When Anne McLeish of the Montreal Council of Women left me a message that said: Cheryl, I want you to know that you have been selected for the Montreal WOMAN OF THE YEAR AWARD, my first reaction was one of disbelief.   It took a few days to realise the enormity of what had happened.  That was three weeks ago.  That is how long it has taken me to prepare myself to speak to you today.  

Here is my story…….. 

I was born in Bombay, India where my mother’s family lived and then brought back immediately to Lahore Pakistan where I grew up.   The name Braganza is Portuguese because our ancestors were from Goa.   Goa ,  located on the west coast of India,  was occupied by the Portuguese for 400 years.  We were originally Hindus, maybe Muslims, but our names and religion were actually imposed on us by Portuguese colonizers.  

My father  owned  BRAGANZA & SONS HOTEL, right across from the historic railway station in Lahore  and that’s where I was brought up amidst gardens and bungalows which were built in the time of the Raj.      During the partition of India and Pakistan in 1947 , our hotel was used as the headquarters for the Muslim League and by the British army both of which were involved with the transfer of power.    Hindu and Sikh women and men would hide in the hotel for days.  Many of them  were massacred as soon as they stepped outside the hotel gates.   My mother and father were so traumatized by what they saw – the rampant bloodshed -  that they refused to talk about it for many years.      

My childhood exposed me to extremes of those who were affluent enough to come to the the hotel and those who had to beg right outside the iron gates.  Around the age of 6,  an older woman beggar who would sit on the road and  smile at me every day on my way to school.  I used to wonder how this woman who had nothing, was still able to smile.  Then one day, her body just lay there, crumpled up  .  People were gathered around her and stared.  So did I.     She was dead.  No one picked her up for a long time.   And the smile I had got used to on my way to school was gone forever.           

I grew up Catholic in a Muslim country .    There was a  mosque right outside the hotel and the plaintif call to prayer of the mullah  3  times a day indelibly marked me.    It was beautiful and it resonated in my young musical mind.     

Growing up in Pakistan,  I was shy and very reserved in front of my Muslim girlfriends.  I don’t remember ever meeting a Muslim boy and even though I had a brother,  I never met his friends.   I attended a convent school run by Belgian nuns, then later a womens college run by American missionaries.   In school in Pakistan,  I was never asked to give my opinion on anything.   Never.   We learned the textbooks  by heart and the closer one got to the exact text, the higher the marks.   HOME WAS NOT THAT DIFFERENT.    No one asked for my opinion.    I just obeyed.  I kept close to the text.   Respect and family values were so important that even if I had different ideas on anything, I kept them to myself.   My mother, despite the social constraints imposed on her as a woman,  she made a special effort to encourage an appreciation for the arts.   She taught me piano.  It opened up a new world for me.  

 I remember when I was 14 years old,  a professor from the renowned  Juillard School of Music in NY  came to Lahore and I auditioned for him.      I never heard anything back.  6 months later my then piano teacher mentioned almost  in passing that I had been  offered  the scholarship to study  in New York at the time of my audition , but that my parents had refused  and chosen not to tell me.  They had decided FOR me.

One year later, Roman Catholic nuns with whom I studied, suggested a year of language study in Rome.  This time, my parents raised no objection because I would be closely supervised. Much to my dismay, all the young people I met  questioned  everything.  When I was asked a question, I became dumbfounded.  I didn’t  know what to say.  I really didn’t know what I thought about anything because up to then, textbooks and elders had spoken for me.  I just repeated what I heard or what I read.     I remained shy and awkward in front of my new friends who came from different parts of the world.   I admired their bluntness and that they felt so comfortable about speaking their mind.  I wanted so much to be like them, but I couldn’t. I did not dare.  I was afraid of being ridiculed.  I turned inward and  started to paint.  I retreated  in silent moments into another world.     

I thought back to the  way traditional South Asian  society regarded daughters.   In a very general sense, we were considered  burdens to families.   A common expression among parents who had daughters was:     WE ARE RAISING FLOWERS FOR SOMEONE ELSE’S GARDEN.   Even though my family broke that barrier by sending me away on my own,   I  couldn’t help feel the weight of an oppressive tradition.   I was allowed to  excel, but just in the confines of a certain frame,  within certain boundaries.    

Testing the boundaries led to unexpected results.  It was a confusing time for me. When I suggested to my parents that I was ready to join the convent, they reacted, based on their previous responses, quite irrationally.   They enrolled me in Trinity College of Music located in the heart of London.  It was the SWINGING SIXTIES.      

On August 31^st, 1966,  when the Empress of Canada docked in Montreal,  I was on it – travelling alone.  I remember the scene vividly.  Hundreds of  people hanging over the edge of the ship waving into the waiting crowd on the pier.  I knew no one in Montreal. I was alone but there was this excitement about landing on a new continent. 

I stayed in a girls hostel run by nuns on Laurier.   In the cafeteria I would meet other young women arriving from countries I had never heard of, embarking on  similar journeys of discovery.  While we sat and shared stories,   I did portraits of them in pastels.  

