Refugees grateful for chance to go to school
Terry Ishimwe doesn’t mind the sound of the bell calling him back to classes at École Secondaire Sophie-Barat on Gouin Blvd. E. The bright-eyed 16-year-old even looks forward to having homework.
Ishimwe arrived in Montreal last December from Burundi. Though he attended school there, not all of his friends did.
“Some of my friends dropped out because their parents couldn’t pay the fees. Others went to school hungry because their parents had no money left to feed them. The shocking thing was these were the best students. My theory is that they thought, ‘The little money my parents have they spent on my education and I want to make the best of myself’,” Ishimwe said.
This week, many Montreal students are griping about having to wake up early, sit through a long day of classes, and get their homework in on time.
But then there are those like Ishimwe, who come from war-torn countries where access to education is sometimes impossible, and who are grateful to be back at school.
Lyn Morland is a specialist in providing assistance to refugee children and youth. A research fellow at New York’s Bank Street College of Education, she is in Montreal conducting research through McGill University’s School of Social Work.
“Refugees have often had their education interrupted due to conditions in their country, and flight. They really appreciate the opportunity to go to school, to learn in a safe and secure environment, and to start their lives anew. The hardships that refugees go through can make them much stronger and more appreciative of the opportunities available in Canada,” she said.
When Ishimwe started at École Secondaire Sophie-Barat in January, he felt overwhelmed.
“I worried I might fail. But I calmed myself down. I told myself, ‘I’m here to learn. I must learn’,” he recalled.
That strategy proved effective because Ishimwe finished the year with an 80-per-cent average. He is going into Secondary IV and hopes to be accepted into his school’s enriched science program.
“My dream is to be a commercial pilot or aerospace engineer,” he said.
Ishimwe recalls being shocked when, last year, a student sitting behind him was not punished for talking back to their science teacher.
“In Burundi, our teachers whipped us if we were late for class,” he said.
In Burundi, a worse offence than being late or rude was discussing national politics.
“If you spoke about politics, you could fail the year. You could even be executed,” Ishimwe said.
Ishimwe cannot forget the night in December 2015 when armed rebels opposed to President Pierre Nkurunziza stormed military camps near Ishimwe’s home in Bujumbura, the country’s capital.
“I heard gunfire and people shouting, ‘No! No!’ Bullets even came whizzing into the room where my mother was sleeping,” Ishimwe recalled.
Ishimwe has not told his classmates in Montreal about life in Burundi.
“I haven’t made close friends yet,” he said.
At their home in western N.D.G., sisters Raniah and Saja Al Mahamid proudly show me their backpacks, which have been loaded with school supplies since midAugust. This year, Raniah, 15, will be going into Secondary II at École Secondaire Saint-Luc. Saja, 11, is going into a split fifth and sixth grade class at École Les-Enfantsdu-Monde.
The girls grew up in the southwestern Syrian city of Daraa. After war broke out in 2011 and escalated in 2012, the girls were unable to go to school for nearly a year.
“There was a blockade and security wouldn’t let us pass,” Raniah said.
When protesters gathered in the streets of Daraa, Raniah joined them.
“I brought my drum. They put me on a high table. They were all older than me. I warmed them up with the beat of my drum. One song we sang was, ‘We want freedom for Syria!’ ” she said.
In July 2012, the girls’ uncle Ali, a doctor, was murdered when he stopped to treat an old man who had been shot on the street.
“I was very close with my uncle, so I went to the hospital with my dad. My uncle had been shot from behind with eight bullets,” Raniah said.
Shortly after the girls and their family arrived in Montreal in 2014, Raniah, who was attending Marymount Academy at the time, did a presentation in her English class about her experience in Syria.
“My accent was stronger then. The class laughed at me. I stopped halfway through my presentation. I tore up my cue cards and left class. The teacher tried to comfort me,” she said.
Saja has also been teased by classmates.
“I was bullied a couple of times for my accent and my bad handwriting. English letters were hard for me,” she said.
Despite those obstacles, the girls feel lucky to be able to attend school in Montreal. Like Ishimwe, they were accustomed to harsh punishments from teachers in their homeland.
“If you forget something at home or you don’t do your homework, you have to put your hand on your desk and they hit you with a stick. Five times with your palm down; five times with your palm up,” Raniah said, flipping her hand over to demonstrate.
At the girls’ school in Daraa, boys and girls shared an outdoor latrine.
“We had to squat over the toilet seat. It was basically a pit,” Saja said.
Saja is accustomed to hearing her friends in Montreal complain about school.
“Kids who have lived here their whole lives are sick of school. One of my friends said, ‘I hate school. I don’t want to go. School is boring,’ They seem so surprised that I want to go back to school,” she said.
Ruba El Sahad, 26, was studying computer engineering at the University of Aleppo when the war broke out in Syria. Like the Al Mahamid sisters, she had to stop attending school.
“Aleppo was divided into east and west. I lived in the east and the university was in the west. There was a blockade with snipers at the border. You could be shot if you crossed,” she said.
El Sahad spent a year at home before she and her family were able to go to Istanbul, where they spent three years before coming to Montreal in January.
“During that year in Aleppo, my life totally stopped. We were afraid of being bombed. We had no water, no electricity, no phone, and we were being watched all the time. Everything was demolished in front of my eyes,” she said.
El Sahad has been studying French full-time at Cégep de Saint-Laurent. Every weekday, she sets her alarm for 7 a.m. She does not mind waking up early.
“I feel like a newborn baby. I have a lot of options. I want to benefit from the options I have,” she said.
El Sahad no longer wants to become an engineer. She is more interested now in doing human rights work.
“I want to regain my self-confidence and help others,” she said.
In her dreams, El Sahad returns to Aleppo.
“Every night, I have nightmares. I imagine my little sister blown to bits.”
But when her alarm goes off, El Sahad feels better.
“Here, I have no fear. I have the right to study. I changed my fear into ambition.”
I feel like a newborn baby. I have a lot of options. I want to benefit from the options I have.