“We need you to interview a couple
who have applied to teach in our province,” said the government voice at the
end of the line.
“O-kay,” I said wondering why they
couldn’t do it themselves.
“They’re from Lebanon and they only speak
Arabic and French.”
Aha, that explained it. We had many
immigrants coming into our city from war torn areas of the world and the
Lebanese civil war was on-going at the time.
“We need you to evaluate their
French language competency.”
A date and time were set and I met
the couple in the appointed government office. I talked to each of them in
turn.
The wife was shy and timid, but her
French was fine. The husband was more willing to talk about conditions in
Lebanon.
“I was a teacher,” he said. “They
took my job away and sent me to work at the airport. Every morning I said
good-bye to my family not knowing if I would see them again. Every morning a
guard pointed a gun in my chest and asked me to produce my identification. The
same guard. Every morning. As if he didn’t know who I was. We were so lucky to
come to Canada. We had to come. I couldn’t risk the lives of my wife, my
children.”
He paused for a moment as if
gathering himself. “It’s so quiet here. You have peace. It’s so quiet here.”
All these years later, especially as
I watch the news of war and strife around the world, one phrase echoes in my
head. “It’s so quiet here.”
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