Those were the magic days of Expo 67 with Mayor Drapeau,  we were  swooning over Pierre Elliot Trudeau,   coffee cost 10 cents at the A & W on St. Catherine street, the metro trains were clean and shiny.  I took sculpture classes  at l’Ecole de beaux arts on Sherbrooke street, which sadly does not exist anymore. 

For me, Montreal was NIRVANA.    I loved everything about the city, the streets,  Mont Royal, the French signs, the way the colors changed with the seasons,  and especially seeing the astonishment when I spoke in French.  I guess that year in Rome had its dividends.     I understood then that Language was, and is,  SUCH a powerful key to dialogue and understanding.  It allowed me entrance to another culture.    Years later, when  my husband was transferred to Lac St. Jean,  which is not even in the Province of Quebec, it was  language that gave me access to the bustling art scene.         

This was in stark contrast to what happened, 20 years later.  Nothing growing up in Pakistan had prepared me for what I was to experience.

When the twin towers crashed in 2001,  I began to step on  memory mines, these pockets of memory that suddenly explode, that explode inside us all.    In  September of that year,  the MONTREAL GAZETTE  published an article I wrote on a racist incident we had experienced 20 years previous, in the 70’s,  in the West Island where the word PAKI was burned on to our front lawn.   and we had received anonymous calls telling us to get out.   There are copies here and I encourage you all to read it.  The frightening part of that experience was that no one came forward to even acknowledge it had happened.  I believe Ann McLeish of the Montreal Council of Women referred to them as The silent majority.     

It’s what the experience  did to ME – the feelings of inadequacy that rose, the fear I had for my 3 sons.  My self esteem was at an alltime low. A  policeman had come to our house at the time and when he saw that I was agitated and wanted to move out,  he had said to me:  “You have a right to live here like everyone else.”  I remember clinging on to those words and holding them very close , repeating them often to myself .  Those 10 simple words kept me sane, kept me strong, kept me hopeful.

I took a course in Assertive Training for Women where I  felt the comfort and support of other women.   The moderator made us write down our strengths.  I wrote down PIANO , POETRY & PAINTING.   

In writing and publishing my story  20 years later,  it was cathartic.   My own sons had, at the time, been deeply affected I know, but they  were still surprised to read my reaction in the paper.      Over 100  people wrote back  in response.  They thanked me for speaking up because my story reminded them of their own stories of racism.  Many Montrealers  wrote to APOLOGIZE, to apologize for the frailty of the human condition. 

On November 21, 1989,  Mark Lepine murdered 14 beautiful young women engineering students at the Polytechnic  in Montreal.  I  was  in torment because I wanted to take my sons to pay homage.  But I ended up going with one son only, standing in the rain along with thousands of others.  

That young girl in Pakistan who could never speak up then, now galvanized herself to speak out and speak up, through writing, through music, through poetry and especially through art

One summer evening I was walking down Sherbrooke Street when I was handed a pamphlet by a woman who was promoting a benefit supper for the women of Afghanistan.  She was a white woman, had never been to Afghanistan and I asked her WHY, why would you do this ?    And she looked straight into my eyes and said :   WHY NOT ?   Those 2 words were enough to get me involved with the CANADIAN WOMEN FOR WOMEN IN AFGHANISTAN .  I offered images for a PEACE CARD.   Later, for this  2008 calendar of paintings.     Many of you supported the calendar project buying bundles at a time to give as gifts.  I thank you now publicly on behalf of all the Afghan women you unknowingly have touched.     Margaret Mitchell of ZONTA who bought 60 to distribute to other Zontonians,  Fehmida Khan of the Cdn Muslim Women’s Assoc, and many others.     

We know  that people are not, for the most part, moved to action by written information.  People are moved by  images that touch the common center,  by ideas  that create a vision, that inspire, that provoke thought and understanding, by other people whose lives are full and joyous.     When people look for hope, as in times like now, they turn to the arts, to the symbols and images that  hold and  heal.

Whatever art we artists  make -  can only contain our knowledge of the world, which in turn is transformed by that which is deep within us.  So when I  read about women, AND WE ARE ALL IMMIGRANT WOMEN, from the love that moves us -  to the heartaches that bring us to our knees – because that is OUR STORY,   I stir that with my own experiences  and  create something new  that gets added to the universe, to our collective consciousness . 

Divorce is not an easy choice anywhere in the world, just like it wasn’t for me,  an Indian woman in Canada.  Like many women, my contribution in the household was to cook, to clean and to take care of my children.  While I knew these were important tasks, I did not see them as the sum total of who I was and it was only when I was confident enough to leave my marriage, after 23 years, that I began to recognize  I had greater potential.  That being put down, devalued and undermined has no place in any relationship.    That I could still  love my children but also value the woman I was. That even though I put myself at risk of being ostracized, as women do even today,  I could rise above it all. 

Divorce turned into a life-changing event.  I was able to strengthen parts of me that I had forgotten existed.  I was able to share with other women in similar situations,  able to branch out and do the things I had always longed for.  ABLE  to become the woman I really am.      

