Friends,
If you have been following the recent media coverage of the trial of the young man who killed Salman Afzaal, Madiha Salman, Yumna Afzaal, Talat Afzaal and wounded the youngest of this Muslim family, who were all intentionally run down while out for a stroll, in their London, Ont. community, you will know that he has been found guilty of four counts of first-degree murder and one count of attempted murder.
Canada has grieved, in shock and disbelief, for the Afzaal family and those who love them. Grieved for the loss of humanity. On that June day, two years ago, I remember hearing of the horror that transpired just over an hour away and wrestled with the idea that such hatred could fill the heart of another human. And immediately, the many Muslim families who frequent The Village and from whom I have learned so very much, came into my mind.
Several years ago, soon after the second Village location opened, I met a wonderful woman whom I will call “Anza.” I will be honest and express that at that time, my understanding or knowledge of the Muslim community, language and culture was embarrassingly limited. In truth, I was so intrigued by Anza. I loved to listen to her speak to her children and I was curious about her clothing and how she came to be living here in North Perth.
As she utilized The Village more often, a friendship grew between us; not because I professed The Village to be an authentic ally of Anza, but because she did. One day she said to me, my name beautifully curling off her tongue in her determined mastering of English, “Andrea, You. Are. My. Sister.” I was incredibly moved. And soon the shared laughter, over our inability to understand what the other one was trying to say, seemed to be the thread that wove our friendship together.
Anza would bring the volunteers baklava and tabouleh, and delicious tea brought in a carafe she “purchased” from The Village. She spoke of wanting to eventually open a restaurant here, and serve the community her favourite dishes from Syria. One fall day, after most of the autumn leaves had fallen and the earth was returning to its slumber, Anza invited myself and my wee grandson to her home for dinner. Her tiny children and my grandson, when he would come and spend days with me at The Village, toddling about and hiding under clothing racks with a sweet treat he secretly snatched from the food rescue boxes, could often be seen hugging, giggling and playing together. I felt profoundly honoured to be invited to her home. And so incredibly nervous! What should I bring? Do they eat at the table? What if I said something somehow offensive, unintentionally?
In short time, I had worked myself into such a titter that my nervousness to accept the invitation was trumped by my desire to come up with a believable excuse not to attend. “Listen to you!” I heard my inner voice chastising, as I drove home from work that day. “You are so curious about people and cultures and strongly advocate for inclusion and yet here you are, trying to come up with a reason not to go!” “Dang it, inner conscience!” I thought to myself.
When I got home, I called Anza and accepted her invitation. And then started reading online about what housewarming gift to take to a Muslim family, as though I was expecting some list of foreign and exotic foods. Should I bring a bottle of wine? Is chocolate Halal? To my delight, Google suggested a fruit basket. And that I could comfortably pull together.
When I arrived, Anza was not wearing her Hijab and it was the first time I had seen her beautiful hair. It was my understanding that in their home, and when in the presence of female guests only, a Hijab can be removed.
As the children bounded off to play, Anza invited me into the living room, where a beautiful cloth was already laid upon the floor. Anza had many different dishes of food she had prepared; Mandi (chicken and rice), stuffed grape leaves that Anza had picked herself, and warm and sweet tea.
Anza’s husband and sons would leave this room and go to the kitchen to pray, coming back to take their places around this beautiful meal. Truthfully, I wanted to ask questions about the prayers, but I fretted over my fear of seeming somehow intrusive or disrespectful. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before, in a way that made my soul feel both blessed and also incredibly hungry to learn more about cultures, religions, food and people. The world had so much rich diversity and culture to learn about and there I sat, blessed to be in the home of community members who brought some of that to North Perth. I quietly breathed it all in.
Two years ago, when this young man, as the courts have found him guilty of, intentionally veered his truck off the road and toward the Afzaal family, accelerated and ended their lives, my thoughts were first of the horror of this act; of one human’s inexplicable loathing of another. And then Anza and her family came across my mind. When I saw her in The Village next, I asked her if she knew of this tragedy and if so, how she was feeling.
“I feel scared, Andrea,” Anza expressed. “We come here, to Canada, to be safe. In Syria we not safe. Now I feel scared, for my kids to walk to school. For my family. It is not safe for us here.” My heart sank. Anza had shared many times how her heart felt such sadness at leaving her sister and mother behind in their country, as she and her family journeyed in hopes of something better. I can’t envision that experience, of leaving the country you know, now a place perhaps, of danger, hatred and persecution, to live in a refugee camp and hope to be selected for sponsorship, and finally get to where you can live safe and free. Only then to live in fear again.
Mahida Salman’s mother spoke after the guilty verdict was read, outside of a courtroom packed with both Muslim and non-Muslim community members. Her words echo in my soul. “…This wasn’t just a crime against the Muslim community, but an attack against the safety and security of all Canadians… there is still much work to be done to address hatred in all forms that lives in our communities.” Salman Afzaal. Madiha Salman. Yumna Afzaal. Talat Afzaal.
Take good care of each other, friends.
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Andrea Charest is the director of the Listowel It Takes A Village location.
