Ottawa River, Canada
This morning I saw a school bus on the move, the first geese honking overhead, a few leaves on the grass.
This evening I watched the sunset on the beach, shivering in shorts and t, the heat pulling away like a tide.
SUMMER! I beseech you: Linger! Linger with me. I cannot bear to lose you just yet.
delicate summer
August 13, 2014
It really feels like exercising my right of free speech to walk with sign held high around Parliament Hill (Ottawa) “In Solidarity with Kurdistan”, answering the megaphone and marching over to the American Embassy. The words were grateful for humanitarian aid, asking for more, the end of ISIS, and call for immediate help for Yezidi refugees in danger.
At the eternal flame. We’d been drenched in a downpour but the sun came out again.
I met a former student there. He’d received the text at 9:30 am, dropped everything to be downtown by 11 to march. It was spur of the moment for all of us, and spirits were high…hopes are high these days that the West will help this time.
Free Kurdistan. Stop ISIS.
Marching to the American Embassy. “Thank you!” we chanted outside. “Stop ISIS!”
I got the email the night before- the anniversary of my husband’s death- and couldn’t think of a better way to honour him and so many other persecuted Kurds, still dying as I write this.
A week later, I participated in a fundraiser for the refugees, donating book profits to the cause. “Kurdish in Ottawa” organized the event. They barbequed chicken and collected donations. We played soccer and drank tea- a very pleasant way to raise about $2,000.
Donations for the refugees are gratefully accepted by Anatolian Cultural Foundation (ACF)
sunset is at 8:38 today
The Islamic calendar is lunar. This is why no one is ever quite sure when Ramadan starts and when it ends too- Muslims are looking to the moon. Some believe that the moon must be seen with the naked eye while others contend that a telescope or astronomical calculations are good enough.
I sat on the South Indian beach one sultry night watching the sky with Muslim friends. It seemed very romantic to me- waiting for the moon to tell us whether fasting would begin the next morning.
I was in Kerala, on Kovalam Beach. It’s a humid place with salt in the air, where the electricity goes off every day at 6 p.m., and I always kept careful track of my candles and matches. It’s a place with spiders as big as my hand and snakes as large as my body, a place where I had to walk down a jungle path shared by such spiders and snakes twice a day.
Kovalam is very close to the equator: sunrise and sunset were at 6 a.m. and 6 p.m. every day of the year- a 12 hour fast. (In Canada, the fast varies widely depending on the month. This July has been hot, the fast being 15 long hours without drink, food or cigarettes.)
We sat in a crowd on the beach that night, in a deep enveloping darkness, watching for the full moon over the hard-pounding surf of the Indian Ocean. The locals had relaxed into a holiday mood, but I was concerned- it was cloudy and the stars weren’t visible. We didn’t see the moon although we sat for hours, and the light-heartedness of my companions did not diminish.
“But how will you know?” I asked my friend. “Who will tell you?”
“In Saudi, they will be seeing the moon.”
“What if it’s cloudy there too?”
He laughed. “They are not having clouds in Saudi.”
“Well, how will you know tonight?” There was no electricity, no radio or television. In fact, I was quite sure he didn’t have a telephone.
“I am starting now because maybe tomorrow is being the first day.”
“But how will you know?” insisted my Western personality.
He looked at me kindly. “Ramadan is being in the heart. It is bringing me closer to my God. If I am being early it is wonderful thing and I am not taking the chance for missing even one day. It is best days of all the year. It is happiest time for me: My heart is singing with the God every day in the Ramadan.”
I thought these Indian Muslims were quite different from the Turkish Muslims I had known. In Western Turkey, Ramadan had been announced by the imam at the mosque; the restrictions were resented but endured by the people I hung out with there. Appearances and judgmental neighbours were a real concern. I’d never heard anyone speak of Ramadan with this kind of excitement and devotion.
The arrival of Eid which marks the end of Ramadan is also washed with uncertainty. This year it may be Monday or Tuesday. Funny pie chart here lists ways of discerning the date including “My mom will tell me” and “Just keep fasting until the phone explodes with Eid texts”.
