Bittersweet exile

Life in Canada started with more fear than hope. We had very little money. My father could not move with the rest of the family at first. My mother, my brother and I lived without him for the first few months in Canada. My mother worked long hours to make sure that we were properly fed.

My brother was loving life in a new place but I felt terribly alienated – especially in my high school. I hated everything about Canada, despite the fact that I was now free from the discrimination that I had faced in Pakistan for being Ahmadi (and a woman).

We had landed in Mississauga, which is part of the Greater Toronto Area. There is a popular myth that being in a multicultural city - or country - would shelter people of colour from racism.  It is not true. Consider the fact that at the time I was in Mississauga, it was populated approximately 25% by South Asians. That did not stop racism. I was discriminated against in Pakistan for not being a “true Muslim”. In Canada, I am discriminated against for being that which nobody in Pakistan believed me to be.

I encountered racism in Canada very early on, during my first month. It was a cold but beautiful autumn night. My mother needed to buy something from the grocery store and I accompanied her. As we were walking to the store, a group of young white men and women who were in our neighbourhood shouted, “Terrorists! Al-Qaeda!” It scared my mother and she thought it was best to go back home. I had never seen my mother so intimidated by anyone before - she always has been the kind who would stand up for herself. It was strange seeing her that way.

I remember wondering to myself if this was how it would always be. Then a few months later, another incident took place and it made the first incident seem mundane in comparison. I was at this park near my home. I went there frequently during my first few months in Canada, to find peace amidst all the emotional, cultural and financial struggles. One day, while I was sitting there reading a book, a young white girl (not much older than 16) shouted at me the words “Paki bitch!” I should have fought back, but my first instinct was to simply get up and leave. You might consider it force of habit. I had, after all, lived for over 18 years in Pakistan: a country where minorities can always be punished for standing up for themselves.

A group of young white men and women in our neighbourhood shouted, "Terrorists! Al-Qaeda!"

As I was walking out of the park, she came cycling behind me. She said that she would hit me hard with her bicycle if I did not run as fast as possible. So I ran as fast as I could. But she did not stop, until one of her friends came running after her and stopped her. Unlike the last incident I mentioned, this one happened in broad daylight. I never stepped into that park again.

This was the day when it became incredibly hard for me to imagine a better life in Canada. And yet life did get better (surprisingly so).

I cannot, however, understate the struggles of my parents. I cannot be completely comfortable with the fact that my father works night-shifts at a gas station despite his qualifications. I know how much it pained him and still does. But I have accepted this because Canada has given me a kind of peace and freedom that Pakistan never could. On the bright side, my mother loves her job as a personal support worker, even though the pay is minimal. But making her own money has given her an agency that she never had in Pakistan.

I know that in Canada, I may always be treated like a second class citizen in some ways. It does not help that our last prime minister, Stephen Harper, passed Bill C-24 that creates a two-tier citizenship process. According to the bill, it is possible to take away one’s citizenship if they are ever implicated in a crime (especially those pertaining to national security), given that they or their parents were not born here. At the same time, if one is not a first- or second-generation immigrant, no number of crimes will warrant revoking your citizenship. It is inherently discriminatory. I hope that this bill gets revoked at some point under our new prime minister, Justin Trudeau – but we must remember that his party also voted for the bill.

I know that there is a degree of discrimination and racism here that I will always have to be wary of. I know I must never underestimate it and I must always fight it. But I know that I have the right to fight against it here. I never had that right in Pakistan. Nobody here can stop me from that struggle. In fact, many will side with me - and they will do so openly. In Pakistan, if you cannot even openly express your Ahmadi identity, how could you fight for your rights? Here, the discrimination against me (as a brown woman) is not legally institutionalised.

I do face racism for being brown and being from a “Muslim background”. I know many Pakistanis and Muslims are forever against the idea of Ahmadis being Muslims. They cannot imagine, perhaps, that my experiences with discrimination in Canada have been a result of me “looking Muslim” and having a “Muslim name”. The very identity that they denied me in Pakistan is imposed upon me in Canada.

Perhaps it is possible that I could have fought back in Pakistan, on those many occasions when I chose not to. But I never really felt like I had a choice in Pakistan. Would it have been an intelligent move on my part to stand up in class and ask the teacher to stop spreading prejudice against Ahmadis? Would it have been a good idea to tell everyone who asked me about my background that I am Ahmadi? It would certainly have been brave, if not wise. Perhaps I was not brave enough. I know there are Ahmadis in Pakistan who fight for themselves every day and there are non-Ahmadis who also fight for the rights of Ahmadis despite the dangers. I was never one of them, and I will always regret that. There are times when I curse myself for being a coward in the face of such bigotry.

Despite the discrimination, Canada feels like home in a way that Pakistan never did

I know that many in Canada will always consider me an outsider and many in Pakistan will always consider me an outsider too. But it does not matter what they think: I consider myself a Pakistani-Canadian and I officially became one last year - after receiving my Canadian citizenship. I also know that I will be mocked for having an accent and that almost every summer, I can expect some racist person in our area will get their dog to do its business outside our house or smash our pumpkins during Halloween.

I also know that sometimes an employer will look at my name on a resume and throw it away. I will always have to be on guard for no reason when I see a police officer. But despite all of these painful facts, Canada feels like home in a way that Pakistan never did. It is because I have the freedom to live as I see fit, and stand up for myself. I can do what I wish to do, as long as I am not harming anyone else.

Canada feels like home because, despite all the grievances mentioned above, there is also a lot of love here and there is a lot of open opposition to all the injustices. Pakistan never felt like the place I could spend the rest of my life in. I want to be here for as long as I live, and fight the injustices here for as long as I live.

I never had the assurance that most Pakistanis would support me in the land of my birth. But despite that, Pakistan will always be a part of me. Some day, I hope to visit a Pakistan that is far better than the Pakistan I left. I hope to visit a Pakistan where I will be able to sit in a roadside dhaba, in a short sun-dress, with no eyes staring at me creepily for being “immodest”. And that day, I hope I will be able to say openly to everyone: “I am a Pakistani-Canadian Ahmadi and I belong to two countries instead of one!”

Farah Anjum lives in Canada