Badeen

Being a "brown" kid at school wasn't smooth. At that time all brown people were considered Pakies, so I was a Paki too. The term seems light now, I think it has lost most of it's meaning as ethnicities became more defined. I would often argue that I wasn't a Paki, I was Egyptian. It didn't matter, the term just meant miscellaneous brown sub-person who was not one of us and smelled really bad maybe like curry. Curry now a widely accepted delicious main staple of ethnic cuisine, back then was a disgusting brown person smell.  They wouldn't even bother differentiate between us brown people, we were all the same in their eyes, even if we didn't eat curry.

At my Ottawa public elementary school I was interested in playing with blue eyed Tim, green eyed Eric, red haired Chris, and black David. I only played with Black David who was a great kid. I wonder where he is now and if he remembers me. We had many adventures together. They all lived in my neighborhood. Tim, Eric, Chris, and some other older kids decided they would beat up the Paki every day after school. It was sport and I was the hunted. I would get off the school bus and start running home as fast as I could, they would catch me and beat me up in the slushy snow. I was too embarrassed to ever tell my family. They figured my clothes were dirty from being rambunctious at school. This went on daily for what seemed to be forever. Some days, I would hide under the school bus bench seats and without them noticing I would get off the bus at the wrong stop, and make it safely home. One winter day, they had me pinned down on the ground kicking and punching me, when a Palestinian kid my age named Badeen came out of nowhere, picked up a big block of ice and smashed it over Chris' head. Chris was almost knocked out and fell to the ground, the other kids beating me turned their attention to helping him. His pain mattered so much more to them than mine. He was one of them, I wasn't. Badeen and I ran away. In Arab solidarity Badeen felt empathy for me. I was surprised he helped me and took that risk, we were outnumbered, but I was so grateful. I understood by his action that we were ethnically related and should stand together. It was a nice feeling to be part of a group even if it was just the two of us. That was the last day they beat me, they never chased me again.

Not all abuse was bad. There were these two girls a grade ahead of me that would chase me every day at recess and try to grab my penis. I loved it and found both the chase and outcome thrilling. My little body would get an erection. They eventually noticed my erection and determined I liked the game which was not the intended purpose, so they stopped chasing me. That was disappointing.

Some of it was heart breaking. A kid in the neighborhood invited me and a bunch of other kids to his house to watch Rocky IV. I was so happy to be included and excited to watch a cutting edge blockbuster that was recently released. The red colour of the Russian flag used in the movie seemed like the deepest red I had ever seen. We were met at the front door by his mother, she let everyone in except for me. Her son understood what was happening and proceeded to plead with her on my behalf. I stood there as he innocently explained I was no different from the rest of the kids. Still, she refused.  She didn't want her son befriending a Paki. It worked, I went home and never played with that kid again. More than ever, I understood I had a handicap. I was brown.

Playing With The Queen Of Hearts

Playing with the queen of hearts
And knowing it ain't really smart
The joker ain't the only fool
Who'll do anything for you

And laying out another lie
And thinking 'bout a life of crime
If that's what I'll have to do
To keep me away from you

Playing with the queen of hearts
Playing with the queen of hearts
Playing with the queen of hearts
Playing with the queen of hearts

We always ate Egyptian at our house, especially Mahshy, stuffed grape leaves, eggplant, and peppers. As a Canadian kid, I hated it. It tasted so slimy and over cooked. I liked Pizza and McDonalds Instead. My family’s views on my eating habits were mixed. My father humored me by taking me to McDonalds at dinner time while my brothers and sisters reeled with disgust at him spoiling me. Mama made great food that everyone was raised on, why should I get special treatment. There was no doubt that I was the youngest spoiled first Canadian born kid to the family. In the absence of my father, Brother K once tried forcing me to eat liver under threat of a spanking, Brother R force fed me eggplant Mahshy by shoving it down my throat. I still don’t eat liver to this day, and can still remember Brother R’s fingers being shoved in my mouth, I gaged repeatedly both times. Some memories are more permanent than others.  

