A Clumsy Little Story
Listen to the Reed
Waking up in Canada
A Clumsy Little Story
Let me tell you a story, a
clumsy little story.
Not once upon a time, but
this very day, or precisely yesterday, or surely tomorrow, a newcomer joins
the old-timers of our city who were once newcomers too. Well, that’s just the
way things happen – not that
the
oppressive powers of a poor country imposed it
or
the thoughtful policymakers of a prosperous
country planned it. Strangely enough, the newcomer of our story
is a novelist who is not lucky enough to write in the pachyderm language of the
world, or even in this country's second official language. Yet,
more than other immigrants, he lives in a world of
imagination, and dreams of what might be possible in the land
that gave the world Anne of Green Gables.
I suppose
you don’t want to ask me "Why?"
Or do you?
People always say that
immigrants go through a hellish ordeal in order to gain future benefits, either
for themselves or for the next generation. That’s just the way things are – not
that there is a pre-planned pattern for it. It's simply the price of living in
the Promised Land. Strangely enough, our immigrant writer in the honeymoon stage
would be more than happy to pay any price to live in a
Wonderland where he could write his novel, A
Middle Eastern Double Bind, without worrying about censorship and other
restrictions.
Despite the fact that our
writer comes from a land haunted by magic realism, he is
realistic enough to expect that it takes time to get established in a new place
– no matter whether it's hell or heaven. After all, the fact that
Canada has room
for all comers doesn’t mean that immigrants get treated to a red carpet.
Furthermore, our writer’s ears are sharp enough to hear the first lesson: "An
immigrant is an animal without Canadian experience." So he has to forget
everything other than "Canadian life experience," which means, first and
foremost, finding a foothold in a city that is constantly stretching to
accommodate more and more immigrants. Moreover, our writer's memory is fresh
enough to recall that even in his native land the answer to the question "What
do you do?" should be anything rather than " I'm a writer." Because if he
answered that, the next question would be, "Wonderful, but what's your job?" Our
immigrant novelist decides to temporarily sacrifice the
Double Bind he longs to write in
order to get bread, if not butter. Strangely enough, hunger and lack of a roof
over the head have a way of defeating the pen. That's just the way things happen
– not that anything’s wrong with
any
particular social system that doesn’t treat writers well.
Soon it turns out that what
at first looks like a mere hiatus is going to become a life sentence. Our
protagonist works hard, jumps from one survival job to another, improves his
English as a Second Language, takes a never-ending series of evening courses,
and grabs any kind of Canadian experience in the hope of getting a better-paying
job and finding the luxury of enough free time to read books instead of
newspapers or flyers and, most of all, to finish his poor Double
Bind. Strangely enough, our hero, still optimistic, tries to write the
novel in his mind while running to work or to school, or while labouring at an
assembly line or in front of a bakery oven. Time passes and brings about a
change of status and a few extra bucks, at least to the extent that our new
citizen can indulge himself in a cup of coffee in a Starbucks, read news about
literary events and, if it doesn't conflict with his work schedule, even attend
an arts event -- if it's free. Yet these aren't the only changes. Rapidly his
physical energy and health are being undermined. The more our former novelist
experiences the Canadian life style, the harder it is to call himself a writer
and to remember that he had wanted to write
A Middle Eastern Double Bind.
Well, that’s just the way things are
– not that the new country or even the old one has any hand in that.
If the first lesson for the
immigrant is that he lacks "Canadian experience", the second one is that he must
develop the hide of a rhinoceros. Strangely enough, the immigrant writer of our
story is determined to get back on track and reclaim his literary identity. He
then encounters the roadblock question, "Do you have any books published in
English?" Blaming himself that he's forgotten what it’s like to be trampled by
the elephant of English, our immigrant writer summons enough energy to translate
some of his works into it. From the start our suspect writer knows that this, at
best, cannot be anything other than a long shot. What becomes frustrating is
that the time he squeezes in for translation means that time is stolen
from finishing
his
Double Bind.
But that’s
just the way things happen – not that the policy makers of Canadian
arts and culture disregard the golden multiculturalism that is supposed to (I
quote from the Canadian Multiculturalism Act, 1985), “encourage
and assist the social, cultural, economic and political institutions of
Canada to be
both respectful and inclusive of
Canada’s
multicultural character.”
Well, if you expect a neat
ending to this clumsy little story, I'm sorry
to
disappoint you. Strangely enough, the story of an immigrant writer whose
first language is not one of the major European ones is at best nothing but
A Canadian Double Bind. This
immigrant, who was once a writer, takes refuge
in
Canada
to escape from an authoritarian regime that, by making her homeland a cage,
didn’t let her be a writer. He chooses
Canada
as a new home because of its fame, not only as a democratic peacekeeping
country, but also as a land that takes pride in multiculturalism as (I quote)
"…a fundamental characteristic of the Canadian heritage…" But it turns out that
lack of censorship doesn't necessarily guarantee writing and living as a writer.
