Three days later we received word that we could leave and continue our flight home. As we began our emotional departure, many of us attempted to leave funds to help defray some of the expenses for the million-and-one things the people of the Lewisporte area had done for us. But no one would take our money. They simply smiled and said we would have done the same for them.
Once we “Plane People” re-boarded our plane on Friday, September 14th, we talked among ourselves and decided we had to do something. But how do you do something for someone who doesn’t want you to, and yet you know you have to. How do you do that and not offend their dignity?
We came up with the idea of establishing an endowed scholarship fund that would benefit graduates of Lewisporte Collegiate. We wanted those kind, gentle Newfoundlanders to know that we would never forget what they had done for us.
Thanks to wonderful publicity provided by the media, the scholarship continues to grow. People from all corners of the world have joined the passengers and crew of Delta Flight 15 to ensure that the Lewisporte Area Flight 15 Scholarship will continue for years to come — certainly long after we “Plane People” have left this earth.
~Shirley Brooks-Jones
Dublin, Ohio, USA
Author’s Note: As of May 2017 there have been 256 recipients of the Lewisporte Area Flight 15 Scholarship.
Welcome to Canada
Kindness is like snow — it beautifies everything it covers.
~Kahlil Gibran
A number of years ago I worked at a reception centre for newly arrived refugees. The initial stage of the project involved conducting focus groups. Over several weeks, I met individuals and families who had often arrived with nothing more than their hope for a better life for their children and/or themselves. Their experiences, their courage and strength, and their hopes for their future in Canada made a lasting impression on me. It was an honour to meet them. They were no different from current refugees; only the family names change, and sometimes the countries they fled.
“Tell me about your journey before coming to Canada,” I would begin. After a moment of silence, slowly and quietly the focus session would begin — first with one person, and soon others joining in.
“We are from Afghanistan. I was a dentist… we had a good life… but my father spoke out against them, then just disappeared one day. Things began to change for us… my brother and his family went to Pakistan… my wife would not leave the house because she feared they would accuse her of some wrongdoing. I knew it was only a matter of time before they came for us.”
Every so often their speaking voices were so soft the words floated in the air around the room, barely heard. “We are Colombian… I can still hear the machine guns firing as I carried my daughter… we ran down our village road… my daughter screaming… I thought she screamed because she was so frightened, but that wasn’t the reason — a bullet had hit her leg.”
Other times those who related their own stories spoke with such depths of anguish their words seemed like emotional projectiles that hurtled through the air, compelling others in the room who wanted to remain silent — who did not want to reopen past memories — to speak.
“They arrived around mid-morning. My mother and I ran into the woods. Others did the same but they came after us… killed some… took others back to the village. By late afternoon, the stillness in the air told us what we already knew. We hid in the woods until the next morning. We were afraid they might still be in the village, afraid that if we did go back they would return and find us. We feared what we would find when we did return, and we feared knowing we would have to return to find supplies, because the few of us who had survived knew we had no other choice but to leave. We found the bodies of my father and brother… We walked for days to get to the refugee camp in Kenya… A year later I buried my mother. I have no family, so I have come alone to Canada. My life is here now.”
Usually, when I asked my second question — tell me about your expectations for your life in Canada — the answer varied very little from group to group. Their hope for the future was that they could build a better life — for first their children, and then for themselves.
“I want my child to be safe. I want him to be able to play outside and not worry about being shot.” “We want our children to get good educations so they can have a better life.” “I just want my children to be able to walk down the street, without me worrying about whether they will return.”
They made me feel proud to be Canadian when they said these things. I came to realize that all the things I value and love about my country are the same things that newcomers also see, want and value about this wonderful country. Truly, it is a privilege to live here.
Occasionally I am asked the question, “Were you born in Canada?” I had never particularly reflected on my family’s past. But from the very first time I had to answer this question, I suddenly recognized the similarity between their journey, and my own family’s journey to Canada.
“Yes, I was born in Canada.” I began, “My family was of German / English descent, and had originally settled in the United States. When the States were fighting for their independence from England, my family, like other families who remained loyal to England, feared for their safety. They fled to Canada, part of a group called United Empire Loyalists. So, my family’s journey was much like yours; they came as refugees.”
The mandate of the reception centre was to assist refugees with initial settlement services, as well as provide them temporary on-site accommodation. Arrivals and departures could occur on any day or evening of the week.
I only observed the arrival of a new group once. I had stayed late to complete some work. It was after seven o’clock when they arrived. Our staff had prepared a light supper for those who would like something to eat; rooms were ready for those who wanted to go straight to bed.
I sat in the front office and looked at the group arriving. Men, women, and children quietly stood in the entrance hallway. They looked tired and anxious. Some parents gently stroked their child’s shoulders; others bent down to speak quiet words that only their child could hear. Other parents, whose children clung to their sides, wrapped a loving arm around them. Actions that offered assurance to their children, and perhaps even themselves, that everything would be okay. Once they were gathered, a staff member greeted them, first in English, and then again in their own language, with words that pushed them a little further from their previous lives, and brought them one more step closer to their new future;
“Hello; welcome to Canada and to your home for the next few days.”