Sister L was the youngest of the sisters, she was fun, kind hearted, extremely loyal, and understanding. She humored me and took care of me like a young loving sister would. They tell me she had monthly birthdays for me until I was one. She made me special food all the time. She made homemade potato chips by slicing potatoes as thin as she could, then frying them in a pan. They were salt and pepper flavor, she tried salt and vinegar flavor too but they came out soggy. She would order vegetarian pizza for me and freeze the slices individually, then she would heat up a slice whenever I started whining for pizza. She was in city parades swirling her baton, she made the paper as a fashion model one time, and she was in track and field in high school. I remember her bouncing around the house singing along to juice Newton’s “Playing with the queen of hearts”.

With all of Sister H’s the mistakes and wrong marriages in mind, the focus was squarely on Sister L no not repeat there errors of the past. Sister L was under surveillance for any sign of trouble. One day she made the mistake of telling our mother that there was a cute guy she liked at school. This put her squarely in line for immediate Muslim marriage to avoid any additional trouble or dishonour she may create for us. Sister H worked at a hotel and met a bearded bespectacled religious Egyptian guy she thought was cute, his name was Ebrahim. He was interested in marriage to an Egyptian girl. Since Sister H was already married he agreed to meet Sister L. My father was in Egypt at the time, and out of fear of a straying daughter, my mother agreed to an engagement between sister L and this Muslim pious man without ever knowing who he was or anything meaningful about him. At the time, the fact that he was Muslim and Egyptian was more than enough qualification to give away her daughter and avoid any chance of dishonour. Sister L complied out of curiosity and loyalty and obedience to her family, she was 19. You see, western values are not the same as Arab values, they are quite different. In the west we value human life, freedom, and independence most of all. In the Arab world we value honour, loyalty, and dignity most of all. For an Arab, honour will trump human life, freedom, and independence every time, even if that means selling out your own daughter. So many daughters have been sold.

The engagement was supposed to be a getting to know you period to determine if they should move forward. As we got to know Ebrahim, we started seeing instability in his character, there was something wrong with him, we didn’t like him. My mother asked Sister L what she thought of the engagement, she responded with “I think I am in love”. Something still drove my mother to end the engagement, so she sent my brother in law Leon to break the news in the absence of my father and brothers. After all, he was one of the family now. He came back and told my mother that it was too late, Sister L was pregnant.

The news of the pregnancy sent my mother into frantic disaster recovery mode. She needed a wedding immediately and before Sister L started to show, otherwise the greatest shame would be all over us. So, without my father, she put on a big wedding, and invited the who’s who of the Egyptian community, including the Egyptian ambassador who actually came to the wedding. Bother O was the photographer. This great open celebration with everyone invited was my mother’s way to save us from wagging tongs and prove that nothing untoward had happened with my sister.  I wanted to sit with her at the head table, but was told children weren’t allowed. Other kids did end up sitting there and I was vexed at the injustice.

The wedding cake was the best wedding cake I ever had, it was pink and other colours I can’t remember. I am not sure if I was just particularly hungry or if it really was that good. There was lots of leftover cake though. Sister L it packed in her fridge at her new apartment with her new husband. She was only a bike ride away from home. I rode my bike there a number of times to get some more cake until one day she told me it spoiled and threw it all out. Her apartment was small, and she was a cute young wife. It was strange to see her playing house at a new home, I rationalized it by thinking I could go see her any time and I had a new place to hide out, watch movies, and be alone with Sister L.

Now that Sister L was married, she and Sister H became regular visitors to our home and our family dynamic expanded to different households, we were growing in Canada and our roots just got a little bit deeper.

Misaligned Expectations and Expensive Long Distance

Like Velcro ripping apart, the tearing of our connections to Egypt were rough. There was an attempt on my parents part to solidify our connections people in Egypt through engagements and marriage. At different points in time and through different trips back home Sister H was engaged to a Tahir, Sister L was engaged to a Abd-Elaziz, and Brother O was engaged to Nayirah. In spite of all the good will in the world, all three engagements fell apart. But none was as sincere and tragic as Brother O's engagement to Nayirah. 

