Homes Page 12

  As I went through the old, familiar prayers, something felt off. I paused and listened. What could it be? No bullets nor shattering glass. That was it: the stillness. No voices joined in prayer around me, no cousins having a fit of giggles. An old wooden desk to my right, a stack of plastic chairs to my left: that’s all there was.

  THAT FIRST WEEK went by in a mind-numbing, snail-paced daze. Time expanded and stretched in this disjointed way that seemed too slow to be real. One moment I was agonizing over the alphabet and the next moment, the week was done. My head constantly ached from straining to make myself understood. Even with the help of Google Translate, there were so many things I couldn’t communicate. Every day after school, I trudged home and tried to sneak into my room without talking to anyone but, every day, Father peppered me with questions, dragging every reluctant word from me until I finally felt like myself again. Then, we would laugh at each other’s halting new-found English.

  Even though Father was doing his best to hold us together, we were each so wrapped up in our own kinds of loneliness that we got used to our little islands of grief. My sisters buried themselves in their books. With the help of Mother’s cousin, Naser joined a gym and worked out for hours every day. Back in Homs in our cramped apartment, there were ten of us in three bedrooms. Living at such close quarters, we shared space and stories. Here in Edmonton, we were basically paired off into five much smaller bedrooms and with more doors, it was easy to close ourselves off. Talking about the darkness didn’t bring any light, so we pushed it down in our own ways. It was a relief to be in a place free of the shabiha and snipers, but none of us had ever imagined the solitude we would face. We had traded the raucous, tearing war for a suffocating, quiet safety. No one could tell which was better, which was worse. It was both and neither.

  21

  2015

  A New Language

  After the first few days, Ms. Mayer began spending more and more time with me. She was spirited and feisty. I joined her gym class. While Ms. Maggie was the serene tutor, Ms. Mayer was the bouncy teacher. Between my faltering English and mischievous Rue, Ms. Maggie was the ultimate example of patience. With everything — my English or even my math — she never once gave up on a lesson with me. But Ms. Mayer, wow. We spoke the same language of sports. Ms. Mayer brought me in to play soccer many times and right away, I could tell she was a true athlete. She had incredible ball control and she could do tricks that I longed to learn. Maybe it was because she was an athlete and was used to reading opponents’ body language in games, but she seemed to know when I was frustrated or upset. Even when I refused help, she knew that bringing me a soccer ball would help ease that knot inside me. She just let me deal with my turmoil in my own way, with a soccer ball.

  One day, Ms. Maggie wasn’t at school and I had to join the regular classes. I had no idea what was going on. All I knew was that I had to stay in the class with all these kids I didn’t know. I guess that’s not entirely fair. Over the weeks, many kids had come up to me at different points to say hi and tell me their names. Everyone smiled at me but then they carried on in their fast-talking world.

  I sat in this classroom abuzz with conversation and I couldn’t explain why this anger was welling up in me. I tried to breathe through it but I couldn’t. I snapped the Chromebook screen shut and instantly felt bad about my little tantrum, but when I flipped it back open, I couldn’t log back on. I tried a few times, slowly punching in all the letters as carefully as possible. Nothing. The frustration welled up again. Why was everything so difficult? Back in Syria, everyone told us how lucky we were to have a chance at a good life in Canada. But when would this good life begin? When would it get easier? Better?

  My chair scraped the floor loudly as I stood and approached the teacher, Mr. Gray. I liked him because he was also the soccer coach and he had joined Ms. Mayer and me a few times when we were just kicking a ball around. I showed him the piece of paper Ms. Maggie had written out for me, asking to go to the washroom. He smiled and nodded and I bolted out of the classroom.

  In the quiet hall, I tried to remember which direction to go. Ya Allah. Where? I wandered for a bit, my father’s joke bouncing around my buzzing brain. On the tour, he had teased me about not mixing up the girls’ and boys’ washrooms. I double-checked before entering the deserted washroom. As I ran the tap, the whoosh of the water soothed me a little. It made me think of wudu. I splashed my face and stared at myself hard in the mirror.

  Back upstairs, I thought I heard Ms. Mayer’s voice and I instantly felt better. She would understand. I wandered from classroom to classroom, trying to peek in to see if she was in one of the rooms, but I couldn’t find her.

  I was just outside Mr. Gray’s room again and I just stood there, willing myself to go back in. My fingernails dug into my palms. How could I possibly be complaining? I knew I shouldn’t feel like this; I knew how lucky we were to get out of that stupid civil war alive. I just wanted to feel safe. This was ridiculous to me because my brain knew I was safe. There were no MIGS flying overhead. No giant fireballs. No officer staring me down while he toyed with his rifle. How could I be so childish? I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut. Amro and his cackling laugh. Aziz with his too-cool selfie faces. Yousef. His tears in my old apartment that last day. I could do this. I placed both my palms to my face and washed these memories over my eyes, over my head, down my neck, just like in wudu. Aiwa, let’s go.

