by Tima Kurdi
“I have butterflies, but I want to go,” I said.
“It’s so far away,” Mom replied, but she smiled and squeezed my hand to hide her sorrow.
My dad came into the room. “You’re a piece of my heart; you’re special to me,” he said. “I don’t know what your future will be. This guy might turn out to be a good guy or a bad guy. But it’s your decision.”
That was the start of a whirlwind of exciting times in my life. A few days later, Sirwan came to take me to the Jewish district to buy gold. A week later, we had the engagement party. I wore a pink princess gown covered in sparkling beads and I made sure my hair looked effortlessly feathered. Soon after that, I began the first stage of the bureaucratic process to get my visa. I got to know the Canadian embassy office very well. All the people there were so nice and friendly, saying, “Vancouver is a very beautiful place.”
After I got my Canadian visa, Sirwan returned for the wedding, which we had on our family’s rooftop deck. I designed my gown to look like a flower blossom, but it didn’t turn out the way I had imagined. I think I looked more like a marshmallow. We honeymooned at the Sheraton for two nights, and then all my family and friends said their final goodbyes at a party at my home, the night before I departed for Canada.
The flight to Canada was my first airplane trip. I dressed up for the occasion. I wore an elegant white suit, with a fitted skirt and a jacket with a peplum ruffle at the waist. I felt so stylish and grown-up. My whole family came to the airport to see us off. That’s when it hit me that I was really leaving my family, with no clue when I’d see them again.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” I cried to my brothers and sisters, and especially Mama and Baba, whom I must have kissed and hugged a hundred times before my boarding call was announced.
“Call me as soon as you’re safe in your new home,” said Mama, her face wet with tears.
“Come back to visit us as soon as you can and as often as you can,” said Baba, trying not to cry.
On the plane, my tears kept flowing for many hours. They certainly didn’t match the sophistication of that white suit. Before we landed, I went to the washroom to freshen up my makeup, and—I’m blushing with the memory of what I did next—I put my wedding tiara on my head. When I emerged from the airplane washroom in my tiara, the passengers started to clap. I felt exhilarated, like a princess walking down an aisle strewn with roses.
When we landed in Canada, crowds of Sirwan’s friends were waiting to greet us. They had dressed up in traditional Kurdish clothes to make me feel welcome. But many of Sirwan’s friends didn’t speak Arabic; they only spoke Iraqi Kurdish, which is different from the Syrian Kurdish dialect, so I couldn’t communicate with them very well.
My new husband had rented a beautiful apartment for us in North Vancouver, a mountainside suburb across the harbour from downtown Vancouver. It was like a mirage to me, gleaming and sparkling with high-rises, surrounded by water and green mountains. Unlike in Syria, my new home was at the bottom rather than at the top of a mountain, in a ground-floor apartment with a little patio that had a peekaboo view of the Lions Gate Bridge. When I woke up on my first morning in Canada, I jumped out of bed, so excited to explore my new world. I called my parents to tell them that I’d arrived safely. As soon as I heard my mother’s voice, I started to cry.
“Please tell me you’ll come home every year to visit,” she said.
Through my tears, I promised her. “I will be back every year. Nothing will stop me,” I said. I also told her that I couldn’t wait to become a mother.
I spent a great deal of time on the edge of downtown at the home of one of Sirwan’s Kurdish friends. She was friendly and welcoming, but she didn’t speak much Arabic. She and her husband had six kids, ranging in age from two to thirteen. They quickly became my surrogate family. I went there virtually every day, and sometimes I slept there at night too, because my husband worked long shifts at the restaurant, and after work he would often socialize with his Kurdish friends. I began to learn English at the same time that my son, Alan, did. We would spend time with her kids, watching Barney and playing dolls with them, and I would study their elementary and junior high school homework. But I found it a difficult language to learn, and I could barely communicate with anyone.
