FIRST WINTER
IN CANADA
By Shams Erfan
This morning I feel drowsy even though it’s time to get up. Still half-asleep, I sit up in my bed for a while, letting my thoughts drift.
The echo of my mother Gull-Chaman’s voice rings in my ear, calling me to wake up. “It snowed a lot last night. You must take your wooden shovel and clear the snow from the roof before it collapses over our heads,” she says, and a flood of memories washes over me.
I get up and, on the way to our makeshift bathroom to wash my face, I see my sister, Latifa, boiling water for tea in the old iron kettle over the kitchen fire. Smoke clouds the room, and she rubs at her reddened eyes as she puffs to keep the fire alive and make the water boil faster.
Mom has already finished feeding the sheep and goats. I see my brother, Rohullah, clearing the path to the mud washroom. He is cold. Every ten seconds, he takes a short break, blowing on his frozen hands to warm them before continuing to clear the path.
I stand still by the window, enjoying the warmth of the house and contemplating the snow-covered mountain peaks, and the silence of the village. A group of hungry-looking black and white crows perch on the topmost branches of the apricot tree opposite the house. I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the scene, and filled with deep, inner calm.
"I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the scene, and filled with deep, inner calm."
Over in the cluster of houses in the lower village, I can see men climbing ladders to remove the snow from the roofs of their houses. My mom looks worried and avoids eye contact with me because I didn’t wake up in time to begin clearing the snow. She had to walk through a huge knee-deep snowdrift to reach the shed to chop hay and mix it with dried alfalfa grass to feed the sheep and goats.
I wait as Latifa brings in the copper tray, teapot, glasses, and freshly baked wheat bread wrapped inside a cloth. When she places the bread on the wool carpet sewn by my grandmother, that means breakfast is ready.
I sit close to the table cloth, pulling a loaf of warm bread towards me. Mom stares at me, rolling her eyes, still unhappy that I have not yet tackled the snow on our roof. She tells Latifa to call Rohullah in for breakfast. Rohullah is lucky – he gets all the attention this morning.
I don’t enjoy my breakfast. Leaving it half-finished, I go out and put on my sturdy leather boots. The shovel is greasy, and the snow won’t stick to it. I climb the roof, still feeling a bit upset at Rohullah getting mom’s attention. A snow removal competition starts between him and me as we both work to clear the snow.
I hear mom’s gentle voice as she stands on the shed, calling us,‘Bachem, sons, take a break, come inside and drink a glass of tea to refresh you.’ When we go indoors, Mom rubs our cold hands in her warm ones, and gives us hugs. A bowl of dried mulberry and fresh hot tea are ready for us.
The image of my Canadian neighbourhood as I look out from my bedroom today is very different to the village where I grew up. I give myself a shake and return to my present-day self. I’m not home. Mom is not hugging me; she is not here to be upset with me this morning for waking up late. I don’t see Rohullah outside, clearing the path to the washroom. Latifa is not in the kitchen, baking fresh bread.
I’m far away from home – very far. The last time I hugged my family, competed with Rohullah about who could clear snow the fastest, or felt resentful over his getting Mom’s attention was a decade ago. I felt my family’s presence this morning, as Renee, my new parent, and I played in the snow for a while. On this day one year ago, I was sitting in the refugee camp, dependent on the mercy of the world to show some kindness and get me out of the refugee camp in Indonesia.
As I start my first winter in Canada, I think of all the refugees displaced by war around the world, particularly those in Indonesia who don’t even experience seasonal weather changes to spark the memories they created with their families, before having to escape their country of origin.
If you are in a position to help, let’s help one refugee at a time to come to Canada, where they’ll be welcomed and treated with kindness, and where the weather in the changing seasons will help keep alive their precious memories of life with their families.