Nayirah was ever so beautiful and was easily the best looking girl around. Her deep dark eyes full of warmth and mystery, straight flowing black hair that complemented lighter skin. She was a classic pure Arabian beauty. I remember her being incredibly warm, you just wanted to throw yourself in her arms and let her beauty engulf you. Naturally, she liked Brother O, the best looking guy around, they were young, in love, and were engaged. The night prior to Brother O's departure back to Canada he sat with her struggling to fight sleep to keep his eyes open, he remarked that he didn't want to blink and miss one second of her before he left. That's the way he left her, with their hearts aligned and longing to be together as one.

Misaligned expectations and expensive long distance calling was their undoing. In an Egyptian family, once a groom proposes he starts to take active steps towards fulfilling his financial obligations towards himself, bride to be, and her family. Her family expected to start seeing signs our family was taking the engagement seriously. This would take the form of a constant stream of gifts and presents flowing their direction, a down payment on an apartment, plans for a concrete and solid job and future, and planned visits and regular communication. The truth was that Brother O was just too young to worry about all these things and was already being westernized without anyone noticing. He felt their love was an unbreakable bond and could concur all.  He needed time to finish school, get a job, and go get her. He thought he had that time. He knew she loved him and would wait for him. He was in a different universe form the one she was in. His time meandered slowly, her time rushed like a speeding train. 

Our family was struggling with so many children growing and could not support him the way Nayirah's family expected. They could not understand our struggles, after all we were in the west, the land of opportunity and money. We should have been organized by then. We had been in Canada long enough. If we were serious, there would have been singes by now. Why were we not supporting this engagement? They were getting wrestles. After all, if Nayirah got too old she would have a hard time getting married at all, no matter how beautiful she was.

This was the 80s, there was no internet, long distance calling was extremely expensive, and the preferred method of communication was air mail. Sometimes we would record tapes and send them by mail. It took months for letters to arrive. So communication was not smooth to say the least. Long distance relationships had a different meaning then. One day Brother O got the fateful letter from Nayirah, it was three months late. In it she explained that her parents had gotten impatient and have engaged her to someone else, she was going to be married to someone else. She was pleading for him to rescue her and their love. Brother O immediately got on the phone and called her at her mother’s home, she was there but explained it was too late. She cried as she told him that she got married and was already pregnant. Shocked, Brother O's tears came hard, he told her he didn't care, he still loved her and still wanted her pregnant and all. He asked her to leave her marriage and come to him. Leaving a marriage for another man in Egypt? An unthinkable act that would dishonor her whole family. She repeated and said it was too late. Yes, these tragedies do happen in real life too. We all remember and feel that heartbreak as if it was our own. 

Brother O later became a fashion photographer, he was constantly surrounded by women to an excess. There have been many beautiful exciting girlfriends. But I don't think he ever recovered from the loss of that first love. I know I haven't and it wasn't even mine.

My Parents Never Gave Out Any Candy

Growing up Canadian in an Egyptian household wasn't always straightforward. All the fun holidays and traditions were forbidden as my parents either interpreted them as either Christian or Devil Worship.

After Christmas, all the teachers and kids at school would talk about what presents they received. I received nothing. For a while I thought Santa never came to our home because I was bad at some point. Easter was okay. My mother thought the rabbit and eggs were cute. We colored boiled eggs and ate them from breakfast. I had to explain and reconfirm the tooth fairy leaving money under my pillow ritual to my parents several times, I remember their laughter and giggles. Halloween was a big one and I absolutely insisted on participating. My parents let me, but on several conditions and compromises. I would make all the decorations, ghosts, pumpkins and bats, but they would go up on the windows Halloween evening and would be taken down the next morning. I could carve a pumpkin put a candle in it and leave it outside for just a little while. My mother would take it in before it spoiled from the candle or cold and make pumpkin jam. I got to go trick or treating but my parents never gave out any candy.