My first days and years in Vancouver were very tough. I ached for my family: the early morning coffees with my mom, my dad with his herbal concoctions and his sage words, the big, delicious family meals, the weekly dance parties with my aunties and sisters and cousins, Abdullah’s jokes and stories that made us quake with laughter. Instead, I had to settle for brief, rushed weekly phone calls. I became terribly homesick. The common Arabic word for that feeling of estrangement—of being torn from your roots, of having a big hole in your heart that can never be filled or patched—is ghorbah.
Soon after my arrival, I became pregnant, which made for even more ghorbah, especially for my mom. The first few months of my pregnancy, I was so nauseated that I barely ate, and I lost weight when I should have been gaining it. Then I discovered McDonald’s french fries; strangely, they were the only thing I could keep down. I guess I ate too much McDonald’s because in the last three months of my pregnancy, I got fat. I didn’t get much exercise—no more daily climbs up steep hills and stairways. And when the autumn came, it rained a lot, so I spent much of my time indoors. The damp of Vancouver soon got into my bones, and the clouds and endless grey unsettled my mind too.
Springtime was a welcome reprieve. The stately maples and oaks donned bright-green leaves, and the rhododendrons and tulips woke up after their long sleeps, exploding with colours. In my bright yellow raincoat, I was so pregnant I looked like I was about to explode too.
My son, Alan, was born in April 1993. We named him Alan after the Alana Valley, the region where my husband had grown up in Kurdistan. I loved being a mother, but the experience made me feel even more ghorbah, for my family. I longed again for my mother. I felt even closer to her now that I had my own baby. My happiest memory of that time is my first trip back to Damascus in the summer of 1994, so that my family could meet my son, Alan.
Chapter 3
Ya omri enti
You Are My Life
The minute the plane crossed the spine of mountains and the lights of my home city appeared below, my heart began to pound with excitement.
“I cannot wait for the plane to land so that you can meet your family,” I said to Alan.
As soon as the airplane doors opened, I took huge gulps of the jasmine-scented air, and when I hit the tarmac, I wanted to kiss the ground. I reached the customs guard and I beamed from ear to ear when he said, “Ahla w sahla fi baladek, Warm welcome to your country.” I could hardly bear waiting for my luggage, knowing my family was now so close. When I finally saw them, I burst into tears of joy and rushed into their arms.
Alan’s eyes were huge saucers as more than a dozen relatives hugged and kissed him. We piled into the packed car, and Abdullah, now eighteen years old, took Alan on his lap and started chattering away to him in pidgin English. His conversation made no sense to anyone but baby Alan, who replied in his own chirpy baby talk.
“Alan is teaching me English,” Abdullah said in Arabic. They were fast friends.
When the car got into Al Sham, I stuck my head out the window and breathed deeply, filling my head with the dreamy air of my city: of jasmine and rose, of roasted spices, of sun-warmed mountains and the sweet, cool flavor of the Baruda River that quenched the entire city. Once home, I was hit by that other unique smell—that of the family home, as unique as a fingerprint. It smelled like love, like belonging. I opened every door and went into every room, drinking in the pictures and photos on the wall, the furniture, and most of all, the view of the neighbourhood and the city, every window framing a living picture. The whole time, my family watched me and laughed. Alan had just started walking, so Abdullah took him by the hand and guided us into the kitchen, saying, “Teta, your grandmother, made your mama’s fa
vourite dish. Smell the waraq inab, stuffed grape leaves.” We took Alan to the rooftop and admired the view.
“There’s nothing in the world like this,” I said. I felt I was floating on the silky air.
Abdullah was exactly the same, a lighthearted practical joker. On that first homecoming, I brought him a whoopee cushion.
“Let’s play a joke on Baba,” he whispered to Alan. At the first opportunity, Abdullah placed it under Baba’s seat cushion. When it erupted, Baba jumped up in shock. The look on his face made us burst out laughing.
After six glorious weeks at home, I said goodbye to my family again and Alan and I went back to our lives in Vancouver, which were, by comparison, much more somber. My marriage became increasingly strained, and it was an even greater solace to return to Al Sham each summer. In 1996, I separated from my husband. It was my choice. He was a wonderful father to Alan, and he tried very hard to be a good husband, but our relationship wasn’t working. When I called home and told my father I was getting a divorce, he was so upset.
