Family-style
Last week Zahra* and I walked to Trout Lake. It was one of the last warm days of summer and we were both wearing shorts and ball caps. She pushed a stroller up the bumpy alley and along the sidewalk and around to the far side of the lake.
As we walked and her baby was lulled to sleep by the gentle jostling, Zahra told me a story.
“Everything changed when I was a girl. We used to feel free in our country. I remember the day my mother was threatened at work. She never went back.” We waited at a stoplight and then crossed the street. She continued, her voice impassioned. “When the threats began for me, I had to go. I had no choice. I was pregnant with my daughter.” She lifted the corner of a blanket and peered down into the stroller.
“I found an amazing doctor when I arrived in Canada. At my first appointment, I told her I would be delivering this baby by cesarean. I just didn’t have the strength to push. But she told me ‘Zahra, you are a strong woman’.”
“And you believed her,” I offered.
“Yes,” she said, and smiled. “I have to be strong for my family.”
Beside the lake we looked for a red balloon and found a circle of women gathered in the shade. When they saw us approaching, the ring expanded. “Hello! Welcome!” I laid down a blanket, two metres on either side.
The baby captured the group’s attention and the women cooed their affection at the tiny addition. “How old is she? What’s her name?”
A few minutes later our neighbour Bahira arrived with her two children in tow. They immediately dashed off to the playground and we made room for her on our blanket. I caught a few concerned glances. “It’s okay,” I explained, “We live together. We’re family.”
We went around the circle, sharing where we were from. Venezuela. Iran. Mexico. Iraq. Canada. Kenya. North Africa. Zahra whispered to me in French “Is there anyone else here who came to Canada as a refugee claimant? How long did they have to wait to have their hearing? Could they tell me what it was like?” Indeed there were others. Each one shared the experience of being separated from family for one year...two years...indefinitely. The sharing triggered a chain reaction, at first just a trickle, and soon I noticed a tissue box being passed from woman to woman. Sorrow is never far from the surface.
Bahira’s daughter ran back to us with a ring pop on her finger and a child-sized face shield, direct from China. It was decorated with a smiling cartoon cupcake and a stern warning that read: ‘It can only be used as mask prevent to the liquid from overflowing’. Her mom secured it on her head, and she pranced back to the playground.
A weekend went by and on Tuesday Zahra made dinner for all twenty of us. I watched her skillful hands as she stirred ghee with uniform strokes into a vat of couscous. I picked up the pot and she scooped the couscous onto a platter, using the back of the spoon to smooth it into a perfect mound. She adorned it with halves of carrot and zucchini, pulled from a red sauce on the stove. Chicken drumsticks were placed around the outside of the dish, and ladles of sauce with chickpeas poured over top. She took the masterpiece in her hands, and walked out the sliding doors and into the backyard.
“This is how we eat in North Africa,” she said, as she placed the one steaming dish in the middle of the table. For a few minutes it was appropriately admired with ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ and photos.
Zahra pointed to a jug of buttermilk and a platter of watermelon. “We eat these with the couscous, to balance the spice. Bon appetit!”
“You were going to start without me?” Jonas bellowed as he came down the back stairs. With his presence, exuberance itself arrived at the table. The joking continued as I asked if he’d like me to serve him. “Yes, of course,” he said, “But will you do it well?” There was a gleam in his eye. I picked up his plate. “You’ll just have to give me a chance,” I shot back, happy to play along.
We ate—no, we feasted—family-style. Zahra, our host, sat in the middle of the table, her baby asleep at her side. I watched her lean back, taking it all in. She looked satisfied in that moment...and strong. Incredibly strong.
*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of my neighbours.
