Ramleen Dhillon
My family in Punjab, India is constantly gazing at planes and singing praises of a country faraway. They have labelled us as truly blessed as we live in Canada, a utopia full of opportunities; where equity is exercised to provide equality, where happiness is no longer a fantasy, and where diversity is embraced like a basic human need. I have no reason to question the validity of such mentality because the conditions they endure in their country are pretty ghastly. Their ancient struggles to survive have compelled them to work under the hot Indian sun, planting seeds of corn, only to see them burn; have their hard work ignored as the government takes the little they’ve earned. Oh, how wonderful it would’ve been for me to feel pity as I agreed with their glorification of my country. Unfortunately, my heart cries, when I realize the pain doesn’t die when you fly into a country which solely pleases the eye. As I’ve grown older, the free vaccine given to make me immune to seeing the injustice
in our country has finally subsided. On Canada’s 150th anniversary, as a first generation Canadian, I feel it is crucial for citizens to see the disheartening quality of life and inequality immigrants have to endure in a place they’d come to pursue their dreams.
I recall as a child my parents fulfilled almost all my needs, giving into my cries and screams for the newest Barbie I had seen on T.V. I believed making money was easy because I mistook taxes for paychecks, so I felt pride in glorifying Canada as the world’s best country. However, looking back, I realized my parents’ heart wrenching efforts to shield me from the shattering curtain of sacrifice, inequality, and exploitation of those from other countries.
I still remember quite faintly, all of my cries and screams, as I pleaded my mother to stay with me. At six in the morning, she would drop me off at my babysitter’s house and leave, off to work twelve laborious hours at a plastic factory. She had applied when she was “fresh off of the boat,” looking to make a mark in this new country. When the employer saw her Indian
ethnicity, her inability to speak and understand English fluently, her incapability to comprehend her rights and responsibilities, all embedded with the withering eyes waiting to work ever so fiercely, he took it as a golden opportunity. She, along with hundreds of other immigrants, was forced to work extremely fast, handle hazardous chemicals, and pick up heavy weights, while being paid below the minimum wage; she was unable to protest against why non-immigrants weren’t treated the same. Silence was key, for if she were to speak, she would lose everything. Yet she did it all, for she still had faith in her dreams which could
only be fulfilled in this country. She wanted her children to succeed, all at the expense of her health and wellbeing. My dad suffered quite a similar reality. In India, he dedicated six years of his life towards achieving a master’s degree, with the same hope as all that it will allow him to succeed. Unfortunately, it was merely a futile piece of paper which had no impact on what he had aspired to be. He was locked into driving a truck for eight unpredictable hours a day for eternity, having no place to flee. Immigrants were constantly drowning in this red and white ocean, battling the waves to breathe oxygen. The question still startles me today, how can the government allow this to proceed? I believe it’s all a conspiracy in order to increase our GDP, by targeting the most desperate in society.
With both parents working double shifts, I slowly saw myself departing from my ethnicity, my mother tongue, Punjabi, my religion, Sikhi; I was truly losing my precious identity. My parents didn’t receive a day off for Sikh holidays like Vaisakhi and Diwali due to which I felt they were insignificant, and lost the opportunity to learn about their rich history. However, the only religious holidays which refilled my drained sense of spiritual identity were Christian holidays such as Christmas and Easter. Non-Christians have always been forced to assimilate into Christian beliefs; even public schools preaching inclusiveness were contradicting their own ideology. Yet, this assimilation was hard to breach as my parents couldn’t take us to visit our motherland frequently because it just wasn’t affordable for immigrants living on minimum wage salary, without job security, having to pay taxes monthly.
Unfortunately, for immigrant families this is an inescapable maze. I know my parents work endless hours not only to pay immense taxes to the government from the little they’ve earned, but to set a bright future for my siblings and me. Sadly, the
costs of tuition may become out of their reach. Somehow managing to provide us with loans will mean potentially no sleep, working for cash after retiring until they are deceased. They will never truly reap the unmatchable efforts they’d implemented
in the country of their dreams. But, if my family can’t pay for tuition, I will be chained to their footsteps, following a similar destiny, the child of an immigrant family.
Yet my heart misses a beat every time I ponder about the day I would be able to see my parents being paid fairly, when they no longer have to work under such cruelty, where they can come home early, spend time with their family, without having a single worry. I want to grow up and fulfil my parent’s unfulfilled dreams; I want them to retire with dignity, I want to connect my future family to my true ethnicity, spirituality, and beautiful mother tongue, Punjabi. It is time for Canada, on its 150th birthday, to take rebirth by becoming a utopia full of opportunities; where equity is exercised to provide equality, where happiness is no longer a fantasy, and where diversity is embraced like a basic human need.
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