London Calling

One of the key figures in the eruption of West Indian literature in the 1940s and 50s was an Irish-born BBC producer named Henry Swanzy.

Derek Walcott. Photograph by Bruce PaddingtonHenry Swanzy in 1992. Photograph by Anne WalmseyHenry Swanzy. Photograph by BBC Photograph LibraryJohn Figueroa. Photograph by Bruce PaddingtonSam Selvon. Photograph by Bruce PaddingtonSwanzy in the studio with (from left) George Lamming, Andrew Salkey, Jan Carew, and Sam Selvon. Photograph by BBC Photograph Library

When we think of the surge of literary creativity that occurred
in the English-speaking Caribbean immediately after World War Two, the names
that come to mind are, obviously, those of the young writers whose first
books were to become the classic texts of the West Indian canon. But another
name, that of a relatively unknown Irishman, also belongs in the vicinity:
Henry Swanzy, the BBC radio producer who in the crucial eight-year period
from 1946 to 1953 did as much as any other person to win early West Indian
literature a forum and an audience.

Swanzy was born near Cork, in south Ireland, in 1915. His family moved
to England when he was still a young boy. After a short spell in what is
now the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, he joined the BBC in 1941, staying
till he retired in 1975. As well as producing programmes about the Caribbean
and West Africa, he had considerable academic expertise, becoming editor
of the journal now called African Affairs. But it was the weekly radio
programme Caribbean Voices, broadcast by the BBC World Service, which
made him an institution among post-war Caribbean writers.

Caribbean Voices, merely 20 minutes at first, later 29 minutes
in length, became the first significant launching pad for the development
and promotion of the region’s literature. Over the 15 years of its existence,
some 400 stories and poems were broadcast, along with plays and literary
criticism from around the region. There were 372 contributors in all, of whom
71 were women. Many writers, artists, and musicians who cut their literary
teeth on the programme went on to achieve international fame, notably the
Nobel Prize-winners Derek Walcott of St Lucia and Trinidad-born V.S. Naipaul;
but also George Lamming and Kamau Brathwaite from Barbados; Sam Selvon, again
from Trinidad; Edgar Mittelholzer, Wilson Harris, and Ian McDonald from Guyana;
and Andrew Salkey, Gloria Escoffery, and John Figueroa from Jamaica.

The immediate post-war years were the period of Swanzy’s greatest influence,
coinciding with a peak of nationalist sentiment and activity across the English-speaking
Caribbean. In 1944, Jamaica obtained home rule. Trinidad was granted universal
adult suffrage in 1945. The short-lived West Indies Federation commenced
in 1958. By the early 1960s, the larger territories, starting with Jamaica
and Trinidad, were finally achieving independence.

In these circumstances, Swanzy could easily have been written off as a
white male colonial interloper, an outsider imposing his alien BBC standards
on a region with which, at the start of his appointment, he was unfamiliar.
Instead, Swanzy’s departure from Caribbean Voices brought many messages
of appreciation from writers across the region and in London.

In 1955, soon after he left the programme, the Times Literary Supplement
noted that “West Indian writers freely acknowledge their debt to the BBC
for its encouragement, financial and aesthetic. Without that encouragement
the birth of a Caribbean literature would have been slower and even more painful
than it has been.”

Kamau Brathwaite has claimed that Caribbean Voices was “the single
most important literary catalyst for Caribbean creative and critical writing
in English.” And of Swanzy in particular, in 1960 George Lamming wrote in
The Pleasures of Exile, “At one time or another, in one way or another,
all the West Indian novelists have benefited from his work and his generosity
of feeling . . . If you looked a little thin in the face, he would assume
that there might have been a minor famine on, and without in any way offending
your pride, he would make some arrangement for you to earn . . . by employing
you to read.” V.S. Naipaul argues that Swanzy brought to the programme “standards
and enthusiasm”, adding, “he took local writing seriously and lifted it above
the local.”

During World War Two, the Jamaican poet Una Marson, stationed
in London and working for the BBC, had been producing what was, in effect,
a letter-request show for lonely West Indians in the armed forces, far from
home. When the war ended, the letters stopped. In stepped Swanzy as the new
producer. At this time, budding writers in the Caribbean were isolated, with
few opportunities for communication with one another or for the publication
of their work. There were no local publishing houses, and the only outlets
available were small literary journals, Kyk-Over-Al in Guyana, Focus
in Jamaica, and Bim in Barbados. The BBC, which at that time was considered
“not as high as the Archangel Michael, but high, very high,” according to
John Figueroa, then began soliciting scripts.

Under Swanzy’s editorship, Una Marson’s old programme took on a new form:
a half-hour creative workshop around the craft of writing. He offered writers
three invaluable things: encouragement; payment, if their contribution was
used; and criticism of their material. It worked like this. Each week creative
writing from as far south as British Guiana (now Guyana), from along the
arc of islands, and from as far west as British Honduras (now Belize) poured
into Jamaica, where the regional BBC agent, Gladys Lyndo, collected great
fistfuls of material and sent it on, by boat, to Swanzy in London. Each programme
took about two and a half days to prepare. Swanzy chose the material, selected
readers and critical commentators, rehearsed, and then broadcast the programmes
back to the Caribbean on the short-wave band, always opening with the famous
remark, “This is London calling the Caribbean.”

By this relatively simple process, and thanks to his forceful
personality, Swanzy became a struggling writer’s dream. A few years ago I
interviewed George Lamming, who had worked with him in the making of Caribbean
Voices
. He remembered “a short man with a loud voice. When he entered
a room you would immediately notice him. His hands were flapping about the
place. He walked too fast. He talked too fast. When he went into the BBC
canteen everyone would hear what he was ordering. He was of course, a product
of Empire, but he could not have been a colonial administrator . . . at anything
like that he would have been a disaster. He was interested in books and culture
. . . the intellectual product of Empire.”