Our community center in Ottawa was large and active with many programs. A new addition was the drum room where all the kids in the neighborhood would get free drum lessons for a $5 deposit.  I was so excited and wanted to play the drums badly. Michael Jackson was at the height of his popularity and Prince was just coming out with a wicked drumming video. I asked my mother for the $5 deposit and was refused. This was too strange for her, no one of any class in Egypt played the drums. A few days later at school my teacher asked me to go to piano lessons at lunch recess. I said I wasn't in piano, she said yes you are, your mother called and enrolled you. Since I had expressed an interest in music, she enrolled me in piano as it was refined and classy. Piano would make her proud but drums would not. The thing is, she never asked me or told me anything about piano. Her wishes always superseded mine and with no consultation. There was also karate, but that was too dangerous. Sleepovers were forbidden and dangerous too. Summer camp was a definite no, they might have fed me pork there. Michael Jackson came to Montreal during that time. All the kids at our community center got free tickets to the show. We were going to be bused there and back. all the kids from school were going too. Like everyone else at the time I was enthralled with Michael Jackson and his Thriller album. My father was dead set against this and resented popular culture. He felt Michael Jason's popularity was unnatural, in conflict with Islam, and elevated him as a false deity. It was sacrilegious. The community center worker pleaded with my dad to let me go, my father's response stills rings in my ears "No, we are Egyptian...No, we are Egyptian". To this day, I regret not being able to play the drums or go see Michael Jackson' Thriller tour.

Send us Back to Egypt

My family started to settle in Canada, and Canada started to settle in us. Western music and disco were regular features in our home. Sister L would impress us with her latest dance moves, the older brothers grew sideburns, my mother fell in love with department store shopping. Everyone was so proud of how western they had become and showed off their latest know how and knowledge of western culture. Eventually, Brother K and Brother O disappeared  to university in Hamilton, Sister H disappeared too and the number of people living in our home shrunk. This gave Brother R lots of freedom to terrorize me. He would tickle me almost to the point of suffocation. My father would come home, hear my distress and would scream at the top of his lungs for the tickling to stop. Brother R would give me bike rides by letting me sit in front of him on his 10 speed bicycle. He would then go down steep hills and laugh at my terror, then he would veer into on coming traffic to terrorize me even more. I looked up to him and my innocence always betrayed me. To me he was my youngest, coolest and hippest brother. He worked at the local outdoor pool as a lifeguard. His uniform showed his muscular physique, a fitted yellow blue trimmed t-shirt that was stamped with the city of Ottawa logo. He knew girls and they enjoyed him and his humor. He also played basketball and we went to one of his games. I fell asleep through the whole thing, but just being there was impressive. He worked hard at integrating. He would always try to stick out his lower lip and let it hang low as to identify with his view of African Americans, which drove my father crazy. On winter days, he and his friend Gary would grab me and throw me into snow banks that would engulf me completely. He also had a fearsome temper. One day, he and sister L had a fight over who would give me a bath, he grabbed her and shoved her into the wall, breaking the through it. We never fixed that large gaping hole in our drywall. Another day, he was arguing with our father and punched a fist sized hole into another wall. We never fixed that wall either. Like the holes in our walls, fractures in our family unit started to appear.

One night I was playing by our front screen door and in the dark outside I suddenly saw a familiar face. It was loving Sister H holding one finger to her lips hushing me so she could surprise my parents. Looking out further into the street I realized she had a sharply dressed blondish good looking white man with her, he was getting something from a big brown car. He looked very Canadian, the kind that was proper, educated, law abiding, successful, taxpaying, Christian, police man type. The surprise was her re-entry into our lives. I was so young, I never realized she was gone or for how long. Later I learnt what really happened.

One day, Sister H ran to Brother K and said "help me, help me please". He looked out our second story window and found several police cars in front of our home. He asked her "what have you done?". The police came into our home and explained to my  Muslim Egyptian father that his oldest and dearest daughter, the apple of his eye married a Christian Canadian and they were there to escort her and her belongings out of the house without incident in spite of any objection he may have. This was Canada and she was free do do what she pleased. My father lost it, he screamed "this is adultery, send us back to Egypt" he then fainted. An ambulance was called, he ended up in the hospital and Sister H was cutoff and exiled from the family. She and her new husband were welcomed back after some time with the condition that this new husband convert to Islam. He pretended he did. She later divorced that man and continued living independently and away from us until that night she came back and introduced us to her second husband and my beloved brother in law Leon.  There was much negotiation behind welcoming this second husband, including Leon stating that there is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his profit in Arabic. The official story in Egypt was that Sister H married a Canadian who converted to Islam who renamed himself  Assad which means lion in Arabic which is close to Leon. It all makes sense. This was the beginning of the lies we would have to tell to pacify our family back home, otherwise, they would never understand. We loved them and they loved us so dearly. We did not want to disappoint them with things they could never understand.

