MUSIC VIDEO: Beyond the Pale in ‘The Jamaican-Jewish Wedding’
He’s a nice Jewish boy, she’s a nice Jamaican girl, but what will happen when klezmer meets reggae at the wedding?
He’s a nice Jewish boy, she’s a nice Jamaican girl, but what will happen when klezmer meets reggae at the wedding?
I am safe on the plane now.
On the way to Los Angeles International Airport this afternoon, I thought I was about to be murdered.
In the run-up to a weeklong
business trip, I called the car service I’ve been using for years to pick me up at my home. The driver arrived promptly at 1:30 p.m., the arranged time.
The ride to the airport started out just fine. The driver began making small talk. I noticed he had a Jamaican flag on his dashboard, so I asked if he was Jamaican. He said he was, and he asked if I was American.
“Were you born in California?” he asked.
I told him I was born in Chicago, and he commented how different the two cities are. I asked him if he came directly to Los Angeles from Jamaica. He told me he was first in New York.
He was playing reggae music, so I told him I liked the music and asked if he was Rastafarian. He said he was and explained that Rastafarian is a form of Christianity. He asked what my religion was. I told him I was Jewish.
One of the things I like about the drivers of this company is that they are always from other countries. When I ride in their cars, I get to learn a lot about where the drivers come from and their views of life in America.
We were both quiet for a while, and then he began tapping to the rhythm of the music. I noticed he had a plethora of CDs stuffed into his visor. I asked him what other reggae or Rasta singers he had.
“My music is political,” he said.
That was a pretty interesting comment, so I asked, “About what kind of politics?”
“I hope as Jew,” he now raised his voice and sneered, “you can take what I am about to say. My politics are about the Jews.”
And then the rant began. Continuing to raise his voice, he told me that Mel Gibson knew what he was saying. He told me he used to favor the Jews until they, themselves, became the Hitler under whom they suffered. He told me that the Jews are indeed the root of all the world’s problems today.
“The Jews, who were the victim of the white man, now think that they are white. They have forgotten and have become the oppressor,” he said.
He continued to rant for another 10 minutes. Between his shrieking voice and the Jamaican accent, I could barely understand the things he was saying — about Oprah becoming rich and just like the white man because of the Jews, and that Saddam Hussein’s hanging was posted on the Internet because of the Jews. He then turned to look at me in the backseat, while driving on the freeway.
“You Jews are the cause of the black man’s suffering today,” he screamed at me as he took his hands off the wheel. “I suffer, because of you.”
Until this point, I had been quiet.
“Please sir,” I said calmly understanding my predicament, “please keep your hands on the wheel.”
That was it.
“Just like a Jew — always telling the world what to do,” he responded. “Don’t you worry about me. Worry about what you do in the world. You make my life miserable. I don’t care if I die. Maybe I’m a terrorist, like my Palestinian and Arab brothers whose lives you have destroyed. Maybe I am just going to now crash this car and kill both of us.”
He was completely hysterical. The car was swerving out of control.
I wanted to get off the freeway and onto a city street, so I could have an escape route to jump out of his car if need be.
“It would be best,” I said quietly, “if you get off at Howard Hughes Drive, so that we can come directly into the airport the back way, because it is quicker, and I am late.”
“There you go again, always knowing better than anyone else. I drive all the time. And now you Jews know better how I should drive.”
He continued to rant. But he did get off on Howard Hughes.
“The tables are turning, mon,” he said. “The tables are turning. You will no longer have the power. The world is sick of you and knows who you are.”
We were now inside the airport, and I felt safer. I leaned forward, “You have no idea who I am or who my people are. All you did was spew hate.”
“I don’t want to listen to anything you have to say,” he said. “You think about what I said. We’ve heard enough from you.”
As he handed me my bags, he said, “Are you going to report me like the Jew did about Mel Gibson? Are you going to get all your Jewish organizations after me now?”
I walked into the airport, relieved to be alive and away from the guy. I thought about Gibson; about recently fired publisher Judith Regan, who was going to publish the O.J. Simpson book; about Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad; about the brutal torture and killing of Ilan Halimi in France; about all the recent pronouncements of anti-Semitism throughout the world.
I looked around me and thought, “Who else hates us? Hates me? Do I need to live in fear right here in Los Angeles?”
Aside from studying the Holocaust and being marginally active in the Soviet Jewry movement, I never gave much thought to anti-Semitism around me. I believed it hardly existed and had little to do with living in the United States.
I was uncomfortable when other Jews talked and acted with what I considered to be a victim mentality. I drew my Jewish political lines around who saw the world as victims and those who saw the world as accepting. Victims were right wing. Those who saw acceptance were more liberal.
I remember my Wexner Heritage class of just nine short years ago and the many discussions we had about the golden age, in which we were living as Jews with growing world acceptance.
Set back from the Main Road behind the tall and majestic trees is the splendid mansion of Devon House. This stately mansion a regal tribute to the craftsmanship of Jamaica, and it also stands as a proud symbol of Jamaican Jewish history. Sitting on the aptly named Hope Road, this magnificent mansion is now open to the public.
