Excerpt from János Máté's "From Stalin to Kellogg's Cornflakes"

The Hungarian Revolution brought 30,000 refugees to Canada, among them János Máté, who remembers a Canadian train and a Kellogg's Cornflakes box, welcoming him in his own language.

Our parents' first intention was for us to go to Israel. After many hours of deliberations, the decision was made to apply for visas to Canada. It was thought that, at our parents' age, it would be easier for them start all over again in Canada than in Israel. The decision was reinforced by the Canadian government's open door policy towards Hungarian refugees, which included all-expense paid voyages to designated points of destination in Canada. Nearly 40,000 Hungarian refugees came to Canada during the ensuing months.

We boarded the 20,000 ton ocean liner the Arosa Sun in Bremmerhaven on January 24th 1957. The ship picked up more passengers in Le Havre and Southampton and, after a stormy 10 day voyage across the Atlantic, arrived at Pier 21 in Halifax on February 4. Most of us were seasick during the entire passage.

We met other Hungarian Jewish families and their children on the boat. As we settled in Canada, some of them became part of the lasting extended circle of friends for our parents and for my brother and me. For our parents those friendships were crucial as they faced the challenges of survival in the new land.

Fifty years later, the Manager of Research at "Pier 21 Canada's Immigration Museum" was miraculously able to produce the ship's registry of the Arosa Sun from our voyage. Among the names of all the crew and passengers are the names of my parents and my brother and I... the earliest official record of us having immigrated to Canada.

On February 5, we got on a train that was to take us to Vancouver, a city that to our parents seemed like the end of the world. The Canadian government had a policy of populating the West with new immigrants. Our parents knew very little about Vancouver and were much more inclined to settle in Toronto or Montreal. However, since the government insinuated that those who chose not to proceed to Vancouver might not receive any further governmental assistance, the choice of destination was made for us.

As we boarded the train each Hungarian refugee was greeted not only with care packages from the Canadian Red Cross, but also by a representative of the Kellogg's Cornflakes company. We were each handed several little boxes of cornflakes. We had never seen cornflakes before. On each box was taped a little note in verse form, written in Hungarian. The note said: "God brought you to Canada" (or "welcome to Canada") ... "a country of excellent products"... "we would like to introduce to you one of Canada's outstanding products - Kellogg's Cornflakes." Over the next couple of days on the train, we made several futile attempts at eating the dry tasteless flakes that crumbled in your mouth. Eventually we learned to add milk and sugar. To this day, fifty years later, many of those refugees, including me, still have an emotional attachment, a product loyalty, to Kellogg's Cornflakes, their first taste of Canadian culture.

We arrived on the West Coast on February 10 after a six day train ride across the vast snow laden prairies. We were first housed in a military base in Abbotsford. From the base we could each night see search lights in the distance. Little did we know that those lights were not for aerial defence, but for a car dealership in Vancouver. After about ten days at the military base, the Hungarian Jewish refugees were bussed to Vancouver and were generously hosted by Jewish families. We were hosted by a well-to-do family that lived in a sprawling house, overlooking the waterfront, near the campus of the University of British Columbia. Our first impression of life in Canada was thus very favourable.

A few weeks later, we moved into an eastside triplex along with five other Hungarian families. The children from the house attended New Canadian English classes in a nearby school and became forever indebted to our patient and creative New Canadian teacher, Miss. Stanley. Our parents meanwhile did whatever they could to carve out a living. Mother took in boarders, Hungarian single men. Father's first job was to sweep the elevator shaft of an office building. He then got a job to paint the offices of the same building at night. Near the end of his life, he recalled that he was so proud when, after his first week of work, he could take home $20 to his wife with a feeling of confidence that he would be able to support his family.

In Budapest our parents and their friends always gathered for New Year's eve celebrations. In the midst of good food and joviality, they listened to special variety programs on Hungarian State Radio. On New Year's Eve 1958, our first in Canada, our family got together with some of our Hungarian Jewish friends for a party. When I saw my parents dancing, I cautioned them, "Dancing is OK, but no babies." Nine months later, my mother gave birth to her third son, George. He was the first Canadian citizen in our family. Within our circle of friends, several of the other Hungarian families that arrived to Canada around the same time also had babies. The new arrivals were planting their Canadian roots.

In Hungary we often felt marginalized for being Jewish. In Canada we at times were marginalized for being immigrants. Instead of "dirty Jew," the slur became "you dirty DP" (displaced person). One time I was attacked by a group of Italian kids, who with their Italian accent yelled "You dirty DP, why you no go back where you come from." There were several other similar incidents resulting in fist fights. Being an adolescent is never easy. However, the normal challenges of adolescence are greatly compounded by the hurdles that immigrants face. For years I felt very self-conscious of my accent. Only when someone said to me "having an accent means that you have a more interesting background" did I begin to accept that it was all right to speak the way I spoke. For years, I felt like a cultural alien.

Father and mother never took their Canadian citizenship for granted. Once they became citizens (May 22, 1962) they never missed voting in all elections. From the first day that we arrived in Vancouver father had one mantra, "I have never felt so free in my whole life". He often reminded his sons that he was 52 years old when he had the opportunity to cast his very first free ballot.