As this new marriage was normalized, Sister H and Leon would come over often, he would sit me next to him and ask me to translate everything that was being said and I did. Leon also came over every weekend sometimes with Sister H and sometimes without. He came for me, to take me out to Canadian activities which I loved. He was the only one who ever too me out. The activities included, horse back riding, the amusement park, the circus, to the mall to see the Incredible Hulk and Spiderman. We would skate the Rideau Canal together, when I got tired he would drag me behind him with his hands behind his back, then I would get hot chocolate and fudge. He would sometimes take me to an open parking lot, sit me in his lap and let me drive his big brown car. At the end of afternoon activities we would go to a subway shop called Fat Albert. I never went home hungry. He would give me a menu and ask me what I wanted to eat. Every choice I made was countered with "too bad, that's pork, try again" after some trial and error he would laugh and say you are having turkey.

Pork is Haram and Pigs are Dirty Animals

The early ears were great, loving parents, many brothers and sisters. My father took me with him everywhere he went, we discovered Canada together with innocent eyes. He would always carry me and teach me the Arabic names for everything, Pees - Bazila', Mushroom - Aysh El Ghorab, Honey - Asal..... He was always so proud of me when I could pronounce something difficult in Arabic and I loved his pride. We would often go on outings to Museum of Natural History, Local farms, public parks and so on. We would ride in his very large olive green 1974 Chevrolet Impala, I would sit on the left side of his seat as he drove, between the driver and his window, he would driver faster whenever I asked him to. Who cared about car seats then, definitely not us. Sometimes after dinner my entire family would pile up in that car and head to Dairy Queen to get our favorite Banana Splits. I would sometimes lay on the car's rear window panel as we drove, the car was that big.

My father gently eased me into public school as I was terrified and crying. He sat with me on the first day and slowly moved away as I became more comfortable. I would see him slowly moving farther away every time I would look up. First he was next to me, then at the table close by, then the classroom doorway, then outside the hall looking in, then outside of school looking into the classroom window, then on the pathway further away, then he disappeared. I knew he had to go, I was thankful for his gentle parting.

My parents gave me lessons. God is Allah, Muhammad is the Profit or Rasul, there is only one God and that is Allah, Pork is haram and pigs are dirty animals, don't ever go into a church because the devil lives there, you must do good and listen to Allah or you will burn in hell, we are Muslim, we are Egyptian, alcohol is bad and forbidden, they taught me to memorize our prayers.

One day, I told my father that we start our days at Pinecrest Public School by saying the Lord's prayer. He simply told to me to recite our prayer instead. The next morning at school when it came time to pray, I started reading my memorized Muslim prayer as dad instructed. My teacher interrupted the prayers and asked the girl next to me what I was saying. She responded with "I don't know, I think it's something in their language". I was immediately sent to the principal's office. I can't remember what happened next.

Our new community in Canada grew. Mama Connie, my baby sitter and Mom's friend, taught me French. Other Egyptians would come over, have dinner, pray, and drink tea. My brothers and sisters started having friends. There was Monir, Brother K's friend, who had a brand new Trans Am with a sprawling eagle on the hood. There was also Sister L's girlfriends who were ever so pretty and would play with me. I loved them coming over, especially the Italian Anna Banana who was terrified of mice. I once lured her to our basement and trapped her there by claiming there was a mouse on the stairs. I just wanted a little more time with Anna Banana. Athletic Brother R bad a best friend named Gary who happened to live next door to us. Gary had a very attractive sister with straight black 80's hair and a limber body. On hot summer days she would wear a tiny black sting bikini and have water fights with her boyfriend on her front lawn. Whenever this happened, all the men in my family, including me, couldn't resist enjoying the sun on our front lawn too.