In every Islamic culture I’ve been in, and also in Canada’s Muslim community, Eid is greeted with euphoric celebrations. No holiday is greater in Islam. The joy (and even relief) is profound.
The phrase “Eid Mubarak” means “Blessed Celebration” or more loosely- “Happy Festival”, and so on Monday, or maybe Tuesday, it’s the the thing to say to your Muslims neighbours.
sunset on the beach
A Japanese teacher invited a bunch of us newly-arrived English teachers from Canada, U.K. and Australia to her home. The activity waiting for us was gyoza-stuffing. We sat around a table and scooped spoonfuls of the stuffing into dumpling wrappers and chatted. When we’d finish a pile, our host would take them into the kitchen for a few moments and come back with hot treasures that we dipped in a sauce that dribbled down our chins. Delectable. Her stuffing was cabbage, minced pork, carrots, garlic, and pickled ginger.
garlic, ginger,carrots, cabbage and dumpling wrappers. Fresh red chili and tamari sauce for dipping.
Gyozas are stuffed dumplings that are fried and steamed at the same time.
Suggested stuffings:
1- cabbage, carrots, tofu, ginger and garlic
2- minced pork, garlic, ginger
3- scrambled egg, green onion
4- shrimp, corriander
use the back of a spoon to wet the outer edge of dumpling wrapper
The combinations are limitless. On St. Laurent in Montreal’s Chinatown there is an exceptional gyoza shop that’s always packed with diners. They serve only gyoza, but the menu is four pages long.
The dumpling wraps are available at Asian shops but I noticed the package also says “perogy wrappers” so that may be easier to find in some towns. I always buy a few packages and freeze them until the urge for gyoza hits.
add stuffing
So here we go- this is more fun with company- thanks Anne!
Grate all ingredients (or in the case of shrimp, chop small) and mix in a big bowl.
moistened edges stick easily
Put one wrapper flat on your hand and use the back of a wet spoon to moisten the outer edge.
Put a big spoonful of stuffing in the middle, fold it over and squeeze the edges shut in a half-moon shape.
stuffed gyozas
Yeah, maybe put some music on.
non-stick pan
Put a little oil in a non-stick pan and bring up to medium heat.
Place the gyozas in the pan and shake to be sure they aren’t stuck.
Stand back and add a little water. Say 1/4 cup.
Cover.
hot gyoza
They take about 10 minutes- just check the bottoms- they’ll be brown and crispy.
By now they’ll be stuck together- hence the Chinese name: pot-stickers.
brown and crispy on the bottom
Flipped a few here so you can see the colour.
Gyozas freeze well.
dip in sauce
The sauce is vital. You can use tamari sauce with a bit of water to thin it, or soy sauce thinned by 50% water or, if you’re lucky, you can find and buy gyoza sauce.
Regardless, add a teaspoon plus of fresh red chili sauce (comes in jars- most grocery stores carry this now) to about 3 tablespoons of tamari. It’s thin and drippy.
Dip and slurp and tell me you love me.
I was in downtown Ottawa today for a haircut. That took 10 minutes, so I went for a walk down Bank Street in the sweltering heat. Immediately, I came across a new Asian restaurant (202 Bank St.) that screamed BUBBLE TEA in two-foot high letters. To my delight, they served bento- a Japanese box lunch. As I sat by the wide-open double doors and people-watched, I picked up one treasure after another with my chopsticks: tempura shrimp, yam and bean; candied chicken satay; california rolls; gyoza; chicken teriyaki with rice. It came with a green salad and miso soup. Took me back to Japan- yum. And only $10.99.
I was unable to eat it all so I gave the leftovers to some pigeons in a small square. A gull came and harassed them, but they got a bit. One male pigeon was all fluffed up- larger than the rest- and uninterested in food. He was hounding a pretty female who kept 2 steps ahead of him at all times.
A smelly man, quite drunk at 1 p.m., stopped and watched with me. “The gulls are bullies,” I said. “Everyone’s gotta eat,” he answered.
