“Thanks.” I smiled at him. “I’m glad you made it.”
“Me, too.” Aazim didn’t seem mad at me. Was he just being nice, not wanting to tarnish my post-win glow? Or were we really okay? I gave him a puzzled look, hoping for an explanation.
“We have two winners in our family!” Dad exclaimed. “This one for basketball and look at this.” Dad held a copy of the newspaper he’d brought from home. “Right here in the entertainment section.” A photo of Aazim onstage with the headline “No Dark Days for Star of University Play.”
I looked at Aazim and he gave me a wide smile. “A four-star review. Dad’s been getting phone calls from friends who saw the review all day.”
“So maybe Aazim should keep acting.” I raised an eyebrow at my parents.
“We’ll see. Studies come —”
“First,” Aazim and I said together. “We know.”
Chapter 27
The gallery hosting the school’s art show was downtown, in an old brick warehouse. As we climbed the stairs to the second floor, a sign caught my eye. “If You Give a Kid a Camera Photo Exhibit: Life from the Perspective of the Grade Nine Students, Laura Secord High School.” Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the space in light. The gallery used to be a garment factory and there were still remnants of its previous life. An old sewing machine sat in one corner, with a photograph of the immigrant women who’d worked here. I’d looked at that photo for a long time yesterday, when we’d had a sneak preview of our exhibit, wondering what it had been like for those women to move to Canada and how different, or not so different, their story was from mine. They’d have faced boundaries and discrimination, too, as they made their way in a new country.
Art from lots of students at Laura Secord was on display: paintings done in oil, acrylic, and watercolour, and sketches. But it was our photos, enlarged and framed, hung on the white walls of the gallery that I was most interested in. I knew the story behind each one, what the photo meant to the person who had taken it, and why they had chosen it to go on display.
Mr. Letner had asked us to include a typed write-up giving some background on the photo. They hung on the wall beside each photograph and included the student’s name and the photo’s title.
It was the first evening that the exhibit was open to the public and a lot of kids had come to show their parents around. Mom, Dad, and I kicked the snow off our boots on the mat at the entrance. Mom had come from her new part-time job as head librarian of the Arabic section at the Millennium Library. She hadn’t let the attitude of the woman at the bus stop or the guy in the truck get to her. In fact, I think it had pushed her to apply.
She’d come home her first week and proudly showed us a stack of business cards with her name and title on them. “I never thought it would be possible!” she’d cried giddily. Most nights, she poured over catalogues, looking for books to add to the library and sending out emails to encourage Arabic speakers to join her for book clubs and language lessons. She was making her way in Canada, too, maybe not as quickly as Dad had, but she was finding a path on her own, just like Aazim and I were.
The hardwood floors creaked under our footsteps as I brought my parents over to my photograph. In the end, I hadn’t chosen a photo of basketball at all. I’d picked one I’d taken the day Amira and I went tobogganing. I’d taken it standing off to the side, halfway up the hill as Amira sped down on the red sled. The skeletal trees behind the hill were silhouetted against the cloudy sky. She was laughing, her mouth open wide as snowflakes fell around her, the red sled bright against the white snow. The card beside it read:
My friend Amira tobogganing for the first time. She is a Syrian refugee and I like how this photo shows how happy she can be. Hopefully, how happy she will be. She’s had a lot of tragedy in her life, but I hope now that she’s in Canada, she’ll be able to have more days filled with laughter.
— Sadia Ahmadi
I led Mom and Dad through the exhibit, pointing out the photographs I wanted them to see and giving them the backstory. They stayed for a while looking at the one of Allan carrying his brother.
Carmina’s photo was in black and white: a bunch of our hands stacked one on top of the other, thumbs interlocking, the shades a flesh-toned rainbow. She’d titled it Class 9B. I found my hand right away, nestled under Josh’s and on top of Mariam’s.
Beside us, Josh stood with his parents in front of the picture he’d chosen. It was the one of his dad standing at the glass, yelling at his brother. I wondered if Josh had shown it to him before or if this was the first time he’d seen it. Josh stared at his dad unapologetically. “Do I really look like that?” his dad asked.
A flicker of doubt crossed Josh’s face, as if he was hesitating in giving an honest answer. “Yeah, you do.”
“Look at this one!” Mom exclaimed as we moved through the gallery. “That’s you at the tournament!” Mariam, unbeknownst to me, had taken a photo of me as the crowd had chanted, “Let her play!” I got shivers looking at it, remembering that moment when I realized the whole gymnasium was sticking up for me. In the photo, my eyes were filled with tears as I stared at the crowd. The expression on my face was hard to explain: part awe, part gratitude, and part disbelief. I loved that it had been Mariam who had captured that moment. It was because of her that I’d been able to play at all.
My parents stared at the photo, the moment as special for them as it was for me.
They leaned toward the card on the wall. I didn’t need to read it; I’d almost memorized the words. It was titled: One for the Team.