Father also had great appreciation for the quality of the drinking water that came out of the tap in Vancouver, and the city's fresh air . He would ritually hold up a glass of water gaze at it in wonderment, and then take a deep breath.

Our parents worked hard all their lives. They never became wealthy, but they provided for their three sons and took great satisfaction in seeing them live productive lives. Father

especially took pleasure in announcing to the world that all his three sons married

"Canadian girls." ... for him the very proof that the decision to flee Hungary was the right one.

But the greatest pleasure for our parents was taking delight in their eight grandchildren... their symbol for the continuity of life and hope in the future.

I left Europe as János Máté and arrived in Halifax as John Mate. As a 10 year old, I willingly relinquished the name I knew all my life in favour of the promise of easier assimilation. But I was never a "John." That is a very English name, and it always felt foreign to me. The day after our mother died on November 5, 2001, in the midst of my grief, I let go of my immigrant name, John, and returned to the earliest sounds of my childhood, to the name that mother gave me, Janos. I was no longer an immigrant.

Along with millions of other immigrants to Canada, we brought with us our family's narrative. The myriad of anecdotes that make up the history of all the immigrant families that came to Canada comprise an essential component of this country's history. Canada, through its immigrants, has become a major depository of the stories of people from around the world. Thus the story of Canada is intimately entwined with the history of the world over the past two centuries.

From the book "The Land Newly Found" by Norman Hillmer and J. L. Granatstein, Copyright © 2006 Máté. Reprinted by arrangement with Thomas Allen Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Excerpt from Antonio Funicelli's "I Thought Only of the Music"

The story of an Italian-born man who arrived in Montreal in 1911 at the age of 18.

"I thought of nothing but music."

I came from a town called Alife, in Campanie. I arrived in Montreal in May 1911- I was 18 years old then. The boat had left from Naples; it then stopped at Palermo to take other passengers. Afterwards it stopped in Portugal, and from there it travelled to Boston. On the boat there were not only Italians, but also Greeks, Portuguese, Sicilians. We passed the medical in Naples, just before boarding; we were also vaccinated.

On our arrival in Boston, I had the impression of being among stray sheep- some going this way, the others that way. Some officials checked our papers and saw that we were headed directly to Montreal, so they let us pass. I remember when we got down on the dock there were Italians who were selling bananas. In Italy, they had bananas, but who ever saw them? They were for the rich. You could find them in Naples, but not in the villages. So my mother bought a large bread and a bunch of bananas. Let me tell you: I never ate so many bananas in my life ! Then we took the train for Montreal. We travelled the whole night.

My father was already in Montreal, as was one of my brothers and a sister. An aunt who owned a grocery store in Montreal had helped them come over. Then it was me and the rest of my family. We were going to live next to my aunt, not far from the parish of Saint Cunégonde. Other Italians lived there, but they were scattered- some lived in Saint Henry, others in Ville Émard or Côte Saint Paul, or at Lachine. A good number of them came from the Marches and Campobasso. They had already opened a few groceries, shoe-shops, bakeries, and so on.

I began working at ten cents an hour at Canadian Car. I was a labourer. It was not very difficult to find work, but I did not speak the language. The foreman called us all "Joe": "Hey, Joe, come here, you!" There we were mixed up with all nationalities. We lifted the iron on the freight cars to send them to the foundry. Labourers like me were hired by the week. We started at ten cents an hour, and afterwards our pay was raised to fifteen cents. At that time life was less expensive, but you had to make ends meet. If you went to a bar for a beer it cost five cents. Eight cents for a 22 ounce bottle. Two bottles cost 15 cents, and you could save a penny.

I stayed at Canadian Car for nine months. I was not made for this kind of work. It was not a craftsman's work: "Take this debris, bring it there, load that, bring them here". Those who could speak a bit of the language were better treated than those who just arrived. And then we did not know which language we should learn, English or French.

I was a trained shoemaker. So, when I had made some economies, I decided to open a small shop to repair shoes. It was not difficult because I knew my trade well; also because you needed little capital, there were no machines involved. Bit by bit, I established a clientele. Even though I did not speak the language well, I was able to tell them the price: "75 cents, 50 cents, one dollar" and they understood. My shop was on Notre Dame Street, near the parish of Saint Cunégonde. I had found a little shack, and it sufficed.

I had learned my trade in my village; I also studied music. There, there was a master shoemaker who had his own shop, and took in boys as apprentices. He taught me how to make a pattern, how to cut the leather, how to put it on the shoe form; we did this all by hand. He was strict, and how! We did not know sports. We went to school then after school we learned the trade. By the age of 15 or 16 I had learned my trade and I was capable of making a pair of shoes a day. I remember that my shoes were on display in the shop window. But we worked night and day. The master had his customers; they came and we made their shoes to measure.

