Today I have a short story to share with all of you. I hope you enjoy it.

In the fall of 1988, I met Mohamed… tall, whip-thin, features of chiselled ebony. He held his head high as he strode into my adult ESL classroom, exuding youthful confidence and determination. Flashing a brilliant smile, he turned and spoke in careful English.

“Hello teacher, I am Mohamed from Somalia. I am in Edmonton for two weeks. I am military pilot in my country.”

This was a higher-level English language class. All the students had mastered English to some extent, but the nuances of verb tenses, idioms, and other complicated grammatical inconsistencies that only native speakers can wrap their heads around required study and practice. Such was a language teacher’s dream: the opportunity to teach new material while at the same time being able to converse with the students and listen to their stories.

Mohamed’s story was a gripping tale indeed. He had announced his past career as a military pilot on the first day of class but never expanded on what was expected of him in that role. He might have been pressured to carry out orders he didn’t wish to enact or seen things he wanted to forget. Whatever the case, he was discontent and could no longer tolerate the state of affairs in his home country. (In the mid to late 1980s, Somalia was fragmenting and would eventually collapse into civil war.) During his first months in ESL class, Mohamed recounted the story of his journey from Somalia to Canada.

Mohamed and his fellow pilot, Hassan, always flew as a team. One day, they took off on a mission, abruptly changed course, landed in Nairobi, Kenya and asked for asylum. Mohamed implied that this plan had been executed quickly. They had told no one, not even their families. Mohamed lived with his in-laws, his young wife and their new baby. They must have been shocked when the news of his defection reached them. And it would have reached them quickly. Within hours, it was all over the airwaves and in the newspapers. It was an international incident.

Kenyan authorities were in a quandary. Somalia was an unstable neighbour at best. What should they do with these two pilots? Even more important, what was to be done about the airplane? The eyes of Africa and, ultimately, the world were upon them. Mohamed and Hassan were taken to a five-star hotel and given a luxurious room. Kenya wished to be seen as a charitable and compassionate country. As the days and weeks passed, Somalia and Kenya engaged in tense negotiations about the airplane’s fate. Journalists lined up outside the hotel, hoping to get the scoop on this dicey act of bravery (or foolhardiness, depending on your point of view). They had lots of questions:

“What possessed you two to fly a military plane into another country? Why did you do this? How did you succeed in staying under the radar?”

Hassan and Mohamed dodged most of the hard-hitting queries with vague answers. If the Kenyan government forced them to fly the plane back to Somalia, they would be in big trouble. It would be even worse if they revealed their secrets to the world. Mohamed told me their story had been featured in Time magazine, along with photos of the two of them and the plane. I’d never seen it, but I was a busy wife, mother and teacher.

Eventually, the two countries agreed to have a Kenyan pilot fly the plane back to Somalia. The Somalian pilots would be allowed to stay in Kenya and apply for refugee status elsewhere. This evoked many sighs of relief, especially for Mohamed and Hassan. Of course, they were relocated to much less luxurious digs once out of the spotlight. They bided their time and were granted entry into Canada in due course. When I met Mohamed, he and his fellow refugee had parted ways. Mohamed was working towards bringing his wife and baby to Canada while Hassan had adopted a single man’s lifestyle.

Months went by, and the seasons changed as my ESL students continued to share their narratives and learn the finer points of English. I was beginning to realize that even a strong young man like Mohamed, so determined and willing to take risks, could show fear and caution in the face of culture shock and new experiences. Edmonton is well-known as a deep-freeze city in the winter, and the cold arrived with a vengeance that year. I became concerned when Mohamed missed class three days in a row. On the fourth day, he appeared in a gigantic parka, and his skin had a greyish tinge. I asked if he was sick.

“No teacher, I am just cold, so so cold. I think I will die. Why is everyone going out in this killing weather? Even with this coat, I will not live through the winter. I will die, teacher. I am sure of it.”

I reassured him, “No, Mohamed. I promise you won’t die of the cold if you dress properly and care for yourself. Everyone is out and about because life continues, even in the winter. If people stayed home, nothing would get done. The city would have to shut down. Coming from a hot climate, I know this must be a big shock for you. Your body will adjust over time. It would be best to attend school every day as long as you are well. We will look after you.”

Mohamed was skeptical of my advice but came to school every day after that. I don’t think he ever wholly adjusted to the cold.

