The author is an assistant professor at the School of International Development and Global Studies at the University of Ottawa. She directed the collective work Feminist approaches in international relations (PUM, 2022). She is also the author of the book lose the south (Ecosociety, 2020).
Madagascar, September 1971. My uncle Nazir is a residential student at the technical high school in civil engineering in Antananarivo. He and his school friends gradually understand that Malagasy students, even if they are educated in French, are at a disadvantage compared to those who study in France. A French degree makes you an engineer in Madagascar, a Malagasy degree makes you a technician. Same thing with doctors: if you are trained in Paris, you will land an interesting position in a large urban hospital, but if you are trained in Tana, you will be taken to a regional dispensary.
March 1972. The student population of the capital goes on strike. A few weeks later, the movement spread throughout the former French colony. After the movement shook the Big Island, the Republican security forces landed in the university city in the middle of the night. Unmarked cars, submachine guns, the cries burst forth. The president’s police arrest more than 400 students and send the majority to the island of Nosy Lava. A political prison, my uncle Nazir tells me. The government thus tried to put an end to the strike, but a spontaneous movement arose, a demonstration took place and violence broke out. Demonstrators are killed, “deterrence” grenades explode.
In the street with his comrades, my uncle Nazir then received a stray bullet in the right armpit, stopped by chance a few centimeters from his heart. At the Girard hospital triage, he was told to come back a few days later, the hospital was overwhelmed, the staff was overwhelmed.
Mobilizations continue. On May 15, a hundred thousand people, including several parents of prisoners, marched towards the presidential palace to demand the release of the students deported to Nosy Lava. The Malagasy president, Philibert Tsiranana, the father of independence in 1960, the one who led his country towards autonomy from colonial France, gave the reins of power to the military in May 1972.
From Antananarivo to Sherbrooke
My uncle Nazir is finishing his studies as best he can, but the situation for Malagasy students is hardly improving. Many Indians from Madagascar, including my family, no longer feel welcome on the Big Island since they are not considered “real” Malagasy because of their physical characteristics. Moreover, if the French obtain the best positions, the Indians still arrive above the “native” Malagasy. Nazir asks his uncle Nourdine for a loan of around $3,000 to be able to leave the country.
His brother Azad has already left for France, but Nazir is unsure where to go with the money. Join him ? Go away ? The woman from the aviation office suggests Canada, a “safe and prosperous” country. Why not, thought Nazir. He does not yet know that French is spoken there. He thinks that “Canadian” is spoken there and that sooner or later he will learn the local language.
He left on October 27, 1973, with a one-month tourist visa.
On the plane, after a short stopover in Paris, another passenger notices him and finds this young Indian wearing an Air Madagascar bag strange. Gérald Vézina was a cooperator in Madagascar, where he taught French. He questions Nazir about his plans once he arrives in Canada. He does not have it. Gérald tells my uncle Nazir that Montreal is a very big city and suggests that he come with him to Sherbrooke instead. He follows him… a city he doesn’t know or another, it doesn’t matter.
Arriving in Sherbrooke, Nazir is exhausted and his resources are dwindling. He is surprised, but happy to see that everyone, like him, speaks French, which is also his third language. A nice family, the Ruels, helped Nazir learn about the habits and customs of Quebecers. They help him settle down; to settle at home, in his new land of welcome. He transformed his tourist visa into a student visa and did his pure sciences at the Cégep de Sherbrooke. He will then study engineering, and he will marry Anne, the woman of his life. He will become a Quebecer.
A story like any other
After sending Soucila to find his brother in 1974, Nazir’s father brought his other sons in 1975, Anil, Karim, Maleck, then Azad. At the age of 19, Nazir becomes acting head of the family of his brothers and sister. His parents will arrive in 1977 leaving a lot behind them. A son, a life, a village and a bank account. He will invest in a wholesale fruit and vegetable business in Granby and will provide employment to a good number of Granby residents. He would later open a hardware store in Sherbrooke, as did many other Ismaili Indians in the diaspora across the country. The Ideal Ironwork, rue King Est.
My father, Farouk, is Nazir’s uncle. Badaroudine Soundarjee is my father’s oldest brother. He brought it with him when he left his village of Betroka to join his son Nazir in Sherbrooke. He took him with him as a son, to enable him to immigrate to Canada. He has always been my dadadi, my grandfather. And his wife of the past 72 years, my adima.
My father therefore immigrated here a few months before he turned 18, with his “brothers”, with whom he lived, crammed into a 4.5-room apartment on rue des Ormeaux, under the responsibility of Nazir. My father finished his secondary studies at Le Ber school, rue Sainte-Famille. From Nazir’s uncle, my father becomes his brother. Nazir’s children, Pascal and Gabriel, will become my cousins. My family history is a bit complex, but it is mine.
My father will then marry my mother, Jocelyne, and they will have my brother, Ismaël, and me, in Sherbrooke. From the first Ismaili family in the city, there is now a whole community. My father worked in insurance, my uncle Nazir as an engineer. The latter finally moved with his family to Quebec to work as an engineer, then manager of several hundred Quebec employees in a high-tech company. His son Pascal is an engineer and has two children, Gabriel has just had his first granddaughter and he is CEO of a start-up of technology. We had a happy hour in his chalet in Estrie a few weeks ago. We drank good wine, we laughed a lot. We remembered the epic of Nazir.
And I wanted to say thank you. Without you, Nazir, we wouldn’t be Quebecers, we wouldn’t be Sherbrooke residents. Without you, I wouldn’t know my family’s story, my story. Without you, and so many others like you, Quebec would not be the same.
Thank you, my uncle Nazir. Thank you for everything.
The information in this article comes mostly from the book Nazir wrote for his family, stateless person, and conversations with him.