by Umeeda Switlo

The Vancouver International Storytelling Festival this year features the Middle Eastern community. For three days, colourful folktales from this culture will unfold among Persian carpets, hypnotic music and aromatic teas. Stories in English, Persian and Arabic will be told by immigrants, and by both emerging and seasoned storytellers.
The Vancouver Society of Storytelling is creating a stronger community around the ancient and innovative artform of storytelling. This year’s festival explores the vibrant cultures that make up Vancouver today and the stories that have been brought here by newcomers from many lands. Stories for young and old will fill the Vancouver Museum, November 19 - 21, with additional events elsewhere on Saturday and Sunday evenings.
Umeeda Switlo, this year’s new festival director, attended the National Storytelling Conference to study the artform. In doing so she realized that she too had a story to tell.

Long ago, far away but it could have been just yesterday, a CIA agent saved my life. You wonder how that could be? Well here is my story.
I was watching television in Uganda with my family. It was the news and we always came together to listen and watch. We had been through a revolution, independence and so there we were always cautious, always on alert.
This time on TV someone pushed the news anchor aside and sat in his place. I was young so I may not remember the exact words but this is what I heard “This is Idi Amin Dada… because of recent discoveries you Indians have 90 days to leave this country.”
We had seen him give back our businesses after Milton Obote took majority shares away. We liked him then. I was giggling when I saw this but my parents were on the phone already chatting loudly - something was really wrong. My mom was going to Canada that day. She wanted to live there, a place of stability, a place where her kids could get a good education. Now she would have to wait.
It was chaos. Ninety days to leave. What would happen to our homes, cars, bank accounts, properties and businesses? We soon found out day by day with new Idi Amin announcements. The government was freezing bank accounts and stopping the purchase of anything but one way tickets out of Uganda.
The most humiliating of all was counting us at gunpoint like cattle, grabbing our passports, separating family members. I was terrified.
My family had befriended an American. I babysat his children who went to my mother’s nursery school. He was concerned about the army raping Indian girls and knew that there were three girls in the family. He said he would help us.
He asked for our passports and told us that my sister and I would be in the US soon. What? The US ? Why and how could a history professor do that?
He came back in a few days with an acceptance letter from the University of West Virginia, a US student visa for my sister Muneera and an acceptance letter and student visa for Medford High School for me.
This was unheard off. How did he work this miracle? We were refugees. Why did the US agree to a student visa when we didn’t have a home to return to. Those of you who have been refugees know what I mean.
If he bribed someone we might have a bad price to pay. We asked and he candidly said, “I have connections. Don’t worry.”
We had only days to leave, first my sister. We never thought we would be seeing the US.
When it was my turn, I had to fit everything into one suitcase. I was 13 and had never been away from home before.
We had moved to an apartment because our home was opposite a new concentration camp. The dead or dying prisoners were often tied to the fence and mutilated. There was always gunfire and my family moved to a safer place. This last night in Kampala I looked out the window after hearing gunfire and saw a man in the apartment opposite get hit and fall forwards down to the street. I didn’t wake anyone up. I stared and then hid. I was packed and I was leaving.
The next day we went to the airport and my parents handed me bangles, a necklace, earrings and rings. This was amazing jewelry, 24 carat gold. I had never been allowed to wear this stuff and here my mother was, always the realist.
“This is for you, take it and keep it safe for when we meet again.”
At this point the army guys were everywhere and I had to go into the secure area of the airport. The baggage examination began with the cutting of my stuffed dog. Yes silly me I took a stuffed animal instead of something important. Nothing was found in there after they destroyed and handed it back to me with a smirk.
“Open the suitcase.” Nothing, phew.
“Go to that room and undress,” said the soldier. I did. An officer came in, examined me, and took off my jewelry. “You are allowed only one bangle. You have two bangles. You have then glued them together and you also have two necklaces. You aren’t allowed.”
The next moment I heard a gunshot and the man disappeared. I had heard an English girl wail because they were searching her things. Her father had become alarmed and rushed into the area past the guards. They had shot him and the girl was screaming.
I dressed, went to the desk where the soldier had left my jewelry and grabbed it silently. Just then the boarding announcement was made. “Flight 707 leaving for London. All passengers should begin boarding.”
I grabbed my stuff, exited the airport and started walking to the plane. I saw my family standing on the balcony of the airport waving. I stopped, turned back and yelled “I got the jewelry, don’t worry.”
My mother put her finger on her mouth, my signal to shut up and board the plane.
I did. I began my long flight to my brother’s place in Hamilton, Ontario for a brief reunion. He was studying at McMaster and had been there for a year.
Once again I left, excited but nervous for Oregon. I was going to be staying with a wonderful family. The CIA agent’s brother and family were to be my new family. They loved me and took care of me and were prepared to adopt me if my parents didn’t make it to Canada.
I made pocket money by cooking Indian food. I had never cooked in my life, I baby sat and even sent money to my sister in West Virginia. I was bumped up by three grades and lived from day to day.
I wanted to go home. My parents had made it to Vancouver but the Canadian consulate in San Francisco said I couldn’t join them. I sat in the consular office and pleaded until they stamped my passport and I came to Vancouver.
We were reunited all but my sister. This wonderful country had sent planes to Kampala and processed my family. We were landed immigrants. We had lived.
Many years later at a small luncheon with Pierre Elliot Trudeau, I told him my story with tears in my eyes. He told me that he was proud to be a part of my reunion and said, “you Ugandans have only added to this country. I am proud to have been a part of this vision where a pluralistic society can thrive. After all we get the best don’t we?” Then he surprised me by saying, “Tell me more about the CIA agent.”

Umeeda Switlo, searched six months for stories, contacting numerous groups and story tellers using the internet. The theme for the 13th annual Vancouver International Storytelling Festival is “Long ago, far away but it could have been just yesterday.” For more on the November 19 - 21 festival www.vancouverstorytelling.org