Here I am, in my

own world, no longer

in the bubble in which

I spent a little over

two decades of my life

–due to professional

circumstances. The

moment has arrived for

me to start discovering

this country that has

welcomed me; to look

back and reassess

what life has been like

over the past thirty

years in this ‘land of no

shadows.’

Silvia Henao ANTWERP, July 2011

SILVIA HENAOBogotá (Colombia), 1945

MIGRATION STORIESAutobiographies#1

ANTWERP

I have always tr ied to l ive with what is barely necessary. When I have come across new options I have tr ied to remain fai thful to myself . I l ike to bel ieve that I can feel happy with l i t t le – when one stops to consider i t may seem l i t t le, but i t is already a lot. My chi ldren and I have often talked about the importance of going through l i fe with l ight luggage... what is essent ia l we carry within ourselves; for our mater ia l possessions one suitcase is more than enough.

The aroma of frothy chocolate, whipped up in the jug, fills me with warm, happy memories. The rhythm and the sound of the wooden stirrer moving swiftly in my mother’s hands was a sign that the frothy chocolate was rising to the brim and that soon we would sit down together to enjoy it with fresh cheese and corn cakes, either for breakfast or as a mid afternoon snack... it was always piping hot and delightfully frothy.

What brought me he

here?

From the collection of ‘chivas’ (lorries/buses used to transport everyone and everything) the one with FLANDES written on the side jumped into view. Flandes is a small town in Colombia, not far from Bogotá. This means of transportation is fast disappearing.

What brought me he

here?

I thoroughly enjoy cooking,

I thoroughly enjoy discovering the essence, the aroma

of plants, feeling the texture of their leaves, seeing

how other plants grow out of shoots of the same

plant. Handcrafted objects have my total admiration;

I feel drawn to the creative force that drove the artisan

to carve the wooden spoon or shape the earthenware

bowl. It seems that as time passes by fewer objects

such as these are made by hand.

The fig tree... the smell the leaves give

off when I rub them brings to mind the

delicious figs in syrup I enjoyed eating at

home, especially if they were filled with

‘arequipe’ (thick sweetened boiled milk);

the pleasure was double.

I thoroughly enjoy cooking. The taste

of rice, or eggs or anything cooked in

these pots is undoubtedly authentic to

me; nothing compares to eating soup

or savouring beans out of these ceramic

bowls... with hand carved wooden spoons

no less.

Then, of course, there is the clinking of wine

glasses as I celebrate good moments with

friends –any moment is good.

With Aunt Carmen and Uncle Marcos in the country ( c.1947)

As I have no recollection of my early years of life, these snapshots taken in Choachí, my mother’s home village, with my aunt and uncle, my brother

and my grandfather, seem like postcards with no history attached to them. My mother used to tell me anecdotes about the games I played, the

discoveries I made, and the mischief I got into as a child... they are tinted with a special love that I do remember precisely.

My brother Campo Elías and I on the slope of a hill in Bogotá (c. 1948)

As I have no recollection of my early years of life, these snapshots taken in Choachí, my mother’s home village, with my aunt and uncle, my brother

and my grandfather, seem like postcards with no history attached to them. My mother used to tell me anecdotes about the games I played, the

discoveries I made, and the mischief I got into as a child... they are tinted with a special love that I do remember precisely.

My brother Campo Elías and I on the slope of a hill in Bogotá (c. 1948)

At my maternal grandfather’s house in Choachí (c. 1947)

CO

My school uniform was a white pinafore with ruffles around the chest and deep pleats at the waistline. Starching and ironing it was a meticulous task. It had to re-main im- p e c c a b l e t h r o u g - hout the week. I felt I could not run the risk of getting it w r i n k l e d or, heaven f o r b i d , s t a i n i n g it with ink. My long plaits that hung heavily on my back were fastened with white ribbons. This photograph

was taken by a street photographer in Chapinero park in Bogotá. (1953)

CO

Shortly before I left Colombia my mother told me that when she was 14 years of age at the street fair in Choachí, her native village, the stand that caught her attention was that of a hen that pecked a ‘lucky ticket’. For two coins, the ticket in which she could discover her future good fortune was hers. When she read, “Your firstborn will travel throughout the world” my mother remembered bursting out in laughter at the impossible thought that it could become true. Who would have thought that it would become a pattern in my life... Bogotá, Los Angeles, Berkeley, San Francisco, Madrid, Quito, Antwerp... My mother reminded me of it every time I announced that I was moving on.

