Homes Page 11

  By the time we landed in Edmonton, we were exhausted. Jet lag jumbled up our sleeping and eating and we had travelled so much in the last two days that we couldn’t tell what time or day it was. We just wanted to settle in and stay in one place for a long time.

  Inside the airport terminal in Edmonton, we were greeted by volunteers holding a big welcome sign with our name on it. I had no idea who these people were but my heart lifted at the sight of the neon sign and even brighter smiles. They helped us gather our luggage and a translator explained that we would be staying at an agency called the Reception House for the first ten days until we moved to our permanent home.

  The people at the Reception House were kind. Translators explained what our new life in Edmonton would be like. We had a few English classes, lessons about the money, a tour of the neighbourhood. Constant paperwork to be filled out — every afternoon, there was something new for all the adults to sign. I think Canadians need a form for everything they do. Back in Syria, if you wanted something, you just paid money and did it. Here: forms, forms, forms. And though we were cramped in our tiny quarters at the Reception House, no one dared to venture out into the bitingly cold winter streets. My sisters, especially, were adamant about not leaving our space. It was all too intimidating to go out on our own. I didn’t know these streets and I was afraid of getting lost.

  After the first three days at the Reception House, we had to start buying our own food. Father returned with stories of visiting his very first Chinese grocery store. Even though he laughed about not being able to utter a word of English, I could tell he was flustered by the experience. We couldn’t read the signs or ask for help. The money was colourful and confusing. This was especially difficult for Father, who was so used to taking care of everything. And though we sat and listened to the volunteer translators explaining everything, we weren’t always able to entirely understand their Arabic dialects. Still, just listening to Arabic felt soothing and comforting. A little taste of home, like standing under a warm shower. I loved letting the rolling sounds wash over me.

  Those first weeks were a grey blur and it was a relief to finally move to a space of our own, to stretch out and not feel like guests anymore. To flop down somewhere and start to think of something as our own.

  We were lucky that Mother had a distant cousin in Edmonton already. Assad had come to Canada six years before and he helped us find our first home. That last day at the Reception House, we piled into three taxis with all our nineteen bags. Yes, nineteen. The airline lost one of our bags: mine. Ya Allah. Gone were two of my brand new watches I never got to wear. Gone were some of my old favourite clothes. Gone were the gifts and mementos friends had given me before we left.

  In the taxis, we stared as this strange new city rolled by. The brown, slushy streets with big trees strung up with little lights. Big supermarkets with parking lots jammed with cars. What was disconcerting was there were hardly any people walking in the streets. Our translator explained that it was Christmas Eve and that Christmas was a major holiday in Canada. Is this why there were no people in the street? I remember our big holiday, Ramadan, and the streets clogged with people shopping, visiting, and celebrating.

  This was so very different from Syria and Iraq and my heart ached a little, the coldness of the air seeping into my stomach where sadness and nervousness paired together in a tumbling, rolling kind of feeling in my stomach.

  Our taxis finally stopped in front of our new home. “Welcome!” chirped the translator. She waited out front with our tall, stern-looking landlord. As we gawked, my sisters squealed at the little houses around us with their peaked roofs. Individual family homes were rare in Homs, but back in Iraq, we’d lived in a large, sprawling house. But Iraqi houses all had flat roofs and before now, I had only ever seen those triangular roofs in movies. Our new home was white with bright red trim. Later, I would learn the word duplex, but all I knew was that it was like two houses glued together. I liked the idea that there was another family living on the other side of our wall. It seemed less lonely.

  Suddenly everyone was talking all at once as we pulled our bags out of the taxis. Inches of snow covered the front yard and Alush jumped right into it, playing and squealing. One by one, we stepped inside and Father breathed in deeply as he surveyed the main floor.

