by Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

I was always drawn to the history and culture of Black people. Even as a young man in Poland, back in the 70. But – Poland had really very little tradition and history of Black culture and Black people.  Mainly, I suppose, for the reason of being rather far from Africa geographically and loosing it’s sovereignty by the end of XVIII century until end of I world war. More or less the time of major colonialism expansion of other European powers.  That was perhaps one of the very few – if not the only one – good part of losing our political freedom. Then came the upheaval of Polish Solidarity movement in which I took very active part – and with that, all other interests had to give way to the main focus of the fight with Soviet communism in Poland.

That involvement in Polish Solidarity resulted in my short visit to London (first ever beyond the Iron Curtain) were I was hoping to study the life of Polish independence hero (and my personal), Marshal Pilsudski and London had a major Institute devoted to the study of his life and works (the other being in New York). It was fateful journey. That year Martial Law was declared by communists in Poland, the communist militia came to my home to arrest me (thousands were interned) and, on the advice of my father (former Soviet labor camp prisoner), I decided not to return. My entire world was turned upside down.

I lived in London in Willesden, close to Harrow Road, renting one bedroom apartment form a Polish lady, daughter of one of thousands of Polish soldiers, who stayed in Britain, after Poland was assigned in Yalta to Stalin. It was a typical working class neighborhood, with its own pubs, barbers, shops. And, of course, rows upon rows of tightly connected two or three floors red brick townhouses. In the 70. and 80. that neighborhood was also witnessing a large influx of Black population.  That decade also witnessed the first of many large and often violent protests of Blacks in London. That tension and a bit of unease was palpable in Willesden. It must have been late summer, when the tension erupted again. At evening times normally busy Harrow Street, was void of white pedestrians.  I was coming home by double-decker as usually late evening. From the bus stop, I had to take a relatively short, yet long enough, walk to my apartment.  Suddenly a group of three or four young Black guys appeared walking toward me and looking uninvitingly at me. I was young, too. Perfect combination to avoid. Unless you were looking for a fight, which I was not. I moved to the side, as not to provoke them, but kept walking. They stopped me, don’t remember the exact words but the jest (and the hand on my chest) was:  ‘were the f..k you think you are going? It is our street now’.  I, truthfully, explained that I have no claim to that street whatsoever, that I am not British and just coming home from 10 hours shift. I also mentioned that I am a refugee from a communist regime. Few more exchanges, less and less angry and I ended up in our neighborhood pub sharing a pint with them.  They asked me a lot about Walesa and “Solidarity”. I told them more about the Soviet-style communism.   Some of it was surprising for them and they said that it looked like the Soviets are not that different from the colonials in their countries, back in Africa. At the end they offered (I accepted) to escort me to my door, so nobody harms me by mistaking me with other local whites.

Why this reminiscing?  I watch (forcing myself, for it is very hard) for past week or so, the court trail of the murderer of George Floyd in USA.  Watched the video tapes several times and the image of the policeman knee suffocating George Floyd, killing him minute by minute, second by second is ingrained in my mind forever. Just as the hysterical, crazy female officer shooting the beautiful young  Black 20 year old boy in Minnesota yesterday.  It is beyond outrage, beyond anger. Two days after another handsome Black man, US Army officer, is taken out of the car and tasered as a hooligan or gangster. One wants to scream from the top of ones lungs: what the …ck is wrong with the Police forces in North America?! Particularly in US. That is not normal. It is sick. Your job is stressful, it is dangerous. But you are not solving or helping to solve the problem. YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.  You are the personification of the worst evil in America – the rampant racism. The Blue uniform become equivalent with the white robes of times by. When Floyd was murdered last year, the movement Black Lives Matter started. It spread beyond US borders rapidly. To Canada, to Europe.  In the middle of the first wave of pandemic.  Despite the pandemic, despite the risks, I thought that cause worthy enough of public support and joined my Black brothers and sisters in their march through Downtown Halifax. I watched their anger, their desperation – but most of all their sorrow. Deep, tiring sorrow, that follows them through their long history in the New World.