A young Chinese man stopped me for directions to Rideau Street. We chatted and I learned he was from Shanghai and would study at the University of Ottawa. Today was his first day in Canada, so I walked with him down Sparks to the Rideau Centre where he would find the monthly bus pass he wanted. That made me happy…and hot, so I slipped into the Lord Elgin Hotel for some air conditioning.
The hotel is quite posh, but I thought that since I was wearing a fedora and the holes in my cut-off shorts were few, that I could fit in. I chose a comfy couch by the window of the lobby and read a newspaper someone had left behind. The bathroom is the cleanest that I know of downtown, one George Costanza would approve of.
Once refreshed, I hit Elgin Street and soon crouched beside an ancient black man sitting on a step playing the harmonica. Summertime blues. A little further down the street, at the Human Rights Monument, I came upon a rally for peace. The flags were Palestinian and as I got closer I read the signs: “Stop killing our children!” “Violence must end.”
I’ve known many Palestinians over the years, and I wandered through the crowd looking for Students I Have Known. No familiar faces, but familiar music, familiar black and white scarves, familiar troubled expressions. I wasn’t the only white Canadian there; I settled on a stone and watched.
Soon four men in black coats, round furry hats, beards and ringlets by their ears came walking toward the crowd. Hasidic Jews. Without a word, they stood in the middle of the crowd and unfurled their signs: “Stop the violence!” “Judaism does not condone war.”
Emotion caught in my throat as a throng of Palestinians gathered in front of the Jewish men to read their signs. Eyes comprehending; eyes meeting and touching. I had no camera, so my mind took the shot- a moment to remember.
I walked away then, but all the way back home I felt grateful to be living in Canada. And so grateful for all the people who have made it here, no matter why they came. This is a good place to be.
summer reading
Iris puppy tongue panting
Giant iris puppies loll
deep purple among the daisies,
lush tongues panting.
Sun bounces off white petals.
Cherry tree laughs,
Heart opens,
Cottonwood seeds snow.
Crow calls:
“Here be your now!
Now is the time!”
by Laurie Fraser
Iris puppies
Lullaby is a short story written by Ava Homa and published by Novel Rights (literature re: human rights).
“Lullaby” is a moving account of Farzad Kamangar’s last days spent in Iranian prison. The influential Kurdish teacher and writer was executed 4 years ago. I found this story to appear deceptively simple, when, in fact, it is full of portent information- the state of political prisoners in Iran, the impotent judge and the human guard, the passing of the days and the exchange of goods with visitors.
Although the situation is certainly an overwhelming one, Ava Homa manages to share the emotion and the prisoners’ tactics for managing the impossible place they are in, without crushing her readers with pain.
This is mature writing that admits things are never black and white, and attempts to balance the characters, who are human enough to be complicated. Lovely prose too, that draws parallels with counting and delights us with chocolate. Absolutely a fascinating account and eminently readable. Homa has paid tribute to a stubbornly brave man who moved many with his integrity and words. May he never be forgotten.
With Homa’s permission, the story begins like this:
“The call rings out. I tell myself the students are still learning, in secret, the history of the Kurds. The call for prayer echoes through Evin Prison. It turns me cold with fear.
Footsteps! I know the sound of those heavy boots. I know them well. My pen falls down from my bed and I curl into a ball, shrinking with fear. The pain in my head and face, legs and back, stomach and ribs becomes much sharper. Clutching at the pillow does not stop me from shaking. The footsteps stop before they reach my ward. “Hands up,” I think, and almost say it out loud.
“Hands up,” the old guard says.
I know what they are doing in the other cell. The blindfold, the click of the handcuffs, and the guards take Ali out, pushing and kicking him.
I toss and turn and follow them in my head as Ali is taken downstairs, dragged nineteen steps to the right, down nineteen stairs and delivered to the interrogators. Under his blindfold, Ali will count the pairs of shoes in the room: four, six, eight . . . black, formal shoes that are thick with blood, polished by blood. The whipping will start soon after the curses. If the man they call “Mongrel” is there, the interrogation will last longer and be much more painful. Every Kurd knows that man’s strange voice, an unusual mixture of high and low. In his vocabulary, “fucking murdering savages” means “Kurds.” It is rumoured that Mongrel’s brother had been killed in Kurdistan thirty years ago during one of the uprisings. Five, six whiplashes and Ali will think about concentration camps, pyramids, the Great Wall of China, but he will not feel the whipping anymore. I hope.