  SOCCER. It was the beautiful game that finally made my heart settle in. After watching a few soccer matches and gym classes, I joined in with the other students. It felt wonderfully ordinary to be with a bunch of kids, kicking the ball around just for fun.

  In mid-March, I was pulled onto the Grade Nine team to play the teachers in the final game of the lunchtime intramurals. The gym was filling with giddy, rambunctious students as they clambered onto the stage to watch the match. The students and teachers chirped back and forth at each other and I laughed at this unbelievable sight. I might not have understood the language but I knew that assured strut, that cocky upward tilt of the chin, the smug smiles and shouts. I loved it. It was Amro and Ali and my cousins all over again. I loved even more that the teachers dished it right back. I could never imagine my teachers back in Syria or Iraq doing any of this, never mind having fun with it.

  The whistle blew and it was a rush of energy. It all came back. Drive, grit, looking, always looking. Cheers, shouts, jeers, so much laughing. I was hot, sweating, and out of breath. It felt fantastic. It didn’t matter how little English I spoke but by then, I knew “pass,” “goal,” and “good game.” Those words made me soar. In those words, I forgot the fear and I remembered who I really was. No bombs, no translators. Just me.

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER a new school year begins — my last one at Highlands. I’m sitting in a different teacher’s office in Highlands now. Her name is Ms. Yeung and her room is filled with paintings and photographs. There are weird, whimsical objects to look at and play with while we talk. A different dog — small, black, and playful Zoe — sleeps at my feet. Ms. Yeung is my Grade Nine English as a Second Language teacher. She tells me about the power of stories, and so we read books together and we trade tales about our families and our lives before Highlands. My English comes faster and easier as I discover words I need to use in order for her to understand. Sometimes, I need Google Translate, especially for the parts about the war, but mostly, I can grapple through the English.

  One day, she starts our lesson with a question. “What is a secret wish you have?”

  That’s too easy. “To be a soccer player, Miss!”

  She laughs, and says, “Okay, and what else?”

  My last night with Amro, Yousef, Ali, Abdullah, and Aziz comes rushing back to me: my friends, the soccer games, the bombs, my cousins who are my brothers. How they told me to never forget. I realize I carry Syria in my heart. I’m not sure if I’m ready to do this yet but I decide to trust and so, softly, I tell Ms. Yeung, “I want to share my story.”
/>   AFTERWORD

  When I heard those words from Abu Bakr, they moved me deeply. I told him I wanted to write his story for him, as a gift. And that was how our story — Abu Bakr’s and mine — started. I encouraged him to talk to his family first and two weeks later, he showed up in my office, fidgeting with a square of folded-up paper. “I’m ready, Miss, let’s go.”

  We sat down and talked about how it may be difficult for him to recount everything. “Bakr, we stop this project anytime you want to, okay?”

  He nodded. I had been teaching Bakr for two months and he was not usually shy with me, but he was now. “My family really likes the idea of you writing this. Actually, Miss, they can’t believe it, that someone would want to hear about our lives. But, Father helped me make a list.” Bakr unfolded the piece of paper, which revealed twenty-some items, written in Arabic.

  I wondered how to begin. “Bakr, what is it like to live through a civil war?”

  He patted his pockets, pulled out his iPhone, and began to type furiously. Google Translate. After a few moments, he turned his phone to me: “the escape from death is something so wondrous.”

  I was struck by the poetry of this awkward turn of phrase. Obviously, escaping death made a person feel gratitude, but wonder? In that moment, I fell in love with the project. Of course, it was filled with wonder because that word embodies gratitude, joy, and awe. Abu Bakr’s infectious smile radiates these things. And so began months of after-school and lunch-time interviews. As our conversations deepened and my sketchbook filled with notes, questions, and pictures, we relied more on Google Translate. Although Bakr’s English had progressed to the point where we could have basic conversations, the vocabulary he needed to describe a civil war was beyond him. For certain things like weaponry, he didn’t even know the Arabic words, so we occasionally relied on image searches and charades to discover the vocabulary together. He showed me old cellphone photos and selfies; we looked up events he remembered on YouTube and news websites. Using Google Earth Street View, we explored the streets of Homs together and my heart leapt when I saw the yellow awning of Baserah Bakery. I researched the history and fact-checked key events; I read works of fiction and non-fiction because I wanted to try to understand Syria through the eyes of a journalist and an artist.

