Report on the Chagos exiles in Mauritius
Lorraine Mallinder
BBC Radio 4 and World Service
16.09.10
Radio programme in full (starts after 17 mins)
Transcript:
It’s Sunday morning in Lucienne’s yard in Roche Bois, a run-down suburb of Port Louis. Barefoot children dart in and out of the house; a stray dog is having a barking fit; and the next door neighbours are arguing at the top of their voices. In the midst of this chaos, seven determined old Chagossian ladies are telling me they want to go home.
But, before we proceed, Lucienne has a score to settle. She shifts her bulk on the chair, one eye squinting accusingly, lips pursed in disapproval. "Couma sa ou pa konn mo nom famille?" she says in her native Creole. "What do you mean, you don’t know my surname? I used to take your mum to school!
"Sagaie," she says sharply. "Ecrire li: S.A.G.A.I.E. Lucienne Sagaie." Hastily, I scribble the letters down. Satisfied, she gives me a curt little nod. I feel suitably admonished. I am no match for this powerhouse of a woman, who helped my grandmother bring up her seven children.
Almost fifty years ago, Lucienne appeared on the doorstep of my Chinese-Mauritian grandparents, looking for work. Aged 18, she had just left Peros Banhos in the Indian Ocean archipelago of Chagos, which was then a dependency of Mauritius under British colonial rule. A few years later, when she sought to return home, she discovered the islands were officially "closed". People who had left were not being allowed back in.
Lucienne has not seen her homeland since. In some ways, she was one of the lucky ones, having already settled elsewhere. Over the ensuing years, right up to the early seventies, hundreds of her compatriots were shipped to Mauritius, where they were dumped on the docks and left to their fate. The reason for their eviction? To make way for a US military base on Diego Garcia, the archipelago’s biggest island.
Today, Lucienne has summoned her friends to her yard, so they can tell their stories. They remember how their beloved dogs were killed before their departure, how they were rounded up and shipped off "couma esclaves" - like slaves - and how they struggled to adapt to their new life in Mauritius. In their poverty-stricken circumstances, many of the younger children died – "zot ti boire dilé sagrin," remembers one of the women. They died drinking their mothers’ "milk of sadness".
Mauritius, a paradise for many western tourists, would become their hell. Families would be blighted by depression, drug abuse and suicide. But, still, they clung to their memories. Lucille Urani remembers the straw huts where they lived, how they would fish and grow their own food, bartering with the neighbours for their needs. "We didn’t need money. It was a time of abundance," she says.
Their children have been raised on these memories of an idealised age of innocence. Lucille’s granddaughter, Pascalina Nellan, dreams of Chagos – even though she’s never been there. She becomes a Robinson Crusoe type character, washed up on the beach, exploring the island for food. "I feel they were very happy. I’d like to know that too," she says. But her longing is tempered with pragmatism. Returning home would be easier said than done; not everyone would want to return; families would be separated; it’s just not realistic.
Quick as a flash, Lucienne swings round on her chair. "If we returned, you could always come and visit," she fires back. "The way things are right now, you don’t even have that option."
"But, starting over again would be really difficult," says Pascalina. There’s the matter of living in straw huts with no running water for a start.
"We could build everything we need," says Lucienne.
A few days earlier, I’d met Johnny André, a second-generation refugee, who’d said that living with his parents’ memories was like "watching a film". As a child he felt distanced from their pain. Later, he fulfilled his greatest dream, finding a job as a mechanic with an American company on Diego Garcia.
Elation would soon turn to disappointment. The abandoned straw huts were still there, but otherwise the island had turned into a US territory, a high-tech military launch pad for the war on terror. Now, André shared his parents’ pain. He returned angry, determined that his people should get their homeland back.
In 2000, the UK High Court ruled in the islanders’ favour, a judgement later crushed by further legal manoeuvres from the UK. Now, with an upcoming ruling at the European Court of Human Rights, their hopes have been raised yet again. But the UK has now announced plans to turn the territory into a marine protected area, a move that could scupper any potential victory.
Lucienne Sagaie will always regret that her sons, both of whom died of heroin overdoses, never returned to her cherished homeland. Now, just like the other ladies sitting in a semi-circle on her patio, she wants to return home to die. On the Chagos Islands.