Photo of my Mother Lucía Acosta, 72 years old. Poster of the play Miss Julie in which my daughter Alejandra Catalina Theus played the leading role, 29 years old)

(1952)

(1973)

CO

The photo of my first communion seems to me now as solemn as the celebration itself. I still sense the smell of the lilies and the rustling of my shining white satin dress all day long. I remember the contrast between that pristine white and the strict black attire that my aunts wore as they mourned their mother –my great grand mother- who had passed away a few days before. I associate the smell of the lilies to her funeral and to my first communion.

Tulia and Margarita, my maternal grandaunts, displayed the attire and apparel of the 1950s. Their inborn elegance was discreet, simple and smart; cleanliness, modesty and demureness shone through at all times. They designed and stitched their own tailored suits out of meticulously chosen material and looked after them with the care, love and pride they attached to what was self-made. The suits were brushed briskly before being worn and especially before being returned to the wardrobe. The ritual as they prepared to go out –to attend mass, to pay a visit or simply to go shopping- fascinated me, in particular the final touches. It involved applying face powder with a pink puff, donning a small hat with a short veil that coquettishly covered half their face and fastening it to the back of their hairdo with a special jet-black hat pin. The pin shone brightly on the hat as well as in the box in which it was kept afterwards. They would never overlook the dainty hankie moistened in Cologne water before stepping out of the house arm in arm.

I liked everything about Liceo Atenas in Bogotá where I finished Elementary School, the required official schooling in Colombia at that time. The memories of my teachers, the excursions, the gymnastics shows, the singing lessons and especially the sewing classes –the weekly magic story-time sessions where Mrs. Lucila would conjure up tales and legends. - became my first intellectual point of reference. What I liked least, was having to wear a brown uniform decorated with white bulky buttons on the shoulders where my long hair would tangle to the point of hurting. The solution was drastic; my plaits and their bows disappeared forever. (Photo taken by a street

photographer in Siete de Agosto quarter in Bogotá, 1957)

CO

At sixteen years of age, transplanted to California I was full of fear and insecurity. The world seemed wide, strange and alien. Bogotá seemed so far away. Never did I imagine that I would miss my grandaunts, my mother, and my life in a big city as much as I did. The emotional emptiness frightened me even more; thinking that there was no turning back filled me with panic. I had to summon a courage I did not feel in order to keep going. I returned to Colombia two and a half years later. By then I was no longer the same girl nor was anything

as I remembered. My life had taken a surprising and thrilling turn especially after I started studying -something that was not entirely part of the agreement made with my host American family.

Palm City, California (at a retirement community) in the Spring of 1962

US

June 1966

US

It was hard to believe that I graduated from UCR (University of California Riverside) with a Bachelor’s Degree nine years after arriving in California with a very basic knowledge of English. I majored in literature and languages driven primarily by the strong need to delve into my own language and its literature; I wanted to rescue something of intrinsic personal value –my signs of identity, if you will- that I felt I was losing.

June 1970 on graduation day near the emblematic bell tower typical of each University of California campus

Phyllis, my American Mom, my unconditional friend, my intellectual and professional model; without her support and trust I would have not been able to achieve high professional goals.

Palm Springs, California, 1966

This VW beetle became my faithful companion as I travelled northwards along the West Coast from California to the Canadian border and eastwards to Montana, Idaho, Utah, Nevada and Arizona. The world still seemed wide and beautiful and less strange and alien.

Indio, California in June 1971 in front of Phyllis’ house. Phyllis, my dear American Mother.)

US

During my first visit back in Bogotá, whilst studying in California, and when walking one day along Carrera Séptima with my Aunt Margarita, this snapshot was taken of us . The practice of taking these street photographs no longer exists. Most of the time one realized that a photo had been taken when a small piece of paper was slipped into one’s hand; with the number on the back one could claim the photograph. If you liked it, it was yours for a symbolic price. Many a moment has been retained in time on ‘la Séptima’.

CO

During my first visit back in Bogotá, whilst studying in California, and when walking one day along Carrera Séptima with my Aunt Margarita, this snapshot was taken of us . The practice of taking these street photographs no longer exists. Most of the time one realized that a photo had been taken when a small piece of paper was slipped into one’s hand; with the number on the back one could claim the photograph. If you liked it, it was yours for a symbolic price. Many a moment has been retained in time on ‘la Séptima’.

Bogota, July 1963

In 1972 I worked in Cali for a couple of months. Outings through the central southern part of Colombia became a must in my spare time. Here I am with Iván, a colleague, in a square in Popayán, an elegant colonial city that I would visit again seven years later to take part in an international theatre festival.

The last snapshot taken in Bogotá in October 1972 as I strolled along deep in thought. After finishing my Master’s Degree in California I spent a short period of time in Colombia planning my next move to... Madrid!