I remember Andre, my eldest,  much later, saying to me:  “Mum, there is so much about you that is different.  I don’t know how to explain it.  You are a different woman.”    

Yes, we women, we hide so much under mantles of lace, under sarees of silk,  under burquas, under apple pies and strawberry tarts.    We hide until we no longer can.

I was also living under the added cultural burden of the Caste System .   It doesn’t matter what part of the world you come from because similar systems exist all over, in some form or the other.   What started off as a division of labour evolved into a system of hierarchy, a system that categorized people by birth.    If one is  lucky enough to be born into a Brahmin family, the priestly caste,  you  belong to the highest  echelon. Then come the warriors, the merchants, the laborers and the untouchables.  It is legally banned but centuries of tradition are not erased that easily.  Like the class system in Great Britain.    Indians carry the Caste System  on their backs, we take it with us wherever we go and it surfaces insidiously when marriage time comes along.

The inherent danger is  when people begin to FEEL superior or FEEL inferior because of which box they are in .  We must do what we can to change this and make it a more humane, caring,  and enlightened society where everyone is treated fairly and equally.  

Many of us live as if we are going to live forever.  I know I did.  And I am not sure if that is good or if it’s bad.

But 3 years ago,  something happened  that reminded me that my life was indeed finite.    I was diganosed with cancer of the bone marrow, multiple myeloma,  which crushed my spine and I spent 5 months  at the Jewish General undergoing different treatments, none of which worked.  

It was a difficult time in life,  not so much for me (because I was heavily sedated most of the time)   but for my sons, for my friends who  cared.    Some were convinced that the end had come. Others were  hopeful.   

 I have always felt that trials like this are sent to teach those around  something more valuable than anything we can learn elsewhere.  

A year later, a new experimental drug was made available for me and within 3 months, I was in remission.    

And it’s what  emerged from that whole year.     Suddenly being forced to face my own mortality, being so depressed and almost giving up on life,  and then realising that I had been given another chance .    

 I was convinced there must have been  a very good reason for this.  And my task was to find out what it was. 

The reasons are being manifested every day, as Evadne has pointed out.  The universe is opening up in strange and wonderful ways.     On my easel at home , I have a handwritten  message that is my morning prayer.  Its by Goethe, the German philosopher and it reads:

REST NOT, LIFE IS SWEEPING BY

GO DARE BEFORE YOU DIE

SOMETHING MIGHTY AND SUBLIME

LEAVE BEHIND TO CONQUER TIME

Just recently I was fortunate to meet and work with young and dynamic Indian and Pakistani students from SAWA, South Asian Womens Aid at  McGill University  (some of who are here today).  When I look at them, its like looking backwards in a mirror.  I see this young woman who left Pakistan in 1966, very awkward and shy.     I marvel at how things have changed , how exciting and dynamic today’s youth are,  full of promise and self confidence , not afraid of speaking their minds, wanting to do so much, ready to break forth.  They give us so much hope.   They revive ALL our  spirits. 

I believe that what has brought me here now, standing in front of you  as the MONTREAL WOMAN OF THE YEAR,  is that for a lifetime, I had been  filling up a treasure chest,  as WE ALL do throughout our lives.  Things I hold dearest to me.    my sons Andre, Carlos and Miguel ,  family my friends,  laughter(very important)  love, music, art,  literature,  poetry, travels.  And in moments of need, it was there for me.          

Since the award was announced, I have felt overwhelmed with gratitude and have spent many moments alone in tears, tears of being thankful, for so much.  During those tears, I painted and this is what appeared.  A dove and a woman with a heart that is overflowing , thankful for her life, thankful for her sons,  thankful for her friends, her talents,  to the Montreal Council of Women and Zonta for this very prestigious Award in the city that I love,  thankful for what has been and what is yet to be…… (Your names are all written around her so please come and touch your name later.)

Oh, if the lives of ALL women were recognized and celebrated in this fashion !

With this award, you have helped me look deeper into “the path of the immigrant woman” which I almost forgot  I had traveled.    I have learned more about who I am, who I have become and in so doing, I can now create the next steps of my journey.  It is the journey of ordinary women who have gone before me and who are yet to follow.     You have allowed me to locate myself in particular moments of my life, in moments which shaped me and which in turn I have been able to shape.   Every gasp of happiness, every tiny discovery, every heart-wrenching disappointment, forward, upward,  backward, to the side, off the path, has brought me to where I am now.  We know there are no shortcuts for us women to the rainbow.   There never have been.  And that’s where art comes in……..……

Art does not come from the mind  but from the places where we dare to dream.  It simmers in expansive oceans of our souls;  it lights up dark corners of our world;  it celebrates, it heals, it renews.  It is magic.   Through art, we are able to access others’ sufferings, to give them confidence and courage.      Art helps to create dialogue, to create a vision, to create greater understanding so that we can all, each and every one of us,  take on the responsibility to change the world for the better.

MERCI.  THANK YOU.

Written and delivered by Cheryl Braganza, Montreal – November 17, 2008. Ceremony filmed by Anurag Dhir.