(Condensed version)

(2002 update of 1972 article)

I’ve been condensing and rewriting the extensive articles I did on our return from the Russian segment of the hockey summit in 1972. It’s painful trying to condense so much into one page. We’ll print what we can and are editing scans of the original articles to be posted on www.mibc.nb.ca by the weekend.

I don’t have much to say about the hockey. You have better sources than me for that.

Suffice to say my favourite hockey team in history was Team Canada 1972. The one I’ll always remember second best is Team Russia 1972. They scared me half to death.

Tickets

The package for the 3,000 Canadians attending the 1972 Canada Russia Hockey series cost $537. That included first class airfare over and back, hotel accommodation and meals, tickets to the four games, opera and circus and nightclub entertainments and daily tours. Going by the price of automobiles at the time and now, the price in today’s terms would be roughly the equivalent of $2,500. We were gone 11 days and spent 9 days in Moscow.

Organization

To keep track of the Canadians, each flight was assigned an animal name. Passengers from each flight were also assigned a number for the guide and bus they would have in Moscow. We were on the Fox flight and bus number four so we were Fox 4 everywhere we went.

Our guide would carry a penant so we could find her in crowds at attractions and events. Our guide, Tanya, was wonderful.

Classy

First class seating was supposed to be first come, first served. At the very last minute, all the first class seats on the Fox flight were appropriated by gold-jacketed media. Montreal Canadiens superstar Jean Belliveau and Toronto Maple Leaf veteran and hockey guru Howie Meeker ignored invitations to join the media and stayed in line, and economy class seating, with the rest of us. Belliveau and Meeker could not possibly have been classier before and during the flight and every day in Russia. They ate with us and brought us all the news of the players and behind the scenes politics every day.

News

We didn’t have any sources of news.

We heard rumours of fans being arrested and players leaving. We heard that fans at home were down on the team. We heard the Canadian media was saying both the players and fans were behaving like animals in Russia and bringing shame to the country.

We were gratified to find that the picture our media had given us of Russia seemed accurate. We were shocked to see that “Pravda” the Russian national newspaper of record was a mere six pages with, of course, no advertising. There was a first-ever ad in Pravda. Sponsored by Canadian fans at home, it wished the team success.

You don’t have any idea how much you appreciate our messy, unmannerly, sensationalist free press until there isn’t any. Knowing that the only news you do get is the officially sanctioned version, soon generates enough paranoia to threaten your sanity.

Advertising

Centrally controlled production, no competition and no advertising, far from leading to economies of scale, lead to ugly, shoddy, scarce products.

Russians acted like starving people toward our magazines. My wife took a magazine to her hair appointment. All work stopped and the hair dressers all clustered around her chair looking over her shoulder until she finally gave up the magazine. A waiter traded me a 28-doll matrushka for a Playboy magazine. A matrushka is a series of carved wooden dolls that fit inside each other. I think Matrushka means mother. They were the hottest souvenir you could get.

We Canadians never felt so colourful or so well dressed. Everything Russian seemed gray or dark blue.

Security

We had never seen security like we saw in Moscow. There were militia police on every corner and in the middle of every block. There were 1,500 soldiers at every game. It wasn’t just about controlling us although it sure seemed that way at first. At the summer Olympics in Munich, that same year, Palestinian terrorists had taken members of the Israeli team hostage. The hostages all died at the airport in a failed rescue attempt. The Russians were determined nothing would happen to us.

Housing

On the way in from the airport, the houses looked like shacks and the traffic looked mostly like old army trucks. In the city, the only new housing was shabby, concrete apartment buildings. They looked like huge low rental government projects with no maintenance budgets. I guess they were. None of the lawns appeared to have ever been mowed.

Hotel

Our hotel was the largest in the world at the time. The Hotel Russia has 4,000 rooms. Our dining room sat 400 easily and a couple of hundred more in the mezzanine. Folding doors opened to more dining areas at either end. Our guide told us guests sometimes got lost in the hotel and were found wandering, weeping.

The furniture in the rooms was all built in and very amateurish. Radio was piped in. Some rooms had television and refrigerators. Bath tubs were huge and comfortable but the fixtures were hoses with spray attachments. Each bathroom had a bidet. The plumbing and grouting were very sloppy.

The toilet paper was much the texture of this newspaper. Towels were like large linen dish towels. There were no face cloths.

The beds were delightful. The pillows were feather and about a yard square. The bedding consisted of heavy woolen blankets stuffed into a sheet envelope. To change the bed, the maids pulled the blankets out of the envelope and tucked them into a clean one.

There was a key desk on each floor. We turned in our key when we left the hotel and picked it up again when we returned. The key desks were staffed by elderly women who mothered us and worried about us when we went off to games armed with bugles and flags. They were genuinely concerned the militia would get us.

Food

Breakfast in the hotel was cheese, boiled eggs, dill pickles, delicious sweet rolls and thick coffee or delicate tea.

Lunch began with a salad usually incorporating cabbage and pickle. There were usually a couple of hard boiled eggs with a cream sauce. There was always a meat and vegetable soup in colours reminiscent of blood and gore and topped with a dollop of cream. We had some kind of tastless steak almost every day. Dessert was ice cream just like ours or excellent pastries.

Supper started with appetizers unrecognizable to Canadian eyes. We thought they were smoked chicken and some kind of fish.

The main course was always something, often unidentifiable, breaded.

Dessert was fruit or pastries.

Beverages included carbonated fruit juices (plum, apple, strawberry and pear) at breakfast and lunch and beer with supper. We didn’t like the beer.

There were no ice cubes except in the bars. There was vodka everywhere.

Shopping

Shopping seemed designed to keep people out of mischief more than to satisfy any needs they might have.

At the Soviet version of a supermarket, all the departments were like separate stores. Dairy, meat, produce and baked goods were all separate and incredibly inconvenient.

To buy something, shoppers lined up. When they got to the head of the line, they placed their order and a clerk wrote out an invoice. The shopper proceeded to another line and paid the invoice and received a receipt. She then proceeded to a third line where she traded her receipt for the actual goods.

Sunday was the main grocery shopping day. Women shopped in teams. Each woman would take a huge, shabby suitcase and go to a different department. They’d sit on the suitcase with a book and read. When the line moved, they’d rise a little, kick their suitcase ahead a few inches, and sit down again without stopping reading.

Food and clothing in Russia were very expensive. Liquor, cigarettes, the circus, ballet and opera were very cheap.

An ordinary woolen sweater cost $60 then. Think $300 in 2002 dollars. A very ordinary woman’s dress cost $150 then. Think $750 now.

A Lada that looked a bit like the current Volkswagen Jetta but junk, sold for $12,000 then. Convert that to $60,000 now.

A quart of the very best vodka was $1.50.

Rent, subway fares and restaurant dining were dirt cheap. You could ride for miles on the subway for five cents. A nice meal for four with wine was $12.

Good quality Russian chocolate and jewelry and crafts were available in special stores only open to foreigners to bring in foreign currency.

Customer service was horrendous. We concluded that the national motto was “I’m sorry but that would be impossible.”

It seemed the first response to any request.

Language

The language looks extremely difficult especially since the alphabet is different and some of the familiar letters have different sounds.

