by Sharon Bala
Kumi seemed relieved to pass over the load. She drew herself up, hand on the banister, and repeated: I want to read it for myself. The order that made us lose everything.
Speak to the government. Grace set down the box and dusted off her hands. Or the university archives.
I am speaking to the government, Kumi said. I’m speaking to you.
I don’t work there anymore, Mom. I have a new job, remember?
Grace had never seen her mother like this. Kumi was on the warpath, writing to her cousins, combing through old political debates, ranting about evacuation orders and the War Measures Act. She’d fallen in with a group of Nisei, seventy-something pensioners with vague memories of the internment and strong opinions about redress, who met regularly to complain and agitate. Lately, Grace would come home to find her mother on her knees in the attic, headfirst in an old trunk, her wide behind torqued in mid-air. More often than not, the twins would be up there too, labelling boxes or studiously sorting through papers and photo albums. Grace was glad Kumi had the girls to watch out for her, but she didn’t like them getting entangled with all these old ghosts. Aiko used to tell her: Focus on tomorrow. No point regretting yesterday.
We need to go to Slocan, Kumi said. Steve too. Let him see what was done to us.
There was a rancour in her mother’s voice Grace had never heard before.
I thought you loved Slocan, Grace said. You told me it was like camp, being on an adventure.
Kumi sucked her teeth in. I was five, she said. What did I know?
We’re ready! Brianne called.
The twins galloped down the stairs, taking the last step at a jump, one after the other. Meg wore a short jean skirt over her leggings. Brianne had put on a T-shirt. Grace decided to let the micro-shorts go.
Sunblock, she said, holding out the tube.
SPF 45! Meg said. Totes overkill.
You’ll thank me when you don’t get skin cancer.
The sunblock made an obscene noise when Meg squirted it out of the tube.
Where are you two lovelies off to? Steve appeared on the stairs, blond hair flopping in his face. Steve at forty-five still looked like a high school hockey star.
Main Street, Ambleside Park, Meg said.
Mind your old pa tagging along? He ran a hand through his hair. I need to pop in for a cut.
The twins lit up. Steve was the friendly golden retriever everyone loved unreservedly. Kumi watched the exchange, eyes flitting back and forth between the speakers, bewildered.
I can’t just pick up and go on holiday with you, Grace told her mother. They really need me at work…it’s just not a good time.
Holiday? Kumi said.
To Slocan, Grace said. I can’t go to Slocan. And you know Steve’s schedule.
Slocan, Kumi repeated, wondering. Everyone stopped what they were doing and remained silent while she mouthed to herself. Then she rallied and said: I’ll take the girls, then. We’ll go before school begins.
On your own? Grace hoped her mother wasn’t going to start in on the driving again.
Yuki will take us, Kumi said, naming what Grace assumed must be one of her new friends.
Where are we going? Brianne asked.
No one’s going anywhere, Grace said. She held out the MedicAlert bracelet to her mother and added, Please wear this.
Slocan, Kumi said, slipping the bracelet into her pocket. And New Denver. I’ve always wanted to see the Nikkei Memorial Centre.
Cool beans, Meg said.
Grace eyed Steve, but he just shrugged. It’s nice you girls are taking an interest in your family history.
The twins walked out with Kumi, each of them taking one of her arms so she’d be able to join in their chatter. Yuki was born in Slocan, Kumi said. Imagine, girls, what would it feel like to be born in an internment camp?
Mom! Grace called from the door. Put the bracelet on!
Steve slid his feet into a pair of boat shoes and slipped his wallet into his back pocket.
I don’t understand, Grace said, returning the photos to their envelope. All these years, barely a peep about the past. And now, suddenly, this is her mission in life.
Grace had learned about the war in school. Among the glorious tales of Allied victory were oblique references to the distrust of the Japanese, their marginalization in the military. But when she had questioned Kumi, she said the topic was off limits: It was a difficult time for your grandmother. Don’t bother her about it now. Don’t rock the boat.