Let me take you through another short walk from my past. Year is about 85, maybe 86. My first visit with my partner to Florida. Few years after my life started anew in Canada.  We rented a car and were travelling from St Petersburg toward Orlando. I moved from the big interstate #4 to some quiet and deserted side road.  Not a single car in front, not a single one behind. Perfect.  Time to relax, enjoy the views. I think the speed limit was 60 miles and I was driving probably 70 or 75. Flat road, no traffic, safe.  Suddenly, I see in my rear view mirror characteristic flashing lights. Police. Resigned and knowing why, I slowed down, pulled to the side and stopped.  A blinding strobe light and very loud order from the megaphone: roll down your window, place your hands on steering wheel and don’t move!  Nothing like that would happen to me (at that time our Police was very well mannered and not confrontational from the getco, as it is popular now) in Canada. I was shocked and nervous. The policeman comes to my window (can’t see him, being blinded by his flashlight right into my eyes) and demands my driving licence.  I said that I’m Canadian tourist and try to reach the glove compartment for the papers. Next thing I remember  was being thrown from the seat with tremendous force face down to the asphalt, his knee on my back and the cold sensation of his gun barrel on my neck. Pressed to the point of pain.  I gathered all my senses and tried to explain that all my documents, including my passport are in the glove compartment, that it is normal in Canada to do what I did to show it to the officer. He yells at my petrified partner to hand them to him slowly. He checks them, his demeanor changes completely and explains that this not Canada, this USA. And I should be lucky that I am alive, because he was right to suspect that I might pull a gun from the compartment.  We chat a bit more, I apologise for my speeding and he wishes me a good night and good stay in Florida. I ask if I will get some ticket and he answers with a smile: no, just a verbal warning, it was a minor infraction. The end of story.  

Do you know why I am writing this story?  To make a point or to illustrate the subject of the article? No. I am writing it because I am alive. If that summer 1985 or 86 I was a young Black man, I wouldn’t write that story today. I would be dead most likely. But I was lucky. I am White man.  This is my privilege.  Not of coming from very wealthy family. For I‘m not.  Not from having top position in some industry, corporation. From the fact that I am alive today after that incident almost 40 years ago. Because I am white. I was not killed for driving ten or fifteen miles above the limit on an empty road. Because I am white. Floyd was not killed for passing (most likely totally unware of it) $20 bill in the store (most Americans and many Canadians have done it many times unknowingly, apparently there is more fake low denomination bills in circulation that real ones). He was killed because he was Black. The 20 year old boy in Minnesota was not killed for having some air deodorant attached to his rear view mirror (that was the infraction – seriously).  Nobody gets killed in the Stated for such minor issues.  He was killed because he was Black. Is it possible that white young guys would be killed in similar confrontations with the Police? It is, the Police is much more aggressive than it ever was – but highly unlikely. Because they would have been White. White and Blacks. Like Life and Death.  Think of it. And please, don’t tell me that you are not privileged, if you are white.  I know that I am. And down deep you know it, too.

I have written here of some very interesting and not very well known history of Blacks in Canada. Particularly of Blacks in Nova Scotia.  Have posted pictures and journalistic account of the mentioned above march Black Lives Matter in Halifax in 2020. Recently I have visited again the Black Cultural Centre in Dartmouth on the occasion of celebrating the Black Battalion – little known Canadian Army unit from I world war and had a short chat about it with the Commander of Halifax own Prince Patricia Regiment. Will write about it very soon. It is important to know the rich and long history of Black settlement in Canada, their achievements and their failures. Only than their history will become our history. Common past.  Only then we will be able to see ourselves as one. As Canadian family. And only than their lives will truly matter as much as ours. For they must be worth as much. They are.    

Ah, the title. “What’s the difference?” – I think that I have explained it already. Let me repeat it: I am, therefore I am alive.