The recent news and aspirations about refugees being welcomed to Canada reminded me of an experience when my wife and I resided in Scarborough back in the late-nineties.
The weak economy at that time was pressuring companies to downsize and I was one of those caught short. To make ends meet, we decided to offer room board to students. I placed an ad at nearby Seneca College.
In a most unusual circumstance, a young neighbourhood woman brought a young man to the door seeking lodging for him. A cute couple I thought! She explained that he had studied computer science in Paris and had been staying with an uncle in Montreal. His goal was to learn English through courses taught at Seneca. While applying for the class, he made an acquaintance with this woman who didn’t mention where she grew up.
After some chit-chat with her, he couldn’t speak much English, we all agreed. Saeed moved in the following Saturday. For his first lunch we had pizza. His removing the pepperoni from it was only the first of many surprizes. I looked across the table and asked if he was Jewish. He said no, Muslim – from Morocco.
And so it began, my curiosity about him. He picked up English very quickly. Two full-time students soon took the other rooms. Everyone got along. Saeed was my favourite, however.
His computer knowledge made it possible to connect my computer to the internet, no easy task in those days. I even used the name of his hometown as my password (Rabat).
We talked endlessly about our religions, with ease and with ever-probing inquisitiveness. There were many parallels between the two faiths. I even learned things from him about Christianity. He read his Koran daily and left it in full view. He let me look at it one time but of course it was in Arabic. “I guess you will have to learn a new language,” he said.
He was reminiscing about his family one time. His father had told him when he was leaving home for France to study: I hope you marry a nice Sunni girl but if not, then a nice Christian girl or even a nice Jewish girl, but if you bring a Shia girl here, you will be banned from this house.
Another time he asked if Christians were buried facing east like the two other main religions. When I said no, he was flabbergasted. Upon doubting myself for a moment, I phoned someone who would know for sure. I was right.
He made a couple of friends who had emigrated from Tunisia and invited them to the house fairly often. They always bantered about politics but did so in English for my benefit.
The year 2000 was approaching and companies were worried about the risk of losing their computerized data. Saeed was hired by a head office of a bank in downtown Toronto to head up the task team because of his programming knowledge – his fist job. His stating salary made me gulp!
It was a Sunday meal with beets on the menu: he had never eaten them before. The next afternoon he phoned his doctor in a panic, explaining about this red stream when going to the washroom. Wisely the doctor asked what he had eaten lately and upon hearing it, concluded that Saeed needn’t worry at all.
One day a Muslim colleague invited him to his home for dinner. Saeed was of the Sunni sect, the colleague Shia he discovered. He was quite hesitant about accepting, even discussing his feelings with myself. He did go and the occasion turned out fine.
Saeed’s lair was in the family room. I guess one night he had a friend stay over as I spotted a pair of women’s shoes in the foyer the next morning before he was up. That’s my boy!
He began going to a nightclub on Yonge Street on the weekends, even though he was adamant about never consuming alcohol. Sometimes he asked for a drive there and I obliged. One Friday evening he asked to borrow the car. Choking and sputtering, I finally said okay. But, I read him the traditional riot act first. Was he becoming a proxy son to me?
It was when we decided to move to Wasaga Beach that I realized how settled he had become. The house didn’t sell for a year and Saeed stayed until as long as he could. He found a nice apartment in mid-town and asked me for a big favour; if I could source for him; dishes, cutlery and bedding, it would give him a start to be on his own. You see, he always had someone to look after the mundane tasks of housekeeping.
He did come to visit a few times but as what typically happens, we drifted apart. Not the memory of our treasured friendship though. When I do recall it, I feel privileged to know and understand his culture, especially in current troubled times of new immigrants, terrorism and Donald Trump.
