Black or White?

Indians returning from abroad, especially from European countries, tend to recount tales of racism. I am glad that although racism exists, there are also Europeans who disapprove of it in no uncertain terms.

Way back in 1984, I was awarded the International Organisation of Journalists scholarship for which I was to be based in Budapest, Hungary. Some friends warned that I would soon realise what it was like being heckled and insulted because of my colour.

It happened soon after I landed in Moscow. I was to catch a connecting flight to Budapest and the Russian immigration clerk behind the counter had a sneer. He leafed through my passport and murmured something in Russian, at which a couple of his colleagues burst into guffaws. He grinned back.

My training as a journalist had taught me to give as good as I get.

"What's the private joke, in case you understand English?" I asked, barely maintaining my rapidly waning patience.

Momentarily, the clerk blinked. It was his turn to crimson.

"I want your baggage checked," he barked in English and instructed his two colleagues to check my suitcase. They took out its contents, carelessly strewing them on the floor. Then they gesticulated to indicate they were through.

I couldn't help feeling that though the socialism practised in the [then] Soviet Union preached equality, it was meant for the white race only.

As I bent down to gather my belongings and repack my suitcase, a young, Russian airport assistant beat me to it. She neatly arranged the contents of my suitcase and snapped the locks shut.

"Never mind him, I hope you have a happy journey," she smiled and took me to the counter for the transit flight. I thanked her.

"Out of sheer curiosity, what did the clerk say to me in Russian?" I asked.

"Oh, you know how it is with these people!" she shrugged apologetically. With another smile, she was gone.

In the plane to Budapest, I encountered more of the same attitude. A group of noisy Russian factory workers [as I subsequently learned] made no pretence of looking askance at me, the lone non-white. One fat woman even rolled her eyes and cringed away when I took the seat besides her. Plebbies, I thought viciously.

When the plane landed at Ferehegy airport, I made for the cab outside. I wanted to go to 54 Kapy Utca, where the Uszagiro Iskola [school of journalism] was located. It took me a while to realise that the cabby did not speak English. But he had an expansive smile and an engaging way of nodding his head. He even waited to ensure I had come to the right address. Phew, what a change!

The staff at the school was the friendliest one could hope for. There was Agnes Uranovic, the office secretary. Gyula, the financial executive. And Geza Rybka, our director. All of them went out of their way to make us comfortable.

One Sunday, my colleague from Ethiopia, Alemu Zewdie, and I went shopping. A particularly nasty Hungarian plainclothes cop detained us at the supermarket; both of us had forgotten to carry our passports. In those days, Hungary was still a Warsaw Pact country and one had to carry an identification document all the time.

We rang up the institute and the director sent Agnes to bail us out. She tongue-lashed the errant cop, saying she would report to his superiors his use of the Hungarian word 'fekete' [black] while addressing us. That did the trick, for he repeatedly bowed to us. It gave me a stab of satisfaction to realise that the racist cop had been effectively straightened out by one of his own kind.

There was the other incident when some of our African colleagues wanted to visit a discotheque. One of them went inside, but returned with a flushed face after being jeered at by the locals. However one young Hungarian student, who knew a smattering of English, found we were foreign journalists. He insisted we complain to the authorities so that the disco could be closed down!

I also met curious Hungarians, fascinated with the people and culture of the developing countries. There was immense interest in India; many of them referred to it as 'the land of Gandhi'. They respected the Mahatma and were awed by Indira Gandhi.

It came as a revelation to me that the gypsies in Hungary [and other European countries] had migrated from Gujarat almost 600 years ago! I even came across one bigoted Hungarian restaurateur who took pleasure in playing Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves whenever we visited his restaurant at the heart of the city.

Hungarians are a proud lot. I remember referring to beautiful Budapest as the Paris of the East. Agnes, who heard me, laughed, "Do you know we Hungarians refer to Paris as the Budapest of the West?"

During the last month of my advanced journalism course, we visited Czechoslovakia. Prague was fascinating. So were East German cities like Berlin, Potsdam and Dresden. Our brief visit to these places convinced me that the bigots in these European countries were countered by a growing number of people who found racism an anathema.

Illustration: Dominic Xavier