Every Saturday, ONFR offers a Franco-Ontarian column. This week, Toronto author Soufiane Chakkouche recounts her Canadian immigration challenges, a story to follow in several parts.
[CHRONIQUE]
Barely five months later the (re)birthunder the tireless pressure of his grandmothers, the decision was made to visit them in Morocco so that they could finally cover the baby with love and kisses and, through him, rediscover the memories of their own childhood. However, nothing went as planned, far from it!
Dear readers, I warned you, the pen of this column will be dipped in the inkwell of evil. However, before confining ourselves there, a brief reminder of the facts in Morse Code is in order:
On June 6, 2019, I landed in Toronto. On October 8, 2019, my only child was born. On February 15, 2020, here I am with this little family and my aerophobia aboard a Boeing on the way home, hovering under the red and green banner of the Kingdom of the Setting Sun. Direction: the country of my previous life.
Like the red carpet of a titanic three-ball French billiards table (forgive the pleonasm), the memories in my cranium, good and bad, had no escape on board. I didn't believe so well dream.
The reception
As might be expected, after being scanned from head to toe by the suspicious eye of Big Brother and his gadgets, the welcome was, uh… how should I put it… happily noisy. In the front line, the crazy aunt was cheering to everyone, a pure treat for the eye and the heart, less so for the eardrums.
Wiser with age, the two grandmothers stood behind, waiting for the calm of emotions. They know it only too well: warmth is calm and love is appreciated in silence. This is how they appropriated all the good moments of this stay, at least before the nightmare!
Sorry, but I'm a mess when it comes to word count. I am therefore obliged to put the ululations at half-mast to wrinkle the map of time.
It had been a month since the little one had been passing from one warm chest to another, from one grandmother to another, in the absence of the grandfathers who had both left to join their ancestors a few years earlier.
Exactly one month since I surfed every day on the waves of my childhood and some of the Atlantic Ocean, under a sun envied, in mid-March, by two thirds of the globe.
The trap
That same day, the day before our planned return to Toronto, in an old red taxi driven by a man older than the machine, the radio waves crackled: “The Kingdom is closing its airspace until further notice. »
And for good reason, the first tourists affected by a crown virus called COVID-19 were beginning to appear in the country. Moreover, other countries were quick to imitate the Moroccan example in a strategy that was strange to say the least: fighting a global problem by barricading themselves in their own corner, as if the Earth had angles!
The sky itself had faded of its colors, instantly taking on a look of age and becoming covered in gray, like hair. Gray were also my thoughts at the announcement of this trap which was about to eat me alive, just like all of humanity. “You are stuck here, a prisoner with your past,” the little voice in my skull kept ringing.
The grandfather noticed it through a broken eye in the rearview mirror and asked me: “Are you planning to go somewhere else, my son?” »
“I was planning to go back to my new home,” I replied, looking haggard.
The man didn't have time to continue. Priority to khaki, he pulled over to the side of the road to let an imposing military convoy carrying armored tanks pass, the first I have seen in my life in downtown Casablanca. I didn't know that you could eliminate a virus with a 120mm caliber shell!
Graybeard waited for the noisy column to pass then, before sinking into a worried and worrying silence, added: “May Allah help you, my son. May Allah help us all. »
Three flights for 4000 trapped
Panic on board, our plane tickets were now void. However, in order to urgently repatriate its nationals and permanent residents, the Canadian government chartered three paid flights (not one more) with a total capacity of 1,300 seats. However, there were more than 4,000 of us trapped… chaos.
So, according to the principle of first come, first served, the tickets for the first flight went like gazelle horns. In less than 15 minutes, the Air Canada website was full for this flight. So I only had two chances left, me the slave of my passion in all circumstances for late mornings in the arms of Morpheus.
To hell with Morpheus, there’s no question of making the same mistake this time. The next day, I spent a sleepless night monitoring the opening of sales for the second flight. Bingo, at 7:43 in the morning, I won the selfish Holy Grail with clicks and $1400 per unit.
The relief
Exhausted by so many emotions and fatigue, for the first time in my career as a passenger, I had no trouble falling asleep on board flight AC 2003, the number of which would remain forever engraved in my memory. I only opened my eyelids a few minutes before landing, awakened by the sincerely moved voice of the captain: “This flight marks the end of my career after 40 years of service. It was an honor to bring you home. »
Farewell, my hero!
What followed was going to be a headlong rush of confinement and deprivation of the most basic pleasures and rights, like hugging a hand or a beautiful soul. Small consolation nevertheless for the fanciful hearts, COVID-19 would succeed in doing what no politician or system has been able to do: align all of humanity on the clothesline of equality, like a score of birds fragile on an electric wire.
To the wise, Salamoualikoum (peace be upon you).
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not reflect the position of ONFR and TFO.