C is S. P is R. H is N. Most Canadians are familiar with CCCP, pronounced SSSR and meaning Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

So, could you decipher the common sign “Pectopah?” How about “Metpo?” You have all the clues you need.

B is C.  Mocba is Moscow.

We were also given a few Russian words to work with. I remember Dasdavanya, hello; spahsiba, thank you; spajolsta, you’re welcome; skolka, how much? and of course, mir, peace. We got a lot done with those few words.

Pectopah is restaurant. Metpo is metro – subway.

Scenes

A few scenes I remember from 1972.

Phil Esposito was the heart and soul and leader of the team. His speech in Vancouver and his pratfall during the introductions before game five are well known. His drive, passion and will to win during the games is legend.

Another little act won Canadian and even Russian hearts at the opening of game six. When Espo was introduced, instead of skating forward, he made a desperate clutch for the boards.

After Henderson’s goal to put the Canadians in the lead with 34 seconds left, the Canadians celebrated in a big messy pile on the ice for quite some time.

The Russians, of course, took their positions at center ice and waited grimly for play to resume.

The huge Russian on right defence, suddenly raised his stick high over his head, roared and shattered the stick on the ice in front of him. He picked up the pieces, skated to the bench and got another stick. Resuming his position, he again stood like stone for perhaps another minute. Then again he exploded, raising his stick to the rafters and smashing it to the ice and into a dozen pieces.

Again he picked up the pieces, skated to the bench, took another stick and resumed his statue like position. I didn’t note his number at the time but I’ve wondered if it was Liapkin, the player whose error put the puck on Henderson’s stick in front of the net.

I don’t have space for the wonderful story of how four of us wound up at a party with a Russian city mayor and his bodyguard. However, I’ll never forget him lying on his bed talking about how his 15 year old son kept changing his mind about what he wanted to be and couldn’t seem to buckle down to anything.

I remember his comment that Russia lost more than the 1972 population of Canada in WW II.

I remember his fireplug-shaped bodyguard showing where he had had his tattooed prison camp number cut out of his arm.

I remember our guide, the gorgeous Vanya, drunk from the party, telling us that young Russians were tired of the revolution and wanted a society like Sweden’s. She said change would come when her generation took charge. I realize now that it did.

I remember 3,000 Canadians leaping to their feet to sing Oh Canada at the top of our lungs at the beginning of game five and every game.

I remember tears running down Howie Meeker’s cheeks as he sang.

I remember how the Canadian contingent set out to crack the grim faced Russians. We just kept acting more and more outrageous until they cracked up laughing.

Following is an editorial David Cadogan wrote after the Canada, Russia hockey series. It was originally published in the Woodstock Bugle. The pun in the headline was intended.

Canadian fans at the hockey series in Moscow were shocked when Russian militia men tried to tell them to shut up during the games. We were even more shocked when the Russian fans did shut up when told to. The Canadian reaction was the exact opposite. The more they tried to quiet us down, the louder we screamed. Our bugles in particular infuriated the Russian brass and they tried continuously to catch us blowing them. We were threatened with all sorts of dire punishments for using them to cheer on our team.

The information we have all received over the years is true. The Soviet state does police thoughts and expressions of opinion as well as actions. Even a small dose of this is terribly upsetting to Canadians. We had practically nothing but rumour for news while we were there. The Russians had nothing but the government line.

Pravda, the Russian language paper we all hear about as presenting the official government line to Russians and the world is a six-page puff sheet that no self-respecting Canadian journalist would have any respect for at all. No newspaper but extreme left wing socialist or communist is available in the country. The only Canadian paper we saw was the “Canadian Tribune” a communist weekly published in Toronto. As a Canadian 1 never felt more ashamed in Moscow as when I realized that this rag was, as far as the Russians are concerned, the Canadian press.

At the risk of sounding biased, I felt a tremendous boost as a Canadian publisher visiting Russia. Until you have seen with your own eyes how minds can be controlled by the lack of an adversary press, you cannot really appreciate the importance of the job even a small paper does.

Pravda puts out six pages every day for a total of 36 in a week. The Bugle had 32 pages last week. Not bad when you consider that Pravda covers the largest country in the world and the Bugle serves an area populated by about 40,000 people tops.

Of course the Russian paper carries no advertisements but if you think that is an advantage, forget it. There are no specials in Russian stores. There are only two prices for groceries — high and outrageous. With no competition and no comparative shopping, there are very few bargains in Russian necessities. As a matter of fact. I think that is the big difference in the Russian market. Food and clothing are terribly expensive. Liquor, cigarettes, circuses, ballet and opera are cheap. A good knitted woolen sweater will cost at least $60. A very ordinary dress that a woman would wear to a social here would cost in the neighbourhood of $150. A quart of vodka can be had for about $1.50.

Every transaction of every kind in Russia from taking a taxi to renting an apartment to buying groceries involves dealing with bureaucrats. Since they operate much the same way ours do and you can’t complain, you can imagine what it is like to get along.

God save Canada!

DAC

(2002 update of 1972 article)

Although the Canadians in Moscow had a lot of fun meeting each other, most were more anxious to meet Russians and people from other countries. We did this in various ways. Everybody covered the few international bars in town. BJ and I would get our guide to write down a couple of addresses (including our own hotel) and then take off walking.

Some of the Fox 4 group came up with the idea of simply getting on a bus and riding to the end of the line and working their way back getting off for awhile here and there. They could go for half a day for a few cents. There was little danger of getting lost if they simply always took the same numbered bus.

We met all kinds of people. There were Danes who had come to Moscow to try to form a Jaycee unit there (I spotted a Jaycee pin and approached them). There was a Swede and his beautiful secretary (that’s what he said anyway) who assured us that Canada had no chance. There was the Austrian who mistook us for Americans (he was very drunk). The Nigerian chemical engineer wanted to bet 400 rubles on Canada to win. BJ and I were joined one night by the co-mayors of Dusseldorf.

There were dozens of Russian students including one, the son of an army general, who said his father would have a fit if he knew he had been at a party with a gang of Canadians.

There was the medical student who said that Russian doctors only make about 200 rubles ($240) a month. He said they pick up more than that in payoffs by people who want to avoid waiting in line.

There was the “Sports Illustrated” photographer we adopted as an honorary Canadian. He helped everybody with their picture problems. I don’t know how many times he signed Bobby Orr’s autograph for him. He nearly got thrown out of the rink for his vociferous cheering in the press section and was heartbroken when his beloved Rangers failed to live up to expectations.

Taxi Drivers

Any Canadian could write a book about the taxi drivers alone. Being government employees, on salary in a country with no tipping, they aren’t desperate to work so we often had to hijack them. They would make excellent capitalists since they had all kinds of angles going. The meter price was just a figure for bargaining. They wanted at least four times that much but could be haggled down to double. They also wanted our ties, pins and shirt buttons. They drive like mad. There is nothing like circling the Kremlin in a taxi going 80 kilometers per hour through medium traffic to make you feel a long way from Woodstock. They were all hockey fans and more than hockey, they like American money. Many of them are black market dealers and would pay three rubles for a dollar (about four times the going rate) and, when we refused to deal would work up to five rubles for the dollar. This was very tempting but we didn’t bite. Russian plain clothes men play these games too and the penalties are harsh — up to two years, we were told.

