Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul

  When I approached the farm with the package, all was quiet. Hopfstadt and der Fuehrer were nowhere to be seen. I set the mail on the granary step and walked around to the cabin. The door was unlocked, and I looked inside.

  Never had I seen anything like it! The kitchen had a full set of cabinets, polished and decorated in the most ornate manner. Tiptoeing in, I peered toward the living room: there were chairs, tables and bookcases, each piece lovingly carved and beautiful beyond belief. In the bedroom was a large, elaborate, four-poster bed, and beside it, a cradle with kitten faces carved on either end. They were so real I had to touch them, just to be sure.

  A low rumbling sound came, and there in the doorway stood der Fuehrer, with burning yellow eyes. I froze. The fearful growl came again.

  Desperately I looked around for Hopfstadt.

  If only I knew the dog’s name, I could talk to him. Rooted to the spot, I watched him advance. He reached me, his head thrust out, and licked my trembling hand. He was as gentle as his master was.

  Hopfstadt appeared a moment later, the package of letters in his hand.

  He must have just come from in the fields, and I could see that his dusty cheeks were stained with tears. He tousled my hair with his huge hands, put one arm around my shoulders and pulled me close for a moment. He repeated over and over again a few words in German, his voice so plaintive, so yearning that I was on the verge of crying, too.

  Hopfstadt was strong and he smelled like work. I wanted to share his sorrow. I knew at that moment we could have fended off the whole world. We were comrades who together could face anything. In that moment I loved him, but the words of comfort and courage did not come—and what had his words meant? Our moment ended when he turned and slipped from the cabin.

  He returned with the remainder of the bag of candies, which he handed to me in silence.

  I cried all the way home.

  I carried Hopfstadt’s parting words in the back of my mind for many years. A short time ago I made a call on a German-Canadian businessman. I repeated the words to him as best as I could remember.

  “It must have been someone who admired you very much,” he said. “The words mean, ‘A son like you’. . . . I wanted a son like you.”

  William P. Kinsella

  Chilliwack, British Columbia

  When Someone Believes in You

  When Marco was a boy, he tried everything to get his father’s love and attention. He worked hard to earn exceptional marks; he tried to be obedient, he chose inspiring friends and always tried to behave well.

  Sensitive and shy, he was so timid he always wore turtleneck shirts. He hid behind his hair, which he wore long around his face and ears. To make it worse, Marco was naturally shorter than the other kids. And because his good marks had allowed him to skip second grade—he was younger than everyone else. This added nothing to his already low self-confidence.

  When Marco was eight his parents divorced, and Marco was sent to a boarding school. Six years later, he and his young sister Sandra moved in with their dad and his new wife in St-Léonard, a French Canadian and Italian neighbourhood on the east side of Montreal. Between his work and his new young wife, it felt to Marco that his father had little time for him and Sandra. Except for his demands around chores after school, communication was nonexistent. It seemed to Marco the only time his dad ever spoke to him was to be demanding or critical. He began to dread coming home from school every day.

  Marco sank further into his low self-esteem and was overwhelmed with feeling unappreciated, inadequate, depressed and confused. He felt desperately alone and isolated.

  One day his father, already tired after a long day, tripped over Marco’s bike in the garage. The angry confrontation that followed left Marco feeling violated and humiliated. It seemed no matter how hard he tried he could never do anything right. In despair Marco blurted out, “That’s it! It’s enough! I’m going to commit suicide.”

  “You?” replied his dad disparagingly, and without hesitation. “ You don’t even have the guts!”

  For two days, Marco felt so miserable all he could think of was wanting to die so he could leave this enormous pain, those overwhelming feelings of rejection and unworthiness. But then he thought, “If I kill myself, I will never get to live, appreciate life and I will leave my mother, grandmother and sister that I love. They’ll be so hurt and I don’t want to do that to them. But if I don’t, then my dad will be right—and he will win.”

  Angry, sad and confused, Marco was stuck. He went back to school, and retreated into silent isolation.

  Two days later, his aunt called him. To Marco, this seemed like a miracle. Aunt Ginette usually only called once a year, on his birthday. She said she had just seen some young teenagers participate in a public speaking contest called Gala Personnalité sponsored by Club Optimiste—and she thought about him. She thought he should give it a try. She told him she firmly believed he could perform on stage like the other kids, since she had seen him do skits for the family at Christmas.

  Marco was startled, and not a little taken aback. Him? Onstage? In a public speaking contest? To agree would be contrary to his entire shy, timid personality. But Aunt Ginette was so confident. She seemed really serious. She was sure it was something he could do. She truly believed in him. And feeling her strong belief, Marco went against all odds, against everything he had ever done or felt, and agreed to enter the contest.

  All that winter of 1980 to 1981, twice a week after dinner, he took three different buses in each direction for the three-hour round-trip to practice in Ville d’Anjou, where the competition would take place. Marco was taken by an energy he never felt before. The hours and the obstacles no longer counted. The criticism from his father and his stepmother around his absence for after-dinner chores didn’t matter. His father disapproved of this new dream, fearing it would take away from his homework time and impact his marks. But Marco was a top performer in school and never missed a day. His dad really did love him and wanted the best for him, but his own insecurity made him react to anything that might jeopardize his son’s future. Even his sister helped to move him towards his dream by taking care of the dishes on those evenings, for “future considerations”. She was only twelve, but very perceptive and generous.

