This last weekend I spent all of 12 hours in Toronto. Another 6 hours was spent in transit between the beloved T Dot and the increasingly familiar Kingston.

The flash visit was a result of my being invited to attend a round table discussion being hosted by a variety of associations focusing on what Sri Lankan women living in Canada can do to further the peach process in the homeland.
Sri Lanka, a breathtakingly beautiful island off the southeast coast of India, is presently being torn apart by a civil war. For the most part, the fight is between the Singhalese and the Tamils, but as always there are some in the middle and they must share in the pain.
Sri Lankan Muslims are a minority within a minority. Here in Canada, everyone practically knows everyone else. I have my issues with this “community” but that’s for another place, another time.

That Saturday I learnt a lot about the various voices that go into a country’s building, into its peace and its wars. War affects women and men differently. Rape is a weapon of war and child-soldiers include young women. It was explained to me why so many Tamils living in Canada so insistently stress their identity here – it’s simple, you’re not allowed to be a Tamil in Sri Lanka. Your language is denied you, you are scorned, you are second-class.
The feeling is familiar for most people.
For the first time I was able to reconcile these two seemingly disparate parts of me, my being Muslim and my being Sri Lankan.
And suddenly, I was struck by the similarities.

The media as a tool for shaping societies is something most Muslims are aware of. For the first time I was hearing Tamils complain about their portrayal in the media, too. And it occurred to me that Muslims are getting better in dealing with racism and Islamaphobia in the media. We’re getting louder, more organised. I never would have admitted it, or even seen it, before.
And it also occurred to me that the parallels between Sri Lanka and Palestine are striking.
And so, as I said, when it comes down to it, wars everywhere are basically the same. The pain and the death, the memories and the girl’s shaking hands and everyone’s averted eyes – it’s all the same, across borders drawn and imagined, across deserts and jungles.

i had to leave a half hour early. the Senator had already left, murmuring things about our meeting the Prime Minister and everyone else was munching down on lunch.
outside it was a foggy day. fog in Toronto isn’t something i’ve experienced often. and i’d never been down Gerrard before. this was a “non-shopping” section. the stores were seedy, the cars were rusting.
i’m waiting for my dad to pick me up and i’m hoping that my brother hasn’t forgotten my bag. it has my textbook in it and i have an Orgo midterm on Monday.
thinking slowly as i am, i just barely note the van that passes. I’m not paying attention, but why would i be.
A skinny head pokes out the front window of the passing van. Blond hair, pasty white skin, sharp bones and a black bandanna.
“FUCK YOU BITCH.”
i turn lazily, watch the van speed away from me. the thought of reacting does not occur to me, because it’s too late. what do you yell at the back of a minivan?

i’m standing there in my fire-coloured sari-wrapped jeans and my white scarf with the gold threading.
and honestly, i didn’t care.

five minutes, ten.
i’m craning my neck looking for my father and his beat up TO car. i think i spot it to my left and i turn to watch it. it slows down at a curb near me.
at the curb are two aging white men. one has lanky grey hair that hangs around his face. his friend is stockier, younger-looking, balding. they both look like they’re in their 40s.
the balding one seems to be looking in my direction and he puts his fist up, then a finger.
for a good minute i look at him, wondering very slowly whether he’s giving me the finger.

it’s a relatively empty street.

and i’m wondering what to do.
do i react, with my father there in the car waiting? my father hasn’t seen, this i know. and what would i say – “excuse me, are you talking to me?”
i walk towards the curb and the car and the men resume their conversations.
i get into the car and we drive away.