The number of cracks on the wall is three hundred and five today. I sneak a pen out from under my mattress and take some paper, folded four times, out from my underwear. “My dear students,” I write, lying on my left on a stinking army blanket. “All I have been able to do for you is to secretly teach you our Kurdish alphabet, our literature and our history. Please, children, remember your heritage and pass it on. Dear little ones, never allow this knowledge to steal from you the joy of childhood. May you keep the joy of youth in your minds forever. It may be the one and only investment you can use later when the agony of earning the ‘bread and butter’ dominates you, my sons, and the sin of being ‘the second sex’ overpowers you, my daughters. When you are picking flowers in the valleys to make crowns for your children, tell them about the purity and happiness of childhood. Remember not to turn your backs on your dreams, loves, music, poetry and Kurdistan’s magical nature. Get together, sing the songs and recite the poetry as we used to do.”
*** want to read more?
There are days in my life that I’d be willing to live over and over without changing a moment- May 18 was one of those. I woke up in Shwan and Yvonne’s place in Coquitlam to a fantastic breakfast, was chauffeured to Douglas College with a detour on the way to see the beautiful Maillardville and then I ran into my old friend Jeff on his way to the event. “The Event” as it’s been called for 2 months, was planned by Kurdish House, mainly Shwan Chawshin, with ferocity. He invited MPs, put out flyers, advertised on Kurdtv, emailed, facebooked, telephoned…Shwan filled that auditorium.
Vancouver reading May 2014
What a thrill for me to read to a Kurdish audience! I felt my life had come full circle. After all these years, I was embraced again by a Kurdish community. Eighteen years ago I promised a group of Kurdish refugees that I would tell their story to the world and here I was reading from it to a group of Kurds, many of whom were refugees.
I’ve been haunted by the refugees I met in North Kurdistan in March 1996. I’ve wondered, tearfully, many times what happened to them, if any survived…I remember especially the barefoot boy who fell in the cold mud and his poor mother who didn’t have water to wash him or heat to warm him.
chatting at the end
I read that part of the book to the Vancouver community. When I finished, a number of people came to talk.
“I lived in one of those tents for 4 years.”
“My father was killed, my brothers died in jail…I am the only one left.”
“I was Peshmerga, 8 years.”
“I was tortured every day for 45 days.”
They are miserable words, but to me, to see so many people who had survived, who had made it to Canada…well for me, it was an affirmation of life. I hadn’t been able to imagine how ANYone could 
survive the desolate situation I witnessed.
I also read about the wedding- a foreigner finding her way through 3 days of rituals and celebrations- and the audience laughed out loud at her efforts and observations.
A few people told me they had both laughed and cried in the 30-minute reading. What a joy for a writer to see the impact her words have made! And I was reminded again of the emotional openness and honesty of this community- men who can come up to me with tears in their eyes and say what they are thinking or remembering. I have said it before: The Kurds are stunningly courageous people in so many ways.
I remember sometimes resenting that my evenings, weekends, holidays were spent in isolation, indoors, working on a manuscript. I didn’t know if it would ever be read by anyone but me. I wondered sometimes if I was wasting years of my life. Other times, there was nothing more important than keeping my promise, nothing more beautiful than the polished words that I touched and touched and touched again. I did dare to dream it would be appreciated…and this past weekend that dream came true.
Ava’s reading
Ava Homa read from her fascinating collection of short stories Echoes from the Other Land, Avan Ali read poetry in Kurdish and the host Nassir gave a stirring speech. We ended the afternoon with singing by Nadia- a Kurdish singer. After the strain of travelling and the tension of speaking, that music was a release. Nadia’s voice roused the joy in us all and as we clapped along I watched for who would dance first. It was a group of men at the back. They formed a chain and snapped the handkerchief. I attached myself to the chain and danced with pure exaltation.