It also turns out that the chosen land cannot be anything more than a purgatory,
if not a hell, for the writer who doesn't write in English or French. Besides
the challenges of immigrant life, which can be overcome in a way or another, the
writer likely encounters a high risk of losing his professional identity. To
overcome the latter, the possible scenarios are: (a) He ignores the English
market and keeps writing in his mother tongue, being content with getting
published abroad by small publishers with no distribution system and a tiny,
random readership. He thus remains a stranger on the CanLit scene. (b) He quits
writing in his first language and starts writing in English. In this case, he
sacrifices his mother tongue to English and proves that multiculturalism is
nothing but a myth. And, even if the writer succeeds in producing a work of
quality in English, he is unlikely to compete well in the market with English-
speaking, Canadian-born writers. (c) He strives to keep a balance between his
dual identities and languages and chooses translation as a medium. In this case,
because of the lack of institutional support, the writer has to bear his own
cross and function as a translator.
Anyway, one may say, "That's
just the way things are." -- not that anybody is wrong, other than the person
who wants to live and die as a writer.
[Talk at the
'multiculturalism panel' at the Munk Centre,
Toronto,
Oct. 2007]
From:
http://www.icorn.org/sections.php?var=10
Listen to the Reed
This
exchange is an excerpt from the chapbook Listen to the Reeds, published
by
PEN Canada in the spring of 2005 as part of a series of dialogues called
Readers & Writers.
►indicates
jumps within the original text
DEAR KAREN
While I
was reading the PEN proposal about exchanging ideas with an established Canadian
writer, I had two opposing thoughts. One was "This is totally new!" At first
glace, whatever is new looks appealing: it reflects the rich ambiguity of
untravelled paths and undiscovered lands. As a mental adventuress, I am more
than happy to set out once again, this time accompanied by a writer named Karen
Connelly.
Then I
heard another inner voice muttering, "But this doesn't accord with your style!"
Up to this moment I've never written anything because of an order or
recommendation or even a suggestion. So far I've put pen to paper only whenever
I've felt an urge to express myself. This has been my commitment
throughout my writing life. Yet publishing whatever I think is
something that gives me pause. I know we're living in a reputable democratic
country where there is very little formal censorship, but hidden barriers impede
me from openly expressing my impressions about many things. Here is a very
trivial example: I wanted to start my letter this way:
Dear
Karen,
The
first letter you wrote to me made me so happy. Why? Well, I was exhausted by the
boring job I have to do in order to survive physically. To tell the truth, while
staring at the screen to find a record, I usually feel miserable because instead
of wandering in my imaginary wilderness I have to keep all my attention on
details about codes and signs and so on . . .
But just
guess what would happen if my employer happened to read these words and found
out her employee was not interested in her job at all? Don't you think I'd
better keep my mouth shut?
Nevertheless, I do want to correspond with you! I'm sure you're overwhelmed by
this long introduction, but I had to make it clear that I am writing now to an
unknown friend rather than for an unknown audience. It is a blessing for me to
exchange ideas with you. During the last five years I haven't had a conversation
with a literary figure outside my native language community. From the moment of
my arrival as an immigrant in Canada, the most valuable part of my identity flew
up to take refuge on the dark side of the moon. It's been invisible not only to
others, but also to myself.
My
illusion before I came to Canada was that I would be able to make a living by
working as a professional at a library, as I did in Iran, my native land. In my
free time, I would write without any fear of social and political restrictions.
The reality has been very different: though I don't have worries and despair
caused by political and cultural limitations, I also don't have any time, for
all my energies are tied up in the struggle for economic survival.
Since my
arrival in Toronto, the proud bookworm has metamorphosed into an ineffectual
breadwinner. I work every day, plus four evenings a week. The irony is that, in
the immigration process, I got considerable points as a librarian because my
profession was on the list of wanted professions. But five years of constant
efforts have not led me to a librarian position in any of the numerous libraries
of the Greater Toronto Area. Proud of my experience in information studies, I
had no difficulty in searching and accessing information. I referred to
different centres offering job hunting workshops, attended training programs and
computer classes, learned "how to sell" myself. I did volunteering; I met
counsellors. I applied different methods, from online to cold call, and so on.
God knows how frantically I tried to find a way out of this vicious circle!
Gradually
I recognized the barriers. There are common obstacles caused by people's
attitudes and routine procedures: ignoring foreign names while canning resumes,
underrating foreign credentials, being actively biased against "new immigrants".