The following week I was back at the reception centre. That same front hall which the week before had been filled with subdued anticipation was now alive with the hum of comfortable conversations. I recognized two women from the previous week sitting and chatting on a sofa, in the same hallway where only a week before they had stood quietly, tired and apprehensive. They smiled as I passed them, and I smiled in return. I headed toward the dining room for my focus session. Three young boys came charging down the hallway. They ran past me, then came back, and stood in front of me, wearing big smiles. I could think of nothing else to do other than return the smile. Then, only silence as they stared at me. I was about to say “Hi” when the one boy carefully said, “Hel-lo.”
“Hello.”
“Hel-lo,” repeated the other two boys.
“Hello.”
The first boy stepped closer toward me. “How-are-you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”
The three of them looked at each other, than back at me.
“I-am-fine,” they all said at the same time.
Then, just before turning and running off again — all three of them chorused, “Wel-come — to — Can-na-da.”
That day I was delighted to answer back, “Thank you, and I welcome you to Canada also.”
~Wendy D. Poole
Markham, Ontario
Christmas in Canada
/> Never worry about numbers. Help one person at a time, and always start with the person nearest you.
~Mother Teresa
Brian paced the floor as he prayed that they would be able to get out of their country unscathed. Even with the proper papers, many men who tried to leave were thrown in the army. Families were torn apart. Lives were shattered.
It was late November and Brian was waiting for his new employee, Alex, to arrive from Ukraine with his family. Brian had first gotten to know Alex when he hired a few students from Ukraine for his previous business. As he described him, Alex was “a computer nerd” just like him, and now that Brian was starting a new business he could use Alex’s help again. Now Alex was married, with a six-year-old daughter, and Brian had undertaken to move the whole family to Canada permanently.
Our family had already gone through our cupboards, looking for those extra items we could donate to the young couple’s new home. Who needs two electric mixers? And why did I need to keep that extra coffeemaker I had stashed away?
When the plane landed, Brian welcomed Alex with a warm handshake and a sigh of relief. He met his wife Marina, a tiny pretty lady, and their beautiful daughter Julia. Her eyes filled with wonder as she looked around the bustling airport, and she shyly hid behind her mommy’s skirt.
They came with two suitcases. That was it. All their other belongings were left behind. It must have been so bittersweet for them, leaving their families and almost everything they owned to come to Canada for freedom and opportunity.
Brian set them up in a hotel for two days and helped them shop for food and other essentials. It didn’t take us long to set up house for this war-torn family. Brian and his wife Shannon rented Alex and Marina a neat and clean tiny bungalow on the south side of town.
Alex gasped as Brian opened the door to their new home. Marina burst into tears, and Julia ran from room to room, delighted.
“How many people live with us?” Alex asked, as his eyes grew larger and larger with every room that they explored.
“What do you mean?” Brian asked, not understanding the question.
“At home we live in one room, in a tenement, with lots of other families,” Alex explained.
“Who does that lovely green grass outside belong to? Can Julia go outside to play?” Alex couldn’t believe his good fortune. He held his head in his hands and wept.
It didn’t take them long to bring Julia to Colasanti’s, a giant greenhouse filled with plants and video games, bumper cars, jumpy castles and loads of entertainment for young and old alike. They walked along the riverfront enjoying the sculptures and Julia ran and danced in the park near their house.
“Canada so good to us, “Alex stated in his broken English. “We celebrate Christmas on December 25th like real Canadians. In the Ukraine, Christmas is celebrated on January 6th.”
“They must join us,” I exclaimed, already planning Julia’s Christmas stocking.
“Mom do you have any idea how overwhelming all twenty-six of us are?” Brian asked. “We are so noisy. There are so many gifts and twelve children will be running around screaming their heads off and chasing one another from room to room. They are probably going to come in one door and run wailing out the other!”
“I thought that they wanted to experience a real Canadian Christmas!” I countered.
“But what about Secret Santa for the adults?” Brian asked.
“Ed and I will choose their names and surprise them. And please let me have the joy of buying precious little girly items for Julia!”
At 2:00 p.m. on Christmas Day the doorbell rang and the children and their parents started spilling into the house.
Meat pies, bread stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, cinnamon honey squash, corn, honey-laced carrots, shrimp rings, salsa, veggies, homemade buns, and cabbage rolls covered the counters and extra table. And the smells of honey roasted ham and succulent golden turkey were the crowning glory.
Alex, Marina and Julia brought a bottle of wine and some homemade fruit-filled buns, sharing their own special Christmas treats.
Even though she spoke little English, Julia was soon running around the house with our granddaughter Maya. She soon found herself sitting in a circle with the twelve other children as they opened their gifts. Julia was so excited. The very first present she opened was Ana’s beautiful blue dress from the movie Frozen. She tried it on immediately and twirled and spun as we all applauded.