“Come back to Damascus immediately,” he demanded.
“That is impossible,” I responded. “Alan’s father won’t like the idea of me taking Alan so far away, and I’m not going to abandon my son.”
My father didn’t want that either, and in hindsight I recognize that he was worried about how I’d survive as a single mother. But at the time, I interpreted his orders as cruel ultimatums. The divorce put a rift between me and my family, one that lasted five long years. The estrangement from my family made life as a new immigrant even more difficult. I talked to my mom every so often, but the conversations were rushed and awkward.
By that time I was living in East Vancouver in a shabby rental apartment building that was home to many single mothers and their children. I could still barely speak English, but I needed to find work. Some of my ex-husband’s Kurdish friends were delivering local newspapers. They suggested I apply, and I was offered a job working the overnight shift on the newspaper’s printing press, putting advertising inserts into the newspapers. While I worked, I was able to leave Alan sleeping with my friend Iris, a Chinese immigrant with a child of her own, or with Sirwan. At first, that job made me feel even more like a foreigner in a strange land. I was lonely, miserable, and exhausted. Working the assembly line, you had to be alert and work fast. I barely opened my mouth to my co-workers, many of whom were also immigrants, from the Philippines, India, and Pakistan. They had as much trouble speaking English as I did. I couldn’t wait for those nights to end so that I could rush back home to Alan. I loved being a mother, and every hour apart from my boy filled me with pain, anxiety, and guilt.
One night while I was at work, the stress and exhaustion were overwhelming. I started to cry, and the tears plopped onto the newspaper ink. Linda, the night shift supervisor, noticed me and came over. I thought I was going to be fired, but she said nothing. Instead, she just worked alongside me. The next night, she did the same thing, but this time she taught me a new English word and said she would keep doing this—a new word every night.
I worked at that job for about two years. Linda gradually became a great friend and ally. She sometimes came to my home, bringing toys for Alan and taking us sightseeing. On one of her visits, I told her that I used to be a hairdresser back in Sham.
“I need a good haircut. Can you do it?” she asked. I took her into my tiny bathroom and gave her a haircut.
“Wow,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror. “Are you certified?”
“I went to school in Damascus and I worked in a salon there, but I haven’t had any official training in Canada.”
Linda helped me apply to a local hairdresser school so that I could get my certification. After a couple of months of introductory lessons, one of the teachers approached me as I was leaving class.
“You’re wasting your time and money here,” she told me. “I know an Italian guy with a salon who needs a hairdresser. You should work with him.”
“But I’m still not certified,” I said.
“With your skills and experience, that shouldn’t be a problem. Call him,” she said, handing me a phone number.
It was 1998, and I got the job with her friend at a high-end hair salon on Robson Street in Vancouver. The clientele were great and so were the tips. New clients would often ask, “Where are you from?” When I told them, few knew where Syria was. Only when I said “Next to Lebanon” could they picture my country on a map. Many people had problems pronouncing my name—Fatima. When my boss was ordering my new business cards, he said, “Why don’t you call yourself Tima?” I liked it, and ever since then, most English-speaking people have called me Tima. Even my brothers and sisters started calling me Tima sometimes too.
The staff at the salon were a close-knit bunch; they embraced me and my son, and we soon became dear friends. I became the independent Western woman that I had spent my childhood daydreaming about. I had a great group of girlfriends, and we sometimes went out to restaurants and cafes on a Friday night. I met some men who wanted to date. But I wasn’t interested. My only priority was my son, and I would not settle ever again for anyone whom I wasn’t in love with, nor for any man who could not make a serious, loving commitment to my son.