But my passion was music. In my village there was a municipal brass band, and the maestro taught music to the boys, to have enough students for the village band. We were given uniforms and when we played, they paid us. At the start, my father did not want me to learn music; he thought musicians were vagabonds. He said: "They never work, they just play." He was hard on musicians because in his trade he worked with iron and wood -hard work! For him, all the musicians did was to march in procession, caress their instruments, and then go home after the performance. I was forced to study my music in hiding, because I was strongly attached to music, it turned me on. I played the trombone in our brass band, but I also learned to play the mandolin. I was also taught theory. . . even today I write music. Those partitions you see there (pointing with his hand) I wrote them.

In Montreal, at the start, I wanted to return to Italy to study music, but my mother would scream at me, cause my brothers and sisters were still too young and they needed my income. So I studied here. With the savings I made as a shoemaker I was able to pursue music. I gave my shop to one of my brothers, and I dedicated myself to music. I studied night and day, for two or three years. I studied the violin at the Canadian Academy of Music on Sherbrooke Street. There were many professors who taught different instruments and gave courses in singing. My violin professor was Mr. Albert Chamberlain. That is how I managed. I studied and I became a professional musician.

At the age of 23 or 24 years I began to play the violin with a small group of musicians. We played in the movie theatres because at that time the films were silent, and it required accompanying music. The owner of the theatre gave us a sheet with the theme and we made the arrangements for the different instruments. We were a part of the Musicians' Union. It was a well organised union, and affiliated with the United States. If someone needed a musician or a band, they phoned the union and they arranged everything. We came from all nationalities. There were a lot of Italians. The union president, Charlie Molinari, was Italian, and he spoke three languages.

Meanwhile I married and started a family. My wife was born here, but her parents were Italian immigrants. When we were married my band came to the church and played the entrance march and the exit march, with a violinist who played in my place- a Belgian: he played so well!

At this time there was an Italian brass band. The conductor was Giuseppe Agostini- he played many instruments and also taught the piano. He was a sculptor by trade. I played several times in this band. We played processions at Notre Dame de la Défense, with fireworks, just as we had celebrated in Italy. With this I earned a few dollars. During the First World War when a group of Italians were headed off to fight, we would go to the Windsor Station and play the Royal March, with the Italian flag. It lasted an hour, and we were paid a few dollars. It was organised by a committee and the Italian Consul. They asked Maestro Agostini to gather 20-25 musicians to play the Royal March. Most of these young men who departed, never returned. Others returned mutilated, having lost an arm, another a foot.

With my training as a shoemaker I could have lived in my village. But my father decided to sell his shop. My father, he was a coach builder. He built coaches. He was an artisan- he worked in iron and wood. The wheels, the springs, the chassis, he made them all. Our village was an ancient Roman fortress, surrounded by walls. We had some contact with the neighbouring villages, because this region was rich in water and produced lots of vegetables to sell in the neighbouring villages. Some paesi were so close we could easily walk to them. We also celebrated religious festivals, we went with the brass band, during the season, in spring or the summer- there was a festival here, another there, that way we could get around quite well. In winter, each went back to their own work, because we musicians had several trades- one was a tailor, or a barber, yet another a shoemaker. . . But there was never enough work- not enough money either. My father in his trade was paid with sacks of potatoes, or a sack of beans, or even a small lamb; that was how we were paid.

Translated by Gillian I. Leitch. Copyright © 1984 by Bruno Ramirez, Les premiers Italiens de Montréal. Published in "The Land Newly Found" by Norman Hillmer and J. L. Granatstein. Reprinted by arrangement with Thomas Allen Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Excerpt from Hartley Janssen's "Sense of Continuity"

The story of a Dutch family of five that arrived in Toronto in 1953.

My paternal grandfather was a career soldier in the Dutch army. He spent most of both world wars in prison camps. In the First World War, serving as a spotter, his plane was shot down over enemy territory. These experiences left him embittered. My grandmother nursed him back to health and stayed with him until his death from emphysema in 1964. My grandmother was active in the International Red Cross both before and after the war. She also received commendations from General Eisenhower and the British government for providing a safe house for airmen in their attempts to return to England.

On the recommendation of his father, my father volunteered for active peacetime duty in order to have a choice of service and reduce his conscription time from two years to one. In the event, hostilities broke out and he remained in the armed forces until Holland was overrun. He then went into the underground for the remainder of the war. He was caught once but released by a sympathetic colonel, who had just lost a son similar in age to my father. In 1942 my father married the daughter of a prominent doctor. My mother, unlike my father who was an only child, had three siblings, including two big teenage brothers. The family hid two Jewish sisters for most of the war. With food severely rationed, my grandparents suffered from malnutrition and some of the associated illnesses.

I was born in 1943 and have no memories of the war. After the war, my father rejoined Royal Dutch Shell ('stolen' by the British during the war, according to my mother). He was then recruited by his former commanding officer to join Berini, an Italian motorized bicycle manufacturer. Some years later a reorganization left both of them out of a job. Not long after, father's friend contacted him once more and advised that Volkswagen was hiring to establish a presence in overseas markets. My father went to Germany for interviews and was taken on. It takes a pragmatic view of the world for a man who not that long ago had fought actively against the German occupation to then work with them. Volkswagen had offered my father the choice of Belgium, South Africa and Canada. Our parents chose Canada because it would give their children greater economic opportunity, and in particular less competition in access to higher learning. In addition, my mother's brother had emigrated to Cambridge, Ontario at age 18, some years before. I still marvel at the decision of my parents to leave the familiarity of their home country. It was especially hard to leave their parents behind. It was also difficult for those left behind, especially my maternal grandmother. I missed one set of grandparents who always spoiled me, but not the maternal grandparents because grandfather was rather severe and didn't suffer fools (me) gladly.

