by Kit Pearson
But there is lots of crying here. The Crying Lady, for one. She never stops and she doesn’t even have anything to cry about.
May 21, 1942
I’m in our new “home.” It is indeed a hotel. The Langham. We have one room on the second floor. Bunk beds still smelling of fresh-cut wood. Straw mattresses. Work teams were sent ahead to make the buildings ready for our arrival. Japanese Canadian men. It’s like making prisoners build their own cells.
Peeling paint and brown water spots on the ceiling. The bathroom and WC downstairs. A single window with a cracked pane. Old newspapers pasted to the walls. That must mean it gets cold here in the winter. Dead flies everywhere.
No chandelier.
I know all about the chandeliers and the ridiculous stories Irene has been telling Amy about how glamorous hotels are. How could I not know? She’s such a scatterbrain. Leaves her precious diary lying about for someone else to tidy up. How could I not read it? I know what she writes about me, the Wicked Witch.
Wait until she sees our “hotel” room. That will shock the nonsense right out of her.
I’m supposed to be up here unpacking. But how can I? The room is so small. There’s nowhere to put things, nowhere to hang things. I made the beds as best I could, cracked my head twice on the top bunk trying to tuck in the blanket.
Kaslo is very small, very quiet. There are a couple of churches, a grocery store. It’s hard to imagine it was once a boom town, the hotels filled every night, the trains bringing boxcars of silver from the mines to the boat dock.
Mother says this is not a prison camp because we are not living in tents or barracks, and there are no fences. What a joke. The mountains at our back, the lake in front, Mounties at both ends of town guarding the single road. Who needs fences?
And I saw the locals, peeking out from behind their curtains as we walked to our assigned quarters.
We must become tough if we are to make good here, the Reverend says. Every life experience, he says, is an opportunity for the training of character. We must not forget that we still have a vast realm within which we are free to choose and decide.
An opportunity! Free to choose!
How long do they expect us to stay here, pretending to make the best of things? Until the war is over? When will that be? How can I get on with my life in this place? Stuck here with Amy and Mother, who will only become more and more helpless with this ridiculous pregnancy.
I can hear her now, downstairs with the other women. All trying to cook on the single stove. Complaining about the green wood and arguing about who will cook their pot of rice first. Their voices get higher and more shrill with each minute. I can smell rice water burning.
Later
I sat by the window for a long time. Too tired to do anymore, so I just looked out the window and watched them. The Gruesome Twosome and the other youngsters, sent out to play while the grown-ups “get settled” in their rooms. They looked like street urchins, crumpled and dirty.
But for the first time, Amy and Irene were quiet. Not chattering or giggling behind their hands. They were sitting together on an overturned washtub, looking around.
And I could tell they saw it all. The broken fence, the overgrown patches of dirt, the thistles and weeds. Garbage and building scraps everywhere.
Then the sun came out. Just broke through the clouds. And suddenly Amy and Irene jumped to their feet. And then all the children were running in the yard, leaping up and down like they had gone crazy. Laughing, waving their arms, reaching up.
I didn’t understand at first. And then I saw. Fluffy cottonwood seeds, floating everywhere, somehow sparkling in the sun. And Amy and her little friends, leaping up to catch them.
Sun fairies, I heard her call them.
Beyond them I saw tiny bright orange flowers in the weed patches on the edge of the yard. Sticking up in bunches on straight stems. In the sunlight they glowed like fire.
In my suitcase I have a soft wool sweater that I can fold and put in a pillowcase to make a pillow. Then maybe I’ll go out and pick some of those orange flowers. There’s a satin ribbon woven into the neckline of one of my nightgowns. Maybe I can use that to tie a little bouquet.
Maybe I’ll put it on Amy’s pillow.
For sweet dreams.
Zayd and his family have left Pakistan and after a few years in England decide to move to Canada, hoping that the racism they faced in England won’t follow them across the Atlantic. Most Asians were not allowed to immigrate to Canada until the early 1960s. Even in cities, their numbers were small.
When RUKHSANA KHAN’s family came to Canada from Pakistan in 1965, they were the only Pakistani Muslims in their small southwestern Ontario town. Her father did choose between Canada and the United States because he liked the Canadian flag better.
To Get Away from All That
The Diary of Zayd Hassan
Hamilton, Ontario
November 1964 – January 1965
November 19th, 1964
If it weren’t for Rudyard Kipling and Mr. James, I’d be fast asleep by now, like Farkhanda is, like my parents are, like any sane person would be after such a long day. I’m exhausted after helping Abugee carry our massive trunk up seven flights of stairs to our new home, and then unpacking.
But I said I was going to start a journal the first day we arrived in our new land, and I’m doing it.
It won’t be like those dusty volumes that Mr. James kept on the bookshelves behind his desk.
But I do mean to record my history, our history, as if it were just as important.
