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.