In 1953 our family of five emigrated from Holland. I was ten, my sister seven and my brother one and a half years old. My father had already taken up his new job to help start up Volkswagen Canada. I had been a voracious reader and had read cowboy and Indian novels. So I assumed Canada to be a wild and forested land. Imagine my disappointment when approaching the airport in Toronto. However, I was delighted to see so many television aerials; there were still only a few very rich people in Holland who had TVs. We moved temporarily into rental accommodations, a modest bungalow in a middle class neighbourhood in North York, while our house was being prepared. As the export of foreign exchange from Holland was severely limited after the Second World War, a pre-fabricated house had been purchased in Holland and shipped to Thornhill.

As a ten year-old, the promise of a new country far outweighed the loss of weekly visits with grandparents. I was excited by the prospect of moving to a place where I could indulge in my passion for the outdoors, particularly for fishing. It was only later that I understood how fundamentally our lives were changed. The promise of a less competitive environment in the context of both education and work was by and large fulfilled for the whole family. I liked the Canadian school system, once I could handle the language, and did not really have to work very hard until graduate school. I was not doing terribly well in school in Holland, and did not like the teachers. My father's lack of post-secondary education would have meant he would have had to struggle most of his life to earn a decent living in Holland. Within a dozen years of emigrating he was offered the position of President of Volkswagen America. He turned it down because it would mean moving the family to New York and probably have led to American citizenship, two unattractive prospects according to my parents.

As we arrived in the month of May, my sister and I went to a nearby public school. I was placed in grade three. Because I had no English language skills, and the teacher did not know what to do with me, I was directed to write out the times tables from 1 x 1 to 12 x 12. I already knew them by heart up to 10 x 15. I tried to indicate that I also knew some algebra, but to no avail - perhaps the teacher had never seen algebra. As a break from writing times tables, I was allowed to copy a grade one reader "...see Dick run, see Jane run, see Dick and Jane run...." Against my mother's advice, I wore a new watch, given to me by my paternal grandfather, to school. I took it off to wash my hands, left it behind and upon returning some time later found it gone. Using sign language, I managed to communicate my problem. However the watch was never returned. I was very disappointed at the lack of honesty of my fellow pupils.

The lack of knowledge of the English language was initially frustrating because I could not communicate with other kids, teachers and storekeepers. My parents both spoke English, although they still had to master idioms. Mother once sent me to the store to buy a "flask" of milk. During my first summer holidays, playing with neighbourhood kids, I started to speak some English. My sister learned much faster than I, as she seemed unafraid of making mistakes.

In the Fall we moved into our new home and I started at a new school. I wore shorts to school the first winter, and my mother was eventually compelled to purchase some long pants. I think it may have been peer pressure more than the biting cold. I recall being called "foreigner" by one of my classmates. I didn't know what it meant, but was determined to throttle him. It was the only incident I can recall being considered different from Canadian-born boys. I was judged too big to be in grade three, so was moved to grade four, a full year behind where I would have been in Holland. The teacher, Mrs. McGillavrey, helped me to adjust and provided remedial reading classes, which were attended by other kids also needing assistance. Soon I no longer needed reading help and successfully made it to grade five and even managed to come second in a school spelling bee contest. About this time, I realized I had started to dream in English, and concluded I was now fluent in my adopted language. At Christmas I was moved into grade six, and had so now made up the earlier time lost. This was also the time when I started playing hockey, first as goalie for the school team (using my mothers bolt-on figure skates) and later on defence for a community based league in Richmond Hill. My parents were later approached by the Chicago Blackhawk organization, with an offer of a place on a major junior hockey team. However, living away from home and the reduced emphasis on education scuttled the plan.

At home we were encouraged by our parents to speak English. They did not join any Dutch social organizations, nor did they seek out other Dutch immigrants. They believed in integrating with Canadian society as soon as possible. We kept a number of traditions, including the exchange of gifts on Christmas eve and the lighting of real candles on the Christmas tree. Our parents attended church, and decided the United Church most closely followed the teachings of the Dutch Reform Church. I don't think my parents were particularly religious, but felt strongly that we should be exposed to the teachings of the bible as part of our moral upbringing. When we received our naturalization papers, I remember we were all quite proud. Prior to this event, I once gave my parents a scare, by joining the cadets in high school. They feared that, as a Dutch citizen, I could have been stripped of my Dutch citizenship and been a person without a country because I had joined the armed forces of a foreign land.

