Carol Goar
Monday, July 02, 2007
The miracle is that hundreds of thousands of immigrants do.
One of the reasons it keeps happening is that Toronto hires public officials who understand that integrating newcomers into the community isn't a matter of teaching them how to be a good Canadians; it is a matter of offering them a safe way to make connections, learn new skills and ask for help.
The city's public health department, for example, uses food as an entry point into Canadian society. Its peer nutrition program has drawn thousands of immigrants out of isolation.
The ostensible purpose is to promote healthy eating. The real objective is to reach out to parents (primarily mothers) who feel cut off from everything familiar.
The participants cook together, led by a facilitator who speaks their language and knows their customs. They use their traditional recipes, adding Canadian ingredients. They learn a bit of English. They talk about their kids, the homes they miss and the hopes that brought them here.
Inevitably, friendships develop. Plans to go shopping take shape. By the end of the six-week session, even the shyest participants come out of their shells.
"Food has always brought people together," said program manager Vida Stevens. "We use this as a gateway to other community services."
The peer nutrition program is offered in 32 languages at 78 locations across the city. No two versions are quite the same. Asian groups like a structured lecture format. African and Caribbean women prefer a hands-on approach. Sessions with Muslims have to accommodate prayer time.
To watch a class in progress is to see bonds forming, fears melting.
The group that met last Wednesday at the Lawrence Heights Community Centre was half Russian and half Somali. The facilitator was Amra Acimovic, a Serbian-born nurse who speaks seven languages. The instructor was Veronica Bright, a home economics teacher from Ghana. Both had been with the program since its inception in 2000.
"We don't need to measure," Bright said, putting a couple of overripe bananas, a scoopful of yogurt, some milk and a splash of orange juice into a blender. "We do it with our eyeballs like our mothers did."
Acimovic translated into Russian. There were nods and grins.
The topic was healthy snacks, a real concern for immigrant mothers whose children quickly acquire a taste for North American junk food.
"This is a way to trick your kids into eating bananas," Bright said. "Give it a special name. Call it Sarah's smoothie or whatever your child's name is."
Everyone got a sample. More smoothies were made with other fruits. Food bank staples were combined with seasonal produce. Bright encouraged everyone to experiment, go easy on the sugar and steer the grocery cart away from the cookie aisle.
Acimovic presented the message in a friendly, reassuring way. She drew on both her knowledge of their culture and her experience as an immigrant 13 year ago. She arrived in Canada speaking no English and longing for the tastes and smells of home.
"I am their bridge. They trust me. Sometimes they tell me their problems and I tell them where to find services."
Acimovic's favourite part of the lesson comes after the cooking ends. "I love to see them socializing, exchanging phone numbers, planning to go to the park. Food is our base, but it's really much bigger than that."
This kind of immigrant settlement program doesn't spring from any academic theory or impulse to innovate.
It stems from an understanding that hospitality begins in the kitchen. It taps into the talent in Toronto's ethnic communities. And it reflects a desire to mix the flavours of the world.
Carol Goar's column appears Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Source: The Star, July 02, 2007