One unique experience arose from a taxi trip. After a couple of days we learned that the best way to get a taxi was to sneak up on it and leap in and refuse to move. Marc Romoff and I did that one day and wound up riding with the two Russians the taxi had been waiting for. They were shocked to find us in their cab but soon got involved in a boisterous argument about whose players were dirtier and who would win that night’s game.

We found out later that they were members of the Soviet Congress which met while we were there. The upshot of it all was that we wound up in their room after the third game for a party.

Party bosses live pretty high on the hog in Russia. They had expected to win the game but were gracious in defeat. They dug out a couple of chickens, a bucket of crab meat, a tin of delicious ham, assorted cheeses and breads, grapes as big as Vladimir’s thumb and Vladimir made me look like a dwarf.

They explained that it is Russian custom to drink when you win and another custom is to put everything you have on the table when guests come. Thus we should drink. Through our guide Tanya who accompanied us, I explained that a Canadian custom is to drink when you lose. They laughed and agreed to help us.

Their biggest supply was Armenian cognac which should have no smoking signs on it. Being gentlemen, they served the ladies first. They urged Betty Jean and then Tanya to drain their tumblers quickly so the men could have their turns. Needless to say the party got interesting.

Vladimir had been in the Russian navy in the war and his buddy had been in charge of the defence of his city. They pointed out that Russia lost more lives in the war than there are people in Canada and that they hoped there would be peace for our generation.

Vladimir said that his 15. old son had cried to think of his father at the games in Moscow when he couldn’t go. He also said that he was very worried about the coming generation. His son was very interested in many things but wouldn’t really buckle down to anything and didn’t know what he wanted to be.

They asked us if we had been taught that Russians were primitive and walked the streets like bears and we told him that Canadians had a pretty good knowledge of Russia. They tested us and we tested them on Canadian knowledge and we won.

Pretty soon we were all hugging each other and exchanging gifts just like in the movies as we said goodbye.

These guys were tough cats, no doubt about it. They had survived some of the most ruthless times in the history of the world and wound up near the top. They were very jovial and generous but we all left feeling that they could slice out your heart still laughing if you represented any kind of a threat. The instinct for personal survival was written all over them.

The consensus among the young Russians we talked to was that changes will come in the country. They feel that Kruschev started to open up the country but that the new regime is applying the brakes. They resent the fact that their parents keep telling them that they never had it so good. They resent the government telling them that everything is the best in Russia and that food and clothes must take second place to achievements to show and impress the world.

They also resent the fact that the government is made up of men who made their reputations in wartime or the revolution but who aren’t capable of governing for peace.

When I asked one if Marx’s idea “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need,” still applied. I was told that it does not. The. slogan now is,

“From each according to his ability, to each according to his achievement.” I was told. This isn’t what actually happens though I was told. The actual practice is, “From each according to his ability, to each according to his past achievement.”

We were told that the mass exiles to Siberia under Stalin affected many Russian families. Many people were sent there and brought back years later and put on pensions and never knew what they were supposed to have done.

Young Russians fear the United States. Their impression of it is a country full of gun toting psychotics shooting anyone they disagree with. They don’t fear Canada but they don’t know much about us. Their ambition is to become something like Sweden or Denmark.

Our informants told us that they believe there will be substantial changes beginning in about 15 years when today’s young people take command. Until then, they do not expect to be allowed to leave the country for trips or to read our newspapers freely.

I did not get the idea that many Russians want to defect. Like Canadians, they complain bitterly about their government but are loyal to their country and will stay and work and hope for better times.

I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I put forward this information as a definitive belief about the Russian situation. I was only in a very small part of the country for a very short time. I naturally listened for what I wanted to hear and met people who had some of the same characteristics I do. I would like to think that the general consensus would be like what I heard but I really don’t know.

(When I originally wrote this in 1972, it seemed wiser not to name the Russian who told me this. It was our guide Tanya with her tongue loosened by Armenian cognac.)

One thing that did impress me was that I was not terribly surprised by anything I saw or heard. In my opinion Canadian media and books give us a quite accurate picture of Russia. There is nothing like seeing it for yourself but it is a relief to learn that we have not been terribly brain-washed and lied to. We’re much better off in that regard, I think, than either the Russians or the citizens of the U.S. Each is basically convinced that the other is out to get him.

(2002 update of 1972 article)

Many Canadians got the impression from fans returning from Moscow that Russian food is terrible. This is not true. It is certainly different, it gave Canadian digestive systems quite a shock and we soon began to pine for what we were used to. I think the same thing would apply with the finest French cuisine. It is strange though that the things we all craved most were the very simplest things at home — hamburgers, Coca Cola and milk.

Pickle Breakfast

In Russia, breakfast consisted of hard sliced cheese, poached or soft-boiled eggs (the yolks were always too runny and the poached had a greenish tinge) dill pickles, delicious sweet rolls, thick coffee or delicate tea.

Lunch was the big meal. This usually started off with a sort of salad usually incorporating cabbage and having a pickle flavour. There were usually a couple of hard-boiled eggs with a cream sauce. There was always some horrible looking soup made up of various weird colours of vegetables and meat and topped with a big dollop of cream. It was usually delicious although rarely more than lukewarm.

We had steak almost every day although most of the flavour was gone as though it had been boiled for a day or so before being heated up. No salt. Dessert was either ice cream (just like Canadian) or pastries (excellent).

Breaded anything

Supper started off with hard-to identify appetizers like smoked chicken or usually some strange fish dish. The main course might be anything that could be breaded,

— veal, fish, rabbit, chicken or God alone knows what. Dessert would be fruit or pastries.

It all tasted fine to me except that it was like institutional food in Canada. Things could have been warmer, spicier and cooked for a shorter time. The butter and bread were excellent and kept many of us going although it seemed that baking was only done once a week and Monday’s rolls got a little tough by Saturday .

Bottles of carbonated fruit juice (plum, apple, strawberry, pear) were served with breakfast and lunch and beer with supper. The beer was terrible by our tastes and the fruit juice all began to taste like prune soda pop after a few days. There weren’t any ice cubes . except in the bars.

I suppose the overall feeling after a week was that we were on a constant diet of smoked or pickled fish salad.

In the second week we found a bar where they served a really excellent steak. It would beat most steaks in Canadian steak houses – charred on the outside, tender and

juicy pink on the inside and salty! It cost $2.50 and was wildly popular.

Drink On Street

The Russian working people lunched on various kinds of meat pies deep fried like fish and chips and sold from stands in a napkin. Excellent ice cream bars, pastries, chocolates and candies were sold everywhere you turned. It was not unusual to see a few men meet on the street, whip out small glasses, pour a shot of vodka all around and proceed on their way. It wasn’t that common either but I saw it happen three times during my visit.

Russians have a reputation, especially among themselves, for being huge eaters. I wouldn’t argue with that. I would say their choice of diet is even worse than ours and we’re among the worst in the world.

Almost everyone over 40 was much overweight. Many of the older citizens are also extremely short or look as though they have really been through hard times. This is hardly surprising in view of the mass starvation during World War II when 26 million Russians lost their lives.

