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.