  Then, the translator and landlord launched into an endless talk. While Mother and my sisters waited in the living room, Father, Naser, and I followed the two from room to room. The landlord talked about how to care for every single room, as if we had never lived in a house before. He patted the walls gingerly and reminded us to be very careful with the walls. I knocked on the walls. Yup, solid with a bit of a hollow sound. Surely they wouldn’t just fall down, but by the way our landlord kept going on about them, you’d think that they would collapse any moment. After a tour of all the rooms, we were finally alone as a family. Father looked at us, then at Naser and I. He patted the walls gingerly, just like the landlord: “Yes, here we are in this lovely home, but be very, very careful with these Canadian walls!” His eyes twinkled with mischief and Father leaned right against the wall and gave it a loud, theatrical kiss. “See? Very careful! Very good Canadian walls!”

  20

  JANUARY 2015

  Back to School

  All of us were going back to school, even Mother, Father, Maryam, Naser, and Abeer. The adults were going to English language classes every morning while Aiesha and Asmaa started high school, and I returned to junior high. Abrar and Alush were off to elementary. We joked about doing homework together around the kitchen table. All the women were exemplary students, and they were excited to begin their studies. The guys? We groaned a little on the inside. Studying had never really been our strong suit, but this was our new life so we were going to tackle it together.

  The first Monday, Father, Naser, and I set out to tour our new schools. I was a nervous ball of excitement when we set out for Highlands, my new junior high. What would it be like? Would the teachers like me? Father and Naser listened to me rattle off questions and just as we turned the corner, we stopped and gawked. The building was beautiful. It was an old red brick building with soaring windows. Archways, stone-framed bay windows, a little bell tower. It didn’t look at all like the flat, white, boxy schools we had in Syria.

  “Surprise, Bakr! You’re not going to school, you’re going to court!” teased Father. He was right. The court building in Homs looked a little like this, old and grand. My heart gave a little high-kick.

  At the front entrance, we met an Arabic translator from the Reception House. He led us through the school but the halls were mostly empty. As we walked past opened doors, I saw students already busy in their lessons. It made me feel oddly shy.

  We were led to an office filled with art and pictures where a tall woman named Ms. Dobson met us and she explained, in a soft voice, that she was the assistant principal of Highlands Junior High. She had light blue eyes behind her purple glasses and her hair was long and blond. The translator, Naser, and Father sat down in her office while I stood, bolt-straight, arms folded, and tried to listen hard. There was a blur of information and after a while, all I could really do was stare at the paintings and photographs on the side of the filing cabinet directly in front of me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to pay attention. I was very interested in everything that was going on, but I couldn’t help but think that I had never once been in any school office before. In Syria and Iraq, all staff areas were forbidden to students. Here, students strolled in and out of the office.

  I was relieved to hear that I wouldn’t have to be in with all the students right away. My first few weeks would be spent learning English with a volunteer tutor in the library. This teacher, Ms. Maggie, came to the office and introduced herself. We went to the library together where we met another unusual sight: a dog. In the library, Ms. Dobson and our translator introduced another teacher, Ms. Mayer. My two new teachers beamed at us and I looked back and forth for a bit because they looked mu
ch the same to me but then something nudged my leg and I jumped back. I had forgotten about the big, white dog. Laughter and more English in soothing tones. I heard, “Okay?” and then an expectant silence as the two teachers looked at me. I searched my brain for English but only one word came. “Thanks.”

  The translator rushed to translate but, already, I was flustered. Was this what it was going to be like for the rest of my life? My stomach hurt.

  After the tour and meeting more teachers, I felt exhausted. My brain was too full. Father was pumped up with energy as he clapped his hands together and said brightly, “Great! When does Bakr start? Tomorrow?” Naser just laughed at me so I pulled myself a little taller. “Sure, sure, let’s go.”

  THE NIGHT BEFORE my first actual day of school, I laid out my clothes for the big day in the room I shared with Naser and kept chattering about my new school. He could tell I was nervous so he let me talk but he just kept saying, “It’s okay, Bakr. It will be fine.” Finally, around, midnight, he turned the lights off and said, “Quit worrying. Go to sleep,” and turned over in his bed. I lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling and trying hard to fall asleep but my mind kept racing. Finally, around two in the morning, he sat up, sighed, and snapped on his lamp. “Bakr. Stop. I can practically hear you thinking. Leave it to God. You will be fine. I know this.”