1,000 For Dinner

We had most of our meals in one of the huge restaurants in the hotel. There were over 400 of us eating there at one time and we only comfortably filled the ground floor leaving a good large area for dancing. There were often wedding parties going on in the balconies while we ate. Another large dining room adjoined ours separated by a folding door. I would guess that 1,000 people could eat in this one restaurant at once. There were seven restaurants in the hotel.

In addition to the restaurants there were a couple of small bars and snack bars scattered around lest a visitor starve on a journey to a restaurant.

Tanya, our guide told us that when the hotel first opened, groups of tourists were occasionally found weeping in the halls having gotten thoroughly lost inside the hotel. This definitely would be possible.

While we were there, there was a constant stream of tours from all over the world. I couldn’t list all of the countries because it would be easier to list the ones not represented but suffice to say that the first couple we met were Australian. Aussies seem to turn up everywhere.

Many tours stay longer in Russia than we did but not usually in the same place. Tanya said that many Intourist guides quit because they cannot stand meeting a group, getting to know them, forming deep friendships and then saying goodbye forever all in the space of a couple of weeks.

(2002 update of 1972 article)

We flew to Moscow from Montreal stopping to refuel at Copenhagen in Denmark. We met Bob Kenney, a Fredericton lawyer, and his wife, Joan. The former Joan Keenan of Woodstock. Our flight was called the “Fox” flight a code name that identified us throughout the trip. Fox flight carried mostly people from Ottawa. Montreal and the Maritimes and the Hockey Night in Canada crew and other reporters. Most of these celebrities pulled strings and picked off the best seats without waiting in line but two of them distinguished themselves in our minds.

Jean Belliveau and Howie Meeker not only waited in line like everyone else, they refused the opportunity to jump past the line when it was offered. They sat in the tourist section with the rest of us and worked all through the flight answering questions, signing autographs and having their pictures taken by the hundred. They were on hand throughout the 11 days to fill us in on what was going on and carry our messages of support to the team members.

Belliveau in particular stands out in my mind. I was never a Montreal fan but I must say that he has to be the number one ambassador for hockey the world over. He has the very special ability to look as though he is modeling for the cover of a magazine at all times–even after 12 hours in a plane with a huge party going on around him. Somehow his hair doesn’t get mussed up, his shoes stay mirror spotless, his clothes don’t wrinkle and his eyes don’t streak.

Aside from his gentlemanly behaviour, he has that very rare ability to seal himself off from vulgar behaviour around him with an invisible wall. At one point some of the people around him got pretty wild as the effects of alcohol and altitude took their toll. He didn’t move but somehow he wasn’t there. They did not intrude on his little piece of territory and he took no notice of them.

Belliveau had us all in awe.

In Moscow, we went by bus from the airport (very stark and cold looking compared to Dorval or Malton) to our hotel. Outside the city, the country looked old and poor. Farmhouses are shacks and most traffic looked like old army trucks.

In the city there are no houses, just huge apartment buildings. Even the newer ones look very scruffy as though they were low rental government projects with no budget for maintenance. I think they are. In any case, the lawns had not been mowed for months and paint and windows were long past renewal.

Organized

The Soviet tourist branch Intourist, was extremely well organized although we took a while figuring out the purpose of some of the things they made us do. We had our first glimpse of the military state at the airport where soldiers checked our visas and refused to smile and a woman came out to refuel the plane.

The military presence grew more and more throughout our stay and was discomforting to Canadians. Fox flight was divided into busloads assigned a number. The Cadogans and Kenneys were Fox 6. That was converted to a French language group and we became Fox 5. Fox 5 was disbanded when so few press representatives turned out for the tours that it was no longer needed and we became Fox 4.

Zig zag time

When we finally were assigned rooms at the hotel and got our luggage we were exhausted. From New Brunswick to Montreal we went back an hour and from Montreal to Moscow we went ahead seven. We didn’t get any sleep on the plane (too excited) and were beginning to lose track of the day much less the time. As soon as we got settled, went to lunch followed that up with a hot bath and collapsed. We didn’t wake up until next morning.

Unusual ashtray

Our room was pleasant and comfortable although much different than any we had stayed in before The Russia holds 6,000 people in 4,000 rooms and is massive. All Woodstock could live in it. The rooms all had piped in radio and some had television and refrigerators. The bathtubs were huge (I loved that) and each bathroom had a bidet complete with absolutely no manual for operation, I used that for an ashtray.

Instead of shower fixtures as we know them, hoses with spray attachments hung in each tub. You could hang the spray up high for a shower or move it around for rinsing hair.

The toilet paper was extremely hard, about like the paper the Bugle is printed on and the towels were like large linen dish towels. No face cloths. The plumbing and grouting in the bathroom was very sloppy and we began to think (wrongly) that were no skilled building craftsmen in the country.

The pillows on the beds were huge and delightful. They were about a yard square. The blankets were all stuffed into a huge sheet envelope like a five cent Kleenex package. When the sheets were changed, the blankets were pulled out of the oval hole in the sheet

envelope and inserted into another one.

There is a key desk on each floor. When we arrived at our rooms, we picked up our keys from the desk. When we left the room, we turned in the key and got a card. When we returned, we traded the card for the key.

At these key desks we could buy mineral water, cigarettes, matches and even a pot of tea. We could leave laundry to be done.

Crazy Canadians

The people at these desks did not speak English but we soon learned to communicate with them and found them very friendly. Although they thought we were a bit crazy too, they worried about us. One night they helped me prepare a huge Canadian flag for the game by giving me a broom stick to tie it to. They laughed at my bugle which obviously did not bother them at all although the militia men hated it.

When Betty Jean returned to the room alone after a game, they fussed about in very worried fashion and finally got it across to her that they were worried about the big fellow with the beard. She signified that I was fine and waiting downstairs and they cheered up immediately. They obviously worried that the militia had got me.

Since no free world magazines or newspapers are allowed in the country, and since people are people, our magazines were the subject of much interest. Betty Jean took a copy of McCall’s with her to the beauty salon and all work ceased while the operators read over her shoulder. Service in the dining room ceased as the waiters clustered around my Playboy magazine laughing uproariously.

(2002 update of 1972 article)

Scenes

So many scenes from the 1972 trip to the Canada, Russia hockey series are seared into my memory.

Phil Esposito was the heart, soul and leader of the team. His speech in Vancouver and his pratfall during the introductions before game five are well known. His drive, passion and will to win during the games is legend.

Another little act won Canadian and even Russian hearts at the opening of game six. When Espo was introduced, instead of skating forward, he made a desperate clutch for the boards.

After Henderson’s goal put the Canadians in the lead with 34 seconds left, the Canadians celebrated in a big messy pile on the ice.

The Russians, of course, took their positions at center ice and waited grimly for play to resume.

The huge Russian on right defence, suddenly raised his stick high over his head, roared and shattered the stick on the ice in front of him. He picked up the pieces, skated to the bench and got another stick. Resuming his position, he again stood like stone for perhaps another minute. Then again he exploded, raising his stick to the rafters and smashing it to the ice and into a dozen pieces.

