville memorial.
They hired a white woman from out of the province.
Even if the woman had turned out to be otherwise qualified—which it now seems she was not—the fact the community was not consulted made her a non-starter.
Last week, 200 members of the local black community voted unanimously to demand the trust find a new executive director. Belatedly, the Trust de-hired the woman.
And unintentionally reminded us again that we still need to learn the real lesson of the Africville relocation.
Previous Africville-related columns, etc.
Copyright 2011 Stephen Kimber
Flight 111 and might-have-could-have-possibly-maybe
Friday’s much-hyped Fifth Estate documentary on the crash of Swissair Flight 111 generated much arcing and sparking about its cause but—in the end—no incendiary device, no hard evidence the tragic 1998 accident was anything but.
That said, the story raised questions that deserve better than read-the-report, cone-of-silence non-responses from the RCMP and the Transportation Safety Board.
The documentary focused on concerns—not specific allegations—by retired RCMP investigator Tom Juby. Juby claims his bosses shut down inquiries into what he believed were too-high-to-be-explained levels of magnesium in the plane’s cockpit area. He thought the magnesium suggested the crash could have been caused by an incendiary device. He wanted to pursue that as a possible criminal investigation into the murders of the 229 passengers and crew.
Although I never interviewed him, I have no doubt Juby is a dedicated professional who believes what he says.
But I also believe Larry Vance—the deputy chief TSB investigator who spent even more years investigating the crash, and whom I did interview extensively while researching a book about the tragedy—is equally dedicated, equally professional.
Vance and the TSB ultimately dismissed Juby’s concerns. They claim the heightened magnesium levels resulted from prolonged exposure to salt water, and believe an incendiary device would have caused far more damage to the cockpit. “It would be like aiming a blow-torch at your head and burning only one hair,” Vance told Canadian Press.
Which leaves us with… an interesting professional disagreement among professional investigators, goosed by tantalizing, made-for-TV tidbits about missing diamonds and the post-9/11-freighted presence of Arab royalty among the plane’s passengers.
Swiss television, which helped finance the CBC documentary, was so unpersuaded by its conclusions it refused to air it. “It’s not our task to spread speculation,” the network’s chief editor says.
My own issue is not with Juby’s clearly heartfelt complaints nor even with the CBC’s decision to broadcast a documentary filled with so much might-have-could-have-possibly speculation.
My concern is with the RCMP and the TSB, whose refusal to publicly respond to Juby’s allegations can only feed more sinister interpretations and add to the doubt and pain of those who lost loved ones in the crash.
Doesn’t anyone ever learn?
Stephen Kimber is the author of Flight 111: The Tragedy of the Swissair Crash.
Copyright 2011 Stephen Kimber
Remembering the Citadel (hotel)
Last week, SilverBirch Hotels, the Vancouver-based company that owns the Citadel Halifax hotel, announced plans to flatten it.
The company intends to replace the venerable downtown landmark with a $60-million, triple-tower, hotel-apartment complex it says will generate “a lot more” street-level activity in the northern downtown while conforming to HRM by Design—and legislation protecting views of the harbour from Citadel Hill.
Ironically, a plan to redevelop the original two-storey Citadel hotel 40 years ago triggered the debate that led to creating those still-controversial views.
By the late 1960s, preservationists were winning the battle to protect the city’s historic waterfront from the wrecker’s ball, but they seemed to be losing the war to preserve Citadel Hill’s iconic harbour views one bigger-than-theirs bank tower at a time.
When the first of three view-blocking Scotia Square towers began to rise from the earth in 1969, Haligonians finally began to question the build-it-bigger-higher-better dreams of downtown developers.
The debate galvanized around the next proposed development. Ralph Medjuck, a bright young lawyer-developer, wanted to plunk an 11-storey addition above an existing low-rise hotel he owned on Brunswick Street.
Over the objections of staff and protests from residents, a divided city council ultimately voted 7-3—yes, Virginia, there really was a time when there were just 10 councilors—in favour of the project.
But the motion carried a crucial rider: staff had to come up with a proposal to protect harbour views in future projects.
Three years later, a talk-tired—“I am so sick of this damn view from Citadel Hill I could scream,” screamed alderwoman Margaret Stanbury at one point—but-no-longer-divided council voted unanimously to preserve 10 specific views protecting 300 acres of prme downtown.
Preservation activist Elizabeth Pacey later called it “a sweeping achievement in the pioneer field of environmental protection legislation.”
Thanks to the Citadel Hotel.
When SilverBirch’s new hotel opens in 2013, it will have a different name. Company president Steve Giblin says they considered maintaining it, “but we feel Citadel Hill—that’s where the name belongs, and it really doesn’t belong on a hotel.”
Perhaps. But we must at least preserve the memory of the vital role the old Citadel played in shaping today’s downtown.
Copyright 2011 Stephen Kimber
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About
STEPHEN KIMBER, a Professor of Journalism at the University of King's College in Halifax, is an award-winning writer, editor and broadcaster. He is the author of one novel -- Reparations -- and seven non-fiction books.