The Lady in the Boat

The journey was long and hot: well over two hundred kilometres from Palmyra to the Mediterranean seaport of Tartus Syria. Regardless, Mohamed and Maya Jamail were desperate to find a new life for themselves and their two young children: eight year old Buran, who was growing up much faster than any child deserved, and adorable little three year old Amena. They had nothing more than the clothes on their backs, four blankets, an old sack filled with family memories and a couple of bottles of water. They knew it would take weeks to get to the sea and hoped that they could find food, water and shelter along the way. The sky was filled with fighter jets crisscrossing overhead, and bombs could be heard exploding in every direction around them.  When they finally reached Tartus, exhausted, on the point of starvation, they saw thousands of other Syrians waiting in long queues for a boat...any boat..

An elderly gentleman, Abdul Kalib, befriended them and found them food and water and let them use his small tent for shelter.  Abdul somehow had authority over all the refugees and announced that the young Jamail family would be in line for the next boat. There were a number of disgruntled people and one young woman came up to Abdul and pleaded with him to allow her on, as her husband and son had gone on the boat before. She was on her knees crying and begging and finally he relented and she joined Mohamed, Maya, and the children in line to board.

The sea was calm and Mohamed and Maya grabbed the children and waded out to the boat. It was                      supposed to hold forty five people but ninety two were able to fit in. The water came up to three inches below the gunwales. There was a large outboard motor and a number of oars should the motor fail.  They were heading toward Cyprus when a wind came up and blew them off course. The waves started to lap over the gunwales and Maya held Amena and Buran as tight as she could. Without notice, a rogue wave capsized the boat and all aboard found themselves screaming and trying to hang on to anyone or anything they could. The wave had been so forceful that both children had been ripped from Maya’s grasp although Mohamed was able to grab Buran as he whipped by on the crest of a wave. Little Amena was gone. There was no trace of her, no little hand reaching out for hope and no pleading cries. Mohamed, Maya and Buran had managed to find an oar and held on to it until a local fisherman came by and rescued them and took them to Turkey. The family was devastated without little Amena and Maya could not control the steady flood of tears.

When they landed on the Turkish beach they were greeted by a number of United Nations personnel who gave them blankets and water.  At the nearby registration desk they were interrogated before being told to go to a specific tent located among the thousands of others, they were asked what country they wanted to settle in.

“Canada”, shouted Buran just as Mohammed was about to say Germany.

“Why Canada,” asked the official.

“Because they have Blue Jays, Maple Leafs and no bombs,” said Buran

“Well you’re in luck, something just happened a little while ago in Canada and yesterday a number of Canadian officials arrived and I suggest you check in with them before you go to your tent. The Jamails scurried over to the Canadian Immigration desk. A kindly Mr. Stevens greeted them and asked them a number of questions and they also mentioned to him they had lost little Amena when their boat capsized. He conveyed his sincerest sympathies, made a note of her name and told them to not wander far from their tent as someone, would eventually come and take them to a plane.

With that the Jamails headed towards their row and eventually found their tent.  There was a soccer ball nearby, and young Buran kept himself busy kicking the ball around with other children, while Maya mourned the loss of little Amena. The food tent was mammoth and served hot stews, oatmeal, bread, coffee, milk and water twenty-four seven.  Mr. Stevens, himself, came two days later and took them to a large bus with a number of other refugees. They were headed for the airport where they climbed the stairs onto a huge air transport plane.  The first stop, after refuelling in London, would be in Halifax and then Montreal, Toronto, Winnipeg, Calgary and finally Vancouver. Each family would be given a card with the name of the sponsoring family and their address.

Mr. Stevens came by and stopped and gave Mohammed his card. It read; David and Sylvia McTavish, Middleton Nova Scotia. There was also a note on it that they had a son, eight, named Brian. After nearly eighteen hours on the plane, they finally arrived in Halifax. Mr. Stevens smiled at Mohammed and motioned for him and his family to get off the plane. They entered a large room where they were processed by immigration officials and through the large glass window Buran could see a throng of people, and then his eye picked out a sign that said Jamail. He tugged on his mother’s arm and pointed to the sign. She started to cry as Buran was jumping up and down and waving to the sign holder.

Having finally been processed and having received numerous documents and a booklet on Canada and an appointment letter for their health care check up they walked through the doors to cheers from all the sponsoring families. Maya was beside herself with tears as she mouthed the words “Thank You, Thank You” to everyone. They headed directly to the family holding up their name and greeted them all with big hugs.

“Do you play hockey?” asked Brian

“No,” said Buran, “but I would like to learn.”

“Do you skate?”

“No, but I would like to learn,” again, was the reply.

The Jamails were to stay with the McTavishes until the first of the New Year when their apartment would be ready. The Rotary and Lions clubs and all of the churches of Middleton had pooled their resources and rented and furnished a nice two bedroom apartment on Riverside Drive. They were in awe of all the Christmas lights in the trees and on the buildings.

“Don’t you have Christmas lights,” asked Brian.

“No, we don’t even have lights anymore,” said Buran.

As they got to the home the Jamails were astounded to see a decorated tree in the living room but just as thrilling was the comfort of their beds and the running water in the bathroom, something they hadn’t seen in over two years as their water and hydro plants had been bombed out.

It was Christmas morning and the entire Christmas tree was almost covered to its top with piles of gifts the townspeople of Middleton had given this poor refugee family. Buran’s special present was a brand new pair of Bauer skates from the McTavishes. Grocery stores and Frenchy’s had given the Jamails substantial gift certificates and numerous businesses gave them job offers.  Mohammed, Maya, and Buran were overwhelmed.

Maya helped Sylvia prepare Christmas dinner and just as they were about to sit down the door bell rang.

“Who could that be?” said David as he went to open the door.

There, standing in front of him was Mr. Stevens, holding the hand of little three year old Amena dressed in a red velvet dress with a white lace collar, white socks and brand new patent leather shoes.

“Maya, Mohammed, there’s someone here to see you’” he shouted back into the house.

Everyone came to the front door and Maya screamed as she fell to her knees as little Amena ran into her arms. The tears of joy and the hugs and kisses seemed as if they would never end. Mr. Stevens explained that Amena had been taken to Cyprus and the Canadian U.N. peacekeeping forces had gotten in touch with his people in Turkey.

When things settled down Amena told them how the lady, who joined them in the boat, held onto her until a fisherman picked them up.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” said Sylvia as the two families sat down and joined hands around the table. David said Grace and then Mohammed said D’ua, the Muslim prayer of thanks to Allah