She then opened a doll, coloured pencils, crayons, pencil cases, books of all kinds, hair clips, lip gloss, fairy wings, an Ariel nightlight and a stocking filled with goodies. Julia squealed with joy as she displayed a Barbie, an Olaf and a princess T-shirt from her never-ending magic bag.
When the grownups played Secret Santa, Alex and Marina were astonished as we called their name and they got to open their special gifts.
First came their Santa stockings filled with a mug for each of them, tea towels, Canada socks, Canada hats and boxes of chocolates. Alex got a Nike Canada sports hoodie and Marina got a sweater, with matching hat and gloves.
As the parents gathered up their sleepy children and hauled all their loot to their cars, my husband Ed and I assessed the damage to the house. Leftovers, wrapping paper, tinsel and messy floors were our souvenirs of the grand celebration that had taken place. We hugged one another tightly, appreciating our time together, our affluence, and our family.
As Alex, Marina and Julia put their arms around me to say good night, I asked them, “Are you alright? Are you happy?”
They crossed their arms in front of their hearts and whispered, “Canada beautiful. Here we safe!”
~Barbara Bondy-Pare
Amherstburg, Ontario
Living Abroad in Canada
“Having adventures comes naturally to some people,” said Anne serenely. “You just have a gift for them, or you haven’t.”
~Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea
As I stepped off the plane the cold reality of my decision hit me as hard as the –26-degree Celsius temperature. The plane had landed in a barren treeless landscape; the only sign of life was the smoke rising from roofs and the small crowd of people huddled at the window inside the terminal. In my shiny new parka, I shuffled off the plane not sure who would be inside to meet me. For the millionth time I wondered, what had I done?
Soon after graduation my friends had started to leave for faraway countries to teach English as a second language. The adventures they were having sounded like so much fun, learning to live in a place where they didn’t speak the language and trying new cuisine. My friend Nadia had moved to Japan, and told me stories of how she would be stopped on the street by people who wanted to touch her long, strawberry blond hair. “It’s kind of creepy to have strangers touching my hair,” she once told me, “but I’m starting to get used to it.” I wanted those adventures too, but I was afraid to leave the safety net of my province, my family and my country. Prince Edward Island was safe, Canada was safe, and outside my bubble was a big scary world.
In early May of 2004 I had it all: a great job in human resources with the government, a fiancé who would be graduating from law school, and plans for the future. But by the end of May it had all changed. While watching the evening news I heard that my job would be cut from the budget, and a couple weeks later I heard the words, “Jennifer, I think we should break up.”
Just like that I had no job and no fiancé. The closeness of family and friends suddenly became suffocating. Maybe it was finally time for me to face my fears and go abroad like my friends.
Searching online, I found and applied for a job as a Human Resources Officer with the Government of Nunavut. It was still in Canada, but I had to look at a map to find where it was. After an interview in August they offered me the job. I’d be looking after all the nurses on Baffin Island. I had one semester to go to earn my master’s degree so I said, “No thanks, I don’t finish my last paper until November 10th.” The recruiter then called me on t
hat very day and offered me the job again. This time I accepted. Wow! What had I done?
In January of 2005 I packed up my possessions and boarded a plane headed for a small, remote northern community on Baffin Island approximately thirty kilometres south of the Arctic Circle. We landed in a tiny hamlet called Pangnirtung, population 1,500: 96% Inuit, 4% other. Here, I was definitely part of the other 4%. For the first time in my life I was a visible minority, and also in the minority of English-as-a-first-language speakers.
When I entered the terminal, everyone seemed to know one another as shouts of “hello” and “welcome back!” echoed all around me. I was quickly approached by a trio of women, and the shorter one, with a big smile said, “Ullaakkut. Good morning. You must be Jennifer. We are so happy to meet you.” I immediately felt my decision to move north had been the right one.
Her name was Mona, and very quickly she became just like one of my gal pals from Southern Canada. She loved her Internet, her music, her husband and child. She loved getting her hair done and hanging out with friends. But she could also shoot a gun, run a snow machine and gut a seal. Mona was a huge help to me in settling into life in Pangnirtung, and she was there when I started my new job.
During coffee breaks I would listen to my colleagues speak to each other in Inuktitut. They would talk about their families, tell stories or talk about hunting and camping out on the land. “Why are you laughing?” Mona would ask me. “Do you know what she is talking about?”
“No, but I know it is a funny story,” I would reply.
Most of the time I had no idea what they were talking about, so Mona would often interpret for me. After a few months of listening and watching it suddenly didn’t matter that I didn’t know the words. I knew by the actions and facial expressions what the story was about. Laughter is contagious, and laugh we did. I remember so fondly the coffee breaks I enjoyed while working in Pang, the laughter ringing through the building as everyone shared a bite to eat and a story.