Part 2 - On The Move
I asked my mother recently what she would have said if someone told her all those years ago that she would one day raise her children in a place half a world away from the place she grew up in. I asked what she would have thought about her children being Canadian, and that she one day would be, too.
“I wouldn't have believed it” is what she told me.
My parents arrived in Canada in the early 90s for that very chance. The ultimate push factor was the altering effects that the civil war in Somalia had on the future of the entire region. My mother says that they wouldn’t have believed it, and I completely understand. Prior to their immigration they had completely different lives, particularly my father.
My father was born in Djibouti but raised mostly in Borama, Somalia. He grew up the only boy in a family of sisters. He would always look after them and I think that his amazing capacity for responsibility and leadership comes from. He was also a strong willed and determined child. In school, he had been a top student, and after high school examination, he was one of many students whose names were spoken over the radio to the whole country in congratulations of their top scores. At the time it was mandatory for every high graduate to enrol into the National Service before any further education, so at the young age of 18, he made the journey across the country from Borama in the north to the southern bustling capital Mogadishu, marking the beginning of many years away from home.
They began with military skills; training all day and sleeping outside at night under the stars only to do it all over again the very next day. The training was brutal and the living wasn't that much better. I remember not too long ago when my dad was making a plate for me at dinner, I had complained about the additional scoop of rice he added after I had said it was enough. He only smiled and recalled his time in the National Service all those years ago. In order to make sure everyone was fed at dinner, the servers would reach back into their plates with their long serving spoons and retrieve a scoop of whatever they were having, only to return it to the communal pot. All this happened before any of them could vere away to enjoy their meals. Sometime when they wanted second helping the sneak back in line but eventually be spotted by their superior and shooed away. With that story, I understood why he was always making it a point to give out extra morsels of food to us. As simple as the moment was, it's never left me.
After training, everyone serves their year of National Service which must be completed before sitting for University Entrance exams. The jobs that were assigned varied from working with the Municipal Government to teaching. My father was sent to teach so he worked as a Biology and Chemistry tutor. Once he was able to take his entrance exams, he was accepted into the Somali National University in the Faculty of Medicine also in Mogadishu. Many of the faculties at the university used Italian as their mode of instruction and medicine was one of them. For 6 months he underwent intensive Italian language classes to prepare for the semesters ahead. Along with his classmates, he managed quite well for three full years until his studies came to a halt along with the rest of the country. At the time when things started to change particularly for my father, he was in his fourth year of medical school. The civil war was intensifying to the point where destruction was taking place in a nearby city. He describes the distance between the two places as similar to that of Edmonton and Red Deer which is about 154 km. Within a short period of time the students packed and left the school, with my father heading to Djibouti. Their dreams of becoming doctors turned into whispers in the wind. Not long after, the school suffered damages and struggled to obtain resources amidst the war. This effectively shut down the university which hadn't reopened until two decades later in 2014. I think as kids, it is hard to imagine what our parents were like in their own youth. My father is one of the most patient and dedicated individuals I'll ever have the honour of knowing and when I think back on the events of his life, I can see how they shaped him.
After the events that took place in Somalia which caused my father to relocate, he and my mother met. They had both ended up at an airport one day to give their farewells to a mutual friend. Nagad had wanted company on the way there so my mother tagged along and ended up being introduced to my father. My mom, who happened to slam her finger in the car door once they had arrived, wasn't up to socializing while the group reunited for the departure. My father made jokes about it nonetheless and the rest was history.
If there is one thing I've learnt from my father, it’s that if you believe in something then you should go the distance. My father believes in always doing what you can to pursue a better future for yourself and those you love. At the time there were no opportunities or prospects in Djibouti, especially not for him, since he spoke Italian rather than French. He'd already known first-hand how life can change in a matter of moments. If everything had gone to plan; he would have finished school and practised as a doctor in Somali or Italy. Stability, security and opportunity were not in the region at the time; but they were here, in North America. Being the careful man that he is, my father even went ahead of my mother and decided to explore both Canada and the States before deciding which would be the best place for a future and family.
New York City was the first place my father visited and had considered. He was only there for seven day when he heard from a friend living in Montreal that they should join him in Canada. He and another Somali man took a taxi that dropped them off near a highway close to the border and told them to walk the rest of the distance. They spent a few hours there but ultimately my father was told to return in a month's time and with the courtesy of a local church, my father stayed in a motel for that time. He began missing the sun so much that in the dead of winter my father would step outside into the cold to brush his teeth. One time in particular when basking in the sun’s rays the lady at the front desk called out to him in amusement
“Come back inside! The sun here is not hot like the one in Africa.”
In Montreal, along with a few found friends from the community, he worked in a factory that made coat hangers. The work was grueling and the speed of the conveyor belt did not allow the slightest distractions. He was never one to complain and he always believed that what happens to us is destined. He worked menial jobs with a starting wage as low as $5.50 an hour and worked his way up. You would think that maybe, just maybe, he would have given him better prospects than this. That a man who served in national service, was a teacher, knew 3 languages and went to medical school would be given better prospects. This is the age old story for many immigrants, even the highly skilled ones who come here for a second chance. But really I think it was a chance for us more than it was for my parents. His early years in Canada were no walk in the park but he put up with the situation and made due. Through the years he worked his way through life. From factory to Impark to a corporate to restaurant owner and more, he's done it all and it was no easy feat.
Being a first generation child means seeing your parents face the brunt of what life has to offer. It means seeing years of their education and experience go unrecognised, forcing them to risk an uphill battle to regain the titles they have lost, or being forced to settle for odd jobs in a land that promised opportunity. It’s watching them trying to survive so that one day you can thrive. But it also means possibilities they didn't have the chance to dream of. We are the first graduates, first entrepreneurs, the first of any damn thing you could think of because we have that chance. All the while we hope to one day exceed our parents' expectations and repay them for sacrificing everything and then some.
