I had come to Rhodesia convinced that their struggle was not racial. From the myopia of life in Texas, I was fueled by the radically rightwing views of my pastor-teacher. Urged by my personal need to expiate the guilt of my flashback-induced discharge from the Navy and my obsession with finding a “purpose” for my life, I wasn’t open to dissenting thoughts.
My recent biblical studies had focused on the life of David as a shepherd-warrior, prototypical Hebrew king, and psalmist from whom I drew daily encouragement. It was only natural that I would then assume my conservative political opinions to be in concert with biblical history. However, deep beneath my guise as a tough-talking American “Christian soldier” on a divine mission was a Jewish heart.
There is something about being a Jew that is more than religion, more than culture, more than tradition, more than politics, and more than . . . well, it is just “more than.” I have been puzzling over this for decades. I am not the only one who struggles with this. Take for example the ongoing debate in modern Jewish society around “Who is a Jew?” This is important, especially with regard to the “right of return” for Jews immigrating to Israel. But, the debate around Jewish identity is at the heart of every social, marital and political discussion for the Jewish community. This debate has gone on for millennia.
Fueling this debate is something intangible, but real, that beats in the heart of every Jew. Often, it is a subconscious influence that impacts the life choices of those who have wandered far from Jewish circles. The strange reality was that I was about as far from Jewish circles as one could get. Yet, I found myself reacting and responding to events and circumstances in ways that were contrary to the Christian-fueled nuclear reactor that was my mind.
During my first weeks as a chaplain, I spent much of my time in the chaplaincy office at Army HQ, just a mile from our home in Salisbury. Since I was “regular” army, and the only full-time chaplain-sergeant, I was quickly meeting the other chaplains who were serving out their periodic national service. The officer-chaplains had their own local churches, but the sergeants were typically lay persons who had an interest in ministry, but were neither ordained nor had pastoral responsibilities.
One morning, I was introduced to a Methodist minister who, although ordained and actively serving as pastor to several congregations, was only a sergeant. Why? Because, as a black African, the Army would not commission him. This shocked me. The Reverend Abraham Nyazema was known by his nickname, pronounced “Abe-E.” He had this infectious smile that accompanied his ever-present good humor. The moment we met, we were friends.
Abe had traveled extensively, which was unusual for a Rhodesian African. Aside from the obvious financial limitations of the average African, the Rhodesian passport was not readily accepted in other countries. Nevertheless, he had visited the US on several occasions and had close friends from his visit to my hometown of Louisville, Kentucky. How strange that the two of us could reminisce about Louisville!
One of his sons was teaching and practicing medicine in London. Abe was no average bush African. He was in every way, an educated and traveled citizen of the world, yet he could not be a chaplain officer!
We two sergeants decided to take our conversation away from the confines of the office. Where could we go? Well, Abe wasn’t allowed in the Sergeant’s Mess because he was black. Hmm, well we could go into town and get some coffee or tea, but there weren’t any restaurants or shops that would allow us to sit together!
This was ridiculous! Where was the evidence of Ian Smith’s meritocracy where the best of all races could rise to the top. And what purpose was served by keeping whites and blacks from having tea or a meal in a public place? This was beginning to sound like plain old American Southern-style segregation.
We finally purchased sodas from a street vendor and settled on a park bench. This was the same park that Pegi and I had explored that first Sunday afternoon after arriving in Rhodesia a few months before.
I don’t remember the details of our conversation. I do remember that I felt a kinship with Abe that I never felt with another Rhodesian. I also remember that we were able to discuss the issues of racial discrimination and that we were in agreement that whites and blacks alike needed to find peaceful political solutions. We also agreed that the terrorist forces of Mugabe, Nkomo and Sithole must be stopped. This is why Abe had joined the Chaplain Corps—to minister to the all-volunteer African soldiers of the Rhodesian African Rifles (RAR) and Selous Scouts.
During the 13 months I spent in Rhodesia, I never did meet a black African who supported the terrorists. Of course, you wouldn’t expect them to open up to a white man and risk arrest! But, I did meet Africans like Abe who expressed a desire for more effective African leaders. I began to “wonder” if I had it right. There was more to this conflict than a noble struggle of Rhodesians to fight back the forces of international communism.
I began to be reminded of the vestiges of discrimination that I had witnessed during my childhood in Louisville. Like many Jewish children growing up in the 50s and 60s, I had been virtually raised by a black maid. Anna May Brown had bathed me, fed me, loved me, and spent more time with me in my childhood than had all three of my parents (mother, father, and step-father).
“May” who cared for me from birth until her death when I was 13, was always there for me. She bathed and fed me as a child. She washed my clothes, cleaned the mess known as my room, cooked my meals, and was waiting for me at the kitchen table each day when I came home from school. I know she prayed for me every day and it was the memory of her Christian love that served as an example for me.
Her death affected me more deeply than the deaths of any of my parents. In many ways, May was my real mother. I remember visiting her home in the West End of Louisville, a black ghetto. But her poor ramshackle house was surrounded by a carefully nurtured garden and the inside was neatly decorated with secondhand furniture.
I had attended an integrated high school, and my closest friends were on the basketball team, many of whom were black. One of my closest friends, Ben Wells, lived in the all black section of Harrod’s Creek just a few miles from my home in the East End of Louisville. I was shocked when I went to a party at his home to find that his beautiful five bedroom home was on a dirt road!
Here I sat in Rhodesia where whites lived in simple luxury, faithfully attended by blacks who lived in one-room servant’s quarters without electricity or running water. And now I was hearing how that it is virtually impossible for those blacks to live out their aspirations for anything better.
Think of about it—Abe and I couldn’t even be seated in the same coffee shop! My Jewish heart was in turmoil. Thousands of years of persecution ran through my Jewish veins. Something was wrong here and there was something wrong with the Christian thinking that I had adopted.
Next: Unstable and Unreliable
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