Toronto Star, Ontario ed.
 LIFE, 
Thursday, July 1, 1993

With glowing hearts On March 24, 1993, the Raza family of Etobicoke, originally from Pakistan, became Canadian citizens, four years after arriving here. This is the story of their struggle and ultimate success in making Canada their new home.

AS I STOOD with tears in my eyes during the oath-taking ceremony, my 7-year-old son asked me, "Mama, why are you crying?"

I did not quite know what to say. I had mixed emotions at that time . . . part guilt at aligning myself with a new country, part pride and happiness and mostly, a deep sense of achievement.

Four years ago, in December, 1989, as we stood cold and shivering at Pearson airport in the first winter storm of the season, I could never have imagined that we would see this day. All we carried with us were our life savings reduced to a meagre amount of $2,000, our immigrant visas and our pride. We had arrived in Canada, almost destitute, devoid of friends or relatives and totally lost.

Were we refugees? No, even though we may have looked the part, we were bona fide landed immigrants with genuine documents that we had worked hard for. Why and how were we in Canada in this condition? In the past four years many people have asked me that question and now I can truly respond.

Canada was the country of our choice when we decided that due to continued political instability in our native country of Pakistan, we wanted a better future for our children and ourselves. With guidance from a Canadian lawyer, we applied for immigration. Being professionals, we were able to fulfil all the requirements of Canadian immigration and after lengthy inquiries, health and background checks, we were accepted and granted landed immigrant stat

We naively delayed our arrival into Canada till the last moment because we were working in the oil rich Persian Gulf and the lure of petro dollars was attractive. We wanted to save the maximum amount of money needed for our stay here.

We had put aside enough to invest in a house, live comfortably for at least six months and maybe invest in a small business.

My husband worked as personnel manager for Nasser bin Abdullah, uncle of the ruler of Qatar, a tiny emirate in the Arabian Gulf. A wrong investment and the wrath of a vengeful Arab sheikh (who felt it was his religious and moral duty to keep us away from the West) deprived us of all our savings, my husband's hard-earned company benefits and our personal belongings.

Although we were hard-pressed and could have returned to our homeland where we had family support and a house to live in, we decided not to turn to family for help.

Migrating to Canada had been our personal decision and we had worked very hard to achieve that status, so we were determined to make a go of it.

Luckily we'd had the foresight to purchase our tickets for travel to Canada before our financial crisis hit, so we had the means to travel to Toronto. Once here, we sealed our fate by sending back the return portion of our tickets.

We spent our first night in a motel and the second day, we went to the only place we could afford - a building nicknamed "Immigration House" where furnished apartments were available by the week. By the time we paid the advance rent and bought groceries, our finances were down to half.

It snowed continuously and we had no guidance. My husband would leave the house at 8 a.m. and walk for miles looking for work, but everywhere he went the talk was of "Canadian experience." People were generally helpful and we realized that it is just a matter of time and perseverance, and we would soon be on the right track.

There were the little discomforts of a new country. My children had no snow pants and we had to walk miles in the cold so they cried every night because their legs hurt. They also coughed constantly but we could not afford a doctor.

We did not know about OHIP until someone kindly pointed us in the direction of Welcome House, where we got our first break. We took turns looking after the children so one person could go job-hunting. The money was dwindling fast and we could not afford to stay on in the apartment much longer.

Two weeks after battering his head against almost every agency in town, my husband came back and told me, "You have to go out and find a job. Otherwise we are out on the street tomorrow."

Well, you say that to a mother of two young kids and you have a challenge on your hands. I left the apartment with a fierce determination to do something positive.

I looked up the name of an employment agency at random and presented myself there. They told me there was a job at Toronto General Hospital but they were not sure whether I would be able to do it, because of my lack of Canadian experience. I put on my best smile, exuded a confidence I did not feel and said I was the best candidate for the post. To this day, I do not know what happened, but they believed me.

The following Monday, I went to the doctor's office for an interview. When I walked in, the receptionist took one look at me and said, "You must be a refugee - my father hates refugees."

With that vote of confidence in my favor, I presented my resume. By the end of the day I had a job. I am still grateful to the doctor, who saw beyond my "ethnic" look. He did not ask me until two months later, "and where did you say you were from?"

We started to look for a house to rent, but the requirement everywhere was for first and last month's rent, which we did not have. Thanks to an ad in The Toronto Star, we finally came to a house on Renault Cres., where we met Hubert Abe who was to become our guardian angel.

He heard our story and with tears in his eyes said he was an Estonian immigrant himself and understood the trauma of a couple with young children. He excused the last month's rent, and with no references, he rented his home to us.

For one month my kids slept with coats under their heads as pillows. A battered couch was our only furniture. But we were lucky because the house was located in a very nice area where the day care is superb. My children started day care and I went to work.

While we were moving into the house, my husband slipped and fell on black ice, fracturing his elbow. Hubert pragmatically pointed out "nothing worse can happen to you, so do not worry." With his fractured arm, my husband still managed to find a job with Wardair. The first salary came and we started thawing from our frozen state to think about life and living.

We found that although the streets in Canada were not paved with gold, for every step we took ahead, the way cleared two steps ahead for us. We learned to start life from scratch and we learned to survive.

At every point people were helpful and guided us to the best of their ability. A warm smile in those days meant a lot. Our bitterness toward our own community, who did not extend themselves to help us, turned into acceptance.

There were rays of sunshine, like the taxi driver who did not take money from us because he was from our native country and missed his children, and our landlord who gave us dishes, furniture and handmade toys for our children who had nothing to play with.

Still, our first year was rough. We were suffering from culture shock, weather shock and people shock! If we had not had the foresight to send back our return tickets, we would probably have boarded a flight back to what was then, home . . .

Today, this is home and this is certainly where the heart is. Today, we are both gainfully employed. With the exception of a dog, we live as many North Americans do . . . we own a small townhouse, we drive a van, our children are growing up as young, feeling Canadians and we have assimilated into the mainstream of life here.

So, the tears in my eyes were for the culmination of our struggle; they were for thanks to Canada for helping us to survive and hold our heads up high; they were for the freedom and equality we have found here and most of all, they were for Canada . . . now our home.

Copyright © 1993 Toronto Star, All Rights Reserved.

Scholar and Peacemaker