Summer Activities


Khaleen Grant


District 7020: Jamaica



My first hours at the Ecole Spéciale Militaire (Saint Cyr) de Coëtquidan were filled with mixed emotions. At first I was largely intimidated because all around me were men, with only a few scatterings of women. I immediately questioned my ability to compete with what were 'real men,' not the soft-spoken, perfectly coiffed type who, briefcase in hand, loiters the halls of Sciences Po and recounts to all who will listen his adventures in the banlieu and Paris metro where he was aggressed by some 'roughies'. Despite my brashfulness, I was still a girl. I had never imagined, upon my arrival, that two months later I would be wrestling in the halls with the Officiers sous-contrat (contracted officers), and sharing bad coffee with the 3eme RIMA (Marines of the Ground Army) while standing in 3 ft. high mud, listening to stories of their adventures at the Moulin Rouge!

Secondly, I had belatedly realised that I was being thrown into a throng of strangers. They had not studied my biography months before my arrival on the Rotary website, and no one greeted me smilingly in courtyards (as was the case in Tours a year before). Rather, as I passed the gaping and sometimes scowling faces (after all, I was just another girl, a type of second-rate citizen that was taking up the place of an abler man), one or two persons whispered " Sciences Po," as if those two words perfectly summed up who I was and what I was doing there. (Ironically, upon a brief visit to Paris, I had stopped at Sciences Po one evening, when a fellow student regarded me, my army-issue bags, and my dirty sneakers and asked if I was lost, for I was in the halls of Sciences Po, if I hadn't noticed!)

Despite being a "Sciences Po," which fellow students there were reluctant to accept, I was invited into town to have dinner with a group from the Ecole Militaire du Corps Technique et Administrative (EMCTA) -- the only école with a large (as in 1/2) female population. Within the hierarchy of Saint Cyr, they were the second lowest ranking officers (entirely based on prestige), having been beaten for the bottom spot by the 14eme battalion 'the Polytechniciens,' who were the Chemistry, Physics and Math students who had just arrived, and who were expected to resign by December at the latest. At dinner, far from making friends, I realised that I had nothing in common with these people, some of whom repeatedly asked, " And where exactly is Jamaica?" I had already become familiar with the French awe for Sciences Po, but here it was mingled with scorn, which I had rightly judged was a direct result of my presence. Nevertheless, a student-officer had justly, I believe, compared Sciences Po to Saint Cyr, both being grand écoles. He however defined the grand école, as simply any other university, but with a research centre in which everyone takes pride, but no one knows the research being done. They are both respected nonetheless for, I was told, the French hold much stock in reputation.

Dinner was a leisurely affair, which infuriated me, because the entire camp would awaken at 6 the following morning for an 8 hour bus ride (which turned into 10 hours) to the military base for the French ground troop at Mourmelon and Suippes. Throughout my first weekend I became acquainted with one of the army's oldest dictums: get up early and wait a lot. At Mourmelon and Suippes, I witnessed real maneuvering of nuclear tanks and helicopters as well as the French special forces. For two days, there were exhibitions, as the latest hi-tech material was put on display. The trip back to Coët (Saint Cyr) on Sunday evening was this time 10 1/2 hours. This initiation had my heart and head pounding from sheer joy from what I had witnessed and what I had hoped would characterise the next few months of my stay; from pain due to the torture to which my ears had been subjected, remembering how the earth shook each time the tanks fired; and finally from the flu, from which I have still not been completely cured 2 months later.

If I had not been prepared for a Parisian winter when I had left Jamaica a year ago, then I was doubly unprepared for Bretagne on her most beautiful day! Indeed the rain coupled with winter-type temperatures in early October (10°) and an unrelenting wind, are characteristic of the typical day in Bretagne. Since that time I have become accustomed to the colonies of crows that plague every military base since Napoléon's time, like pigeons in a Parisian park in Spring, as if waiting patiently for someone to die, but I have not been acclimatised to the weather. During this time, the convention between Sciences Po and Coët had not been finalised, so we were forbidden to wear military garb. No one would say when the convention would be signed, so I resolved to take a trip to the military surplus store, where I purchased 2 polar suits, including World War II-type long johns that I had seen in an alpine-set movie, and polar socks.

