Exceptional Circumstances. James Bartleman
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that they could take their job and stuff it, and then stalk to the door, shove it open with one great push, step out, and slam it as hard as I could behind me.
But something told me that was exactly what Burump and the others wanted me to do, to provoke me into abandoning my attempt to join the Department. So I forced myself to smile and made a superhuman effort to laugh and pretend Burump had just been joking. And when I came out with my feeble little laugh, more a humourless chuckle, everyone in the room burst out with great guffawing and hooting. It had just been a harmless joke after all — I had almost let my temper disqualify me.
One after the other, the now-friendly board members threw questions at me, asking me to comment on issues as diverse as growing tensions between Israel and its neighbours, the Unilateral Declaration of Independence of the white regime in Rhodesia, border clashes between Indian and Pakistani troops, race relations in the United States after the Harlem and Watts riots, and the changing face of the United Nations in a decolonizing world. I did my best to provide good answers but couldn’t help noticing that nobody other than Longshaft appeared to be paying attention. Two of the members were reading newspapers, someone was scribbling notes on what looked like a draft memorandum, and others were staring out the window. Burump was the greatest offender, smiling with great animation and encouragement most of the time but falling asleep periodically, letting his head drop on to his chest, and snoring noisily for a moment before waking up with a snort and turning his attention back to me.
The first time that happened, I stopped speaking and looked to Longshaft for direction.
“He has a sleep disorder that makes him drop off like that. He means no disrespect.”
It was then the turn of a board member in his mid-fifties named Jonathan Hunter, a senior officer sitting beside me, who I later learned was on sick leave, to pose his questions. Long and gaunt with thinning brown hair, he turned his weary blue eyes toward me, fixed his gaze at a point just over my head, and asked me for my views on the American involvement in Vietnam. “The tragic war in that country keeps me awake at night,” he explained in a low gentle voice. “I was one of the longest serving members of the International Control Commission in Hanoi in the 1950s and still have friends there. I can’t imagine what it must be like to live under the constant American bombardment.”
The stench of Hunter’s breath, more sewer than medicinal, reached me at the same time as his words and almost made me gag. I suddenly felt ill at ease and on high alert. I knew very well that almost nobody in Canada supported the American position on the war. Demonstrations were taking place every day outside the American embassy in downtown Ottawa, not two hundred yards from where we were meeting, and in front of American consulates across the country. The Canadian public was enthusiastically welcoming thousands of American draft dodgers and deserters pouring over the border each year. The Canadian prime minister had just delivered a speech in Philadelphia in which he urged the United States to withdraw its troops from Vietnam — to applause in Canada but provoking the outrage of the American president.
I assumed the board members would share those views and question my judgement if I went against the consensus. However, in those days I accepted the domino theory, the argument that a communist victory in Vietnam would lead to a communist takeover of Southeast Asia, and then to gains elsewhere in Asia. I couldn’t and wouldn’t say something I didn’t believe even if it ruined my chances of joining the Department, and so I said, “I watch the news on television like everyone else and am well aware that thousands of American soldiers and tens of thousands of Vietnamese civilians have been killed in the war to date and that many more will die before victory is won. But that’s the cost of freedom.” And to make it worse, in words that embarrass me today for their ignorance, I said the Americans should continue the war to defend the security of the free world against communist aggression.
Hunter reacted by gasping and clutching at his heart. I thought he was playing a prank on me as had Burump, and smiled at him in appreciation. But it was not a joke. Someone got up and offered him a glass of water, but he waved it away saying he was fine. I waited for the others to challenge my position, but other than looking deeply concerned, nobody said anything, or even glanced my way for that matter. It was as if they had just discovered I was so hopelessly pro-American and reactionary, there was no point in spending more time with me.
Longshaft, who had not participated in the discussion to that point, addressed his colleagues, “Everyone who appears before this board is entitled to his opinion, and it’s refreshing to hear someone speak so candidly on such a controversial a topic.” Turning to me, he asked if I knew the writings of Albert Camus, the great French humanist winner of the Nobel Prize for literature.
“I do.” I said. “I’ve read most of his books.”
“And so you’re familiar with what he said about the struggle of the Algerian people for their independence from France — the struggle in which France used torture as an instrument to fight the National Liberation Front?”
“He was torn between his support for the Arabs and Berbers who were native to the region and his own people — the Pieds-Noirs — the European settlers who had lived in Algeria for generations.”
“Camus once told a journalist that if he had to make a decision between Justice and his mother, he would choose his mother. What did he mean?”
“Camus was saying that whatever the merits of the Arab and Berber cause, he would support his mother’s people — the Pieds-Noirs — in the conflict. Blood and family came before Justice.”
“Do you agree with Camus?”
“I do. When two values conflict you should support your family.”
“You would have opposed the struggle for the independence of Algeria?”
“If I had been Camus I would have. If I had been an Arab or Berber I would have supported the fight to end French rule.”
“Your file says you’re a Métis. If you had lived a hundred years ago, would you have supported Louis Riel in his fight against Canada?”
“Yes, of course … unreservedly and blindly if need be. He was family.”
“Oh my God! Stop playing with the mind of the candidate!” Burump said. “Let him think for himself!”
“I’m just exploring his views on some fundamental issues,” Longshaft said to Burump. Turning to me, he said, “I’d now like to discuss the foreign policy priorities of the Canadian government. As any properly prepared candidate knows, national security, national unity, and human rights are key components along with others such as economic well-being and environmental protection. For the sake of our discussion today, however, I want to focus only on the first three. Do you think that any one of them should take precedence over the others?” He leaned back in his chair, stared at me impassively, and puffed on his pipe, waiting to hear what I would say.
I looked back at him wondering why he had asked that particular question so soon after questioning me on the wars in Vietnam and Algeria. Was there some sort of link between the three priorities he selected? Was he trying to help me or to trip me up?
“Please answer the question. We don’t have time to waste.”
“National security trumps human rights.”
“And why do you say that?”
“Because the first priority of any government is to safeguard the national territory of the state against foreign aggression and to defend its citizens against terrorism. Without national security, there couldn’t be human rights — or anything else for that matter.”
“Is that why you say the United States is right to intervene militarily in Vietnam, to safeguard its national security and those of its allies in the free world?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Even if the United States violates the human rights of the Vietnamese people?”
“Yes, that follows logically. I suppose so.”
“You didn’t deal with