  Four months later, the big night arrived. His mother, his sister, his grandmother, and yes, his Aunt Ginette, were all in the audience. The nine other contestants were all older than him. Marco was overwhelmed—the whole thing just felt so much bigger than him, and butterflies filled his stomach. But when he stepped onto the stage and began to speak, he felt totally at home, totally at peace, and a kind of bliss stole over him. He was funny, witty and acted extremely natural as he spoke. The audience loved him! He felt energized and very alive—it felt like a real birth. To his shock and amazement, he WON!

  When he saw his mother’s face, her eyes were glowing— she was so proud. He realized then she believed in him, just like his Aunt Ginette.

  As the winner, Marco went on to the regional final, where he won again! His name was published in the local papers, and he knew this was the start of his new life, and a new Marco. He began to believe in himself. His self-esteem and self-confidence started to grow. Not only did he feel he deserved to live, but he began to realize he deserved to be happy and respected. That contest was a truly defining moment in his life.

  Today, Marco is one of Canada’s rising keynote speakers, educating, inspiring and entertaining audiences around the world. As I travel around the world to speak to thousands of people every year, I tell them Marco’s story. I tell them his story because it is my story.

  It all happened because of a single phone call, from one single person who simply believed in me. Because of her, I have been able to more than fulfill than my dreams. I’ve been able to inspire and to touch the lives of so many others—and help them fulfill theirs.

  Marc André Morel,

  Montreal, Québec

  A Son’s Love

  Where love
is, there is God also.

  Leo Tolstoy

  Our church congregation in Toronto has a way of assisting those who have financial difficulties without making the recipient feel shame or guilt. Money is dropped into an offering box with only the name of the recipient on the envelope. The envelopes are then distributed to those members without them knowing the name of the giver.

  There came a time when my husband and I were among those in need. We did not talk about our financial difficulty with anyone. The only reason our children knew was because we had to cut back on many things. Still, we hoped they were not aware of the extent of our need, nor of how much their father and I were suffering because of it. We did not want to burden them with a problem they could do nothing to solve.

  Our situation wasn’t improving, and my husband and I knew that we would have to look for outside help. Just as we reached the point of despair, our church gave us a gift envelope that had been left in the offering box. We were overjoyed to receive a very substantial amount of money, enough to bring us through that desperate time. We couldn’t help but wonder who had given such a generous gift. We were extremely relieved and enormously grateful.

  A year later, our seventeen-year-old son was applying for a student loan so he could attend university. It was then we discovered that his savings account was almost empty. His father and I were very disturbed by this. We had trusted him to put part of his wages from his part-time job into the bank towards his education. From the time he was nine years old he had been a paper carrier for The Toronto Star, and he had worked very hard for his small earnings. I asked him repeatedly to tell me where the money had gone. At first he would not tell me, which made me even angrier. I would not let the matter alone. I kept hounding him, determined to find out where the money had gone.

  Finally, in tears, and with great reluctance, my son admitted that the year before he had put his savings in the offering box for his father and me. I stood there speechless, tears filling my eyes. It had taken my son years to save that money. He had given it to us willingly—without telling us what he had done.

  J. E. Bailey

  Toronto, Ontario

  Kids Can Free the Children

  The Inuit have fifty-two names for snow because it is important to them; there ought to be as many for love.

  Margaret Atwood

  It began on an ordinary day in April 1995. Like most mornings in my Thornhill, Ontario, home, I planned to read the comics while eating breakfast before leaving for school, but a newspaper headline grabbed my attention. “Battled Child Labour, Boy, Twelve, Murdered.” The story told how, at the age of four, Iqbal Masih’s parents had sold him to a carpet maker in Islamabad, Pakistan, for $16 to pay off a family debt. When he was twelve, he managed to escape and began a crusade to help other enslaved children. For his efforts, he’d been killed by a carpet maker’s assassin.

  I was stunned and sickened. Twelve, the same age as me! My eyes fixed on the picture of a boy in a bright red vest and a broad smile.

  I couldn’t get Iqbal’s story out of my mind. That night I was consumed with thoughts of children forced to make carpets for endless hours in dimly lit rooms and subjected to horrible cruelty. I knew I had to do something. But Pakistan was so far away. I had to find out more.

  The next day, my grade seven teacher allowed me to speak to the class. I passed out copies of the article and told Iqbal’s story.

  “So here’s my idea,” I said. “Maybe some of us could start a group and learn more about it together.” Eighteen hands shot up, and through that simple action, it began.

  During the first meeting at my house that night, we determined our first objective should be to inform people of the plight of child labourers around the world. We read a report about a demonstration in Delhi, India, where 250 children had marched through the streets chanting. “We want freedom! Free the children!”

  “That’s it,” someone shouted. “Free the children!”