How our teachers back in Pakistan would go on and on about the glory of Britain! Like the one time Mr. James brought in a chit of paper that was ragged and torn around the edges. It didn’t look impressive but he held it like it was made of gold. It was a note, addressed to him, that Rudyard Kipling had written. I got to thinking right there and then, Is that British habit of documenting everything so thoroughly what gives them some kind of advantage? Is it that they value their past experiences, instead of like so many Pakistanis I know, who live life day to day, never looking back?
I decided right then that I would try this for myself.
Why not? I’m named after Zayd bin Thabit, the Prophet’s (peace be upon him) scribe. Why shouldn’t I chronicle my life so that one day I can look back and see where I’ve been? You never know, maybe one day someone will hold up a slip of paper I once wrote upon and marvel at its value.
Ha! Imagine me becoming as famous as Rudyard Kipling!
Never mind, I might find value in keeping a journal.
When we disembarked this morning in Toronto and drove to the ragtag apartment building here on Caroline Street in Hamilton, I thought, What better time to start than on the first day we arrived here in Canada, a land both exciting and foreign, with no mango or guava trees and not a wild parrot to be seen?
There’s a tiny snore coming from Farkhanda. She was fast asleep on a mattress on the other side of the room, but she rolls over, opens her eyes, sees the bare bulb shining and says, “Bhai jehan, why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Just now. Go back to sleep.”
So she turns over and does, just like that. When I was six, I could sleep like that too. Not a care in the world.
Dadiami said that when I was born there was much rejoicing. (But the funny thing about Pakistanis and sons is that they want us more than anything, but once we’re actually here we’re treated pretty hard.)
When Farkhanda finally came along, there was little rejoicing. Some people wondered what Abugee had done wrong. Others reassured Amigee not to worry — the next child might be a boy. (She just rolled her eyes when they weren’t looking.) Farkhanda is the pet of the family, and gets away with things I wouldn’t even think of. Nothing is expected of her except to be pretty and to grow up and get married.
There never will be a next child. The doctor says Amigee can’t have any more, so now all my father’s hopes are pinned on me. It’s a lot of pressure. Abug
ee decided we’d leave our large beautiful house in the warmth of Pakistan to spend three years in a one-room flat in Southall, so close to Heathrow you could hear the jets taking off even inside. With only one privy for everyone in the building, we had to put on our coat and boots to go to the toilet. Amigee was always afraid of the gangs of white teenagers who’d come around.
Abugee tried to buy us a house in a nicer neighbourhood, but when he’d answer the adverts in the paper the homeowners would say they only wanted to sell to white people, and close the door in his face.
Someone told Abugee to go to North America, so he took me with him to the embassies because my English is better than his.
On the roof of the American embassy was a huge statue of an eagle that looked ready to pounce. The Canadian flag had a Union Jack in the corner and an ugly crest, but no pouncing eagles. We chose Canada. As soon as the laws changed a couple of years ago and Canada was allowing non-whites to come, Abugee put in his application.
Now we’re in this little two-bedroom heated apartment, we have our own bathroom and kitchen and there’s lots of hot water.
After Abugee and I carried the trunk upstairs today and we closed the door behind us, there was a moment where we all looked at each other. Abugee looked at Amigee, Farkhanda looked at me, and then we all laughed.
Amigee took off her coat, pulled off her gloves and said she’d go make us all a cup of tea.
November 23rd, 1964
So much for writing every day. There just isn’t time!
I can’t believe the principal here wanted to put me in with younger kids! Even with my British marks, somehow they thought I was stupid or something. Abugee finally convinced them not to, and after I aced the test they gave me they finally agreed.
I’m in Grade Eight, and it’s going to be tough. The way the boys looked me over when the teacher announced my name was scary.
But I keep my head down and I don’t raise my hand, even when I know the answer. They’re kind of starting to ignore me, at least in class.
Farkhanda had a hard time of it.
Some boys in her elementary school got hold of her at recess and wouldn’t let her go till she threw a rock at a small house. She didn’t realize there was a dog sleeping in there. She got bitten three times on her legs and the doctor gave her a needle. Amigee had to go to school to get her, poor little thing.
The next day I told her to show me the ones who did it, and I pinned them down, one by one, and washed their faces with dirt. They’ll never do that again!
Now if only I had someone older to beat up my bullies for me.
In terms of teasing, it’s just the usual. They call me Zed, or sometimes, when they’re being slightly more clever, A-B-C. It was the same in Britain. You’d think that they’d come up with something original!
The trick is not to care. You can’t just pretend you don’t care, you really have to not care. And I don’t.
It helps that I learned to fight in England.
Still, I hide my bruises the best I can from Amigee. She’s got enough to worry about.
I overheard them talking, late at night when they thought we were asleep. Abugee’s having a pretty rough go of it too. They call him “black bastard” at work, and he just takes it!
I’d like to wash their faces with dirt!
November 30th, 1964
I finally made a friend! His name is Joe.
He’s got dark hair like me, and before I came along they used to pick on him because he’s Italian.
I help him with school, and today he took me by his family’s restaurant. We never go to restaurants. Amigee doesn’t understand why people would. They can make the same food at home much cheaper.