The long johns were most welcome one month later when we embarked on our next mission: a UN checkpoint. Two entire villages had been sequestered for the operation. I found the villagers quite good-humoured, if a bit fearful when they were stopped at the roadblocks by members of the Ecole Militaire Inter-Armées and some of the 3eme RIMA (the Marines of the Ground Troops, a bit of an anomalie indeed), with war-painted faces and FAMAS in hand. My first encounter with the French rations (which I was assured was gourmet compared to that of the American, British or German armies, so I constantly reminded myself to say Mmm! at each bite) was as equally memorable as the night spent under the stars on the muddy ground with rain clouds gathering overhead. Needless to say, a total of two hours sleep with my stomach repulsing the rations which I again had to eat for breakfast, significantly improved my already good-humoured disposition. I returned to camp however, with a deep respect for the men and wom en, who under such living (and eating) conditions, were forced to constantly bear in mind law, order, the good treatment of refugees, journalists and NGO's, who often in the pursuit of their own profession and sometimes just by personality, proved a burden at best, insulting at worst.

Another popular excursion was made to Panthièvre in late November. The fort, under the management of the 3eme RIMA, was transformed into a giant obstacle course field, with a more sombre grotto where 50 French soldiers who had surrendered to the Germans were killed and thrown into a cave during the Second World War. Because of my civilian status, I was only permitted to participate in the "less dangerous" exploits, such as climbing 30 metres up a wall with the assistance of metal pegs, crawling along cables that extended over a 50 metre drop onto jagged cliffs, climbing down a chimney much in the way Santa Claus does, we were told, and scaling and climbing up and down 50 metre walls like spiders or monkeys. Preparation for this day had been a few lessons at camp in my Obstacle Course class, where we were dropped into a 12ft. pit and told to climb out using our fingers and toes (I reminded the instructor that I barely measured 5ft 8 inches, but to no avail), had to crawl 50 metres under a met al cobweb that was barely higher than a medium-sized dog, and climb over wet bars using a special technique (that reminded me of Jamaican criminals jumping over walls to elude the police) without falling into the mud underfoot. Yet despite the cold and my fear of heights, I was dubbed "commando-Khaleen" by my instructor, being the living proof of the saying "Don't look down..." Within a day my exploits had made the tour of the school, and I was repeatedly told by complete strangers "Not bad, Sciences Po, not bad at all."

As a safety precaution, the first few class hours at Coet were spent in First Aid class, which should have been warning enough. And even before getting the camouflage gear that is worn on a daily basis like jeans at a normal university, I was given a necktie, useful for tying off limbs in the event of profuse bleeding. When I tried to find out in what circumstance I would be required to tie off a limb to stop bleeding, all my qiestions were answered by uneasy laughter, a good-natured slap on the back, and "Don't worry, Sciences Po!" In contrast to this, the following weeks were frustrating, because we could not even mount military vehicules (and dangerous activities of the sort) until the conventions were signed and returned.

I had made to the 3eme RIMA where my first lessons in shooting FAMAS and LRAC (launch rockets) began. The navy, I was told have many fancy toys, which I discovered to be true, but less obvious than those of the ground troop. My visit to the Naval Academy at Laguedoc, the base for the French nuclear submarines and a tour of a French warship at Brest was exciting, because I knew the potential of the equipment I was seeing. With the ground troops, demonstartions were always conducted so that I could have a real feel of the material. But at the navy, I was forbidden from touching the bottons that launched torpedos with nuclear heads, or from meddling with the radar screens and consoles that sprouted very colourful bottons with unclear functions. Everything looked so simple and harmless (just a very big metal fishing boat) that I regarded our guide with skeptism, as he described the destructive capacity of the vessel. To add to my doubt, more than once throughout the day, while explaining som e latest technology, analogies were made to the latest James Bond movie.