  And so, Free the Children was born.

  Our first action was to participate in a youth fair in Toronto where we proudly set up a makeshift information board we’d put together at my home. The other organizations all had impressive professional displays. We noticed a few high-school students taking part, but mostly it was adults doing things “for” children. We were the only group where children spoke for themselves.

  People flocked to our table to hear our message. Twelve-year-old children speaking for themselves on human rights? We were an oddity. That day our second goal emerged—putting more power in the hands of children. Children needed to have a voice and participate in issues that affect them.

  I was soon speaking to groups everywhere, and that fall was invited to address two thousand delegates at the Ontario Federation of Labour (OFL) convention in Toronto.

  Backstage, I was nervous. When asked how long I planned to speak I said, “Ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “You’re booked for three minutes.” I was told. “You’d better cut it down.”

  I started, as usual, with Iqbal’s story. Soon, I was interrupted by loud applause, giving me new confidence. As my voice grew stronger, I pushed aside my notes. I could feel the energy of the audience beyond the bright lights.

  Often, I was interrupted by applause. When I finished, the audience was on its feet, and fifteen minutes had gone by! Someone took hold of my hand and held it in the air. Then he announced that the OFL was pledging five thousand dollars to our cause!

  It started a chain reaction. One union after another matched what the OFL had given and challenged others to do the same.

  After an hour and forty-five minutes, I left the stage. Unbelievably, a hundred and fifty thousand dollars had been pledged to help exploited working children in the developing world. Never in our wildest dreams had we expected it. Free the Children had truly taken flight.

  I was constantly being asked, “Have you ever met any of these children? How do you really know this is true?”

  Soon, I knew I simply had to go to South Asia to see for myself. But my parents wouldn’t even consider it. “It’s another world. It’s too dangerous. You’re only twelve!”

  I had discussed the idea with Alam Rahman, a friend I met at the youth fair. At twenty-four, Alam was serious and committed, and my family had grown to admire and trust him. One day Alam said, “Craig, I’m going to visit my family in Bangladesh and then travel around South Asia. Do you want to come?”

  “Convince me you’d be safe,” insisted my mom.

  When UNICEF agreed to help contact people willing to take care of us, everything came together. Alam went ahead of me to Bangladesh to spend time with his relatives. When I arrived in Dhaka twenty-eight hours after leaving Toronto, Alam met me, and we were off.

  Before leaving Canada, I had assumed that child labour was something hidden in dark alleyways. But to my shock, within an hour I came upon three instances, all in full view of the world. During my travels, I spoke with eleven-year old prostitutes in Bangkok and children in India who knew no other life than making bricks out of mud. In a remote recycling factory, I met an eight-year-old with no shoes or gloves who sat on the ground separating used syringes and needles for their plastics. She had never heard of AIDS. When I asked these children about their dreams for the future, they looked at me through eyes without expression.

  We made plans to meet with a leading human rights activist in Delhi. We wanted to participate in a surprise raid on a carpet factory to release children held in bondage. In our futile attempts to get to Delhi in time, we ended up in Varanasi, about 250 miles away. Disappointed, we resigned ourselves to missing the raid.

  The next morning we learned the surprise raid would be right there in Varanasi! But the organizers felt it was so dangerous I had to stay behind and wait for several anxious hours. When they finally returned, Alam’s first words were, “Mission accomplished.”

  I was overjoyed!

  Twenty-two children between eight and twelve were rescued from horrible con
ditions; some with festering sores, all sleep-deprived and malnourished. After the children gave their statements to the police, they were free! I would get to join them on the ride back to their parents. This was the reason for my trip, and my dream came true.

  Early the next morning, we piled into two Jeeps for the eleven-hour drive to their village. Soon one of the boys began to sing in Hindi. “Free! We are free!” The others joined in, their voices soaring, their joy erupting to the open skies. When we reached the village, it was two in the morning. “This way, this way,” the kids called out. None of us had slept, but we were wide-awake and wildly excited. When the headlights fell on a mud hut, one boy said, “This is where I live.” The remote village had no electricity, and the dwellings stood in an unearthly pitch-black silence.

  The boy went to his home, knocked and called, “I am freed from the carpet factory. I am back!” The door flew open and a woman stood there, absolutely still. Trembling, she reached for her son. “Is it possible?” she cried, over-come with joy. “Thank you, thank you,” she repeated to us. The boy smiled hugely as he waved good-bye and stepped through the door, still hugging his mother.

  The same scene was repeated over and over, with parents throwing open the door to the night and the sight of their lost son.

  When the last child went to his door, his whole family quickly emerged. “Munnilal, is it really you?” cried out his tearful mother. She pulled him tightly to her, and they stood there motionless, as if the world had stopped.

  Putting my arm around his shoulder, I said, “Good-bye.”

  “Alvita,” he said in Hindi. “Good-bye.”

  “I wish you lots of happiness,” I said.

  This was the reason I had come to South Asia: To know that change was possible and a smile could return to the face of a child. It was all the inspiration I needed to keep going. I hoped he would remember me, the boy from Canada.