Again he picked up the pieces, skated to the bench, took another stick and resumed his statue like position. I didn’t note his number at the time but I wonder if it was Liapkin, the player whose error put the puck on Henderson’s stick in front of the net.

A gift

Another memory is of an elderly, very elegant and obviously wealthy Anglophone woman from Montreal. She was traveling with her grandson, about 13 years old. She wasn’t a hockey fan and she certainly wasn’t a party animal like so many of the rest of the boisterous Canadian fans. What she was was a devoted grandmother taking her grandson on a great adventure when the boy’s parents could not.

She is probably gone now. That boy is in his 40’s. Do you suppose his grandmother was in his mind at all the past month?

The immigrant

On the flight on the way over, some of the cynics were blaming the weak showing of the team in Canada on our soft society generally. Not only the players but all Canadians were too soft and spoiled to stand up to the disciplined and stalwart Russians.

Suddenly Gus, a Greek immigrant who owned a restaurant in Smith’s Falls, Ontario, leapt to his feet in his seat and unloaded on the critics. He was boiling as he ranted about what a great country Canada is. He lectured about freedom and opportunity and personal safety. At the time, Greek immigrants had left a country run by a brutal military dictatorship.

I wish every Canadian could have heard that rant.

Adventure

My favourite adventure outside the rink happened as a result of buying my bugle. Hearing other Canadian fans sounding the charge, I wanted a bugle.

Mark Romoff and I got Tanya to write down the name of a music store and the address of our hotel in Russian. We set off to find a cab. Cab drivers didn’t really care to pick up fares. They got paid whether they did or not. There was no tipping. Why work?

We’d learned to sneak up on a parked cab, jump in and refuse to get out until he took us where we were going.

On this particular day, we found a cab and hopped in. The driver put up quite a fuss but we didn’t get out. Presently two well dressed, important looking Russians climbed in too. The taller, more authoritative, better groomed one was obviously asking the driver what we were doing there. The driver was obviously explaining we were nuts and demanding to be taken to a music store.

The Russian apparently approved the trip.

As we set off, he pointed at us and asked something like “Kanadaski?” We knew “Da.”

He said “Esposito” and jerked his elbows jaw high. We said “Kharlamov” and made slashing motions.

He reached over and drew a grid in the fog on the cab window. He wrote the scores of the games so far. He wrote a score for the game to be played that night showing Russia winning handily.

I protested and wrote C – 3 and K –5 indicating Canada would win 5-3. He took out his card and wrote a number on the back.

When we got back to the hotel with my bugle, we hunted down Tanya and showed her the card and asked what it said. She looked a little shocked and said it was the card of a member of the Soviet congress, the mayor of a city some 800 miles from Moscow. The number he wrote was his room number.

We pestered her to call the room. She told us “He says you met in a cab this afternoon. He says you had a disagreement about the outcome of tonight’s game.”

We confirmed that we certainly had.

“He wants to know if you would like to join him in his suite after the game to discuss who was correct.”

I said something equivalent to the Miramichi expression “Pretty likely!”

After Canada won, we hurried back to the hotel. We enticed Tanya to come with us so we could communicate. Mark Romoff, Betty Jean, I and another Canadian nicknamed Hoddy went up to the room. Hoddy followed Tanya everywhere he could.

We knocked on the door and the fire plug answered and swung it wide.

The giant, Vladimir, stood waving his arm to a buffet feast and Armenian cognac. The buffet was finer than anything we’d seen or been able to find while we were there. Rank hath its privileges.

Tanya told us he was saying “It is the custom in Russia that when we win we drink and, when company comes, we put everything we have on the table. This is for you.”

I asked her to tell him “In Canada, when we lose we drink so it would only be right for them to join us.”

He and the fireplug laughed and the party was on.

The fireplug approached Betty Jean with the cognac and a tumbler and poured her about a four-ounce shot. He stood waiting for her to toss it off so he could move on with the glass. Armenian cognac may well have been the fuel that got the Russians into space first. It can certainly propel and lubricate a party.

It was simultaneously one of the most exotic and most homey memories I have of the trip.

I’ll never forget the huge Soviet mayor, congress member, and survivor of WW II and the Stalin purges stretched out on his bed talking about his teenage son. He said the boy kept changing his mind about what he wanted to be and couldn’t seem to buckle down to anything. Vladimir worried that the younger generation wasn’t going to amount to much.

Some things seem the same everywhere, always.

I remember his comment that Russia lost more than the population of Canada in WW II.

I remember his hard cohort showing where he had had his tattooed prison camp number cut out of his arm.

Vladimir wondered if we had been taught that Russians were primitive and walked the streets like bears. We said we had a fairly good idea of Russia. Quizzing each other, we did better.

It was a wonderful party and cemented our idea that people the world over are not significantly different. They want hope and security for their families and a bit of fun on a Saturday night. Russians love their country passionately. It didn’t take much to make them weep for her.

As the party broke up we were hugging and exchanging gifts. At the same time, we agreed later that these were tough cats. We had no doubt they could have as easily cut out our hearts still laughing if we had posed any real threat to them. They were at the top in a game far rougher than anything my generation in the West can dream of.

Change

I remember our guide, the gorgeous Tanya, drunk from the party, telling us that young Russians were tired of the revolution and wanted a society like Sweden’s. She also told us that reward in Russia was based more on an old boys’ network from the revolution and the war than on current merit or productivity.

She said change would come when her generation took charge. I realize now she was right.

Joie de vie

I remember 3,000 Canadians leaping to their feet to sing Oh Canada at the top of their lungs at the beginning of game five and every game. With half the contingent singing in French, it never sounded better. I remember tears running down Howie Meeker’s cheeks as he sang.

I remember how the Canadian contingent set out to crack the grim faced Russians. We just kept acting more and more outrageous until they cracked up laughing. They seemed to feel at first that it was important to show us how tough and invincible they were. They either realized or were officially instructed after the first three days that we weren’t a threat and they could relax. After that, we got along like Miramichiers and Newfoundlanders.

I remember several times we’d be sitting in a bar and the doors would burst open and a conga line would parade in singing and dancing. It was always the Quebecois and it always lit up the party. I think it is fair to say that both French and English on that trip were among the first to know truly how wonderful we are together and how lesser we’d be separately. Imagine Quebec or the Rest of Canada as separate entities trying to beat the Russians at hockey! Try to imagine a party as good without Francophones as with Francophones!

Difference

Thirty years later, Summit ’72 still seems like the dream it was at the time.

It may be difficult for people who have grown up since to understand why eking out a one-goal, one-game victory over the Russians seemed so glorious at the time. Obviously we didn’t establish any grand superiority over Russian athletes. We learned as much about hockey from them as they did from us in that month. I think the emotion we felt and that has lasted down the years was mostly liberation.

Many people have said that the series was like a war. It was but the war was not with Russia. It was with communism but not with communism as an economic system.

It was between a system that prizes individuality, the rights and genius of the individual, versus a system that requires the individual to subvert himself to the system, the hive. Russian hockey was much more systematic than Canadian hockey. Russian players often did not take the obvious shot because the routine of the system called for another pass before a shot. We were told that Ken Dryden would never have been assigned to play goal in the Russian system. With his height, he would have been considered too awkward for goal. He’d have been forced to try to be a forward.

