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Her name is Marie Al Salloum, and she was born on Aug. 22.
Marie is named after me. War forced her family to flee Syria, but their bad fortune has been a blessing in my life.
Just before last Christmas, I joined many other volunteers in offering to help settle 250 government-sponsored Syrian refugees, or 30 families, in St. John's. We stuffed hats, mittens and toiletries into welcome kits. We brought groceries to the families' temporary accommodations. We went shopping with them for bedding, towels and basic housewares. And when they were ready to move to their own homes we met the movers to ensure the right furniture was delivered.
I met the Al Salloum family one cold day in February. Theirs was the last house on my visiting list, and conveniently located near my home. The furniture was still in boxes when Ibrahim Al Salloum, dressed in a slightly oversized winter coat and cossack-style hat, burst through the front door, his arms filled with the family's belongings in plastic bags.
In no time, his wife, Fozia, had supper under way while their five children excitedly explored their first Canadian home: a six-room, two-storey row house. The doorbell rang, and a telephone installer came in and joined the chaotic but joyful household. Fozia offered us all "café."
I didn't hesitate to choose the Al Salloum family as the one I would visit regularly. As a volunteer visitor, I was to act as a guide to the city and its services and coach them in basic English skills. Volunteers were given strict guidelines to foster independence. We were advised, for example, never to lend money or be too generous with gifts. This suited me because, as a retiree, I have more time than money.
My own children are 21 and 18, so my nest is rapidly emptying. My contact with 12-year-old Asmahan, eight-year-old Malak, the five-year-old twins Asmaa and Falak and their little brother Mohammed, 2 1/2, has taken the sting out of my children's growing independence.
How often in our lives do we get a free ticket into the lives of strangers who respond to the tiniest gesture of kindness with the deepest gratitude? The first word I learned in Arabic was shukran (thank-you), and it has been said to me more times than I care to count.
Marie was given my name before she was born: Fozia would point to her belly and then to me, saying "Mar-ee."
It was an honour I hardly deserved, and one I thought might change when they made more friends. Now that Marie is here, I wonder at which point the idea took form. Was it when I sang a goofy rendition of "head and shoulders, knees and toes" as an English lesson on body parts? Was it after I went door to door in our neighbourhood with the children, rounding up toboggans and slides so they could have their first taste of winter fun? Was it when I introduced them to more people who helped them thrive here?
Because they are thriving. Ibrahim takes every English-language course on offer, and by the end of this year should be fluent enough to resume his plumbing trade. Fozia, like many immigrant women with small children, has had fewer opportunities to learn English, but that will change. The children are soaking up the new language like sponges, and Mohammed shows an early aptitude for music.
The language barrier has prevented me from having deep conversations with Ibrahim and Fozia. I know little about their lives in Syria, though it's clear that their separation from parents and siblings is painful. Fozia so missed her mother the day Marie was born, I found her crying when I went to see them.
In April, Ibrahim was invited to speak to a Grade 5 class. Each student was given a chance to ask him a question about his experience since coming to St. John's, and he answered through a translator. The kids learned that in January, he was afraid he'd made a mistake in coming here because of the cold and his children's refusal to eat locally available food. He spoke about the helplessness he'd felt since he couldn't read our signage or understand grocery labels. He wrote words in Arabic on the blackboard, from right to left, so the children could see the extent of his challenge.
One child asked: "If you can't speak English, how do you ask for help?"
I was sitting in the back of the classroom with Mohammed and the twins. Fozia was at a medical appointment. Ibrahim caught my eye as he answered. "I don't have to ask for help," he said, "because people here ask me how they can help."
I like to think Marie Al Salloum is named for all the Canadians who have opened their hearts to refugees. I hope my namesake's generation will one day return to a peaceful Syria, and have the opportunity to know their real grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins. I am honoured to be a surrogate in the meantime for all these missing relatives, but it feels wrong to benefit from their loss.
The Al Salloum children are excited to be back in school. Fozia loves her neighbourhood, and Ibrahim knows the bus routes better than I do. Their need for me is winding down. When I hear Marie's siblings teach her the "head and shoulders, knees and toes" song, I'll know my job is done.
Marie Wadden lives in St. John's.