Heavy Steps into Toronto
Attempts to Preserve a Memory in the Last Asylum
By Ola Barqawi, a Palestinian-Syrian writer and journalist living in Toronto.
Translated by Sara Hlaibeih
I had predicted for this article to come to life a bit earlier. That it would see daylight briefly after my move to Toronto. A prophecy triggered by friends’ tales and their Instagram stories showing how a few weeks in and I will have had such rich experiences that would inspire my article about the city I had waited so many years to reach. The city that had promised me to be the final stop on my journey.
After long years of anticipation, research and trying to find answers for my many enquiries about Toronto, I seem to have been mistaken about how prepared I was for what awaited me here. It has become clear that I need to erase all expectations and reached conclusions from my head to make space for my newly acquired reality.
I am a Palestinian who has never set foot in Palestine. I was born in Syria and spent the first thirty years of my life a refugee there, until the Syrian revolution started. I would then carry my travel document and set out on new asylum-seeking journeys. Abu Dhabi, Beirut, Manama and Istanbul. The four cities that witnessed my quest for shelter. Each one of these countries issued me a visa, after a nightmare of struggle, provided I pay an exuberant price for my stay. But this sense of security never lasted longer than a year, generating an anxiety that would accompany me along my seven year-long asylum-seeking journey, which has supposedly ended upon my arrival to Toronto.
Walking down Ossington with a friend, I ask “where are we now?”. Astounded, he responds “this is your neighborhood!”.
This is a conversation I have over and over again with friends while heading towards my place. Their eyes widen and astonishment overcomes their faces when I tell them that I still don’t know how to navigate Toronto– and yes, even the area surrounding my home. A recurring situation that becomes an inside joke between them, the woman who is still an alien in her own neighborhood.
Instead of building a friendly connection with the streets, addresses and public transport systems of the first city in ten years to let me set sail for as many years as I want, I let Uber take over again just like in the previous cities.
There is a coffee shop, a hundred meters away from my apartment, that I visited a couple of times and a shopping center that I distinguish as marks to guide me home. An estimated 300 meters only, to the west, is the furthest distance I am able to go without the assistance of Google maps, an Uber or a friend’s guidance.
As I leave my home from my street-accessible balcony, I’m welcomed by a frosty cold air sting drying the hell out of my eyes, nose and throat. I tread carefully down the seven steps with their ice-covered sides that have become part of them. I continue onto the icy pavement, for over two months now, and greet the Uber driver who will take me to my usual destinations.
Transportation in Toronto is like this mysterious creature lurking around me and tapping on my forehead trying to wake me from a years-long hibernation, during which the four cities refused to make me feel welcomed. It was mutual animosity! I even promised each one of them that I would leave at the first opportunity available, and that I wouldn’t hang on to any of them no matter how much happiness they would give me. I turned my back on the possibility of an extended olive branch on rare moments when those cities forgot for a second to practice their cruelty on me.
The temporary curse of being born as a refugee is like being stuck in limbo. Palestinian refugee children are raised to embrace the ideas that defend their right of return, without any confirmed hopes or a clear timeline. All those who have held on to this right will die carrying this dream with them. They may even be forced to seek asylum again and obtain visas or residencies in other countries, however, they will always be branded ‘temporary’. They will be detained at airports and are guaranteed extensive waits at border check-points . Officers will examine their documents and their facial features for so long.Daydreams and plans of whole lives will be demolished any second by an officer’s single decision. The asylum curse will accompany every step towards the embassies of the first world countries that might grant its citizenship, one that would overturn the right to return to Palestine to a desire to visit it.
Toronto is the most recent city. I moved here over five months ago, and it seems like it does not resemble its predecessors. Toronto is waiting for me with open arms, but it is me who is not yet ready for that embrace.
In an Uber ride that barely takes ten minutes, I try to ignore the other kinds of transportation that seem perfectly comfortable, inexpensive and accessible. It is already a struggle for me with all the restraining layers of clothes; winter coat, scarf and mittens obstructing my movement and distracting me from watching the road. Until I grasp a glimpse of the rusted bridge-or maybe that is its actual color- whose name and location I still don’t know, but represents a landmark I recognize in Toronto that proves to me that I am on the correct route.
Neither the city’s quiet streets nor its residents’ overwhelming kindness resemble any other place I lived in or a community I was a part of. Nothing here attracts my attention other than the exquisite graffiti wherever I turn. None of the monotonously repetitive stores, banks or banners on every street help guide me no matter how much I try to keep my eyes wide open. A smile is painted across my face as I spot the third mark I recognize in Toronto, the high building overlooking the lake alone amid a sea of houses.
This city and everyone I know in it has the permission to take my hand and to push me forward in life. I am told I have the ultimate freedom and Toronto is treating me just the way I like. However, instead of opening my eyes and heading into the never-ending horizon, I have been declining the joy accompanied with a smile this city has been offering. It is almost like a mirror reflecting one gloomy image after the other from the well of memories of previous cities. Those are images I have been dreading evoking, especially after they cemented my refugee identity to the extent that I thought I would carry it to my grave. I get lost in my storming thoughts between how unfair the past decades have been, and at the same time, how I should lock the worn-out door to those memories and move on.
It feels like I have become immune to good-byes and letting go to the point that estrangement and a hardened heart have become the clear and gentle path that won’t leave so many scars. As if no matter how heavy the burdens would get, they won’t add to the backache. Weeks fly by and I blame myself for this wasted time with no progress to mention. I scold myself, for I have no acceptable excuse for my reluctance. The first five months have passed with me ignoring an overwhelming amount of obstacles that face every newcomer. And when someone checks on me and on how I have spent the first few months, I barely share a bit of my discomfort along with some grumpiness.
I might keep avoiding opening my heart to embrace Toronto’s affection for several more years. This city will not give up on me, and the next time she will offer to take care of me, I will not turn my back on that gesture. She will have forgiven my estrangement, will maybe even give me the time to replace each cruel memory with ones less scarring. I will forgive her as well. For the first time in 17 years, she has made me forget the anniversary of my father’s passing, while increasing our encounters in my dreams from which I wake up astonished, scared and nostalgic. I will fall in love with Toronto regardless of how far away it is and of how it keeps me away from what is happening in Syria. She has helped me escape years of confusion about belonging. Being here has locked me away from Damascus for an unpredictable number of years that I don’t dare to imagine. However, it will soon open a path to Palestine, for a visit that was impossible until five months ago.
