A Canadian Immigrant Story Part I
Brian Sankarsingh weaves a tale of a Canadian immigrant
My mother was Muslim and my father a Dalit. The moniker Dalit is from the Sanskrit root dalita meaning "broken/scattered", and once called untouchable, is the lowest stratum of the castes in India.
Even as I write this, I sit and stare at these monikers – Dalit. Muslim.
There was a Shakespearean beauty about their love, but this was no Romeo and Juliet save for the beauty of the love they shared and the tragic ending of their story. There was none of the courtly trappings of Lord and Lady Montague’s or the affluence of the Capulets. This was no wild and intensely passionate young love that burned so bright it destroyed itself. Still, I often wonder how these two people found each other. Some days I would curse the forces that conspired their fateful meeting. Other days I would wonder what ignited their love?
In the West, people say opposites attract and my parents were so opposite they could not find anyone – priest, Imam or pundit – to marry them. They were not even able to have a civil marriage. This was my birthright. Or maybe a better description would be birth-wrong. The very nature of my birth to the people I called parents was the reason for my estrangement. To the Hindu community I was untouchable and to the Muslims I was a bastard pariah. Thus, I started my life underneath a pyramid of animosity with the full force of its weight bearing down on me. I did not resent my parents for this; after all, it was their love for each other that caused them to endure being ostracized.
The province of Sistan and Baluchestan is one of the poorest in Iran. As much of Iran, it is a predominantly Muslim province; but there are small pockets of Hindus who moved here in the hopes of a better life. Many of them, like my grandfather, were untouchables in their own land and hoped to shed the stigma of caste in their move. Unfortunately, it is not easy to do such a thing in a country so culturally close to one’s own. Inevitably, he was once again branded “Dalit.” The only thing that changed was the country he lived in. His caste clawed him back to the lowliest of existence and dug its grimy nails into my father as well.
We lived in a one room shack but that did not stop my mother from teaching me to read and write. She imbued in me an appreciation for the written word and a love of poetry. My fondest memories of her are the ones where we would sit by the meagre fireside, and she would read her poetry to me. The smoke assailed my senses, but the lyrical complexity of the poetry heightened by her tremulous voice captured my heart. For my mother, writing poetry was the means of finding beauty in even the most debased existence. It was her way of surviving the horrid reality of her life. This was the first poem I wrote to my parents.
Oh traveller, come sit at my fireside Listen to my star-crossed story of love Borne on the winds of an eternal hope Cursed by their birth doomed below and above A song of their passions, they are engulfed When their dulcet dreams, now brings forth new life These souls brought together, birth after birth Love forever doomed to failure and strife Indulge, traveller, the warmth of my fire A fire that burns as hot as their souls A chance meeting at the crossroads of life The tale unfinished, finally made whole
My father was not much for reading and writing but understood that they were the rungs of a ladder that could help his family climb out of the pit of despair. I often wonder what he would think of my current circumstance – that his son would leave Iran for the West and forge a better life for himself. Was this what my grandfather envisioned when he made the journey from Bangladesh to Iran? As I grew into my teenage years, I would often spend many sleepless nights in the branches of an old oak tree that grew close to our shack. There I would find inspiration for my poetic musings while staring up at the starry expanse. Falling stars and comets were my muses urging me to capture their celestial journeys in verse. These were not escapades. They were incursions into the land of belonging; a place where everyone was accepted and fit in; a land where a person was measured by the merit of their deeds; the strength and integrity of their character and not the caste of their birth.
One fateful night, as I sat daydreaming in that wizened oak tree, a horde of drunken villagers descended into our little hamlet. They were shouting and brandishing their home-made machetes and threshing sticks while kicking down doors and assaulting the occupants. I heard my mother scream as they dragged her by her hair. Her veil caught on the doorpost, fell to the ground and was trampled by the horde. It was pitch dark, but I could see what was happening through the dancing shadows cast by the flaming torches. I closed my eyes, bit my lip and screamed as loudly as I could in the confines of my brain. Before I could take another breath, it was over, and the horde had moved on. I felt stuck to the tree. Every muscle taut; my face stretched in a wild caricature; nails digging into the tree trunk.
Blood and sweat streak down her face This woman who was once the epitome of grace Even poverty could not hide her inner dignity To me her life was a living symphony The earth greedily swallowing her life blood A once beautiful flower, now stained in mud He died trying to protect her, the love of his life This woman he so proudly called wife I have often asked myself, why am I still alive Living with that pain and guilt, did I really “survive?” Spent of emotion, here I sit, feeling hate nor fear To honour them I tell myself that I must persevere
Stay tuned for the continuing story…
Bio: BRIAN SANKARSINGH is a Trinidadian-born Canadian immigrant who has published several books of poetry on a wide range of social and historical themes including racism, colonialism, and enslavement. Sankarsingh artfully blends prose and poetry into his storytelling creating an eclectic mix with both genres. This unique approach is sure to provide something for everyone.
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