NO HYPHEN FOR ME

A proud immigrant details his 47-year Canadian adventure

On July 16, I will be celebrating 47 years in Canada. I could delay writing this article, in anticipation of a rounder figure — say, half a century. But at my somewhat advanced age, it is better to act in the present.

I was among the first wave of immigrants to arrive in Canada after 1962, when the government abolished the previous, racist immigration policies with a more balanced meritbased approach.

I remember landing in Toronto on a sunny Saturday afternoon in 1967. My benefactors and friends, Pat and Geri Clever, came to pick me up at the airport. They’d sponsored me and my family, sight unseen, to Canada (a story in itself — but one I will save for another day).

My first memories of Toronto remain vivid to me. The Td Centre was under construction; the new City Hall had just opened a year earlier; and the old Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce building on King Street West was the tallest building in the British Commonwealth.

But otherwise, Toronto was a dull city then, a poor cousin to the dynamic and progressive Montreal. Those were the days when we Torontonians went to Buffalo, N.y., to have some fun.

I lived in an apartment complex north of Maple Leaf Gardens with my first wife, Farida, and our son Abdul, who was almost two-years old when we arrived here. I remember that when we took a walk on yonge Street, my wife, clad in a sari, caused a few heads to turn. Many had never seen a woman dressed that way before. Toronto has indeed come a long way.

That year, the 1966-67 hockey season, was the last time the Maple Leafs won the Stanley Cup. Hockey was new to me. But if I had known then how long it would be until the event repeated itself, I would have indulged more in the celebration.

There are two stages to the immigration process — the physical and the emotional. The former is achieved as soon as one sets foot in the new land. The latter can take decades. unless one achieves both, there will always be a longing for one’s home country, where the sun is thought to shine brighter; the sky bluer; the sea warmer.

Achieving emotional immigration depends on one’s purpose. Immigrants who come with no other goal except to get rich will never settle fully as an immigrant until that goal is achieved. But in my case, the goal was to live in a country that was politically stable, offered law and order, and provided an opportunity for children to get the education they deserve. These advantages became available to me the moment I set my foot in this great land. I never looked back. This was home, I told myself.

I quickly started to adopt the values of my new environment — which meant discarding certain notions I’d brought from overseas. When I think of issues connected to culture and values, I use the analogy of a glass of water filled to the rim. you can’t add anything fresh to it unless you are willing to dump out some of the existing contents.

Canada’s history became my history. I started to learn more about my new country — its history, its arts and literature, its political structure. I even picked a favourite prime minister: Sir Wilfrid Laurier.

I stopped seeing myself as a hyphenated Canadian, even if my double identity is of interest to demographers and pollsters (and to politicians who seek to package their politics to suit my presumed tendencies). I have no use for the religious and ethnic leaders who have resolved to live in a fish-bowl under the pretext of multiculturalism. As Laurier would say: “I am a Canadian first, last and all the time.”

In time, the lyrics of Gordon Lightfoot, Stompin’ Tom Connors and Joni Mitchell became as relevant to me as songs by

This is one of the few places where my marriage — between a Jew and a Muslim — can flourish without danger or controversy

Lata Mangeshkar and Mohammed rafi about social injustices in my father’s homeland of India. The narratives by Margaret Atwood about Canadian life now resonate as well as Moyes Vasanji’s stories echoed my early days in Tanzania.

I remarried, to a wonderful woman named Honey. She is Jewish and I, a Muslim. Canada is one of the few countries where such a union could not only take place but also flourish without danger or controversy.

I have never taken Canada for granted. And I have shared my love and appreciation of this country with all of my four children: Abdul, Najeeb, Jeremy and Hamida. I am also proud to say that I have never missed voting in an election — municipal, provincial or federal.

Canada is no utopia. I know that. No human institution is. The country has built-in conflicts, between english and French. Its historical treatment of Aboriginal peoples is shameful, not to mention more mundane problems of governance and equity.

yet at the same time, Canadians are resolved to go forward and tackle these problems, in a spirit of respect and harmony. We exhibit those qualities far more often than not.

I love my country. There is no other like it, and certainly no other place I would rather live. On Canada day weekend, I will be one of those proudly standing on guard “for thee.”