I had developed a close friendship with about five classmates, and we often played tackle football in the Fall and road hockey in the Spring after school and on weekends. These friendships endured into grade twelve when my father was transferred to Vancouver and I entered University. By now I considered myself a Canadian and rarely thought about what life might have been like had we remained in Holland.

From the book "The Land Newly Found" by Norman Hillmer and J. L. Granatstein, Copyright © 2006 by Janssen. Reprinted by arrangement with Thomas Allen Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Excerpt from Sheema Khan's "Pioneering"

The daughter of Indian immigrants, Sheema Khan is a Harvard Ph.D. in chemical physics, a patent agent in intellectual property law, and a columnist for The Globe and Mail.

My eyes begin to overflow every time I hear it. On Canada Day. At hockey games. My children's schools. First thing in the morning on local TV stations.

"O Canada," our national anthem, captures the essence of my Canadian identity. It begins quietly, with unassuming dignity, and resonates with the expansiveness that characterizes both our glorious landscape and human potential. We are intimately connected to the land. It represents all that I love, and have loved about Canada.

In 1965 came to Montreal at the age of 3, with parents from India. We left chronic Hindu-Muslim strife for an opportunity to prosper in peace. For the first time, we experienced snow, maple syrup, and that most Canadian of passions - hockey. We were welcomed warmly, and tried our best to integrate. It was an era on the cusp of Trudeaumania, multiculturalism and Expo 67's Man and His World. An atmosphere of unbridled optimism that infected citizens from Vancouver to St. John. In Quebec, the Quiet Revolution was, well, still quiet.

The most enriching aspects of living in Montreal were the opportunity to learn French, and the ability to visit the world without ever having to leave the city. In Canada, my best friend while growing up was Hindu. I had neighbours from countries such as China and Brazil; neighbours who were "pur-laine," and old-stock Brits. My close friends at school were Jewish and Christian; black, white and many colours in between. Multiculturalism was not merely a policy - it was a force to bind our world together based on mutual respect amongst members of our diverse human family. A shining example in a strife-torn world. Looking back, if I do have one regret, it is not having had the opportunity to interact with members of our indigenous communities - Aboriginals and the Inuit.

The innocence of childhood changed abruptly in 1970, when the Front de Libération du Québec began its campaign of terror in Quebec. The kidnap and murder of Pierre Laporte left the indelible marks of fear and revulsion - at an early stage of my life, I hated politics. Unbeknownst to me at the time, our warm, jovial neighbour-landlords were none other than the parents of FLQ lawyer Robert Lemieux. I had met their other adult children, who reflected their parents' generosity of spirit. I also learned another valuable lesson - the human dimension of conflict is rarely black and white. English media images presented Quebec nationalism as a dark force, and yet, the many French Canadians I met - especially my wonderful neighbours - had a culture, a history which they wished to preserve, without resorting to violence. After all, isn't identity our "raison d'ętre"?

The painful memories of October 1970, seemed to recede somewhat in the spring of 1971, when our beloved Montreal Canadiens scored upset wins over the mighty Boston Bruins and the vaunted Chicago Black Hawks to capture the Stanley Cup. A bookish rookie by the name of Ken Dryden captured the hearts of Canadiens fans everywhere, stopping puck after puck. And the true grit of players such as Jean Beliveau and Henri Richard restored the pride of "le bleu, blanc et rouge." This particular Stanley Cup win had me hooked on hockey for life.

The emotional roller coaster ride was repeated in September 1972, when my family and I joined the nation in cheering for Team Canada against the Soviets. Although I never admitted it to any of my friends, one of my favourite players was Valerie Kharmalov - a brilliant, graceful player for the Soviets, who reminded me of one of my other favourites, Yvan Cournoyer. I joined my classmates in cheering Canada during that memorable Game 8, inspired by the gritty comeback of our team. After we had won, I persuaded my father to go to Dorval airport so that we could see the team's plane land. We joined many others. Hockey, it seems, is the uniting factor of this country.

While growing up, there were very few Muslims in Montreal. My parents tried their best to have the family adhere to Muslim culture. We did not drink alcohol, did not eat pork, and, come high school, did not date. Twice a year, we joined other members of our small community to celebrate the two Eids - Eid-ul-Fitr (to mark the end of Ramadan) and Eid-ul-Adha (to commemorate the sacrifice of Ibrahim). When we had first arrived in Canada, someone had presented me with a piggy bank in the shape of an Eskimo girl. My parents taught me to save coins in that bank - which I did with great diligence. I had amassed what I thought was a fortune of $50, when my parents informed me that the Muslim community would be building its first mosque. Donations would be needed to help with this project, which would provide all of us a place to pray. In Islam, helping to build a mosque is one of the supreme acts of charity. My parents did not force me, but tried to persuade me of the value of sacrifice. It was one of the best lessons I learned early in life. At first I hesitated, but then I gladly offered my life savings towards a bigger cause.