It’s the only Italian restaurant on King St. The aromas were like nothing I’ve ever smelled before.
They had this flat naan kind of thing that they’d put some kind of sauce on, and on top of it some other white stuff that turned out to be made from curdled milk like russ malai. I asked Joe if there was any pork in it and he said no, this was called cheese. (Cheese comes from milk. It can be really stinky but this one wasn’t so bad.)
It was called pizza, with two zs but the zs aren’t pronounced like zed. It’s more like peetsa.
And they had this other stuff that looked like long worms all swirled up in a plate.
I think they should leave that off the menu! I just can’t imagine people eating something that looks like worms. He bugged me to taste it, but I just couldn’t.
His mother came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and spoke to Joe — in Italian I guess. He answered her, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes. The funniest thing was that his mom kept calling him something else, not Joe, but Giuseppe. He looked embarrassed. When I asked, he told me it meant Joseph. Then I told him that Joseph in our language is Yusuf. He was surprised we had the name too.
Apparently when Joe’s family first got here, they had it pretty bad too — that’s why he changed his name. What was really weird was that the restaurant was packed with white people all sitting there with their napkins on their laps and knives and forks, cutting up their peetsas and practically drooling over how yummy they were — the same kind of people who’d made Joe’s life so hard when he first got here.
It didn’t make sense.
I brought him over to our house and he tried some of our koftas. He took one bite and started gasping. I thought he was choking till he motioned for the tap. I got him a glass of water, and then another. These people are really sensitive to spices!
I think it’s neat that Joe’s family decided to open up a restaurant. I like the way they don’t hide who they are, at least in the restaurant.
I like the way they’re loud and they wave their hands while they talk and they’re … comfortable.
I wish we were comfortable.
Even at home, we try too hard not to stand out.
We speak in English, even Amigee. The teachers told us to. At first Amigee argued, saying we’d lose our language. Abugee said, “We’re here for good. In three generations we’ll lose it anyway. It’s more important to keep our beliefs.”
I told them that Joe’s family kept their language. Amigee looked about to argue again, but Abugee just lifted his hand and said, “End of discussion.”
And if we talk too loud or Farkhanda runs up and down the hallway, Abugee yells at us. He says the neighbours will think we’re a bunch of animals.
One day Amigee burned the spices and Abugee said, “Hurry! Open the windows! The neighbours will smell it!” So we had to put on our coats while the smell cleared out of every open window of the apartment. It took a long time for the apartment to get warm again.
And every day I wait till I come home to pray Zuhr. Abugee told me to. He said not to bother these white people in any way, just go ahead and pray it late. He says God will understand.
But really, what kind of bother would it be to them if I just went in a corner of an empty classroom somewhere and prayed? I could do it during recess. It would take five minutes. It wouldn’t hurt anyone.
The Christian missionaries kept their beliefs in Pakistan. When they needed to do something, they just did it.
Why can’t we even ask?
Sometimes I think Abugee’s too careful.
December 1st, 1964
Everybody’s talking about the big scuffle over the flag. I keep my mouth shut at school, but I hope they do change it!
The prime minister wants to put the maple leaf on the flag. That makes a lot more sense than the way it is now! We’re not British! Why should we have the Union Jack, even in the corner? We came here to get away from all that!
But a maple leaf, yes! That’s Canadian!
December 5th, 1964
Maybe if I’d had a better day I wouldn’t have done what I did.
But today was particularly brutal and I just wasn’t in the mood for nonsense.
Farkhanda came home singing “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer,” for
Pete’s sake! And from the way she was looking out the window at all the Christmas lights on the houses below, my suspicions were confirmed.
At the dinner table she was still humming it so I said, “Farkhanda believes in Santa Claus!”
Abugee said, “Behta, is that true?”
Farkhanda didn’t answer. She just stopped chewing her roti and swallowed.
Abugee said, “Behta, there’s no such thing.”
I was less gentle. “C’mon, how can a fat man and some reindeer fly?”
Farkhanda mumbled, “They make airplanes fly.”
I said, “Then what about all the poor kids? How come they don’t just wish for money so they won’t be poor anymore?”
Amigee tore a piece of roti and dipped it into her plate of salan. She told Farkhanda that this was just a story that parents here tell their children to make them behave. That if they don’t be good, then Santa will only bring them a lump of coal.
Farkhanda looked stubborn but didn’t say anything.
So I asked her how Santa got into houses that don’t have chimneys.
Abugee got a naughty look on his face. He said, “He comes up the toilet.”
We all laughed, but Farkhanda didn’t. She ran to our room and burst into tears.
I kind of felt sorry for her after a while, and went to calm her down. I told her that it was okay. That if I was younger I’d believe in him too.
She didn’t want to be comforted. She just said, “He is too real! And I have proof!”
When I asked her what it was she got stubborn and wouldn’t tell me.
December 7th, 1964
I can’t believe I made it home in one piece!
Joe was busy so I had to walk home alone. As I passed by the corner store there were four big guys hanging around smoking. They called me that bad name that means negro and told me to go back where I came from.
