A tale of a Syrian refugee: Part one

The image is taken from Travel Made Simple

Now this is a story all about how my life got flipped-turned upside down. Sorry I had to.

Welcome to this first post of the mini-series “A tale of a Syrian refugee” where I will document my journey from the beginning of the Syrian uprising until today. This is not a biography because I believe a bio is simply made for important and influential people. Like I stated in a previous post, I’m just a normal person who aimed for long years to end up in Canada. Why Canada? Fair question. Let me start then.

My story begins in the late ’80s when I wasn’t even born. My father, who was a satellite engineer, worked for some of the biggest satellite operators around the world. He spent most of his youth working in the Gulf countries. For those who don’t know, people from the MENA region capitalized on the golden era of the Gulf. Countries like Saudi and Kuwait were the best destinations for qualified people. It was a no-brainer for people from Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Palestine, Egypt, and other Arab countries to utilize their experience in various fields and move to the wealthy Gulf countries to work maybe for decades before going back to their home countries to start their own businesses.

This was always the plan. Staying in our poor countries was not a viable option because, for obvious reasons, an experienced employee will waste their prime working in dead-end jobs. Only few people managed to stay in said countries and thrive. Thus, following to spending some twenty years in the Gulf, my father finally decided to return to Syria and settle down.

For someone who used to live in a well-served place, Syria was a jungle. That great Syria with rivers, gardens, advanced universities, leading industries, and many other conditions that make a great country were long gone. I don’t want to get too political, but there was a systematic destruction to the country, especially Damascus and Aleppo, that started in mid ’60s and is continuing to this very day. As a result, the country was unlivable. There was a shortage of almost every basic commodity. I clearly remember how Syrians used to bring their families in Syria tissues. Yes, tissues. A simple item like tissues were unavailable in Syria back then.

My father could not take it anymore and going back to the Gulf was not an option either owing to the laws and regulations against foreginers owning businesses. He refused to be an employee again after being one for all these years, so, enter destination Canada. His cousins were already one step ahead of him since they started the immigration process to Canada. He did what he does best, impress people. The Canadian immigration officer was really impressed with his resume, fluency in English, French, and Arabic, and sincere intent to assimilate in the country. Shortly after, my father landed in Monteral. While Canada is a country that always seeks new qualified immigrants, the situation back then was much easier as Canada required plenty of people back then.

He had big dreams for his new journey. He went there with tons of business plans, ideas, and enough funding to start his new life. Some few weeks passed there before receiving that ominous phone call from my grandmother: Your father is sick… As an only child, my father went into a major conundrum, staying across the globe to secure a better future for his family or going back to the wilderness and help his ill father. He went back to Syria to assess the situation. The bad news came shortly, my grandfather had cancer. To this very day, when we ask our dad why did you leave Canada? His reply is always the same: Your grandfather asked me to spend what’s left of his life with him. They loved each other so much that it was the obvious decision. Canada can wait, but my grandfather will not.

My father’s lawyer begged him to come back, she told him that this will not be solved over the phone and she needs to see him personally, to an extent, she was willing to meet him in Paris to change his mind. She was probably exaggerating, because after all, there were so many other qualified immigrants. Ultimatly, he made up his mind. He decided to stay in Syria and start his own business. Hence, he made that final phone call to his lawyer thanking her for everything and bidding her a last farewell.

When we were kids, we always blamed dad for this decision, we kept nagging and complaining that he let this opportunity slip by, and we made sure to remind him on every occasion. That was callous, indeed, but we were kids and didn’t know any better. Amazingly, he was not upset. You would think that this cruel behavior will lead to snapping, but he didn’t. His only reply was: That was the least I could do for the man who raised me and spent his life trying to give me a better life and to raise me as an honest man. You will understand when you grow up.

I understand now, father…

To be continued…