Refugees helping refugees: A true Canadian story
The tale behind a new Heritage Minute captures the best of the Canadian mosaic
They huddled together in the back of my SUV in heavy coats that didn’t quite fit. A mother, a father and their three sons. The roads were slick with greasy slush and snow had just begun to fall. We were en route to their first doctor’s appointment when I decided to take a sudden detour.
I pulled into an empty parking lot and got out to point enthusiastically at the beautiful, plump flakes.
“Thalaj” I said in mangled Arabic, urging the two youngest boys to catch snow- flakes on their tongues.
“Doctor?” Rama, the mother, asked in obvious confusion.
“No, later. First I want to show you something.”
Hesitantly, they followed me down an unshovelled path and past a shuttered concession stand. Their eyes lit up when they saw it: the jagged cliffs of Ottawa’s Hogs Back Falls. The parents took out their cellphones to record video, while the children laughed at the ducks swimming in the river. The rushing water and snow-laden trees would become the backdrop for the Syrian refugees’ first family photo in Canada.
There is both promise and uncertainty in that photo.
Rama’s resolve is mirrored in the face of her middle son.
They both look determined to take on whatever comes, while Rama’s husband, Ali, drapes a protective arm around her shoulders.
Their oldest son, a 15-year-old, wears the goofy grin of a teen in wonder of what he’ll discover next. But it is the expression of the youngest that strikes me most. His toque is pulled low over his ears and the 6-year-old is leaning into his mother, staring out with worry and doubt.
They fled bombs and death in Syria and have found safety here, but what will the future hold for them in Canada? Their escape reminds me of my family’s journey four decades earlier. I was one of the hundreds of thousands of boat people who fled the Communist government after the fall of Saigon.
The latest Heritage Minute — which will be released on Tuesday — from the charitable organization Historica Canada encapsulates Canada’s remarkable humanitarian response to that desperate moment in time. When asked by Historica if I wanted to help create the Minute, I didn’t hesitate. This was a chance to tell the story of Canada at its best — when the nation led with compassion and resettled nearly 100,000 boat people in the Great White North. It was a chance to acknowledge the everyday Canadians who only saw need, not racial, cultural or political differences. And finally, it was a chance to pay tribute to the strength of refugees in their struggle to survive and in their quest to succeed. The fall of Saigon My parents were ethnic Chinese business people in Saigon, targeted by the new Communist regime to be moved to “re-education camps” in the countryside. We had no choice but to flee in 1979. My father quickly liquidated our assets into 30 pieces of one-ounce gold squares and $75 (U.S.) currency. The money would be used to bribe officials, to persuade soldiers to turn their heads at checkpoints and to buy us passage on a rickety fishing boat.
The boat was built for 100 passengers, but the captain allowed 315 desperate people on board. On the fiveday journey across the Gulf of Thailand we encountered pirate ships twice. The first marauders boarded with guns, knives and machetes and ransacked the boat. The second took the remaining food and water, all that was left.
But the profiteering of pirates paled in comparison to the cruelty of state policy. On Day 5, just as our spirits were lifted by the sight of land, the Malaysian coast guard intercepted our boat and turned us away. The coast guard was deaf to the pleas, blind to the tears, as they towed our boat back into international waters.
The captain had 20 family members on board, and there was no guarantee any of them or us would survive another journey. We had fuel, but no food and water. So the decision was made to make a U-turn. Under cover of night, we began to sail toward Malaysia again, planning to anchor the boat as close as possible to land, then sink it. People slammed sledgehammers against the engine and tore apart the boat.
My father jumped first, clinging to a piece of scrap wood and yelled at me to jump. But I was too scared to move. So my mother grabbed me and threw me overboard, praying my father would find me in the waves. Then she jumped with my sister in her arms. That day, nearly all of the passengers washed ashore on a barren beach; we could not be turned away.
Three months later, Canadian immigration officials would visit our refugee camp and accept us into Canada. We ended up in Lethbridge, Alta., and basically became the adopted family of the local Alliance Church. One of our first “shopping experiences” was at the Salvation Ar- my to pick out clothing. My sister selected a red coat with a CH crest sewn on the front of the jacket after my father told her the “C” stood for Canada. He didn’t know what the “H” stood for and had no idea it was a Montreal Canadiens jacket.
The Heritage Minute ends with a similar scene, when a Canadian girl gives a Vietnamese child a toque with Les Glorieux. But where the Minute concludes is where my Canadian story begins. It doesn’t end with resettlement but with integration. For refugee families like mine, integration was a long and hard road that required much sacrifice. It was a goal that couldn’t have been reached without reliance on strangers who turned into friends. ACanadian life During our first few years in Canada, I never felt we were lacking anything, except that we rarely had time for fun as a family. My sister and I were latchkey kids. My parents couldn’t come to our school events because they were either working or in English classes. They had multiple jobs and split shifts. But their burdens were lightened by a rotating group of church volunteers, from university students to retirees, who would drive my parents to classes and appointments. They acted as references for my parents’ first jobs.
My mother started washing dishes then waiting on tables before getting work assembling the handsets of rotary telephones. It was a far cry from her job in Vietnam as an accountant and freelance newspaper writer. Because my father understood and spoke some English as well as Vietnamese, Mandarin and Cantonese, he was able to get hired as an interpreter. But the work was sporadic, so an employment counsellor persuaded him to take welding courses at night school, which had the unintended outcome of boosting his daughter’s fragile self-esteem.
People often thought I was a either sullen or shy because I rarely spoke or smiled. It was because I was embarrassed of my crooked teeth and severe overbite. After my father got his welding certification, he landed a full-time job with dental benefits that paid for braces. By the time I was in Grade 9, I lived life with a permagrin. Then there was the woman across the street who cajoled her 6year-old son into accompanying me to school every day. It took more than a month, but Barry eventually stopped walking ahead of me, and fell into step beside me becoming my first friend. My mother could only repay such kindness in spring rolls and dumplings. For those who helped us, that was enough. Returning the favour It was Canada’s humanitarian re- sponse to the Vietnamese boat people that created the blueprint for the country’s most recent effort to help Syrian refugees. Since November 2015, more than 40,000 Syrian newcomers now call Canada home. But resettlement can’t be equated with success. Most of the Syrians are government refugees and many could use additional support beyond what social agencies can provide. With language and cultural barriers, they could easily fall through the cracks. It would be easy for us to shield our eyes from their challenges. We can drive by the neighbourhoods where they live. We can stay silent when we overhear xenophobic remarks. We can make excuses by pointing to our differences. Or we could extend a hand.
It was political will that got my family to Canada, but as a former refugee I know that it was community effort that enabled us to thrive
That’s why I’m part of a group sponsoring Rama and Ali.
My hope for them — and for all newcomers — is that we don’t just applaud their journey to safety, but pave a way for them to succeed.