It wasn’t our country or our government that was being contested. It was how we each think of ourselves and our individual potential.

A system that treated people like ants or bees horrified us. The thought that such ideas might defeat our approach was horrifying.

The fact that our players were able to get together and adapt to the international game, the Russian system, the international rink and each other in time to prevail was a huge relief. We also believed that, if there had been eight more games, Canada would have won them all. Our team, coming off vacation as individuals,  soared higher and higher though out the series. The Russian team peaked in the first game after years of training together.

That garbage goal has made an astounding difference to the Canadian identity.

Isn’t that life? Shattering change can happen in an instant.

(2002 update of 1972 article)

In the first moments after the referee plucked Henderson’s miracle goal out of the net and skated back to center, the reaction in the stands was indescribable. It was of course, not possible. Canada had not scored more than four goals in any of the previous games against the Russians. Down two at the end of the second period, Canada had to beat Russia by three in the last period to win. Figure out the odds.

Toronto Maple Leaf, Paul Henderson, scorer of three consecutive winning goals, came closest to describing it saying that it was a living fairy tale.

First thing I did was throw both hands, flag and trumpet in the air and let out the biggest roar of my life. Not a sound came out of the first try. Next thing was to give Betty Jean a big hug and a kiss. We were all actually leaping up and down and screaming and pounding one another with swats that should have landed some of us in the hospital.

I looked at Mark Romoff, a new friend from Ottawa, and the look of unbelieving joy on his face will be engraved in my mind forever, his mouth was open in shock and his whole face was shining.

The uproar settled down for the agonizing final 34 seconds and then erupted again. It didn’t stop until all the players had left the ice and the television interviews had been concluded. At one point the “We’re number one!” chant died out for a few moments and the Canadians all began chanting ‘Spahsiba” (Thanks) to let the Russians know how we had appreciated their hospitality and good sportsmanship.

Soon Canadian fans packed the halls of the arena singing 0’ Canada, chanting: “We’re number one!” and laughing like a bunch of lunatics. Our group danced the first few hundred feet away from the rink and then we spontaneously began to run leaping into the air and screaming at the top of our lungs.

Leaping Like Gazelles

Ordinarily a run of 100 yards would put me in critical condition but we ran about a half a mile, leaping like gazelles and screaming all the way. I even got a few blasts out of the bugle.

By the time we hit the buses, the Foxes Four were pretty well screamed out and the realization of the victory was beginning to settle into our bones. Everybody kept grasping each other in a firm handshake and again spontaneously the grip was different. instead of the knuckles pointing down as usual, they pointed up in the position for arm wrestling.

Since some 90 different buses carried the Canadians to hotels all over the city, there was no common party but hundreds of separate parties in dozens of hotels. The Fox 4 party had to be one of the best since we had planned it in advance and had even stocked up on orange juice and various other party goodies.

Lots Of Noise

We were making a lot of noise at first and the hotel people got a bit worried but gradually the people who might have been disturbed joined the party. The Yugoslavs in particular were welcome because they made several very flowery speeches about how happy they were that we won and what a great hockey team we have.

People finally began to drop out from exhaustion and the halls filled with happy, weary Canadians ambling back to their rooms for a couple of hours sleep before leaving the next day.

The next morning, as we left, it was snowing in Red Square.

Lebanese Canadians in Atlantic Canada

(This is the original version of an article written for “Saltscapes” magazine and published in the January-February 2012 issue. The editors edited and amended it to meet their space and content requirements. Even this draft is less than half of the material volunteered by generous sources. I’m having trouble with my contact for the site at present so, if you want to email me, please use miramichier_dac@hotmail.com . )

In 1911, 15-year-old Ibrahim Kassouf,  left his home in the Mount Lebanon area of Syria. He eventually arrived at the Newcastle, New Brunswick, train station having become, according to a tag on his chest, Abraham Asoyuf who would be picked up by his brother Charles, who had arrived in 1897 at the age of 15.

The very next day, with no English and a few words of French, equipped with a pack of dry goods and notions from Charles’ store, Abe Asoyuf set out to peddle in Eel River, near Baie Ste. Anne, on Miramichi Bay.

Like Charles, already on his way to becoming a successful merchant, Abe thrived and eventually owned a herring packing plant. When it came time for him to have a wife, his parents arranged his marriage to to a cousin, Zakia, from home. He met her boat in Montreal and brought her home.

Their Maronite Christian countrymen repeated that story, over and over, in all four Atlantic Provinces. Their Phoenician ancestors built the first world empire around 1,500 BCE. It was based on trade and gave the world its first alphabet. Like them, immigrants from the area we now know as Lebanon, fanned out from arrival ports in Montreal, Quebec, Halifax and New York to trade in communities throughout their new world.

In Newfoundland, Saliba Dominic started out as a peddler, opened a store and hired ships to carry his goods from Spaniard’s Bay to outports in Labrador. He had S. Dominic & Sons Ltd. stores in Corner Brook and Botwood. His grand daughter, Sharon Dominic now co-ordinates a growing annual gathering of Lebanese Canadians in St. John’s.

When and why

The first surge of immigration from what was then Syria and part of the Turkish Ottoman Empire occurred between 1880 and 1900.

Population growth was a factor. Lebanon is one fifth the size of Nova Scotia. There was little opportunity for young Lebanese to acquire land. The European industrial revolution dealt a heavy blow to the Lebanese textile trade as did the 1869 opening of the Suez canal which gave Chinese silk a much faster, cheaper route to European markets.

Religious conflict and Ottoman designated government were significant factors.

In 1860, as many as 20,000 Maronite Christians were killed in a conflict with Islamic Druze. France and other European countries intervened with the fading Turkish Ottoman Empire. Its Ottoman rulers agreed to separate Lebanon from Syria and appoint a Christian governor. France sent 6,000 peacekeeping troops to ensure order.

The presence of missionaries and the opening of European and an American university in Beirut gave young Lebanese some idea of the U.S. and Canada as potential areas of opportunity. Even more went to South America and many to Australia.

Ocean liner agents in Beirut and Alexandria sold tickets to Marseilles, Montreal, Halifax and New York. Fraud artists put some on ships that dropped them off as nearby as Egypt telling them they were in New York.

Immigration to Canada dwindled after 1900. Lebanese were included in quotas and fees aimed primarily at excluding Chinese. The Turks fought on the German side during WW I, which prevented immigration from the Syrian part of their empire.

There was another surge when the Mt. Lebanon area was parceled off to the French in 1920 after the war.

Yet another surge occurred during civil war from 1975 t0 1990.

According to Fredericton artist, Michael Khoury, continuing conflict in Lebanon is not among Lebanese Christians and Muslims. Syria has never accepted Lebanon as a separate country and Iran sponsors conflict there as part of its ambition to destroy neighbouring Israel. Lebanon has the misfortune to be a battleground.

The French connection

The French connection with Lebanon grew from the Christian crusades of the 11th and 12th centuries. Coming to the Holy Land, the French encountered the Catholic Maronite Christians named for their fourth century monk founder, St. Maroun.