I sewed the outfit for Sadia to wear at a basketball tournament. She’s a Muslim teenager who almost wasn’t allowed to play in a tournament game because the outfit didn’t meet the rules of what’s considered appropriate for basketball. The whole gymnasium, even the other team, stood up for her right to play. This photo was taken just before she found out she’d be able to play.
— Mariam Hassanin
But the photos I was most excited to show them were Amira’s. Mr. Letner had let her display a series of photographs. Through her camera lens, we got to see what she did — her perspective as a refugee in Canada. Miss McKay had helped with the write-ups, but I could hear Amira’s voice in the words. The first photo was of the cereal aisle at a grocery store. Row upon row of brightly coloured cereal boxes, more than we needed, stacked neatly and ready to be consumed. After eating hand to mouth for so long, the abundance of food had left her speechless the first time she saw it. I’d never thought about the grocery store before, about how much we had in Canada — food, stuff, everything — but Amira did. I’d never known real hunger, but Amira had. How could I ever throw around the words I’m starving again? Mom and Dad leaned away from the card on the wall and looked at the photo.
Another photo showed her four brothers, squished together, asleep in her bed. Beside them, the bunk beds lay empty.
My brothers prefer to sleep together even though they have bunk beds. After spending so much time in the camps, they don’t like to sleep apart.
“It’s powerful to hear about the photos in her words,” Dad said.
The next photo was of Amira’s parents, sitting side by side on the couch at their apartment. They had the cell phone between them; Mr. Nasser was holding it up so they could both hear the speaker. They weren’t looking into the camera, but their faces were contorted with grief. Unchecked tears slid down her father’s face. It was a candid moment, maybe too personal. I hoped they weren’t mad at Amira for capturing it.
My parents on the phone to our family in Syria. They have found out my uncle was killed. He had no children and stayed behind to look after my grandparents. Now, they are alone.
Teachers, parents, and other students paraded through the gallery. Mr. Letner had set up a schedule so we’d all get a turn to act as a guide, explaining the project and taking people through the exhibit. There was also a silver collection plat
e for people to leave money, like a zakat at the mosque. As a class, we’d taken a vote on where to donate the money.
We’d learned a lot this semester in Mr. Letner’s class. As he walked around, talking to kids and their parents, I realized how lucky we were to have him as our teacher. He could have protected us from the world, hiding the ugly truths, but he wanted us to expose them, face them head on, and challenge them. My time in his class was one I’d never forget.
Chapter 28
Outside the classroom windows, icicles dripped. Spring was itching to break through and winter was almost behind us. With March break around the corner, I was looking forward to playing basketball in the driveway with Aazim — or maybe Jillian, or even Josh.
I looked out at my class. It was my turn to present my passion project. A map of the world was on the screen behind me. I looked out at Amira, and Mariam beside her. Carmina gave me an encouraging smile. Mariam had continued to make an effort with Amira, sitting with her at lunch if I had to leave for basketball, or translating for her so she could follow conversations. Some days Mariam wore her hijab and some days she didn’t. I’d stopped worrying about it. Mariam was who she was.
“The countries with the red circles” — I pointed with my finger at the circles in the Middle East, Africa, Central America, Asia, and Eastern Europe — “are the original homes of today’s refugees. The United Nations says there are sixty million refugees in our world.”
Next, I put up the photo Amira had shown us of her friends at the track meet. “This semester, I’ve learned how important my friends are to me. There are a lot of things that I couldn’t have done without them.” I looked at the kids from the basketball team, my eyes lingering on Mariam. “When Amira came to our class, I didn’t know that much about refugees, even though I was from Syria. My relatives left before the war got really bad. Most of them live in the U.K. We were lucky. If we hadn’t left, if my dad hadn’t got his job at the university when he did, we might have had to leave, like Amira did. We might have been refugees, too.” I looked around the classroom. “One of the things I think would be the hardest about being a refugee is losing your friends and family. Not knowing where they are, if they are even still alive.” I showed an aerial image of a refugee camp in Lebanon. Dingy cloth tents stretched for kilometres. “I wanted to do something to help Amira find her friends, so I did some searching and found an organization called RefUnite.” I clicked to the next slide.
“RefUnite.org helps refugees find their friends and family.” I showed them how to navigate the page. “This is where Amira’s family signed up. They put in their contact information and the names of the people they are trying to locate. When those people sign up, RefUnite.org will notify Amira’s family. Helping Amira’s family got me thinking that other people are going through the same thing. I got in touch with the Immigrant and Refugee Community Organization of Manitoba.” I pulled up a screen shot of the organization’s home page. “IRCOM is a non-profit organization that operates a transitional housing complex in downtown Winnipeg. The residents have access to services like driver’s ed courses, English language classes, and homework clubs, and they help newcomers figure things out, like banking and child care.