As I grew up, I saw my father send portions of his savings to help not only his immediate family, but extended relatives in India. They lived in a rural village, with no electricity. Many had no funds to pay for education. My siblings and I were always grateful for the opportunities we had in Canada. And yet, we always felt that it was our duty to help those less fortunate in India, through the dignified example of our parents. Charity is also an essential feature of Islamic beliefs; that unfortunately, gets very little media exposure. It forms the fabric of so many Muslim cultures, throughout time and space. The generosity of the human spirit is such a powerful force that enhances so much good. Living in Canada, and being the recipient of so much generosity by fellow Canadians, made me realize that such a force is not confined to any particular people, or faith - but a gift from the Creator to all human beings.

Perhaps one of the most comforting aspects of my youth was to have my mother at home. She chose not to work outside the home. We were able to come home for lunch for a nice hot meal, prepared with much TLC. It was wonderful to come home after school, and share events of the day with her, while sampling her delicious snacks. It made doing homework all the more easier. One cannot put a price on the human security that emanates from a mother's presence and love. In today's age, it is hard to find the balance between work and family. Like many other working mothers, I try to provide my own children with that same security and comfort. Struggling to balance work and family, I look back to the serene example of my mother to guide me.

Like many immigrant families, education formed an important part of our upbringing. While we could not afford luxuries, my parents always made sure we would have the educational tools needed to succeed. Books, visits to the library, after-school lessons, and home encyclopedias were never in short supply. We loved to learn, and we loved to study. My parents never pushed us to succeed academically, but encouraged us gently to do our best. I still remember my father telling me not to worry about how others did, but to just concentrate on my own efforts. And he never made a distinction between the male and female children - we were equally encouraged to strive. Honesty and hard-work were part-and-parcel of our household.

The emphasis on education seemed pay off. My siblings and I did well in school, receiving academic prizes and scholarships. We all went on to higher study - at York's renowned Business School, Harvard and Princeton.

In addition, I loved sports, and my parents encouraged me to pursue that love. During high school, I played a stead diet of tennis, basketball volleyball, soccer and badminton. Upon graduation, I received the award for best female athlete. I continued to play soccer, and recreational hockey. During grad school, I was disappointed to find that there were no opportunities to play recreational hockey. Why not start such a venture? So, a Muslim female teetotalling Canuck helped to start Harvard's first female intramural ice-hockey league. Friends who had never laced up were encouraged to experience the thrill of gliding on the ice, all the while holding a hockey stick and chasing a piece of rubber. My friends from California and Florida particularly enjoyed the experience. As Canadians, we should never underestimate the ambassadorial nature of hockey - to bring people together in a spirit of goodwill and gamesmanship.

From the book "The Land Newly Found" by Norman Hillmer and J. L. Granatstein, Copyright © 2006 by Khan. Reprinted by arrangement with Thomas Allen Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Excerpt from R. L. Gabrielle Nishiguchi's "Nobody We Knew: Sachiko's Story"

This story tells the story of Canadian government's deplorable treatment of the Japanese-Canadians during the Second World War.

Between 31 May and 24 December 1946, 3,964 persons of Japanese ancestry--66% of whom were Canadian by birth or naturalization--were transported to Japan under a federal government deportation programme. Not one of these immigrants and their mostly Canadian-born children had been charged with a crime or act of treason. Yet some of the best minds in the Canadian bureaucracy had endeavoured throughout the Second World War to cobble together a scheme that in their own words would "reduce the numbers" of what some, including future Prime Minister Louis St Laurent, considered a "troublesome" community of immigrants. Theirs were the faces of visibly different foreigners, with unpronounceable surnames. They were nobody we knew.

The shoddy treatment began in December 1941, after the Japanese Imperial fleet attacked the American naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. First, the federal government caved in to panic and pressure for the removal from the west coast of a perceived warren of potential spies and saboteurs. For the duration of the war, Japanese-Canadians were to eke out a hard existence in abandoned mining shanties in the British Columbia wilderness, on B.C., Alberta and Ontario road camps, or on prairie sugar beet farms. Then, in January 1943, through an executive order-in-council, their property was liquidated to provide maintenance for dislocated families. Finally, throughout the spring and summer of 1945, federal bureaucrats put into motion an efficient plan for removing thousands of the sickest, poorest and most vulnerable Japanese Canadians from Canada by offering them money to go to war-devastated Japan. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police supervised a nation-wide survey of every man and woman of Japanese ancestry over the age of sixteen.

It was the ultimate trip with a trap. Every signed survey form--considered prima facie evidence of disloyalty-- was a one-way ticket across the Pacific. Creative federal bureaucrats barred the door to re-entry to Canada through an intricate skein of executive orders-in-council, passed under the waning, but still potent, War Measures Act. Unbeknownst to the signers, each family had first to use any remaining funds in their bank accounts before monies were paid out by the government.

For a calculus of the human cost of this bureaucratic zeal and legislative legerdemain, we turn to a single story. Sachiko Ohata's story, told mostly in her own words. She was born in Mission Hospital in Ruskin, B. C., on 11 January 1935. Her father, Yoshito, worked in a local sawmill; her mother, Shigeko, supplemented the family income by picking strawberries. It was a carefree childhood. Sachiko remembers: "We lived in a big bunkhouse. There was lots of room. We had a big chestnut tree. In the fall, I got up early in the morning to look for the first chestnuts on the ground. There was a small river near our home. On special days, Dad would take the whole family fishing."