The story of Devon House starts with George Stiebel. Born the son of a German Jew and a Jamaican housekeeper in the 1820s, his mixed parentage made his early years difficult. Taunted by his peers, young George left school at 14. At 19, he joined the crew building the Ferry Inn between Kingston and Spanish Town and by the time he reached his early 20s, his father rewarded his tenacity with enough money to buy a ship. One ship turned into three and soon his fleet was trading between the other West Indian islands. When the rebel slaves of Cuba wanted guns, Stiebel began delivering them aboard his ships. But that scheme came to an abrupt halt when he was thrown into a Cuban jail cell on a gunrunning conviction.
But young George wasn’t all about making money. He was also a romantic who fell in love with Magdalen Baker, the Jamaican daughter of a missionary. Aware that his Cuban jail record and mixed background didn’t exactly make him an attractive prospect for a son-in-law, the young couple waited until after the death of Magdalen’s parents before getting married. A son and daughter soon followed, but so did tragedy.
Stiebel had moved to Venezuela where his trading business flourished. However, bad weather caused one of his ships to sink off the South American coast. Miraculously, he survived only to discover he had lost everything except the money belt he tied to his waist before jumping ship.
With a young family in Jamaica to support, Stiebel stayed in Venezuela, determined to recoup his lost fortune. Eventually his investments in Venezuelan gold mines paid off and he returned to Jamaica in 1873 as a man of great wealth.
But bad luck struck once again when he discovered his teenage son had died while he was away in Venezuela. While in his 50s and financially secure, Stiebel bought sugar estates and 99 Jamaican properties (local law at the time forbade owning 100 properties). Now officially Jamaica’s first “black millionaire,” the Honorable George Stiebel, as he was known, was a man of respect.
In 1879, he bought 53 acres of land from the St. Andrew Parish and built his dream house on the foundation that was the church rectory. He called that dream house Devon House and for 10 years, George and Magdalen, their daughter, Theresa, and her husband, Richard Hill Jackson, who had become the mayor of Kingston, lived like Jamaican royalty.
With its elegant single staircase in the grand lobby, European antiques and handcrafted mahogany furniture, Devon House was a sight to behold. Its many bedrooms, with their Southern-style verandahs, grand ballroom, library, gaming room, grand Wedgwood ceilings and exquisitely carved fanlights above the doorways, earned Devon House the coveted National Monument honor bestowed by the Jamaica National Heritage Trust.
But the fairy tale on Hope Road began to unravel for the Stiebels. In 1892, Magdalen died. In 1895, their grandson died of typhoid and, a week after that, Richard Hill Jackson died. Heartbroken again and in his 70s, George Siebel died in 1896 leaving behind his beloved Devon House.
After Theresa Stiebel Jackson’s death in 1922, Devon House was sold to Reginald Melhado, another successful Jewish Jamaican entrepreneur whose descendants had been forced to leave Portugal during the Spanish Inquisition. He lived in the mansion for five years and in 1928, passed the torch to another member of Jamaica’s Jewish community.
The new owner, Cecil Lindo, was descended from a Sephardic family that fled to Costa Rica and Jamaica to keep from becoming Christian converts during the Inquisition. Lindo lived in Devon House until his death in 1960 at the age of 89.
Like Stiebel, Lindo left Devon House to his family. It was Lindo’s wife who was approached by developers to sell it in 1965. However, under the National Trust Act, the Jamaican government stopped the developers from demolishing the mansion and began their own restoration process in 1967.
George Stiebel’s life story is “an inspiration for all Jamaicans,” said Janice Francis-Lindsay, the promotions coordinator for the Devon House Development Company, which owns Devon House today. “His monetary donation helped stage the Great Exhibition of 1891, which introduced tourism to Jamaica.”
And so it is goes that Devon House was home to three families of Jamaican Jewish descent and today is one of the most visited attractions in Kingston, a turn of fate that would have made Stiebel smile.
The great ballroom has the original English crystal chandelier. The 200-year-old clock still ticks, and you can see some of the Stiebel family possessions in the master bedroom.
Once the servants’ quarters, the Courtyard Shops sell a variety of Jamaican products in stores like Rum, Roast and Royals, Elaine Elegance and T and Treasures. Traditional Jamaican recipes can be sampled in what used to the Stiebel coach house and the best ice cream on the island is for sale in the lush courtyard. The west lawn gazebo is popular for craft fairs and picnics, and the majestic Great House is one of the islands preferred venues for elegant affairs.
“Tourists come for more than just a tour of the House,” said Norma Rhodan, who has been conducting guided tours of Devon House for 16 years. “I’ve seen them spend an entire day here. It is one of the most peaceful and relaxing places in all of Jamaica.”
Devon House is located at 26 Hope Road, Kingston, Jamaica. Tours offered Monday-Saturday from 9:30 a.m.-4:30 p.m. $5 (adults), $3 (children). For more information, e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org.
Melanie Reffes is a travel journalist living in Montreal. She’s a correspondent with the Montreal-based “Travel World Radio” as well as a regular contributor to several publications including the Montreal Gazette newspaper.