Recently returned to Montreal after years of absence abroad, I am especially struck at first sight by the immigrants. Having been one myself for many years, I can very well feel their issues deep in my gut.
I have known the joy of blending in, anonymously, with a crowd that resembles me, the joy of no longer attracting the gaze of passers-by, the joy of being invisible and of no longer hearing the children say: “Mom, look, there, a…” I am uprooted from the Earth and I have learned to live like orchids do, with aerial roots. I know the path of immigrants and their dreams of a country without violence, without poverty, without exploitation and without despair. It’s a road that can be deadly, like some friends I met in the past.
A subway train. In front of me, a black, on my right, a Chinese, on my left, an Arab. Behind me, near the door, three pure-bred Quebecers talking loudly. Words are traps. In all the countries where I have worked, I have rubbed shoulders with these normal people who are called “pure wools”. What most often characterizes pure wool, whether in Montreal, Berlin, Lima, Mexico City or Paris, are prejudices and narrow-mindedness. A pure wool does not make a difference between a Yemeni, a Kurd, a Sikh and a Moroccan, they are all Arabs for him. A Vietnamese, a Thai or a Tibetan, it doesn’t matter, he is a Chinese. Black people ? They come from Haiti or Africa and they speak African. Luckily, the pure wools do not form the majority of a population, but they are often the loudest.
Laurier station. My Chinaman is coming down. I remember Tchai, this Laotian who first lived in a refugee camp in Thailand, arrived in Panama on a passing boat, expelled from Mexico, abandoned on a river in Guatemala, then shot dead because he was urinating on the walls of a hotel which, unfortunately for him, belonged to the mayor of the city. The Latins called him “the Chinese.” He spoke Laotian. Tchai dreamed of a land without violence. I hosted him for a few weeks. We made drawings to understand each other.
Mount Royal station. Two blacks, young and pretty. I remember Anna, this Black woman from the Honduran coast who dreamed of going to join a father who had abandoned her fifteen years earlier for the American paradise. Schizophrenic, she knew she was a burden for her family. She was robbed, beaten and raped a few times in Mexico, then in Guatemala. I took her under my wing for a few months. I lost track of her in Belize, because she often ran away.
Berri-UQAM station. Three Arabs, five Blacks, two Chinese. I remember Mohammed, this resourceful Palestinian who had come up from Buenos Aires with a Colombian passport, a real one, obtained I don’t know how. A trafficker look, but a big heart. Last I heard, he was moonlighting in Miami. A lover of life, money and women, he was not a candidate for terrorism.
I also remember the five teenagers from Honduras I met at a bus stop in Péten, en route to the United States. I bought them a meal and convinced them to turn back. I explained to them what the coyotes were hunting at the borders of their dream and the kind of job that awaited them in paradise. The girls cried. The guys remained silent. They listened to me.
All these migratory birds have the same dream in common: to get out of the hell of poverty, violence, powerlessness and despair. All want to help their families and all carry in their meager luggage the hope of theirs.
I remember Mahdi, this qualified Moroccan friend who dreamed of seeing snow. He attempted to obtain UN refugee status claiming to be Algerian, but was refused. According to the latest news, he would be living in Canada with a French passport. I never saw him again.
Whoever arrives here turns into a root for his family. He feeds it with his sweat and he accepts the normal and tolerated conditions of exploitation for immigrants, like those three Portuguese who died drowned in the waters of Lac des Deux-Montagnes a few years ago.
Over time, the root wears out. The children of these people become strangers. These immigrants we meet every day know they are uprooted, but their children are rebelling against it. They don’t accept being called pariahs and being told to go back home.
When we are different, whether we are seen as white, black, Chinese or Arab, we quickly learn to trust only those of our color, race or culture. Hence the ghettos, the cultural associations, the street gangs and this law of silence that envelops the immigrant in the land of his dreams.
Bonaventure station. My three pure wool teenagers arrive. They are blacks… Pure black wools in Quebec, do they exist? In all the countries of the world, we are intolerant towards those who are not like us, those from another tribe. Discrimination and racism are remnants of tribal DNA passed down for millennia. We talk about racism and discrimination in rich countries like Quebec. Elsewhere, they live daily, without thinking too much about it. I supported them.
“Quebec for Quebecers pure wool” is an outdated concept, and I will not talk here about history lessons in our schools, which do not help our young people to understand the world. At home, we are not as racist as in Mississippi, as in Turkey, as in Dubai, but should discrimination include nuances?
We are all unconscious travellers. Tomorrow we will have to abandon our flags, our prejudices, our small provinces and our national holidays. Life is just a trip, and the final frontier accepts only one passport, tamper-proof, that of a human being. Immigrants are the wealth of nations.