BEYOND FACEBOOK: Reality Refugees--Born to the Dream

Of course the child would be born on a cold night which turned snow to ice pellets to rain and sleet. Before Easter he was born to this world. He is the first native-born Canadian in the family and he is bright with newness, pink plump with a full head of hair. He is a gift. He is a promise. He is beautiful. 

His mother is glorious with her accomplishment with that rare vulnerable essence that speaks of the ultimate strength of women caught like light at her eyes. She is also exhausted. 

The father of course is proud as punch and I left them as he was holding the baby against his skin. They ask that now of new fathers when the mother is momentarily preoccupied. The father’s skin is warmer than the mothers and the baby needs that warmth. The little guy was quiet. I think he will be a studious sort. But his wide mouth looks ready for the smile of bedevilment.

We in Canada cannot appreciate the level of community that this family left behind. In Syria before the war the mother at this point would be surrounded by intergenerational family, women clucking and cooing and handling things; the cooking, the cleaning, the comforting, the stories. In Canada, technology attempts to replace that with Skype to relatives back home. I felt a great sadness that without knowledge of Arabic I had so little to offer.  I tried to explain to the father at one point that his baby now “is.” He is the ultimate expression of the verb “to be” and present tense even.

The father has found work. He is happy.

He has also registered for a month long evening course in English in Ottawa. He is a determined man. In Quebec no such courses seem to exist in this region. Politics and reality sometimes don’t agree. My hour weekly simply cannot bridge the knowledge gap he has to leap. It’s a big leap. 

Simply looking at written Arabic shows us how big a leap it is. Their beautiful almost pictorial language is full of nuance and meaning. The letters of our alphabet to them is as if we were presented with Arabic and being asked to learn it in six months to a year. And your very livelihood depends on it. The father insists that Arabic is far far easier. The way they handle past, present and future seems interesting from what I can grasp. The verbs don’t change but the addition of yesterday or tomorrow informs the verb. I’m quite fuzzy on that. Their language seems beyond my capacity beginning with the sound that comes from the throat. I laugh with the young son because he keeps insisting I learn that sound. And I’m utterly hopeless. Similar to my husband’s Polish, where 6 consonants in a row is simply inconceivable to an English speaker. I am, if nothing else, a source of great amusement trying to speak either Polish or Arabic. I’m absolutely certain I’m pronouncing it exactly as I hear it. But I am not. It is humbling to be a source of great gales of laughter. I suppose. There is no place for pride when learning another language. But humour. That wins every time.

Driving home in the sleet on the empty streets along Verendrye avenue I work at paying attention to the bright red lights and green lights shimmering on surfaces and catching at the dull slush of the road. I know I have to concentrate because my mind waxes philosophical. And birth of a child ranks right up there with musings. What world will he have? Will he grow up strong, tolerant, wise? Will this country embrace him and all that he will be? Are we a tolerant multi-cultural nation? Will he understand that? Will he love Canada geese sweeping high in the sky? No matter where he might go in this world he will always be ours. He was born here.

Welcome to the world child. It’s not perfect but it is yours.