After a few years of saving my good wages from the salon, I could finally afford to return to Damascus. It was 2002, and Alan was now nine years old. That homecoming is burned into my memory. My family had grown so much since I had left, and there were many new faces in the crowd. Mohammad had married Ghouson, a beautiful, tall, willowy woman who had also grown up in Rukn al-Din. They now lived on the third floor of our family house and had two young kids, a daughter named Heveen and a baby boy named Shergo. Maha made the trek from Kobani for our reunion, with her brood of six kids: her fourteen-year-old daughter Rodeen, followed by Adnan, Barehan, Fatima (named after me), Mahmoud, and Yasmeen. I didn’t even recognize my sister Shireen. Shireen was twenty-three. She had married a carpenter named Lowee, and they lived in our neighbourhood, in a house strategically located about halfway between our home on the mountaintop and the bottom of that steep street—the perfect place to make a pitstop and have a tea when you were returning from the markets laden with groceries. Shireen and Lowee had two small boys, Yasser and Farzat.
And my little spy Hivron. She was twenty and all grown up now. She had caught the eye of a boy named Ahmad, who lived a stone’s throw from our house. He was not an ideal suitor in our uncle Mahmoud’s opinion. “He’s so young; he has nothing. You’re young and beautiful. You could have any husband you like,” he told her. But Hivron fought hard for Ahmad.
“I’m in love! It’s him or nobody.”
She was very determined, and as I said before, when Hivron is determined, she gets her way. Hivron had three young kids, two daughters named Rawan and Ghoufran, and a son named Abdulrahman.
Then there was Abdullah, who wasn’t a clumsy, happy-go-lucky young boy anymore. He was twenty-six years old—all grown up with a five o’clock shadow on his chiselled face. Still, his sweet, fun-loving character and his smile were just as huge and contagious as ever. He had travelled a bit to other countries in the Middle East, but he preferred Syria and now worked at Mohammad’s salon. Abdullah had yet to fall in love, and he still lived with my parents on the second floor of our house.
The biggest shock of all was seeing my mother. My beautiful, vivacious mother had aged and seemed much older than her fifty-one years. Her health had deteriorated dramatically over the years: her diabetes had become quite debilitating and she had heart problems, which ran in her family. At the Sham airport, I knelt down and kissed her swollen feet, crying, “Forgive me for being away for so long.”
To which my dear mother replied, in her usual way, “You are a piece of my heart. Ya omri enti,” meaning, “You are my life.”
We returned to the house, which smelled as it always did—like home. My mom’s illness was written on her face and body, but that didn’t stop her from cooking up my favourite
foods: beef dolma, mahshi (stuffed zucchini and eggplant), and especially kibbeh, a dough made with bulgur wheat and stuffed with mouth-watering ingredients. I ate a lot on that trip, but I burned off much of it, getting reacquainted with my city and, of course, dancing it off during our nightly parties. I captured many hours of that trip to Sham with a video camera. The footage shows us strolling around the streets of Damascus, relaxing during coffee breaks at local cafes, and dancing—so much dancing. Mohammad’s wife, Ghouson, is a supple reed, drinking up the camera’s spotlight. Hivron shows off a pair of white silk pyjamas that my friend Iris gave me in Vancouver. Maha’s daughter Fatima hasn’t even hit puberty, and Alan is still a boy, but he towers over his cousins Heveen and Abdulrahman; Yasser and Shergo are chubby toddlers with big fat pink cheeks. The only difference then compared to when we were young is that several of us danced with our own kids propped on our hips.
It was a wonderful trip, but my mother’s deteriorating health cast a shadow upon those weeks. Just before I left, we had a very solemn conversation. She held my hand and said, “Promise me that you’ll take care of Abdullah and help him find a good wife.”
I didn’t want to hear that. “You will be the one to find Abdullah a wife,” I said. Her face became drawn.
When I kissed her goodbye at the airport and said, “I’ll see you next year,” the same stricken look invaded her face. That was the last time I saw her.
Soon after that trip, my mom got very sick and became bedridden. Eventually she was hospitalized, and for many months she was in and out of the hospital. All my siblings visited her daily, but Abdullah remained the most devoted to her and was at her bedside constantly. I felt every millimetre of our ten-thousand-kilometre separation. My family had a home phone by then, so I talked to them daily, using long-distance calling cards so that I could reach them from home or from work. One morning, before work, I couldn’t reach my family, so I called Uncle Mahmoud on his cellphone.