This First Person column is written by Clare Currie, who lives in Cape Breton, N.S., and is part of a Canada Day series exploring what Canada means to people across this country. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.
Growing up in Cape Breton, I had a narrow idea of what “Canada” meant. Simple images came to mind — maple syrup, Peter Mansbridge and beavers. Who knew that a child born nearly 8,000 kilometres away would shift my understanding of my own country?
I’d been watching the television one evening in September 2015 when the newscast showed a picture of Alan Kurdi, a Syrian refugee child whose body had washed up on a beach near Greece, lying face down in the sand and water. It was the most painful and unnatural thing I’d ever seen. My heart went out to that little boy as a mother.
Until that moment, I’d been busy raising two sons, working as a nurse and living a comfortable, privileged life. Seeing that picture was the first time I felt real discomfort or guilt for having so much. I had taken my Canadian freedoms for granted. I’d never considered what it would be like for someone to take my home, my family, my treasured belongings and my world as I knew it.
I remember telling my husband we needed to do something, but we had no idea where to start.
I didn’t know anything about Syria, so I started reading everything I could about Syrian culture and food, Islam, and what refugees from Syria might need. Cape Breton Island was a predominantly white community for most of my childhood and even in my adult years, so I had little experience to draw on. I only knew that a local community group would be helping to sponsor a Syrian family that planned to settle in Cape Breton, and more would come later.
My mother had helped to resettle Vietnamese refugees to this country in the late 1970s, and she told me that was “the happiest time” of her life.
When I told her I wanted to be part of the Syrian refugee crisis work, but didn’t know where to turn, she said, “Don’t worry about where it will come from. It will come.”
Cape Breton Island, for all its beauty, is remote and underresourced. People here have a history of economic struggle. But we’re fiercely proud of our strength, our culture of friendliness and our desire to help each other out.
I started collecting goods in my home with help from friends and family. They brought every single thing you could imagine a family might need — from bed frames to clothing to pots and blankets.
My niece changed her university’s Secret Santa party to invite everyone to donate personal items for the family, while my son’s company also collected goods and money. Our local furniture store stepped in with tables, chairs, dressers and more. We all couldn’t believe how it was coming together; everyone was doing something.
I’ll never forget driving down to the school where the two older children in the refugee family would eventually attend and seeing a huge “welcome” sign written in Arabic hung above the entrance.
Knowing that the family would have left their family keepsakes behind, our town’s photographer offered to take new family photos for them. Somehow, once empty apartments were turned into welcoming, cosy homes, ready for the families to make a new beginning.
The day after the first family from Syria arrived, my husband Joe and I went to their apartment door, and nervously knocked. I carried with me a Post-it note with the word “Marhaban,” which meant welcome or hello written on it.
A beautiful yet timid young woman opened the door, and I handed the Post-it to her. She smiled and welcomed us in. Neither of us understood each other’s languages, but with the use of Google Translate and lots of gesturing, we quickly began to communicate.
The family included the mother, father, two daughters in elementary school and a toddler son. The father’s brother, who is paraplegic and in a wheelchair, came with them too.
I kissed and hugged each one of the family members, immediately feeling that they were my own. Later in the visit, the mother and I sneaked away to a quiet corner.
I typed her a message to share with her own mother in Syria: “Tell your mother I can be your mother here if you want”.
She sent that to her mother, who responded, “Yes, that’s a good idea.”
We cried together for a while, holding hands and kissing each other’s cheeks like old friends.
My husband, being the practical and quiet guy he is, hooked up the TV and found an episode of Mr. Bean. We all piled onto the bed and the floor and watched it together, laughing our heads off. We were family.
I was never so happy in my life. The word “mom” has taken on a new meaning for me. Now I’m called mom not just by my own children, but I also feel like a mom to the children of other families we’ve helped resettle in this new country. They call me Clare, but wish me every Mother’s Day. There’s plenty of love to go around.
A few years later, the first family we’d helped resettle in our area left for Ontario for work. The friends I made in Cape Breton as part of the refugee sponsor group were also there on the day they left. We all cried our hearts out as we waved goodbye, wishing them good luck on the next step of their journey here.
In 2025, being a Canadian woman to me means looking out for our neighbours, leaning into differences in culture, religious practices and learning how to help others in need. Because we are not different at all. We are all just looking for safety and peace. It’s our Canadian values of equality, respect and freedom in action.
It is the singular privilege of my life to walk alongside these families from Cape Breton and those who are newcomers to Canada. It’s changed how I live, and I intend to do this work as long as I am able. I learn from them grace, service, faith and hope. They taught me how to be a Canadian.
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