  Naser, my gruff brother, looked at me gently. In that moment, I saw his own loneliness, his own fears. His pain at having left his free, independent life and friends in Syria. I wondered whatever happened to that girl in the café. He knew the insecurities and heaviness in my heart because he carried them too. “Aiwa,” I nodded. We exchanged half smiles and he turned off his lamp again. Feeling a little less alone, I slowly drifted into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning as I shivered on my walk to school, I didn’t pass a single person. A few cars drove by but no one walking. It reminded me of what the streets in Homs were like after the chaos and panic of a bombing or massacre, when everyone hid in their homes.

  I arrived at the school and still, I saw no one. Where were all the students? I went in through the side door. Not a soul. Did I get the time wrong? I checked my watch. Oh. Almost a whole hour early. The halls were ghostly quiet. Bismillah, I prayed under my breath. Okay, library. I remembered being told to go there but I had no idea where the library was. I stamped the snow off my shoes and finally got up the courage to look around. I hoped I wouldn’t see anyone because I didn’t know what to say. I hoped I would see someone because I felt lost. My steps echoed too loudly. Then, I peered around a corner and my breath caught. Trees. A mosaic of soaring white trees set amongst dazzling purple, blue, green flourishes. Umayyad mosque. My heart leapt at the distant memory and my breathing evened out a little. I turned. More stairs, far down the way and another mosaic. A big glass case filled with art and other beautiful objects. Oh, maybe this was right. I kept walking down the hall and found the familiar library door. There, I sat on a blue bench and waited.

  As the hallways slowly filled with the sounds of the school day starting, more and more students streamed by. Just like school in Syria, the students ran, shouted, and jostled each other as they walked past me. I was too afraid to make eye contact. All at once, everything seemed so loud. I hated this fear inside me. It felt stupid and childish and I was ashamed of it, but it was too overwhelming.

  Finally, a soft voice said my name. I looked up and tried my best to smile. I could do this. This was my new life so I had to do this.

  She gestured clearly to herself and said, “Ms. Maggie.” She tugged gently on the dog’s leash: “Rue.” The dog yawned loudly and I laughed. Oh no, that brought on an onslaught of English. So me: “Thanks.” She stood and gestured for me to follow her.

  Ya Allah, another blitz of English as Ms. Maggie opened the library door and flipped on the lights. I couldn’t understand a word but it felt rude not to say anything so I kept repeating “Thanks.” I struggled to find any other word, number, name of movies, but nothing. Only “Thanks.” I blushed furiously. Some gesturing. Sit? Okay, I could sit. I tried hard to look up at her but couldn’t. I didn’t want to be disrespectful or offend anyone but it was just too much. I wanted to go home.

  At that thought, I realized that I wanted Syria because Homs was still home to me. In my twenty-six days in Canada, I had not heard or seen a single bomb or gun. There was no fighting, no war. I was glad to be here, to be safe. Some kind of impossible knot inside me had released but now, I was just a different kind of afraid. I had prayed so long for safety but now, I felt ungrateful and ashamed and I couldn’t help it. The backs of my eyes started to sting and I clenched my teeth because I didn’t want to start my new life with tears.

  Ms. Maggie said something to me and patted my arm. The dog nudged and snuffled at my hand and I shrank back a little. Rue sighed loudly and flopped down at my feet under the table. He put his head on my foot and sighed again and I couldn’t help but smile. “Abu Bakr?” Ms. Maggie waved her phone at me and gestured at my backpack. Her fingers danced on her screen and she held her screen up to me. “Good morning, how are you?” in beautiful, beautiful Arabic words. I gasped.

  “Google Translate.” Ms. Maggie laughed and gave me a thumbs-up. She pointed at my bag again and at her phone so I handed my new phone to her and she pointed at the passcode. I punched the number in. “Google Translate,” she repeated, and she showed me my phone. Oh! She was downloading a translation app for me. This felt instantly better.