Photo taken by a street photographer, Popayán, September 1972

CO

Out of this series of snapshots taken in a cabin in Quito, the one on the right may have made it to the square in the residence permit for foreigners in Ecuador. It was in Quito where I started teaching Kindergarten at Academia Cotopaxi, an international school. I would have the privilege of acting in theatre with Argentinean and Chilean actors in exile. This period of personal soul searching gave me the opportunity to re-examine social and political issues upon seeing the suffering my friends were experiencing.

EC

Out of this series of snapshots taken in a cabin in Quito, the one on the right may have made it to the square in the residence permit for foreigners in Ecuador. It was in Quito where I started teaching Kindergarten at Academia Cotopaxi, an international school. I would have the privilege of acting in theatre with Argentinean and Chilean actors in exile. This period of personal soul searching gave me the opportunity to re-examine social and political issues upon seeing the suffering my friends were experiencing.

In Madrid I became an English teacher and at the same time started working on my Doctor’s degree with the NYU Extension Programme, with first-hand Spanish professors. At last I gave my Spanish the workout it needed. The freedom that I felt and the spirit and struggle for political justice in Spanish university life in the mid-seventies walked hand in hand.

In Madrid I became an English teacher and at the same time started working on my Doctor’s degree with the NYU Extension Programme, with first-hand Spanish professors. At last I gave my Spanish the workout it needed. The freedom that I felt and the spirit and struggle for political justice in Spanish university life in the mid-seventies walked hand in hand.

foto Toni Lucas, Madrid 1975

ES

I rescued these post cards from my Mother’s belongings after she passed away. My children wrote them for her when she returned to Colombia after her first visit to Belgium. She always enjoyed the privilege of visiting the country of flowers, as she called it; she carried along some plant and flower seeds to lengthen her memory of the three springs that she visited with us. She was delighted with a surprising snowfall in April –the snow flakes floated in the air like feathers- The first time she saw snow was also the only one. The strolls along the beach in Holland, in ’t Zwin listening to the birds singing were included in her memory chest. Her love and understanding were sealed in the many hugs she gave us.

Alejandra, grandmother Lucía and Carlos in Antwerp (1993)

BE

I am not looking at what you are looking; I am just watching you look...

Zeeland, Holanda, 1993

I am not looking at what you are looking; I am just watching you look...

It may have been the second or even the third time my mother had seen the sea. She was fascinated by the endless movement and constant transformation and by the peace that came over her as she watched. Alejandra, then 12 years old, shares that magic moment with her grandmother Lucía.

I cannot imagine my life without my two children -my main source of happiness, my reason for being. I feel protected by their love and their understanding. I celebrate their talents and their sense of humour. May the many moments of intense happiness, the delicious breakfasts, the abundant suppers continue to be sprinkled with genuine fits of laughter. In difficult moments I have tried not to take steps back; I

would like to think that I have given my strength to my children especially during the most trying moments. What two trophies life has awarded me!

foto Joep Lennarts

Anka

Carlos, Antwerp, August 2011 BE

The Grade One students in this photograph, now studying at universities all over the world, are ex-graduates of AIS (Antwerp International School in Ekeren), my professional haven for 23 fruitful years. I had the privilege of teaching at all levels, from Preschool to High School at AIS. Many of the wonderful colleagues I came into contact with became bosom friends. What else could one ask for?

, Ekeren, June 1998

OXFAM Boutique, Brederodestraat, Antwerp, August 2011

After my official retirement in November 2010, I started doing volunteer work. Attending conversation groups with other immigrants, helping out with Dutch language learning, working at OXFAM and coming into contact with people from all walks of life... it all makes life worthwhile. Singing is also rewarding. I am happy to be part of Kamerkoor CANTABILE in Hove and of the Ensemble Voces Aequales, in Berchem. www.cantabile-hove.be

BE

On the screen, one of the last photos taken of my Aunt Tulia and myself in her house in San Fernando in Bogotá. My Aunt Tulia helped to pave the way for me to leave Bogotá so that I could make history elsewhere. It was our last visit ... a reencountering with many of the memories, sounds, and smells, tastes and objects of my childhood years spent in that house. I tried to prepare dishes that she loved and could no longer prepare on her own. I was fascinated by her elegance, her vigour, her irony, and especially by her incredible memory. She recited poems and related stories of her life in Bogotá in the 1940s in well-articulated speech that would have been the envy of many an actress. Her eyes had a special twinkle as she relived these moments. She died of ‘illness of wrinkles’ (to quote a Colombia children’s poem) in her own bed at 102 years of age. What a lesson about life!

edited by Núria Andreuin colaboration with

RED STAR LINE MUSEUMMAS MUSEUM

Antwerp, Summer 2011