Steve opened the closet and jiggled the pockets of a blazer in search of his keys. Your grandmother really never talked about any of it? Her life before the internment?
Once my grandparents got to Ontario, I think they just put their old life behind them and moved on. Mom talked about reparations a few years ago, when my grandmother was still alive, but Obaachan wasn’t interested. Wergild – who wants that? Here’s some blood money for your misery, now please stop whining. It’s so easy to cut a cheque. But what does it solve?
There was a quiet dignity in the path her grandparents had chosen. The years Aiko had toiled cleaning other people’s toilets, the overnights her grandfather had spent making change at a dimly lit gas station in Ontario. Grace was proud of their stoicism. They got on with the business of living.
Daaaaaaaad!
Steve kissed her. I’m being summoned.
Grace said, I told the girls they could have new sandals.
Didn’t they just –
I was brokering a peace agreement, Grace said. She pressed the sunscreen to his chest.
All right, Mumsie.
Law and order
Priya was at work for the third Saturday in a row. There was RCMP evidence that Border Services had been hoarding. All week long, Priya had been leaving messages on Singh’s voice mail. Finally, a CD marked Confidential had arrived by messenger, predictably at 5 p.m. on Friday.
This is the game, Gigovaz told her. We just have to play it.
Now he was sequestered in his office with the blinds down, poring over the CD’s contents.
Five floors above them, Joyce Lau was putting in billable hours on a class-action lawsuit. Priya knew this because she’d run into Joyce while waiting for the elevator.
You’re doing good work with Peter, Joyce had said. The round button for the twelfth floor lit up under her French-manicured nail. I told him he owes me.
What about me? Priya wondered. She reached for the seventh-floor button and said, The work is interesting.
This was the first time Priya had seen Joyce in weeks and she was conscious of the numbers above the door lighting up like an impatient countdown.
Refugee law is tougher than corporate, Joyce said. No question.
There was no elegant way to say it, and they were speeding toward the seventh floor. Priya made a running leap.
The thing is, she said, I’m still interested in corporate.
The elevator opened on a deserted expanse of grey desks and blank computer screens. Joyce reached out a hand to hold the doors back. Peter is smart and experienced, she said. Try to soak up as much as you can.
Priya spoke quickly: Corporate law has always been my end goal.
I haven’t forgotten about you, Priya, Joyce said.
But Priya didn’t buy it. Her articling placement was only nine months long and she’d already spent more than a third of it in the refugee wasteland. It was October and time was ticking on.
A text lit up on Priya’s phone. Rat asking: where r u?
Today would have been her mother’s sixtieth birthday and Priya was holding everyone up from going to temple. She could just imagine the sour expression on her father’s face when Rat reported back that she was still at the office.
Since the summer, Priya had been avoiding direct mention of the boat in Appa’s presence. Uncle often asked about her clients and how their cases were progressing, but in an unspoken pact they changed the subject whenever her father entered the room.
Priya had once
tried to do a school project on Sri Lanka. It must have been in grade ten or eleven. Uncle was newly arrived and she had only the vaguest notion of the situation over there. But when she mentioned the idea of interviewing Uncle about the war, excited at the prospect of embarking on a genuinely interesting assignment, the certainty of an A, her father had said sharply: Why do you want to ask about all of that? Leave it alone. Stung, Priya had recoiled and her mother had said: Darling, there’s a woman in my office from Yugoslavia. Why don’t you speak with her? So Priya had done her project on Bosnia instead.
Now Priya sat spinning in her desk chair, trying to recall if Uncle had been present when she’d first brought it up. She was alone in the cube farm, waiting on Gigovaz. When it came to him, she was stuck in a perpetual game of hurry up and wait. What was he doing in there, knocking back a mickey?
Sometimes, on an afternoon when they didn’t have hearings, he’d emerge from his office and Priya would see his eyes were squinty, unfocused. Once, she had walked in on him clipping his toenails, heel balanced on the lip of his garbage can. He wore a wedding band but had the uncared-for air of a man who lived alone. People told her things – clerks, admins, other articling students. Usually in the bathroom or the copy room. No one of consequence was ever in the copy room.