I'll point out issue reflecting systemic discrimination: my master's degree,
obtained from an internationally recognized university, and also one of my
advantages in the process of applying for immigration, was useless here.
Practically, Canadian employers (in the library science field) recognize only
ALA (American Library Association) accredited qualifications.
In a word,
my case is just a simple example of so many cases of professionals and skilled
workers condemned to dismiss their abilities and capabilities just because they
were born in the "bad" part of the world.
DEAR
FERESHTEH
What an
introduction! Your honesty is refreshing: I'm honoured to have an "unknown
friend" writing to me and just telling it as it is. My situation is very
different than yours, but I know something of what you mean. I'm a willing
immigrant: right now, in Athens, I am constantly reminded of the extent of my
privilege as a Westerner. There are many Pakistanis, Nigerians, Filipinos,
Kosovans, Bosnians, and Albanians in this big, crazy city, and the struggle they
experience is written on their faces, hedgingly spoken about in conversation at
bus tops and at the edges of the street cafés, where they go to sell trinkets
and pirated CDs and where I go to drink coffee. Greece is a country where crimes
against the Other are easy to commit; racism is often overlooked and even
tacitly encouraged. It's changing here, but very slowly, and the xenophobia is
intense and overt, especially against the impoverished migrant workers.
My own
struggles pale in relation to theirs, and to yours, but they still keep my mind
awake at night, and my spirit divided. En bref, I continue to be torn
about here to live my life-here, because my partner lives here-or in Canada.
I've spent much of my adult life abroad, in Europe and Asia. A little stone hut
on a Greek island has been my most enduring home. I don't intend to compare
myself to you-and certainly not to a Nigerian or Albanian living with 12 other
men in a flat in Athens. In many ways, I consider Greece my home. When it comes
to finances, I'm not rich, but I'm not that poor either. I'm also fully
acclimatized here, speak Greek fluently, read the language not badly.
But I am
still Outside, especially as a foreign woman in a very patriarchal culture. The
state of Otherness has always fascinated me and continues to do so. Learning
about the experience of The Other has probably been the most important part of
my education as a human being. Much of this came from living among poor people
in France and Spain. In Spain, I lived in the Basque country-a nation of
historical and cultural otherness-and in France I spent almost a year in the
Arab ghetto of Avignon, which is also where many Gypsies live. I was in my early
20s at that time.
In a
curious way, my education in Otherness has helped me to understand my own
country better. We can say all we want about the joys of multiculturalism-and
there are real joys-but being a foreigner means living on a faultline, inside a
fracture. More and more people in the world live inside that fractured reality.
When I was
younger I didn't miss my own country when abroad, but now I do. I miss being so
far from my family. When it comes to literary culture, I long for more
connection to Canada and to other writers. Though I speak Greek, I know my voice
does not count the same way a Greek man's does. In conversations with Greek men
about politics or social issues, my voice is not heard-I am tuned out. The word
"feminist" in Greek-feministria-is like a terrible insult. (Not very
different than in Canada, I suppose.) For so much of my life, literary community
didn't matter, but I now long to have like-minded people around me. I want
people to listen to me when I speak. ►
DEAR KAREN
Let me say
that I was moved by what you wrote about Greece and your experience as an
outsider. I read this part of your letter many times and enjoyed it very much.
I've never been to Greece, but I understand that sense of "Greekness" with its
side effects. In the ancient world, Greek civilization was one of the proudest
among others-including Persian, Mesopotamian, and Egyptian. This pride brings
forth a sense of history that may result in a misleading "self-aggrandizement".
Besides, while some of them-like the Mesopotamian-disappeared and Egyptian
civilization underwent a regressive metamorphosis, and Persian civilisation
faded out to the extent of a phantom, Greek civilization survived by breathing
its spirit into the body of Western culture and history.
The
discourse on the Western approach toward the universe and the Easter, and the
differences between them, appeals to me very much. Each has its advantages and
disadvantages: the Western attitude tends to keep a distance form the subject
matter in order to examine it in the most precise way, and the Eastern one is
inclined to see the observer or examiner as part of a unique whole. Eventually,
life is nothing but a series of connections and disconnections, attachments and
detachments, desires and "non-desires". Would it be possible to avoid the tragic
sense of the duality that is the essence of existence? No way! That reality is
what we have to face. In the meantime, let me confess: No matter what my Western
logical part dictates to me, my Eastern emotional part still misses the Middle
Eastern landscape very much.
►I think
that having a sense of historicity is usually contaminated by xenophobia,
which-in some cases-may also be a defensive reaction to potential foreign
danger, rather than mere maliciousness. In Iran, average people bear xenophobia
as a part of the collective unconsciousness. They are also very conscious of,
and were hut by, Great Britain's colonialist ambitions, not to mention the
increasingly domineering USA. So although Iranians don't forge their historical
hospitality and their general receptivity to "superior foreignness", they tend
to stick tot heir clichés when encountering British or American foreigners.
