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With Only The $50 Sewn Into The Back Of His Tie.
A story about coming to North America from a country in political turmoil.
by Faiyaz Kara.
I recall being in a state of emotional paralysis the first time my father told me the story of our journey to Canada. I was stunned, unable to move. How was it that I could be too young to multiply and divide, yet old enough to know the horrifying truth of my family’s history? I didn’t want to hear any of this; it hurt too much to hear of the injustices my mom and dad suffered. These were my parents after all -- the invincible purveyors of my existence. As I lay in my bed that night, my dad’s voice reverberated in the caverns of my mind:
“When we came to Canada, all we had was the $50 I had sewn into the back of my tie.”
The words lingered like the aftershocks of an earthquake. Did the other kids at school have parents who were subjected to such torment? If not, then why my parents? Why these two hard working individuals who saw to it that all my needs were met?
I learned at a very early age that life isn’t fair. I learned later on that life goes on.
In 1970, the East African nation of Tanzania re-elected its president, Julius Nyerere, who committed himself to building a socialist state for the millions of poor peasants of his nation. The nationalization of banks and buildings, restrictions on foreign exchange and a break from the existing educational system, previously established by the British, were all a part of Nyerere’s plan to get the country out of its penurious state. Being fourth generation East Indians, living a relatively comfortable middle class existence, my father’s attitude was that we were not included in the party’s political agenda. This was not good news for my father, who was a schoolteacher at the time. He felt Tanzania’s educational reform had more to do with daily flag raisings and party indoctrination than improving pedagogical techniques. Education, he felt, was being sacrificed at the hands of proselytizing schoolmasters and instructors. My father’s dissatisfaction didn’t sit too well with certain officials of the National Panel, so in the summer of 1971, on an excuse of taking his parents overseas for medical treatment, my father applied for immigration to Canada. Unfortunately, being granted an interview was a long, tedious process, so my father, along with my mom and me, decided to head for Zaire, where my uncle had an established business since 1961. Meanwhile, my father advised the Canadian High Commission to conduct the interview in Zaire. While waiting for the interview to be scheduled and conducted, he taught English as a second language at a Catholic institution, while mom raised her infant son.
In late 1972, father got his wish and an interview was held. At the same time, political turmoil in nearby Uganda, under the command of Idi Amin, led to the banishment of all Asians from the small East African nation and, as a consequence, delivery of our visas was delayed. The happenings in Uganda didn’t bode well for some of the other neighbouring countries. It seemed that the political wind from Uganda was blowing towards Zaire and, sure enough, in May 1974, all foreign-owned businesses and plantations were seized by President Joseph Mobuto and given over in political patronage. This meant all foreigners had to relinquish their assets to local Zairians including cars, bank accounts, businesses, home furnishings - everything. In a show of goodwill, the Canadian Embassy issued visas to almost all foreigners who wanted them.
Needless to say, it was a tumultuous time for us all, full of harassment, midnight raids, bribery and arbitrary imprisonment. At one point, my father was so fed up with this bullying that he proceeded to the Provincial Governor’s office to surrender all of his assets in an effort to get the first flight out of town. Though he possessed a legal visa, government officials detained and imprisoned him without just cause. They contacted my uncle who had to raise US$2,000 from friends and family in order to ensure my father’s release.
The new proprietor of our home, car and assets was nice enough to pay for our airfare out of the country. As we were not allowed to take any foreign currency, and as Zairian currency was not accepted outside of Zaire, my father had to stitch a US$50 bill, borrowed from his cousin, inside the back of this tie in case we needed something on our long flight out. Our suitcases were ransacked at the airport but it was a small price to pay for our freedom. We landed in Toronto on the afternoon of August 14, 1974, free from the harassment, corruption and political immaturity of these fledgling independent nations. Within three weeks of our arrival, both my mom and my dad received jobs at the same company -- despite there being a massive transit strike. And so began the rebuilding process for my family in the strange environs of a new land, culture and people.
In hearing my father recount this saga twenty years later, the old feelings storm back. I can’t help but stare intently at my little sister during his recitation. It’s clear she has not heard this piece of our family’s history, and I can feel the strange stream of emotions flowing through her callow mind. But in a strange way, watching her, I’m now aware of the story’s significance. It is our past, our roots, who we are and where we came from. I find myself being stunned by this revelation.
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