My husband, three children and I were living in a neighbourhood which consisted of single-family homes, subsidized housing and low-rental apartments. Our eight year old son was one of six Caucasian children in his class and the friends he brought home from school had names we couldn't pronounce and customs we didn't understand. I welcomed them, feeling that a dose of "typical Canadian family" would turn them into good and grateful citizens. I prided myself on my open-mindedness, lack of prejudice, and determination that there would be no discrimination in my midst. I was a pious person in 1978, in December, just before Christmas, when my value system was rearranged by one small Lebanese girl.
Her name was Ikrim. She and her mother were refugees who had been given sanctuary in Canada
As Christmas approached, I was busy with holiday preparations and wondered, as usual, if the true meaning of Christmas could be found in the midst of all the advertising and materialism that surrounded the season. Our family recognized the plight of others by contributing to the usual charities like the food bank, Christmas seal fund, and the Salvation Army bell-ringers in the malls. Like almost everyone we knew, we took our own comfort for granted.
One day, before Christmas break began, a group of young children, mine included, were playing outside. I quickly recognized Ikrim in the group as she bossed and shoved the others until she got her way. I watched the group from the window for awhile, then returned to the kitchen. Soon though, my son was at the door, Ikrim close behind him. Her dark face peered over his shoulder as she bobbed and pushed, determined to come inside.
"Mom," my boy said, "Ikrim wants to see our baby. She wants to see our tree and she says you have to put the lights on. And she wants a candy cane."
I plugged in the tree lights as the little girl took off her boots in the entranceway. Our twelve-week-old daughter slept serenely in her baby seat near the tree, now bathed in the glow of twinkling Christmas lights. Nearby, the crèche decorated the mantle. My living room was a display of Christmas peace and good will.
Ikrim crept around the corner and stared at the tree, the sparkle of lights reflecting in her dark eyes and a true look of Christmas wonder spreading across her face. I offered her a candy cane and she took it shyly for once, without speaking. She gazed in awe at the lights, the ornaments and the tinsel, and then her eyes wandered around the room and came to rest on my sleeping daughter. She tiptoed quietly toward the baby, her finger across her lips, telling herself to “hush” as she’d obviously been taught. Her look of rapt enchantment travelled from the sleeping baby to the fireplace mantle as her eyes wandered from one tiny figurine to another and I thought briefly that this child had been truly blessed by the Christmas spirit.
Briefly, because too soon, her eyes lifted and she stared at the wall above the fireplace where my husband's two hunting rifles hung in a gun rack. Her expression changed. Childish wonderment was instantly replaced with terror. In my midst, the story written across her face transformed her from an innocent child into an ageless woman who had experienced more of life's horrors in her brief years than I could imagine in a lifetime. Then she fled, shoving her feet into her boots and dropping her candy cane as she rushed through the door.
After that day, Ikrim still played with the children. I now recognized her unruly behaviour as a manifestation of her instinct to survive. Her boldness protected her from being hurt by the other children and her constant demands were her way of ensuring she wouldn’t hungry or insignificant again. Ikrim moved away shortly after that Christmas and she never came inside my house again. She never knew that after she left, the rifles were taken down and eventually sold. They were never displayed in our home again.
originally published in the Calgary Herald, 24.12.1998
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