It’s been just over eleven months since my family and I landed in Vancouver. It feels as if it was just yesterday, though. I still remember that Saturday morning when our eyes met and held. I scanned her and it felt almost like I was spying on her, probing into the sheer nakedness of her feelings for me.
Would this city, ranked among the finest and most expensive in the world, accept me? The questions kept swirling in my mind, half-numb after 21 hours of flying, but I still managed to keep a clear head. The verdict would be revealed within a few minutes.
The courteous immigration staff could be described as a cultural medley. That in itself was reassuring, especially the pleasant exchange between them and the new immigrants. The classy young Sikh lady looked as efficient as her colleague, a young multilingual individual originally from Japan. However, it was the tall blonde, probably of Slavic origin, who took care of our immigration formalities. In a snap, we were heading towards the exit where a Chinese volunteer/hostess in her forties welcomed us with a beaming smile. All my doubts were dispelled. Yes! I was going to love this place, not from the bottom of my heart, but from the core of my soul.
And yet, after almost a year, I still wonder where I am. It’s the sort of feeling that Alice must have had when she landed in Wonderland. I’m often awakened at night by my neighbours, returning from an Iraqi wedding. An uproar of the traditional “you, you” mingling with Arabic music hits the thin walls of our condo which has a large occupancy of Catholic-Iraqi refugees. It’s a small close-knit community that interacts only with its members. I wonder if this is inherent to their culture or is it their healing process after the wars they have witnessed?
If the elderly who are not conversant in English or French seem to be happy with their daily lives, nothing compares to the cheerfulness and heavenly smiles of the young girls who delight twisting and twirling in their colourful hula-hoops, on the back lawn on Sunday afternoons. I sometimes bump into them in the staircase where they are engrossed in their homework, their satchels and textbooks scattered on the steps. They speak perfect English, with a very Western Canadian accent. It is obvious that their new country is a wealth of joy to them as they are no longer under the grip of fear.
Just like Alice, I’m on a journey full of awe and surprises. I’m dumbfounded at simple events, for instance, the masses that are held at Catholic
Photo by Danielle Bauer, Flickr.
churches. They come in different versions: Filipino, Hungarian, Vietnamese, and Romanian; just like one would choose a restaurant. This city pulsates under the sparkle of its culture. A few weeks ago, I attended Vaisakhi, a renowned Sikh cultural festival. The streets were packed on that Saturday morning. Music filled the air whilst the aroma of sweets, vegetarian dishes and the famous, traditional Naan breads and Paneer Makhani tingled in the atmosphere. Passersby would relish beyond satiety. Wow! This was indeed a touching testimony of conviviality, gratefulness and friendship towards the host country. “This is a lesson to learn and remember,” I mumbled to myself. I discreetly recorded the scene with its vivid images in the pages of my memory.
I come from a faraway island, where my ancestors toiled and sweated under colonialism reign. Even when a country reaches independence, the stigmas never fade. I realize that this city is full of people of similar paths. In addition to my Iraqi neighbours, I recently befriended a young immigrant from Congo. This woman became an orphan when both her parents were killed at war. Left to her fate, she matured in a day. She confessed to me that even though life may seem harsh, it sometimes does bring in some unexpected turn of fate. That same little orphan who had learned to cook and do the housework all by herself at the age of seven now has two jobs, one as a nurse in a geriatric hospital and the other as a flight attendant for a major Canadian Airline. Her story reminds me of Jean-Jacques Goldman’s song: Là-bas. She fled her country to breathe freedom in a new land that knows no barriers to achievement, and where one’s dreams are just a whisker from reality.
Vancouver has amazing opportunities. I’ve noticed that optimism is pronounced in this city’s culture. Even if gold mines are not within reach, dreams can be fulfilled in the blink of an eye.
Where am I? I am simply in Vancouver, where I feel like I’m living in a cultural Noah’s Ark.