  However, this isn’t just Abu Bakr’s story: it belongs to his family as well. I was able to interview the entire al Rabeeah family, first with translators, then without, as their English improved. This book started out as one boy’s journey, but his parents’ and siblings’ perceptions and insights became equally important. Their recollections, our conversations, and my observations of them all became the palette I used to colour in the rough outlines Bakr and his list gave me. In that way, this book goes far beyond transcription or ghost-writing. I did my best to fully enter into their truth, to bring their stories to life at the level of the senses so that it could move others as much as it moved me. While I have relied on my imagination and research to fully enter their world and to make certain events more immediate, I have held to the facts as told to me by the family.

  At the time of publication, Abeer, Aiesha, and Asmaa are contemplating post-secondary studies and like most young adults this age, their dreams shift from program to program. Abrar is now a student of mine, just like her cousin Raiyan was for one school year. Those girls brought their own sparkle to my writing. Alush is thriving in elementary school; the youngest truly do absorb the language with relative ease. Naser and Maryam have been able to find part-time employment, though it was not easy. As refugees, they are not allowed to hold a job without a work permit and the application process is a lengthy and difficult one. Hafedh struggles the most, being the patriarch who is relegated to English classes with his wife in the morning. My heart aches for Maryam and Naser; they are fairly close to my own age, so it is easy for me to imagine the full lives they left behind in Iraq and Syria. The isolation of being immigrants is difficult on all members of the family, but theirs must be a particularly wistful kind of loneliness.

  Abu Bakr is grappling to find his place in this new life but he does so quietly. Teen angst spares no one and we laugh about how the universality of this truth is oddly reassuring. On occasion, he complains that Yousef and Aziz rarely reply to his messages and he fills me in on Amro’s life in Germany. Amro, that boisterous, squawky teenager, endured a long, winding journey from Lebanon to Germany where he now contemplates job prospects and potential girlfriends, like any other young man.

  Finally, the uncles, aunts, and cousins. Uncle Najim and his family arrived in Edmonton a year after Abu Bakr’s family and they are flourishing here. After holding down the families’ businesses as best he could, Uncle Mohammed and his family fled for Turkey. The refugee experience there is fraught with racism and instability, but at least they are safe from the bombs of Syria.

  — WY, 2018

  ENDNOTES

  In writing this book, I drew on several texts to understand the broader context of the story of Bakr and his family. Reese Erlich’s Inside Syria: The Backstory of Their Civil War and What the World Can Expect and Nikolaos van Dam’s The Struggle for Power in Syria: Politics and Society under Asad and the Ba’th Party were invaluable.

  Wherever possible, I cross-referenced specific events like shootings, bombings, and massacres with numerous internet resources and news reports such as Wikipedia, Human Rights Watch, Al Jeezera and other various Associated Press media outlets. Still, I must emphasize that this is not a journalistic work; it is based on one family’s memories.

  ABU BAKR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I want to thank Winnie for writing my story and my speeches. Thank you to Mr. Burns for supporting my dream. For all their love and help, I especially want to thank all the teachers and staff at Highlands Junior High.

  I am grateful to Allah for blessing me with such amazing people in my life. Even with all the sadness and tragedy, I am thankful for all the love and life lessons I found along the way.

  And, of course, thank you to my family for always being there for me. And, to my father, my best friend: thank you for showing me that laughter and joy are the true paths in life.

  WINNIE’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I will always be grateful to Abu Bakr and his entire family for being brave enough to share their story and, most importantly, for trusting me with it.

  When we first came out with the self-published version of this work in June 2016, it was an exhilarating exercise in faith and fear that many people carried forward with their support and love. First, my gratitude to my biggest champion, Brad Burns. My self-published text was all the better because of the editing prowess of Andrea Hasenbank. And, to Karen Jacobsen who shaped that work and my person in meaningful ways. Jojo, your presence in my life gave me the courage to write and live authentically. Thank you is not enough.

  For carrying this project to the next level, I am grateful to Kelsey Attard and Deborah Willis of Freehand Books for their gentle guidance and steadfast belief in me. And, for her savvy in shaping this diamond in the rough, I learned so much by working with Barbara Scott.

  A very special thanks to the staff and teachers of Highlands Junior High: you do such amazing work with our students every day. To the countless Edmonton Public School Board consultants and teachers who rallied behind my work, I am so grateful. And, to my tribe of wise women, in particular Inie, Tanja, Sophia, and Angela, your friendship grounds me in all the different ways I need.

  Finally, to my loud, crazy Chinese family, thank you for loving me exactly as I am. Mom, Dad, Sis: you have always allowed me to run free and chase after my dreams, but I always knew where home was because of you. Thank you.

  ABU BAKR AL RABEEAH is currently a high school student. After three years of living in Canada, he enjoys his life here but he also dreams of a future where he can return to help rebuild Iraq and Syria.

  WINNIE YEUNG has been an English Language Arts teacher for ten years. Homes is her first book. She lives in Edmonton, Ca
nada, with her black pug, Zoe.