On the base at Coët however, our days are filled with practical, real life courses such a Law of armed Conflict, Military History, Techniques in Command, Strategy of Defense (of the US, China, France, etc.), Military Traditions and Customs, in rooms called "Amphitheatre Napoléon Amphitheatre Bonaparte, Cinéma Bonaparte, etc. While all are welcome to the Defense conferences on China, Germany and the US, I along with the other non-French students were asked to leave the conference on France at crucial points, when defense "secrets" were revealed. There were also course options fo the First Battalion, who at the end of their scolarity would leave Coët with the equivalent of a Masters degree. To further my research on my own thesis, I attended a few of these courses, namely "African crises and their actors," "North Africa in its geopolitical environment," and "Analysis of zones of tension," where students made "comprehensive exposés" with a bibliography consisting of two books and a website, or one book, one journal and a website. Often I marveled at the professors (some of whom were former Sciences Po maitres de conference) who accepted such "comprehensive exposés" with sometimes, resignation. Eventually, professors would speak to me as though we were colleagues, as they queried about the progress of my research, after having excused me from "ever wasting my valuable time by coming to their classes." Other Sciences Po students would use the time for sports.

I had been dispensed from running in my first week, the story of which continues to be recounted at every light moment of the day, during cigarette and coffee breaks, as well as around camp fires. Feeling refreshed by a new, healthy lifestyle I had turned out for sports one dark and cold morning, even before the sun had risen. After running in the woods, up and down hillocks for twenty minutes in the thin and cold air at what I had come to call the "military pace," we were told to stop, check our pulse and walk about. Feeling satisfied with myself for not falling behind, I checked my pulse and started to head back to gym now that warming up was over. After two minutes, the instructor shouted, "Let's continue" (On y va). My initial reaction was "On y va where?!" before I had realised that we were running deeper into the woods and the sun still hadn't come up yet. The very thought gave me an instant asthma attack. The entire group exploded into laughter. I was excused indefinitely fro m running, but given access to the swimming pool and the weights room for exercise. Naturally, at the annual Coët cross country competition, I was kindly asked to take photos at the start and end of the event. Nevertheless, I was recruited for the annual sports day, which was dedicated to sprints, partly due to the stereotype that every Jamaican is a budding Merlene Ottey, and partly because I was usually late for eveything and was too often seen sprinting from early morning to late evening.

Weeks before they were announced, and just days after my arrival I was enthralled by stories of the annual ball at the end of November, right before the re-enactment of the battle of Austerlitz, and the "rehearsal" balls for the respective schools (EMCTA, EMIA, etc.) two weeks prior. That these are "the events" of the year should not be surprising if one takes the time to notice on the one hand "Amphitheatre Bonaparte, Cinéma Bonaparte, Amphitheatre Napoléon, etc.," and the imposing statue of the Emperor astride a great stallion with the tricolor behind him, pointing to the north; and on the other hand, the fact that the Saint Cyrian -- even by Belgian standards -- is believed to be a great catch. Living in such close proximity to them had disillusioned me, but I was told that Parisian socialites made the trip each year, along with hopeful convent-bred daughters of army officers, who in sewing groups, created their own gowns, all with the hope of finding themselves a husband. For weeks I was haunted by the image of spoilt girls in white dresses calling out " Daddy, Daddy, I want that one!" while pointing at a particular head of cattle (or fish, depending on whether you are French or Belge), which Daddy would obligingly rope in. The reality was much different however, as perhaps half the camp's population had already been married off at the age of 20, and the few socialites that were present apparently had already bagged their prize. The remaining daughters of the commanders, colonels and generals had made the trip mostly "to see how things worked," so they would be prepared by the time their "coming out" rolled around.

I have recently discovered that I do enjoy this fairyland, where hours are dedicated to etiquette, and the young officers are taught that they must also ask the "unattractive girls" to dance when attending balls, and that they should never offer a lady a handshake (it should be her initiative). Ten minutes after this course on civilisation, they would probably be off to learn how to "eliminate" (the army never says kill) their opponents with relative ease.

And upon my visits to Paris I find myself hurrying back at the earliest possible convenience to Coetquidan and its environs, where inn-keepers/restaurant owners welcome their patrons with kisses (literally!) upon the second meeting; where I have graduated from being "Sciences Po" to "Khally". In other words, to a home that Paris one year later still has not offered me.

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