My parents always tried to incorporate the Egyptian lifestyle at home in Canada. We had live chickens in the basement. They would lay eggs that would break upon making contact with the cement floors. Sometimes an egg wouldn't break and we would eat it, most of the time my mother would have to scrub the floors to clean all the dried up egg. The chickens were for eating, and they were killed in our basement the halal way. Cut their throats, say a prayer, and watch them convulse and spray blood all over the basement floor. We once got ducks with chicks. They were in our backyard until two Doberman Pinschers from the neighborhood jumped our chain linked fence and attacked them. We complained, the area superintendent came and told us we couldn't have ducks anymore. In Canada dogs at home are OK but ducks are not.

Even with the ducks and chickens we weren't the weirdest in the neighborhood. Across the back yard and a couple of houses down, a family of Asians moved in. They had no furniture, no curtains, so we could see they slept on mats on the floor. They also hung meat to dry on their back yard close line. They must have been refugees. The superintendent paid them a visit as well.  Soon after, they got curtains.

A Very Beautiful Woman

We ended up living in a low income housing area in Ottawa, the nation's capital. We found a five bedroom attached home that was one of the only places that would rent to a family with seven kids.

My father could not find a job. I was told the economy was faltering at that time. So my mother had to go to work for the first time in her life. Back in Egypt she was a beautiful, loving, classy, stylish, upper middle class woman who had servants, went on vacation every summer to Alexandria, and made sure all her children were well mannered and impeccably dressed. Her pride was extreme and her need set her self apart drove us all to reluctantly perform for our extended family, neighbors, and guests. We all called our father Papa rather than the regular Baba because it was French and more refined. My oldest siblings went to French schools. She always made us feel we were better than everyone else. My father never played along. He was from the country and appreciated simplicity.

Her first job was as a dishwasher and kitchen helper at the Lord Elgin Hotel. She could hardly speak English. Her coworkers always put her on dishes. The day she had enough, she poured her self a cup of coffee and sat in the dinning room while on shift. The manager came to ask what was going on, her coworkers said they didn't know. He went to confront my mother. She said "Dishes every day, every day, every day, difficult". She later remarked how proud she was that she used her one big word "difficult". The manager responded with "You know, you are a very beautiful woman". Her defiance tuned into embarrassment, her cheeks turned red. She wan't supposed to hear such things from a strange man, that was impropper. She was later transferred to the dinning room where she worked as a waitress. I remember her standing there in a pastel blue/green uniform and a white apron, flowing black hair tied into a bun, and her classically beautiful face full of care and kindness. She would always bring me a fancy nougat, double wrapped in a silver wrapping and an edible paper, from the hotel.

With her charm, beauty, and work ethic, the money started to flow, her English got better. She was a great success. We got new furniture, new clothes. She got two of my sisters, Sister H, and Sister L jobs at the hotel. Sister G couldn't work, she was mentally handicapped. It was the first time she became a self determined woman and the family bread winner. She liked it and she was on a roll. My father was still unemployed but getting used to it, and maybe enjoying it, a little.

This was the first time in our history that we were not constrained by tradition and society to conform to our traditional roles. We were far away from the judging eyes of our community. We did our best to stay true to our Egyptian traditions, but we were slowly conforming to the realities of Canada. At that point in time my parents never imagined what price they would have to pay and what compromises they would have to make in the face of our new western reality. The plan was always to immigrate, get rich and educated, and go back.

As we saved more money, my parents opened a diner. We served burgers and soup with some traditional middle eastern cuisine. The place was a hit, especially the Kofta. My mother was the cook, cashier, cleaner, and server. My father read economics journals and the news papers. To him, this was all temporary, soon enough he would get a job, get back on track with the plan and go back to Egypt where everything would be as it always had been and always should be.

The Palestinian Baby

My father had won a Egyptian state funded scholarship to complete graduate studies in Canada. His first choice was Australia, but a colleague beat him to it. He won second place and came to Canada. After finishing his master's degree in economics, he applied for immigration and the rest of the family followed to Canada. 

I was born in Ottawa after the war of 73. There were few brown people in Canada at the time. Although you could hardly call me brown now. Palestine must have been on the news a lot. My mother tells me the nurses all called me the Palestinian baby.

I was the baby, the fourth boy of seventh children. My three older brothers, three older sisters and parents were all new immigrants to Canada. I was the youngest by thirteen years and a first generation Canadian.

Our Muslim family had left Egypt behind and my birth was the first of our roots to take hold in the Great White North.