The French and Maronite Christian relationship bloomed and grew with religious, linguistic, cultural and commercial engagement. In 1638, France guaranteed the protection of Catholics, including the Maronites, in the Ottoman Empire of which Lebanon, in Syria, was then part. France cited that declaration when intervening after the 1860 conflict.

In 1920, after WW I, the League of Nations divided up the remains of the losing Turkish Ottoman Empire. France was awarded a mandate to control what became Lebanon. That enabled another surge of emigration.

During WW II, with France occupied by Germany, the French Vichy government recognized Lebanon as an independent country. In 1946, the post-war French government confirmed the recognition and Lebanon became an independent country for the first time. That meant that the first and second surges of emigrants to Canada were Syrian Turks, not Lebanese. Most became Canadians before they became Lebanese.

After Lebanese independence, French remained an official language. Beirut was known as the Paris of the Middle East.

Assimilation

Lebanese peddlers, more than their Jewish and Greek contemporaries, tended to pick up from the end of another peddler’s route and go on from there rather than settle around larger communities.

It was arduous work carrying carefully balanced packs weighing about 100 pounds. In the days before catalogues and cars, country homemakers eagerly anticipated the arrival of the peddlers with the staples like suspenders, shoe laces, thread, pins, needles, tapes, scissors, thimbles and elastic along with fabrics and items of clothing.

The peddlers also brought news and paid for meals and accommodation with small gifts from their packs.

Their tendency, as soon as they could, to open stores near their routes, accounts for the presence of prominent Lebanese Canadian families in communities throughout Atlantic Canada.

Assimilation began almost immediately. Barry MacKenzie, author of an M.A. thesis on the Lebanese immigrant experience in New Brunswick, learned that, rather than teach their children Arabic, most first generation immigrants concentrated on learning the local language from their children.

One exception was Joab Abbass in Sydney, Cape Breton. When his daughter, Philomena, complained about the difficulty to learning French in school, he taught himself to read and write French from an Arabic-French, Bible. He told his daughter, “If I can learn French from a book, you can learn it in school”.

The Abbasses are also one of the remarkable examples of families with names changed from the original. Unlike most, the story goes back to olden times in their native country.

According to Fr. Francis Abbass, Joab’s son, the family name was originally Esau.  The family was descended from one of many Crusaders’ orphans left behind when the French forces withdrew. With the Pope’s approval, the orphans were raised as Maronites.

When an Esau killed a man with a sword (saif in Arabic) the family became Esau Saif. The family fled to southern Syria where it resettled among Islamic Druze.

During a time of Druze, Maronite, conflict, the Esau Saifs left their children with an Arab neighbour for safety. Druze came looking for Maronites for probable execution.

The Arab neighbour swept the children behind her skirts, bared her breasts, and declared “These are my children nursed at my breast!”. According to family history, the Druze were reluctant to attack a woman and left.

In gratitude and respect, the Esau Saifs declared the children would forever be known by their Arab saviour’s name, Abbass.

Fr. Abbass confirmed details of the family story from a Saif genealogist in Lebanon and passed it on to his niece, Ann-Marie MacDonald, author of the award winning novel, “Fall On Your Knees”.

When Fr. Francis Abbass visited Lebanon both Christian and Islamic citizens were startled by the combination of Christian and Muslim in his name. Several times he heard “It is as likely that a berry bush would produce a power pole as that an Abbass would produce an altar boy!”.

There were very many Lebanese names changed by mistake or for convenience in Canada. One of the most extreme was when Ibrahims, landing among the Irish immigrants in Miramichi, became O’Briens! In Newfoundland, Lorraine Michael’s father, Ferdoon Elia ibn Mikael became Frederick Michael. In PEI, Frank Zakem’s brother-in-law, Rahshib Labeeb became Larry.

Cuisine not assimilated

Describing assimilation, Barry MacKenzie says that the marker that has survived most clearly is food. Lebanese Canadians always enjoyed it and often included it in menus in otherwise conventional Canadian restaurants.

Michael Khoury, who was brought to Canada at the age of 9, says that it began to really spread into the non-Lebanese community after the 1975 Lebanese civil war. He says immigrants from that time popularized the cuisine outside the Lebanese community.

Now yogurt, hummus, baba ghanouj, tabbouleh, dolmass, kibbeh, fattoush, falafel, shawarma kebabs, flat breads and various phylos are increasingly familiar to Canadians. Yogurt, hummus and baba ghanouj are available in most supermarkets and many farm markets. Most larger communities have Lebanese food restaurants. Over the millennia, Lebanese, Turkish, Syrian and Greek food intermixed and evolved so it is difficult to determine where a dish originated.

Shaun Abbass remembers his father eating, at Easter, a special penance meal consisting of a type of meatball and bulgar wheat in a vinegar sauce. It was to be a reminder of the Roman refusal of water to slake the thirst of Christ on the cross. Lebanese are dedicated vintners. Currently Mitchells (el Miitke) are crossing a grape vine their family brought with them from Lebanon with another brought by their neighbours, the Salomes.

The common spirit is arak, anise (licorice) flavoured which, like the Greek ouzo, turns milky when mixed with water.

The Lebanese version of the Turkish hookah is called the narghile. In the homeland, it is used to smoke everything from rose petals to hashish. A 100-year-old woman says that, on her visits to Lebanon and Egypt, she never saw any tobacco growing. She will remain nameless because she will only admit to 95 although her name appears in the 1911 census. In fact, she is more vivacious and irreverent than many people less than half her age but it would not be polite, or quite safe, to contradict her.

A large party feature unique to the Sydney area is a card game called tarbish or tarabish. It seems to have originated in Turkey and came to Cape Breton with one of the early Lebanese immigrants. It is a game of tricks like euchre or 45’s. According to Fr. Maroun, it is a significant feature of undergraduate life at the University of Cape Breton.

Lebanese include avid gamblers. Lorraine Michael tells of a Belle Island woman renowned for coming to the St. John’s weekend poker games with nothing but money and changes of underwear. Regular high roller poker weekends, conducted by people of Lebanese heritage have been a standard feature in most communities.

Mahajarans and hufflees

Lebanese are renowned for their hospitality, love of socializing with family and friends, music, dancing, drinking and smoking.

Sources for this article in all four provinces mentioned that a visitor to a Lebanese home is not offered food or drink. It is automatically served. That was certainly the case during all interviews conducted for this article.

Emile “Clish” Napke’s family, in Miramichi, still holds a large family dinner with from 20 to 35 family members every weekend.

A mahajaran is a larger reunion or gathering. A hufflee is a smaller party. English spellings of Arabic words and names are phonetic and vary from region to region and family to family. Annual mahajarans now occur in Newfoundland, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. Some New Brunswickers attend the large one in Halifax each year.

Frank Zakem, former mayor of Charlottetown, says that half of the 600 people who now attend the community’s annual mahajaran, about a week after New Year’s,  have no Lebanese heritage. The Lebanese association women cook for about three days and have a unique arrangement with the hotel to provide their own food.

Lorraine Michael, Member of the Newfoundland House of Assembly, and leader of the province’s New Democratic Party, remembers big community parties among the Lebanese families clustered in the New Gower Street area since razed for redevelopment. She remembers lots of music and dancing, including the dabke, a type of line dance, and women taking their turns belly dancing inside a circle.