Yoshito's aging parents begged him to come home to take up his responsibilities as their eldest son. He dutifully returned, only to discover that he and his wife had been away from Japan too long. He was "too Canadian." His wife was perceived as being "too free." They waited until the birth of the eighth child, a son named Takashi, before coming back to Canada in 1937. Yoshito's mother and father found it impossible to forgive their son for this glaring break with tradition. He was all but disowned.

Yoshito was worried that his children would not be able to make a good living in British Columbia. Both he and his wife were naturalized Canadians and struggled to make ends meet during the Depression, battling both hard economic times and local prejudice. He made the tough decision to send his five oldest children, all born in Canada, to live with family in Hiroshima, so they would be able to find work in Japan. The three daughters, Yoshiko, Chizuko and "Terry," and two sons, "Mas" and Eiji, were not welcome at the Ohata's farm; they were sent instead sent to live with Shigeko's family, the Kumagawas.

Yoshiko, the oldest daughter, died suddenly in June 1941. Beset by worries and grief, Yoshito and his wife were all the more anxious to bring their surviving children back to Canada. They finally scraped together enough money and sent four ship tickets to the Kumagawas in Hiroshima. Grandmother Kumagawa put all four children on the train bound for Yokohama. They were to set sail aboard the Hikawa Maru, which was due to dock in Vancouver harbour on 31 October 1941. Shigeko met the ship. One by one passengers disembarked. Sachiko recalled: "Mom waited until the last person came off the ship. My brothers and sisters were not on board. For the first time, I saw my mom cry." For some unknown reason, the children had not been not been allowed onto the ship. They returned to Hiroshima. Grandmother Kumagawa did not have enough money for another train trip. Then the war broke out. The four oldest Ohata children were trapped in Hiroshima.

Sachiko was six years old. On Christmas Day, 1941, just weeks after Pearl Harbor, she received her first and only doll. "In those days the dolls' eyes rolled [up and down]. I was kind of a tomboy and I poked them. I broke her eyes. I was embarrassed and hid her in the attic. Sometime in the New Year, Dad was taken away to a road camp, maybe Hope-Princeton, B. C. When my mother, brothers and I left for Hastings Park [the Vancouver evacuation centre], I thought we were just going somewhere with my mother. I left my doll in the attic. There were no dolls in the camp, no dolls in Japan. I never owned another doll after that."

During the fall of 1942, Ohatas moved first into a tent and later into a wooden house in Popoff, B.C. "There were 72 houses in all at Popoff. We were in house number 68 in the last row. Behind us was a small stream and railway tracks." In January of 1943, Shigeko Ohata gave birth to her ninth and last child, a daughter, "Tammy," whose birth accentuated the absence of her four oldest children. Throughout the war, the Ohatas never knew anything at all about their children in Japan. Sachiko recalls: "Every day Mom put rice on our little household altar. Every day she prayed that my brothers and sisters were safe. She worked hard making udon [Japanese flat noodles], which she sold to make money to bring the children to Canada after the war." As a 9-year old, during the war, one of Sachiko's happiest memories was volunteering to be "Miss Canada" in a school concert at the Popoff relocation camp.

Between May and September 1945, the government demanded that every person of Japanese ancestry indicate on a form whether they would relocate east of the Rocky Mountains or go to Japan. Japanese Canadians who chose Japan were promised generous financial assistance. No assurances were given that persons of Japanese ancestry who chose to stay in Canada would be allowed to return to their former lives along the B.C. coast, or that any of the prohibitions against their buying land or applying for trading and fishing licenses would be lifted.

The Ohata family was wracked with guilt and indecision. "My mom and dad waited until the last possible minute before signing that form. They didn't want to go to Japan -especially mother. None of us wanted to go to Japan. That's what really hurts. They set a date didn't they? A certain date that you had to sign. We didn't want to go to Japan." But without assurances that Yoshito would be able to earn a decent living east of the Rockies, how could they save enough money to bring any of the children back to Canada? Would discrimination be even worse than it had been before the war? Federal money was being offered for them to leave Canada. None was offered to help them find their children and bring them home. Their oldest child in Canada was not even 13 years, not able to help support the family. Sachiko remembers: "I saw my parents fight. My Dad threw a chawan [Japanese rice bowl] filled with rice across the room. He told my mother we had to go back to his home in Hiroshima. We had no choice."

Yoshito signed the deportation form. Shigeko wrote a letter to a friend before she sailed for Japan, "Even if I die, I must find my children." Sachiko did not want to go to Japan. When she complained, Shigeko told her, "It's a nice place. You'll have your brothers and sisters. You won't have to do any chores. You do all the work now. In Japan, your older sisters will do it for you." Sachiko's mother continued to save whatever she could from her noodle money. As soon as she knew that they were definitely going to leave Canada, she bought cloth. Shigeko wanted to make clothes for the children she had not seen in nearly 10 years. She also wanted a final photograph of her four children in Canada. She sewed special dresses for Sachiko and "Tammy." The boys were put in their Sunday best.

