Pipes are calling

Most of us, whether or not we have Scottish blood, try to go along with the yearly cultural celebration.

My Dad always insisted the Wiseman family originated in Scotland, although he never identified a specific clan.

I liked that idea, and even picked a wife who has Scottish ancestry. She traces her clan connection through her maternal grandmother, but that limited amount of Scottish background contributed in a major way to her makeup. When in Scotland a few years ago we visited Dunnottar Castle, the seat of her clan, the Keiths. I did not make a hit when I stood in the old building, staring up at an overcast sky through a long-gone roof, and said, “Your folks sure didn’t take care of the place.”

I expressed pride in my Highland heritage until a couple of things happened that got me wondering. For the first one, I’ll take you back to South Africa. A couple with whom I worked, Sipho and Phuti Bhengu, became fast friends. One day they told me they had adopted me as Phuti’s brother. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, that made me a member of the ruling Zulu clan, therefore related to King Goodwill Zwelithini kaBhekuzulu, and to Mangosuthu Gatsha Buthelezi, Paramount Chief of the Zulus.

So there you go; why brag about being a member of an unknown Scottish clan when you can claim membership in the royal Zulu clan?

Reading about my Zulu “relatives” I discovered their Kings had reputations as great warriors and cruel dictators who would face any army, African or European. I began to compare them to my Scottish side. As a Canadian, I knew the Scots as great explorers, rugged settlers and successful business people and bankers. Considering the major differences, I again began putting more emphasis on that part of my heritage.

When Phuti had an opportunity to tour Scotland she visited museums and historical sights. There she saw scenes of Scottish warriors going into battle, armed with all sorts of hideous weapons. She heard stories about the terrible wars between Scotland and England. Back home, she said, “Until I saw those pictures and heard those stories, I thought you had come from some sort of higher civilization. Now I know better. Your European forefathers were just as bloodthirsty as mine.”

Then I wasn’t sure I wanted to be Scottish anymore. At least as a Zulu, I belonged to the royal clan. Now decades later I find myself living in a Scottish town transplanted into Canada. Soon after moving here, my wife dragged me to the Scottish Festival so I could learn to appreciate Scottish culture. She loved the sound of the pipe bands, but all I could hear was a blood-curdling shriek intended to unnerve or terrify an opposing army. Another point for the Zulus; their armies had never resorted to such a nasty weapon of war.    

Then our family genealogists made a startling discovery. They followed branches of our family tree back to Scotland, to Sir William Wiseman, a member of the first parliament of Robert the Bruce, in 1307. Now it looks like I’ll have to become Scottish again for more than just three days of the year.    

 

 

Ray Wiseman

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