Emil Napke remembers families from all over New Brunswick gathering in Moncton, Saint John and Fredericton. He also remembers a party of young couples at a local hall where the women, clearing up after the meal, drank the remains of the wine in the glasses and became especially cheerful.

Lebanese weddings are exuberant. Traditionally the bride’s family and friends celebrated at her house and the groom’s at his. Then the bride and her group came to the groom’s. In a ritual called the zaffeh, the bride made her entrance doing a sensuous dance. These days, with bride’s wearing conventional North American gowns, a belly dancer often performs in her place.

Shaun Abbass remembers being at a wedding that was typically Canadian except that the bride danced up to her husband at the reception.

Fr. Albert Maroun, of South Bar, Nova Scotia, remembers a party where a young Cape Breton woman got up and step danced to a dabke beat played by a German immigrant.

Musical instruments

Lebanese music and instruments are, like the cuisine, a mixture and evolution of various Asia Minor regions. Various Atlantic Provinces sources identify the same drums, for example, by different names and vice versa. The tablah and darabuka are similar and common.

The oud is a pear-shaped guitar. The buzuq is a long-necked guitar with a round body.

The most amazing of the instruments common to Lebanese music is the mijwiz. It is a pair of reed tubes with smaller tubes inside them. There are holes in the tubes as in a flute.

The amazing thing is that the musicians produce a constant sound with what is called circular breathing. That is they breathe in and out at the same time!

Contributions

The success and contributions to Atlantic Provinces community life has been enormous. Too many Lebanese Canadian families to mention have been and are dominant merchants throughout the region.

Joe Ghiz and his son Robert both became premiers of Prince Edward Island. Frank Zakem, a former mayor of Charlottetown, was given a founders award by the University of PEI in September. Lorraine Michael lead her New Democrats in the Newfoundland and Labrador elections that same month.  Michael Basha represented Newfoundland in the Senate of Canada. Paul Zed served as a Member of Parliament in New Brunswick.

Anne-Marie MacDonald wrote the Giller finalist and Oprah Book Club selection, “Fall On Your Knees”. Dedicated scholars like Peter Murphy, David Weale, Nancy and Joseph Jabbra, Frank Zakem and Barry MacKenzie have laboured to preserve the record of Lebanese Canadian immigration to the region. Charles Asoyuf of Miramichi maintains a huge library of Lebanese Canadian genealogy, documents and photographs in files and on computer media his home.

Band leaders, musicians and artists of all kinds pervade the Lebanese Canadian community. The same holds true for academics, teachers, and local philanthropists. During one interview, the subject pointed to a picture of a local United Church celebrating its centennial.  “My father donated those pews!” he said.

Atlantic Canadian governments might be well advised to consider attracting a few thousand new Lebanese immigrants to re-energize our economies and further enrich our social and cultural lives. DAC

For most of my life, I have been trying to understand how so many normal human beings allowed the WW II Holocaust to happen. I could not imagine a person going to work every day abusing, torturing and killing helpless men, women and children and then going home, eating dinner and getting a good night’s sleep.

The WW II Holocaust was not even the first such horror I learned about. As a young man, reading an anthology of great British reporting, I came across a first-hand report of the rapes and murders of hundreds of thousands of Armenians by the Turks during WW I. The Turks were not as mechanized and industrialized as the Germans. According to the report I read, platoons of soldiers went into the camp of victims every night raping and killing as many as they could with bayonets and swords.

How does one comprehend such horror?

Sadly, just this week, I think I finally know.

Apparently, for some 13 years the Athletic Director, and iconic football coach, Joe Paterno, and a graduate student all knew the graphic details of the rape of a 10-year-old boy and other abuse of children by an assistant coach. No one informed the police. The assistant coach continued on staff and continued to have the run of the university after retirement.

This is just the latest in a long line of revelations of members and hierarchies of institutions covering up abusive, illegal and disgusting behaviours of various kinds.

Churches, branches of the military, police, corporations and government members, departments and agencies have all been known to do the same thing.

One explanation of why Germans did not speak up or act was that they feared for their own lives and their families‘ safety if they did. Germany was ruled by a brutal dictatorship at the time.

In our society, so-called whistle blowers are often shunned, vilified, punished, exiled, or black balled for revealing corrupt behaviour in the institutions of which they are part. The layers in organizations seem to absorb and diffuse such breaches like ponds absorb ripples.

Information and outrage move up the line and peter out. It is someone else’s responsibility. We mind our own business. We are loyal to the team. We have each other’s backs. Not being without sin, we do not cast the first stone. Perhaps the victim shares the blame.

I think it is the information about how Joe Paterno’s entire leadership culture was about honour and fairness and decency that is so clarifying. If he could keep quiet about the information he had, what hope is there that less successful, less motivated, less powerful, less privileged, less secure people would do more?

I am rocked to think that the question, “Could it happen here?” has, for me, been answered.

It has happened. It is happening. It will continue to happen.

It is not so monumental or focussed or efficient as the Nazi Holocaust. It is thousands, millions, of crimes and abuses by thousands, millions, of people ignored by thousands, millions, of us.

The only remaining questions are, “Who would, who will, stand up for us? Would you, will you, stand up? Would I, will I?”. DAC

Brigette DePape, a page in Canada’s Senate, held up a “Stop Harper” sign in the aisle in front of the speaker during the throne speech on Friday. She was hustled out of the chamber and promptly fired.

The government had been so clear in advance about what would be in the speech, her action was the only surprise of the day. As such, it got quite a lot of attention.

The event was an excellent example of the old Arab axiom, “Dogs bark and the caravan moves on”. While startling and unusual, her action carries no weight whatsoever. Brigette DePape is a very small dog. She will not be martyred with imprisonment. Her stunt will not put so much as one grain of sand in the gears of government.

Canadians who cared have made a choice and voted. Our most excellent Parliamentary system has produced a majority government and given it a mandate to direct our affairs for the next five years.

Some folks whine that the government did not get a majority of the popular vote. To me that is entirely irrelevant. Jean Chretien’s Liberals won majorities when the Progressive Conservative Party was split by the formation of the Reform Party. Peter MacKay resolved that issue when he took his dwindling PC’s into a merger with Reform. He probably does not get as much credit as he should for the current Canadian political landscape.

If, or when, one of the centre left parties give up hope of ever forming a government, they may find their own Peter MacKay. The solution to concerns about governments without popular majority support is to win the most seats.

Nor am I upset that members are expected to vote the party line. We elect a member we hope will represent us in caucus but we know they are members of one team. We are entitled to expect they will represent us forcefully in caucus (team meetings) but we are not entitled to expect them to help the other team if they don’t like the batting order. There are moral exceptions and Parliament usually allows for those with free votes. Otherwise, members opposing the team are usually traded to the Leafs. That may seem like mixing metaphors but don’t the Leafs sometimes look more like a baseball team than a hockey team?

The fact that Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s Conservatives are governing without a popular majority does have some significance. They want that majority and will try to govern to move toward it next time.

We have a wonderful system. The caravan moves on.

On we go.                                                                                          DAC