When
Afghanistan was haunted by the Taliban, mainly poor and helpless Afghanis rushed
to take refuge in Iran. There were many cases of discrimination toward Afghan
refugees; part of this was rooted in a historical memory of neighbours who
invaded.
What
you've written in this regard supports my idea about considering mutual
com-and-go as a way of examining the world's problems, so many of which are
caused by misunderstanding and miscommunication.
►Looking
over your letter, I believe that your poetic identity is the source of your deep
concern about The Other. I'm not a poet, but I do know that writers and poets
have a talent for identifying with others-writers mostly with other people and
poets with any Other, including, and maybe mostly with, nature. I'm among those
writers who believe that literature doesn't com from vacuum; on the contrary, it
is generated from life. And in order to have life, you have to live to your full
capacity; that is, the writer cannot create life by sitting in an ivory
tower-unless she or he can bring real life to it.
DEAR
FERESHTEH,
No, I
haven't spent much time in ivory towers, especially in the last few years.
►Whenever
I leave rural Greece, that is my greatest sense of loss.
By
departing, I willingly cut myself off from the land where my body and should
belong, where I have learned to listen best. There is no other landscape on the
planet where I belong the way I belong there. I make sense there, which
translates directly into how I sue my senses. The olive tree, the sheep, the
narrow dusty track past Panago's house, the wild creatures that inhabit the
fields where I live, the seasons of a day and of a year, the thick white band of
the Milky Way shifting over the house as the night deepens, the garden I've made
there, the children I've seen grow up, the old people I've known who've passed
on in the village up the hill.
Even being
in Athens seems like a betrayal of the self that longs only for that landscape
and its many faces. When I first "go home" to the island after a long absence, I
greet it by crying. I cry that I've been away for so long. I cry that I ever
left. And I curse the other part of me-the more intellectual, Western part-that
needs more than what my isolated little island village can give.
To wit, if
I feel that way about an adopted home, I can only imagine what you might feel
about your birth country, Iran. Identity is intrinsically bound up with
landscape and culture.
►If you
look in the mirror and say "identity" what do you think of?
DEAR KAREN
►Your
question about identity is a very challenging one: I live suspended between two
worlds. First and foremost, for me, the answer is language. To make it clear, my
own identity now is the language. ►In an essay called "English Has Raped Me!" I
tried to explain what I feel about my ideal language-which is my definition of
myself as a writer-and what English as a second language has imposed on me.
►It's not
easy to look in the mirror in search of identity when you are stripped of all
your labels and covers. But it is a satisfying experience worth the trouble
because you can see your naked self, vulnerable but also original. I look at the
face staring at me and find it sometimes variable and sometimes constant.
Apparently, it looks like what others see when they look at me.
©2006 Karen
Connelly, Fereshteh Molavi
Reprinted with permission.
Waking
up in Canada
I wake
up in the early morning and find myself
in an unfamiliar bed with layers of thin blankets. I recall is that we are in a
too expensive hotel. Last night, the friend of a friend who picked us up from
the airport insisted on checking us in here instead of the bed and breakfast I
had planned on.
Wasn’t it weird? My first Canadian challenge was an annoying fellow- countryman
who didn’t have any idea about my limited savings. Saddened, I get up, soothing
myself; I’ll find an affordable place for us soon.
I take a shower, then dress and think about the few things I’ve
brought with me: my son, some souvenirs of my childhood in Iran, and the papers
that got us here and will help me find a job. And what was left behind? Nothing
but loved ones -- and an unforgettable generous sunshine.
What am I supposed to do on my first day? Maybe nothing but wander the nearby
streets. I wake my teen-age son. Although he hasn’t watched much television
except for a few government-controlled channels, he’s already addicted to and
turns on the TV right away. It’s a morning program hosted by two men and a
woman. What most amazes me is the woman’s loud laughter, which echoes strange
and pleasant in my ears. I bewilderedly think that for 20 years I haven’t heard
such a freely joyful female sound on the broadcasts back home. I recall those
rigid, mask-like female faces framed in dark veils. I hold up my arm
unconsciously and touch my uncovered hair with a deep sense of pleasure.
After breakfast, we
head to the main entrance of the hotel for a morning walk. Passing through the
revolving door, both of us are forced to stop by a wild freezing gust that
scratches our faces. “Brr!” my son says loudly. In front of us, there are vast
streets without names, full of signs and vehicles, yet without pedestrians.
“Which way are we going?” asks
my son, breathing deeply the cold morning air.
“Anyway you like,” I reply.
Published in “Chatelaine”, September 2005
