Coming to Canada
Worried about cold weather, but warmly welcomed
When I left my native Bosnia and Herzegovina during the third year of the bloody war, I settled down in Zagreb, the capital of my also-native Croatia.
Zagreb was as charming as always, but expensive, and I soon applied for visas to the U.K. and the United States. My knowledge and appreciation of these two countries was largely based on books, movies, songs and art pieces that I had enjoyed since my school days. I learned a lot from my pen pals, too, and I had been an international student in London, England, before the war in the former Yugoslavia. I’d never stopped dreaming of going back to England for more studies and perhaps job opportunities.
Unfortunately, I got swiftly rejected by both embassies, along with a note that I could stay and build a new life in Croatia, since I was a Bosnian Croat. Yes, I am, but some regions of Croatia were still occupied, and life in liberated and free regions was going through painful recovery phases.
I wondered where else to try. Because of the distance, I didn’t consider applying to Australia or New Zealand. So, Canada, then? I had my doubts!
For about two months, I carried the immigration forms in my purse without any urge to submit them. From time to time, I even stopped in front of the majestic Esplanade Zagreb Hotel, where the Canadian Embassy was located, yet hesitated to apply.
I would ask myself what I might do in Canada. “No,” I would answer. “No, it is too cold to survive over there. I cannot live in ice and snow.”
I managed to find a job as a language editor and interpreter in Zagreb, which lifted my spirits and gave me hope. On the other hand, while I was making enough money to cover basic needs, I had almost nothing left over to send to my family in Bosnia. With no promising future on the horizon, my situation turned into sleepless nights.
When winter began in Zagreb, I finally applied to Canada, hoping
Top left: Ljerka in Algonquin Park, Ont. Opposite page (left to right): Wearing cultural attire in Zagreb; at the Canadian Museum for Human Rights in Winnipeg; Ljerka’s mother, Ruzica, at the Old City Hall Cenotaph in Toronto.
they would not call me. Surprisingly enough, on January 17, 1995 —my father Mijo’s birthday—i had my interview with the Canadian Embassy at the regal Esplanade Hotel. I was approved as a refugee from Bosnia and Herzegovina. I got a visa for Canada— got a visa for ice and snow!
I was overwhelmed by a dilemma: to accept or not?
What did I know about Canada? My father, always fond of international news, used to talk about Canada’s economy and politics, especially Pierre Trudeau. I had some Canadian pen pals and enjoyed corresponding with them, collecting and exchanging postal stamps. My pen pals from elsewhere assured me Canada was widely known as the best country in the world.
Still, I worried how such a cold country could be welcoming.
All of a sudden, I remembered Madame Olga Belic from the National Theatre in Tuzla, northeast Bosnia. I’d acted with her in some performances, and during our tours across the former Yugoslavia, we talked about theatre, literature and fashion. She had a fashionable pair of winter boots and a matching tote bag, both made of the same superbly elegant, genuine brown leather. When I complimented her on her signature fashion statement, she proudly acknowledged she’d bought the items while visiting her uncle in Canada.
Open Door, Open Heart
After a few additional days of struggling with the pros and cons of a move to the Wild West and listening to my mother Ruzica’s cries to have me back home, I said to myself: Let me try! Let me go for a few weeks. No longer than one month. I would be able to see Ottawa, Toronto, Niagara Falls, buy some pairs of leather boots with matching bags and for sure come back to my beloved Bosnia and Croatia. Yes, for sure! I cannot stay in Canada to live with polar bears!
During the flight, friendly Canadians started chatting with us refugees. At the airport, they helped us go through customs, claim our baggage, find the exit and meet with immigration officers. All of them made us proud of ourselves; we were not ashamed of our refugee status ever after.
I arrived in Canada on March 15, 1995. Canada opened its door and heart when it was needed and provided me with endless opportunities. I managed to find a job in my field, send some money to my family, participate in social activities, pursue my literary and artistic dreams and become inspired by this vast land. After 25 years of living in this warmly welcoming country, polar bears are my first and dearest friends. Yes, for sure!
Canadians accept immigrants as equal and as valuable as themselves. That is why I devoted myself to this unique society.
If I ever decide and manage to return to my beloved Bosnia and Croatia upon my retirement, I will carry polar bears in my heart.