Syrian Kids and the School System
Back when I was in my 20s, I participated in a program that matches volunteers with kids who need after-school help. Organized by Frontier College, a not-for-profit outfit that promotes literacy, the Homework Clubs, as they’re called, happen all over the country—in libraries, community centres, gyms, any available space. My Homework Club took place in my office. Once a week, elementary school kids came from the school around the corner for one-on-one help with their assignments. It was a deeply rewarding experience.
For several years, I worked with a bright, charming, curious boy who had above-average emotional intelligence but below-average reading skills. Socially, he was confident and outgoing. Privately, he was ashamed that he couldn’t get through a paragraph without stumbling. So week after week, he practised, and I sat next to him, applauding his hardearned victories. His fluency improved, his self-esteem grew, and, by the time he completed elementary school, he was a solid reader. Which of course greatly expanded his life’s possibilities, personally and professionally.
I’ve thought about him a lot over the last few years, as Canada has welcomed some 40,000 Syrian refugees into the country, many of whom have settled in the Toronto area. What kind of language skills would the children have? How quickly could they acquire English? From my Homework Club days, I know how labour-intensive—and emotionally taxing—it can be to learn to read when you’re behind others your own age.
Non-English speakers who arrive in Canada with a solid, age-appropriate education take ESL and integrate relatively quickly into the regular school system. But many of the kids who came here from Syria had been living in refugee camps for years, often without any formal education. Some had to spend their formative years working instead of going to school. They may never have learned to multiply double digits, or read a chapter book, in any language, before their families had to flee. For kids who haven’t been inside a
classroom of any kind for years, the Toronto District School Board has a tailormade program designed to provide intensive, compressed lessons—sometimes teaching two or three grades in a single academic year. It’s called LEAP—which stands for Literacy Enrichment Academic Program—and it’s a quiet, precious gem in the public school system.
Despite the TDSB’s crumbling buildings, crowded classrooms and bureaucratic snafus, it still performs small miracles every day. And if our internationally revered effort to welcome global refugees proves to be a true success, it won’t be because of how many winter coats we give out at the airport; it will be because of how well we equip newcomers to succeed with programs like LEAP.
Ali Amad, for his feature in this issue, tracked down some LEAP students who arrived here in 2015 and 2016 and have been tirelessly working to catch up in school ever since. One of the boys Ali spoke to hadn’t gone to school for four years and now reads and writes with confidence. He plans on becoming a police officer. Another, who spent three years in Jordan after fleeing Syria, hopes to become a pilot. A 12th-grade girl who intends to be a doctor told Ali: “I was surprised to find such amazing teachers here. They are so kind and generous. It’s like a dream.” Their poignant stories appear in “The War Kids” (page 76).
—Sarah Fulford Email: editor@torontolife.com Twitter: @sarah_ fulford