Gigovaz’s door opened and he waved her into his office. He was holding his Elliot, McFadden, and Lo LLP mug. There were rumours about that mug too.
What have you got? she asked. Priya hoped it was nothing so she could go.
Gigovaz lumbered to his desk and set the mug down like a paperweight on a stack of folders. He turned the monitor to face her. Tell me what you see.
There was an image on the computer screen, a rectangular yellow card with a black-and-white headshot in the middle and Tamil and Sinhalese script above it. A national identity card, jagged lines indicating it had been torn into quarters and reconstructed. The man in the photo was old and balding, with a broad nose and hooded eyes.
Who is this? she asked.
Gigovaz sat at the edge of his desk and moved the mouse. Another ID card popped, an old woman this time. He summoned a couple more images: birth certificates and marriage licences, all with the same domed Sri Lankan crest crowned on top.
These were found on the ship, Gigovaz said. Documents for five people, none of them on board.
Priya peered at the screen. Are they forgeries?
Don’t appear to be. And as far as we know, there were no casualties en route. It’s funny, though. Someone went to the trouble of destroying these papers. Why leave them behind?
You’re assuming it’s nefarious, Priya said with a laugh. I once saw a woman toss a mango stone over her shoulder and bean the man walking behind her. Thwack! Right in the forehead. Litterbug takes on a new meaning in Sri Lanka.
She tapped her fingers one by one against her thumb, thinking. Singh was pushing the question of identity hard, and yet so many claimants – like Hema and Savitri – had arrived without a scrap of documentation. And now these mystery papers. What conclusion would Border Services jump to?
Singh is going to say these are LTTE members, Priya said. And that people have trashed the evidence of their old lives and adopted fake names to get in.
That was my first thought too, Gigovaz said as he positioned two image files side by side. And unfortunately, the woman here and this young boy…on a cursory glance, they could be Mrs. Kumuran and her son.
Savitri’s eyes are totally different, and her kid’s ears are not as droopy, Priya said. But sure, if you don’t pay close attention. She put on a simpering voice: The Minister is of the opinion that all these brown people look exactly the same, which is to say, like terrorists.
We will protect the nation’s sovereignty, Gigovaz added, squinting and glowering like Blair. We will not allow our refugee system to be hijacked by an army of terrorist clones.
His impression was spot-on and Priya laughed, delighted. But Gigovaz’s grin, top teeth biting down on his lip, was so awkward and self-conscious that she quickly cleared her throat and gestured back to the computer screen.
There’s another possibility, she said. These could be dead relatives, maybe with LTTE connections, and now people are scared to speak up.
Speaking of relatives. He opened another two image files side by side and said, These two gents have the same last name. Brothers maybe, or cousins.
Priya shook her head. Names are reversed in Tamil. Last names don’t mean anything. Tamil boys get their fathers’ last names as their first names.
So you and your brother have different last names?
No. But we are Canadian. Tamil men go by their second names like we go by our first ones. Here, I’ll show you. She plucked an envelope from the recycling bin, took a pen from Gigovaz’s desk, and wrote:
Poonambalam Mahindan
Mahindan Sellian
She pointed and said: Poonambalam was Mahindan’s father’s second name. Mahindan was just a name his parents liked. Like Peter or Priya. Mahindan’s son is Mahindan Sellian.
All this time I’ve been calling him Mr. Mahindan, Gigovaz said.
Sorry. I thought you were being polite. Anyway, that’s how people would refer to him. Many men abbreviate their first names. P. Mahindan. M. Sellian. In any case, names won’t tell you much. You can’t use them to trace family trees.
Do me a favour and give Amy Singh a call, Gigovaz said. No. Second thought. Write her an e-mail and explain all of this. Copy me in.