Deportation day arrived in the fall of 1946. The Ohatas were put on a train and taken to Vancouver. "I remember the train passed through Midway, B. C. From the window, I saw my uncle waving goodbye to us. My mother kept telling me that we were going to a better place." Sachiko was 11 ˝ years old. She remembers waiting to get on the ship and playfully stepping out of line. "An RCMP man got really upset and told me to get back in line."

Sachiko's mother was ill for the entire voyage. "She was throwing up every day. When we landed in Japan, October 1946, they took us to a big hall. We all slept together on tatami [straw] mats. I don't want to talk about the food. All I'll say is that I remember they gave us rice full of worms. The worms were stretched out, maybe a ˝ inch long, cooked." Hiroshima station was "just a plank, everywhere was flat, drab and burned out." They crossed to the other side and took the local train to Kabe Station and walked 45 minutes to the Ohata family home. They were hungry and exhausted. Yoshito's uncle brought them small bowls containing rice balls mixed with barley." The rice was full of bugs that had a peculiar smell. "We had to eat them," Sachiko says.

The war had only exacerbated Yoshito's parents resentment about their son's pre-war return to Canada. To make matters worse, he had brought back more mouths to feed. Shigeko begged her husband to find them another place to live. The children who had been stranded in Japan during the war were now teenagers. They poured out story after story about how they had survived the war. Eiji, now 16, had seen the mushroom cloud over Hiroshima city in August 1945. Temples and schools had been set up as hospitals. Fourteen-year-old Eiji had been forced to carry the burnt corpses of those who had died in temporary shelters to large pits dug in the ground.

Sometime in February of 1947, Shigeko caught a cold that turned into pleurisy. Sachiko's father took anything they had brought from Canada, including the material that Shigeko had planned to use to make clothes for her stranded children, and traded it on the black market for fresh fruit. "He tried to get her Biwa fruit [yellow fruit with pits], whatever might make her happy. It was still rather early in the year for fresh fruit. There wasn't much he could find." One afternoon in June, Sachiko and her brother "Mickey" were planting rice in the field. Someone told them: "your mom's really sick you'd better go home." Sachiko believes that "the village doctor was not good in those days." Her mother's lungs were full of water. "The doctor would stab a really big needle into her and draw out water. A basin full at a time. She endured it without crying out."

The only memory Sachiko has after that is the cremation. "It was on a mountain. There was a hole dug in the ground. They laid her in there. They piled straw and wood on top of her. And then her body wouldn't burn because it was so full of water. It didn't burn like other bodies, so they had to poke and push the body to help get the water out. It took her a long time to burn. I remember watching the smoke." The children who had been stranded in Japan were devastated that the mother they had waited so long to see again was gone. They felt guilty that they had aired their frustrations to her. At times, they openly resented the children who had been with her during the war. All the children tried hard to suppress their anger about their life in Japan.

Sachiko was miserable. She battled fungus in her toenails from working barefoot in the rice fields, and head lice. She was tired of being bullied because of her difficulty with the Japanese language. Since she was a year older than her classmates --she had been put back a year--Sachiko was a head taller than everyone and stood out even more because her only coat had been sewn by her mother from bright red Canadian cloth. She remembers yelling at her dad, "I wish you had died and mom had lived." Whenever the children would explode, Yoshito would only say: "Just blame it on me." He never spoke about his wife again, but faithfully went up the mountain to the little marker he had made for her. When she was dying, her body was so full of water that she couldn't drink anything. "He would always go up the mountain to give her water." "Here's the water you always wanted," he would say to her. He never remarried.

By virtue of orders-in-council PC 7355 and 7356, the executive orders under which the Ohatas left Canada in October 1946, Yoshito had lost his Canadian nationality and was barred from ever re-establishing himself in Canada on a permanent basis. While he couldn't return, he knew how much his children longed to go back to Canada. He asked Shigeko's brother, living in Midway, B.C., for help. Yoshito now watched as one by one his children left him to return to the land of their birth.

In July of 1956, it was finally Sachiko's turn. "Mas" had saved enough money to send her an airplane ticket. She was 21 years old. Her father said: "You are leaving your home for good, it's like you are going away to be married. We must have a party an invite our friends and relatives." Sachiko was sad to leave, but she was happy to be going home. "I had a tiny vanity case and kept packing and unpacking it. I also had a small apple box. I had so few belongings. I really wanted to go to Canada. At my party, I started singing 'O Canada.' I remembered all the words." On the plane ride home, she recalls that "I didn't know how to eat in the Canadian way." It had been 10 years since she had lived in Canada. "I watched this girl that was eating next to me and did whatever she did."

In 1966, Yoshito came to Canada to visit Sachiko. He loved his stay and was reminded of all the things he missed about Canada, but the deportation order had stripped him of his citizenship. He remained in Japan and died of a stroke in 1975 -- in exile, dreaming of the rich trout streams of B.C.

From the book "The Land Newly Found" by Norman Hillmer and J. L. Granatstein, Copyright © 2006 by Nishiguchi. Reprinted by arrangement with Thomas Allen Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.