Love letter to Hamilton
Saphia Khambalia writes about her grandparents’ flight from Jinja in the 1970s and thriving here, in their beloved new home
THIS CANADA DAY, the most patriotic story of Canadiana I have to tell you begins more than 11,000 kilometres away.
As a weather anchor and journalist, I spend my day going over the current details of our weather environment from coast to coast. I’m in awe of the raw beauty and power of our Canadian climate. I’ve been fortunate to relay how amazing, free and diverse our country is. My passion is real. It’s a sentiment that has been shared with me my entire life by people who were forced to learn it’s not until you lose everything that you realize the worth of your home.
I’ll never forget hearing about the moment the call came out. It was August 1972, in the heat of summer in Jinja, Uganda, when the country’s dictator, Idi Amin, took to the mic in an infamous speech.
He said he dreamt he had been asked by God to return Uganda back to the ethnic Ugandans. He was ordering the expulsion, and possible deaths, of the approximately 80,000strong South Asian minority in Uganda.
This included my grandparents, Ramzan and Laila Manek, who were in their 30s at the time. They are no longer with us. However, my dear Bapa and Nanima would often tell me this tale of our Canadian roots as we would flip through old black-andwhite pictures. It’s what forms the basis of my love for our country.
THE TENS of thousands of people of South Asian descent who had come to British-ruled East Africa originally came to build the railways, with the promise of a better future for themselves and their families. They first came to East Africa in the 1890s when the British were building the railways. They followed the British there. They then stayed for generations, rising to become the top mercantile class. Many of them, including my extended family, dismissed Amin’s warning as a harsh bluff that would blow over. It did not. There was violence, imposed curfews and a general feeling of unease. Amin gave them just 90 days before they would have to leave or be killed.
As the deadline approached, word spread that planes were being sent from the U.K. and other countries; they would attempt to pick up much of the South Asian minority and leave under the cover of darkness. Packing what they could carry, my family left houses filled with generations of priceless possessions. Their bank accounts were frozen without notice. Their cars were deserted in the driveway, keys sitting idle in the ignition. When they phoned their residences only hours after fleeing, nameless squatters answered the line, already having moved into their homes. My mother was only 9 at the time, her older sister 11 years old and their younger brother just a baby.
The lucky ones, like my family, had the foresight to ship heirlooms like the photo albums that housed the pictures you see here.
Packing what they could carry, my family left houses filled with generations of priceless possessions. Their bank accounts were frozen without notice. Their cars were deserted in the driveway, keys sitting idle in the ignition.
OTHERS
WERE not as fortunate. The road to the airport was filled with looters. Our families were stopped at gunpoint, asked to hand over jewelry and money. Women tried to hide their gold and silver rings by baking and frying them into snack food. I was told that my grandmother even put her wedding bangles around the wrists of my young mother and aunt in the hopes they wouldn’t be searched.
When they finally arrived at the airport, all valuables were being seized, except for a few pieces of wedding jewelry that my grandfather was able to bribe a guard to hand back. As well as a five shilling note (equivalent to a few Canadian cents) that my grandfather had hidden inside a cigarette box to buy milk for their baby son. That five shillings was all they had to their names when they boarded a plane to a new land. A plane sent by then-prime minister
Pierre Trudeau. It was one of the first times in Canadian history that Canada accepted a large group of nonEuropean refugees.
ON
THAT COOL night of November 1972, my mother says her first vision of Canada was of brilliant white snow. They had never seen such a thing, coming from a tropical country. In fact, it was their first time experiencing cold and seeing their breath in the Southern Quebec air. Upon landing in the dark in Montreal, the true light of Canada was first seen. The plane door opened to military personnel rushing in, but unlike military in Uganda, these soldiers were waiting to help them. Red Cross volunteers provided coats, blankets and food. I remember my grandfather telling me that it was the first time in a while they felt safe.
After spending time in the army camps and tents they made their way to the Prairies, to Lloydminster, Alberta. My family had been sponsored by a kind woman who put up the young family of five in a motel and later a townhouse. To get them settled, good Samaritans from the community donated their extra furniture and essentials. My family has never forgotten that incredible generosity.
A labourer job at a local lumberyard was all that was available, and my grandfather saw it as a blessing, a chance to make an honest living. But Canada is a true land of opportunity and the company was quick to see my grandfather, an accountant by trade, could help balance the books. Financial freedom soon followed.
THERE
WAS ONE last thing my grandparents had to build back. Something intrinsic to oneself. Something that goes past space or time, something that they thought was truly lost forever. Something that, fortunately, is a pillar of our Canadian tapestry: community.
Rumblings spread that a few other Indian East African families had settled and even started businesses in a town called Hamilton and that there were other jobs to be had. Packing up their possessions once more, the young family left with sights set on the Golden Horseshoe.
They were among the first few groups that came. People around the area had heard of the perils the South Asian Ugandans faced when they left East Africa. Hamiltonians were quick with hugs, handshakes and well wishes. Not only did my grandparents have permission to create a home base but their differences were encouraged and supported.
It was the first of many waves of the South Asian community in Hamilton; doctors, lawyers, mechanics and blue-collar workers gathered in Steeltown. My grandparents became a pillar of the community, helping settle others, building a mosque, getting involved in local politics. They not only spent the rest of their lives in Hamilton, they flourished here and made a point to volunteer and give back to the place that adopted them. In their golden years, they were honoured by every level of government for a lifetime of charitable endeavours toward the community they loved.
Three generations later, I’m raising their great grandchildren in the same community, in the same country that opened its arms. Amazingly, we are just one of the millions of similar examples of families that have been welcomed into Canada this way. My children, like so many others, will grow up hearing how this country was supportive and giving at the most desperate of times. Years have gone by, but that sentiment continues to be the theme of our collective identity.
I have also walked those same dirt roads and visited the same homes that my family left so many years ago in Jinja, Uganda. I’ve traced back those emotionally charged roots. However, as incredible as it is to see where you’ve come from, there’s nothing like coming home to the place that gave you the freedom to go forward.
Hamilton-raised Saphia Khambalia is a national anchor and reporter for The Weather Network. Special to The Hamilton Spectator