
“I haven’t the slightest idea from whence came my ancestors, from what part of Africa, what tribe, what nation. But I am a Negro and … well, have the dream of bettering my race. I have no irons in the fire, beyond altruistic ones. Of course, when I say American Negroes I don’t exclude Canadian ones, or those of Latin America or the Caribbean. It is simply that there are greater numbers of educated American Negroes than you find elsewhere.”
Zetterberg said impatiently, “Please, Dr. Crawford. Come to the point. That ridiculous statement you made about El Hassan.”
“Of course, I am merely giving background. Most of we field workers, not only the African Development teams, but such organizations as the Africa for Africans Association and the representatives of the African Department of the British Commonwealth, and of the French Community’s African Affairs sector, are composed of Negroes.”
Zetterberg was nodding. “All right, I know.”
Homer Crawford said, “The teams of all these organizations do their best to spur African progress, in our case, in North Africa, especially the area between the Niger and the Mediterranean. Often we disguise ourselves as natives since in that manner we are more quickly trusted. We wear the clothes, speak the local language or lingua franca.”
The American hesitated a moment, then plunged in. “Dr. Zetterberg, the African is still a primitive but newly beginning to move out of a tradition-ritual-taboo tribal society. He seeks a hero to follow, a man of towering prestige who knows the answers to all questions. We may not like this fact, we with our traditions of democracy, but it is so. The African is simply not yet at that stage of society where political democracy is applicable.”
