Illustration by Alex Siklos
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
The story I’m telling is not about a lifetime — it’s about an afternoon. But sometimes, a single afternoon can change the course of a life. And for someone like me, a radical person by thought, perhaps there was no conventional life to begin with — just moments that one hopes may someday make sense.
My family left home on a July afternoon. I’m not sure whether it was out of desire or desperation. There were four of us: me, my wife, my 10-year-old son and six-year-old daughter. Our children were too young to understand the uncertainty that surrounded them. Maybe they were excited. Or scared. Or both. I couldn’t tell. I wasn’t sure how I felt either. We were not being chased by people, but by time — an unfamiliar, heavy kind of time that demanded we act without knowing what would follow.
We ran to the airport carrying little more than a few bags — small items from our old lives and the unformed hopes of a new one. I watched the sunlight stretch and then disappear behind the tarmac as a giant Emirates plane touched down in front of us. It was time. We left our house behind — the house that never truly became a home. Or maybe we never belonged to it. Or maybe we never truly belonged to our country either.
Sometimes a country becomes a home. Sometimes a house becomes a life. We were leaving in search of both.
As an immigrant, I wonder if I can ever really belong in Canada, my adopted countr
We crossed the oceans — from East to North, from heat to cold. Though it was July, the air in Toronto felt freezing to us. In Bangladesh, we knew unbearable heat; here, even the warmth felt distant, like everything else. We arrived at Toronto Pearson Airport just before noon.
A new life began, though we weren’t sure if it would be life at all. The city was unfamiliar. We had no relatives, no friends, no one waiting. We drove to a rented basement apartment near Bluffer’s Park in Scarborough. Two rooms. Underground. Damp and dim. We were immigrants — newcomers — who’d dreamed of the vastness of the North American sky but found ourselves living like insects below the soil.
No one tells you this side of the story.
In our home country, the image of the West is glowing and glossy — effortless. People speak of success, of comfort, of opportunity. They don’t talk about the silences, the isolation, the invisible ceilings. To speak honestly of this struggle is to sound ungrateful. To stay silent is to suffocate in loneliness.
The first two months were a nightmare. The next two were like daydreams — beautiful but fragile, doomed to collapse because they had no foundation.
Back in Dhaka, I ran an insurance surveying firm in the city’s bustling commercial centre. Journalism was my passion — I wrote for Prothom Alo, Bangladesh’s leading newspaper. I used to travel across the country, meeting people from all walks of life, listening to their stories. Here, conversations feel like interruptions. Everyone seems too busy. People are kind, but distant. Polite, but not warm.
Has efficiency replaced empathy? Has the machinery of modern life stripped people of their softness? I wonder if a state can be truly humane without human sincerity.
We were four people, alone, without income, trying to survive in one of the world’s most expensive cities. You can’t escape the cost of living here. Even if you live simply, even if you try to disappear into the margins, the system will not let you.
I’ve lived in Canada for more than 20 years. Why am I homesick now?
Rent. Utilities. Transit. Groceries. These are not optional. The only area left to sacrifice was food. I saw my wife’s eyes cloud over the grocery budget every week. It’s one thing to eat less yourself — it’s another to watch your children ask for food you can’t afford. She was a banker in Bangladesh, head of trade finance at the State Bank of India’s Dhaka branch. Skilled, smart, responsible. But skills don’t pay bills when no one will hire you.
I often felt ashamed — of our poverty, of my helplessness, of the dreams I brought my children into. But there’s no exit from this war. Life pulls you in. Even if you want to retreat, you can’t. You must keep going, keep fighting.
Still, I believe in something. I believe every fighter sees victory at least once. I believe life doesn’t ultimately abandon those who refuse to give up. Somewhere, sometime, there is a moment that makes it all worth it.
We are waiting for that moment.
We don’t yet have a home. We don’t yet have a country. But we’re still moving, still alive, still here. And I believe that, in the end, humanity wins.
Diponkar Chanda lives in Scarborough, Ont.