With all of my heart- thank you Shwan and Yvonne, Ava and Shaima, Aras and Sewar, Taban (who gave me flowers before I even read and who had never met me before), Jeff and all of the beautiful people who shared their Sunday with me.
Thank you to Kurdish House for the plane ticket and the roof over my head!
Shwan, Laurie, Yvonne
How to pick & cook fiddleheads:
picking fiddleheads
If it looks like a fiddlehead- it is. Fern leaves first emerge curled tightly into buttons called fiddleheads. Pluck them before they unfurl into giant fronds (or pick them up now at the farmers’ market, most grocers…) Store in cold water.
Pluck the fiddlehead as it first emerges.
place in cold water, boil, drain, repeat twice more
Fiddleheads are mild-tasting. They’re full of EPA omega-3 fatty acids & high concentrations of antioxidants. Also vitamins A & C, potassium, iron & calcium.
No need to clean them- just cover with cold water in a pot and bring to a boil. As soon as the boil is reached, drain the water.
Repeat 2 more times: cold-boil-drain.
Fiddleheads will be perfectly cooked & cleaned. The water from the first 2 drains will be brown but the third time it will be green.
serve with lemon &/or butter
Season with lemon (I’m out of fresh) or butter and pepper or tamari.
Side with boiled eggs, fish, chicken or ham. Good in fried rice; cold salads with lemon, diced peppers & pickled red onion.
So good…a distinctive taste of spring in my area of the world.
Notre Dame Basilica
I dawdled through the cobblestone streets of Old Montreal. I knew better than to enter the pricey tourist shops or restaurants, but I spent an hour in Notre Dame Basilica where I was stilled by beauty and peace.
scavenging coins from the fountain outside Notre Dame.
I emerged thirsty and walked a few blocks into Chinatown for a coconut bubble tea (which contained no tea or bubbles and was not hot). I turned onto St. Laurent and picked up my pace. After weeks of anticipation I was on my way to Swartz’s. It was a bit of a trek on a hot day, but I stuck to the shady of the street.
I love the streets of Montreal for their character and characters both. Pretty houses with outside staircases and fancy stonework, small businesses without the guidance of head offices. The people: fashionistas, hipsters, druggies, families with dogs, men with that French swagger… I could walk all day just people- watching.
St. Laurent
counter stool at Swartz’s
I joined the line-up outside Swartz’s Deli; we were mostly tourists. The locals go across the street, where the smoked meat sandwiches are reportedly even better, but a visit to the historical delicatessen is about more than a great sandwich. Opened by a Jewish immigrant form Romania, Reuban Shwartz, the iconic eatery is listed in every Montreal guidebook. It has been visited by celebrities such as Celine Dion,
smoked meat on rye with a pickle at Swartz’s deli
Jerry Lewis, Tim Allen, The Rolling Stones and Angelina Jolie. I’ve heard of Shwartz’s sandwiches picked up by private jet. (Finally, a good reason to own a private jet.) Looking for more information about the tiny crowded money-maker? Read the book- Shwartz’s Hebrew Delicatessen: The Story by Bill Brownstein.
It’s a smooth-running operation (guess they got it down after 80 years of practice). When the host called down the line for a “single”, I skipped to the front and was escorted to a stool at the long counter. I couldn’t get a knish- the menu is very streamlined- but I was satisfied with a sandwich and pickle.
It’s a dry crumbly smoked meat- tasty and tender, quite different from the slippery chewy smoked meat in Ottawa delis. I ate slowly, savouring the happy hectic atmosphere around me, the black and whites on the wall, the laughter in the air.
Outside, a kitchen worker smoked in a doorway out of the sun, and I stopped to chat. He goes to Ottawa for the green parks and space. “It is more clean,” he motioned to rubbish at his feet. I laughed. “I come to Montreal for the grit.” I motioned to a guitar player and his open case. “I come for the crowds, the action on the street.”
Indeed, as I walked a few blocks south, I came upon a protest against Monsanto, and a little further on, a street closed to cars but full of open patios cheering a World Cup game.
Monsanto protest, Montreal