“When I emailed the program director, she said she hadn’t heard about RefUnite, so she invited me down to talk about it.” I showed a slide of me in front of a group of people; two women wearing brightly patterned African dresses and head wraps, three Somali women, and a Syrian family. “A lot of the people who came to my presentation don’t have access to the internet, so I helped them enter their information.” The next picture showed me at a laptop with a woman named Zebiba sitting beside me. She’d left Somalia a year ago and had lost touch with her family.
I looked out at my class and at Mr. Letner. “I’m going back next week to meet with another group of refugees.”
I smiled at Amira. “So far, we haven’t had any luck finding Amira’s friends, but it’s only been a week. I’m going to keep monitoring it for her family and let them know if anyone tries to contact them. Any questions?”
Josh raised his hand. “So if it works, and you find someone, how do they connect? You said a lot of people don’t have computers.”
“RefUnite lets you choose the way you want to connect with people. It can be by texting, messaging, Facebook, or a land line.
“The other thing that made all of this tricky was that no one really speaks English. They’re all learning, so there were lots of hand gestures.” I thought about Amira and how much she’d learned since she arrived. I looked around the class, but no one else’s hand went up. “I guess I’ll keep you posted and let you know if we hear from any of Amira’s friends.” I put the photo of the girls back up on the screen. The Amira sitting before me now looked more like the one in the photo with the crinkled, laughing eyes and bright smile. “And Mr. Letner wanted me to tell you that he counted our votes about where to donate money and the Red Cross won. We’ll donate the silver collection from the exhibit to help other refugees.” There were lots of nods of agreement.
Mr. Letner came to the front of the classroom. “Thanks, Sadia.” The class clapped for me as I went back to my seat. “You know, all of this started with ‘If You Give a Kid a Camera,’” he said thoughtfully. “And since the semester began, you’ve all done something to change to the world around you. Allan made a tool for his brother to use so he can operate the remote control on his own; Franca made a cookbook with her grandmother’s recipes and sold it at school to raise money. She’s decided to add to our Red Cross donation.”
I turned and grinned at Franca. She gave me a proud smile in return. “Josh is working with Jillian Triggs to get the All-City tournament to change the uniform rules.” Mariam nudged me with her elbow. Once Josh had heard what Jillian was doing, he’d wanted to help, too. The two of them had been collecting signatures and going to classrooms to talk about human rights and why no one should be barred from playing a sport because of their religious beliefs. Mr. Letner smiled at us. In the end, almost everyone had chosen to do a passion project. “I’ve never had a Global Issues class like you kids before. You make me proud to be your teacher.”
I swallowed back a lump in my throat. “If you give a kid a teacher …” I whispered.
“She’ll want to learn,” Mariam added, with a smile.
“And if she wants to learn …” Amira continued quietly.
“She’ll want to change the world.”
Author’s Note
The If You Give a Kid a Camera project is fictional, but it was inspired by 100Cameras, a project which operates on the same principles as the one described in the book. Check it out at www.100cameras.org.
RefUnite is a real organization that reunites refugees with loved ones. If you would like more information, go to their website at www.refunite.org.
IRCOM is also a real organization based in Winnipeg. More information about the work it does for newcomers to Canada can be found at www.ircom.ca.
Acknowledgements
I could not have written this book without the help of Nadia Kidwai. She read the manuscript, provided feedback, and ensured I was on the right path. She continued to help by answering many questions throughout the editing process. Thank you, Nadia! This book wouldn’t have been possible without you.
Thank you to Cindy Kochanski for her always insightful comments. Thank you also goes to Owen Kochanski for reading the book and providing encouraging comments. I am always grateful for the support of my family: my sisters, Nancy and Karen, for watching my kids so I could write; my mom for instilling in her children the confidence and security to take chances; and my husband, Sheldon, who has forced me to watch many college basketball games over the years (Go Zags!). Thank you to my boys, James and Thomas, for answering basketball-related questions and for backing slowly out of the room when they saw I was still working on the book.
The lovely people at Dundurn continue
to make publishing with them a wonderful experience. A huge thank you to Carrie Gleason for accepting the book; Kathryn Lane, Jenny McWha, and Catherine Dorton, who made sure it was the best it could be; Ashley Hisson for proofreading; Naila Alidina for her insights; and Laura Boyle, who designed the interior and created the striking cover.
Part of the inspiration for this book came from teaching students new to Canada. I am always amazed, not just at the speed with which they acquire a new language, but at their ability to adapt and settle into a new culture. It was my intention to write a book that reflected their experiences and to show other readers the challenges, and triumphs, that accompany moving to a new country.
As a writer, my goal is to create characters with unique voices. I believe writing is about taking risks and doing what Mr. Letner implores his class to do with their photos: show a new perspective. Through writing, and reading, we gain empathy and understanding of others. Sadia is a book about friendship, acceptance, and standing up for your rights. With all my heart, I hope it reaches an audience of readers who are open-minded and believe in the power of the student voice.
Copyright © Colleen Nelson, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
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