As he became more comfortable in the classroom, Mohamed often regaled his fellow students with tales of life in Somalia. He was sad that his beloved homeland was in such disarray. On one occasion, he told us that Somalia had done better under the rule of colonialism. Mohamed was equally distressed by some elements of the strict, authoritarian Muslim culture. His wife wasn’t allowed out of the house. He was anxious to bring her to Canada and set her free.

Mohamed was adjusting to Canadian customs and weather, but he seemed unaware of how deeply his cultural roots were ingrained. One day, we were talking about distinctive beauty standards around the world. Each student shared stories of how beauty was perceived in their country. When it was Mohamed’s turn, he looked down at the floor and squirmed in his seat. He started saying something about ankles and then shut down. He couldn’t continue. It was too shameful to speak of a woman’s body, even in the most respectful way.

Spring arrived, and Mohamed graduated from ESL. As usual, there was a certain sadness in saying goodbye to my students. We often kept in touch. So I wasn’t surprised when Mohamed called me towards the end of the summer to say that his wife, Amina, had arrived in Edmonton. Now that she was settled in, he wanted her to meet my family. I was more than happy to invite them to our house.

When Mohamed and Amina arrived, all my preconceived images of her flew out the open door. A beaming Mohamed stood next to this young slip of a girl who was visibly shaking, arms folded around her, staring at the ground. She was dressed like a young teen in a t-shirt, jeans, and sporty runners. There was no baby in sight.

Overcoming my disconcertion, I invited them to sit for some tea, soft drinks and snacks. Amina made herself small in the bosom of a big chair while Mohamed began chatting about his new job on a construction crew. Our 12-year-old daughter was outside on the deck playing with her Barbies. It wasn’t long before Amina quietly slipped out the patio doors and sat beside her. She stayed there for the duration of the visit, gently picking up the dolls and brushing out their hair.

Mohamed ignored Amina’s getaway as he blithely caught us up with all his news. I should say “me”. My husband and son sat quietly while Mohamed focused on his teacher.

“I have so much to tell you, teacher. Amina arrived from the airplane completely covered, as women do in my country. I told her that she must not do that here. Now she is in Canada, and she must follow the local customs. I gave her a shopping bag of clothes and marched her to the washrooms to change. She was crying like women do, but I told her that she had to adapt. I remembered that word from when you told me what to do in the cold weather. I also got a job for her. She will work night shifts at a downtown parkade. No need to speak much English. Just count the money!”

I was speechless. This young woman had lived in purdah for most of her life. She had interacted primarily with the women and children of her immediate family. It must have been traumatizing to be forced into (what she would consider) revealing clothes and work at a job that involved dealing with strangers. What was Mohamed thinking? Didn’t he understand the potential mental health consequences of his demands? How was his treatment of her much different from the forced strictures of extreme Islamic law? And what about the unthinkable danger to a woman working all night in a parkade? I didn’t know what to say to him. I understood that I would never change his mind. He had grown up in a patriarchal society, and he had never been one to take things slowly. Was it my place to give advice?

My mind was racing. All I could think of was to change the subject. I blurted out, “Mohamed, I thought you and Amina had a baby. Did you leave the baby with someone today? Is it a boy or a girl?”

Mohamed hung his head and sighed. “No, teacher. We don’t have our baby. It is a boy, Ahmed. We had to leave him in Somalia with his grandparents. It is the only way they would allow Amina to come to Canada. They knew they would never see us again. They bartered to keep the child in exchange for their daughter.” He looked up and smiled, “But it’s ok, teacher. We can have many more.”

Wow! I’d had a few curve balls thrown at me that afternoon. This one took my breath away. I’m sure Amina had some complex feelings about giving up her baby. But her husband was the master, and she was falling in line. What was to become of their relationship? This wasn’t Somalia, where she had a support group of women. My heart sank. As I waved goodbye to them that day, I hoped we could keep in touch and perhaps be a positive role model for them. But this was not to be.

That sunny afternoon was the last time we saw Mohamed and Amina. Summer mellowed into autumn, and our paths diverged. My husband and I relocated to Asia with our family, where we stayed for almost 15 years. We never moved back to Alberta.

Some days, when I catch memories in the misty corners of my mind, I wonder about Mohamed. Was Canada his “happily ever after”? Did he and Amina have more children? Is he still too cold?