  And so my first morning at school passed slowly. Words, phrases, tentatively, hopefully, typed into our phones. Sometimes she gave me a confused look when I showed her the English translation. Sometimes I chuckled at the garbled Arabic that came through. Ms. Maggie taught me a few words and phrases. She showed me the alphabet. Desperately, I hoped my English classes in Syria would come rushing back but the only words I remembered were “Yes” and “No.” Lunchtime came and Ms. Maggie urged me to go downstairs to the dining room to get something to eat. It was even halal. I was so surprised that they knew what halal was. Through her phone again, she explained that there were other Muslim students in the school and there would always be a halal or vegetarian option for lunch.

  For the first time since we’d left Damascus, warmth seeped into me. It felt a bit like how I felt whenever I stood with all the people at mosque. To know that someone had thought to prepare halal food, that someone had taken my religion into account rather than ignore or be afraid of it, it felt like such a blessing. Before leaving Syria, everyone had warned me not to lose Islam — as if moving to a non-Muslim country would wipe out my faith — but here, people wanted to honour it.

  Still, the idea of a hot lunch did not tempt me enough to want to leave the library. I could hear all the kids shouting and running outside in the halls and it seemed impossibly chaotic. All I really wanted was to be alone, so I shook my head. More questions, more gentle encouragement, but Ms. Maggie could see that I wasn’t going to budge so she finally left me alone.

  At last. After a morning of words, words, words, I was grateful for the quiet. I closed my eyes and soaked in the stillness. I didn’t realize how noisy my life was back in Syria until we came to Canada. Here, it was so quiet. No rumbling explosions, rattling gunfire, or wailing sirens. But also no boisterous crowds or rowdy gangs of cousins. I opened my eyes and looked around me. I was surrounded by shelves of books with colourful spines: some skinny, some thick, some serious-looking, others bright and fun. I wondered what stories those books held.

  I flopped back down in my chair, boredom beginning to creep up on me. I checked my phone to see if Amro, Yousef, or Aziz had responded to my Facebook messages, but nothing. I wondered if my phone was working properly. Turning to face the tall windows, I stared at the twisting, graceful limbs of the bare trees. The sky, everything was washed-out January grey. I tried to imagine what spring would look like. These trees must be alive with green and this little bud of hope made me warm and sad all at once. My cousins. I glan
ced at my phone again, still no notifications. What were they doing right now? I passed the rest of that lunchtime lost in my memories.

  On my second day of school, Ms. Maggie waved her cellphone at me. The Arabic words and her voice in English, “Do you want to go and see your prayer room?” Rue raised his head at “go.” Even the dog knew more English at me. I nodded. Yesterday, in the whirlwind and nerves of my first day, I had totally forgotten to pray throughout the day. This morning, I carefully put my prayer rug in my backpack but then I wondered if Muslim students prayed at school. During the meeting with Ms. Dobson and the translator, she had explained that they were trying to set up a prayer room for me, but I wondered if that meant no one else prayed at school.

  I followed Ms. Maggie and Rue upstairs to the same hallway where my locker was. Again, the phone screen and Ms. Maggie asked, “Do you have a prayer rug?” I laughed. I loved that she knew what a prayer rug was. After another struggle with my lock, I had my prayer rug and she led me a few steps down the hall. She held the door open and more quick typing. “No one uses this space, except for the teachers who sometimes use the bathroom back there.” I looked up from the screen and Ms. Maggie smiled, waving towards the back of the room. The screen flashed at me. “I’ll be outside, waiting if you need me. Take your time.”

  With a whistle for Rue and the whoosh of the door closing, she was gone and I was alone. There were no lights on, but the window provided plenty of natural light. There were stacks of old chairs and a bulky desk. Trying to orient myself towards Mecca, I peered out the window. There was a small bathroom at the back of the room with a gleaming white sink and as the water ran, the sound of it took me back to all my mosques. I took extra care washing my hands, mouth, nostrils, face, head, and feet, then stepped back into the grey-carpeted room and turned to face the bathroom again. It felt odd to be standing in my school without my shoes and socks. I curled my toes under, self-consciously, then unfurled my prayer rug with a practiced flick of the wrist and kneeled on it.