His late friend John Figueroa noted that he was “direct, honest and opinionated.
He made writers feel that their work was worth consideration.” For Swanzy,
a sense of discovery of these writers and the region they wrote about was
a great satisfaction. He thought that writers were important and needed
to be nurtured, because though they did not necessarily create a culture,
they represented the expression of the best thought of the age. He became
their educator, advocate, collaborator, and friend. He tried to be as aware
of the needs of those who, he said, “shone for a season as most people do
who are not pretentious and write of what they know” as he was of the needs
of the “stars”.

Swanzy wanted Caribbean Voices to be filled with “local colour”,
as he called it, to show the diversity of the region. In 1956, reviewing
the achievements of the programme, he wrote, “The listener has visited every
kind of home in town and village, sat with the fishermen hefting sea-eggs,
gone with the pork-knockers into Guyanese jungles, followed the saga-boys
and the whe-whe players, heard the riddles, the digging songs, the proverbs,
the ghost stories, duppies, La Diablesse, Soukivans, zombies, maljo, obeah,
voodoo, shango. He has agonised over the waifs, the unemployed, the mental
patients, scoundrels, fallen women, the rich and comfortable in their halls
of privilege.”

When Swanzy was interviewed a few years ago by a BBC colleague,
Genevive Eckenstein, he recollected that one of his favourite contributions
was a poem called “In Our Land” by the schoolmaster Harold M. Telemaque,
from Fyzabad in south Trinidad. The poem defined the Caribbean directly
and variously, approaching Swanzy’s search for authentic statements about
the region. In the last stanza the poet reflects:

In our land,
We do not breed that taloned king, the eagle,
Nor make emblazonry of lions:
In our land
The blackbirds
And the chickens of our mountains
Speak our dreams.

The sense of community that he fostered took shape in many
ways. In London, as a coterie of West Indian writers grew during the 1950s,
Swanzy held informal evenings of literary discussion at his home. West Indian
writers from across the region could, for the first time, meet and talk to
one another. Andrew Salkey said of these gatherings that “Henry not only
became our patron but our friend. He held tutorials at his house in Hampstead.
He helped us a great deal to meet critics of the day. He suggested books
. . . and a very close compassionate look at our work . . . Because of Henry’s
influence we got to know one another. We looked at each other’s work, we
all threatened to write the West Indian novel. And of course there was always
Henry Swanzy there to make us realise that there was more than just passing
responsibility to him, the BBC, and to our area.” Also characteristic of
Swanzy’s style was his continuing interest in writers who contributed to the
programme. Not only did he provide much- needed employment, it was not unusual
for him to provide a temporary roof for those in crisis, or to visit and
encourage those who fell ill or faced other setbacks.

A wider sense of community grew out of a close working relationship
with Frank Collymore, the long-standing editor of Bim in Barbados. Collymore
and Swanzy corresponded regularly between 1948 and 1956, exchanging views
about Caribbean Voices and new writers from the region. Collymore
provided introductions to Swanzy for many writers who were leaving the eastern
Caribbean and taking their first steps in London. He also identified new talent.
In 1949 he excitedly commended a new discovery he had just made.

“Now I think that I have made an important discovery. Last Monday Harold
Simmons of St Lucia sent me a recently published volume of poems by young
Derek Walcott. Have you heard of him? Walcott, who is 19 years old tomorrow,
writes with remarkable fervour. His literary forbears are obviously Hopkins,
Auden, and Dylan Thomas, especially the latter, but his work is obviously
sincere and wonderfully mature . . . I do not know when I have read anything
so exciting.”

As their friendship developed, Collymore also offered Swanzy,
through his letters, glimpses of his life in school teaching and amateur
theatre, and of Barbados. “Our strange tropical spring is here,” he wrote
in 1950, “with its parched soil and all the many flowering shrubs blooming
in a variety of reds and yellows, the sea is sparkling, the skies blue, and
the trade winds blowing . . . ever recurrent joys.”

Swanzy recognised that his intervention in the world of Caribbean literature
could be only temporary. He felt that the real work of literary development
remained to be carried out in the Caribbean itself. But in his eight years
with Caribbean Voices, he made a definite clearing for Caribbean writers
by championing local and specific ways of saying and writing. One result
was that the region’s best writers have broken through into what has since
become the international world of literatures in English. Another has been
the accessibility of regional writing from the English-speaking Caribbean,
first to Britain, then to the world’s reading public — on a par with West
Indies cricket and carnival.

In later life, Swanzy claimed, partly as a result of his Irish roots,
that he felt like a fellow colonial with Caribbean writers. The key to what
he has called his “odd passage through life” was, he claimed, his “sympathy
with people brought into contact with an imperial culture, perhaps too much
by economics and politics and not enough by art and culture.”

This begins to explain why, on the flyleaves of many books by internationally
known Caribbean authors, it is not uncommon to find a dedication to Henry
Swanzy.

Swanzy on Caribbean Voices

“The thing that interested me in the Caribbean always was the actual projection
of poverty and the underprivileged . . . one always found the bourgeois writing
of the short stories not half as interesting as the people like the saga-boys.”
(Interviewed by Anne Walmsley, 1987)

“I realise that in our yoked chariot, the BBC represents Mammon and cash,
the magazine [Bim] the spirit and credit.” (Letter to Frank Collymore,
6 June, 1950
)

“The purpose of the programme, in so far as it has a purpose, is to attempt
to build up some kind of contemporary tradition by the exchange of writings
between the islands and at the same time to give the writers the benefit
of some of the critical standards of Europe. Of course the relationship is
temporary, the real work can only properly be done in the Caribbean itself.”
(Letter to Roy Fuller, 3 May, 1948)