A toaster, a bookshelf, a parka, and some hijabs by Barâa Arar
It is a bone-chilling Sunday morning and I am leaning against a granite counter, waiting for my soy milk flat white. The side of my hip digs into the cold stone as I survey the coffee shop. The barista draws a four-petal leaf on top of my drink. He takes his time and I don’t tell him what I am thinking: why make the coffee pretty if I am just going to drink it anyway?
As I wait, I see a young girl of maybe six, seven, or maybe eight years old (I’m not good at guessing ages) explain to her father the world. Her arms draw out her stories. Her father’s kind eyes are glued to her: she is all that matters to him right now. Her father wraps his arms around her stool and pulls her closer to him like he wants to see all of her, like he wants to see nothing but her.
His gaze does not falter. His eyes are protective and intrigued. She is his world. This is his world.
I think about what it means to love someone that much.
Once I get back home, I scramble to drag a huge paper bag of clothes to the front of the house and I wait for a friend to pick me up. We are going to visit a newcomer family she co-sponsored. The family just arrived from a war-torn African country to Ottawa’s sub-zero temperatures.
Getting them settled in is an all hands on deck situation.
My friend, my paper bag full of clothes, and I are going to see if we can get the oldest daughter ready for her first day of school. The oldest daughter wants to wear hijab to school but she doesn’t have any of the right clothes.
I am not from a war-torn country but I do wear hijab so I am now part of the mission. We drive down and down Carling Avenue until the huge red houses of my neighbourhood became apartment buildings from the seventies; the fair trade coffee shops become corner stores and gas stations and vacant retail shops.
We drive past the strip malls and the car dealerships and the Tim Hortons I worked at one summer.
The first thing I notice when I walk into their house is a young girl of maybe four, five, or six years, sprawled on the carpet, learning colours and numbers and the alphabet with her new friend from the sponsorship group.
The girl does not know how to speak yet but she knows what the adults are asking her. I sit next to her on the floor.
When the adults set up a new problem for her to solve, she stares intensely at all that is in front of her, then matches up the cue cards, to the colours, to the number of pegs on each block.
All the adults clap their hands. Joyously, they proclaim how smart she is.
I am told the adults don’t know exactly how old the girl is because the United Nations gives asylum-seekers the generic birthdate of New Year’s Day on their paperwork. I guess the UN is not good at guessing ages either.
The fourteen-year-old older sister approaches me and tugs at the heavy bag in my hands. The handles slip in hers, so all 4-feet of her kneel down to pick it up. She leads me to her room where we slowly take out the shirts and pants and cardigans.
I see how her face changes every time she sees a piece of clothing she likes.
We each speak our own languages, none of which are the same. We know so many words but none of them seem to be helpful to us in this moment. It seems all our words have failed us.
So instead we quietly lay the clothes on her bed and adjust them until we come up with five combinations. A full school week of hijabi-friendly outfits.
From the bottom of the bag I retrieve the hijabs I brought for her. I show her the two-piece hijabs, the ones that kind of look like bonnets. These are not the fun hijabs. These are the practical ones for working out or for emergency room nurses.
I try to tell her to wear these to school because they are practical. That is what the adults used to tell me.
I could tell she didn’t like them. I don’t blame her; neither did I.
So I reach a little deeper into the bag and bring out the nice scarves, the fancy ones I usually leave for nights out.
The smile that grew on her face tells me she spotted the difference. These were the chiffon, silky scarves. The ones that make her feel like a grown up. The ones I wear to feel like a grown up.
Why should I assume she wants to wear practical hijabs to school?
All the cool girls wore the long, pretty scarves. I should have known better; my practicality got the best of me. I should not have acted like an adult.
Every young woman wants to look their best on her first day of school. Why should she be any different?
I leave her to get dressed and go downstairs to find her father, a small man, a former fisherman, sprawled on the floor. He listens vigilantly, as the sponsor, through an interpreter, explains his new world to him.
The sponsor shows him all sorts of health documentation. She tells him he needs all of these papers if he wants to take his daughter to the doctor. Everything he needs to know about his family’s new world is supposed to be in these pages. He registers a confused look but he soldiers on.
His gaze does not falter. His eyes are protective and intrigued. His children are his world.
I think about what it means to love your family that much.
He is taking his time to process and I don’t say what I am thinking: what will a fisherman do in Ottawa?
Instead, I sit in a sinking couch and I see all the things this family received to start a new life.
A toaster.
A bookshelf.
A parka.
Three new lunch boxes.
Some hijabs.
When the UN declares asylum seekers born on New Year’s Day, perhaps they are trying to signal a new beginning. That is a big promise to keep.
I am the daughter of immigrants who came to Canada for that very promise.
I want to tell the young girl that if she wears the fancy, nice, silky scarves the adults won’t stare at her.
I wonder if my bag of scarves and I are helping the 14-year-old or if I am just making her more of a target.
I want to promise she won’t be frustrated when people ignore her because she wears hijab.
I want to promise she won’t be frustrated when people focus too much on her hijab.
I want to tell her that after years of trying, I finally fit into the neighbourhood with the huge red brick houses and fair trade coffee shops.
This time, I let my words fail me, and I don’t share what I am thinking.
This prose piece was featured in Issue 07 of Canthius.
Barâa Arar is a writer and editor. She holds a Bachelor of Humanities from Carleton University and a master’s in history from the University of Toronto. Her writing has appeared in This Magazine, CBC, and the Globe and Mail.