Priya tossed the envelope back into the recycling bin. If there was even the slightest hint that one of the refugees had faked his or her identity or helped someone else do the same, it would be game over. Even if their clients weren’t involved, Singh would still use the uncertainty created by these ripped-up documents against them. To argue for extended detention if nothing else.
Border Services is working to track down these mystery people, Gigovaz said. In the meantime, we’ll have to speak with our clients. And hope they’re not lying if they claim ignorance.
Priya didn’t relish the thought of putting this question to their clients. Already, they were restless, wondering why, after three and a half months, they were still stuck in jail.
But what is the problem? Mahindan had asked after failing yet another detention hearing. I gave all my papers. Why does the judge still keep me in this place?
Try to be patient, she had replied through Charlie, regurgitating Gigovaz’s words. Your documents are legitimate. Eventually you’ll be free.
Now, she asked Gigovaz: Why is it taking so long to verify everyone’s paperwork?
I’m sure they’re sending it all to Sri Lanka for corroboration, Gigovaz said. Each document one at a time. Nice and slow.
She imagined Singh in a basement mailroom sealing each birth certificate and marriage licence in its own envelope. A thought jarred her.
But there’s a ban on sharing our clients’ names with the Sri Lankan government, she said.
Singh swears up and down they are honouring the embargo. He shrugged and shook his head. Frankly, I don’t believe it, but suspicions aren’t proof.
Priya puzzled over this injustice, overwhelmed by the odds their clients had already overcome, the hurdles still in their future. It irked her, the gulf between the letter of the law and how it was executed. How could a process so influenced by public opinion and politicking have the audacity to call itself law? You had to hand it to Gigovaz, though. His determination was heroic.
I’ve seen it all, Gigovaz said. Maybe you’re too young to remember this. In the eighties, a group of Tamils washed up on the east coast. In lifeboats, if you can believe it, a hundred and fifty of them shivering in the Atlantic. Gigovaz waved his hands at his ears and said: Up went the hue and cry, all the usual nonsense about Canada being a soft touch and an armada of criminals just waiting to set sail. But guess what? Every single one was allowed to stay. As it happens, you’ve met one of them.
Sam?
Gigovaz nodded. Mulroney
was prime minister, he said. And make no mistake, there was public pressure to send them all back, but I’ll never forget what Mulroney said. Canada is not in the business of turning refugees away. If we err, let it be on the side of compassion. The crowd we have in power now, to them this boat is an opportunity. My clients from Eritrea, Iraq, Afghanistan even – they aren’t subject to such intense scrutiny or government intervention. But with our Tamils, well, you can bet Singh has been instructed to be as punitive as possible and delay every step.
Gigovaz paced, on a roll now. Look at Mahindan’s file. Look at Prasad’s. Proof of identity is ironclad, and Border Services knows it. But they also know that by killing time, letting people rot in jail for as long as possible, they are sending a message. Joe Public is tricked into thinking he’s being protected. Eventually, Border Services will have to concede that, yes, these men are who they say they are. And then they’ll harp on some other baseless reason to reject their claims.
Okay, that’s Border Services, she said. But the Immigration and Refugee Board has no excuse. They’re supposed to be neutral. I don’t understand why they don’t cut through the games.
What have I been telling you? Gigovaz yelled.
Priya flinched.
Gigovaz threw up his hands. His face flamed red. Half those adjudicators are patronage appointments. Do you think they’ve studied the Act? Done their due diligence? Or do you think they just let Blair drip his poison in their ears? Illegals. Snakeheads. Terrorists. You scare people stupid and then you pull their strings.
Gigovaz danced around like a marionette, lifting his knees and dangling his arms at the elbows. It would have been funny if his face wasn’t deadly serious.
Meanwhile, innocent people rot in jail, he said. And what is this doing to their psyches? But never mind that. Blair and the prime minister have to court the law-and-order vote.
He stormed out of his office muttering, leaving Priya alone. And then she was outraged too. She started to follow him but stopped in the doorway, watching as Gigovaz wound between the cubicles, now halfway to the kitchenette. She wanted to scream at his back: This is not my area of expertise!
